Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9801476.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F
  Fandom:
      Riverdale_(TV_2017)
  Relationship:
      Betty_Cooper/Veronica_Lodge
  Character:
      Betty_Cooper, Veronica_Lodge, Polly_Cooper
  Additional Tags:
      Unnamed_mental_illness
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-02-17 Words: 2380
****** Moth ******
by nomdegrr
Summary
     They lie in Veronica’s bed, sweat-damp and somnolent. Moonlight
     filters in where the curtain has parted, clothing their bare skin in
     murky light. The rest of the house reverberates with silence; the
     moment is delicate, and Veronica fears her heartbeat alone will
     shatter it.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
They lie in Veronica’s bed, sweat-damp and somnolent. Moonlight filters in
where the curtain has parted, clothing their bare skin in murky light. The rest
of the house reverberates with silence; the moment is delicate, and Veronica
fears her heartbeat alone will shatter it.
 
She rolls onto her side and presses the smallest of kisses to Betty’s jaw.
 
“You okay?”
 
Betty runs a finger down Veronica’s arm. It’s no more than a glancing touch,
but Veronica feels her skin spark all the same. “Yeah,” Betty says, the single
syllable coming out low and indolent, the way it always does when her body is
sated and her mind untethered. It’s not often that she gets to just be, to
answer to nothing save the wants of her body. Veronica’s heart swells, knowing
that she can give Betty that, at least, if she cannot give her a world where
she can be loved as she is.
 
Betty comes over once or twice a week. Hermione works every night now, so they
make dinner out of whatever they can find. Betty shakes her head, laughing at
every other thing Veronica does. Veronica is indisputably terrible in the
kitchen, and Betty buys a first-aid kit the day after Veronica cuts herself the
first time. After dinner, if there’s homework they divide it (it’s cheating,
Betty said once, but Veronica kissed her quiet. Betty’s grades haven’t
suffered, so she doesn’t argue anymore). Some nights, Betty looks at Veronica
with fire in her eyes and mischief on her lips.
 
Those nights, Veronica forgets that Riverdale is supposed to be temporary.
 
*
 
In daylight, Betty folds into herself, her body tensed against some imagined
blow. She makes herself as small as possible, as if by sheer will she can
disappear into nothingness. Beside her, Veronica struts, chin up and shoulders
square, claiming space for both of them.
 
By all accounts, everything is normal. Betty and Veronica are best friends.
They go to class and they practise with the Vixens. They while away the hours
at Pop’s, sometimes with Archie and Jughead, and sometimes without. Their gazes
never linger and their hands never touch. Veronica makes Betty laugh, often and
undignified. It’s her favourite thing to do when she can’t do anything else.
 
They get so good at the pretence, Veronica has to remind herself she’s not
dreaming when Betty shows up at night to slip into her bed. Under the cover of
dark she reveals herself, a fevered, grasping creature in the guise of a sweet,
spindling girl. This is the Betty that Alice tries to tame with her lists of
goals and her bottles of Adderall. This is the Betty that Archie will run from,
that he will never comprehend. This is the Betty that Veronica loves and
reveres. When she looks up from where she kneels at the foot of the bed, she
sees everything she didn’t know she’s wanted for so long (Betty, head thrown
back, quivering, lost to the world but for her hands tight in Veronica’s hair).
 
“Do you ever get tired of this?” Veronica asks one night, partly because she’s
curious and partly because she’s tipsy and when she’s tipsy she can’t help but
to provoke. Old habits and all that.
 
“Of what?”
 
“Us, only ever being together here in my room.”
 
Betty frowns. “I thought you were fine with it.”
 
“I am. I just wonder if it’d be …” she trails off, racking her mind for the
right word but coming up short, “healthier?” She takes Betty's hand, rubs her
thumb over it. “Doesn’t it get tiring, being two different people?”
 
Betty pulls her hand away and turns to stare out at the rain. “You know I
can't,” she says flatly.
 
“Because of what people will think? It's 2017, Betty.”
 
“In New York, maybe. In Riverdale it's practically still 1940.” She exhales,
annoyed. “But it's not that. I can't be—I can't be that person.”
 
“Who?”
 
“That person. Not after Polly.”
 
Outside, the rain ebbs. Thunder heaves one last time in defeat. Veronica
reaches again for Betty's curled fist, touches her lips to the skin stretched
taut over Betty's knuckles.
 
What they have is frangible; Riverdale and Alice and Polly surround them, ready
to close in and crush them at any time. Veronica has never had anything she
could not discard without consequence to herself: every boy, every piece of
jewellery was just one out of a number of others. It made her feel invincible.
But Betty—she is singular. Veronica doesn’t allow herself too many thoughts
about what it would mean to lose Betty, but on the rare occasion she does she
finds herself afraid. Vulnerable. It’s not a feeling she’s used to.
 
