Chapter Text
Jughead Jones was sick of being alone. He used to revel in the solitude of his apartment, taking all the time he could possibly want to work on his next novel, that is if the words ever wanted to leave his brain and actually make it onto the computer screen.
He had hit a roadblock, a dead end, and there was nothing left. He lacked inspiration. He lacked anything remotely resembling creativity. He needed a change of scenery, but moving to a new location required things he was not willing to do. He had just found a new pizza place that made the crust exactly how he liked it with the perfect meat to cheese ratio on top. He couldn’t just give that up.
It had been a while since Jughead had reached out to his best friend, Archie, but the last time he tried, his phone rang twice before an automated voice told him Archie’s voicemail box was full. Why would he keep trying if his efforts were fruitless? Jughead was sure Archie was too busy, still revelling in all his newlywed glory. He’d probably hear from him when he did something stupid and Veronica kicked him out for the night to cool off or sober up.
He wasn’t desperate, but without Archie, he was lonely. And with his best friend now married, well, he figured it might be time for him to at least start dating. He had seen an ad somewhere while doing research for his last novel about a new website--a dating service that looked at your search history and matched you to someone with similar interests.
That could be... dangerous. It’s a good thing he looked at porn--well, the weird stuff--in an incognito tab most of the time. But, what could it hurt, right? He plugged in the website address and read through the testimonies and sample matchups.
Jughead smirked to himself as he read. Most of the testimonies were full of sappy bullshit about falling in love, and one satisfied user even claimed to have found their ‘soulmate’ through the site. Jughead laughed out loud at that one. He just wasn’t that serious about online dating, of all things. He needed someone new to talk to, maybe someone who could give him new ideas or rethink ones that weren’t working as he intended them to. All he wanted was a friend. It was that simple.
Jughead had never been good at writing about himself or choosing usernames, or really anything that wasn’t pen-to-paper fiction, which was far less depressing. He let the program run through his search history (but not before making sure there wasn’t anything too weird in there) and was met shortly thereafter with a match.
“PonytailPhD,” Jughead chuckled to himself. “That’s way more creative than WritersBlock.”
The site gave an analysis of why the individuals were matched as they were. They visited similar websites, seemed interested in the same line of work. He wondered if she was a writer, too. Or maybe she was a college student. Maybe she wasn’t a she at all. Ponytails aren’t mutually exclusive to women, especially not these days.
The only thing left to do was to send PonytailPhD a message, so he clicked the blue button at the top of the screen and hoped for the best. As he watched the cursor blink, trying to think of how to start this new friendship, a noise filtered from his speaker. His new friend had beaten him to the punch.
--
Betty Cooper sat alone in the lunchroom, as was the norm, absently picking at her Caprese salad when she finally gave in and created an account.
The advertisements had been haunting her for a while now. Somehow, her smartphone knew how hopelessly alone she was, and the ads had kept popping up on every social media she had, every web page she landed on. Perhaps it was her destiny to sign up if the dating service was advertised on a virtual blood spatter analysis site, of all things.
Her problem wasn’t that she couldn’t make friends--it was that she rarely had the time or energy for them. There was Moose, the gentle giant, an exuberant and friendly guy she’d met one day in the shoe aisle of Bloomingdales, but they’d stopping hanging out around the fifteenth time she ditched him in favour of Netflix and wine. There were her colleagues, Kevin, Cheryl, and Reginald, but she made it a point to keep her work and personal life separate.
Her parents, Hal and Alice Cooper, also used to be around until she’d decided once and for all, a few years ago, to cut their toxic presence from her life. Then there was her sister, Polly, who had moved to Waco, Texas with her weird fiance as soon as she found out she was expecting twins. Betty had tried to stay in touch at first, but there was only so many unanswered voicemails and emails a girl could handle.
Ultimately, Betty always had a lot on her plate. Some of her own personal interests, but more often than not, work-related tasks. Whenever she thought of dating in the past, she always ended up coming to the conclusion that it was selfish to involve another person in her chaotic and sometimes dreary life.
