She's on set when she feels the message arrive. Her phone gives the tiniest, shortest vibration in her pocket, and it's been almost a month since she's seen them, held them. Her heart aches, and she reminds herself that it might not be Juggie. It could be V, who she also misses. Or Arch, who has bad timing, always.

Toni Topaz's eyes flick momentarily to her guest's jacket pocket in recognition, before she tilts her head slightly and presses on with the interview.

"And lastly, I'm sure you've been asked this already, but I'm curious to hear about where you got the inspiration for the title."

The camera is fifteen feet away, maybe twenty, and the stage lights are bright in her periphery. Bright and hot. Despite that—and despite the fact that she's been away from home for so long, homesick and peoplesick—she feels the tiny bubble of pride in her chest expand just a bit more. Betty hopes it will reflect well (and humbly) on air.

"'A Lonesome Area' is pulled from a line in 'In Cold Blood', by Truman Capote." Betty gives a little head bob at the end and Toni nods more obviously in recognition.

"I think anyone who's read both your book and Capote's will see some similarities, but something tells me there's a little more backstory here."

The woman is good. Or, her aids are good. Her researchers are good. Any way you slice it, Betty can feel her smile slide a hair closer to deeply genuine—not for the first time this interview—and she relishes in it, her fingers itching for the feeling of home and familiarity at the tug she knows her words will bring.

"Yes," she answers, puffing out a breath. "'In Cold Blood' is one of my husband's favourite books. He was obsessed with it when we were younger, and it's always held a place on his bookshelf, wherever that may have been over the years. Even since before his bookshelf became our bookshelf, I'd read it quite a few times. Sorry, honey, I spilled the beans!" Betty holds out her hands, a look that she knows is a laughable attempt at guilt on her face.

"But it also has quite a way of summing up what you've written, as well." Toni picks up the copy of Betty's novel that sits on the armrest of her chair, and taps her fingers over the cover in a short burst. "Am I right in that interpretation?"

"Absolutely," Betty agrees. "The main character travels to place that is not only remote, but extremely barren and difficult to traverse on her quest to solve the disappearance of a little girl, missing for three years by the time the parents contact Naomi about her services."

"But also about Naomi herself—she echoes, and she is an echo. She's a haunted character, but she also haunts other people herself, in the non-paranormal way where she seems to hold a few choice people entranced."

"That analysis is very flattering, and makes me look like a more intentional writer than I really am," Betty jokes. "But in truth, yes, you're right. Although, I hope the ending gave you a little hope for her capacity for warmth—or at least, the possibility that she might eventually have a bigger capacity for it."

"It very much did. It certainly softened the blow and eased the tears from the story's dual climax a bit, a nice way to round out a story that might otherwise leave you feeling quite desolate, if I do say so myself." Betty grins at the host seated across from her, and Toni shifts in her seat, leaning forward a bit. "Thank you for being here, Betty, and thank you for chatting with us about your new book. 'A Lonesome Area' is out on October 2nd—don't forget to give it a read!"

The rest of the time at the studio flashes by her—audience applause, being ushered off-stage and corralled back to Cheryl, the clicking heels of the executive producer as she walks them back to the green room, the constant friendly chatter Cheryl seems to bring out in everyone they meet, exchanged business cards, complementary gift baskets, foreign perfume clinging to her collar as they eventually make their way out of the building.

"That wasn't so bad, was it!" Cheryl announces, not really phrasing it as a question. "Work done! Now we can go shopping!"

The redheaded agent turns on her heel a mere moment after Betty stops in her tracks outside the rotating doors to shift her purse and one of the gift baskets she's been charged with around until she can pull her phone from her coat pocket. Traffic and people buzz around them, and Betty longs for the quiet of the wind through the trees in their backyard, a whole country-length between her and home.

The text is from Juggie, the one that made her pocket bzzt briefly on stage, and Betty fights the urge to drop everything to the pavement. It's been a long press tour, and she knows Juggie is capable—more than capable, he's amazing—but she still worries, still misses them with every fibre of her being. New York is so far away, and California is far too warm for late September. Back home, the trees are starting to turn, even if the weather isn't frigid yet, and she misses that, too.

A glance up reveals that Cheryl has taken Betty's cue and has her phone out, busy tapping away and switching quickly between apps and platforms. She feels less guilty about taking a moment to savour the opening of the new text from her husband, holding her breath as the picture he's sent slides into view.

His text reads 'just caught a stunner on Topaz Talks! we both have a great feeling about her book', and the picture shows Juggie laying on the floor with Julie on her tummy time blanket, drool shining on her chin and her slobbery hand fisted in his dark hair.

"One more week," Cheryl consoles after one look at Betty's face. "One more week and you'll be home."

.

.

.

