That’s What Concealer’s For
This is fanfiction, because fanfiction is easier for me when I wanna write without having to come up with my own characters. Anyway, This is Riverdale fic, and it’s both Betty/Veronica and Betty/Jughead pairing because Betty’s really in love with everyone. Am I allowed to just post this whole story on here like this? I’m pretty sure I am. I haven’t been doing this long (in case you couldn’t tell already from my weird rambling).
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There is something very wrong with her.
That is the thought she’s carried around like a weight for as long as she can remember.
Way, way back, since she was a kid, it had been there. She felt it when she was eight years old with cute bouncy pigtails and already had marks in her palms from the sting of her fingernails. She felt it when she was eleven and she fell ten feet from the monkey bars onto the hard ground with a thud, flat on her back with the air knocked out of her lungs for at least a minute, and she knew she should’ve been crying scared but all she could do was stare up at the sky and wonder what it would’ve been like if she had died. She felt it when she stood by herself in her backyard as the sun was setting and the night was coming, and she looked out at the empty field in the opposite direction of her house and it was so empty it looked like it could swallow her and make her disappear, and dread flooded through her tiny chest even though she couldn’t figure out why.
She hadn’t put it into those exact words yet, but there had always been something dark and bubbling under the surface, something that felt like it was growing and looming when she was alone, something that shrank back into the corner of her mind when she ran back to her family and friends who filled up her brain and distracted her from the dark thing for a while.
Then she got older, and her mom got stricter, and school got harder, and Polly got more distant, and Cheryl got meaner, and Archie decided to be girl crazy over every girl but her, and that dark bubbling edge to everything felt more and more intense, like even if all these outside people weren’t always letting her down, she would still feel like she was drowning, and all these things did not feel like “growing up” or “a wonderful journey” or her “golden days” or any of the cliches everybody loved to call her life. Relatives and family friends would tell her, “You know, young lady, these are the best days of your life,” and all Betty could ever think was, “God, I hope not.”
It’s what she thought in the locker room after cheer tryouts, when the numbness had faded and everything finally rushed into her body all at once: the sting in her hands, the dried blood on her fingernails, everything Cheryl had said to her, everything Veronica had said back, Veronica’s lipstick on her mouth and Veronica’s smell on her shirt and in her hair (there’s something to avoid thinking about for a while, huh, Betty?)
She sat there on the cold metal bench, staring into space, thinking how she had done that to her hands again even though she promised herself she would stop, how she had liked that kiss more than she probably should’ve, how she had come closer to breaking and lashing out at Cheryl than she should’ve. She had done everything so different from how she should’ve.
There’s something very wrong with me.
She had said it out loud for the first time to Jughead in the booth in the corner of the diner, flickering blue and orange light glowing neon on their faces, air thick with soft quiet, right before she showed him her hands, and he had taken them and closed them and kissed them. She leaned into him and cried quietly because of how safe she felt and how lonely at the same time. Somebody knew the crazy things she had done, to Chuck in a bad wig and heels, to her own skin. Somebody knew, and he accepted it. He still loved her. She was still okay. But even Jughead couldn’t be inside her head, he couldn’t completely understand, he couldn’t make that darkness disappear completely from the back wall of her mind. Nobody could.
And she felt it in every inch of her body, Something’s wrong with me, something’s wrong with me, what is wrong with me, when the Black Hood (that’s such a stupid name, by the way) called her over and over, when he “chose” her, when he pulled her into the darkness she had been trying to ignore, when she felt hollow and unreal like he had made her body his puppet. She had been alone in her backyard again, looking out into the empty field as the light disappeared, but there had been no family or friends to run to because he had taken them from her.
Suddenly Betty feels like laughing. All these deep reflections on scary shadows and inner demons and broken skin and her tragic past, while she’s sitting in diner in a baby pink sweater and the highest blonde ponytail, drinking a strawberry milkshake. If that didn’t represent this entire town, she didn’t know what did. Maybe she should be more like Jughead, wearing all that emo on his sleeve, with a broody expression and a Hot Topic-y outfit, typing away biting, sarcastic pieces into a laptop. Or Veronica, with her red-lipstick smirk and some sexy Manhattan runway dress that Betty still didn’t buy that any other sixteen-year-olds besides Veronica were wearing, ever.
She had thought a million times about showing up to school totally different one day, maybe in a leather jacket or fishnet stockings, or, like, a TON of eyeliner. But in the end she liked her soft sweaters and her light colors. They make her feel pretty and clean and strong, tying up her hair and slinging her messenger bag across her shoulder and running around the town to scrawl down the latest story or interview onto her yellow notepad. (Kevin’s voice still echoed the word “iconic” around in her head. That comment had made her prouder than she likes admitting.) Still, she might change something small. Maybe she’ll get some acid-wash jeans, or something. Who knows.
