Important Warning(s)™: the following one-shot contains potentially disturbing content related to a kidnapping scenario. Though I don't think I really get graphically violent, the warning stands, because it's intended to make you feel uneasy. If this isn't your cup of tea, that's okay. I have a very low-key rom-com-esque au coming up that has absolutely no kidnapping, promise.
[now]
He was making the sixteen minute drive home from an all-night turned all-day writing binge at Archie's studio, the summer sun just starting to sink into the late evening sky. The caffeine they'd been mainlining all day in order to propel their joint-but-entirely-separate writing was flagging, dragging, deflating in his veins. They'd finally called it quits when Archie couldn't remember his new chord order, and Jughead's brain had stalled during a mental search for a simple synonym.
A light flashed across his windshield, and he surveyed the 93, not entirely convinced he hadn't imagined it. He needed to get home and fall into bed and sleep off the rush of creativity that had left him drained, exhausted, and, apparently, hallucinatory.
[then]
She was really fucking tired.
"Honey, are you sure you're okay to cover until Josie gets here?"
Betty looked around at her boss' voice, pulling a satisfactory smile into place.
"Yeah, Pop, I'm good. She said she'd only be an hour late. I can last another hour," she answered, earnest. She refused to leave him all alone at the coffee shop on a sunny Saturday afternoon.
The door tinkled again, another group of people making their way to the counter to order. The two of them worked in tandem to fill requests for lattes, macchiatos, ristretto, and Betty soon forgot about the time, choosing instead to fill it by changing out the milk jugs and refilling carafes at the milk and sugar station.
Thoughts of unfinished papers and colour coded study sheet breakdowns filled her head, and she mentally scheduled out the rest of her day.
"Oh, look who's back and eyeing you up again," Josie teased upon arrival, looking over Betty's shoulder as she secured an apron around her waist. A glance over her back presented Betty with a relatively new regular who seemed to make an extra effort to chat with her every time he was in. She gave him a smile. "I'm so sorry I'm late. I'll take care of him, you go home. Thank you again, Betty."
When she emerged from the backroom with her bag, Josie had a to-go cup waiting on the bar for her, and she snagged it thankfully.
"That coffee is bigger than you. Are you gonna be okay?" a voice asked as she dumped what could probably be classified as too much sugar into the dark, fragrant brew. The regular, who came in just as Josie had arrived, was there beside her, and accepted the sugar canister she held out for him.
"Yeah," she replied, giving her cup thorough stir, before adding, "finals. I need all the help I can get."
"Me too." He nodded, his eyes trained on her. "Boston U."
"Northeastern." She smiled again. "I'm just on my way home for another study session. Wish me luck."
"Good luck," he replied with enthusiasm before his eyes dropped in what Betty registered as shyness. When they flicked back up to her, she was disarmed by the openness she saw. "Uh, bear with me. I'm really bad at this - but maybe if you wanted a break from studying, just for an hour or two, you could let me buy you dinner?"
Despite the tiredness weighing her down, Betty felt a grin spread over her features slowly, tentatively. She had blue bags under her eyes, a hormonal breakout on her chin that she'd covered ineptly, and she reeked of coffee.
And he'd asked her out anyway.
There was a rush of adrenaline under her skin, and a bubbly, tight feeling in her chest before she responded.
"I would love that," she started, reaching up to tighten her ponytail, "but unfortunately, I don't agree to dates with strange men whose name I don't know."
He laughed, his grin lopsided, the quirk of his lips wry. Betty noted that his teeth were perfectly straight, one of his canines glinting in the sunshine.
"Chuck Clayton." He held out a hand, and she shook it.
"Betty Cooper."
[now]
The car in front of him looked totally normal except -
The low sun caught on the curve of one of the tail lights, and glare danced in his eyes again. Jughead rubbed at them roughly, sending fireworks erupting behind his lids. When he reopened them a half-second later, the light was still flitting back and forth, the refraction angle clearly changing, if even minutely.
The right side tail light came seemingly unstuck from its home, tilting abnormally but remaining attached. It wasn't even dangling, it was just sort of crooked and out of place, like a puzzle piece that stubbornly refused to click together with another.
But then -
Then he saw something that made his blood run ice cold.
[then]
Two-thirds of the way through revising, Betty shook out her right hand, hoping against hope the writing cramps would just stop . She needed to get this done. In six days, she would be done papers and finals, and nothing would keep her from sleeping for approximately three days straight - which was probably better described as a coma, really - but until then, focus was the key.
Her phone screen lit up, and Betty realized that focus was a lost cause unless she took a break.
(3:23 pm) Have you eaten today
(3:23 pm) Im worried abt you
(3:24 pm) You forget to eat when its finals
(3:24 pm) We both kno its true B
In true Veronica fashion, the texts are short, and they flood in.
