Jughead's not sure how long he lingers in the supply closet.
He can still feel his lips tingling. His chest pounding. He grabs onto the metal shelves to steady himself.
They'd kissed. She'd kissed him back. And then she'd promptly run away.
It stings. Like an angry mosquito bite after an otherwise perfect summer day.
He grips the shelf harder. His mind is a jumble. Rage and hurt, as well as a begrudging acceptance.
The kiss had been overwhelming for him, too. He can understand why it would freak her out. Warring emotions and all that. For all he knows, she still hates him. Even if the frisson between them is real. After all, he'd insulted her badly not 20 minutes before.
But his heart twinges at her calling it a mistake. Because it certainly didn't feel like that to him. More like inevitable. Fated.
Does she really not feel the same at all?
He takes a deep breath. He needs air. And a cigarette. The sensation of paper burning between his fingers.
But he's not sure he can face seeing her by going back to their desk to pick up his jacket and wallet.
If she gets a look at him in this state of disarray—if she sees him as anything less than cool and collected—she'll know she has the upper hand and can stomp his heart into a million pieces with her boot heel.
He hides out in the hallway instead, waiting until he catches a glimpse of Betty heading to the kitchenette, presumably to heat up her lunch.
Breathing is a little easier when he makes it outside the building. He fishes a cigarette out of the emergency stash he keeps in his jacket pocket and lights it up.
It's a bad habit, but it's one of the less destructive ways he's found to cope with his temper. Certainly better than taking a page from his father and burrowing to the bottom of a bottle.
Jughead perches on the wide metallic sill of the building's outer windows, his gloveless hands shaking in the wind. His fingertips twitch as he brings the filter between his lips and flicks his lighter open.
He inhales a few quick puffs of smoke.
It's enough for the blood to flow back to his brain. Soon his stomach is gurgling.
Food, he thinks. That'll calm him down. A warm bowl of split pea soup and some freshly baked Italian bread. The overabundance of carbs he'll end up consuming today be damned.
He spends nearly an hour at a nearby cafe, slowly drinking down the soup, until he can feel a semblance of confidence return to his body.
You know Betty, he reminds himself. How snippy she acts around him when she's not sure how to respond to one of his wisecracks. How any whiff of impropriety throws her off-kilter.
Maybe she's scared of her feelings for him. He hopes so. It's better than the alternative.
When he comes back to the office later in the afternoon, the bitterness, if not the hurt, has started to dissipate. At least, he's able to sit down beside her without his heart thrumming too loudly.
Interestingly, it's Betty who appears ill at ease at his reappearance.
She keeps sneaking little glimpses at him and biting her lip. Like she's searching for the right thing to say, or can't stop herself from remembering the feel of his mouth against hers.
Either way, she's clearly still worked up. Glowing and anxious. It's undeniably cute.
Jughead stifles a smirk, trying to hide the flush of masculine pride creeping over his face at having had this effect on her.
"I—can we—" she starts to mumble. Her voice is so hushed, he can barely hear her. He tilts his head in closer, peering at her in anticipation.
But before she can finish the thought, a demanding Kevin approaches.
"Bettyboop," he trills, "Please tell me you haven't been avoiding talking to me about your date."
Jughead groans inwardly at the interruption, as Betty goes red, sputtering some excuse to Kevin about how busy she's been today.
"Sure, sure," he says, waving away her explanation. He rests his hands on his fists and leans forward, staring at her with wide, eager eyes. "So how was it?"
Jughead tries to keep his expression stoic, but he can't keep his gaze from wandering to hers. Hungry to hear how she'll talk about the date to someone else. Someone who's not him.
Will she be just as defiant as she was when he'd asked?
Betty's blush deepens when she feels his eyes on her. She gulps visibly, turning back to Kevin.
Her answer is diplomatic. But not overly enthusiastic, he notes.
"It was good," she relays. "Dinner was delicious. And then we walked back to my place."
Kevin lets out a squeal. "Did you invite him up?" he asks, wagging his eyebrows at her. His insinuation is obvious.