The women finish the day with a bang; post-shopping, they stop in to do a radio interview on Tell Keller before sliding into seats at Cheryl's favourite LA restaurant, and after that, Betty feels better about begging off any continued social obligations Cheryl might have been dreaming up. The hotel bed is calling Betty's name, screaming it.

Her feet are sore, her body is exhausted. Her chest is heavy, and being away from her baby is emotionally and physically painful at times. She needs to pump and shower, or shower and pump, whichever comes first.

Once she's scrubbed the day off and bagged up her milk to be donated, Betty sinks into the king bed and tucks her feet under the fluffy covers, grabbing her phone from the bedside table and heading immediately for her messages once more.

At nine months, Julie is cute as heck, rounded, plump cheeks sitting right under sea-green eyes, neck rolls and arm rolls and Betty's favourite little thigh rolls. Dinner rolls, she calls them, before pretending to take great big bites out of them, much to Julie's screeching delight.

There are bags under Juggie's eyes, eyes that are crinkled in fond exasperation as their daughter tugs on his hair, her tiny grip more like a vice than anything else. Betty should know—her own blonde hair is of never-ending intrigue to the little girl at all times. She's an equal opportunity yanker.

Betty misses them both. A lot. So she glances at the time before hitting the call button.

"Hey, babe," Juggie answers just two and a half rings after her phone connects.

"Hi," Betty answers, mouth curving up automatically.

"You were great today! Julie and I were talking all about your achievements as a bestselling author." His voice is somewhat hushed, and she can hear the changing acoustics indicating his movement around their house. She hears the suctioned release of the fridge opening, and laughs.

"Thank you. I'm so happy to have such dedicated fans cheering me on."

"You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you," he quotes, and she closes her eyes for a moment, again, savouring.

"I miss you," she says, trying not to sound desperate, though she knows he misses her equally in return.

"I miss you too, Betts. I can't wait for Thursday." Instead of sounding tired, Jughead's voice has an edge to it, and Betty hopes she's picking up the right vibe. The time and the distance make her long for the sure certainty of proximity.

"No, Juggie, I miss you," she repeats with careful emphasis, listening closely for the moment of realization she knows will come any second. A breath later, he hums in response.

"Yeah, I miss you, too. How many more days do I have to keep myself company?" His voice dips lower at the end, and Betty feels her throat close for a moment with the tension.

"Six," she answers, trying to keep any hint of breathiness from her voice and failing abysmally.

"Six days left," Juggie echoes, the background noises falling silent. She can imagine him there, at home, leaning against the counter next to the fridge, crossing his ankles in the way he does that drives her inexplicably nuts. "Thirty-four days total, Betty. I hope you're know what you're coming home to."

"I hope I do, too."

Jughead is silent on the other end, and Betty clicks her volume up as high as it will go, pressing the earpiece tighter to the side of her head. She thinks maybe she can hear his breathing, but she also might be imagining it.

"I don't think you do, baby," he finally states, voice even lower this time, amber coloured like molasses, like he has all the time and patience in the world to make her breathless with want. "But you'll see."

The lump of tightness in Betty's throat bobs, and she spends the rest of the night after their call telling herself to wait until she gets home, because it will be well worth the abstinence on her part.

Juggie always loves it when she lets him be the one to coax out every bit of her ecstasy, and he can always tell when she's been extra good for him while she's been away. He's always made it worth the wait, so she climbs back under the covers, flicks off the light, and keeps her hands tucked under her pillow until darkness folds over her.

.

.

.

Betty texts him the moment she's landed at JFK, hightails it to pick up her bags, and finds the car Cheryl's booked to take her home. Before long, she's speeding down the freeway, home and him so close she can taste it.

The porch light is on when the car pulls into the driveway, and Betty can't wrench her bags from the trunk fast enough, much to the driver's chagrin. With the comfortingly familiar jangle of her house keys in the lock, she lets herself in and inhales as she crosses the threshold with the thump-thump of her wheeled luggage.

That's what all this was for, she thinks. Home.

A muted glow is coming from around the staircase, and Betty leaves her bags at the door, shrugging off her coat as she draws closer to the source. Predictably, she spots Juggie's dark mop over the top of the couch, hair pulled and twirled into peaks on the right side, achieved idly as he'd read the book that was now laying splayed open on his lap, no doubt. With the slightest, quietest of peeks, she confirms he has, in fact, drifted off while waiting for her, eyes shut and head lolled to a moderately awkward angle.

She sneaks off to check Julie's room just to see that precious little face of hers, cheek mashed into the sheets, the gentle rise and fall of her back a soothing reminder that her husband is so good at the dad thing. All the tiny squeaks of the staircase come exactly when and where she expects them to as she climbs, and a sigh of happiness escapes her as she pokes her nose into the darkened room on the second floor.

