Disclaimer: West Side Story? Probably the best Christmas present ever from Leonard Bernstein, Jerome Robbins, Stephen Sondheim, Arthur Laurents, and Ernest Lehman. Thanks, guys. :)

Note: WHEW it's been awhile since the last time I posted anything. Thanks, Oxford, for taking away my fanfiction life. -_- So here is a little piece of Christmas cheer to get back into the swing of things, and I really hope you like it, as it's the 20th WSS fic I've written. Yes, I am that obsessed, haha. Also, this fic has a lot of references to last year's Christmas fic, merry christmas with love (specifically chapters 2 and 6), and LCV canon in general (June 1957 is when we date the movie, btw, so this takes place the Christmas after), so I am very, very sorry if it's a bit less accessible than my other fics. If you're confused about anything, please don't hesitate to ask. And finally, I realize "Feliz Navidad" wasn't written til 1970, but they have their own version. Or else I just didn't figure that out until after I'd written it. Take your pick, heh. -_-

Proper credit: Midge, as always, belongs to RhapsodyinProgress. And a special shout-out to HedgehogQuill, for a particular Anybodys/A-Rab Christmas tale in her fic On the Hot Pavement that is a must-read (it is so, so good) and served as the inspiration for their section here. Thanks for letting me use!

For: HedgehogQuill, as an early Christmas present. Merry Christmas, dear!

—viennacantabile

better days

.

I wish everyone was loved tonight
and somehow stop this endless fight
just a chance that maybe we'll find better days

So take these words and sing out loud
'cause everyone is forgiven now
'cause tonight's the night the world begins again

—The Goo Goo Dolls, "Better Days"

.

Christmas, 1957

.

gift

"I'm fat," says Graziella, a pout on her face as she examines herself in the mirror. She's never been particularly satisfied with her body—those last ten pounds are always so stubborn—but this is really the limit. "There, I said it. Fat, with a capital F. That's my Christmas present this year, an' it's a doozy."

Her best friend smiles. "No, you ain't."

Graziella, rubbing her stomach, sniffs and eyes Velma's slender waist with disgust. "Easy for you to say. What are ya, two pounds?"

"You'll get your figure back," Velma tells her, patting her on the shoulder. "Just as soon as the baby comes."

"The baby," Graziella says, making a face and shifting her weight. She's heard it so many times in the last few months and still she hasn't gotten used to the word. "Fat lotta good that'll do. An' I mean fat. Watch it be just as tubby as its—" she wrinkles her nose because this, too, is just weird— "ma."

Velma laughs. "An' he'll be real good-lookin'," she says, "just like his da—"

Graziella bites her lip. "Ma," she says again, pasting a grin on her face as Velma looks stricken. She runs her fingertip over the ring on her left hand, tracing its hard edges. "A-course he will."

It's then, during the awkward silence that follows, that there is the oddest sensation in her stomach. Like popcorn. Or butterflies. Something Graziella's never known before, something unfamiliar and exquisite at the same time.

"What?" asks Velma, wide eyes worried. "Graz, what's wrong?"

Nothing, she realizes for the first time, taking a deep breath and releasing it. Nothing at all.

And for once, Graziella doesn't say anything, just takes Velma's hand and places it over her abdomen.

Velma frowns. "Did somethin' happen?"

"Yeah," Graziella whispers, more to herself than to her best friend. "I felt him move."

Velma stares at her. "Graz—"

"They said it'd happen a coupla weeks ago an' it never did," she says, the impression of the tiniest toes and feet in the world forming in her mind. It's hard to think, talk, do anything but feel. "So I didn't think about it, but now—it's really happenin', ain't it?"

Velma smiles. "What're ya goin' to name him?"

Graziella looks at her, blinks once, twice as her smile wavers, but never goes away. "I like Gina, if it's a girl," she says quietly. She wishes everything in the world right now, but mostly this: "But—"

"Yeah," Velma says, meeting her gaze. "I think it's a boy, too."

There is only one answer, and Graziella's known it from the moment she first realized. "Then Riff."

Velma holds her gaze. "I think it's a good name."

