"Well, goddamn it!"

Betty Cooper prided herself for never actually cursing. What good were words like 'shit', 'fuck', 'motherfucker', and 'damn' in any stressful situation anyway? They didn't solve much of anything – and they made you look bad. Betty Cooper never looked bad.

"Fuck!" she cursed again, shaking her phone as if that would magically restore her battery life. The phone beeped faintly – three times that reminded her of the dun, dun, dun scenes in movies where it was almost always followed by hopelessness – before finally shutting down for good, the blank black screen staring back at her, dead to the world. Well, no fucking way to call an Uber now.

It was raining hard, too, the way that made you kind of nervous by how loud it's roaring was. There was little shelter to be found in the dilapidated bus shed she was at and she had picked tonight of all nights to not bring her trust bright pink umbrella. Betty tugged at the sleeve of her cream sweater, soaking wet now, but it did little to keep her from shivering. Her white sneakers were ruined and her blue jeans heavy and mud-splattered from the rain. From a distance she could see the blurry pinpricks of light that signaled the cluster of houses from where she had walked from and with the rain, even if they were not even a good five minutes walk away, they seemed an eternity away.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." Alice Cooper would've been so proud to see how much her precious perfect daughter cursed right now, but Betty didn't care – she was an absolute mess with no way to go home.

She should've listened to her instinct when Veronica practically begged her to go to this guy Chad's party. Chad was an ass. This didn't sound like a good idea to Betty from the get go. And she had been right – while Veronica could call it a raging party (she had, after all, hooked up with Reggie Mantle not even an hour into the party and had promptly forgotten about her), Betty thought it was a mess. Betty hated beer, she hated crowds more, but she absolutely hated Cheryl Blossom most of all – especially when the redhead spent the whole night making out with the only other redhead who wasn't related to her, Archie Andrews, Betty's one true love (who had absolutely no idea that he was, mind you). It had felt like the room was closing in on Betty and suddenly she hated how she looked right that minute, with her signature high ponytail and predictable jeans and sweater combo, and felt completely out of place. Veronica, who had been her ride, was nowhere to be found and Betty had pretty much booked out of there before anyone noticed how totally crushed and pathetic she was.

And then, just like in some cheesy movie, it had started pouring just as she began sobbing.

Betty had no idea why there was even a shed near Chad's cluster of mansions. It was not like Riverdale was a big town anyway. But Betty was thankful for the little architectural mishap, even if it didn't offer her much shelter anyway. She scooted closer to the inside of the shed and eyed the oak trees behind it, their big branches casting shadows over it.

"Great. It looks like I'm in a motherfucking slasher film," Betty muttered bitterly, trying again to open her dead phone.

"Never pegged you to have such a potty mouth, Cooper."

Betty shrieked and almost dropped her phone, heart pounding almost as loud as the rain. She looked to her right and there he was – Jughead Jones, dark locks plastered to his pale face and baggy clothes that were just as dark clinging to his lean form.

"Jughead!" Betty exclaimed, "you gave me a fucking heart attack!" She really didn't mean to curse this much, but damn was Betty scared. She clutched at her chest, feeling quite faint.

"What are you even doing here?" she demanded but Jughead Jones just chuckled. "Parties are not my thing," he said with a shrug.

"Then… what are you doing here?" Betty asked, eyebrows raised.

"Came with Archie," he supplied, "he was suddenly busy." Betty tensed at that and Jughead gave her a sheepish look that made her blush. She had wanted to be subtle. It wasn't like everyone knew how much she liked Archie, right?

Jughead shuffled his feet awkwardly, combat boots squelching as he did so. He tugged at his denim jacket and pulled at his grey crown beanie. "Rain's probably going to stop soon," he said after a while. Betty doubted that, though. It looked like it would go on all night.

She had started debating whether she should just start walking home (she was already soaking wet anyway) or if she should just wait out when Jughead let out a triumphant "Aha!" that made her jump again. He was holding a crumpled up pack of cigarettes up to her, a smirk gracing his face.

"Thankfully these didn't get wet," Jughead said, "a miracle really." He rummaged inside his pockets and pulled a silver lighter out. With a small laugh, Betty realized it was probably the longest sentence Jughead has ever said to her. He wasn't exactly friendly and they ran in different circles so there was never really a need to talk before. It surprised her how casually they were talking about wet cigarettes, so much so that Betty looked up to check if the moon was full (because after all, don't they say how crazy things happen during full moons?)

Jughead put a stick in his mouth and Betty watched as a small ball of orange light illuminated his face before he took a long drag and let out a slender tendril of gray smoke. Everyone in Riverdale High knew Jughead Jones smoked and Betty always thought it was unbecoming of him but watching Jughead light a cigarette up was oddly… mesmerizing.

"Want one?"

Betty blinked. Jughead was watching her carefully, holding out the packet to her. Betty almost took a step back but those little white sticks never looked so inviting. She felt so cold her bones were practically frozen, anyway.

