Chapter Text
It’s only been a month, but Jughead is fed-up. The Power That Be have paired him with Trula again, which is always exhausting. The storyline finally reaches the usual ending – his plan fails, Trula outwits him – and he slams out of Riverdale High to the usual Riverdale hangout.
He’s not alone in Pops. Betty slumps over a milkshake, her skin winter-pale. She’s wearing a t-shirt with stripes the colors of Neapolitan ice-cream, and that has to be the reason Jughead’s mouth waters. It’s the thought of ice-cream, not Betty. She’s his oldest friend. She’s the only reason he can stay sane. She's nothing more than that.
“Tough run?” he sympathizes, flopping into her booth.
“Juggie!” Betty scrubs her cheeks quickly and flashes a wide smile. “I didn't see you come in. Here, have a milkshake on me.”
“Don’t do that.” Under the table, Jughead nudges her mary-jane with his sneaker. “Don’t pretend to be fine when you’re not.”
Betty slumps in her seat and closes her eyes for a moment. “It’s just so endless. My story was about my ridiculous plans to win Archie, and of course he just left with Veronica as usual.” She shakes her head and pushes the milkshake closer to his elbow. “How about you?”
“Trula.”
“Oh no, not the dreaded Plot Twyst.” Her cool fingers slide over his. “I’m sorry.”
Jughead watches the way those long lashes flutter over the violet petals under her eyes. “You want to get out of here? We’ve got a few days before the next run. Want to sneak off with me through the space between the comics panels and bowl a few frames or something?”
She grins. “And get a greasy pizza and fries between games? Sounds perfect.”
#
Riverdale Bowl is empty except for Midge, who’s working the shoes. She hands Jughead two pairs, jerks her thumb at the deserted lanes, and tells him to bowl as long as he wants. “Guess everyone else is at the movies,” she adds. "Maybe you two should head over as well."
“The movies! Do they offer secondhand shoes and box pizza? No, they do not.” Jughead winks at Midge, grabs the shoes, and heads over to Lane 11 where Betty is deciding which ball to use. She hefts a sparkly purple number 7, seems to consider, and plucks a plain black number with graffiti art on one side out of the rack.
“What’s that?” Jughead points to the symbol, a triangle with three dots on top.
Betty shrugs. “Either some street artist had his way with it, or this is a fancy new bowling ball that’s going to kick your butt.”
“My butt, huh? I don't think so.”
“Think again. You're going down.” Quickly they lace up their shoes, and Jughead waves Betty to take the first turn. “Always the gentleman,” she giggles, hefting her graffiti ball.
“But of course, fair lady, this troubadour is nothing if not chivalrous…” Jughead stops and peers at the lane. “Betts,” he adds. “Do those pins look strange to you?”
“Pins? Oh, I see what you mean. There are – 1, 2, 3 – eleven of them. That’s weird. Should we tell Midge?”
“I guess we could – oh. She’s gone.” The shoe desk is deserted, as well as the snack bar. In fact, Jughead and Betty are the only ones left in the bowling alley. The place is silent except for a strange, whistled tune (is it Clementine?) crackling over the ancient speakers. “Was there a free pizza convention and no one bothered to tell us?”
“Of course not!” Betty slides him a side glance. “You’d have sniffed it out ages ago.”
“Madam, I’ll have you know this nose is a finely-tuned instrument.”
“It’s an instrument all right.” Betty holds up the ball, spins it so the triangular graffiti faces outward, and squints professionally at the eleven pins. “If my calculations are correct, I’ll need 17% more momentum plus a slight left side-spin to get a strike with an extra pin.” She steps up to the alley, swings back with perfect form, and releases. The bowling ball hurtles down the lane, seeming to gather momentum. It heads straight for the pins, and they explode on impact.
Betty whoops, jumps up and down, mock-slugs Jughead on the shoulder. “Did you see that? Didja? Huh? That was eleven pins, mister. That’s more than a strike. That was a – a Kaboomie! That’s what I’m going to call the sweet bowling move I just pulled off.”
He’s about to argue that No it isn’t, a Kaboomie is when your ball leaps to the next lane and takes down those pins as well, when the gate swings down to clear the alley. It stops, and the strange whistling Clementine ceases as well. The entire alley seems to freeze in time.
Jughead squats down and points forward. “Is there a door back there?”
“A door? Of course not. There can’t be a door at the end of the…” Betty kneels next to him. “Actually, you’re right. There is a door there. And it’s open! And I can see stars and a moon.”
