OKAY, MUSIC RAMBLE. This chapter is named after the song that kicked off this entire story idea. It's a bit of a rollercoaster so buckle in.

I strongly recommend you go find the story playlist on Spotify or just look up Gaslight by Scott Helman. And while you're at it, you can realize that he has multiple songs that fit Bughead so well, namely Kinda Complicated (a song about opposites in love), You Made Her (domineering parents who don't appreciate a headstrong daughter with a rough-around-the-edges boyfriend) and Ripple Effect (a couple rising above their messed up parents).

Also, lyrics quoted in this chapter are from I've Rationed Well by July Talk which is a perfectly Bughead song for this tale.

Thank you so, so much for all your kind reviews. I got hit with a flood of them and they made writing this so easy. Now, let's continue to fix this mess and make Bughead happen, because it is ENDGAME.

Song: Gaslight - Scott Helman

Disclaimer: Riverdale is so not mine, and maybe that's a good thing, because here come angsty times.


Eleven: Gaslight

"You thought that you were in control
Turns out that's impossible
Cause you handed it off to a fool
Now only you can save you
There's a fire in the house now
But you won't come out
You think the smoke is a storm cloud
But the ceiling's coming down
Keep me awake in the middle of the night
Oh why can't you trust your own eyes?
Keep me awake in the middle of the night
Oh why can't you see the gaslight?"
Gaslight - Scott Helman

His tight grip on the doorknob was the sole tether keeping him from storming into the gym, crashing football practice and leaving bruises on the body of Chuck Clayton. The tension radiated up his arm, into his shoulder, lighting up a series of nerves that hadn't worked properly in a long time, and the fiery rage receded to a soft burning.

No, no violence. She mattered more than that. But answers? He needed those.

He pushed his way into the office, noting how quickly she tugged her sleeve down. A long, plaid sleeve of a top he'd never seen her wear before. Her anxious look fell away to a nervous smile as she recognized him.

"You scared me!"

"Funny. You've had me scared for the last few minutes," he replied, circling the desk towards her.

Betty fidgeted with her sleeve, leaning against the wall. "I don't know why—"

"Did you really think Veronica wouldn't call us for help?" Jughead knew his temper was getting the better of him, but he could only repress so much anger. "You ran off and wouldn't answer your phone."

"I'm sorry, Jug."

"I don't need an apology. I need you to be safe! I need you to be honest!" His hand shot out, tugging on the sleeve of her plaid button-down. "This isn't your usual look, Betty. What's with the makeover?"

She flinched away, eyes averting to the ground. "Nothing else was clean. My parents have been fighting too much to do chores."

"No way, don't you do that," he pleaded. "Betty, we promised. You promised me."

His hand reached for her on instinct, tilting her chin until they were face to face, eye to eye. In hers, he saw pain, and guilt. She was lying, and she knew it. But she was suffering beneath the weight of her false words.

"Please, tell me the truth," he repeated, softening his voice. "Too many people have lied to me, Betty. I can't deal with it from you."

Her lower lip trembled and she bit it viciously, drawing blood. It terrified him, reminding him of a night he longed to forget.

"Hold still," I whisper, dabbing with the wet cloth.

"It stings," she whimpers sadly.

"I know it does. I'm so sorry, but we have to clean it up." I brush her tangled hair from her face, wincing at the bruise on her cheek. "We'll get you some ice."

"It's going to sound weird," she whispered.

"Betty, I'm weird. You never see me leave the house without wearing this damn beanie. That's weird."

To his surprise, she laughed quietly, her lips curving into a half-smile. "Okay, valid point."

"Of course it is. You're stalling."

She shrugged her shoulders sadly. "I… I wanted to feel brave. I don't own a beanie, so…"

Oh. OH. It hadn't occurred to him how very much her outfit was one he'd wear: plaid layered over a plain shirt of some kind. Hell, he was wearing a plaid shirt over a faded grey tee today. And as much as it meant to him that she saw him as strong, her answer, although seemingly genuine, was incomplete. A lie of omission.

"It's pretty warm for long sleeves," he prodded. "Especially for someone who's always pushing hers up to her elbows and complaining about the heat at the Andrews house."

