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So far, the second best thing about sophomore year has been his ninth period study hall. Jughead, not one to overlook what few small miracles exist in his life, happily skips off the to Blue and Gold office to boot up his laptop. Once, he thinks he might have even whistled. Of course, that's largely because Betty has ninth period free, too.
Most of the time, they work on articles, or help edit each other's stories. Sometimes, when one of them (okay, Jughead) hits a particularly rough patch of writer's block, they sit on the bench seat underneath the chalkboard and watch an episode of The West Wing on his laptop, using Betty's Netflix account. He doesn't tell her that he doesn't have his own Netflix account—or that he's currently living in the janitor's supply closet while his dad drinks them into financial ruin, or that he bribes Mr Svenson with milkshakes from Pop's so he won't tell anyone.
He supposes he'll have to tell her eventually. They are dating now, after all.
And there it is: the first best thing about sophomore year.
Jughead can't quite put his finger on when he started liking Betty Cooper. She was always around, his whole childhood. There was no cute origin story that involved him punching someone on the playground to defend her, or her bandaging his scraped knee. Although, knowing Betty, those would have been the other way around. All Jughead knew was that he had been a faithful devotee to The Church Of Betty Cooper since before he could remember.
He'd always thought she'd been earmarked for Archie, set aside by Alice and her predetermined Stepfordesque plans for the redheaded boy next door. Now, when he thinks about it, Betty never once echoed that impression. He'd never actually heard Betty talk about Archie that way. It was always some other Riverdale busybody.
"Oh, Betty! Look at you, so grown up. Where is that nice young Andrews boy tonight?" the checkout lady at the grocery store had said once, back in middle school, as they stocked up on snacks for a movie night—Betty's pick, so Jughead was reigning king of their snack choices. (He always let Betty pick the movie, because he was afraid Alice didn't give her enough candy.)
"At the football game, I think," Betty had said politely. "He's very athletic."
"Oh yes," the woman said, nodding vigorously. "Well, you two make a lovely couple. My best to your mother." She had ignored Jughead completely.
Jughead remembers Betty rolling her eyes at him as they left, but he'd thought it was just because the checkout lady was wearing a ridiculously ugly sweater. Now he knows better.
So, other than the occasional public accosting, Betty had never said anything about Archie. Still, Jughead was nothing short of floored when Betty had picked him.
They'd been in the Blue and Gold office after school, and Betty had stood up slowly, then abruptly sat back down and murmured something that Jughead thought sounded like fuck.
"Betts?"
"Mmhmm?" She wasn't looking at him, but rooting around in her backpack with her eyes on the ceiling, forehead wrinkled.
"Are you okay over there? You're looking a little Houston-we-have-a-problem."
"What?"
He sighed. "Betty."
She had glanced up at him, now digging desperately through the desk drawer. "Sorry, Jug, I just...sorry. Got distracted by something."
"Is there anything I can do?" he had asked, a little concerned that his normally competent best friend seemed to be having a minor breakdown.
Finally she stopped moving and sighed deeply, looking right at him. "Not unless you happen to have a tampon underneath that hat."
Jughead huffed out a laugh, and she narrowed her eyes. "It's not a funny thing, Jughead. It's a biological reality."
He put his hands up in surrender. "No, sorry, it was the hat comment. I do have one. A tampon, I mean. Hold on."
He stood up and darted out of the room, ignoring Betty's calls of confusion. He ducked around the corner to his supply closet and fished around on the upper shelf, where he knew there was a pack of them wrapped in brown paper. He tore it open, grabbed a handful—who knew how many she would need until she got home?—and ran back to the newspaper office.
Betty was standing now, her hands on her hips. When she saw what he was holding, her eyes went wide.
"Where did those come from?"
"The janitor keeps them lying around," he said easily.
Her face had clouded over. "Are you kidding me? Seriously? There are never, ever, any tampons in the girls locker, where they're supposed to be." She reached over to grab one from him, then noticed how many he'd taken. This time it was Betty laughing. "I'm not going to bleed out, Juggie."
"Oh. Right."
She reached out with one hand and touched his chin. "Thank you. Really."
He smiled then. His smiles came easily in her presence, like rain from the sky. "Anytime, Betts."
She left for the bathroom, and he sat there with a stupid grin on his face, retyping the photo credit for an article on the new school lunch menu over and over and over.
"Hey, Jughead?" she said when she walked back into the room.
He sat up, confused. "Yeah?"
"Would you like to go to Pop's with me?"