And so she says, “Okay,” and swallows the rest of her words. Ignores that
unfamiliar feeling that twines itself around her chest, biding its time.
 
*
 
Alice asks Betty three times to visit Polly. Each time Betty refuses. She loves
Polly, still, and without question, but Polly is also all of Betty’s fears
reified.
 
So Betty waits another three months before she decides she’s ready to see
Polly. Veronica offers to go with her and Betty accepts, giving Veronica’s hand
a small squeeze as they walk to lunch.
 
At the hospital, when Veronica watches Polly walk up to the table where they
sit, she sees why Betty has taken so long to visit. Polly has every bit of
Betty’s loveliness: the same golden hair and limpid green eyes, the same
diffident smallness that shouldn’t belong on anyone so beautiful. But where
Betty’s face is still soft with the care and kindnesses of others, Polly’s has
hollowed and sharpened with neglect.
 
The realisation is immediate: Polly is Betty gone wrong.
 
“Hi, Polly,” Betty says. She reaches across the table, then reconsiders and
rests her hands on the surface, pulling her sleeves over her palms.
 
“Elizabeth,” Polly responds, a mocking sort of grin stretching across her
chapped lips.
 
“How are you?”
 
“You should probably ask Dr Khan that.”
 
Betty’s gaze falls, but she collects herself quickly and holds up the box of
pastries she’s brought. “I got you your favourites from Lucy’s.”
 
Polly doesn’t move. “I’m not allowed.”
 
“Not allowed to eat?” Betty asks, confused.
 
“Not allowed nice things.”
 
“Who told you that?”
 
“Oh, everyone.” Polly stares back at Betty.
 
“I don’t—maybe you misunderstood?”
 
“Nope. No misunderstanding. I’m being punished.” Polly utters the words like a
dare: deny it, we both know you think I deserve this.
 
Veronica touches Betty’s knee and takes the box with her other hand. “It’s
okay, Betty. Maybe it’s just hospital regulations or something,” she says
gently.
 
“So why’d you come? I thought you would’ve forgotten all about me, your poor
mad sister.”
 
Veronica feels Betty go rigid beneath her touch.
 
“Things haven't been easy, Polly. I wanted to come but …” Betty trails off,
picks at a loose thread on her sleeve.
 
“Yeah, I'm sure it must've been so hard for you, being the perfect daughter,”
Polly says dryly, slouching back in the hard plastic chair. “Must've been a
real challenge getting to sleep in your own bed, without anyone forcing five
different kinds of pills down your throat every day and spying on you even in
the bathroom to make sure you don't go crazy and kill someone, or yourself. I'm
really sorry you had to go through that, Elizabeth.”
 
If Betty flinches, it doesn't show. Nearly half a year in preparation. It's
almost convincing. Veronica squeezes Betty's knee, hoping to transmit calm.
 
It fails: “Guess what, Polly? Because of you I have to be the perfect daughter.
I have to take these pills that I don't want to take and I can't do a single
thing without Mom’s voice in my head saying if I do it I'm going to turn into a
failure and an embarrassment and—” Betty’s jaw tightens and she pauses, as if
to let every tamped-down feeling swell and converge into one uncontrollable
eruption, “into you.” Her mouth twists into something ugly. “Even after you
left I couldn't escape you. You're everywhere. So yeah, maybe I get to sleep in
my own bed, but I sure as hell don't get to live my life on my own terms.
You’vemade sure of that.”
 
*
 
Polly had stood up, her face devoid of expression, and left.
 
Betty got up immediately after, and she and Veronica drove back to Riverdale.
 
Now, Betty sits on Veronica's bed, hugging her knees to her chest.
 
“I'm sorry you had to see that,” Betty says, turning to rest her cheek on her
knee.
 
Veronica pushes a lock of hair behind Betty's ear. “There's nothing to be sorry
for.”
 
Betty’s eyes shine with unshed tears. Veronica hates it when girls cry. It's
silly and weak and she doesn’t do comforting. She especially hates it when
Betty cries; she does it quietly, in her bathroom with the shower running or
muffled by a pillow, afraid that anyone might hear. It's an awful, painful
thing, and it overcomes Veronica with the need to destroy it, to find it and
rip it out, roots and all, except she can’t and there’s little she can do but
hold Betty through the worst of it.
 
“You're not going to end up like Polly,” Veronica says.
 
“You can't predict the future. No one thought Polly would end up like that.”
 
“Okay, so I can't predict the future. But neither can you. Youdon't know that
you're going to be like Polly and, more importantly, there's one thing Polly
didn't have that you do.”
 