Her eyes widened and he glanced down at her covered wrist expectantly. Reluctantly, she extended her arm to him, turning away from the reveal she knew was inevitable. His fingers gingerly tugged the sleeve up, revealing a mostly-concealed bruise that very much resembled two fingers gripping far too tightly. He winced at the sight, at how ashamed she seemed to be of something she held no blame in.

"How badly does it hurt?" He turned her arm slightly, gritting his teeth at how deep a shade of purple it was.

"No worse than a bumped knee in cheerleading practice," she mumbled. "Juggie, I…"

"You should take this to Keller." Her shocked expression caught him off guard. "Betty, this is abuse. This is physical evidence of that abuse. He should go to jail for hurting you."

Betty shook her head quickly, yanking her arm away. "No, I don't want to deal with that. My parents would freak out. And Polly? She's too shaky to handle this right now."

"They can deal! Your boyfriend is abusive and he's left marks. And over what? Not getting to drive you to school today? Are you listening to me? Do you hear how absurd that sounds?"

Hugging herself tightly, Betty turned towards the window, staring out onto the courtyard. A soft sniffling noise betrayed the tears he knew she was trying to hide from him. As much as he wanted to console her, he sensed that she didn't want it. Not right now.

"It wasn't like that," she finally replied.

"Then what was it like?" Jughead scoffed. "He wasn't angry, but so happy that he hurt you? Betty, you're a journalist. Examine the facts."

She turned away from the window, brushing aside errant tears. Her hips pressed into the window sill, as if it were the only thing keeping her from collapsing to the floor. The setting sun trickling through the blinds cast a jaundiced pallor over her skin that sent his stomach churning.

"I am." She paused, tapping her wrist lightly. "This happened… um, yesterday."

His mind flooded with images: his altercation with Chuck; his detainment; Betty's late-night visit to his home. How Chuck could never find out she'd been there. His surprise that she'd shown up at the station. Her carefully layered lies with Veronica and her mother. You're my beanie.

"Tell me what happened," he urged.

"When they arrested you, I heard Archie call your dad. He told him he was going to head over to the station. I wanted to go with him, but Chuck?" A heavy sigh. "He was just very angry and in pain. He didn't mean to grab me so hard."

So, this is my fault. She has those bruises because of me.

"Yes, he did. Because he is an angry, abusive piece of garbage. He's always been that way. He's been a bully since he hit puberty."

He backed away from her, backed himself into a corner, steadying himself. He needed to see the room. He needed to know his exits. Because in his mind, he was ten, taking a beating for a Jello cup. In his mind, he was thirteen, being shoved head-first into a toilet by Reggie Mantle. In his mind, he was in Toledo, as a sickening pop resonated in his skull and he crumpled to the ground in pain.

He closed his eyes, drawing a shaky breath. He kept on failing everyone. Everyone.

Her voice cut through the rumbling in his skull, soft and defeated: "If I hadn't pulled away so hard, if I'd just explained where I was going…"

"No, this is my fault," he insisted. "You got yourself hurt for me, and that's not okay. I'm not worth it."

He hadn't heard her approach over the pounding of his heart, now lodged in his throat. Her arms were around his neck, her warm breath on his neck, and he wanted to weep. She had just wanted to be a good friend to him, and had paid a price he couldn't accept. For that, he denied himself the comfort of her embrace.

"He never should have hurt you." He reluctantly opened his eyes, disoriented by how the world was so very much the same in the wake of his mistakes. "I'm not letting him off the hook for what he's done. Abusers don't get to deflect blame. But I'm never going to forget that he went this far because of me. And I'm not going to let you excuse this away, Betty."

He ushered her back, needing space to move. He slid off his own plaid shirt and carefully yanked his right arm free of his t-shirt. Turning his back to her now, he revealed a secret he'd been keeping for months. A secret that had made it easy to take a gamble on his father's plea to come back to Riverdale.

"You see that lump?" he asked. "That weird, reddish lump near my shoulder blade?"

"I do. What is that?"

Turning around, he gingerly redressed. "That, Betty, is scar tissue from the waste of oxygen my mother decided to date in Toledo. That's from a dislocated shoulder that he refused to let me get medical care for, so I reset it myself."