But the final nail in the proverbial coffin had been when she caught herself speaking to a body on her stainless steel examination table like he was a long-time friend.
“Don’t give me that look, Harold. You don’t get to judge me.” She poked the cadaver’s face with a gloved finger and grimaced.
Jesus Christ, I need a companion with a pulse.
She scrolled through her few matches while munching on a leaf of spinach. There was an InsectGuy , RaisedfromtheDead , WritersBlock , and a DexterM . She didn’t like bugs, the undead was an overdone trope, and Dexter was not a mastermind worth being named after. WritersBlock was fairly nondescript, and by default, her best choice.
She opened the messaging app and her fingers danced over her phone’s keyboard. She figured showcasing her gallows humour first was the best way to weed out the weak or alert her to the real psychos.
PonytailPhD: So, are you actually a writer, or is that just an excuse to have a serial killer’s search history?
WritersBlock: If I have a serial killer’s search history, what does that say about you? We have a lot of overlap.
PonytailPhD: Oh, clever. I’m a forensic pathologist, actually. But maybe I dabble in murder on the side...
Jughead laughed, a full, honest-to-god belly laugh. It had been a while since anyone had been able to get him to laugh like that. Whoever this person was, they were smart, clearly. Their quick wit matched his, and that was rare to find. Maybe, he thought, this won’t be too bad after all .
WritersBlock: To answer your earlier question, yes, I really am a writer. It’s research for my latest crime novel. Unfortunately, I’ve hit a bit of a wall, so to speak. So, you might say I dabble in murder, too.
PonytailPhD: Look at us, a regular Bonnie and Clyde.
PonytailPhD: Have you written anything I’ve heard of?
WritersBlock: That depends. Do you make it a habit to read subpar crime novels in all of the free time I assume a forensic pathologist doesn’t have?
PonytailPhD: Not usually. They tend to be wildly inaccurate. Except for this one I fished out of a thrift store bin. The author has a bizarre name, but he knows how to do his research.
WritersBlock: Gotta love a good thrift store find. I haven’t had one of those since I was a kid and found a Beatles record marked wrong.
WritersBlock: What was his name, or what was the book called?
PonytailPhD: One sec.
PonytailPhD : Tunny Wilkins. At the Heart of It.
WritersBlock: Hmm. Sounds vaguely familiar, I’ll have to check it out. Maybe I can learn something from this Wilkins guy.
Jughead was surprised to learn his new virtual pen pal had read his book. Of course, he doesn’t publish under the name Jughead Jones. Instead, he published his novels under a pseudonym; he was sure no one would read a book by a guy who chose to call himself Jughead.
He figured it best to keep his identity under wraps, at least until he figured out who this person was. It was a point of pride for him to have his books be accurate. He’d learned growing up that taking the time for valid research was worth the aggravation to produce something worth reading.
WritersBlock: So, you’re a forensic pathologist. What's the craziest thing you’ve seen? Just out of curiosity, you don’t have to tell me if there is some kind of doctor-patient confidentiality thing.
PonytailPhD: Well, the patients are dead, so…
Jesus, Jug. Get your head out of your ass , he berated himself. He took out his phone and downloaded the corresponding app to the website. Maybe it would be worth having on the go, too.
PonytailPhD: There was this one time I was standing next to my exam table talking to a colleague when a cadaver literally grabbed my hand. I swear my heart quit beating.
WritersBlock: I’m sorry, what?!
PonytailPhD: It was instantaneous rigor mortis. Chemical changes in the muscles will cause a body to stiffen gradually, but in certain cases, when the cause of death is particularly violent, it can happen spontaneously in large movements or twitches. Hence, the handholding. It also took some force to make the body let go.
WritersBlock: That... Wow. If I’m being honest, I probably would have run screaming.
PonytailPhD: You get used to creepy stuff like that down in the autopsy suite.
WritersBlock: I don’t think I could handle that. I can write about it, read about it, but living it is something altogether different. I have a lot of respect for people who can be around death all the time and not let it affect other parts of their lives. So, hats off, Ponytail.
