Chapter Text
Weekend mornings are Betty’s favourite.
This used to be so, because of how productive she felt - especially when she’d baked bran muffins, been for a run, showered and dressed again all before eight thirty.
These days though, that productivity while the rest of the city’s still feeling its way out of slumber has dissipated somewhat, to be replaced by only two activities - both of which involving their bed.
Just thinking of the mahogany-framed king bed as theirs makes her smile, despite the fact that it dwarfs the room and it’s always a huge struggle to change the sheets. They’d bought it from Crate and Barrel - one of her absolute favourite stores - and regardless of Jughead’s protests about it being “produced for the masses, Betts,” the day it got delivered to their apartment (because that’s theirs now too) is pretty memorable. The consolation for Jughead had been the size: he wasn’t about to pay over the odds for something that could be found in at least three other apartments in their building if he was only getting a double. He was however, prepared to pay over the odds if Betty agreed to get the largest size.
She finds it amusing that despite all of the space on the mattress, they barely even use half. Case in point: she’s lying on her right side, face pressed deliciously into the cool pillow, and she’s barely even sure where her limbs end and Jughead’s begin. He has an arm beneath her neck and another wrapped around her waist so her back is pressed against his chest (or vice versa - it doesn’t matter about specifics) and she’s also pretty certain that he’s sharing her pillow too. There’s a dip behind her head that shouldn’t be there otherwise.
Weekend mornings are reserved these days for snuggling - or, if she wants to burn some calories (not that that’s the motivation behind such a thing) something a little more...rigorous.
Jughead grunts into the back of her neck and the hot burst of air from his lips sends a strand of hair upwards so she can feel his exhales against her skin. He nestles impossibly further into her and then sinks his hand beneath the cotton vest she’s wearing.
Her smile grows.
At first, Betty assumes his fingers are just searching for her skin - he prefers them to rest directly against her stomach rather than the material of whatever pajamas she’s wearing. But then they begin a slow descent towards the waistband of her shorts and she knows what’s coming next.
The pillow moves and his lips graze a kiss between her shoulderblades, then left to her shoulder itself. She rolls a little further onto her stomach, then inches her left leg so his fingers can tug down the shorts. When they get wedged between her right hip and the mattress, he lifts her slightly to free them and Betty can feel his smirk against her skin.
She removes her vest too - that’s more tricky than shorts when one of his arms is trapped beneath her - then shifts so she’s back to lying on her side and Jughead can bring his left hand to stroke her breasts.
Everything’s softer and more languid in the morning like this. She loves the unhurried nature of it; loves knowing that if he wants to spend twenty minutes just kissing her (because sometimes, he does) there’s no alarm to tell them to make it quick.
His lips against her neck are slack now and his palms - flat and a wonderful combination of calloused and smooth - move lazily across her skin until they reach her inner thigh, drawing it up and forward so he can slide inside of her.
Butterflies dance in Betty stomach and she finds herself wondering if it’ll always be like this. There are times (in particular, when they’re doing this ) that she tries to figure out just how she managed to stumble through her life for those six years she didn’t have Jughead to come home to; when she didn’t know that they’d get to do this every weekend.
A quiet gasp leaves her mouth when he draws back and sinks in again, her left hand searching for his right one so she can sew their fingers together. She’s learned now not to grip the sheets: he prefers her to steady herself against him instead.
The sunlight is streaming in through the curtains, pouring over the sheets in golden hues so that as she lifts an eyelid when she cranes her neck to look back at Jughead, he appears in an aura of sorts. He cranes his own neck to kiss her, although their lips meet in more of a graze, and then Betty lays her head back against the pillow and it’s just their heavy breaths once more.
After a while, she begins to grow impatient. The pace he sets is just enough to keep her teetering on the edge of coming, although not enough to send her off of the cliff - and yes, she knows they don’t have anywhere to be or anything else to do, but it’s sweet torture and Jughead knows.
He’s waiting for her to beg .