Betty gasped, rocking back on her heels. "Oh my God!"

The moment he swings at JB, I lunge, ready to tear out his jugular with my teeth. I am feral. I am a lion, defending the pride. I warned my mother about this guy, but she dismissed me. Said he was different.

He is different, alright—he's worse. He is stronger than me, faster. Practiced at his twisted craft. My arm is in his hands and it folds behind me like origami until my shoulder pops. I hit the ground, a searing pain spreading through my right shoulder. My hand hangs at an odd angle and I know it's dislocated.

He won't let me call the ambulance. He rips the phone out of the wall. He takes my cell phone and rips out the battery. He throws the modem outside. Oh, he's done this before. My mother's picked a professional.

At two in the morning, I manage to pop my shoulder back into place, or I think I do. She comes home at six and for the first time since we've arrived in Toledo, she listens to me and kicks him out.

I don't tell her about my arm. We don't have insurance, anyway.

"I bet he didn't mean it either. Didn't know his strength?" Jughead shook his head in disgust. "Like he didn't mean to take a swing at JB and split her lip open. Betty, they never mean it. It's a goddamn lie, and I wish you'd wake up and see that no secret is worth this!"

His shoulder ached from the effort, but he hoped that Betty was beginning to understand the gravity of her situation. It was a truth he'd kept from his father so far. He'd taken great care not to let anyone see it, to not let the daily ache break through his practiced stoicism. But if it would help her break free, he would let her stare at it for hours, poke it, take pictures—hell, he'd tell his dad if she promised to leave Clayton.

Betty's fingers fisted her long sleeve shirt, crumpling the fabric inside her palms. Her blood-stained lower lip, downcast gaze and diminished stance drew the air from his lungs. He reached for her in spite of himself, his outstretched hand grazing her arm before falling helplessly to his side.

"Juggie, I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll end it with him," he pleaded. "Say you'll let us help you. Archie, Veronica, Kevin and I—we're your personal army. You're not alone. You never were."

"That's bullshit. I was alone!" She recoiled from him, her body shuddering with a sob she would not allow. "You were gone, Archie was dating our music teacher, Kevin was sleeping with some guy he wouldn't let anyone meet, Polly was gone… but Chuck was there."

"Chuck was there to take advantage, just like he's done before."

This was going nowhere. They were two people in pain, crashing into each other like bumper cars. They jostled and jockeyed for position, but it was all whiplash and weary bodies. His heart ached within his chest, battered and beaten down by the futility of fighting with her. Her greatest attribute—seeing the good in anyone—had become her ultimate downfall. It was all just gasoline poured on the fire within.

Snatching up his backpack, he headed for the door. "Call Veronica. She's worried sick."

"Jug?"

A single, soft-spoken syllable, it scarcely carried five feet. It was contained, confined, as much a prisoner as she was in her so-called relationship.

"You know, I get why the Blossom case has gone unsolved for so long," he mused, glancing over his shoulder at her. "Clearly, digging deeper isn't your strong suit anymore. Not if you think Chuck is your only option."

He stormed out of the office, immediately regretting his words. They were cruel, cutting to the core of her. The kind of shitty thing his father would fling out when drunk.

Damn it!

And yet, he couldn't bring himself to turn around, to take it all back, tell her he'd love her until the day he died. That she was as integral in shaping the man he'd become as his DNA, because she'd nurtured the best parts of him while his family had left them to rot and decay.

With a text of reassurance to Archie and a plea for Kevin to pick Betty up, Jughead made the long walk home. He kept his bag on his right shoulder, the strap cutting into scar tissue, as his penance.


He stumbled into the Whyte Wyrm at nine, on a mission to forget a certain blonde beauty with Bambi eyes of emerald green.

Although the Serpents didn't serve minors in the Wyrm as a rule (tempting the Sheriff to shut them down was a foolish enterprise), the teenagers were allowed to hide in the back offices if they chose to knock a few back. Jughead had never been much of a drinker, but he'd settle for a few shots tonight—if he couldn't get what he really wanted.

Sweet Pea wasn't there, to his disappointment, and he wouldn't dare ask anyone else for pot. Settling in at the bar to wait for him, Tall Boy wandered by. Perhaps sensing his desperation, the intimidating man passed him a nearly empty bottle of Jameson and told him to head in back.