Why are you like this? he thought to himself, not for the first time since he’d started this conversation. Ponytail, really? He shook his head when he saw the three dots that meant he was getting a response pop up on the screen. He hoped he didn’t embarrass himself too badly.
PonytailPhD: Stop, I’m blushing.
PonytailPhD: Also, you can call me Betty.
WritersBlock: I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic about blushing or not, but I’ll take it.
WritersBlock: I go by Jughead.
Jughead resisted the urge to research forensic pathologists named Betty in New York City. That would be creepy and stalkerish. But, if she was telling the truth, he had made her blush already. He wasn’t joking when he said he had respect for people in her profession. They were more than he could ever claim to be. He wrote a big game, but if faced with anything out of his stories in real life, he’d probably vomit.
PonytailPhD: Gasp. You let your friends call you that?!
WritersBlock : I require my friends to call me that. Anything else, they’d get a swift kick in the ass.
WritersBlock: Who am I kidding? I’d brood about it, but not actually do anything.
PonytailPhD: Jughead it is, then.
WritersBlock: At your service, Betty.
WritersBlock: Which sounds really creepy, but I can’t take it back, so there it is.
Smooth, Jughead. Really smooth.
PonytailPhD: I’ll pretend you never said it. So...where are you from, Jughead?
WritersBlock: Originally, I’m from Riverdale, a tiny little town outside of the city most people that haven’t heard of, but I moved for college and never looked back. What about you? Have you always lived here?
PonytailPhD: The suburbs of Scarsdale, actually. It’s worlds different from Manhattan.
WritersBlock: Well, that isn’t too far. How long have you been here?
PonytailPhD: On and off ever since I was 18. I was in Baltimore for a while, then Providence, and back here. I moved out for school originally. You?
WritersBlock: Let’s see, I’ve been here since I was 17, so more than ten years. Time really does fly, I guess.
WritersBlock: So, if I'm doing my math correctly, which I'm probably not, you've got a doctorate which makes you… 29, 30?
WritersBlock: I guess that's my polite way to making sure you're actually of age. It’s rude to ask, but I'm not in the business of talking with minors online.
Let it be known here and now that Jughead Jones is not a total creep. He has boundaries.
PonytailPhD: Don’t worry, I’m definitely not a minor. I’m 27. I fast-tracked my program.
PonytailPhD: You seem a tad paranoid. Have you been catfished before, or is this just as new to you as it is to me?
WritersBlock: It’s completely new to me. I’ve been stuck trying to write for weeks now. My usual inspirations seem to have dried up. I was hoping doing something a little out of the norm for me would help it along.
PonytailPhD: Oh. I’m “out of the norm”?
WritersBlock : Well, you’re not Archie or Veronica, not that you know who they are, but yeah.
WritersBlock: That shouldn’t be taken as an insult. I’m sure you’re perfectly lovely.
WritersBlock: And yes, I am usually this awkward.
Jughead cringed. How was he making this much of an ass out of himself already? He was sure he’d scare her off with his usual self-deprecation and peculiar tendencies.
PonytailPhD: It’s okay. I suppose we’re all a little awkward. Why else are we on this silly site?
WritersBlock: You’ve got me there, Betty. You win this round.
PonytailPhD: So, just here for a muse then? Nothing else?
WritersBlock: If I make a friend out of the deal, would that be so bad?
PonytailPhD : Haha. Jug, I think that’s the point. It is technically a dating site.
Betty was smiling softly at her phone when someone cleared their throat loudly. Her colleague, Cheryl Blossom, stood in the doorway of the lunchroom with her arms crossed and her cherry-red lips pursed.
“I haven’t seen a grown woman grin at her phone like that since I sexted my girlfriend from across the room at a family reunion.” The redhead smirked and snapped her gum.
Betty resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Cheryl could never mind her own business. Any drama in New York City’s Office of the Chief Medical Examiner came straight from the horse’s mouth.
Or should I say, the bitch’s? she thought to herself, trying to keep her face neutral as she tilted it upwards.
