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The single bed gives them a moment of pause.
The clerk at the front desk hadn't asked if they would prefer this to a double, nor had either girl thought to make the distinction herself. Veronica shoots Betty a sidelong glance, before dropping her bag on the floor, and moving toward the TV. The blonde nods her acceptance, letting her own bag fall before grabbing the chair by the window and wedging it beneath the doorknob.
“He won't find us here,” Veronica says, turning the dial on the ancient television, it clicking on with an audible pop.
No, he won't Betty agrees. They've taken steps, unnecessary as they may have been, to assure they were never followed. But the resonating fear that the Hood would find a way still lingers. That anyone, let alone a psycho killer, could find them in the only motel they'd seen in the last three hours should be laughable. But still, they worry.
Veronica stretches her arms over her head, knees brushing the mattress, looking at Betty expectantly.
“Do you have a preference?” she asks.
Betty's brow furrows, not understanding the question.
“On the bed,” Veronica indicates with a point downward. “Left or right?”
“I don't,” she starts with a shrug. “Know. Never really thought about it.”
“Left it is,” Veronica finishes for her, shifting to lay on the right side, patting the spot next to her for Betty to join.
“Should we leave the lights on?” Betty wonders aloud.
“Yes,” Veronica replies without hesitation.
“And the TV?”
“Also yes.”
Betty takes one last lingering look at the door, wondering if it's sturdy enough to hold if someone tried to knock it down, then takes her place next to Veronica. The blanket is old and worn, and neither girl has any intention of sleeping underneath it, or bothering to change out of the clothes they have on. Veronica blinks with sleepy eyes at Betty, it feeling good to finally lay down, despite the third rate accommodations. But it's the kind of place that doesn't give a second glance to a pair of underage girls looking for a room in the middle of the night.
“Betty,” Veronica whispers, reaching out to grab the front of her sweater, the blonde's hand quick to cover hers.
The tears come before she can fight them, using the grip to pull closer, tucking her head just under Betty's chin. Arms encompass her, and she takes whatever comfort they offer.
This is the first time they've stopped longer than it took to refill the gas tank, or grab a bite to eat.
They made their escape from Riverdale three days ago.
-
They're in a diner looking over the menu, nothing more than a single laminated page, instinct telling Veronica that Betty is desperate for a milkshake. She won't order one though. Not in a place where the quality is just suspect. A burger and fries seem like the safest option, and both give matching orders to the waitress with a name tag that reads Ingrid.
Betty glances out the window, always watching, as Veronica listens to the chatter of all the locals. They've been gone for little over a week now. It's a startling bit of self discovery, finding out the point at which self preservation will override empathy. Or loyalty. That there is a certain number of bodies to pile up, before the scale tips toward cut and run.
For Veronica it was finding her father in the lobby of the Pembrooke, throat slit for all his greed. Though he would miraculously survive thanks to Andre's quick action, it was seeing her father on that stretcher, the moment when she'd had enough. For Betty, it was Jughead's disappearance. Though no body had turned up for over two weeks, despite the Serpents promise to find one of their own yielding no results. She left because she didn't to be there when... She didn't want to be there anymore. Just like Veronica.
Archie refused to come with them. No matter how much Veronica pleaded with him. Still thinking he could do something, that he could save the day, and though he never said anything there was something in his eyes that will judge them forever for leaving.
With all their lives turning into a horror movie, Veronica will never understand why. If Hollywood has gotten anything right, it's that those who stand up to maniacal killers, are just as likely to end up dead as a first scene victim who never stood a chance.
Ingrid brings their plates, but Veronica has lost her appetite, absently picking at a few fries and looking on as Betty bites cautiously into her burger.
“How long are we going to keep doing this?” she asks.
Betty is surprised by the question, making sure to finish chewing for giving an answer.
“This is your plan,” she replies. “Did you not have an endgame in mind?”
No, Veronica doesn't say. She didn't. Go, wasn't motivated by anything other than instinct and fear. Just go and never come back. The duffel bag full of cash, taken from Daddy's office his first night in the hospital, made the choice that much easier. But now, faced with her own question, she realizes a plan was the last thing involved in this.