"Don't tell your old man I gave that to you," he uttered menacingly. "And brush your goddamn teeth before going home."

How am I going to do that?

Jughead shrugged his agreement, figuring details could wait. For now, he craved a little oblivion, perhaps a few dead brain cells. Wasn't this what teenagers did? Taking a swig, he locked himself in the back office and sunk into a worn out chair. Maybe it was time he was a little more normal—whatever the fuck that was.

He flipped through his Spotify account, settling on a playlist for the broken-hearted. He took another swig from the bottle, the burn of the whiskey strangely appealing. He almost spat the bitter liquid out as the first song echoed his life in eerie symmetry.

"Then I met a whiskey, and I moved across town
Away from the river, and the girls, and you…"

It was a duet: a deep, rich voice and a soft, delicate woman in a call and response. It was a mirror of his friendship with Betty Cooper, a knife in his heart. He should skip it, but it was a pain he understood. In that, it was comforting.

"We'll survive by telling lies
We've rationed well
…"

He was a hypocrite, he realized, setting the bottle on the desk beside him. Hadn't he demanded honesty from her? Insisted on it, even? No more secrets, or so they promised. But he was keeping one himself. Maybe he was keeping it poorly—Archie had made a few remarks laced with suspicions, and Veronica had certainly noticed something between them—but he hadn't told Betty the plain and simple truth.

Who was he to demand more of her?

That's different. I can't lose her as a friend, he told himself.

So you insulting her was being a friend? Okay, Jughead. Great friending.

Rolling his neck, he slumped further in the chair. Whiskey wasn't doing anything but leaving a nasty hint of acid in the back of his throat. He knocked back another shot all the same.

There were bigger problems than his hopeless affection for Betty Cooper. The omnipresent anger within was troubling. It was an unwieldy, unreasonable creature that spat fire and curled his fists until his fingers ached. His rage at Jackass Boyfriend, his frustration with his mother for letting that disaster of a relationship continue for months, his lingering resentment of his father, his fury at the mere thought of Chuck—it was too much negativity for one body to bear.

He'd lashed out at Betty. His father was dangerously close to falling off the wagon. Jughead was the common denominator. He was a block of C4, one lit fuse away from chaos and destruction.

Glancing at the time, he abandoned the last few shots of whiskey. His father would be home from his meeting in an hour, and he couldn't reek of booze when he arrived. His father had made many mistakes, but he was a good man at heart. Jughead wanted him to stay sober, and maybe realize that himself.

And Betty? He'd have to take a step back, protect her from his unsettling rage until it burned itself out to embers and ashes.

His phone buzzed in his palm as he secured the back office. One new text message. Warily, he opened it.

Spending the weekend at Veronica's. I'll be safe there. I won't be alone.

What lay between the short statements gave Jughead hope. She had heard him, even if she wasn't ready to face it head-on. Now, it was his turn.

I was out of line earlier.

He nodded to Tall Boy on his way out, an acknowledgement of the secret exchange. Stepping outside, he stared up at the sky, counting the scattershot stars dusted in clouds. He'd spent so many nights at the Twilight, willing the stars to sober up his dad, or help him make sense of the turmoil within. They'd never spoken to him. Or maybe he'd never learned how to hear them.

His phone hummed and he glanced down, heart in his throat. I just need time to think about it all.

He'd finally done it: he'd finally driven her away. And he couldn't blame her for cutting her losses. His mother had happily done the same, practically throwing him on the bus back to Riverdale.

Tugging his beanie low, he slipped away along a dimly-lit street, clutching his phone to his chest as if it could somehow heal his broken heart.


He ditched school Friday, exaggerating the mild hangover he woke up with into a possible stomach flu. Between his desire to mangle Chuck's smug features and a crippling anxiety that rolled over him at the thought of seeing Betty, he had no business stepping through the doors of Riverdale High. FP had immediately offered to stay home with him, a gesture that left him reeling, but he'd waved his dad away.

He chose not to tell Archie and the others about the bruises.