Betty isn’t sure how this semi-roleplay first began, but now it’s routine: he’ll work her up until she’s arched so far off of his chest in attempt to gain some friction from the mattress that he has to pull her back against him and use the heel of his hand whilst instructing her to tell him what she wants.
It’s always the same thing.
Jughead tugs on her ear with his teeth, lightly at first, and then a little harder until a moan tumbles out of her mouth and into the warm summer softness of the bedroom. She feels his lips slide into a grin and she’d roll her eyes at the cockiness of it all, except, she figures, it’s pretty deserved.
“Please, Jug.”
(It always, always works, too)
Afterwards, they shower together and when they’re done, Betty watches with her lip caught between her teeth as Jughead wraps a white towel neatly around his waist, tucking in the cotton at his hip before wrapping one around her and prising her lip from its little pearly prison.
“The only dents I want in your skin are mine,” he says, and despite the fact they’ve been doing this for months now, it still catches her off-guard when he says things like that. She lets him catch her wrist, watching as he traces the tiny new feather tattoo with his fingertips before laying a kiss on the dark ink: her reminder that he’s not going anywhere. Not now. (Not ever)
It’s her unspoken words to him that she’s not going anywhere either.
Betty pulls on a sundress over her underwear and leaves Jughead in their bedroom while she sets about brewing a fresh pot of coffee and figuring out what she can make for breakfast with the few ingredients housed in the refrigerator. He joins her a few minutes later, his hair damp and wavy from the shower.
“No chocolate chip pancakes?” he asks, eyeing the granola she’d set on the counter only moments ago.
“We didn’t buy eggs because I didn’t want them to turn bad while we’re away.”
“They won’t turn bad if we eat them,” he says, opening the fridge door and grimacing at the contents before closing it again, empty-handed.
“You can’t eat twelve eggs in one go Jug. Besides, granola won’t kill you.”
She rolls her eyes at his suggestion that it might, but then steps towards him to kiss him anyway. “You can have pancakes in London.”
“Promise?”
Betty grins and smacks her lips against his once more before turning back to the bowls of yoghurt and fruit. “Promise.”
-
The following day, they’re up early in order to reach the airport for seven thirty. Betty’s not sure that she’s been this excited in her life. Even Christmas mornings as a child - despite the magic of it all - hadn’t done to her insides what the promise of their first ever vacation together has.
Jughead grins his special brand of smile that makes his eyes crinkle and her stomach flip, and she does a little hop towards him. “You ready to go?”
He looks at her, really and truly looks at her and Betty wonders what he’s thinking. Before she can ask though, he’s sighing into a kiss and fingering the tiny cut-out of her dress which reveals a diamond of pale skin each side of her waist.
“This is distracting,” he mumbles, tracing the edge of the cotton material.
“I’ll put a cardigan on,” she starts, but he pulls her back before she can leave the room, capturing her lips again. Betty figures he must be excited about the trip too.
“I didn’t say I don’t want to be distracted.”
“Oh,” Betty shrugs with a grin that grows into a satisfied smirk. “I’ll leave it in my bag then.”
Despite the early hour, the city air is already warm and humid, signalling yet another scorcher. The east coast has been enjoying a heatwave for the past week but as much as Betty loves the cloudless sky, the promise of her boyfriend and a four-night stay in the city she’s been obsessed with since she was in her early teens is way better than any eighty-degree weather.
She checks the weather app on her phone though - a habit she’s gotten into lately, as though the forecast might change within minutes - and finds that although London isn’t the same high temperature as Boston, it too is still enjoying warmer than average weather. Jughead wheels their case in one hand and holds her hand with the other and Betty feels legitimately giddy .
(Later, on the plane, he’ll take her hand in his during take-off so she can squeeze her flight anxiety into his fingers rather than her own palms. When the pressure doesn’t come, he’ll ask, “You’re not nervous about crossing the ocean?” and she’ll shake her head - no - because he’s there. When the seatbelt sign is turned off, she’ll lift the divider and snuggle into him to watch a movie and think that if the plane were to go down it wouldn’t matter anyway because she’s already got everything she’s ever wanted.)