There's a little red light floating in the middle of the black, indicating where the baby monitor is sitting, it's pair downstairs with Juggie somewhere. Betty slinks fully into the room, holding her breath and inching closer to the crib. Once she's laid a hand on Julie and felt her reassuring breaths, Betty turns and sneaks back out the way she came, listening for a moment at the door for any baby snuffles.

Downstairs is quiet, and Jughead is still fast asleep on the couch when she draws closer, this time more solely focused on him.

"Jug," she whispers, stepping around the side of the couch before taking it up a notch. "Jug!"

His eyebrows raise before he opens his eyes languidly, as if slowly reeling himself in from dreamland.

"Mmm," he hums. "Hey, baby. When did you get here?" His hands reach up, beckoning her closer, and she obliges, bumping her knee on his before swinging one over him and sinking onto his lap. His hands immediately slide up her thighs and grip, pulling her closer. Betty barely has to tip her head fraction lower for him to take the hint and sit up fully, pressing his lips to hers. Where a moment ago he was slumped and soft, he's now alert and leaning forward into her, pressing their chests together as she pulls his face closer to hers.

"Just a minute ago," she answers, breath hot in the space between them.

They separate for a moment so that Jughead can rip his plaid off and toss it over by the tv stand before helping to pull Betty's cardigan up over her head. She can feel his fingers creeping up her spine after they come back together, and in a blink, he's got her bra unclasped and hanging loose under her top. When he grins smugly into the kiss, he triggers her own smirk.

"You think you're so good at this, huh?" she teases.

"I don't think—I know," he quips, and then his fingers just barely skirt around the curve of her boob and she keens. "You agree. Wise."

Betty knows that he'll spoil her the second he gets her panties off, and so whenever she wants to show him some focused gratitude, she has to work it in before things get sweaty.

"Mm-mm." He stops her trying to wiggle backwards to slide to the floor.

"But—" she starts, eyes wide.

"Another time," he explains between kisses. "A time when I won't mind a refractory period, followed later by the main course. I'm starving, and I really don't have the patience for an appetizer right now."

"We get it, you're hungry."

"Famished."

He always waits for her hips to drag purposefully against his first before moving up under her, and she feels him plant his heels in preparation for that moment. For a second, she's tempted to hold off and see how long it takes for him to snap, but she agrees with him—there's no time to waste. She's been desperately ready for this for the past three weeks, and the last seven days have been particularly distracting.

When she settles her full weight onto his lap and rolls her hips, he doesn't give her the full satisfaction of a moan; instead, he gives a strangled sigh, cutting himself off with an open-mouthed kiss to the side of Betty's neck. After a brush of his teeth, he's tugging her shirt and loose bra up, and closing his lips around one pebbled nipple before her arms are even properly free of the garment.

Betty gasps loudly, caught off guard, body bowing into his involuntary. Their hips grind together again, and the breath Betty's trying to catch gets lodged in her throat, making her head spin. The low, broken moan that rattles from deep in her chest makes him grin even wider, but when his palm presses on her lower back and his hips angle up just so, Betty loses most of her motivation to tease him about his cockiness again. All she wants is more.

"Do you know," he starts, voice muffled by his lips and his breath and her skin, "how many nights I've waited to hear that again?"

"About as many as I've waited—ah—to be home?"

The hand he has braced in the centre of her back for stability reaches up to snag a handful of the first hair he can find, and Betty has just a split second of warning before he's tugging it sharply and pulling her head back.

"You're right," he acquiesces all the same, his forearm still holding her flush to him as he uses the leverage on her hair to mouth around her neck and chest. His other hand is still on her lower back, pressing her tight to him, and Betty shifts back and forth, trying to find some reprieve. She really only succeeds in making more of a mess in her pants, but she can feel Jughead's same want under her, and that's enough of a consolation for now.

"Juggie." It comes out as a whine, long and drawn out, and something she might have had the inclination to blush at if it hadn't been for the response she gets.

Jughead lets go of the hold he has on her hair, and before she knows it, he's placing her on her unsteady feet because they're standing—when did that happen?—and a beat later, he's bending and hauling her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and heading assuredly for the stairs and their master suite.

All the lights are still on downstairs as her head sways back and forth with his steps, but she can't even bring herself to care because she's finally home and his arm is wrapped tightly around her thighs and the seam of her jeans is digging into her in a way that's not what she most wants, but instead holds a promise, if she can just be a little more patient.

After he's shut the bedroom door behind them, he puts her down at the foot of the bed, but purposely off-kilter, tipping her balance back and making her drop to the mattress instead. His eyes are on hers, intent and focused as she reaches for the button at her waist. At the same time, he's grabbing for the hems at her feet, and the moment she lifts her hips to shimmy her jeans down, he's tugging them clean off her in one fell swoop.

"These, too." Jughead curls his fingers around the lace waistband of her underwear, and in a flash, they're gone too.

Betty knows the drill, knows what he's going to say, but she wants him to say it anyway.

