for @riverdalebingo square camping trip, with a side of comics Bughead feels. Beta-d by the lovely @kittileepdx.
Jughead hasn’t said “I love you” yet, but Betty knows he loves her. He’s right behind her on the hiking trail, heavy bag on his back.
It’s not like he’s not complaining about it. Every few minutes he rants about the weight of the bag or the length of the trail. But the fact that he’s here at all makes it clear how important she is to him.
They grew up together, next door neighbors with a shared fence between them, and Betty knows more than almost anyone how talented Jughead is at getting out of things he does not want to do.
“It’s only a half mile more,” Betty says to him.
“Only? We’ve been going all day Betts,” Jughead groans. ”We haven’t had a food break in forever.”
“Since when did forever mean 15 minutes?”
“Since I started walking,” Jughead quips.
Betty glances back at him, and she can see that he’s pouting. It’s the same pout he’s had since he was three.
Before they started dating three months ago, they hadn’t actually seen each other in years. When Betty’s parents divorced in High School and she moved to California with her dad, they lost touch.
Jughead just became another person she mentally emailed but forgot to actually email. Betty was behind the register the day he wandered into The Last Bookstore seeking The Sun Also Rises. She recognized him instantly and hugged him halfway through the sentence, “My professor's making me buy it.”
They’d clicked back into place so easily when they went out for coffee after Betty’s shift, that Jughead’s kiss halfway through coffee didn’t even surprise her.
Now, somehow three months later. Betty was dragging couch potato Jughead on a backpacking trip, protests at all.
Ok, it wasn’t a very long one at all, less than six miles round trip, but still it was achievement. Betty had taken a lot of photographs for posterity.
“What do you even like about this?” Jughead asked, kicking a rock.
“It’s beautiful,” Betty says with an easy shrug. This particular trail had breathtaking canyon views throughout. It’s the first trail she ever hiked with her dad when they moved to the region.
“The view’s just as beautiful from a comfy chair.”
“But you don’t enjoy it the same way without sweating.”
“Maybe you don’t, but I do.” Jughead protests, but there’s a chuckle at the end of the sentence.
“You don’t have to like it, and I’ll never drag you out again, but I wanted to know what it was like to share one of my favorite activities with you at least once,” Betty offers up.
Jughead doesn’t respond right away, but he doesn’t have to. Betty’s focused on the trail. They’ve entered one of the steeper sections. Jughead’s breath is heavy behind her.
The view around them keeps getting better and better. The river churns below them and there’s more wildflowers; blue, purple, and gold in the rocky ledges around them.
When they get to the top of the climb, Betty’s almost forgotten what they were talking about. Then he says, “I’m glad I’m here. I want to know what you love, even if I don’t love it myself.”
She wants to say the words I love you, right then and there, but instead she holds the sentence he said close to her heart while they walk down the hill to the riverside campsite. Then, only after the tent is set up and the fire’s lit, does she say, “I love you”.