Jughead sucks in a harsh breath. He's definitely not prepared to hear the answer to this question. If she has slept with that prick, he may very well lose it.
Even after that wondrous display in the supply closet.
Betty must notice his apprehension, because her face immediately freezes. She looks like a frightened rabbit. God, he really hopes nothing happened between them. His stomach roils.
"This is a place of business," he snarks out, just as she shakes her head imperceptibly. But Jughead catches it. He almost sighs aloud in relief.
Kevin snorts. "Right, because you're such a model employee, Jughead. You forget I have a file on you."
Betty starts to cough, choking on air.
"You okay, honey?" Kevin asks.
She puts her hand out to show him she's fine, downing a healthy sip of water from her pink Thinksport bottle. She swallows carefully and wipes her mouth.
Jughead smirks. It's not lost on him that she's almost positively thinking about their kiss. And what other "unprofessional" behavior it could have led to.
But his expression flattens like a pancake at Kevin's next question to Betty.
"Please tell me you at least made out a little?"
"Yes," she squeaks. "We kissed."
She stares down at the floor, avoiding Jughead's eyes. As if regretful for having even done this much. Or for him having to hear about it.
It's the only glimmer of light in the otherwise pitch blackness that is knowing another man has also recently had his lips on hers.
Jughead closes his eyes, trying to suppress the urge to punch a hole through his computer screen.
"And?" Kevin demands.
"Can you wrap up your little storytelling hour," he interjects, unable to contain his annoyance. Well, blind envy, if he wants to be precise. "I have a deadline."
Kevin rolls his eyes.
"Fine," he relents. "We'll continue this over drinks. A bunch of us are going out to the Dark Room for happy hour. You in, Betty?"
"Sure," Betty says, trying to smile.
She steals another glance at him and it's at that moment Jughead stubbornly decides he's going.
He's never social. In fact, he can't recall even one office happy hour he's bothered to attend before. But if Betty is going to be there…
"Where's my invite, Keller?" he asks.
Both of them look at him in surprise. He makes it a point to shoot Betty a challenging smirk. She blushes once again, shivering like she did in the supply closet. It turns him on more than he'd care to admit.
"Oh, uh, yeah, you can come if you want," Kevin says, confused.
Jughead nods, swiveling his chair away satisfied.
He knows there's a damn good chance he'll inevitably just be torturing himself. That she'll probably end up spending all her time talking to her work friends with Adam gawking around. Rubbing it in that they're "dating."
But if there's even the smallest possibility his presence will get Betty's attention and make her actually face the fact of their kiss, he'll do it. He'll go.
Betty smiles, laughing along as she listens to Josie McCoy, a fellow reporter on the culture desk, complain to their table about how bland the latest Ed Sheeran record is.
"You'd think winning a plagiarism case would actually inspire him to be more original," she carps.
"I'm not sure copyright law works like that," Adam jokes.
Betty giggles politely. "How bad is your review?" she asks.
"You don't want to know," Josie says, wincing as she sucks on the straw of her cranberry vodka.
Betty nods. She understands. Writing negative critiques is far from her favorite part of the job. But sometimes it's unavoidable.
"Hey, I liked that record," Kevin chimes in. "That adorable turtle-faced ginger gets my five stars."
"And this is why you're not a music critic, Kevin," Josie retorts.
Betty smiles and glances around the dimly lit room. About 15 of their co-workers have come, most mingling around tall wooden tables in the center of the oak-paneled cocktail bar.
Only Jughead appears to be by himself. Hanging back by the bar with a mostly full mug of beer and a disgruntled frown.
Their eyes meet and she tenses. His heated gaze has been on her all evening, since even before the group's arrival to the Dark Room. It's making her feel some type of way. Nervous. Jittery. Feverish.
She swallows a sip from her glass of French pinot grigio in hopes of cooling down.
But as she swirls the sweet droplets of wine on her tongue, her mind begins to wander, wading back into dangerous territory.
She replays their kiss in slow motion.