Graziella smiles to herself. It'll be okay, she tells herself for the first time. It really will. Not now, not soon, but someday. It'll be okay.

"Yeah," she says, hand still resting on her belly as she savors the flow of blood in her body and the rush of air that connects her to one small child who will mean everything. "It is."

.

past, present, future

For as long as he can remember, Johnny Kowalski has wanted to fit in. To be somebody. To walk around with the best friends in the world. To be a Jet. And for seven months now, he's had it, had a crew of his own to kid around with and back him up and let him know he's not alone. To live, and to die for.

And for about six of those months, he's wondered if everything he's ever wanted is all that it's cracked up to be.

Baby John isn't sure what the Jets would think of him today as he stands shivering in front of the candy store, waiting for an answer to his knock, but as Doc opens the door and stares he knows that this is the right thing to do.

"Baby John?"

He offers a smile. "Hiya, Doc. Thought you, uh—might want some help cleanin' up the store or somethin'. Y'know, since Tony ain't…"

Baby John ducks his head, even though the old man's expression hasn't changed. It might not be much, he thinks, staring at his hands, but it's all he has to give.

Doc glances back into a room that, Baby John only now realizes, is perfectly spotless. Oh, he thinks, right. Because it's Christmas. And the store isn't even really open today. Baby John shuffles his feet, feeling like the dumbest kid in the world. Which isn't so unfamiliar to him, after all. Even though he's a Jet he's well aware he's the most useless of them all. The youngest, the weakest, the worst. Why would Doc want him?

"Never mind," he says hastily. "I just—it was a dumb idea. See ya later, Doc." And he turns to go. Stupid. Stupid, he thinks. What was he even thinking?

It's then that he hears Doc clear his throat.

"Sure, kid."

Baby John glances over his shoulder. Doc isn't looking at him, is just leaning against the door. "What?"

"Sure," says the old man, facing him. His old eyes look just as they have for the last six months—sad. Tired. But there's a small lift to the edge of his mouth that Baby John hasn't seen in a very long time. "Why not."

"I probably ain't any good. Not like—the last guy," Baby John stumbles, feeling he should probably warn Doc just what he's in for. "But I—"

"Actually," says Doc, "I'm thinkin' you're just the assistant I need."

Baby John's eyes widen. Him. Johnny Kowalski, punching bag for the Emeralds and the Sharks and the Musclers and every other gang that has ever been around. "M—me?" he asks, stunned. His voice comes out in a squeak and he has to cough before he can speak again. "Really?"

Doc smiles. Not, Baby John thinks, the old, amused smile that used to be there, but it's a start, just the same. "Yeah. You."

And as he follows Doc into the candy store, Baby John realizes that even if he isn't the biggest, strongest, best Jet there's ever been—he doesn't have to be.

.

neither/nor

It's after midnight and Action is just heading out the window when he stops and shuffles his feet. "Look," he says, avoiding her gaze, "Pauline—"

"Don't worry about it," she tells him. He'd never thank her, and she'd never want him to. They're not like that. "Just pay me back sometime. Not with cash."

The corner of Action's mouth twists into something that looks a little like a crooked smile. "Wouldn't give it if I had it."

"Wouldn't take it if ya did," smirks Pauline, and she reaches forward to give him a pinch. "I think I'm gettin' the better end of the deal, anyway."

Action's hand darts forward to deliver a pinch of his own. "I gotta hand it to ya," he says, a look of reluctant admiration in his eyes. "You're on a whole 'nother level-a naughty." And then he looks away again. "I mean it, though."

"Right," she says. That thing he hasn't said and never will. And even though Pauline doesn't want it, doesn't need it, she can't help her own reluctant smile. "Merry Christmas, Scrooge."

And even though Action rolls his eyes and is out the window in a flash, all Pauline remembers later is that he says it, too.

"Merry Christmas, Pauline."

.

surprise, surprise

When she says it, Clarice's mouth drops open.

"You like Mouthpiece?"

Midge, standing by the counter in Doc's, looks vaguely alarmed. "Of course not!"

