Author's Note:

From the "Writing Prompts" list, prompt 48: "I made a mistake." and prompt 50: "I need you to forgive me."

"Go, go, go," Sweet Pea and Fangs hissed at him alternately, pushing Jughead through the open door of the Jones trailer.

He stumbled over the threshold and Betty looked up from where she was reading on the couch. When Jughead glanced quickly behind him―hoping for some heartening words from his backup―the other young Serpents were gone. He grit his teeth. Typical.

"Hey, Jug!" his girlfriend greeted him with a smile. She half-turned to face him, propping her chin in her hand, elbow on the arm of the couch. "Done already? I thought you said it'd be a couple of hours."

"Yeah, well," he stepped hesitantly into the room, "I was able to talk the boys out of some of the fancier plans they had for building Hot Dog's new doghouse."

"No!" Betty complained with a huge grin. "Don't tell me they nixed the turret!"

Jughead nodded in solemn acknowledgement.

"The turret is no more."

"The skylight?"

"Sweet Pea was convinced it would cook our poor barbecue-food-appellated pooch like an ant under a magnifying glass."

"Tragic," she sighed in sympathy. "So what's protecting everyone's favourite Serpent from the elements?"

Jughead shifted nervously on the spot, fist tightening inside the pocket of his gang jacket.

"You mean… you mean the roof."

Betty snorted a laugh.

"Yeaaaah." She said it in a tone that suggested the word she wanted to say was 'duuuuh.'

"Shingles," he replied shortly. Abruptly, Jughead began backing into the kitchen. "Listen, I'm just going to go to my room real quick and―"

"What?" Betty slid the book from her lap. "But you just got home. Get your butt over here and sit with me, Jones."

Dammit, she was using the surname on him. Always said in a commanding voice and always guaranteed to get him going. Betty Cooper was as sweet as they came, sure, but five times as cunning.

"I…" he couldn't think of an excuse, but walked back to her slowly enough that Betty got up on her knees and leaned over the couch's arm to drag him in by the unzipped front of his jacket. She wouldn't let go until he'd bent down and kissed her. Once she snuck her tongue into his mouth and gripped hard at the back of his neck, Jughead almost forgot he was internally trying to fight it.

"Aren't you going to touch me?" she breathed against his lips. Her eyes, so close, lowered to his mouth, then sprang back up to his.

"I certainly, uh, want to, Betts…" Jughead mumbled, trying to stall.

Her expression fell flat and she drew her face back to give him a hard stare.

"What did you do?"

Jughead laughed guiltily.

"What do you m―"

"Show me your hands," she insisted.

With a sigh, Jughead revealed the hand he'd been keeping behind his back since he'd entered the trailer. Betty made a twirling motion with her index finger and he flipped the hand palm-side up. There was a gravelly brown shingle stuck to it.

"What happened?" she asked with a heavy exhale through her nose.

"I made a mistake. Everything was going smoothly," Jughead said earnestly, searching desperately for justification, "until we paused between building the frame and finishing the roof. Fangs and I were troubleshooting a few minor details and during that time…" He sighed again. "…Sweet Pea absconded with the nail gun and had a cowboy quick draw with an innocent old oak tree. Used up all the nails."

Betty's chin dropped incredulously.

"And you decided the answer was sticking the shingles on with some kind of…" she examined his hand, careful not to touch anywhere closer than his elbow, "… industrial strength glue?"

"I was firmly against it," he proclaimed, wanting to shove his beanie off and run a hand through his hair, but having to stop himself, "but Fangs was kind of on the fence, and then Sweet Pea kept ordering him to stare into Hot Dog's eyes and seriously tell him that the furry little guy didn't look positively heartbroken."

"Positively or pawsitively?" Betty asked with a sly returning smile. Jughead smirked.

"I thought it too, but it felt like a bad time to point it out."

"So," she summarized, "long story short, being the benevolent leader and friend to all creatures that you are―" Betty's own brand of puppy dog eyes was flashed up at him. "―you caved."

Jughead wanted so badly to tell her she was right. To reach out, take her face between his hands, and distract himself from what a poor handyman he'd proven himself to be today. But didn't have both hands free. In fact, he didn't even have one hand free. He stole himself to deliver the rest of his confession.

"Unfortunately, the story doesn't end there."

Staring at the carpet, Jughead circled around the side of the couch to drop down on both knees in front of her, careful not to bend the fingers of the hand stuffed in his pocket at an unnatural angle. Betty, evidently waiting patiently, didn't make a sound beyond readjusting her position on the couch.

"These are the jeans I was wearing the other day―"

Her palm cupped his chin and she turned his face up to look into his eyes.

"I'm sure they can be washed. We can google how to lift the glue."

Jughead was shaking his head before she'd finished.

"No, Betts. These are the jeans from the other day," he emphasized, attempting to telepathically force the memory from his mind to hers.

The low lighting. The soft background chatter. The scent of popcorn. Possibly the gobsmacked expression he knew he must've have on his face when she came back from the bathroom before the matinee started and casually pushed the panties she'd worn to the theatre into his front pocket.

"Oh no," Betty gasped, lowering her gaze to the hand he still had in that pocket. "Oh, Juggy." Her hand covered her mouth.

"I need you to forgive me," he said, throwing himself on his girlfriend's mercy as he extracted the hand, lace underwear dangling from his sticky fingers.

Surprising him, she giggled, then dropped her hand to burst into full-blown laughter. She clasped a hand to his shoulder as though holding his immense comic value at a distance so as not to be overwhelmed.

"Ok, it's not that funny," Jughead declared, rolling his eyes. Betty nodded in contradiction, wiping away tears. "Hey, you don't know how I've suffered! I forgot those were in there and I didn't realize I had glue on my fingers. I haven't been able to take my hand out of my pocket for the last half hour because I was terrified of flashing your intimates to Sweet Pea and Fangs!"

He presented both palms, offering them to her in basest prostration.

"I've been helpless," he reaffirmed. "Take pity on me."

Betty's mouth scrunched and twisted to the side as she considered him.

"Alright, let's get you cleaned up."

She climbed off the couch and went behind him, assisting Jughead to his feet while trying to stay out of range of his adhesive hands.

"Did you at least finish Hot Dog's new digs?"

"Of course," he assured her as she guided him into the kitchen. "No Serpent dog, um, sleeps in an unfinished doghouse."

"Oh," she said sarcastically. "And which law is that?"

"It's on the list," Jughead vowed. "You just haven't reached the level of Serpent-dom where you need to learn it yet."

Betty shot him a sharp look.

"Watch it, Jones, or I'll abandon you to your gluey fate." She stepped in front of him and leaned forward to turn the tap on full blast. His eyes darted down to the admirably curved seat of her jeans.

Shit, he really needed to get this stuff off his hands.