“Don’t you have… skeletons to reconstruct?” Betty tried to keep a polite tone. Cheryl was the resident anthropologist, and though ninety percent of the time she was stirring shit, Betty always tried to be professional. Also, there were the rare times Betty actually liked Cheryl. Very rare times.
“Yes, I do, Elizabeth. Thanks for reminding me. And this is me reminding you that there are only ten minutes left on your lunch break.” She snapped her gum again to punctuate her point and walked out, the clack of her heels echoing down the hall.
“Thanks plenty, Cher,” Betty muttered. She knew how little time she had left, but that didn’t stop her from wanting her new conversation to continue. She wasn’t sure what it was about Jughead, maybe his snarkiness, his awkward honesty, or his weird-ass name, but she was intrigued.
She turned her focus back to her phone where a new message was waiting.
WritersBlock: So. Betty. What made you want to cut up dead bodies for a living?
PonytailPhD: I love the mechanisms of the human body, I suppose. How we live, how we die.
WritersBlock: Wouldn't being a medical doctor do the same for that? Not saying that there is anything wrong with your line of work. At all.
Jesus, I'm just gonna stop talking now, Jughead thought.
PonytailPhD: You’re very inquisitive about my job…
WritersBlock: Well, I can honestly say I’ve never met a forensic pathologist before, so color me intrigued.
PonytailPhD: Fair. I started with a residency to be a pediatric cardiologist, but when it came down to it, it wasn’t for me. Being around sick kids broke my heart.
WritersBlock: I could only imagine.
PonytailPhD: Also, there is one big difference between a medical doctor and a pathologist… the patients. Mine don’t complain, don’t talk, don’t need me to have a bedside manner, and don’t page me during dinner. Plus, they’re already dead so the pressure’s off. It suits me far better.
PonytailPhD: Ultimately, I like the challenge. Being a medical examiner, it’s like investigating and deducing what brought someone to their demise. It’s fascinating.
WritersBlock : Remind me to never piss you off. I feel like you’d know how to murder me and cover it up. *note to self, get and stay on Betty’s good side*. Hah.
PonytailPhD: Haha. Yes, keep that idea in mind. I know my way around a scalpel.
WritersBlock: Noted. Hobbies? Do you have those?
PonytailPhD: I do. But unfortunately my lunch break is over, and I have to return to my buddy Harold who may or may not have died from… well, I’ll spare you the gory details. Talk later?
WritersBlock: Yeah, I’d like that.
PonytailPhD: Me too.
PonytailPhD has signed off.
Jughead sat back on the couch, his hands gliding through his hair and tugging at the ends. What am I even doing? he thought. He wasn’t sure who this guy was--the one trying new things, talking to a strange woman he didn’t actually know, and wanting to talk to her again .
He wasn’t sure how she could stomach lunch with the prospect of a dead body to hack up. If it meant he might lose his appetite, Jughead was surely against it. There was little he held in higher regard than his love of food. Still, he wanted to know more about Betty and what made her tick.
He sat with his fingers hovering over the keyboard, willing them to do anything but search for her picture. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued. When he thought of someone named Betty, he pictured someone older. Prim, proper, maybe even stuffy. She certainly didn’t seem stuffy to him, and she certainly wasn’t old at the age of 27.
Instead of googling her, he managed a few new pages of a chapter he’d been attempting to write for weeks. His fingers flew across the keys, and before he knew it, there were cohesive thoughts staring back at him. Things that made sense. Things he actually liked. He was astonished.
How did talking with this person, this Betty , for half an hour inspire so much in him? Maybe he was right. Maybe all he had to do was slip out of his comfort zone a little bit. She was his ‘out of the norm’ as she so lovingly put it, but she wasn’t wrong. He didn’t want to let the opportunity go. He couldn’t let it go . Not if he was going to make his deadline for the publisher.
He didn’t want to admit it, but he couldn’t wait for her to get off work so they could talk again. He made sure he turned his volume up on his computer to ensure he wouldn’t miss her if he was in the kitchen.
Around six o’clock, his laptop sounded, beckoning him back to his couch.