The sound of the door opening and some wind blowing in interrupts her very deep and reflective fashion thoughts. She looks up, even though she already knows who it is. Something in the air changes whenever Veronica walks into the room. The temperature drops, or maybe it rises, she isn’t sure, but whatever happens, it’s a very Veronica-specific thing that Betty feels in her chest without having to think about it.
Veronica turns her head, sees her, something in her eyes lights up, and she walks over, black cape and dark hair and mouth starting to curve like she’s about to say something she knows is clever. It’s a walk that kind of warps time, makes you feel like things have slowed down and sped up all at once. It brings Betty back to the night they met, her sitting in this same booth (everything happens in this diner, is there nowhere else in this damn town?) while Veronica slow-motion glided over to her and Archie like gravity was pulling her to them.
“Well,” Veronica says, “Had I known my girl was sitting here all by herself, I would’ve come to join you, like, WAY long ago.” She sits down smoothly and folds her arms onto the table, leans forward. “Or were you not by yourself? …Were you on a date with Holden Caulfield?” Her jaw drops and she pretends to look over-the-top shocked and scandalized as she says it.
Betty feels a smile being pulled from her, because everything Veronica says and does feels like an inside joke.
“Nope,” Betty says, “I’m just sitting here, thinking. I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”
“Yeah, well,” Veronica says lightly, “You are the only one who can make him trade in his cynicism for heart eyes.”
“I don’t know about that,” Betty grins, “I’m pretty sure I’ve caught him writing romantic poems about Archie.”
Veronica throws her head backs and laughs harder than Betty’s comment probably deserves, then half turns and calls a waitress over. As she orders her own milkshake (triple chocolate because they’re all about the symbolism tonight) and some onion rings, her voice blurs out in Betty’s mind. She feels giddy from what Veronica said about Jughead making heart eyes at her, but also from Veronica’s smirk and dark eyes boring into her. It should be weird to feel crushy butterflies over two different people in the same moment, but it’s not weird. It’s part of being with Veronica. The normal tension breaks, and then everything flows around inside her, everything becomes fluid, everything becomes normal, all of Betty’s feelings suddenly make sense. Betty can love Veronica and Jughead. Veronica can love her and Archie. They’re less like their own solid forms and more like one sea, all floating and loving and being and curling together.
The head of dark hair turns back to her. “So.” All of Veronica’s focus is suddenly on her, and she’s giving her that look that Betty knows means they’re about to talk about something serious (or, at least, something Veronica takes very seriously.)
“What were you thinking about?”
Betty knows what she could do. She could say all the twisted, scary stuff she was thinking about, the memories and feelings she can taste in her mouth like dirt no matter how much time has passed. She could tell Veronica about all of it, like she almost had so many times, like she actually had once (at a sleepover when they were both a little drunk on Veronica’s fancy rich-people wine). And Veronica would listen to her, and she’d reach over the table and hold both of her hands, and she’d tell Betty she wasn’t alone.
Betty wants to. She wants to let the words spill out of her mouth like water, and she wants to feel safe because Veronica always knows what to say. But Betty knows other things too. She knows that safe feeling will only be one part of saying it out loud, and the other part will be lonely, like a sad, screwed up double-edged sword. Just like with Jughead that night when he kissed her hands. She’ll feel warm and loved and relieved, but at the same time she’ll feel loneliness and darkness and guilt festering underneath, and she never understands it but she can feel it coming like you can feel rain in the air.
So the words she almost lets out, they stop in her throat. Instead she says, “Oh, you know. Things.” Very eloquent. Very convincing.
Veronica raises an eyebrow.
“You have to show me how you do your eyebrows. And how you raise one so perfectly like that. It’s pretty badass. Seems like it would come in handy a lot.” Maybe Veronica won’t notice that she’s changing the subject.
“B, you’re changing the subject.”
“Fine. I was thinking about acid-wash jeans.” Now she looks Veronica dead in the eye, because she’s not technically lying.
Veronica sighs and gives her a look. It’s an I-know-what-you’re-doing-but-I’ll-leave-it-alone-for-now type of look.
“So?” Betty keeps on with it, “Acid jeans? Yes? No? You of all people will have opinions on this. I mean, I could ask Jug, but we both know he’d definitely say yes, and then he’d probably let me borrow a pair of his.”
Veronica smirks. “As you know, jeans are not really my thing, but you, Betty, look good in anything. Obviously.”
Betty’s heart definitely does not flutter. That would be silly. And exactly how people talk about their feelings in trashy romance novels. Which are called trashy for a reason. …aaaand yeah.
