Work Text:
Betty's had her words for seven years now.
They appeared exactly when they should have. Her fifteenth birthday. And she'd spent the entire day shaking, barely containing all her nervous energy and flitting constantly to the bathroom to lift her shirt and drop her skirt to check her body for the writing that will lead her to her soulmate. She wonders if it will be as romantic as Polly's I'm gonna marry that girl or as funny as Jason's he looks just like Cheryl. This twin thing is creepy.
She wants hers to be unique. As nice as it is to see the very common you're so beautiful on a girl's skin, it also makes it very difficult for you to be able to find your soulmate. She wants something more. Something...special. So eventually she just gives up on trying to be subtle and locks herself in the upstairs bathroom. She runs herself a bath and doesn't use any bubbles incase it obscures her skin, but she does light a rose candle to try and calm herself down. She positions the hand mirror on the side, balancing on the white porcelain just in case her mark appears on her neck or her back or somewhere difficult to see.
She's heard the stories of people having their marks appear on their face; just out there for the entire world to see. It can make the whole situation much more difficult when people try to take advantage of you in that way. There's special makeup to cover it up and Betty would rather not have to worry about that.
But in the end, she wouldn't really mind. She just wants her mark. Sooner rather than later.
She attempts vainly to relax into the warm water; her skin is flushed pink and her hair is up in a bun out of the way, but she can't keep her eyes closed for longer than a moment before she's searching her skin.
Somewhere between the stress and the searching, she falls asleep.
She wakes up about twenty minutes later. The water's luke warm and she stares down her body and it's there.
She scrambles out of the bathtub, her heart racing in excitement as she towels off as quickly as possible. She hasn't really looked at it yet, just seen it there right below her collar. She wants to hold off on the reveal- the thing she's yearned for most- and let the pressure and nerves coil inside her. This is one of the biggest moments of her life. She lets herself think briefly as she yanks on some pyjamas that just below her collar is not a bad place to have a mark at all. Sure maybe tank tops are out of the question now, but she didn't wear those much anyway. She darts across the hall and into her bedroom- locking the door and jumping onto her bed, reaching for her phone. She snaps a picture, and then takes a breath, before looking at the words.
Before she can even comprehend them, she takes in their form. Neat, black-letters as if they were typed on a type-writer. She smiles warmly at that. Her soulmate has personality. They're uniform and even, though a little jumpy across her skin- some slightly higher up than others. A gentle jaggedness that makes her think of older typewriters. Of antiques. It's a black ink, but not too dark. A little bit faded.
It reads:
Stay cool. There's no way she knows you've just moved a dead body. No way at all.
Betty takes a second.
She swallows quickly before reading it again. And again. She rushes over to the mirror and reads it again, but still, all backward and reflected, it's the same. She meets her own eyes and stares at the blue diamonds in shock. That's what her soulmate's thinking when she first sees him? Is she going to find him at a crime scene? Is he a criminal? How old is he? What the hell? Her mind is racing a mile a minute and she just blinks slowly at her reflection. She collapses onto her bed and stares at the ceiling; unsure what to make of it all.
But the years pass, and she comes to terms with it.
Whens she decides to major in journalism a few things start to click into place. She's an investigative journalist, of course she's going to come across her soulmate like this- most likely just before she has to call the police to get him arrested. But, of course, her mind chimes helpfully, that might not be true. He might be a coroner, or a police officer, or a funeral director. Anything that might mean he has to move a body. And who even said the body was human? Her mark sure doesn't say that. Maybe he just moved an animal's body.
"We've got a lead," Brock, her boss says, handing her some paper. She takes it and hums at the address. It's a little forest, just on the outskirts of New York. She's been there once or twice. "Don't go alone. Take someone- that tall friend of yours with the red hair, what's his name?"
Betty sighs, rolling her eyes. "Archie. And I don't need him with me, I can do this myself."
Brock snorts like the idea is hilarious. "Take some muscle with you, Cooper. How are you gonna handle it if a serial killer comes running?" And he's gone, his farewell: a sturdy tap onto the walls of her cubicle.
She loves Archie, she does. They trust each other. Trust each other enough to have shown each other their marks. He had laughed at hers for ages but his hadn't been much better. Written in purple script, elegant and scrawling and difficult to read had been Mmm yummy. I think I will. on his bicep. She wonders what kind of cocky vision will sweep Archie Andrew's off his feet. She loves him, truly. But she doesn't need him. So that night, she shrugs on her coat, and packs her torch and takes a cab to the address.