The warmth of Jughead's breath on the groove just below her nose. Her mouth leaning toward him. His soft, bow-shaped lips pressing against hers. Insistent and needy. The fuzzy wool fabric of his sweater between her fingers.
Adam places his hand on her shoulder and she startles in surprise. A lump forms in her throat. It disturbs her how annoyed she is at him for interrupting her daydream.
Luckily, Adam doesn't seem to notice her irritation. He leans in close to whisper in her ear.
"We should head to a bar uptown for round two after this, if you're up for it," he suggests.
Betty finds herself nodding in agreement, even as her stomach flip-flops. She tries to smile at him, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.
The back of her sweater feels like it's being seared with fire.
Out of the corner of her eyes, she catches Jughead exhaling through his nose. As if he's blowing the smoke out after taking a drag on one of the cigarettes he sneaks when he's super stressed.
Damnit. Why does she know that?
Betty is hyper aware he's only come to this happy hour for her. It's obvious he's trying to get under her skin. To edge her into coming over and talking to him about the kiss.
Once again, her mind flits back to the two of them alone in the supply closet. What might have happened if they hadn't been interrupted by whatever object crashed to the ground.
Jughead pins her against the shelf. His mouth hovering over her pulse point. Sucking it softly. Nibbling a bruise into the sensitive flesh. His fingers simultaneously creep down to her waist, finding the button of her jeans. Unzipping her pants, running his thumb over the rim of her panties until…
Her face burns bright red, her legs wobbling at the delicious flutter between her thighs.
Screw it, she decides.
She turns toward the bar, prepared to march over there and sort this out between them once and for all.
But for the first time tonight, Jughead isn't looking at her. He's laughing with the bartender. Toni, she thinks her name is.
Betty can feel the bitter taste of vomit rising in her throat.
She's never had an issue with Toni before. She's always been hospitable the previous times Betty's stopped in with Kevin for a drink after work. But that doesn't stop her knuckles from balling into tight fists, as she briefly imagines digging her fingernails into the hand Toni is resting a little too close to Jughead's arm.
Enough, Betty, she rebukes herself. God, get yourself together.
She's minutes away from going on a second date with Adam. An amiable, good-looking man who hasn't once hesitated in expressing his interest in her.
Which means she shouldn't care who Jughead talks to. Or feel threatened by how alluring Toni is compared to her, with her smooth caramel skin, pink-streaked hair, and sexy mesh halter bodysuit.
But she does care. She is threatened. Irrevocably so.
The familiar feeling of inferiority scalds her from the inside out and the only way she knows to overcome it is to playact that everything's fine. That her reality is nothing short of perfect.
Forcing a fake smile onto her face, Betty turns back to the table.
She gulps down another large sip of wine. Hoping to disguise as tipsiness the rosy flush of what she refuses to admit is actually jealousy.
Jughead shifts uncomfortably in the leather bar stool. He takes a sip of the dark brown ale he's been nursing, just to give his restless hands something to do.
His eyes burn as he watches Betty talk to Adam and a few other people from the office. She looks incandescent, the rhinestones on her sweater's collar sparkling in the glow of the bar's pendant lights.
If he were able to tear his eyes away from her for even a second, he'd probably go bang his head into the exposed brick wall.
What was he thinking coming here?
His jealousy is a violent storm, dark and out of control. Seeing her laugh with her work friends, with Adam, with anyone but him. It's like a punch in the gut, especially after their kiss.
This was a terrible idea.
But what else was he supposed to do? Pull Betty aside somewhere private in the office and come right out and confess he has a huge crush on her?
She'd probably laugh in his face.
No, he corrects. She may dislike him, but she's still too caring and empathetic to do that.
With his luck, she probably just wouldn't believe him. She'd think he was messing with her and stalk off upset, tears filling her eyes.
And then he'd be back to square one.
He shakes his head, running his finger over the rim of his beer glass.
With the exception of Dilton, a data product manager who had rambled on and on to him about how the government is withholding evidence proving the COVID lab leak theory, Jughead has barely interacted with anyone else from the office.
Not that he's interested. Ten excruciating minutes of Dilton's conspiracy theorizing is enough socializing for a lifetime.