“And houses. And trees.” He stands and helps her up. “What’s behind Riverdale Bowl, Betts?”
“The Twilight parking lot,” she says. “No trees, no houses, certainly no stars. You can’t see anything beyond that massive silver screen.”
Jughead nods. His nose is twitching, and it’s not for pepperoni pie. Something strange has just happened in the Riverdale Bowl, and he’s determined to discover what it is.
Both he and Betts have bowled there for decades, and they know every inch of the place. The lanes are made of highly polished wood. Several of their friends have wiped out on the boards: Reggie,Archie with regularity, and once Moose nearly brought down the entire Bowl by flipping mid-air before landing on his backside.
“We’ll just go and check it out quickly.” Betty slips one arm through the strap of her backpack.
“Okay.” Carefully Jughead tiptoes down the edge of the bowling lane. “You’re as curious as a cat. Did you know that?”
“Look who’s talking, Sherlock! You were ready to investigate before I could say My Dear Watson.” Betty slithers behind him, staying away from the slippery center.
“Sh.” At the end of the lane, Betty’s strange ball is on one side, still spinning from the force of her throw. “That’s odd. Don’t bowling balls go straight into the, um, the bowling-ball-return-thingamabob and get sent back to the rack?”
“Excellent technical explanation, but you’re right.” Betty scoops up her ball and balances it between elbow and waist. “And look through there! You can see the houses more clearly now. And a sign, it says – huh. It says Riverdale, the Town with Pep.”
“Sounds like an elaborate joke. Do you think Dilton could have set up an alternate reality behind the bowling alley to mess with us? Better let me take the lead…” As he speaks, the night is rent by a piercing scream, followed by several shots. Jughead feels the blood drain from his face, and he turns to Betty. “On second thought, ladies first.”
She clicks her tongue and slides out of the strange door. It’s rusted and scratched on one side, reminiscent of huge beasts with massive claws.
Betty doesn’t pay attention. Pulling Jughead with her through to the space behind the alley, she scans the view. “It’s Riverdale all right, but the Twilight’s gone. Look, the entire drive-in has been demolished! Who would do such a terrible thing? There’s the high school, and – oh, thank God. Pops’ Chocklit Shoppe.”
Relief warms Jughead’s belly. “As long as there are milkshakes in the world, we’ll be okay.” Betty takes an impulsive step forward, but he pulls her back. “Just kidding! Sheesh! Think I want to head down into that hell-town with its screams and gunshots? And look at that glow over there. I think it’s an actual dumpster fire.”
Betty’s eyes narrow as she peers in that direction. “It does like a dumpster fire. What happened to our town?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out. Let’s just head back into the bowling alley.”
“I suppose that would be the smartest thing to do.” With great reluctance, Betty turns away from the dark version of the town they’re both used to. Obviously she’s dying to check it out.
Jughead’s not about to let that happen. “Oh, no you don’t. This is our time off, Betts. If you head down there, I bet we’ll be propelled into another weird mystery and I’ll have to pursue some odd female and you’ll end up with Archie until he abandons you for Veronica – again.” He puts one hand on the small of her back and guides her firmly back through the strange door. “Could we just go and bowl a few more frames? I’ll treat for pizza pie once we find Midge.”
Although his brutal recap of their lives has made her droop, Betty forces a smile and nods. “Okay, sounds good. Do you actually have money, though?”
“I have credit,” Jughead announces grandly, “which is almost as good as cold hard cash…”
His words die out. They peer through the strange door into Riverdale Bowl, which has morphed into a nightmare. The entire place lies in darkness, looking as though a bomb has gone off inside. Bowling balls and pins litter the lanes, pitted with disuse. The only sound comes from a tinny speaker, hanging from a wire from the ceiling. Jughead recognizes the coda from Clementine, whistled over and over again. “Oh my darling,” the radio tootles over the wreckage of the Riverdale Bowl. “Oh my darling…oh my darling…oh my darling…”
Betty grabs his hand and pulls him through the door into the dark version of Riverdale. “I’m not staying there,” she hisses. “We’ll get sucked into Season 9 of American Horror Tale. Let’s double around to the front of the alley, find Midge, and head to Pops.”
Jughead supposes there isn’t any other choice. “Sounds like a plan.”