PonytailPhD: So, hobbies… I enjoy cooking, reading, horror movies, and running. And I love dogs. Like… more than life.
WritersBlock: You lost me at running, but found me again at dogs.
WritersBlock: Okay, maybe not so much cooking as eating, but I know my way around a kitchen pretty decently.
PonytailPhD: What’s the last thing you cooked?
WritersBlock: Let’s see. Today is Thursday, so I made myself dinner two weeks ago and I haven’t cooked for anyone else since I was a kid, so… it’s been a while. And it was pasta, but I didn’t have any sauce, so it was really just noodles.
WritersBlock: Maybe I need to take back that comment about knowing my way around a kitchen… Or I just need to actually pick up groceries.
PonytailPhD: You sound like you need a woman’s touch in your life. Or maybe you need to move back in with your mom.
WritersBlock: Move back in implies that I ever lived with her to begin with.
Betty stared at the message and groaned out loud. She was just trying to be flirty, funny, but that line had seriously backfired. She hadn’t meant to pry into his personal traumas. Luckily, he didn’t seem too upset. Rather, he was being transparently honest with her, a stranger.
Betty worried her bottom lip with her teeth as she struggled with how to respond. It was her instinct to comfort, advise, but somehow she sensed Jughead didn’t need that here. A simple apology would do, she hoped.
PonytailPhD: Sorry, Jughead.
WritersBlock: It’s alright. You didn’t know. She left with my kid sister when I was ten.
WritersBlock: But you might be onto something about that woman’s touch thing.
Betty smiled, releasing her lip from her teeth. Maybe that line hadn’t backfired.
PonytailPhD: Okay, so now that you’re being truthful about your hobbies, what else do you like to do other than eat everything and anything?
WritersBlock: I feel like no matter what I say right now, it can be perceived as super creepy, so can I pass on this question?
PonytailPhD: Uh, no. Absolutely not.
WritersBlock: Oh wow, we’ve shed the pleasantries already, huh?
PonytailPhD: Out with it.
WritersBlock : Well, fine. If you must know, which obviously you do, I tend to sink into the background and people watch.
WritersBlock: I’m sure you think that’s creepy, but I enjoy watching people, observing what they do when no one thinks they’re being watched. That’s when you see their true character.
WritersBlock: It’s either that or shut myself in my apartment and marathon Tarantino movies, again.
Betty rolled her eyes. She found no issue with his “hobby”. She, more than he knew, was an expert at people-watching, people-following. At least he probably did it to gain inspiration for his writing, so he shouldn’t be ashamed. A flood of sympathy washed through Betty, and she tapped out her response without really thinking.
PonytailPhD: You know, you can share who you are without being ashamed or worrying about what I’m going to think. I’m just a stranger on the internet.
WritersBlock : Wouldn’t that be more of a reason not to tell you the truth?
PonytailPhD : Need I remind you that I spend most of my time with dead bodies? I would be the definition of creepy, except that word isn’t in my vocabulary, because it’s just normal in my books .
PonytailPhD: You do you, Jughead. I learned that lesson a long time ago.
WritersBlock : Now you sound just like Veronica. :dramatic eye roll: I am “doing me,” whatever that means. I just happen to prefer general solitude to most human beings.
That was the second time he had mentioned a Veronica. He wouldn’t have signed up for this site, if he had a girlfriend, right? But then again, Betty thought, men do worse things.
Maybe she could slyly ask...
PonytailPhD : You keep mentioning this Veronica .
WritersBlock: Yes, and?
PonytailPhD: She’s… a friend?
WritersBlock: A very good friend…
WritersBlock: My best friend’s wife, in fact.
Thank god.
PonytailPhD: Oh, cool. I think we’d get along. She seems wise.
WritersBlock: Are you only saying that because I said you sound just like her?
WritersBlock: I’m onto you, Ponytail :)
PonytailPhD: No! She just seems to know what she’s talking about, that’s all.
PonytailPhD: Tell me about your best friend.
WritersBlock: Nice save.