Clarice sits back in her chair, disappointed. She's no Bernice when it comes to gossip, but this—the smartest girl she's ever met falling for her polar opposite—would have been a really juicy scoop. "Oh. Well, why d'ya need to know where he lives, then?"

"Well—" The tall, skinny girl flushes. "I have a Christmas gift for him, and I thought I'd deliver it. And since no one else is here, I asked you."

And just like that, Clarice's jaw is back on the floor. "Ya do like him!"

"I do not!" Midge protests in an affronted voice. "I am merely trying to ensure that the poor boy isn't disappointed. That is all."

Clarice grins, tickled to death by the prospect of seven-foot tall children. "Sure, Midge. He is real nice, y'know. You'd make a real cute couple, I bet." Then, as the girl splutters, Clarice thinks of something and frowns. "'Cept—I don't think it'll work, Midge, he's dead gone on Vel."

Midge purses her lips and nods. "I had noticed," she intones in a very dry voice.

Clarice reaches forward and pats her on the shoulder. "I know he'll love it, though, whatever it is," she says, feeling a bit sorry for the girl. It isn't her fault Mouthpiece is fixated on another Jet's girl. "He's like that."

"Yes. Yes, he is," Midge says, and when Clarice looks up she is treated to the unfamiliar sight of a small, reluctant smile on Midge O'Quinn's face. Wow, she thinks, amazed, Midge really does like him.

It's pure altruism, of course, the reason why she says it. "Just down the street."

"What?" asks Midge, looking puzzled for once.

"Mouthpiece's place," Clarice says innocently. "Down the street. It's the building with the orange door. You'll see it. Third floor, number nineteen."

"Orange door," repeats Midge, forehead wrinkling. "Third floor, number nineteen." She pauses. "Thank you."

Clarice smirks. And if, she thinks, very pleased, she gets to know before everyone else does about the newest Jet couple, well, that's just dessert. "Just make sure you get me an invite to the weddin', okay?"

And even though Midge turns red and stammers away and actually trips on her way out the door, the only thing Clarice notices is that she never actually denies it.

.

the great humbug

It's pretty obvious by now—six months after the Jet captaincy changed hands—that Anybodys has the hots for Ice, and the sad thing is, A-Rab is pretty sure even she knows she doesn't have a shot in hell.

It doesn't stop her from mooning around like some lost puppy, though, or jumping to do whatever he says, or even just hanging on to his every word. And it's—it's kind of pathetic, actually, because A-Rab knows she's just setting herself up to be disappointed because she is never going to be that girl for Ice. Never. And any other day, he'd just laugh, really, but today—

No one should be alone on Christmas, he thinks.

So in the end, he has to do it.

She doesn't greet him with open arms, and honestly, he doubts she ever will, but all the same—that's not why he's here. It never has been. It never will be.

And, he thinks as they stand silent before the great tree in front of them, that's just fine with him.

.

feliz navidad

"Indio?"

Silence.

"Indio?"

Still nothing. And Luis, for the twenty-seventh time, wonders how he ended up trudging through the snow on Christmas day with his best friend's boyfriend, of all people. "Indio, we are supposed to be singing carols to Chile in—" Luis checks his watch— "three minutes, and I do not think you can do that if you keep your mouth shut. And if I do not know which song you would like to sing."

Indio scowls. "Just because Rosalia made us do a parranda together does not mean I have to talk to you."

Luis sighs. "I am not so happy with it, either, but what do you think we can do? Walk back and tell her no?"

Indio grimaces. "Madre de Dios, but then she would give us her sad puppy face and it always makes me feel so terrible when she does that."

Luis makes a face. "Like you have killed a cat, or something."

Indio eyes him, and Luis is surprised to hear cautious amusement in his voice. "You, too."

Luis nods, and takes a deep breath. Indio has never liked his girlfriend's oldest and best friend and Luis thinks that maybe now is a good time to clear a few things up. "Indio, I think she wants us to be friends."

When the other Shark doesn't answer, Luis gives him a sidelong glance. "Friends," he says. "Like Rosalia and me. I love her, but…I do not love her. She knows that."