Three in the morning ruminations had led him to conclude that while Betty was in danger, her friends collectively knew that. To break her confidence by revealing her injury placed her at greater risk of harm. If she withdrew from everyone, there would be no way to know Chuck's next shitty move.

Having made several less than stellar remarks of his own, Jughead spent his day online reading about anger and its connection to childhood abuse and instability. It didn't take a research paper for him to connect the dots there. It was the articles that explained where the anger came from, and how to work through it, that he found useful.

Which was how he came to digging through the shed out back.

It was a tiny locked structure, scarcely big enough to stand in, but it was where his father had stored away the belongings left behind in the exodus to Toledo. Specifically, it was where his mother's things were. The boxes were slightly dank, and dead insects collected in webs dotted with dead leaf fragments, but he soon found what he was looking for: her porcelain dolls. Three of them.

He'd always found them creepy as hell, to be truthful. Their unnatural blue eyes and too-white faces reminded him of the dead. But today, they only evoked anger and hurt. Today, they represented what his mother seemed to think of her living, breathing children: that they, like the damn dolls, should be seen and not heard. That they should remain where they were placed, until she cared to spend time with them.

Jughead sniffled, ignoring a traitor tear sliding down his cheek. That she'd only been kind to them to spite his father.

In another corner, he found his old baseball bat, dented and splintering slightly from years of smashing it into trees in the clearing with Archie. It would serve him well.

Nauseous and exhausted, Jughead laid the dolls out on the ground behind the trailer, ignoring the confused look of his neighbour. Three dolls: one for each life she destroyed with her actions, including her own. Jughead understood that much; he wasn't without compassion for her. But his anger was vast, and he needed release.

Hefting the bat over his shoulder, he swung until the dolls were ceramic dust and silk fragments.


The weekend passed in a sleepless haze of writing and pacing the paths in the woods nearby, worrying about Betty Cooper. Occasional texts from Archie and Veronica assured him that she was being watched over. Archie had driven Betty and Veronica back from the away game Friday night, noting Chuck had kept his anger in check in front of Coach Clayton. True to her word, Betty had made the Lodge home her own for the weekend, slipping in and out to visit Polly, but otherwise remaining in the care of the vivacious Latina. Saturday afternoon, Veronica had texted him a link to her Instagram account with a heart emoji. Puzzled and somewhat annoyed—social media had never been and would never be his idea of a good time—he clicked through and smiled in spite of himself.

It was a series of images—six in all—of Betty, Veronica and Polly. Lodges prefer blondes, the caption read, dotted by hearts and rainbows. It was the first time he'd seen Polly since her return home, and he immediately understood Betty's concern for her well-being. As much as she tried to smile, Polly's eyes were rimmed in dark circles, the blue irises dull. The sisterly embrace in the fourth shot, however, was full of love. If Polly felt nothing else, it was affection for her baby sister.

Betty, on the other hand, seemed genuinely happy in each image. Veronica had caught her mid-laugh in a pair of Lolita-heart sunglasses, the sunlight creating an ambient glow about her. It was breathtaking. It was a stillframe of the Betty he'd grown up with: carefree, a little shy, but full of light.

Thank you for looking after her, he sent back.

Veronica replied immediately: Every good puppy deserves a treat *wink emoji*

Shaking his head with exasperation at her joke, he had spent the evening flipping through Veronica's account, hunting images of Betty. It struck him how few of the shots included Chuck—almost as if Veronica were quietly declaring her stance on the relationship. In several images, he'd clearly been cropped out, but in most, Veronica had pulled Betty into a hashtag "sister selfie". For all of her rich girl veneer, Veronica had a good heart. Betty was lucky to have her as a friend.

He'd finally fallen asleep early Sunday morning, his phone opened to the picture of Betty in his beanie, but a lazy Sunday was not meant to be. Pink Floyd's "Time" blared on a loop until he reluctantly cracked open an eye to glance at the display. Seeing Archie's name, he hit talk.

"It's early," he grumbled.

"It's noon!" Archie countered.

Jughead rubbed his itchy eyes, rolling away from the sunlight peering through his blinds. "And I went to bed at seven."

"Well, I'm sorry, but you're going to have to drink a few coffees and get over here. Now."

The urgency in his friend's voice worried him. "Why? What happened?"