(3:25 pm) Hey did you call that guy abt the date yet
(3:25 pm) I think you should do it
(3:26 pm) You could use some stress relief
(3:26 pm) If you kno what im saying
There were the three little dots indicating another impending message, but they disappeared when Betty began typing.
(3:27 pm) Oh my god, V. Even if I was going to see him, I wouldn't sleep with him.
(3:27 pm) You say that now
(3:27 pm) But finals unhinge everyone
(3:27 pm) Besides it wouldn't be a bad thing if you did
(3:28 pm) I'm not going to sleep with him. But I might take him up on dinner.
(3:28 pm) Do it Betty yaaaaas
(3:29 pm) Nd then tell me all about it
(3:29 pm) Ofc
Betty chewed on her lip, running the tip of her tongue over the mostly-healed crack just off-centre, before tapping on the new name in her phone.
[now]
Curling around the side of the still-attached tail light were fingers.
Ho-ly shit.
There was someone in that trunk. Someone trying to get out.
In the time it took for him to drive between exit 15 and exit 13, Jughead's brain remained stalled as he stared, wide-eyed and disbelieving, at the red four door ahead of him. He was suddenly extremely grateful that the medulla oblongata regulated breathing, blinking, and other automatic functions, because he was sure that if it had fallen to him to consciously remember to keep his heart beating, he would have caused a massive pile up.
No, he had to be seeing things. Or he was still at Archie's, fast asleep and dreaming. This had to be a dream. Nightmare , his brain recalculated in a hasty search for a more appropriate word. Now he was awake.
A nightmare fuelled by over-tiredness.
Maybe he could work this whole thing into his book, somehow, and capitalize on the ease with which his brain had drummed it up.
[then]
They agreed on a little hole-in-the-wall diner near the Turnpike, and Betty felt relief uncurl in her stomach. A diner meant she wasn't expected to dress up, that this could be as casual as it needed to be. She couldn't take a huge chunk of time out of her schedule, and she certainly wasn't about to waste an extra hour doing her hair and makeup, only to get trumped on the decision of what to wear. This way, jeans would be acceptable. Or even leggings. If she went with the faintly patterned pair in her clean laundry basket, he might not even be able to tell she was basically wearing her pajamas to a date.
She probably didn't need to concern herself of what Chuck might think of her mid-exam period disarray. He'd seen her just earlier, knew the pain of frantic studying himself. She'd half-expected him to have changed his mind by the time she texted him, but he'd still agreed.
Flashes of Betty's recent dating missteps took hold, and she forced a deep breath.
Don't taint him with the same brush. You don't know he's like Adam. Or Trev. Or the other Adam. You can't know that.
Resolving to push it all from her mind, she pulled the leggings on, adding a soft cotton tank to the ensemble, and grabbed a periwinkle cardigan just in case. A finger comb through her blond pony and a swipe of mascara later, and she dashed for the door.
For a small, only seemingly half-lit all-day brunch place, it was packed. Small tables were slotted in together closely, one wall acting as a long, communal bench, which was entirely taken up by people already.
"Hey."
Chuck's voice was close, by her ear, and she jumped.
"Sorry," he added, startled by her response. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"Hey. No, I'm just not caffeinated enough yet," Betty explained apologetically.
"Well, there's levels of coffee here, and I haven't worked up enough courage yet to subject myself to a cup of 'hot sludge'," he pointed out the coffee board where, indeed, there was a ranking to order exactly how much of a tar quality one wanted, "so maybe today is the day."
Curiously, she discovered he was a biology major, which struck her as vaguely incongruous.
"Why do you say that?" he probed, his teeth crunching into a piece of toast dipped in egg yolk.
"I'm not really sure exactly," Betty answered, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "It's a surprise - a nice one, though."
"Why's that?"
"It means you're smarter than I originally thought." She grinned when his jaw dropped, his lips soon conveying his realization that it had been a joke.
"You have no idea," he commented a few beats too late, and Betty tried to suppress an involuntary shiver.
"Well, thank you, that was a really nice way to spend a break between chapter revisions," Betty said later, standing outside the restaurant with him. This was the part of a date she hated; the part where most parties stood around, unsure if they were going to able to work up the required courage in the dwindling moments left between two datees until the absolute last second.
"Thanks for meeting me, even though it's finals and it's crazy and we're both probably a little unhinged -"
That was the second time someone had used that word in conversation today, and Betty mentally frowned.
"- Did you want me to run you home? It's gonna be dark-ish soon."
"What? Oh - no, thank you," Betty snapped her eyes back to his. "This is probably the last fresh air I'm gonna get until this is all over, so I should really milk it. Vitamin D, you know."