He had raised an eyebrow. "When have I ever turned down greasy diner food?" he asked. "We go after almost every newspaper meeting. Speaking of, we're not done with the layout yet." He turned back to the article he was proofing, beckoning her.
"Jughead."
"Mmmhmm." He wasn't looking up.
"I'd like you to take me on a date. To Pop's. Preferably now."
His head had jerked up so fast, his hat nearly fell off. She stared at her wordlessly as a smile bloomed on her lovely face, and then she reached out her hand. "Are you coming?"
He had taken her hand almost feverishly, and allowed her to walk him down the hallway. He didn't find his voice until they were nearly at the exit. "Um, what just happened?"
"Oh, keep up," she'd said, smiling and pulling him into her side.
That had been over three weeks ago. Jughead had needed half that time to get used to the fact that they were dating, and then the other half to get over the shock the first time she'd used the word boyfriend in front of him.
They weren't doing anything Alice Cooper would disapprove of — yet. In almost a month of their relationship, they mostly held hands, and never at school. They did a lot of the things they'd always done, fitting seamlessly into each other's schedules. Movies at the Bijou, sporadic walks along Sweetwater River with Archie and Vegas, the Blue and Gold. Jughead walked her to school, which involved getting up extra early to walk the long way from school to Betty's house and ring her doorbell. But they hadn't kissed yet. Jughead was almost afraid to. If he kissed Betty, he didn't think he'd be able to stop. And he didn't know if either of them were ready for that.
Today, they were sitting during free period in the student lounge, because the holiday edition of the Blue & Gold was finished, and they'd be on break for the new two weeks, which meant no paper. Jughead was sitting cross-legged on the couch, hunched over Betty, who was on the floor. His hands were working to free her ponytail from its elastic, untangling her blonde locks. Betty moaned softly as he started separating her hair into three chunks.
"Does it tickle?"
"Not really," she said. "Feels nice."
"Noted." He started to braid. "Just practicing my skills, you know. Can't get rusty."
"Of course not," Betty said cheerfully. She reached into a bag of potato chips with one hand and grabbed a few, then reached blindly behind her to feed them to him while his hands wove her hair. "Jellybean must be once tough customer."
"Hey, the Jones family is very particular about their hair," he quipped, raising an eyebrow toward his hat.
He'd told Betty he was going to see his mom and JB for Christmas, and that was true. He just hadn't told her that his father wasn't planning on coming. If she knew he was doing the drive alone, she would probably riot.
"Hey, what are you doing this weekend? I was thinking we could go on a real date. Maybe dinner?" He finished the braid and stuck out one hand for her hair tie.
She handed it back, then dug into the chips again. "I can't," she told him. "I'm going to see Polly and Jason and the twins. I still haven't met them." Jughead could feel her face wrinkle as she said it, and he knew she must be thinking about the names Juniper and Dagwood.
"Oh. Right," he said. "How are you getting up there?"
"The bus."
Jughead slid down to sit next to her. "That's how every horror movie starts," he joked. "I can drive you."
"No, you can't," Betty said. "It would cost a million dollars in gas."
"We can go Dutch, if you want."
"Jug, be real. I'm not going to let you give up your weekend."
Jughead sighed. "My weekend doing what? Sitting on the couch while Archie's at football practice? Sitting at Pop's while Archie talks about whatever girl we've known since kindergarten he's only just noticed? I want to spend time with you. Let me."
Now it was Betty's turn to sigh. "It's a long drive. And then you'd have to come back and pick me up on Sunday, on your own."
"I can do that."
"Why?"
"Why what?" Jughead asked. "I told you, I want to hang out with you. Not at school, not with Archie. Uninterrupted."
"And seatbelted in?"
"Sure," he laughs, then falters. "Are you nervous about me meeting Polly as your boyfriend?"
"What? No," Betty tells us, patting his arm. "I would never."
"Okay then. We can take my dad's truck."
Betty finally smiles, and he can tell she's given in, and maybe even excited. His brain starts churning, trying to figure out what audiobook he can download that they've both never read, and whether he ought to print out directions ahead of time. The truck doesn't exactly have a GPS. But all thoughts fly out of his head as Betty stands up, then bends down and kisses him on the cheek. "Thanks, Juggie," she whispers, and, before he can respond, the bell sounds, and students come pouring out around them.
Jughead walks back to Sunnyside the next day for the truck. FP is home; all the lights are on. His dad is passed out on the sofa, face down. It doesn't even look like he should be able to breathe. Jughead turns him gently on his side, pulls a blanket down around him. The rug is sticky with spilled beer. Jughead feels like he might vomit. Instead he finds the car keys in FP's pocket—was he driving?—and slips back out the door. He doesn't bother leaving a note, FP won't notice.