Jughead thinks it's that point in the evening where it's best to cut his losses. Finish as much of his drink as possible in the next five seconds and get the fuck out of the bar.
But a mocking voice interrupts his pity party.
"Haven't seen you here much before."
He looks up to see the bartender raising a wry eyebrow up at him as she polishes a wine glass. She's short and compact, with cotton-candy-colored highlights in her hair and a see-through top that leaves little to the imagination.
Jughead grunts. At least her no-bullshit pose suggests she won't take offense to his crabbiness.
"I'm practicing at being social," he replies, with grim, sardonic cheer. "How am I doing so far?"
The bartender studies the establishment's other patrons, mostly his colleagues laughing dementedly in various states of inebriation, before turning back to examine his aggrieved pout.
"Not so well, I'm afraid," she informs him with a sly grin.
"Well, my single and ready to mingle t-shirt is in the wash," he says sarcastically.
The woman's grin widens. "Toni," she says, introducing herself.
"Jughead," he supplies.
If she's fazed by his strange name, she doesn't show it. She places the now clean glass and rag down on the bar and appraises him. "So you're also part of this magazine crew?" she asks.
"Mhm," he mumbles, his gaze falling back on Betty as he notices a droll smile crossing over her pretty face.
Their eyes meet and Betty's breath catches. A bubble of hope rises in Jughead's chest. But just as quickly she lowers her head and looks away. Jughead exhales with a sigh.
"Ponytail is pretty cute," Toni says knowingly, from behind his ear.
"Stunning," he corrects automatically.
Toni cocks up another eyebrow. "Courteous. Tips well, too."
"I wouldn't expect anything less of her."
He tries to modulate his voice so the remark comes out as jaded, but he knows, if anything, he just sounds even more besotted.
"I think you're a little late to the party, though," Toni says, tilting her chin up in the direction of Betty's table.
Jughead turns back to see Adam touching Betty's shoulder blade and whispering something in her ear. She looks up at him and nods, a small smile playing on her lips.
His eyes constrict, his jaw beginning to quake as he glares daggers into the backs of both their heads.
Fuck this, he thinks, his nostrils flaring. Is she actually trying to flaunt this clown in front of him, or is she really that naive and unaware he's only come here for her?
His raging thoughts anger him even more and he thinks he might unknowingly let out a strangled growl.
Deep breaths, Jughead orders himself. He slowly inhales, wishing to all hell it was still legal in New York City to smoke inside. God, she's turned him into an actual nicotine addict.
His fingers clench around his beer mug, squeezing the glass, as if he could break it with sheer strength alone.
It keeps him from dissociating that he's throttling Adam through the bar's floor-to-ceiling windows.
"You look like you could use a shot," Toni says with an amused glint in her eye.
"Of bleach maybe," he quips.
Toni laughs. "How about whiskey?"
"It'll do."
Jughead releases his vise grip on the mug, watching as Toni stands on her tiptoes to grab a bottle of Jameson from one of the higher shelves. She pours them both a generous amount.
"Here's looking at girls from across the room, kid," he mutters.
"Cheers," she volleys back.
They clink glasses.
The alcohol burns going down his throat, but it does loosen him up a little. And serve as something of a distraction.
He's able to make bantering conversation with Toni for the next few minutes until a nasally Dilton saunters over demanding a refill of his appletini.
At least the man's taste in drinks has Jughead chuckling.
Toni winks at him, as she weaves expertly down the bar counter. "Good luck with your girl," she calls, her dark brown eyes flashing warmly as she shoots a glance in Betty's direction.
"Thanks," he says, offering her a two-fingered salute.
He'll need it. Because he's about three seconds from leaving. Having achieved nothing from this evening but a slight buzz and mounting frustration.
Betty braces herself against the curve of the wooden table. Her glass is almost empty.
The evening is winding down. Kevin and Josie are drunkenly humming show tunes. And Adam has needlessly steered his fingers to the small of her back three times already, signaling he's ready to go.