Betty settles her backpack and slips one hand into his. In this new, cold, strange world, she’s a reminder that everything might change, but Cooper is a constant. Under the starlight her eyes are huge as she inspects the walls of the Riverdale Bowl – crumbling, covered with more graffiti. Between scrawls of Ghoulies Rule and Geraldine Puts Out, he sees another of those triangles topped with three dots. The sight makes him shiver, and Jughead curls his thumb around Betty’s wrist, glad of her solid presence.
And then.
She.
Screams.
Jughead shouts as well, startled into breathlessness. “Jeeze, Cooper, wanna give me a heart-attack next time? Why are you screeching like that anyway?”
Betty doesn’t respond. She points to a patchy, scrubby little block of grass and weeds, probably an old garden.
Except it’s not a garden. The tiny square is filled with stones that slope like bad teeth, and he’s so unnerved it takes a moment to realize what they are.
“Graves,” he says. “It’s a graveyard. Just when you think this situation couldn’t get any creepier…”
“Jug,” Betty interrupts. “Look.” She switches on her phone and shines its light on the nearest stone. There are the usual dates, as well as a name:
MIDGE KLUMP.
#
It’s easy enough to navigate this dark version of Riverdale. The streets are the same as the town Jughead has known forever, and the names on the mailboxes are identical. He sees Keller, followed by Andrews and Cooper. But the people he and Betty see on the streets look like shadows that flash to one side and disappear when you look straight at them. None of them talk, not until Jughead nearly walks into an elderly lady rolling down the street in an antique wheelchair. The woman stops her chair and looks up. One eye is milky, the other sharp as though she could see into their souls.
“Go back,” she hisses as Jughead and Betty pass her on the sidewalk. “Now. Go back to where you came from. You’re not from here. Go back.”
He tries to stammer out a reply, but already the old woman has moved on with one vicious push of her chair.
“Who was that?” Betty whispers. “Think we should follow her in case she needs help?”
“We’ve reached your house,” he whispers back. “Maybe we can just go in and get our bearings.”
She wavers, placing her foot on the first step and withdrawing it. “It doesn’t look the same. I’m frightened, Juggie.” About to tell her that it’s going to be fine, what could be more normal and reassuring than the Coopers after all? when he hears a sound from the backyard. It sounds like a chant, alien and incomprehensible as though it comes from a far planet or the ocean’s unknown depths.
“Is that a movie?” Betty’s eyes are huge. “Maybe Dad’s just watching a horror flick, although baseball’s more his style…”
“I don’t think it’s a movie. It’s really happening. People are in your yard speaking in tongues or some such nonsense.” He grabs her hand, swings her off the steps, and propels her past the Andrews home. “Let’s go to my place, order some food, get some sleep before figuring out how to get back to our own …”
“…Our own universe,” Betty supplies. “You're right.”
There are lights on at Archie’s home, silhouetting a boy at the window. “Should we go and talk to him?” Jughead points to the broad-shouldered shape. “Arch is my best friend, after all.”
“Any other day I’d say yes, of course we should confide in Archie.” Betty wheels around and points to the stars. “But look - True North is different here. Have you noticed?”
She’s right. Polaris has shifted in this world. It no longer lines up with the bowl of the Big Dipper and doesn’t sit near the center of the sky’s rotation. He shakes his head and makes a quick decision. “Let’s stick to our original plan.”
“Okay.” Betty’s eyes crinkle in a smile, and for a moment Jughead thinks What the hell, let Polaris go die, I’ve found my guiding star, except that thought is so sappy he’d never say it.
Never.
They head to the corner where Jughead lives. Every line of the Jones place is familiar: the marks where Hot Dog gnawed on the hinge, where Gladys spilled a pot of marinara sauce, where Jellybean drew stick figures of Mom and Dad and Jughead in purple crayon. He can picture his home, a shabby little palace in the middle of darkness.
But when they reach his block, the Jones residence has completely disappeared. In its place is a lot littered with Cometbucks cups and striped candy wrappers. A sulky sign proclaims stuck into frozen dirt proclaims “Yet Another Lodge Revitalization Project!”
Jughead stops, feeling his stomach ice with fear. “Gladys,” he gasps. “Jelly…”
“Don’t worry.” Betty puts one arm around his waist and gives him a firm hug. “We’ll our way back to your family, I promise. But for now we have to look for a different place to stay. I’m so sorry.”
He pretends to study the Lodge sign while he wipes away scalding tears. Like the stellar friend she is, Betty kneels and examines one of the candy wrappers as though it’s the most fascinating thing in the world until he gets himself under control. “We need to head towards the river,” Betty says to the candy wrapper. “Being in this version of Riverdale is creepy.”