He picks Betty up at the Riverdale bus station, like they'd agreed. She'd been able to talk Alice into merely dropping her off, rather than seeing her onto the bus. He honks twice. "Maniac!" she calls lovingly, running over to him.
Something about being with Betty eases all the thoughts in his head, turning what is usually a hard, cold inner narrative into soothing ocean sounds and laughter. It's corny, but it's also a damn relief. That's the gift of Betty Cooper—around her, he doesn't even have to concentrate.
He's concentrating now.
It had started to snow just as they'd passed the border to Greendale, about fifteen minutes into the trip. Jughead hadn't even thought to check the weather forecast— the beginning of December was a little early for a biblical ice storm, right? But it was snowing, rapidly, so much so that Betty had turned off the tape of The Sound and The Fury they'd been listening to and started rubbing his arm a little. His grip on the steering wheel was rigid and his knuckles white with fear.
"I'm sorry," he said in a soft voice, not taking his eyes off the road. "I shouldn't have put you in danger like this."
Betty shakes her head. "No, Jug. It's my fault. I thought we would beat the storm," she said. "Should we go back?"
"I think it's worse behind us," he said, eyeing an SUV that had slipped into the ditch. "Betts...I don't think this car has any sort of winter tires."
"It's alright," she said.
Jughead was starting to see green, looking at all this white. Everything was blinding. Every so often he would spot brake lights and ease off the gas, fearful they'd rear-end someone. He wouldn't be able to bear it if Betty got hurt.
There was a rattling sound, and Betty's head snapped back. "What was that?"
"Salt truck?" He ran a hand through his hair, pulling off his beanie. Betty stayed quiet. He could tell she was scared. They still had an hour to go, and cell service was spotty in the foul weather.
"What are you thinking about?" whispered Betty. Although, it wasn't really a whisper, just the softest he'd ever heard he speak. He blinked so his eyes wouldn't fill with fearful tears.
He couldn't lie to her. "I'm a little worried about...you getting hurt. Or not making it to see Polly. I really, really don't want to screw this up." He hazarded a glance toward her and then gulped at the love in her eyes. "Yeah."
"You won't," she said.
"Oh, I don't know. I think severely maiming you, and/or getting stuck in a ditch with no food for hours, would kind of ruin this thing we have going..."
Betty laughed lightly, then was quiet for a long moment. Everything around them was still white. It was like being in a tunnel to heaven, although Jughead was sure he wouldn't end up there, not after accidentally killing Betty Cooper in a tragic snow crash.
"Jug?" Betty broke the silence.
"Yeah?"
"Can I ask you something that might be a good distraction?"
He nodded, still white-knocking the steering wheel.
"Why aren't you living at home?"
Jughead could feel his jaw hardening. It's Betty, he reminded himself. He had to give up the ghost. "How did you know?"
"I didn't. I suspected."
Jughead doesn't say anything, just waits for her to continue.
"Well, the tampon procurement was a tip-off. But mainly it was Archie. He said something earlier this summer about hearing from his dad that FP was fired. And...that things were a little heavy at home. But I didn't want to pry. And then, well. Archie saw you. He was running before school, because he's been doing those late night band practices, you know? And he saw you leaving school early one morning."
Jughead swallows hard. He had been nearly ready to come clean to Betty, but Archie was another story.
As usual, Betty saw right through him. "Don't worry. He's Archie, he didn't put anything together. I told him you were doing something for me at the Blue and Gold."
"Thanks," he croaks.
Jughead is under no illusions that Betty is just going to let this sit, but he does acknowledge that it feels nice for her to know. It feels like a step up in their relationship. She reaches over and takes his hand, pulling it into her lap. She clasps in between her own, so that Jughead can just barely feel the slight ridges that mark her scars. Just thinking of them makes his stomach queasy. She wraps his hand up, sort of like he'd done, and brings it to her mouth to stamp a kiss on his knuckles. "Where are you staying now?"
He tells her.
"Not at the Andrews? Jug, why?"
"I didn't want you guys to know how bad things were," he says, knowing that she already knows about the drinking, and probably something along the lines of the Serpents, too.
"We wouldn't have judged you," Betty tells him.
Just then the car slips, and they slide for a few terrifying seconds before he feels the grip return beneath them. Betty immediately drops his hand. "Holy shit," he breathes out. "Sorry, sorry."