Indio just grunts. Luis takes this to mean the other Shark isn't convinced. But to his surprise, Indio opens his mouth a minute later.

"Feliz Navidad."

Luis blinks. "Merry Christmas to you, also."

"No," says Indio, staring straight ahead, "that is the song I want to sing."

Luis winces, vividly remembering the Christmas a five year-old Rosalia had learned that song by heart, as had everyone else within earshot. "Are you sure there is not some other song you would like?"

Indio shrugs, and Luis wonders if he's imagining the hint of a smirk he sees around the Shark lieutenant's mouth. "It is the only one I know."

Luis sighs. Just his luck. "Of course it is."

They're just outside Chile's door when Indio gives Luis a little shove. "Hey," he says, "maybe when we get back you can really make Rosita's day and make us hot chocolate and churros, si?"

Luis glances at him, startled, and even though Indio isn't looking back, Luis can see a faint red flush on his ears. And as the door opens to reveal a dour-looking Chile, Luis smiles.

"Si."

.

two sizes too small

When he unlocks the door and pushes it open, he's not sure what he expects to see. Schrank has gotten used to empty rooms and cold apartments ever since Margaret left, and he knows that today—even if it's Christmas—won't be any different. But still something like disappointment washes over him as he listens to the creaking of the pipes and the faint noise of conversations in apartments around him and realizes that he is the only one there.

"Ho, ho, ho," he says, dropping his hat down onto the table. Another day of patrolling the street looking out for some thankless bunch of godforsaken kids. Another year alone.

He is just opening the refrigerator to find something to eat when the phone rings.

Schrank lets the door close and snatches up the phone. "Yeah?" he barks.

"Evenin', Lew," comes a dopey voice Schrank knows all too well. "It's me. Oscar."

Schrank rolls his eyes. "I know it is, Krupke, what the hell're ya callin' me for?"

"Ya didn't come to the stationhouse Christmas party, Lew."

Schrank swallows what he imagines must be bile in his throat and lets out a short laugh. "Who, me? You know I don't go in for that holiday crap. 'Sides, somebody's gotta do the job today."

"Yeah, well," says Krupke, "anyway, I thought I'd just tell ya we missed ya, an' Happy Christmas."

Schrank stares at the phone. "Yeah," he says, stifling a snort. "Happy Christmas."

When he hangs up the phone, he returns to the refrigerator. But no matter how many times he opens the door, it's still empty and there's still nothing there.

He debates for five minutes, but in the end it's listening to his stomach growl that does it.

When Krupke answers the phone, he sounds just like he always does: dumb as a box of rocks. And Schrank curses himself for getting into these situations. But in the end, he supposes, this is his life, and he's gotten used to it.

"Bring some food over, would ya? Nothin' too funny."

"Well, sure, Lew, I—"

Schrank hangs up before he loses any more brain cells. Then he settles back on his couch to wait.

"Happy Christmas," he mutters.

And in the darkness, where no one can see him, the corner of his mouth edges up into a smile.

.

gingerbread men

"It's okay, y'know," says Big Deal. They are standing just outside of Doc's and he can't believe he's saying this, but there it is.

Gee-Tar gives him a blank look. "What's okay?"

"It's okay that ya like her." Big Deal sighs, kicking at the snow. "Can't really blame ya, I guess."

Gee-Tar digests this, his angular face still for a moment. Then he shrugs. "An' it's okay that you got her."

Big Deal stares. "Really?"

His former best friend shakes his head. "Nah. 'Course it ain't. But—" He hesitates. "If it wasn't me, it's good she picked you."

Big Deal feels a chuckle come out in spite of himself. "Better'n A-Rab, at least."

"Or Action."

Big Deal makes a face. "Or Tiger." Then he glances at Gee-Tar, whose hands are jammed in his pockets. It's been a few years since they were best friends, and even though they're fellow Jets they're definitely not close anymore. Not since they met Clarice. But even so.

"Come over for dinner?"

Gee-Tar's ears go pink. It's Christmas, Big Deal knows, and Christmas for the other Jet has never been exactly great, since his mother couldn't care less. "Your ma still makin' that gingerbread stuff?"