"For the gains." He nodded, smile still place.
"Plus, I don't live far." Something infinitesimal shifted. "Oh, but I'll walk you to your car!" she offered in compensation, face beaming, hoping her clear desire to spend another minute or two in his presence would soothe the scrape of minor rejection.
"Yeah," he responded, nodding minutely, and Betty turned with him to walk down the side street.
"I really did have a good time. You were right, dinner was a good idea."
Chuck flashed her another grin as they passed under a street light not lit yet. His medium tone looked darker as the golden hour started to retreat back to its sequestered hideout. He stepped off the sidewalk behind one of the cars and turned back to her, keys in hand. She was on more level footing with him now that he had dropped a few inches in comparative height.
"Thanks again, Betty. Have a good night."
"You too." She turned away but he caught the last three fingers of her right hand, sending a jolt skittering up her skin.
"Hey, Betty -"
She started to turn back.
There was a metallic crunch of keys grating together in his fist, and his fist into her temple - and again - and then there was nothing.
[now]
When his brain rebooted, Jughead's hands went for his phone, digging in his pocket, but his pulse was racing and the adrenaline was swooping through his circulatory system and he dropped it - once, then twice - before getting a firm hold on it and dialing.
It took four tries.
"Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?"
"I'm driving south on the 93 and I'm pretty sure the guy in front of me has someone in his trunk. Like, I'm pretty fucking sure."
[then]
It was dark, and the air was stagnant in her nose.
Her head ached, throbbing painfully, and her hair was sticky and damp on one side. The overwhelming iron smell of blood was pungent in her nose, and the air felt heavy, thick with it.
Confusion. Where was she?
In half a second, she became aware - with jarringly instant clarity - that she was in a moving vehicle, and that Chuck had locked her in his trunk .
She also knew with complete certainty that Chuck Clayton was worse than Adam, Trev, and other Adam combined.
No, no, no, no, no. This - Fuck.
Couldn't -
Also -
How could he be so stupid? Of course she had told people she was going on a date. People who would be concerned if they didn't hear from her later that night. People who cared that she got home safe. People who would call the cops before the night was up.
She realized, all too late, that Chuck probably didn't care that people might know where she went with him, or who he was. With her luck, he was probably a goddamn psychopath.
Her hands were shaking, unfeeling, but at the same time bone cold.
Betty took a deep, shuddering, rattling breath of brackish air, forcing herself to expand her diaphragm and fill her lungs to capacity. She needed to take stock of what she had.
He'd relieved her of her bag and her phone, but checking for those had been wishful thinking. It was painfully dark, but she felt her way around blindly. There wasn't much back there with her. An old water bottle, a third full of summer-warm water; a few reusable shopping bags; a spare umbrella.
She could whip a shopping bag around and wrap his hands in it? Jump out of the trunk while he was momentarily incapacitated? That seemed like something straight out of an unreliable Jason Statham flick but she would be damned if she didn't try.
What did Gracie Hart say?
Don't forget to sing.
Solar plexus, instep, nose, groin.
This quickly became her mantra.
Delayed rage started to bubble low in her gut, and Betty clenched her fists tightly to keep from taking it out on the inside of her temporary cell.
How dare he? How fucking dare he.
The end of the umbrella was plastic, not metal, but a well-placed jab to the solar plexus would help her situation. Maybe.
If she could get away.
If she couldn't, it would probably just make him angry.
But in order to get him with the umbrella, he had to stop and pull over, and the thought of attracting Chuck Clayton's attention back to her before it was absolutely necessary started to send her vision back into a dizzying spiral.
The car started a long, smooth curve to the right.
Think, Betty Cooper. Put all that late night true crime tv to use here. It's now or never, probably.
She choked.
And then she summoned every ounce of her inner Alice Cooper.
It was dark, but there was a faint light coming from the seams of the trunk which meant she hadn't been out long because it had been been late evening when they left the restaurant and the sun was still up, even if just barely. Which meant she was still in the Boston area.
There were no dull, glowing emergency release handles, but again, she would have been shocked to find one anyhow.
There were no sharp turns or stops happening, and the speed of travel was constant. Which meant freeway.
And freeways meant other people.
Light was fading fast, so she got to work.
[now]
The call centre responder on the other end rattled through questions, and he answered them as quickly as possible. His phone was on speaker, sitting in his lap.
"Red, four door."
"Ford Focus."
"2CF J70."
"South on the 93, just passing exit 8 near Quincy."
"Dark hair, maybe, and medium skin tone."