"Not your fault," Betty breathes. It's quiet again, this time for longer. Everything is white around them.
Finally Jughead breaks the silence. "I know you wouldn't have acted any different. I know that, Betts. It's just—it's tough to explain."
"Says the writer," Betty says in a slow, mirth-filled voice, almost as if she feels guilty for even making the joke.
Jughead reaches blindly for his beanie. "Mr Svenson knowing was one thing. It was easy to tell someone who didn't matter, you know? But you, or Archie, or even Fred...," he stops. "Does that make sense?" When Betty nods, he goes on. "I can tell you now, if you want."
"I'd like that."
So Jughead tells her. He tells her everything, from Gladys leaving, to Jellybean crying into his beanie as he crouched down to hug her before they left. The look in his mother's eyes when she told him to take care of FP. How the sound of a beer being opened makes him shiver. How he'd nearly broken his ankle trying to get out of the shower he'd been in when their hot water was shut off for good. How he'd bought an old black camping backpack at the Goodwill for cheap. Betty listens stoically, watching him. It's kind of comforting.
When they pull into the parking lot of Polly and Jason's apartment complex and Jughead kills the engine, they both exhale.
"Well, we've gotten our near death experience out of the way for the day," he sighs.
Betty unclips her seatbelt, crawling over to him and, in the most public display of affection yet—they're in a public parking lot, so he counts it—straddles his lap. He's too exhausted to even think about getting a boner, but the feeling of her in his arms is amazing.
Betty kisses his chin tenderly. "Thank you for driving me," she says.
"I would say anytime, but..."
Betty laughs, and the sound is magic. "Alright. Baby time."
Jughead figures Betty must have called ahead and told Polly he was driving her, because neither she nor Jason seem surprised to see him. Jughead feels supremely nervous around Polly. He has a sister, but she's still young, so he's not sure if there's some sort of sibling code on intimidating boyfriends. Plus, Jason had never been that nice to him during school. But Jughead loves Betty, and this is where Betty is. So Jughead goes inside.
Both Polly and Jason look just as exhausted as he and Betty feel. Betty coos over the twins, and Jughead even sort of enjoys holding Dagwood. Betty snaps a photo just as Dagwood reaches out for Jughead's beanie.
"For posterity," she says gamely. "And for blackmail."
After a quick cup of hot chocolate ("that's too many marshmallows, Jug"; "no such thing, Betts") Jughead figures he'd better start heading back before it gets really dark. He says as much, and Betty whips around from where she'd been standing, looking through a photo album with Polly.
"Are you joking?" she asks. "It's still snowing. It's a mess out there."
"She's right," Jason says to his surprise. "You better stay the night, man."
"Yes, Jughead, stay," Polly practically gushes. "We couldn't send you out there in this weather."
Jughead doesn't really care what Polly or Jason think about his safety, but he does care about Betty, and whether he's worrying her. She's looking at him with actual fear in her eyes, appraising him. Formulating her argument, he can tell. His stubborn girl. He bites his bottom lip and readjusts his beanie. "Alright," he says.
They eat dinner, and then Polly and Jason have to put the babies down early, so Betty offers to make Jughead a bed on the couch. They're both beat. She hands him a stack of linens and gawks when he starts to pull on the fitted sheet.
"What?" he asks. "I can do things."
Betty only laughs. "I'm headed up to the guest room. Do you need anything else?"
"Don't think so," he says, bouncing a little on the couch and patting the pillow she'd grabbed him. "This is comfier than my usual digs."
Betty gives him a sad look and catches his hand, squeezing it.
It turns out, the couch is better than the janitor's closet—who knew—and Jughead is asleep in mere seconds, even with fussy babies upstairs. He barely has time to shed his stiff jeans and slip underneath the extra comforter before he's out like a light.
When he blinks awake again, it's because Betty is tiptoeing across the carpet in front of him. Her hair is down, falling around her shoulders like a halo in a renaissance painting. She's wearing pajamas with tiny printed orange cats on them. No socks. Her feet must be cold, he thinks. Outside the living room, the snow has stopped falling, and he can hear a snowplow down the street.
"Timeizzit?" he mumbles.
"Sorry," Betty whisper-hisses. "It's three. I didn't mean to wake you."
"S'okay," he says, his head getting clearer now. "Why are you up?"
"I wanted some water," she says.
"It's really dark," he whispers, even though the snow is making it sort of light in the living room. He waves an arm out at her. "C'mere."
To his surprise, Betty pads over to him, catching his wrist again. "Jug..." she says. He's never heard her seem quite this shy before. He tugs her closer, putting his free hand carefully on her waist.