But she's left her coat and bag on a stool by the bar. Which means coming within spitting distance of Jughead before leaving is unavoidable.
Betty swallows down the last drop of her wine, standing up from the table and compelling herself to walk toward him.
Jughead raises both his eyebrows at her when he spots her approach. His face is sourer than a lime, full of judgment and indignation. But he doesn't say a damn thing.
It unnerves her.
She's used to tension between them. A sharp, aggressive simmer that boils over into unrelenting jibes. But not a tension like this. One that's so weighted and expectant. She feels an acute need to break it.
"Hey," she says quietly, slipping her coat around her shoulders.
Aside from a brief, blink-and-you'd-miss-it flicker in his blue eyes, he just looks right through her. Scowling even harder, if that's possible.
She tries again, her voice ballooning a little too brightly. "Having fun?" she asks.
Jughead scoffs, and Betty wants to kick herself for asking such a stupid question.
"Time of my life," he delivers with a deadpan.
His sarcasm sends a sizzle of annoyance through Betty, disrupting the flurry of nerves. Why does he always have to mask anything he might be feeling with a stockpile of cynical quips?
Not that she's any better. A scaredy cat who spent the whole day too afraid to even talk to him.
"Why did you come then?" she can't help but sneer.
Jughead's face goes deadly serious, his voice husky. Piercing.
"You know why."
He stares at her, his eyes intense. As black as coals. She sucks in a breath. Well, that's one form of honesty.
It breaks down her defenses.
"Jughead," she says, her voice coming out velvety soft. "I—"
"Ready, Betty?" Adam asks, walking up from behind her.
Betty's eyes momentarily glaze over, a sinking feeling overtaking her. As if she's been trapped underwater and there's no shore in sight.
When she opens them, all she can see is Jughead's pained expression. He looks motion sick, almost like he's been slapped in the face. She recognizes that look. She's pretty sure it's the exact same one she had on her face when Toni was flirting with him before.
"I actually—" she starts to say, but Jughead's too quick for her.
"I was just leaving," he steamrolls over her. He throws a crumpled bill onto the bar and stalks out before she can stop him.
Betty wants to run after him. She can feel the impulse in her calf muscles. But Adam is once again touching the small of her back, smiling down at her with an oblivious grin.
"Shall we?"
She releases a long inward sigh and squeaks out a yes.
Jughead, the dream, their kiss, it's all a mirage, she tells herself. Isn't it?
But, for the first time in her life, her internal ability to convince herself of a sentiment she doesn't want to believe is true isn't working so well.
As if her giving into temptation and his rare admittance of feelings has broken the fever of denial.
They walk back to the table, Betty's stomach starting to contract.
It continues to hurt as she says goodbye to the rest of their coworkers. Not even Kevin's parting hug and embarrassing, yet hilarious stage-whisper about avoiding slutty bathroom sex can ease the ache for very long.
As she exits toward the street with Adam in tow, she can't help but seek out Jughead's retreating form. But there's no trace of his raven hair or denim sheepskin coat on the crowded avenue. He's long gone.
It feels like a needle pricking her heart.
"There's a great place, Bemelmann's, on 77th and Madison. I think you'll like it," Adam tells her.
She starts to respond, but another cramp hits her stomach, and she can only nod, clutching at her waist with a grimace.
Adams steps onto the curb, lifting up his arm to hail a cab.
Betty watches in a daze, the lump in her throat from earlier in the evening transforming into full-blown panic. She feels nauseous, unsteady. She can't do this. She can't leave with him. She needs to go home.
As a yellow taxi screeches to a halt beside them, Betty finds herself placing a hand on the arm of his gray wool coat.
"Adam, I'm so sorry, but can we please take a raincheck?" she murmurs, keeping her face appropriately contrite. "I feel a headache coming on. I think I drank too much."
Adam's brow scrunches up and he looks at her, concerned. "Of course. Do you need me to take you home?"
"No, it's okay," she says. "I'll just take this one, if that's alright. Thank you, though."
She offers his shoulder a lukewarm squeeze, slipping past him into the cab before he can say anything else.