"Lebkuchen? Yeah," Big Deal nods, surprised that Gee-Tar remembers. "Still great, too."

"Yeah," says Gee-Tar slowly. "Yeah, sure."

As they turn down the street, Big Deal looks up at the darkening sky. He doesn't think they'll ever be the way they used to be. He's not even sure he'd want that, anyway. But this—even if it's not much—is a start.

.

fortune cookie happy taco monster

"Taco?"

Bernice, rolling over to see a Puerto Rican girl holding a loaded platter and wearing a very big, very bright smile, groans even as she reaches over her very pregnant stomach for a taco. "Ya gotta be kiddin' me, Rosalia."

"Ay, no, Señorita Bernice," Rosalia says seriously, brown eyes very wide as she plops down onto Bernice's bed and tosses a taco in her own mouth. "You must eat, si? And if you must eat, you might as well eat something very delicious."

Bernice eyes the taco in her hand with suspicion. Rosalia might be nice enough to let a knocked-up Jet girl camp out in her apartment, Bernice thinks, but no one ever said she could cook. "You didn't make this, did ya?"

"Oh, no," Rosalia says, taking another. "Luis would not let me. He said that I could kill you and did I want to be responsible for the death of my houseguest and her little niña? And no," she sighs, "it is true, I do not. So he made them." She dimples. "But I did tell him to use only tomatoes and green peppers, because it is Christmas."

Bernice, munching on her taco, only hears one word. "You don't know it'll be a girl."

"Si, si, I do!" grins Rosalia, her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. "Tía Rosalia always knows! You can ask my brothers."

She doesn't exactly know why—it probably has something to do with being eight months pregnant and alone at Christmas in a Shark girl's house when nothing in her life has ever been anything like this—but somehow the absolute surety in Rosalia's voice makes her feel better. "You know, huh?"

"I do," nods the Puerto Rican girl. "And I know that she will be beautiful, and smart, and," winks Rosalia, "just as fun as her mama. Oh, and also I think she will like spicy food," she adds seriously.

It's nice, Bernice thinks, dismissing that last bit, the future she's painting. Really nice.

"Ya really think so?" she asks, her voice quiet. She looks down at her stomach. There isn't very much Bernice in that picture, but as long as it's a good picture, she thinks, maybe that's okay.

"I do," says Rosalia firmly. "And also I know she will love you very much."

Bernice doesn't usually go in for that sappy stuff, but as she listens to Rosalia's voice she has a sudden urge to cry. And not because she's sad. "I guess that don't sound so bad."

"No," agrees Rosalia with a cheerful smile. "But then I have not mentioned the diapers and the crying and the sleepless nights. I know about that, too."

Bernice grimaces. "Thanks, Rosalia."

"You are very welcome," giggles the Puerto Rican girl before stuffing another taco in her mouth, and though Bernice rolls her eyes she can't help but glance back down at her stomach.

"Spicy food, huh," she says, feeling as warm as if she's just had some. "Well, you'n Luis're gonna have to help me out with that."

Rosalia stops munching and swallows with an audible gulp. "Me?"

"Well, yeah," says Bernice, at first surprised, then a little disconcerted. "What, did ya think you weren't gonna be there?"

Rosalia's face turns pink and she opens and closes her mouth several times before she smiles. "No," she says in a very different sort of voice. "If you want me—I will be there."

"Good," says Bernice, feeling a little embarrassed. "Now, how about another taco?"

It's not ever how she saw her future, Bernice thinks as Rosalia beams and shoves the plate over to her, but maybe that's okay, after all.

.

expect the unexpected

His brother Bobby, Snowboy knows, has come up with some pretty odd Christmas presents over the years, but this one really takes the cake.

"Where'd ya find a hooker?"

.

the only one in the world

He's been wandering the streets for an hour when light falls across his path and he looks up to see a small, slight figure leaving a church.

As Ice takes quick steps back in the direction he came, he half-hopes she won't see him. Some days are better than others. Some days he almost doesn't notice they're gone. Some days he can talk without choking on every word. This isn't one of them.