Betty frowns. “What?”
 
“Me.” Veronica grins, a huge, toothy smile that she knows makes her look about
eight. She hates it, never puts it on willingly, but Betty thinks it's cute and
Veronica would be stupid not to use every advantage she has.
 
Sure enough, it gets a snort of laughter. “You’re the key, huh?”
 
“Yep. The key. The one ring. Whatever you want to call it, I'm it.”
 
“I don't think you want to be the one ring …”
 
“Sorry I’m not fluent in nerd.” Veronica rolls her eyes. “I do however speak
French.” She cocks an eyebrow. Betty raises her head, interested. It's the one
subject she's better at than Betty, thanks to growing up with Beatrice, her
diminutive nanny from Lille who refused to accede to her demands unless she
asked in French, politely and not in que horrible accent américain.
 
Veronica closes the distance between them and leans in to kiss Betty on the
forehead. She holds Betty’s gaze, looks beyond the fear and pain still glinting
raw in her eyes. Veronica doesn't do comforting, but she can do honest. “Tu es
plus courageux et plus forts que tu savez, ma chérie. Et tu aurez de moi aussi
longtemps que tu voulez que je.”
 
The beginnings of a smile tug at Betty's mouth. “You know all my weaknesses,
don't you, Veronica Lodge?” she whispers, brushing a thumb across Veronica's
lower lip.
 
Veronica doesn't say anything. She pulls Betty to her instead and kisses her,
hard. Betty inhales sharply, arches her body to meet Veronica's, then shifts to
put Veronica on her back. Veronica smirks, allows herself a minute to indulge
in the sight of Betty above her, breath quickening already, hands slipping
underneath Veronica's top, anxious to act but seeking instruction all at once.
 
Veronica draws out the moment. She starts at Betty's thighs, running her hands
up to the crease of her hips, dips her thumbs inwards to her centre (Betty
presses into the touch a second too late, makes a slight sound of annoyance),
then follows the bend of her waist to the delicate skin around her ribs. There,
she traces shapes like the petals of flowers, letting some bloom across the
places that make Betty shudder.
 
Betty rocks her hips down, thrusts against Veronica with an impatient whine.
Chuckling low in her throat, Veronica flips them over. She kisses Betty,
drawing her lip between her teeth and biting just hard enough for Betty to
gasp.
 
Slowly, Veronica slips her hand down Betty's stomach. She reaches the end to
find that Betty's soaked through her underwear.
 
“You're so far gone already, aren't you?”
 
Betty makes a sound in protest, momentarily embarrassed. But quick as light,
her expression shifts. “I need you—” she says, her eyes burning into
Veronica’s, “—to fuck me.”
 
The words send a throb straight to Veronica’s cunt. She rubs circles over
Betty's clit until Betty’s trembling beneath her, twisting and straining to
force Veronica to where she needs her most. Veronica deliberately glances over
it, turning her attention to other parts of Betty’s body and toying with
pressure and pace, senses saturated with the ways in which Betty responds.
Betty is vocal, expressive in a way she never is outside the sanctuary of
Veronica's room. Her desperate whines magnify the aching pulse between
Veronica’s thighs, makes her long to relieve it.
 
But first—
 
Veronica moves farther down the bed, lips and hands trailing along the dips and
curves of Betty’s body. When Veronica’s mouth finally, finally settles over the
hot, wet need of her, she throws her arm over her eyes with a gratified groan.
Veronica flattens her tongue against Betty, licks a torturous path upwards. It
doesn’t take long before Betty’s doing all of the things that mean she’s right
on the edge. She seizes Veronica's hand and clutches it to her breast, arching
into the touch.
 
Together they move like crashing waves, inexorably, until Betty comes with a
shuddering breath. Veronica strokes her through it and into another, and
eventually Betty begs for reprieve. Then, Veronica holds her, kisses her cheek
while her body finds equilibrium through the last few involuntary shivers.
 
In her arms Betty is insouciant and warm and full of life. When they leave
Veronica’s room, she will retreat once more, and Veronica will wonder whether
it’s only a matter of time before Alice or Polly or Riverdale (or Betty)
destroys what she has built for them here. Whether her heart will withstand it,
if (when) the time comes.
 
When Betty can speak again, she says, with a laugh: “You really doknow all my
weaknesses.”
 
Veronica can only smile helplessly.
 
Betty is a flame and Veronica is a moth, eager, despite all warning signs, to
burn.
End Notes
     I don't speak French, so apologies for what is probably a butchering
     of the language. The second sentence should be: "You are braver and
     stronger than you know, my darling. And you have me for as long as
     you want me."
     Any corrections are most welcome.
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