5 Years On | Bughead

Ten

Jughead cried in Betty's arms after he told the story. After it was all out. He felt hollow. And he was ashamed.

Betty stroked his hair and rocked him saying, "There's nothing to be ashamed of, Juggie. You did nothing wrong. You couldn't have saved her. You couldn't have saved them."

"I –"

"No," Betty said firmly. "There was nothing you could have done. Nothing."

"But I'm still alive and they're –"

Betty hugged him fiercely. Somehow, she knew those feelings too. Those little twins. Those two, poor little red-headed babies. Betty had secretly wished her own sister was dead instead of those innocent babies. Or even herself.

How she had been allowed to survive her sister's manic rage that night and they hadn't was beyond her. Polly had killed her own babies, yet just passed over her as if she had been anointed in sheep's blood. It defied explanation.

"It's not fair, Juggie. It's totally not fair. We're here and they're not."

He pulled away to look at her. "Who Betty?"

"Your family, Jellybean . . ."

"And?"

"Those babies. Polly's babies. Why did I live, Juggie? Why did you?"

He looked at her very carefully. Like the day he had mustered up the courage to kiss her that first time.

"Because of this," he said and pulled her in closer. He bent his head down, touched the tip of his nose to hers for just a beat, and whispered, "Because of this."

Then his lips seared into hers and they melted into each other, so many years of pain, and torment, and longing burning between them.

"Betty, are you sure you want me back in your life? Or is this all too much?"

"I already told you, I'm not leaving you, Jug. You're going to have to beat me off with a stick."

"A stick it is," he said and smiled.

As they walked down the little pathway through Riverdale's own pet cemetery, Jughead joked, "Not as cool as the book."

Betty poked him in the ribs. "Come on, be serious. Be solemn. This is a graveyard afterall."

"I'm not serious. I'm not wired to be serious," he parodied one of their favorite lines from their first fight so many years ago. It had long lost its sting, and had instead became their own little meme. It felt nice to be using it again.

"You're Jughead Jones. If you're not wired to be serious, none of us are."

"Here we are," he interrupted. The joking mood faded quickly. Betty had come to pay her respects to Hot Dog.

The Jones' hadn't had enough money for a real marker, so Hot Dog's place was marked by a flat stone they had found on the ground near their home that Jellybean had decorated for him. But most of her work had faded away by now and it was barely distinguishable from any other rock.

Betty squatted, reached out, and placed her hand on it, saying a silent prayer and asking for forgiveness. Jughead stood over her, bearing witness. A part of him finally felt closure. He hoped Betty did, too. Now he understood just how much this had haunted her over the years as well. It wasn't just he who had been in pain.

"Thank you," she said and stood up.

He took her hand.

She nodded resolutely. "And now for those cigarettes."

Jughead nodded glumly in response.

As he leaned under the trailer, partway through the hole he had made by removing that little cross-hatched piece of fence, he began to hyperventilate. He clearly saw that cigarette in his mom's hand again, trailing ashes as she pulled it into the bedroom along with the ashtray she had just grabbed.

Betty pulled him back out and stroked his face to soothe him. "Breathe, Jug. Breathe."

He nodded at her, but it only got worse. He felt the burn in his lungs. It seemed like he was breathing fire again. Weakly he choked out, "Help."

"Okay. It's okay," Betty said, sitting him down on the ground and rubbing his back as he struggled to catch his breath. "You'll make it. Just be patient with it."

He nodded again and closed his eyes, willing himself to stop seeing what had happened that day. But that never worked.

After a time he heard Betty say softly, "I'll go in with you."

Her thumb brushed his cheek to wipe away tears he didn't know he'd shed. "When you're ready, I'll go first, okay?"

Taking his hand, Betty led the way in. They crawled over to where he had left his cigarette stash. When they got there, he just sank back onto his heels. He looked so deflated.

Eventually he reached out for one of the two packs that were still there with a shaky hand. The open one. "These were my mom's brand."

"I figured."

He took a cigarette out and twirled it in his fingers. Solemnly he said, "These things kill. Sometimes sooner rather than later. I think a part of me wanted to die."

Betty reached over and hugged him fiercely. Even though it was cramped and awkward, this time they did not slip and fall into the mud. She held him tightly as he convulsed.

"Why am I still crying?" he asked, frustrated. "Haven't I cried enough?"

"Because healing takes time. Your feelings aren't going to go away overnight. Trust me. Once you face them, they still take time to process."

He grasped back onto her tightly.

"It's okay to cry, Juggie," Betty said soothingly, fingers now deep in his hair, bringing his head to her breast and rocking him. "This is a big one. It's okay."