She nods, and he squeezes her a little tighter. There isn't any talking; it's late, they're sleepy, and they're practicing communicating without words. He looks at her with a question in his eyes, and in response she climbs up onto the couch and wedges herself between the pillows and him, so that they're lying side by side. She pulls the covers up to their chins, and they both close their eyes.
He hums, and she yawns. He reaches out and puts a hand on her waist again, rolling her to face him, then winds her hand in his. He can feel her breathe on his neck, that's how close they are. Jughead feels content, better than he has in weeks. He inches closer, and is surprised to discover he was close enough that his lips are now brushing her nose. Betty giggles sleepily.
Jughead's too tired to open his eyes, much as he wants to look at her, but he interprets the giggle as clearance. His mind is lazy, slow, tired as their lips connect. Betty's lips are soft, softer than his, and she tastes like toothpaste and hot chocolate. Both their mouths hang slightly open, and the kiss becomes a full conversation, all the talking they're too tired to do now. She noses at him, and he bumps her with his chin.
After a few minutes, they slow down, too tired for anything more. His lips feel puffy. Betty makes a small murmur and sinks further into him, tucking her face into his Henley. Jughead's last thought before he loses himself back to sleep is whether his first kiss might actually be his best.
They don't manage to get up in time for Betty to sneak back upstairs. Polly catches them curled together the next morning, and then watches them all through breakfast with a smirk. Jason seems none the wiser. Betty, for her part, doesn't let go of his left hand through two helpings of pancakes (four for him), but does run her thumb over his knuckles when he adds extra syrup to her plate.
"You made them," he points out quietly.
"Is that how you're justifying drinking so much coffee?" she shoots back. He'd prepped the Keurig.
Their drive back is much easier than the ride there. They listen to the radio, and then Betty pulls up a trivia quiz on their phone and they take turns guessing what Archie's answers would be. Sun sparkles off the snow still hanging on the trees, and for the last fifteen minutes they switch to the holiday station and sing Christmas music all the way to the Riverdale station.
Jughead gets out and helps her climb down from the truck, grabbing her bag.
"Jug, I've got it—" she starts to say, but he stops her with a roll of his eyes.
"Thanks for letting me drive you," he says.
"Thanks for getting us there in one piece," Betty tells him. "Well, two whole pieces."
He laughs, and nods toward the station. "Better go wait for Mama Cooper, I guess." He makes a thoughtful face. "She'll be waiting to hear alllll about how the twins look just like her, how you ate nothing but fruit all weekend..."
Betty swats at him. "You're going to do what we talked about, right? Talk to Mr. Andrews? You promised."
He nods solemnly. Far be it from him to fight the will of Betty Cooper. She smiles, and gives him the briefest of kisses. It flares up the memory of the night before, and he takes a long inhale. He puts both hands on the side of her face, then kisses her between the eyes. "I just want you to know," he starts. "I might be falling in love with you."
"That's okay," Betty says, and then he's smiling at full wattage. "I can work with that."
ten years later
The second best thing about being married to Betty Cooper is that she's extremely prepared. For their trip to Riverdale, she had a whole Mary Poppins bag of snacks and toys and emergency band-aids and horrible cinnamon scented hand sanitizer. The one thing she forgot to do, however, was check the weather. So the second time Jughead Jones drives Betty through a snowstorm, he's no less nervous. In fact, Betty has to massage his gold wedding band off his finger so his hand doesn't turn red from all the clenching. It's been a very long drive.
"Oh my god, Juggie. I'm going to kill her," Betty says as they finally turn off the exit for Riverdale, snow coming at them from all sides, her face in her hands.
"Hey," he says good-naturedly. "That's my daughter you're talking about." He nods to the baby strapped backwards in the backseat, absolutely howling, even louder than the icy wind.
"Yeah, yeah," Betty says, but there's a smile in her voice. She turns around and grabs the baby's foot. "Almost there, little one. Shhh."
He turns around to look at them—he can't help it, it's like a celebrity sighting—and Betty practically shrieks. "Jug, watch the road!"
He obeys, steering the car towards the neon glow of Pop's sign, which is covered in snow, but he'd know it anywhere. He kills the engine in the parking lot, and their daughter finally downgrades from torture-crying to simply fussing.
"We made it," Betty says excitedly. The baby just blinks. Jughead unbuckles his seatbelt and leans over, winding a hand behind his wife's neck.
That's the first best thing about being married to Betty Cooper: he gets to kiss her anytime he wants.