Note: Anyone who has ever tried to novelize a musical will know that one of the trickiest parts is converting song to dialogue. For this chapter, especially, I took the approach of trying to preserve the intent behind the song—a sort of reverse engineering so that this could have worked for the basis of the song Bernstein and Sondheim wrote. I hope that explains the choices I made!

For: RhapsodyInProgress, who was kind enough to give me incredibly helpful feedback during the writing and revision of this chapter, and whom I would not have been able to write this without.

Proper credit: goes to the article on diegetic songs found on the WSSOnstage website. Very, very useful. Also, Tucker Smith and Carole D'Andrea, whose adorable cuddling during this scene was probably the inspiration for this whole fic.

Hope you enjoy!

—viennacantabile


fell the angels

seven : something to believe in

.

We're only liars,
but we're the best.

—Fall Out Boy, "Our Lawyer Made Us Change the Name of This Song So We Wouldn't Get Sued"

.

They've just about reached Doc's when Ice, arm contentedly around Velma, catches sight of a scuffle in front of the store. Jesus, he thinks, rolling his eyes as he lopes off to pry the rank-and-file apart. "Come on, Anybodys, knock it off," he says, hauling her up and shoving her away with an annoyed sigh. He might have known she'd be the one getting into tussles, and with Baby John, no less. She glares back at both him and Velma, who has caught up by now, but there's not exactly much the tomboy can do about it—even if she were a Jet, Ice would still outrank her. Significantly.

"Okay, cats, all present and accounted for?" asks Riff carelessly as he reaches the cluster of Jets in front of Doc's, his arm around Graziella. Action, Tiger, A-Rab, all of them confirm their presence in a loud chorus as Velma dips behind Ice to set her purse in the window. "Hey, I'm really proud-a ya, buddy-boys; ya done good at the dance tonight."

"So where are they?" demands Action, rocketing forward.

"Unwind, Action!" scolds Riff as Velma leans back into Ice's shoulder. He gives her waist a squeeze and she looks up at him, trails her fingers up and down his shirt. Ice takes a deep, slow breath. He's here, he's concentrating, but it is so hard to think about the Jets when the whole night, Velma's been dancing just out of reach, teasing him in that way only she can. Jesus, he thinks again, but for an entirely different reason.

"Any sign-a Tony?" asks Riff in a quieter voice. Ice, still making an effort to listen, has to remind himself that when he's with the Jets, it's probably not a good idea to keep thinking about how great his girl looks in that dress. That doesn't stop him, though, from settling his arm around her shoulders where she isn't quite so covered. In response, Velma shifts to slide her own arms around him. That slight pressure makes Ice sympathize, for once, with Action. It's about time they get this war council over and done with so they can get out of here.

Action snorts in disgust, body tense and ready to go. "The invisible man."

A jittery A-Rab pushes through to the front. "Hey, Riff, whaddaya think the Sharks're gonna ask for?"

Riff, as always, has a ready, confident answer: "Mercy."

"Just rubber hoses, maybe, huh?" suggests a less cocksure Snowboy.

But again, Riff shrugs it off. "Relax, little man!"

Graziella, draped on his shoulder, preens. "You tell 'em, Daddy-O."

"I'm ready!" growls Action, and again, Ice has to tear his eyes away from his girl to focus on his gang.

"Easy, cool!" he warns, pointing his finger at the shorter boy. Ice really hopes that Riff will keep him in line during the war council; Action popping and cracking is the last thing they'll need when they're hammering out terms. If they can keep it quick and fast, there'll be less time for something to go wrong and all the more time for what Velma has promised him later.

Velma echoes him, sending an "Oo, ooblee-oo!" at Action. And Ice looks at her. He has no clue what that means or why she'd say it, but damn, she's cute.

"Chung-chung!" Action fires back, punching the air.

"Cracko-jacko!" agrees A-Rab.

"Ooblee-oo!" Velma laughs again, and Ice, his hand on her waist, pulls her back against the wall. She smiles at him, and he strokes the bare skin of her shoulder, utterly absorbed. Up close, Ice can't take his eyes off her; damn, he thinks for about the millionth time, he sure is lucky to have a dame like her.

And then Velma turns as Graziella taps her on the shoulder, gestures at Anybodys, and pronounces the tomboy "an American tragedy." Ice, not a little displeased to be interrupted, looks the indignant girl up and down. Not a curve to be seen. Graziella isn't all that far from the truth. Not, he thinks, taking the opportunity to sneak a covert glance downward, like Velma, who is thankfully occupied in helping her best friend shoo the tomboy away. And then in checking her reflection in a mirror—Ice has no idea why, she looks just great to him—and giggling some more. Velma does that a lot when she's around Graziella, Ice has noticed, but he figures it's just girl stuff, which always means he doesn't want to know.

"Hey, now look, when the Sharks come you chicks cut out, huh?" directs Riff. Ice, who doesn't envy him the job of keeping his girl in line, waits skeptically for Graziella's reaction, arm firmly around Velma. He has a hard time believing the redhead will go as easily as all that. She just isn't the type.