"It's Betty." Archie's voice was quieter now, and in the background, Jughead heard a door shut. "She's not doing well. She needs her friends."

Jughead's heart began to race. What was wrong with Betty? She was supposed to be with Veronica, safe from the fists of Clayton. Safe, too, from his own rage, which he'd spent the weekend dispelling as best he could, in hopes of apologizing to her tomorrow.

"I don't know if she wants to see me right now," Jughead admitted, sitting up. "I was a little harsh on Thursday, Arch."

"No, you're wrong. She needs us. The Trio. The Three Musketeers."

"There were actually four of them—"

"I know, I know. She's been telling me that since grade one." Archie sighed heavily. "Look, she's been here since eight this morning, and she keeps asking if you and FP are coming to dinner."

"But dinner is cancelled this week."

Fred Andrews was out of town, meeting with Mary Andrews to finalize their divorce. He'd called to cancel dinner on Friday night. Jughead had been grateful for the extra time to formulate a worthy apology for Betty.

"I told her that, but she keeps insisting we could have it without my dad. She needs you, Jughead. Please."

Jughead rose slowly, rolling his neck to loosen the knots there. "Do we know why she's so upset? Did Clayton do something?" Because if he did, I have a baseball bat.

"No, it's Polly… Just, damn it, just get here. I don't know what happened between you two, and I really don't care. She's asking for you, so she clearly doesn't care as much as you do. Get in the shower, grab a coffee and get to my house."

"Alright! Give me an hour." The ferocity of his friend's demand caught him off-guard. "It's bad, isn't it?"

Archie hesitated briefly. "Yeah, it's bad, Jug. Hurry, okay? Take a cab if you have to. I'll pay."

"Tell her I'm on my way."

He promised an hour. He made it in forty minutes, thanks to his father flooring it in the truck. All it took was a Betty needs me and FP was grabbing his keys. It would seem that Jones men had a decided weakness for Cooper women, he mused, still curious as to the nature of FP's relationship with Alice. He'd downed a coffee on the way, not that he'd needed it. The fear of what could have Betty in such a state that ever-pleasant Archie Andrews was barking orders was pumping adrenaline through his veins.

His hand hesitated at the door, unable to knock. What if Archie had lied? What if Betty hadn't asked for him? What if she was upset with him? Crap, this is a terrible idea. Then again, his entire life was a series of bad ideas, wasn't it?

Drawing a deep breath for courage, he sputtered as the door flew open of its own accord, revealing a dishevelled Betty. Her eyes were swollen and red, her cheeks flushed. He immediately noticed she was in the same blue plaid shirt she'd worn on Thursday, although she'd missed a button, rendering it askew.

Archie hadn't exaggerated: this was bad.

"Betty?"

"Oh Juggie!" She threw her arms around him, sobbing into his shoulder. "She's gone!"

She… Polly? Gone?!

He held her tightly, tucking her head beneath his chin. "Shh, hey, I'm here. Let's go inside where it's warmer, huh?"

She burrowed into his side, allowing him to usher her back into the warmth of the house. Archie stood in the foyer, his expression pained. Told you, he mouthed. They made their way into the living room, settling Betty between them. Archie passed her a box of tissues which, judging from the crumpled pile on his table, had already been put to use.

"Okay, what happened? Who's gone?"

Betty sniffled loudly, pulling a tissue from the box. "Polly. She… She… Archie?"

"Polly has moved in with the Blossoms," Archie announced, clearly angry about this news. "They took her away this morning."

Jughead shook his head to clear the fog, because there was no way he'd heard that correctly. "I'm sorry. The Blossoms? The very people who drove Polly and Jason to think that faking his death was the only way to have a relationship?"

Betty blew her nose, mumbling about it being gross. "They're trying to get the babies back. She… She says she doesn't care how, she just wants them back."

Of course. Cheryl and Betty's confrontation Thursday morning. Cheryl must have walked away with Betty's information and fed it to her parents. Had they maybe seen a way to hurt Alice and Hal Cooper? And Polly… he couldn't blame her for doing whatever it took to see her children again.

He rubbed her back gently, wishing he could do more to ease her sorrow. "I'm so sorry, Betty."

