Author's Note: It's been a long time (again!) since I updated, so I owe an extra huge "thank you" to everyone who's still reading this never-ending behemoth. Please know that this fic is not abandoned, (despite all evidence to the contrary!).

My real life has been particularly complicated in recent months, from the mundane (changing jobs, changing sectors, and three kids who seem to make a hobby of taking turns with viruses) to the medium-impact (enrolling in a new, university certificate program, a severe case of pneumonia that didn't respond well to treatment) to the major (my mother's cancer diagnosis), and time to write has been pretty limited. With all that's been on the go, even when I have found time to write, it's been difficult to pick up the weight of all of the plot threads and character development in this story, as much as I am passionate in my desire to write the ending I've had in mind for more than a year. I'm toying with the idea of putting some time into some lighter, shorter pieces, so that I can fulfill my urge to write when my brain and my heart aren't quite up to writing this.

Be that as it may, this story - my very first! - still has a hold on me. And though it is taking longer than I ever imagined to come to fruition, I am deeply grateful for the experience of writing it thus far, and for everyone who has read, reviewed, or left kudos along the way.

The next few chapters are tricky for me, and I may accelerate the timeline a bit to skip over some (mandatory to the narrative) angst and get to the fluffy finale more quickly. But they are coming, and if you're still here at this stage, I really hope you'll find them to be worth the wait!

Chapter 84

Liking people, as it turned out, seemed to come easily to Betty tonight. Of course, "liking people" was pretty much her stock in trade; it was one of the invariable features of the "Betty Cooper" persona her mother had crafted for her at birth, and groomed her for ever since. She "liked" everyone, and she was always "nice."

But as the evening wore on, Betty was discovering that there was a world of difference between "liking" people, and actually liking them… between making socially correct chit-chat, based off a mother-approved script, and just talking with people, discovering who they were and spending time together without a script or an agenda. It was easier to like people when she wasn't constantly worrying about how to please them or meet their expectations… when she wasn't questioning, again and again, whether they liked her.

Parties, in her past experience, had always been white-knuckled affairs… a tightrope act in which she constantly feared she would stumble and fall into the lions' cage, as personified by Cheryl Blossom's barbs or Reggie Mantle's leers or Chuck Colson's wandering hands… or her own mother's icy disapproval. She'd learned not to hope for anything better than steering clear of those predators. A good party, in Betty's books, had always meant one where she managed to remain invisible… standing awkwardly near a wall, or tidying up the kitchen… or sometimes useful, uttering soothing nothings in the bathroom as she held back the hair of whomever happened to be suffering from the effects of overindulgence. And a bad party? Well, those were the nights she found herself running bleeding hands under icy water, trying to drown out the humiliation. There really wasn't much between those two extremes.

This party, however, was an entirely different experience. There were demonstrably several victims of overindulgence, of course, who would likely become candidates for hair-holding at some point in the evening. But not a soul expected Betty Cooper to step in and meet that need. Nor would it have been possible, even if she'd wanted to, to lurk awkwardly in a doorway or near a table. Everyone seemed to know Jughead; wherever he went seemed to become the de facto epicentre of the party, the various other players shifting their orbits as he moved through the rooms. And since he always had hold of her hand, or her belt loop, or an arm slung lazily around her shoulders, she was right there with him in the glow of the inner circle. That should have felt awkward or uncomfortable… too conspicuous. But it didn't. Instead, it felt…

Natural.

Easy.

Uncomplicated.

Just as natural and as easy, in fact, as liking the ever-shifting kaleidoscope of people she was meeting.

She liked the young Serpents she met, their leather jackets and leering snakes visible even through the smoky haze… liked their teasing, yet respectful, demeanour with both Jughead and her… liked the gruff friendliness with which they made her feel welcome and took her relationship with Jughead as a matter of course. Without directly saying it, they all gave her a comfortable sense that they'd heard lots about her from Jughead and had already accepted her place in their circle.

She liked the girls Toni dragged over to meet her, too, as she sporadically resurfaced from whatever she'd been doing elsewhere in her own rounds of the party. Some were dressed up and made up to rival Veronica Lodge herself; others were dressed way down in combat boots and flannel that Jughead could have worn. Some seemed tough and some seemed shy. Some talked about books and some talked about bikes. But not a single one of them seemed to be judging Betty, or questioning her right to be there… no one was watching avidly, waiting for her to slip up the way Cheryl and her clique and some of the other popular kids at Riverdale High always seemed to.

She liked debating about feminist authors with Toni, and chatting about classic horror movies with some of Toni's friends, and she liked it when a tight knot of the younger Serpents cajoled her out to the garage behind the house to look at a battered 1955 Ford F100 a few of them had vague hopes of restoring. Their eagerness for her advice and approval spoke volumes, underscoring her earlier impression that Jughead spoken of her often, and in detail.