“So we run into some dark woods instead. Good call, not.” Sadness and shock have made Jughead grumpy. “Where are we going to sleep, in a tree? After chowing bark sandwiches and leaf soup?”
“We could go to Ben Button’s bunker.”
“In the middle of the woods with no lights, no heat, no hamburgers?” Jughead is appalled. “Are you out of your mind, woman? There’s no way I’ll waltz off to a tin can buried underground and filled with ghouls and whatnot. If you think Jughead Jones will just follow you into the mouth of hell, you are sadly mistaken…”
This dignified speech is cut off by another scream, followed by a series of unearthly growls and more gunshots. Jughead finds Betty’s hand, laces his fingers through hers, and pulls her out of the grisly little lot that had once been his home into the street. “Bike,” Betty pants. Sure enough, there’s a bicycle stranded at the end of a driveway, one wheel still spinning as though the unknown rider had leapt off mid-ride and run away to safety. It has a flowered basket in the front, and the pink saddle is emblazoned with cartoon kittens.
Jughead seizes one handlebar and jumps onto the seat. Betty stands on the frame behind, winds one arm around his neck, and hisses for him to hit the road.
He’s already peddling as if his life depended on it. The bike is too small, making his knees stick out on both sides like toast points. Good thing Arch can’t see me now, he thinks idiotically. I’d never hear the end of it. He can picture Archie’s mirth: the way his best friend would clutch his stomach, fall on the floor, roll around with laughter at the pink roses and glittery kittens.
“Nicely done,” Betty says in his ear. “Oops, it’s a bit bumpy, isn’t it? Hey, turn down that little dirt road. It goes straight down to the woods.”
“As long as the map of this Riverdale follows our town. Already we’ve run into several grim differences: the graveyard and my house.”
“But everything is in the right place,” Betty insists, her voice jerking as they bowl over stones and branches. “Have you noticed? Even the graveyard was the proper shape. It took the place of the Twilight’s snack bar, that’s all. But I’ve been tracking the town, and the basic grid is exactly the same.”
“Well done, Nancy Drew. Uh, I think we’re going to have to walk here. And it’s dark. And I’m secure enough in my manhood to admit I’m scared.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got a bright flashlight in my pack, plus just maybe I brought along some sandwiches and cookies and chips.”
He flings down the bike, steps over it with a single stride, and wraps one arm around Betty’s waist. “If anyone ever says you’re not the best girl in Riverdale, you can send them along to me and I shall shake one finger at them quite sternly.”
“And tut-tut?” Betty giggles.
“Indeed. I shall blow a raspberry at… Cripes! Criminy! Betty, I just walked into a spider-web.” Jughead shudders and spends the next minute swiping at his face.
“My hero! Oh, stop dancing around like that. It’s just a tiny spider, c’mon.”
Following the wavering beam of Betty’s flashlight, Jughead steps through the woods. He resists the impulse to squeal at blowing leaves and drooping twigs. By this point he’s convinced everything in the area is a massive tarantula with poisonous fangs.
“It should be over here.” Betty holds up a compass that’s appeared from nowhere, because of course she just happens to have one. The world could be ending and Cooper would pull out a slide-rule to figure out how much time was left. “Stop moaning like that. Spiders sleep at night, you know.”
“Is that true?” he demands. “Or did you just invent a factoid to try and make me feel better?”
“Maybe.” She slides him a sly glance. “Did it work?”
“Nope. I’m still as lily-livered as ever…” Jughead’s insult is cut off as his toe catches a protrusion on the ground. He nearly pitches forward and loses his hat in the process. “Gosh, did you see that? My whole life flashed before my eyes! I just nearly died.”
She ignores him and kneels down. “I think this is the opening for the bunker. Nice job, Sherlock – you’ve found it!” Shoving her phone into a back pocket, Betty grasps a metal wheel sticking up from a pile of blown pine-needles. “But you’d think it would be buried or at least rusted out. This looks polished, almost new.”
Jughead squats next to her and gives the wheel an experimental tug. It moves easily under his hands. “Looks like it’s been oiled as well,” he muses. “Are you sure you want to go down here? Bearded ruffians could be waiting for us in the dark.”
In the black of the woods he can feel Betty’s palpitating curiosity. “I can’t wait to see what’s inside.”
He collapses and leans on one elbow. “Maybe we could rest here for a minute and, you know, sort of check out the food you brought along in your backpack.”