Betty narrowed her eyes, smiling at her computer screen. “Shut up,” she whispered.
WritersBlock: What do you want to know? I’ve known him essentially my entire life. Our parents were friends. His dad helped raise me after my mom left and my dad tapped out.
PonytailPhD: So, he’s like your brother. That’s sweet.
WritersBlock: I mean, I guess. He’s a royal pain in my ass, but I guess that’s what siblings are for, right? Not like I’d remember what having a real sibling is like.
WritersBlock : Sorry. Sometimes, the filter that is supposed to be between my fingers and my brain isn’t properly in place. Like right now. Right now is one of those times.
A loud laugh burst from her mouth unexpectedly. He was so obviously nervous, his fingers rambled like he probably would if they spoke in person. It was insanely funny and endearing, and Betty found herself hoping someday she could hear it in person. Betty giggled as she typed out her next message.
PonytailPhD: Oh my god. Thank you. I haven’t laughed like that in a long time.
WritersBlock: You’re welcome? Happy to be of service. I’m not entirely sure what the proper response is to that.
WritersBlock: Books! Books are something I can talk about without making an ass of myself. You said you liked reading--what’s your favorite?
PonytailPhD: That is impossible to answer. How am I supposed to pick?
PonytailPhD: Maybe Sherlock Holmes? I loved Nancy Drew when I was younger. But I also love reading biographies.
PonytailPhD: Stephen King is always a solid read. As you can probably tell, I like a mystery.
WritersBlock: Is there any part of your life that isn’t steeped in death?
Betty frowned and swallowed thickly. This was one of the problems she’d feared, connecting with someone online. There were parts of Betty’s life she didn’t want to--and couldn’t--share with anyone. She wanted to have a normal relationship, but it seemed impossible. Was there anyone out there who could know and love her fully?
If only you knew, Jughead. If only you knew, she thought grimly.
She shook her head roughly, trying to expel the negative thinking. It was time to open herself up to the possibility of someone . Even if it was a huge risk. Even if it ended badly.
PonytailPhD: Yes, of course. This isn’t. ;)
Jughead spent most of that night talking to Betty. He toggled between his Word document and their chat, a smile on his face. The creative juices were flowing; he had written more since joining the stupid website than he had in weeks.
He wasn't saying it was because of Betty, but it very well may have been. She was open to talking about her job, which came in handy. She was a wealth of knowledge about all things forensics and had a good head for mystery.
They had been talking for a few weeks when Jughead realized he may have started to have feelings for his faceless internet muse. They took him by surprise. He couldn't remember the last time he felt anything for anyone, at least not in a how much longer do I have to wait for you to come online so we can talk because I miss you kind of way.
He had tried dating after college, but he never found anyone who embraced his quirks. No one had understood his life choices and his lack of relationship with his family. Most women had marked these things as red flags .
They had opened up to each other. Jughead told Betty about his mom leaving and his father's stint in jail. He was embarrassed at first, but she insisted he was nothing like his father.
A month into them talking, Jughead was set to immerse himself into a life of no distractions. He did this every so often, disconnected his internet, cable and anything else that proved a hindrance to his productivity. But now he had something new thrown into the mix--he had Betty. How did he expect himself to get anything done without her constant chatter and sound boarding?
He knew she was at work when he sent her the message, but he sent it anyway. He needed to give her the option and in his own way, it was him putting the ball in her court to maybe further their time talking to something more than black text on a white screen.
WritersBlock: Hey, so I know you're at work, but I needed to let you know something. Every so often I isolate myself to get work done. That time is here, but I don't want to stop talking to you when I cut my internet.
WritersBlock: We've been talking a while now and I just wanted to leave my number here for you. If you decide you want to talk outside of this godforsaken website.
WritersBlock: But let it be known, I hope you do.
WritersBlock has logged off.
The ball was officially in her court when he called the cable company to cut his access to the outside world. He set his phone to do not disturb after reminding Archie of his ritual and went on one last outing to the grocery store.