She'd lost track of Jughead himself somewhere along the way but, honestly, a garage had never held the allure for him that it did for her anyway, and knew they'd find each other again at some point in the evening. Besides, everything else tended to fade into white noise when she caught sight of a project worthy of restoration.

"Where'd you find it?" she asked, eyeing the truck appreciatively. They'd warned her that it wasn't running, and the body showed some signs of neglect, but she knew these weren't easy to come by.

"Right here," Frankie – the nominal host of the party – told her with a grin. "This was my grandad's truck. He bought it in '62 from some guy over in Greendale, and drove it about 15 years. And then he parked it in here and told his kids to keep away from it or he'd thrash 'em." He grinned even more broadly, as if threats of violence were the staples of a happy childhood. "He was still singing that same tune by the time I came along. Always said he was gonna restore it, but…" he shrugged expansively.

"Never happened?" Betty guessed.

"Like most of his plans," Frankie agreed, but he didn't sound disdainful… just matter-of-fact.

"So you're planning to tackle it yourself?" Betty asked him, and a handful of his cronies hooted derisively.

"I might," Frankie allowed, giving his buddies a dirty look that seemed to encompass all of them at once, his tone bordering on defensive.

"If you could ever scrape up any cash for parts," added a tall, dark-haired Serpent Betty was all least 80 per cent sure was inexplicably known as Sweetpea.

"And if you knew a damn thing about cars," growled an older man whose name Betty hadn't caught. She wasn't entirely sure why a man who appeared to be about her father's age was at a teenagers' party, but as Frankie flushed with either anger or embarrassment, she decided it wasn't the most important question at the moment.

"It wouldn't have to cost all that much," she interjected, choosing for the moment to ignore the latter comment in favour of a little fact-based peacemaking. "Parts for a truck like this are pretty easy to come by… especially if you're not too much of a purist. You can really use parts from anything from '53 through about '56 or '57, so long as you're not holding out for an original. And if you're not on a deadline, then you can wait until you find the part you need at a price you're willing to pay."

"Don't change the fact that he still don't know shit about cars, girlie," the older man snarled, and Betty was surprised to find herself squaring her shoulders in response. Ordinarily, she'd have crumpled at the first hint of opposition, especially from an "adult." Tonight, though, everything felt different, and Betty took it in her stride.

"Then restoring a truck's a perfect way to learn," she shrugged, as if she were speaking casually. Inside, though, she was utterly determined not to back down. "The engineering of a truck like this is pretty straightforward. He can learn the basics, and end up with a solid machine he can drive anywhere instead of keeping it in a museum somewhere. Give it a little TLC," she added, deliberately shifting her focus back to Frankie, "and you'll be leaving this to your grandkids… in perfect, working order."

"What would it cost, d'ya figure?" Frankie was asking with careful indifference, as if afraid to let her know the answer mattered to him.

"Hard to say without taking a look under the hood to see what you have and what you need," Betty answered honestly. "Which I will not be doing tonight… or ever in this outfit," she added forestalling the request she could practically see inscribed across Frankie's face.

"Afraid you'll break a nail, Princess?" a too-familiar voice sneered from the doorway, and Betty rolled her eyes in exasperation, even as she turned to face Gina

"Wouldn't it be simpler if we just agreed, here and now, to ignore each other until we both go away?" she asked, arching a brow and trying to channel Veronica in her voice and demeanour. "Middle school wasn't that much fun when I went there, and I am definitely not here for a re-enactment."

The Serpents gathered around them hooted again, a few apparently deciding that calls of "cat fight" and "meow" would lend a festive touch to the atmosphere.

Gina's eyes had glittered dangerously at Betty's words, but they hardened into implacable hatred as she took note of the Serpents' reactions.

With no desire to shrink back into her usual, conciliating demeanour, Betty still wondered uneasily whether she'd made a mistake.

She forgot to worry, though, as Jughead appeared in the doorway through which Gina had just entered.

"You getting into trouble, babe?" he asked her, his twinkling eyes doing as much as his words to let her know he'd overheard at least some of the confrontation.

"You here to get me out of it?" she countered, twinkling back and utterly ignoring Gina.

"Never," he answered, his voice somehow deeper and darker than usual as he closed the space between them and stepped in close, grazing his nose behind her ear. "But I'm thinking we could find some better trouble to get into, if you're ready to get out of here."

"Lead the way," she answered, resisting the urge to laugh out loud at the irritation writ large on Gina's flawless face.

Jughead snaked an arm around her waist, sliding his hand into the back pocket of her jeans as if it were his own, and she reciprocated as they headed towards the door.

"What about my truck?" Frankie called from behind them.

"Saturday," she threw back over her shoulder. "I'll bring my overalls and my tools, and we'll see what we're dealing with.

"Thanks for the party," she added, Alice Cooper's Pavlovian conditioning coming to the fore, and then the door was closing behind her and Jughead was pulling her outside and into the darkness.