Betty dabbed her eyes with her shirt sleeve. "I know she just wants the babies, and I want her to see them. I do. But I just got her back. I don't understand why she has to live with them."

Jughead didn't understand it, either. There were no words of wisdom that would make this okay, no hug enough to ease losing her sister a second time. And so he kept a steadying arm around her, letting her quietly cry out her sorrow. Archie ventured to the kitchen, returning with cans of Coke for them all.

"Did you maybe want to watch TV, Betty?" Archie offered. "A movie? You can watch anything you want, even Twilight."

Betty snuffled, managing a half-smile. "Archie, you know I hate those books."

"You've never hate-watched a movie?" Archie joked. "I love watching bad horror movies."

"Horror's different," Jughead mused. "It usually comes full circle from awful to amusing."

"Twilight is a horror movie," Archie insisted. "I have to cover my eyes, it's so terrible."

Archie continued to flip channels, baiting Betty into banter about the merits or failings of each. Understanding his friend's strategy, Jughead joined in, feeling immense relief as Betty stopped crying long enough to set her Kleenex box down. Her body relaxed, burrowed deep into the sofa between them.

Archie was right: this was a wound only the Trio could heal.

After bouncing between re-runs of Friends and The Suite Life of Zack and Cody (loudly protested by Jughead), talk of ordering pizza began in earnest. Archie took charge of food, with Betty demanding a vegetable of some kind be on her share. Now in control of the remote, Betty was flipping through the movie options on TV.

"Hmm. Not in the mood for the fiftieth installment of Fast and the Furious," she quipped, scrolling onwards. "No… No… Ooh, what's on the Classics channel?"

Jughead's eyes widened at the movie about to start. It was certainly a classic, without question. In many ways, it was a perfect film for Betty to watch. But would it be too much for her in a raw emotional state?

"Oh, it has Ingrid Bergman and Angela Lansbury in it! I love Murder, She Wrote," Betty enthused.

"Yeah, but I really don't think Archie will be down for a classic film. Maybe we should try Space? Or Starz?"

Betty rolled her eyes. "Archie is one of my best friends, but his taste in movies is… questionable. Come on, Juggie. It's got mystery in it."

And spousal abuse, he added silently. Damn it, what should he do?

"Betty, it's a dark movie. Might not be the right thing for distracting you."

"My whole life is a dark movie. I'll feel right at home." She glanced over her shoulder, searching for Archie. "BRING POPCORN!"

Damn it. It looked like Gaslight was happening, against his better judgement. All he could do now was sit by her as the story unfolded. The pizza ordered and popcorn in tow, Archie returned to the couch and promptly became a footrest for Betty. She laid her head on a pillow in Jughead's lap, absently munching on the buttery snack on the table.

It was a scene from countless weekends in their lives. But it wouldn't end with the same jovial laughter and littered carpets of their youth.

As Jughead predicted, Betty was unsettled by the mental manipulation of Paula by Gregory, her new husband with sinister intentions. Jughead had run across a copy of the film on Friday, nestled in his mother's stored belongings. It had occurred to him that it might help Betty see the nature of Chuck's mind games. Hell, the term gaslighting had come from it. But the way she clutched the pillow tighter, the popcorn abandoned… he worried it was too much.

And then it was.

"The playbook," she murmured. "I didn't take it."

"Betts? You okay?"

"I didn't take it," she echoed softly.

The doorbell rang, signalling the arrival of their dinner. Jughead was no longer hungry. Reaching for the remote, he hit pause, using Archie's departure as his excuse. He tapped her shoulder gently, nudging her to sit up.

"What playbook?"

She drew her knees to her chest, hugging them tightly. "There was this thing, months ago. He insisted I'd taken it and he was going to be in trouble. He said I'd done it on purpose. I didn't even know what it looked like, Jug. But I opened my locker and it was there."

"And there's no way you like, grabbed it with your textbooks by mistake?"

Betty shook her head furiously. "No, no way. It's very distinct. There's something else…" She glanced over at the door, where Archie was counting out cash for the delivery guy. "I was about to break things off with him. But then he told me he knew my secret, and then the playbook showed up… I thought I was losing it."