Betty leans forward and points into the darkness behind him. “What was that?”
“What?” Jughead leaps up. “Spiders? Did we wake them up?”
Whatever is standing among the trees isn’t a spider. Jughead gets the confused impression of branched horns and a face made of bones. The thing, whatever it is, spreads huge arms and begins to move towards them.
Without hesitation, Betty undoes the hatch leading to the bunker. “Now,” she grits out. “Get in here now, Jug.”
He leaps in behind her and pulls the hatch closed behind them. As it slides home, Jughead gets one final look at the thing, its huge skull-face and robes blowing in the wind. Then the door shuts with a muffled clang, and the skull-monster is gone.
Ahead of him, Betty descends and jumps into the room before pulling out her flashlight. “Candles,” she says. “That’s handy. A table too. And some, well, those are pin-up girls on the wall. Huh! Never thought of Dilton as a boob man, but I guess you never know.”
“Betts.” Jughead tumbles down the ladder and puts one hand on her shoulder. She’s trembling, and as he repeats her name her face crumples. “Oh, hey. It’s outside, whatever the thing was we just saw. It can’t get in here. We’re safe.” She leans into him, wraps both arms around his middle, and snuffles into his shirt. “That’s right,” Jughead murmurs. “Always hated this stupid t-shirt. You just cry all you want, and Gladys’ll have to use the darn thing for dusting.”
With a watery chuckle, Betty steps back and scrubs her face with one sleeve. “I’ll be fine. You light those candles, and we’ll have a drink and some sandwiches.”
“Okay.” He finds a box of safety matches beside the display of candle-ends and starts to light them. The flame wavers, and Jughead realizes he’s shaking as well.
“There’s a bed in the corner. With a pile of – fresh sheets?” Betty points to a pile of what looks like crisp linens folded into perfect squares. “And there’s a note on top. Oh, wow! And you’re not going to believe this.”
She holds up an envelope. Printed on the front in neat capitals is his name: JUGHEAD.
“Oh.” He takes the crisp note, written on pale green stationary with what looks like a fountain pen. “Should I open it? Yeah? Okay, I’ll open it.”
He wrestles the envelope and pulls out a folded note:
Hey Juggie,
Obviously you couldn’t get away today to meet me here in our place, and I can’t help wondering where you are. Perhaps you’re with your sister, or perhaps you and Archie are on the road. Whatever your quest may be, I’m sending you the very best of luck. Not that you need it, since that amazing brain of yours will see you through whatever comes up.
In the meantime, I’m planning all the places to leave kisses when we see each other next. The back of your neck always makes you shiver (especially when I use my teeth) or that soft spot right behind your ear. And then I’m going to push you back on the bed so we can explore each other in that slow way you like, and when we’re finished I’ll show you my new theory about G&G.
I remain, now and forever,
Your Betty
“What does it say?”
Jughead blinks and realizes that Betty is bouncing on her toes like a curious terrier. What he’s just read is baffling, but the words still make his cheeks flame with surprise and… something else he can’t name. “Oh, nothing.” Quickly he folds the letter, intending to stash it in his pocket.
“What? You can’t just whisk it away. It’s a note from another dimension, which means I’ve got to read it.” Betty feints, plucks the letter from his hands, and dodges his attempts to get it back. She always has been a nimble little vixen.
“Gosh. Look at that. Gosh. I - gosh.” Betty scans the sheet and collapses on the bed, seems to realize where she’s sitting, and hops up as though the mattress is stuffed with hot coals. “Guess that in this universe, you and I are sort of kind of together.”
“Yeah.” Jughead clears his throat and attempts to laugh with nonchalance, but it emerges as a hideous cackle. “Crazy stuff, eh? Last thing you’d ever expect! I mean, that’s just nuts!”
“Yeah.” Turning her back on him, Betty picks up her backpack, unzips it, and pulls out the graffiti-covered bowling ball. “Don’t ask me why I brought this thing along. Just seemed important at the time, but I’ll probably ditch it later. Anyway, food, right? I’m hungry, and I bet you’re starving.”
“I could eat Secretariat.” Jughead catches Betty’s wondering frown, and he hastens to add, “You know, the horse? I meant I could eat a – never mind.” As he sits next to her at a rickety little table, he feels like they’re two strangers on the most awkward date in history.