"What the hell," she muttered, reaching out tentatively to take one. Jughead could say he was pleasantly surprised. He had offered because he had run out of things to say. Never did he expect that little Miss Perfect, Betty Cooper, straight A student and poster child for the All-American Girl, would ever take a cigarette from him. He watched her, blond ponytail limp and clothes all muddy, her heart still probably shattered from Archie and Cheryl's wanton display (because really, everyone knew how Betty felt about Archie), and figured that maybe it wasn't as surprising after all. We all had our moments of less than perfection; and Betty Cooper wasn't exempt from that. He flicked his lighter open and lit her cigarette for her, watching as her face came into the light, stray damp hair framing her slender face.

Jughead watched as she took a deep breath and chuckled when she began coughing. "Take it easy, hun," he said and Betty glared at him. They stood there for a while, not quite saying anything, surrounded by bluish gray smoke and the sound of pounding rain.

Betty fidgeted, tugging at her ponytail and suddenly feeling very conscious. She awkwardly held the stick in one hand and almost cursed (again) at how effortless Jughead looked, even if he was as mussed up as she was. He had finished his first stick and was lighting up his second one, shielding the feeble flame with one hand. He had long spidery fingers – so delicate-looking that Betty was almost jealous. His hair was curling chaotically beneath his signature beanie and his thick eyebrows furrowed deeply as the lighter's flame danced in the wind.

Betty looked away, flushed. What business did she have ogling at Jughead Jones as he lit up his cigarette?

She took another drag of her cigarette and managed not to break out in a coughing fit this time around. Betty almost felt proud. She turned to Jughead with a smug smile, the "Ha!" already at the tip of her tongue.

It never made its way out, however. Betty stopped mid-sentence, her mouth already tugging into a smirk, and paused at look Jughead was giving her. He had never looked at her this way – never even looked at her in any way, in fact – and it surprised her so much so that she almost took a step back. He was not frowning, or smiling, or smirking in that languid way Betty saw he always did – he was just staring at her with such intensity, green eyes boring into her, that it sent a shock of unnamed nerves running through her veins. Gone was that look that he wore so well – one that made Betty feel that nothing could be of any importance to him – and in its place, here in this darkened dilapidated alcove, a look of such raw desire that warmed her insides. Betty felt frozen, hypnotized even. Jughead took a step closer to her and Betty found that she craved it. Jughead moved in closer, eyes never leaving her face even once. It never occurred to her that he had three faint moles on the side of his face – beauty marks, she knew they were called, even if they sounded absurd when used on him – and she almost lost to the urge to reach out and touch them.

Betty! She admonished, trying and failing to wake herself up from this stupor. Her nose was filled with the smell of smoke and dampness and rust from the nearby poles of the waiting shed and she found that she loved feeling like this – whatever this was. In the darkness, Betty could make Jughead's face out in a way light has never shown her – those thick lashes that veiled those intense green eyes, and those full lips, red even in the cold, that curled seamlessly into a smooth smirk that accentuated the small mole above his left lip.

"Jug –," Jughead pressed his lips against hers – once, twice – just a ghost over her cold, chapped lips so light she almost feared she imagined it. Betty opened her mouth to say something – anything – and Jughead pressed his mouth urgently against hers. Betty moved closer to him, melting into his kiss as Jughead pulled her hips flush against his. Jughead's tongue found hers, teeth brushing her parted lips lightly. Betty stood on her toes, moaning softly as she wrapped her hands around his neck, drawing him in, pulling him closer.

Betty could taste the smoke lingering in his tongue and his damp thick dark locks felt like silk under her fingers and she knew that nothing had ever felt so luscious. But Jughead's hands, with those delicate spidery fingers, had found the small sliver of skin between her jeans and her sweater and Betty felt like she was burning on the inside.

They frantic actions petered into slow, languid kisses, their lips almost reluctant to part. With eyes still closed and noses barely touching, Betty and Jughead sighed. Her arms were still around his neck and his fingers still touching the bare small of her back. Everything was quiet and still, as if any sound or the slightest of movement would shatter their moment and Betty found that she'd hate for that to happen.

"Look," Jughead breathed and Betty shivered at how warm his breath felt against her flushed cheeks. Betty looked up and met his intense gaze, matching his smirk with one of her own. "It stopped raining."

And it had. Betty wished it hadn't.

"Come on," Jughead said soflty, drawing back from her but keeping his hands on her waist, "I'll take you home."

A/N: Whew! It feels so goddamn nice to be back after 10 friggin' years! (Yeah, yeah. I'm much to old than I would like to admit) And because of a recent paper I wrote on fan fiction writing, I was tempted to give this glorious, glorious hobby another go. And I missed it! I do apologize for being quite out of sorts with my writing. The old fan fiction writing gears are definitely rusty and in dire need of oiling, after all. So let's start it of with an easy one, yeah? Hope you did enjoy this as much as I did writing it. Cheers, yo!