-
Their hotel is in Soho and after disembarking the tube at Tottenham Court Road, Betty finds the short walk to the Victorian building to be something akin to a movie set. The buildings either side of the road are brick-built with huge wooden windows painted in creams and greys and framed with pretty planters. Wrought iron railings separate the hotel from the flagstones of the sidewalk and she marvels silently at the charm of it all.
Their room is decorated a kind-of-strange deep green, and Betty finds it to be mildly sinister-looking (although there’s a huge four-poster bed - even bigger than their one at home in Boston - which looks incredibly inviting).
When she glances over at Jughead however, he appears to be having an internal debate because his eyes flit from the suitcase he’s wheeled to a stop beside him to the bed, then back again, and repeat the process several times until she steps close enough to kiss him.
“Jug?” she asks, and his eyes are so soft when he looks at her that Betty’s throat seems to close up. It takes considerable effort simply to swallow. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Bringing me here.”
His eyes roam her face - like he can’t decide where to look - but eventually come to a stop on her lips. “I...you don’t…” He seems flustered suddenly, and red. “Just...I need to use the bathroom quickly.”
He scrambles away and Betty tries to shrug away her confusion. She’s about to begin unpacking when Jughead returns from the bathroom still looking a little panicked.
“What’re you doing?”
“Unpacking,” she answers. “Our clothes’ll all get creased if they’re not hung up.
“Later,” Jughead says, tugging her away. “I thought you wanted to see as much as you could.”
“I…” she trails off - because he does have a point, albeit a rather intense one considering it’s already quite late here. “Well we could go see the Broad Street pump first. Or Piccadilly Circus seeing as it’s dark.”
“Covent Garden,” he instructs.
Betty doesn’t really care where they start. She just wants to see it - with him .
They head out and walk east to Covent Garden which isn’t very far away at all. Betty’s in awe of the charm of it all, but Jughead seems intent on getting them somewhere, pulling her by the hand until she’s practically tripping over the cobbles.
“Hey,” she says softly, running her fingertips along the crease of his elbow. “You okay?”
“There’s too many people,” she hears him mutter, although he doesn’t appear to be saying it to her. It’s merely more of an observation. He does stop however, turning to face her before sighing and running a hand over her cheek. Her heart catches and stutters when he brushes his lips against her forehead before saying gently,
“You hungry?”
She isn’t really, but there’s a pretty little Italian restaurant in the corner of the piazza and she kind of just wants to drink wine and soak everything in. “Yeah,” she says. “A little.”
-
The following day, she’s scheduled in a visit to the aquarium on the banks of the Thames, a ride on the London Eye and then late afternoon drinks at the Shard and by the time they’re heading back to the hotel to change for dinner, Betty’s starting to panic that their very first vacation as a couple is already going wrong.
Jughead has been pretty quiet the whole day, constantly sinking his hands into his pockets so they’re not free to hold hers. Occasionally, he’d placed a hand on her back as they’d queued under the hot rays of the sun, but the conversation had been somewhat stilted and Betty’s now wondering whether ordering in might be the better option.
She’s about to suggest as such (trying desperately to chalk Jughead’s mood down to tiredness) but then he tells her there’s something he wants her to see later and she keeps her mouth closed.
He joins her in the shower, opening the wide frosted door as she’s shampooing her hair so it’s scented with vanilla and almond, and takes over - massaging his fingertips across her scalp deliciously. He’s careful when rinsing it out too, tilting her head so that neither water nor shampoo sting her eyes, and everything that he didn’t say or do earlier is forgiven.
It’s petrifying - how much she needs him now that she’s let him back in. (She’s certain she’ll do anything to have him stay, too)
Eventually, they step out and dress: him in a short-sleeve shirt in which he looks effortlessly attractive, and her in a deep plum-coloured dress that clinches at her waist before flaring out to just above her knee. If he’s going to look like that, then she’ll do her damndest to look good beside him.