Jughead tried to focus on not look suspicious, in case this guy looked in his rearview mirror. He consciously loosened his grasp on the steering wheel, and drummed his thumb along the upper curve. If this dude did look back, Jughead had to look completely uninterested. So he drummed at a steady beat and bobbed his head a little every once in awhile, hoping that his meager acting skills could pull off 'much more occupied with my playlist than the person in your trunk' convincingly.
"He's - woah - he's gonna take the next exit, I think, what do I -"
"If you can follow at a safe distance, please do. Units are on their way, they're two minutes from you. Which exit is he taking?"
The buildings had given way to greenery, they were now facing west, and Jughead squinted into the setting sun.
"5B."
[then]
Betty drew the umbrella back as far as she could in the cramped space, and rammed the butt of the handle into the back of the pocket that looked like it might be the taillight. She hoped Chuck couldn't hear her, but in case he could, she scrambled frantically to do it again, and again, until she felt it give way bit by bit.
Her nails grated, the feeling similar to scratching down chalkboard, as she stuck her fingers in the hole and wrenched, pinching herself against the sharp metal edges. Pushing, pushing, pushing, until she felt fresh, streaming air on the skin of her hand. Her fingers wiggled up the back slope of the light and wrapped around the top of the plastic lens. The electrical wires were tangled with her fingers, and she felt a damp wetness that probably meant she'd sliced her skin open in the painstaking work, but her fingers were free.
Betty scrunched her hand as tight as it could go and pushed harder.
There was a flood of light and a rushing roar of the road under the car, so loud now, and Betty teared up. She pulled her hand back in shock, heaving herself up to the opening and taking great, gasping lungfuls of air that wasn't saturated with the metallic smell of warm blood.
The noise outside faded to a hushed nothing, and the weight of it pressing in on her skull.
Staring at the metal and locking mechanisms that were now thrown into somewhat decent relief, all she was seeing were flickers. Flickers of things she loved, consciously choosing to spend her potential last minutes remembering the little things.
Her childhood bedroom in the morning light, cosy under the covers. The sound heavy green leaves made in the wind. The little squiggly things she sometimes saw out of the corner of her eye. Her heart racing with joy when taking off in a plane. Nailing her high school valedictorian speech.
Shoving her hand back through the hole, she flexed her fingers and embraced the cut of the awkward angle, waving her hand around as obviously as possible.
With her other hand, Betty ripped out a few strands of her hair, depositing them along the edge of the frayed upholstery and using her nails to shove them down beyond sight. She repeated the process a few more times, shifting around jerkily in the dull light. She rubbed her fingers in the congealed blood at her temple and scraped it off along the edges of the trunk hood, the exposed metal frame providing an infinite number of blood evidence hiding spots. For good measure, Betty scraped the inside of her cheek with her teeth and horked a wad of spit into the corner.
If this motherfucker was gonna kill her, she was going to leave enough evidence to scream bloody murder.
[now]
And finally there they were, lights flashing red-blue-red-blue as they appeared over the crest of a small incline. Jughead slowed, and slowed, and slowed until he came to a stop, the engine humming along under him for a few more seconds before he cut it. He leaned forward, his eyelids drooping closed as if pulled by magnets, and rested his head on the steering wheel.
What the actual fuck.
[after]
Jughead was weary. They'd forced a paramedic on him, who'd forced a sickly-sweet apple juice concoction down his throat to combat the shock that had gripped his body after the police had apprehended the vehicle. He'd watched as they pulled the guy from the car and removed him from view quickly, opening the trunk and practically lifting the small woman from the back.
He paled at the recollection of the blood smeared down one side of her face and all over one of her hands. She had an umbrella in her other hand that looked like it had seen much better days.
They'd taken him in, too, for an official statement, and now he was waiting outside in the hall while the girl in the blue sweater spoke on her phone behind the glass at his back. The door was finally open, and he could hear her voice. She'd been talking for awhile now, and he heard the inevitable collapse in it.
"No, mom, it's okay. Don't come all the way out here. Veronica's on her way right now, she said she'll drive me to Riverdale if that's what I want." The soft voice paused. "I don't know what I want yet. But I'll text you as soon as I get home, and when I make up my mind." Another pause. "Yes, I'll have V stay over if I decide to stay here, but she'll probably insist I stay with her at the Pembrooke - Yes, I promise, but I do have to go… I love you, too. Bye."
There was silence.
Jughead's shoulders ached from tiredness and leaning forward on his knees stiffly. A half-empty cup of cold coffee was the one thing keeping him present.
"You saved my life."
He looked up from the bench.
Before, there had been literal distance between them, between cars, between squad vehicles, between interrogation rooms and conference rooms and roles they had been chosen to play in this particular narrative.
But now she was right in front of him. Real, and very much alive.
"I - yeah. It was nothing."
"I beg to differ."
idek but leave me a comment okay because I'm still shook.