--
Betty leaned against the brick exterior of a cozy, hipster cafe, licking at the whipped cream on top of her white chocolate mocha. She revelled in the sweetness and the contrast of the cool cream against the hot coffee. She hardly ever indulged in small pleasures like whipped cream--probably the conditioning of her mother to blame--but today she was in a good mood. She’d closed an especially difficult autopsy file, was content with how her friendship with Jughead was progressing, and was prepared to finish another project. She loved being productive.
She watched the streets silently, waiting for the familiar face to make its inevitable appearance. She knew his routines by now, after doing her meticulous research and tailing him for about a week. She knew that a gang in this area supplied him with the straws and that he had to return every other day for a brand new stash. He sold off the product quickly--kids and teenagers were his prime customers.
Betty tried to focus on her delicious drink rather than get upset about the matter at hand. There was no point in letting her anger overwhelm her, not now. She had already decided her course of action, and like she always did, she would pull it off without hesitation or difficulty.
She was regretting finishing her drink so quickly as she recognized a man with dark stubble and deep-set eyes. It was him, the Sugarman, as she had nicknamed him. He was strolling to his typical pick up point where he would leave cash and wait for a man to walk by and slyly hand him another package. It was always the same, a perfect and nearly invisible transaction.
She watched as he slipped a fat manilla envelope into the regular mail slot, and then wandered away, pulling out a smoke. He was puffing away on it when a slim boy in a dirty denim jacket and ball cap passed by him. She noticed their exchange because she was waiting for it, but to any other passerby, it would look like nothing. He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt on the ground. Time to move.
Betty tossed her cup in a closeby trash can and started walking in the same direction as him, just on the other side of the street. Eventually, she waited for a break in traffic and crossed, walking casually and quickly with her hands in the pockets of her thick wool trench coat. She stayed at a far enough distance that she would never be in his line of focus, even if he did turn around. She had learned long ago that one had to stay outside of a person’s periphery in order to go undetected.
He ducked into the dark opening of Bowery Station and she followed, trying not to cringe at the dank and musty smell of the tunnel. She paused as he turned to the southbound entrance, feigning deliberation before blithely choosing the same.
He would wait for the train at the farthest end of the station--where there were few people, hardly any lights and large beams to hide behind--because he always did. Betty stopped a few feet away from him and an overflowing trash can, the closest she’d gotten yet, and tilted her head towards him.
“This train is always the latest in the city, I find,” she said, and his eyes flicked toward her. She smiled and fluttered her eyelashes.
“I wouldn’t know, I hardly use it,” he responded, lying.
She laughed lightly. “That’s lucky. I ride it twice a day, to and from work.”
He raised an eyebrow and looked her over. She shuddered inwardly at his obvious ogling. “You don’t look like you work around here.”
She giggled and shot him a sparkling grin. “Is that a good thing?” she purred, noticing out of the corner of her eye that the train was approaching through the tunnel.
He nodded slowly and shot her an appreciative look. She made a few steps toward the tracks, too many, and just like she guessed he would, he lunged forward to grab her back.
“Don’t get too close--” He started to say as he reached her, and then the train was right there. She sidestepped his advance and used his momentum to easily push him off the platform.
She didn’t hear him cry out, just the hollow thud of his body hitting the tracks and the whoosh of the train as it passed. She quickly and inconspicuously walked away, glancing up at the ceiling as she made her way toward the exit. As she already knew, that area of the subway was grossly unsurveilled--no cameras or eyes would see that “accident.” She felt satisfaction swell in her chest. Another day, another monster removed from the world.
Her pocket vibrated as she clicked her way up the stairs. She pulled out her phone, and on the screen was a message from Jughead. She felt immediate butterflies in her stomach. His message said he was disconnecting from the outside world, but wanted to stay in contact with her. His number was displayed plainly for her to decide--would she pursue him further or retreat back into her safe and familiar solitude?
She smiled widely, her grin splitting her face. She eagerly tapped his number, and her SMS app popped up. The keys clicked in time with her rapid footsteps.
Betty: Hi! It’s Betty. Just got off work. For my sake, I hope you don’t go completely off the grid.
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