It's a cold, dark night, and she has to keep reminding herself that she's happy she didn't bring Archie. She's 22 and she can do this. She flicks on the torch with a thunk, and hears the cab driving away as she starts into the deep woods. The ground is wet and mushy under her feet and her heart is beating hard. Animals and critters make eerie noises and very distantly she can hear the soothing roar of the city. But it's getting quieter and quieter.
Maybe it would have been a good idea to come here in the daytime. That way she could actually see the clues she's looking for. It's too late for that now though, and her fingers shake around their vice-like grip on the flashlight.
She hears a sound.
Twigs crunching underfoot. Footsteps. She pauses, and listens. The footsteps are light, and in no particular rush either. But they're not too quiet- whoever it is isn't trying to hide the sound of them. Whoever it is, thinks they're alone in the woods.
Betty heads towards the sound bravely. They're not.
They freeze at the same time.
Betty's jaw drops as she stares at the man who is just...who is just unfairly handsome for a situation as terrifying as this. He's tall and pale with dark hair that tumbles into green eyes. He's dressed...not like a serial killer, actually, and she wonders whether or not she's just stumbled onto someone who was taking an innocent, if creepy, walk. He's in dirty converse and oversized plaid and he has a satchel and a beanie. He looks about her age and he's staring at her as if he's as afraid of her as she was of him.
She lowers the light a little out of his eyes and clears her throat.
He darts a look over his shoulder and back to her; eyes wide and panicked.
And that's when it clicks.
It's him.
Shit. It's him. Her soulmate. He was just moving a body. He's trying to stay cool.
"Uh, hey," he manages with a tight smile, mock-saluting her with two faux-casual fingers. "Nice night for a walk, huh?"
His voice wavers just a little too much, and she doesn't feel afraid. Maybe she should. But she doesn't. "I know what you were doing," she says instead, following her gut. "And would you like to tell me the full story, or have me call the cops?"
His name is Jughead Jones and he's a wanna-be crime novelist from New York. He'd solved the disappearance of a man named Marcus and figured out that he'd been killed by someone named Jacob. Knowing that the police could never do it on their own, he'd found Marcus's body (buried in the woods), and proceeded to bury it in a shallower part near the river- with some locks of Jacob's hair just in case the body wasn't enough.
Betty stares at him over their milkshakes.
He looks guilty and worn out and he keeps raking his fingers through his lovely hair and as a result has to yank the beanie back into place. "You can call the cops if you want," he sighs miserably, "but this will be the third time and they keep threatening to fine me. I'm having trouble making rent as it is."
A smile twitches on her lips. "The third time?" She echoes, leaning forward, "so what? You're just this good samaritan? A regular Spiderman? Doing the police's job for them?"
He frowns at her, but his eyes are amused. "I'm not the only one Miss Nancy Drew, what were you doing out in the woods?"
She taps her bag, "I'm a journalist."
He huffs, conceding her point, but Betty's trying to redesign her life with him in it. This is her soulmate, and he doesn't know it. But she likes the way he fits. She likes the way he looks, she likes the way he thinks. She understands the typewriter now- he's an author, or he will be, and his palms have ink smudges on them, and he's awkward and handsome in all the ways she's never known she wanted. She wonders desperately what her first thought about him was, and where it is on his body, and why he hasn't realised it yet. Her eyes flicker over the exposed throat and forearms, but there's nothing there. He chomps his way through a few fries and eyes her suspiciously. "What?" He asks self-consciously, his mouth is still full.
She reaches out to steal a fry herself and shrugs. "Nothing," she smiles sweetly, "just wondering if maybe you'd like to go out on a date sometime?"
His eyes narrow into little slits where all she can make out is that forest green. He tips his head inquisitively at her. "I don't even know your name." He points out, which is not an answer.
"Betty Cooper." She says primly, straightening her back.
He rewards her with a crooked smile and leans back in the booth, still appraising her. "Why?" He says eventually, just when she thought he'd say yes.
She rests her chin on her hand and stares right back at him. "Because." She says, and shrugs. "I don't know. I like the way you think. I like..." she gestures to the whole aura of him, feeling bold in her assurance that the guy in front of her is her literal soulmate. "Everything you've got going on here, Juggie. Or are you already spoken for?"