“Not really,” she admits.
If Betty is upset with the answer she doesn't show it, her only reaction an extra slow second bite of food.
“We can't do this forever, V.” She offers, setting the burger down.
“I know.”
Veronica reaches across the table for Betty's hand.
“I'm just... Really glad you're here.”
A small smile tugs at Betty's lips, the first one Veronica has seen since their journey began. It fills her heart with something other than dread, and she tries not to cling desperately to the hand held in hers from being grateful.
She can't say it back, not that Veronica expects her to. But there is a kind of reassurance in it being the two of them. A sense of certainty she'd lose her mind without.
-
They have to stop eventually, and do, in a small mountain town dripping with serendipity.
First, they drive by a restaurant called Mom's which causes a look between them, the second after Betty's stomach rumbles rather audibly. It just so happens the establishment has the best pancakes she's ever tasted, something she can't help to carry on about, drenching them in a third application of blueberry syrup.
Second, is that while she's going on about said pancakes, glances out the window to see two eye catching signs in a storefront window across the street. One stating the apartment above was for rent, and two, saying help wanted for the bookstore itself.
Veronica indulges her, because it's a quaint little store, as is the apartment above. Hardwood floors and retro furnishings. Betty runs her hand along the counter top, opens a cupboard or two, and keeps looking back to Veronica as if asking to stay.
It is very tempting. She's as tired of the road as Betty clearly is, and the constant feeling of the boogeyman behind them, even though there's no evidence of any kind that is the case. She wanted to run. They ran. Kept running even when the chase didn't keep up.
“There's only the one bedroom,” Krystal, the little old lady who owns everything, informs. “If you girls' don't mind sharing.”
It's hardly an issue, as they have been sharing rooms and beds, since that first dingy motel. No sense in halting the practice just because a more permanent residence has presented itself. Still, Veronica sighs dramatically as she forks over first and last months rent to Krystal who happily bounds back downstairs with cash in hand.
Betty does a little spin inside the kitchen, before pulling Veronica into a hug, both girls allowing the possibility of something they haven't felt since this trip began.
Relief.
-
Betty ends up working in the bookstore, because of course that was going to happen, her love of literature charming Krystal to the point of hiring her after one conversation about Harper Lee. Veronica signs them up for online classes under false names, because getting High School over and done with, is a burgeoning concern once a sense of normalcy begins to settle in.
Veronica is finishing up her last class of the day, when Betty comes up the stairs from her shift, pausing to look over the brunette's shoulder, before leaning down to let her chin fall onto it and offer a soft 'hey' in greeting.
“Hey,” Veronica returns in kind. “How was the fascinating world of book retail?”
“Draining,” Betty replies. “We had more than three customers today, I almost didn't know what to do with myself.”
Veronica laughs, logging out of her assignment group, head craning toward Betty with a grin.
“How does Krystal stay in business?” she asks earnestly.
Betty offers an upturned palm, paper cuts replacing the old self inflicted wounds.
“Mail order,” she answers. “I must have shipped over a hundred books.”
“So, it's like small town Amazon?”
Betty chuckles.
“If you want first editions, rare editions, limited print runs, then yes. Krystal is definitely small town Amazon.”
She leans further down, arms encompassing Veronica between them. Neither girl talks about the continual progression of physical contact, the pair never shy about such affections before, but both aware that the needle on that gauge is beginning to tilt towards a new reading.
“I do not feel like cooking,” Betty informs, lips brushing Veronica ear. “Let's just grab a pot roast platter at Mom's.”
Veronica snorts derisively.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Ronnie.”
Veronica turns her head again, eyes teasing.
“That is such an old lady dinner.”
Betty in nonplussed.
“So Krystal is a bad influence,” she allows. “At least I'm not going to bed at eight o'clock and complaining about my sciatica.”
Veronica looks concerned.
“Does she have that?”
Betty rolls her eyes.
“Details make the story,” she dismisses, disengaging from Veronica and heading back to the stairwell. “Come on, I'm starving.”
-
Veronica dreams the Black Hood is chasing her down the halls of Riverdale High.