The bowling ball has squished her picnic food. Betty spends the next five minutes apologizing until Jughead tells her to stop. Silence descends in the tiny bunker, punctuated only by the sounds of chewing and Jughead’s muffled burp. When he drops the cap to his water bottle, it falls on the floor with Ping that makes them both jump.
“Sorry.” Jughead leans over with a grunt, scrabbles for the lid, and sees Betty’s feet. She’s got one ankle crossed behind the other, and her shoes are cream striped with crimson while his are striped in hideous green and brown. “Uh, Betty, we’re still wearing bowling shoes.”
She stops chewing, frowns, and looks down. A moment passes before Betty starts to laugh while trying not to choke on her turkey and cheese. Her cheeks turn bright red, and she has to cover her mouth with both hands. "Bowling shoes!" she gurgles. "Classic! What a great pair of detectives we make!"
It’s infectious. Jughead finds he’s snorting along with her, and when she falls out of her chair to lie on the floor clutching her stomach, he has to wipe away actual tears. “Stunning footwear!” he crows. “This season Miss Cooper sports the very finest in rental shoes, sprayed out by the best fungicide in Riverdale…”
“Stop,” Betty begs. “I can’t breathe. I’m going to lose it.”
“What will she display on her twinkling toes tomorrow?” Jughead continues mercilessly. “Ski boots? Roller blades?”
“I’ll roller blade your face.” She sits up and attempts to tickle him, but he twists away last minute. “Now your punishment is you have to make the bed.”
Grinning, Jughead shovels in the last of his sandwich. The crisp sheets smell like lemons. Betty joins him to snap the fitted corners in place, smooth the top sheet under a few worn blankets, and settle the only pillow. When they’re done, she nods with satisfaction, steps back, and picks up her backpack. “Think I saw a tiny bathroom in the back, so I’ll check out supplies and if there’s running water. Be back in a jiff.”
He sketches a salute and picks up his jacket. If he folds it into a square, it’ll work as a pillow. Maybe Betty will lend him her coat as a half-blanket, and of course she can have the bed.
With these plans in place, Jughead lies on the floor and settles into human paperclip position. It’s not wonderful, but he’s slept in worse places. Besides, he tells himself, it’s only for one night. When the morning comes they’ll figure out how to return to their own version of Riverdale.
Between finishing the plot arc with Trula, bowling, and the nightmare outside the bunker, Jughead is exhausted. He closes his eyes and feels himself drifting away. “My son might not be a great athlete,” Gladys has declared, “but no one can beat him for eating or sleeping.”
“Jughead Jones!”
He sits up, mind whirling. Where is he again? Oh yes, in the bunker with Betty. And she stands in front of him, arms folded and looking none too pleased. “Whass wrong?” he asks.
“We’re in an alternate universe trapped by a monster inside an underground bunker,” Betty hisses. “If you think for one minute I’m sleeping alone…” She stops. “Juggie, please? I know I seem calm and collected, but – I’m scared. Would you mind?”
“What?” Painfully Jughead gets up and indicates the bed. “You mean, here? You and me? Kinda small, isn’t it?”
“We’re both string beans, so I don’t see the problem.” Betty hands him a small object before climbing on the bed, removing the bowling shoes, and sliding into the blankets with a long Ahhh. “It’s new,” she adds. “There were a couple in the bathroom. Whoever this Betty is, I approve of her.”
She’s given him a toothbrush, pristine inside its box. Jughead raises both eyebrows and heads to the bathroom, which is just what anyone would expect: small as train latrine, rusty around the corners, smelling like bleach and scouring powder.
When he’s as clean as possible from splashing water and brushing teeth, Jughead emerges. The candles are extinguished except for one small flame on a table by the bed. Betty is a lump under the sheets.
Sheepishly he removes his shoes and slides in next to her. “Mm,” Betty exhales. “You’re warm. ‘M cold, Juggie.”
As if from some forgotten impulse, Jughead slides one arm around her waist and the other under her neck. She still has her hair in the usual ponytail, and gently he undoes the bow so the long, golden locks tumble free.
“Feels good,” Betty murmurs. “So glad I’m with you and not…” Her breathing evens out, and she emits a tiny snore.
One curl has escaped behind her ear. He doesn’t know why, but Jughead presses forward and touches his lips to it: not a kiss, just wanting to see what it feels like against his mouth. Her hair is soft, the skin of her shoulder impossibly smooth.
Outside, a giant with the face of a skull waits. They have no more food. The town is a nightmare. Even true North has changed.
Holding Betty’s slender body, Jughead slides into deep sleep.