That bastard. He'd trapped her in a relationship from hell from the very beginning, keeping her off-balance so she wouldn't see the signs. Jughead drew a deep breath to steady himself, knowing he had to keep his focus on helping her.

"Veronica kept telling me yesterday that I'm never happy around him. That I'm not myself. But when I'm with her, or you guys, or Kevin, I'm… me, I guess?" Betty rose to her feet, staring at the frozen image on the screen. "I knew he was troubled, but… What has he done?"

Archie returned, setting the pizza boxes aside as he noticed a clearly troubled Betty. "Hey, what happened?"

Tugging anxiously on her ponytail, Betty began to shake. "How did I not see it?"

"Jug?" Archie rounded the couch, tapping his friend on the arm. "What's going on?"

Jughead held a hand up to silence him. "Betty, you weren't meant to see it. It's not your fault."

"But I should have." Archie stepped forward, wanting to comfort her, but she backed away. "No, I need to think. I'm sorry. I need to—I have to go."

"Betty, wait!"

Archie meant well in reaching out for her arm. Jughead knew this. Betty surely knew it, too. But in the wake of her realizations, the contact made her flinch. Archie immediately backed away, stunned by the anger in her eyes.

"Let. Me. Go."

"Okay, I'm sorry." The redhead immediately backed away, hands held high. "I just want to help you."

"I know. But I can't be here right now. People have been hurt and—" She hesitated, looking pointedly at Jughead. "I should have seen it," she admonished herself, before throwing open the front door and rushing away.

With the slam of the door came the questions. "What the hell just happened, Jug?"

Jughead watched Betty cross the front lawn, heading back to her house. "She's finally realized what we all know: that Chuck is a monster."

Archie roughly ran a hand through his hair. "Okay, but she knows we don't like him. Why does she have to go?"

"She's ashamed." His fingers poked and pulled at the discarded pillow on his lap. "She shouldn't be, but she is. And I have no idea how to help her."

He couldn't help her. He couldn't help himself with that.

"Should we call Veronica?"

"Can't hurt," Jughead mused. "Veronica's been doing her best, you know. Trying to help Betty see what we see."

Archie made the call, stress-eating pizza as he managed to relay Betty's breakthrough between bites. Veronica agreed to call immediately, texting just minutes later.

Voicemail. Should I just go over?

Jughead dismissed the idea immediately. "Alice hates Hermione. Betty told me there's a history there. With Polly leaving today, Alice won't do Veronica any favours."

Archie replied, throwing his phone down on the seat beside him. "I hate this! I hate what he's done. I hate that he's causing her pain. I need to make him pay for this."

"You can't. Not yet," Jughead amended quickly. "Whatever he's holding over her, she cannot handle that getting out right now. Not with losing Polly. We have to follow her lead."

An hour passed. Two. He texted her twice, urging her to come back and save them from the pizza he couldn't stomach. She didn't reply. Archie reached out, with no response. And then, Jughead finally had a good idea: the bedroom window.

He took the stairs two at a time, pushing into Archie's room and picking a path around dirty laundry to the window. Her blinds were half open, but in that gap, he could see her at her vanity table. She was brushing her hair, her lips pursed in a frown.

"Is she there?"

"Yeah, she's there." He slumped against the windowsill, his stomach in knots. "I'm not good with this, Archie. People. Helping them. What do we do?"

Archie shrugged. "Neither am I. She left, remember?"

"Because of me. Because of our less than stellar conversation Thursday after school."

"Hmm." Archie stepped inside, kicking a pair of jeans into the corner of the room. "I'm not the greatest at this stuff, but my dad is a good guy. And whenever I've messed up, he says an apology never hurts."

"I tried that. She needed to think," Jughead lamented.

"When was that, Thursday?" Archie settled on the bed, pointing to the Cooper home. "Whatever it was, she didn't care by today. Did you ever think that if she's blaming herself for Clayton's BS that she's blaming herself for whatever happened with you?"

And there it was: the pieces fell into place. Betty was blaming herself for the way Chuck had wrenched his arm. The very same arm, she now knew, that his mother's boyfriend had dislocated. Hadn't he blamed himself for the bruises on her arm?

"Archie Andrews, you are a good friend. But I have to go."