Sure enough, Graziella straightens up and aims a taunting look at the Jets. "We might—an' then again, we might not." She's not just telling Riff, she's telling all of them, and Riff is not amused.

"This ain't kid stuff, Graziella," he reminds her in a warning voice.

Graziella just giggles, tapping him on the chin. "I an' Velma ain't kid stuff, neither." She turns to the blonde for confirmation. "Are we, Vel?"

Velma laughs, and Ice is amused and completely distracted by her nonsense word-filled denial, snapping fingers, and swaying hips. Nope, he thinks, contentedly absorbed, definitely not kid stuff. The last "ooh" gets him though, and Ice lifts up his unoccupied hand and half-smiles in baffled derision at the gang. He's got some reputation to live up to, after all.

He gets distracted again, though, when, after one last giggle with Graziella, Velma dimples and slides her arms around him. Damn, Ice thinks again, with a smile that's impossible to help, she's cute. And then Action has to go and ruin it all.

"Aww, what're we poopin' around with dumb broads?"

Velma instantly bridles, and Ice sighs as she draws away from him. Fucking Action, he thinks, always spoiling a guy's peace and quiet.

"I an' Velma ain't dumb!" snaps Graziella, and Ice has to work very hard not to laugh. His girl's not, sure, but Riff's? That's a different story.

"Hey, the bulls!" warns Snowboy from the fence.

Ice's head snaps to the left, then relaxes back against the ledge of Doc's window as he recognizes the occupants of the squad car. Just Krupke and Goddard. Nothing to get worried about. The one is a prize idiot and the other is a jumped-up Purity Patrol do-gooder who only scares Baby John. And Ice is pretty sure that's just because Baby John is so stuck on Goddard's daughter, Minnie. No one with real nerve could give a damn what they think.

"Hey, you!" barks Krupke as the car rolls to a stop in front of the curb. The Jets respond with a nattering chorus of variations on this polite greeting that could be almost orchestrated for its ability to annoy the cops. Which is pretty much true, anyway, thinks an amused Ice as the police officer gets out of the car, seeing how much practice all of them get at this particular art.

"Well, top-a the evenin' to ya, Officer Krupke!" greets Riff in an elaborate show of politeness.

The big man ignores him and moves instead to point at Baby John, who is clutching the window-frame of Doc's store. "You!"

"Who, me, sir?" Baby John asks, sounding a lot less sure of himself than any self-respecting Jet should. Ice eyes him. It's the second time today the cops have singled the kid out—it's like he has a neon 'Me, me, pick on me!' sign on his forehead or something—and Ice wants to see if Baby John can handle it. It might, he thinks, be useful in the future.

"Yeah, you," sneers Krupke, putting his hands on his hips. "Didn't ya hear me?"

Baby John's glance flickers to Ice, who just stares back at him. Sooner or later, the kid is going to have to learn how to deal with the cops on his own and he might as well start with Krupke, the dumbest of the Three Stooges.

"Oh, yes, sir," the kid supplies, turning back to the big man, "well, I got twenty-twenty hearin'!"

A-Rab cackles, and Ice can't deny that he's half-impressed that Baby John came up with a passably good answer. It's a start, anyway. But Krupke's reaction is less favorable. "Then why didn't ya answer me?" he demands.

A-Rab steps in for his best friend. "Oh, his mother told him never to answer back to a cop!" he says in mock-deference, and nimbly scampers away as Krupke lurches forward, pointed finger leading the way.

"You little wise-apple, ya want me to run ya in?" the cop snarls.

A-Rab grins back. "Indeed not. Sir," he adds in an insolent, cutting nod to politeness, as Ice slips his arm around Velma's shoulder again. This back-and-forth with the cop is entertaining, sure, but Ice is feeling a little antsy. He can't help but feel that they're wasting their time, though he's really not sure what else they could be doing. As a group, that is. As Velma is so good at reminding him, Ice can think of plenty of other things to do without the Jets.

"I oughta run all youse punks in," grumbles a beady-eyed Krupke, looking around at the Jets, who have him surrounded. "Whaddaya standin' around here for, blockin' the sidewalks?"

Riff, who's taken the opportunity to leave Graziella and saunter over to a more central, authoritative position on the steps of the store, turns to answer him. "Well, you see, sir, we're afraid to go home," he explains with wide eyes, looking to the rest of the Jets for confirmation. "Such a bad environment!"

Ice holds Velma tighter, both for Krupke's benefit and for his own, and follows up on Riff's lead. "We don't get no love there!"

Velma, whose fingers have been playing not-so-idly with his coat lapel, takes the cue and buries her face tragically in his shoulder as Snowboy, too, chimes in: "Oh, it's awful!"

"If you don't leave us stay out on the streets all night," puts in Action, sounding younger and more like a kid than Ice has ever heard him, "we liable to turn into a buncha juvenile delinquents!"

The Jets sound their agreement, but even Krupke isn't stupid enough to believe them. "Yes, an' I know youse guys was cookin' up somethin' at the dance tonight," he warns them, "so don't think youse're gonna put nothin' over on me!"