They sit in their booth for hours after that, stealing long looks at each other over the straws of their symbolic milkshakes and laughing big and loud and talking about dumb teenage girl stuff and half flirting and half making fun of everything. The dark outside wraps around the diner like a blanket, but inside it’s warm and there’s pretty lights and witty banter and they feel safe. All that doom and darkness from earlier shrinks back very far, further back than usual, so far Betty’s almost convinced it could really be gone one day.
Betty gets in late, but her parents are still at the Register so she won’t get lectured tonight. She locks the door behind her and throws her jacket on the couch. She’ll get it later. Probably. Her eyelids are heavy, but she doesn’t want to sleep yet cause if she goes to sleep then the next thing will be morning, the beginning of another bright, harsh day of getting things done, being perfect, smiling at everybody. She likes everybody. She likes smiling. But she doesn’t have it in her, now. And morning will be now very soon if she falls asleep.
So she picks up her phone and starts dialing. Her fingers type this number like muscle memory, it’s faster to dial out these ten digits than it would be to go to her contacts. She lies down on her back on the floor, holds the phone next to her ear. She closes her eyes and watches colors burn across the insides of her eyelids.
It’s three rings before he picks up.
Something washes over her when she hears his voice, like when you’ve been in a small, cramped, smoky room all day and you finally step outside and the breeze blows cool on the layer of sweat covering your skin and your chest opens up and you can breathe.
“Oh!” His voice gets a little less rough. “Hey Betts.”
“Why do you never check your caller ID?” Her voice is teasing, “If you did you could pick up the phone with much cleverer lines, knowing which calls are your girlfriend and which ones are people you have to impress with your seriousness.”
“Right, sorry,” his voice is teasing too, “My default is an intimidating ‘Hello?’ You know, just to really get the message across that I hate small talk and also the world.”
It’s almost like she forgets how much she loves him, until she hears him or sees him and then it floods through her and she misses him as if it’s been months since she last saw him. Will she always be like this, or is it one of those dramatic teenager things? (The people who say that are the same people who say all that these are your glory days stuff, though, so Betty feels like it doesn’t matter anyway.)
“I wish you were here,” she breathes into the phone. She meant for her voice to sound more solid, but it comes out raw and sad and tired.
“So do I, Betts,” and his voice is stripped down like hers. He always makes his tone of voice match hers.
“I’m so tired.” She’s almost whispering now. What happened? She had called him meaning to be funny, or teasing, something invulnerable like a wax surface that water drops roll right off of.
“Me too.” He whispers back. It’s like they’re seeing whose voice can get the lowest and softest.
It feels like it’s been five years since she walked through her door. (It’s been five minutes.)
“Stay on the phone with me?” she asks. (She knows his answer already, because they always do this.)
Betty lies there on the cool wooden floor and her and Jughead listen to each other breathing over the phone. (In a cute way, not a creepy way.) She imagines him lying on his ratty mattress in the trailer, his eyes closed, his dark eyelashes casting shadows over the dark circles he has under his eyes like her. They all have them these days. Her whole body feels wrung out, but Jughead’s breathing feels like cool water soaking back into a washcloth.
In the middle of the night, alone in her bed when Betty’s awake in her dark room and everybody she could possibly text is asleep, she thinks about all the things that eat away at her, things she pushes down and runs away from by keeping herself too busy to think all day. She stares up at her ceiling, keeps her eyes trained on one spot as the edges of her vision get blacker and blacker and everything seems like it’s disappearing and she’s gonna be blind in a minute, until she can’t keep her eyes on the same spot anymore, and they move a tiny bit and the edges of her vision comes back again. She does that until she’s sick of it, and then she lets all the thoughts wash over her like waves. She thinks about Polly, somewhere out there in all that dark, past Betty’s field of vision, swallowed up by her own field, maybe hitchhiking in a sketchy-looking truck (when Betty’s a truck driver everything will be kept very clean and professional-looking) or maybe eating blueberry pancakes (no syrup), because who really ever knows with Polly? She thinks about Jughead and his laugh that resounds through her body, and about Veronica and her eyes that are big and dark and warm and glowing and make her heart beat faster and stronger in a way that only someone you love can make you feel about their eyes, and about Toni and her long pink hair and how Toni winked at her and how they sometimes glance sidelong at each other when they think nobody’s looking (Betty must have a thing for people with a 24/7 smirk on their face, because guess what those three all have in common?). She thinks about the pills her mom makes her swallow (the literal prescription pills, that’s not figurative language), and about all the lies she’s been force fed by the people she’s supposed to be able to trust, and about how she’s been telling herself everyone else is making no sense but deep down she’s terrified it’s really her who’s crazy. Betty thinks and thinks until her brain feels as wrung out as the rest of her body does, until she finally falls asleep. In the morning she’ll have dark bags under her eyes like always, but hey. That’s what concealer’s for.
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