He mixes his milkshake with his straw thoughtfully and shakes his head. "No...I'm not..." he admits quietly.
"Am I not your type?" She presses, trying to hide her smile at the blush that rises against his cheeks as he shakes his head and clears his throat.
"No- you are- I just-"
She slides her number across the table and stands up, leaving enough money to pay for their meal. "Well, once you decide, call me and let me know. I like that Italian place down near the park and I'm free on Friday." And just like that, she walks out; a wide smile on her face.
Jughead Jones stares at the number once he's home. He sets it on his kitchen counter and just stares at it. And then he goes into the bathroom and decides to take a shower to wash the forest and the touching of a dead body and the weirdness of tonight off him. After he's done soaking in the spray, he stares at himself in the mirror. The pink, handwriting right over his heart stares back at him. He touches it gently. It fits her, he thinks. The pink. She had been wearing a pink sweater. And the little dots over the i's is a heart, not a dot. That fits her too. Perfect pink Betty Cooper.
If only life could be so nice.
It's so sweetly written, so lovely, so elegant and the words all joined together but not at all hard to read. They glitter in the right light. He's been in love with his soulmate long before he ever even met her.
But could it be Betty Cooper?
It seems too good to be true. He tugs on his night clothes and pours some food out for Hot Dog. He puts the news on in the background. Who knows, maybe the cops will find the body today instead of three weeks from now? As he collapses onto the threadbare couch, he can't help but glance over at the kitchen counter and the number.
Well he is just unfairly handsome for a situation as terrifying as this
He runs his fingers over the letters. They're smooth against his skin. But Betty hadn't been scared he reminds himself. She had been so calm. And why would she- he can feel his face heat up, why would anyone think that about him? Unfairly handsome, the phrase has followed him for years. A few of his friends have given him shit over it, but on self-conscious nights alone in bed, the words had made him feel better. Knowing that somewhere out there- what he was, was what someone else wanted. He remembers Betty's voice "I like it. Everything you've got going on here." He shudders at the memory.
Maybe it is her.
He blushes again and leans his head back against the cushions in confusion. He hopes it is.
In a flash of bravery he gets up and snatches the paper up off the counter and plugs it into his phone. As it rings, he wonders what on earth Betty's soulmark is. She'd still asked him out so it couldn't be something awful, could it? But he'd been so scared when he first saw her- he hadn't even registered how beautiful she was, he hadn't thought anything like that until he'd seen her smile in the warm glow of the diner. What the hell had he thought? What did she have on her skin?
"Hello?"
He groans as he realises. "Oh my god. It has something to do with a dead body, doesn't it?" He slams his head into the fridge and Hot Dog stares at him curiously.
Her laughter is like music across the connection. "I was a very confused fifteen year old. Why is my soulmate a serial killer? I often asked."
He smiles. She brings it out of him so easily. "Sorry," he mutters, pacing the kitchen nervously. "I was really freaked out. I only just put it all together." He can't believe it's her. How lucky does one man have any right to be?
"Well what does yours say? I can confirm whether or not it's true." She teases.
Jughead chuckles, feeling warm and happy. "I know it's true. You find me unfairly attractive. It was obvious really."
There's a pause, before her embarrassed groan sounds in his ear. "Oh my god. It doesn't, does it?" She whines.
He smiles so hard his cheeks hurt. "Oh, it definitely does, Miss Cooper. And there's proof and everything."
She sounds flustered as she grumbles; "Well you are attractive."
"It says handsome, if you want to be technical," he jeers, "unfairly handsome. I am unfairly handsome. Betty Cooper thinks that I am-"
"Do you want me to cancel Friday?"
He laughs again; loud and open and carefree. "Who said anything about Friday? Text me your address. We're going for dinner tonight. I've had to wait seven years for you, Betty Cooper. I'll be damned if I have to wait another week."
"We just ate!" She replies jovially, but he can hear shuffling that says that she's getting ready.
"I'll see you soon," he promises, hanging up and leaping over Hot Dog as he runs to get changed. He can see it now. Him and her. Her and him. Investigating crimes, solving them, writing them up; the super sleuthing couple from his dreams.
But maybe he'll post-pone all the crime talk for a later date. Right now, all he wants to do is buy her a meal and see her smile.
He's a very lucky man indeed.