They eat at a tiny French place which sells a variety of tasty open sandwiches and good wine, and Betty sits back, stuffed, to watch everyone outside go about their lives. It’s one of her favourite things to do - watch people like this - and when she spots a dog sporting a union jack sweater, she turns to Jughead to point it out.
“Hey Jug, look at....” she trails off, noting the somewhat anxious expression etched into his forehead. “Are you okay?”
He rubs a hand over his face. “I just...Betts…”
“What?” she questions, and it takes her right back to her bedroom when they were sixteen. The very first time he kissed her.
And he does the same thing again. Leaning across the table, he takes her jaw between his hands lightly, cupping her face so he can seal his lips over hers. When he eventually pulls back, she feels somewhat dazed.
“Jug -”
“-You ready to go?” he asks. “I uh...have something for you.”
Excitement ripples through her and the smile that pulls at her lips once Jughead’s paid the check and taken her hand in his, well, there’s no sign of it leaving.
He leads her through the streets, the warm air from earlier in the day now tinged with a light breeze that’s only just on the right side of being cool. The couple glasses of wine she’d had with dinner have left her with a calm, sated feeling and her limbs feel a little heavier than normal.
Their steps grow slower as they arrive in what Betty figures must be the centre of Covent Garden - the piazza with its numerous Italian restaurants and a beautifully decant-looking macaron store painted in light pink and gold. They could be in mainland Europe right now and Betty decides, as she stops to really take everything in, that if she ever reaches a point in her life where she starts to forget things, this will be something that never leaves her.
She only realises that Jughead has let go of her hand when she begins to walk forwards once more. When she turns her head though, she finds him presenting her with an envelope.
“What’s this?”
He swallows, looking nervous, and her heart speeds up. “Open it and find out.”
She takes the cream-coloured envelope in both hands, watching his face first, then turning her attention back to the stationery when he gives nothing away.
It’s a letter.
Betty,
I wrote ‘Free’ as your story.
This is mine.
Accompanying the letter are two more pieces of paper, numbered in his scrawled handwriting. She looks up at Jughead again, her heart thudding like a jackhammer against her chest as she opens her mouth to ask him whether she should read it here.
He nods once before the words have left her mouth.
There must’ve been a point where liking spending time with him became liking him. Perhaps the timing of it was indefinable - or, perhaps it wasn’t - but the point is, that like soon turned to love .
He felt unworthy initially, like she could (and should) do better than someone who enjoyed existing on the fringes of a society that would inevitably shun him for daring to taint her perfection. But she poured love on him - drenched him in it until it didn’t matter how many holes there were in his armour because she would make sure whatever seeped out the first time was offered again and again until he was convinced to hold onto it.
“Jughead,” she sighs sadly, tears already pricking at her eyes.
His voice is clogged with emotion when he says, “Keep reading,”.
She casts her eyes back down to the paper.
For six years, the thing he was most grateful for was that she let him let her go. And then, all of that time later, the realisation that the letting go had been temporary (on both of their parts) hit like a strike of lightning.
This time, she was the storm.
Fierce and unyielding in her fight for what she wanted - even if he thought it should be different - she gave him what he hadn’t known he’d needed.
She was lying on his couch the evening he thought he had everything, eyes blinking tiredly against the sleep threatening to defy her. This, he had decided, would be all he’d ever need.
And then he arrived at 182.
Betty turns the page over but there are no more words. With her breath caught in her throat, she looks up at Jughead.
“Turn around,” he says softly.
She does, to find herself standing opposite a jewellery store - the number 182 written in black paint on the doorframe.
“Read the next page.”
I didn’t know I wanted to marry you until I saw a ring in this place.
She reads the line again. And again. And then over and over until she’s sure that what’s written on the paper is what she thinks it is.
There aren’t words to explain how or what I felt but just know that if I ever find them, you won’t have to read about them in a book.
Love, always.
Jughead.
Only when he catches her left hand with his does she realise she’s shaking. “Betty Cooper,” he starts, and already she’s nodding, the black box appearing from his pocket in slow motion, her pulse thudding in her ears. “Will you marry me?”