Alone Together | Bughead Oneshots

Metamorphosis

Song Credit: "John Wayne" by Cigarettes After Sex

Three years ago, she was sweet.

Heartbroken over her childhood crush, stressed by her overbearing mother; but still, she was sweet.

It almost pained Jughead to see how she'd changed over the years from being the girl dancing alone in a pink dress to the girl who could pick a serial killer out of a lineup solely by intuition. But at the same time, he was unbelievably proud.

Proud that her own personal metamorphosis had shown her fact from fiction, and reality from fantasy. That she'd found the killers of numerous homicides, whether single-handed or alone. That she could take a blow and deliver one ten times harder. He was so proud of his girl.

He thought about it as he laid in their mutual bed, Betty asleep on his pec and arm wrapped around his waist, hoping that the bodies she'd seen while awake weren't haunting her in her dreams. And then the tables would turn. He'd fall asleep after however long he laid watching her and she'd wake up, eyes opening to the light the table lamp provided.

And she'd lay on his chest and look up at his face, knowing that he'd changed a lot, too. He'd started sophomore year as nearly incognito; his two childhood best friends suddenly not having time for him and his home life a Southside wreck. He was, virtually, alone in a room of people.

And that's not  to say he'd risen to popularity-- well, not at Riverdale High, at least. He'd gone from a trailer on the Southside to a home on Elm Street with his girlfriend and family, a journalist to one of the most eloquent writers of his time, and someone with a lot to say to someone who actually said it.

And just like he was in regards to him, she was so proud.

But the two of them had a growing rage and darkness the same way they had growing passion and talent. And although it pained her, Betty had to recognize the dim reality that Jughead had sinned and he had to face the same truth for her.

She never would have thought he'd pick up where his dad left off in joining his gang, but eventually he was handed the mantle, trading his Sherpa jacket for a leather one with a snake emblem and his beanie for a motorcycle helmet. The Serpents weren't inherently bad, but they'd led to less of his finer moments.

The first one that came to Betty's mind was Penny Peabody and what Jughead had done to her forearm. She remembered the fear in his eyes when he'd confessed at Veronica's confirmation, the way his voice shook as he explained how his life was spiraling since (and because of) losing.  her. She remembered how it felt marching into the Whyte Wyrm alongside Jug and FP and how he'd always managed them well-- almost dying for the Serpents.

And Jughead knew Betty had her moments, too. Those times when her nails were delving into the skin of her palms and leaving bloody imprints in their wake, or when her eyes turned black as her bob-cut wig and all she could her was static rage; the strand of genes in her DNA that gave a predisposition to violence and inconsolable anger that had only worsened over the years made her feel like a ticking time-bomb.

But  both Betty and Jughead, unbeknownst to their counterpart, knew how lucky they were that despite their constant state of metamorphosis, they were still together and more in love each day than the last. That although the could outgrow trivial things, like crown beanies or angel nightlights, they couldn't outgrow each other.

And whoever was left awake would fall asleep with one thought,

"That's beautiful."