She is alone. Weaponless. Helpless.
The terror she feels inside makes her stomach twist, but powers her legs to keep moving, heels clicking swiftly on linoleum as she flees the killer. Though she hasn't come across any bodies, she knows it's her that is last on his list. The final girl.
If this were a movie, she'd be the one who escapes, the one walking toward a breaking sun on the horizon. Bloody and breathless, but alive.
Veronica doesn't feel like that's going to happen here. Because no matter how far or long she runs, he's always just a few steps behind. In one hand a gun, and the other a knife, as if the decision of which to use on her will only be made when she's caught.
Her hand keeps reaching for someone who isn't there, head turning toward the one who should be. Betty Cooper the best friend, protector, and hero of this tale. Veronica runs with the hope that she'll suddenly appear. From around the corner, or leap from a door with the killing blow, as she runs and runs without pause.
The chase feels endless, arms and legs oddly never growing tired, until she reaches what appears to be a light at the end of the tunnel, an exit sign illuminated in green. One last look back, the Hood still hot on her trail, and she doesn't see the body fallen just before the end.
She trips over it oh so dramatically, flying through the air in a ridiculously lingering shot, twisting her ankle upon landing. Groaning as she pulls the wounded appendage toward her midsection, the killer suddenly isn't there, anticipation of her death building to a crescendo.
It's then she notices the hair on the body, blonde and pulled taunt into a familiar ponytail, as she leans toward it with shaking breath.
“Betty,” she gasps. “Oh no. Oh no, no, no.”
She grabs at the body's shoulders, shifting them toward her.
“Come on,” she pleads. “We're so close. We can make it.”
The head rolls into her lap, empty eyes staring upward, and Veronica screams with a loss she's never felt.
The Hood reappears behind her, a click of the gun's hammer indicating his choice, as the tears stream down Veronica's face welcoming the end.
-
“Ronnie.”
Betty's voice in her ear.
“Ronnie,” it repeats, with a shake of her shoulder.
The nightmare still clings to her.
“Veronica!” Betty finally shouts.
Her eyes snap open, blurred and unfocused, whole body clenching as she finally shakes off the dream.
It takes a moment to gather her bearings, realizing it's Betty's chest her head rests on, Betty's hips her arms cling helplessly to. Betty's understanding eyes waiting to greet her when she shifts to meet them, then drops her head back.
“I'm sorry,” she's quick to apologize, though makes no move to withdraw from her hold.
“For what?” Betty questions. “Having a bad dream?”
Veronica's thumb runs idly over a patch of exposed skin, just above the waistline of Betty's pajama bottoms.
“For turning you into a human stress pillow.”
Betty chuckles softly.
“This isn't the first time.”
“I'm sorry,” Veronica repeats automatically.
“It's okay,” Betty assures. “Really. No harm done.”
Veronica nods against her.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
No, Veronica's mind demands. Push it away. Don't think about it again.
“He found me,” she replies regardless. “Found us. And no matter how fast or how long I ran, I couldn't get away.”
Betty doesn't say anything, just runs her fingers through Veronica's hair, offering comfort with her presence alone.
“But I almost did,” she goes on. “Finally found an exit, but at the end I fell... No, I tripped. Over a body.”
She takes a deep breath.
“Your body.”
Her face pinches with the resonating echo of that loss, squeezing tightly again, shifting to meet Betty's eyes once more.
“I gave up after that,” she admits. “I mean, if I couldn't escape with you, then why bother at all?”
Betty presses a kiss against Veronica's temple.
“I don't think,” she starts, stops and takes another breath. “I could do this without you.”
“You don't have to,” Betty assures. “I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart,” Betty offers. “Hope to die.”
Veronica squeezes again.
“Don't you dare,” she shoots back.
Betty laughs.
“Just an expression,” she teases. “Drama queen.”
Veronica nods, leaning to press a feather light kiss against Betty's lips, before letting her head fall back down once more. Again, grateful Betty is there. That she always will be.
Surviving is one thing, she thinks. But what's the point of it, if somewhere along the way you forget how to live?