"Back." He motions with his chin, eyes heavy lidded, and she scoots back on the covers until she's in the middle of the bed and blinks back at him, watching him pull his shirt over his head and toe his socks off. "Let me see you," Juggie prompts again, and this time, her cheeks do flush a little bit, with equal measures of pride and pleasure.

Betty leans back, holding herself up on her elbows and parting her knees for him. When her head drops back again, she can hear him shuffling his own pants off.

"Tell me what you want." His voice is amber coloured again, but more like whiskey in person, making her heavier with the inebriation that comes with having him directly in her personal space.

"You," she breathes in the direction of both the ceiling and the headboard, and she feels the mattress dip and wobble as he brings himself to hover over her. "It's been so long."

"I know, baby," he sighs in reverence, dropping lower and bracing his elbows on either side of her head, careful not to lean on any of her hair. "But you're home now." When his head drops to nestle next to hers, she can hear his ragged breath in her ear, and it makes her insides clench, makes her more sharply aware of the frustration and emptiness she's endured on her trip.

Jughead brushes firmly against her, hard in all the ways she loves most. He briefly reaches down to hike one thigh higher up his side, and without warning, he slides inside her with a determined flex of his hips. Betty hisses, and Jughead inhales deeply as he simultaneously bottoms out when she turns her head to bite her teeth into the flesh of his inked arm.

The following gentle rock of his hips into hers is maddening, and he stops her impatient squirming with a grunt, pinning her hands to the mattress with just one of his. His fingers wrap around hers in a way that can only be described as commanding, and when she tries to pull away halfheartedly, Juggie snaps his hips to hers a little more suddenly than before. Predictably, Betty forgets what she was protesting at all.

Her breath is coming in such quick gasps, her chest expanding so deeply and oxygen rushing through her bloodstream so rapidly that her head spins once more. The space between them is both smotheringly hot and non-existent, and Betty relishes in the weight of his body pressing her into the bed, inching her higher with every thrust.

"Ju-ug," she gasps with desperate urgency, finally prying one of her hands loose and digging her nails into his shoulder. His huffing laugh is right in her ear, heavy with smug delight. "Jug, can I come? Can I please—" She cuts herself off with a heaving gulp of air, body crying out in so many ways that it feels like a complete system reboot is imminent because the operating system is overloaded, overheating, overworked in the very best way, the only way she wants—

"Yeah, baby, you can come."

Juggie's hips grind against hers, tender flesh aching for that final touch that will send her heaven-side. She doesn't have to wait another second before he's holding her hips down and dragging his pubic bone against hers in that way she can't put words to, the way she wouldn't even begin to know how to describe, the way that's just for her.

Betty vaguely registers his grip tightening, his fingers digging into her flesh to hold her still as her body catapults into ecstasy headfirst. There will be bruises, and the knowledge of that only makes her clenching around him more primal. Her body rolls and rolls, like the surf returning to the shore time and time again. Toward the end, Juggie lets her other hand go and both her palms find their way to his back, feeling his own release shudder through him as she pulls him impossibly closer.

By the time both their pulses have slowed, things have cooled down enough that Betty shivers as he pulls out gently, both of them sweatslicked and sated.

"Be right back," she whispers eventually, sliding out from under his arm to pad to the bathroom. A glance back at him in the low glow of the light spilling from the doorway shows that he's down for the count, at least for another few minutes. His hair is sticking every which way, one arm thrown over his eyes and his other hand resting on his bare chest, breathing slow.

With her robe wrapped around her, Betty scoots back downstairs to flick off all the lights and check the door is locked.

"So happy you could come," he mumbles into her shoulder when she slides in beside him again, and she grins lazily the double entendre he's conveniently plucked from memory.

"So happy to be here," she quotes back, and falling asleep feels exactly like coming home.

A/N: Be a doll and leave a comment. This is the first explicit smut I've posted for Riverdale/Bughead.

The line Juggie quotes is from Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, partly inspired by paperlesscrown's In vain I have struggled.

The song they both quote right at the end is from a non-Disney kids' movie from the mid-90's. Bonus points to anyone who knows which one.

PS: The book that Betty wrote in this one shot is actually based on a real book called The Child Finder by a writer named Rene Denfeld. It's about a woman who is very good at finding people (mainly children) who go missing, when the police have run out of options. It is everything I hinted at—tragic, haunting, terrible, horrifying—and something I can totally see Betty writing if she went the way of aspiring crime fiction author instead of Juggie.

But it is a story that I think about on a regular basis, and I think that makes it a great one, on top of being a read that I enjoyed just for the read itself. I would recommend it to anyone who likes gritty crime and mystery. However, please read a general summary if you choose to dig in: some people may not have an easy time reading it because of the nature of the crimes mentioned both in passing and shown in more detail, especially because those crimes often pertain to children, whether intentional or not.