"Ice!"

He stops, and sighs before turning around. "Hi."

"Merry Christmas," says Minnie Goddard, the words coming out in cold puffs of air. "How are you?"

Ice has never felt quite comfortable around the gang's little sister. She's not one of the guys, like Anybodys, and she's not really one of the guys' girls, like Graz or Clarice, and she's not his girl, like Velma. And she's definitely not everybody's girl, like Pauline or Bernice. She's just—Minnie, and he's never known how to talk to her. So he shrugs. "Fine. You?"

"I'm well," Minnie says with a smile. "I've just gotten out of the Christmas service with my family."

"Yeah?" Ice says, his foot edging backwards. "How was it?"

"I prayed for Johnny," Minnie says, her face serene. "And for the Jets."

"Ya did," says Ice, feeling uncomfortable. And that's it, he thinks. She's too—innocent, too pure. If he talks to her, he thinks, he might ruin that by accident and of all people that can't happen to Minnie. "That's nice. Look, I—I gotta go," he says, scrambling for an excuse. "Ma's expectin' me an' all."

Minnie watches him. "I prayed for you, too, you know."

Ice stiffens. "Oh, really? I—thanks," he says, unable to think of anything else to say. Why on earth would Minnie Goddard be praying for him?

"I did," Minnie says. Her smile never wavers. "Tell your mother Merry Christmas for me, please?"

"Yeah, sure," Ice says, and takes off before he hears her one last time.

"Ice?"

He turns, offers up an uneasy half-smile. "Yeah, Minnie?"

"It'll be all right," she says, her voice sweet and sure. "I promise."

Ice stares as Minnie gives a small wave and goes back inside the church. All right, he thinks. "Yeah," he says to himself as he begins to move again, feeling the smallest ember of—not hope, not anywhere near that, but just the hint of being okay—struggle to life within him. "Maybe."

.

destiny

"Know what?" he asks as they look up at the night sky. It's freezing and in just another minute he's going to go home but for right now, Tiger's got better things on his mind than snow.

Mouthpiece, finding patterns in the stars with his fingertips, shrugs. "What?"

It may be stupid, and Graziella would definitely laugh at him if she knew, but even as he feels his face turn pink—relieved all the while that his best friend can't see him—Tiger can't help but smile. By this time, next year—

"I can't wait to be a dad."

.

ave

"I was just thinking," Maria says, hand over her stomach, "about Santa Maria."

"Oh?" asks Anita, eyebrow arched as she works a tricky stitch by the lamp. "And what were you thinking, querida?"

Maria leans forward and props her chin on her hands. "I never really thought about it, you see. Having a child like that, in a stable. In the middle of all those animals."

"Horses," sniffs Anita, wrinkling her nose. "Goats, too, I don't doubt."

"And she was so young," Maria says with a sigh. "It cannot have been very easy."

Anita shrugs. "We are women," she says, lifting the small white sock in her hands to see it better. "When is it ever easy?"

She doesn't look up, but Maria, seeing her friend's pursed lips, shakes her head. Bernardo's child, she thinks, and Tony's. Cousins. This time, things will be different.

"It turned out all right, did it not?"

Anita finally looks up, and in her eyes is a small trace of the old happiness. "Si, Maria," she says, her voice soft. She shrugs. "At least, that is what all those priests keep telling us and since they have an in with God I think they must know what they are talking about."

Maria nods. "So you see, Anita," she says, "do not worry. It will for us, too."

The corner of Anita's mouth twitches. "Did Santa Maria tell you so?"

Maria smiles. Everything will be fine, she thinks. For all of them. "No," she says. "Tony did."

Anita snips a thread and sighs. "Before or after the rumble?"

Maria puts her hand on Anita's shoulder. "Just now, querida."

Anita glances up at her, brow furrowed. "But—"

Maria moves her hand to her waist. "Right here."

Anita stares at her. Then, at last, Maria can see that she begins to understand. "Tony," she says her voice quiet.

And Maria smiles. "Tony," she agrees. "Tony Bernardo Wyzek Nunez."

.

end.