Ice turns to grin at Velma. Who, us? he mouths silently at her. Velma dimples, blue eyes sparkling and moving suggestively to the tie Ice has only now noticed he's been toying with, and mouths back, Never. And once again, Ice, has to force himself to tear his eyes away as Officer Goddard leans out of the car window and interrupts them for the second time that evening. "Hey, Sergeant—c'mon, quick, we gotta ten-thirteen!"

Krupke scowls. "Now, go on, get a move on, alla youse," he orders, lumbering back to the car and cramming himself in. "An' don't let me catch none-a youse around here when I get back!"

The Jets sing out their fond farewells as the car moves off into the hot summer night, and Ice salutes his friendly neighborhood peacekeepers with a pistol shaped out of his hand. He doesn't doubt that the feeling is mutual.

Action chases after the car, calling and waving madly. When he gets no response, he stops, a reproachful frown on his face. "You forgot to say g'bye!"

"Ah, them head-busters ain't got no manners," mourns A-Rab with a shrug.

Tiger immediately thwaps him on the head with a rolled-up newspaper. "An' don't let me catch none-a youse around here when I get back!" he thunders, in a more-than-credible imitation of Krupke.

"They treat us like we ain't even humans," agrees Snowboy with a comic sniff.

"Jeez, he was pretty mad, huh?" says Baby John uneasily. And Ice sighs. Back-talking the cops is all very well and good, but it looks like the kid's courage sure didn't last long. Glancing at an amused Velma, he half-smiles, wondering how distracted she really is and how much he can get away with.

"So what happened?" challenges A-Rab with a nonchalant shrug . "A big fat nothin', right?"

"Y—yeah," Baby John concedes, "but—suppose he comes back while us an' the Sharks are havin' the war council?"

"We'll snow 'em some more!" answers Riff easily from Ice's left, swinging forward from the window frame. Ice, his hand now resting in a very comfortable spot on Velma's shoulder, turns his head to watch as Riff commands his gang's attention with practiced flair. "See, them cops—they believe everythin' they read in the papers about us cruddy JDs. So that's what we give 'em—somethin' to believe in!"

Baby John's forehead contracts. "Well gee, whaddaya mean, Riff?"

Riff grins. "What, kid, ya need a demo? Well, all right." He inclines his head at Tiger, who takes the cue.

"Hey, you!" bellows the tall Jet, screwing up his face into Krupke's usual befuddled expression and waving his newspaper around like a nightstick.

Riff adopts an innocent expression. "Who, me, Officer Krupke?"

"Yeah, you!" Tiger goes on. "Gimme one good reason for not draggin' ya down to the stationhouse—ya punk!"

Riff winks at Baby John. "See, here's where ya give him the ol' sob story. Make up some crap about your druggie ma an' how your dad drinks all the time." Grinning, he glances around at the rest of the Jets. "An' hey—works even better when it's true, huh, buddy-boys?"

As the Jets cackle in rueful agreement, Ice shifts, moving his arm to circle Velma's shoulders. Ice likes to think his old man has nothing to do with how he's grown up, but sometimes he does wonder if he'd have been any different with two parents and a dog and a cute little home life when he was younger. Like Vee. At that thought, Ice moves his hand back to its former position, and Velma reaches up and laces her fingers through his. It doesn't matter, he remembers, reassured by the automatic gesture. He's got all the family he'll ever need, right here in front of him.

"Really?" a wide-eyed Baby John wants to know. "That's all it takes?"

Riff smirks. "Well, sure. Cops—'specially Krupke—they're all just big softies on the inside. Like teddy bears, 'cept twice as fat an' ten times as ugly. Ya give 'em some sniffles outta the baby blues an' tell 'em it's all 'cause ya never got any love as a kid, an' I bet ya anythin' in the world they're gonna say, 'Aww, whatta cute kid. Maybe we oughta try an' understand him.'"

"'S true," puts in Big Deal, nodding knowledgeably and patting Riff's head. "'S amazin' what you can get away with if you're cute enough."

"Like murder?" asks Gee-Tar, with a thoughtful crack of his knuckles.

Big Deal eyes him, considering this. "Well, maybe not you." He smirks, and Ice, watching them, wonders how many times Clarice danced with Gee-Tar tonight. She's a nice girl, and Velma really likes her, but apart from Riff and Tony, Big Deal is the best buddy Ice has, and he wishes, not for the first time, that Clarice wouldn't string the former best friends along. And if he didn't know how she really feels about Big Deal…

"Baby John won't have no problem though," beams Mouthpiece, reaching over to ruffle the younger boy's hair. "I bet Schrank an' Krupke think he's awful cute."

Baby John gives a weak smile. "Gee, thanks, Mouthpiece."

Ice, chuckling along with the rest of the Jets, suddenly becomes very aware from the empty space around his right side that Graziella is tugging Velma away, hissing something about fixing her hair. Ice follows her with both his eyes and a frown, but Velma doesn't turn. So he settles back with a sigh and watches Riff gesture at Tiger, who obligingly jumps back in character as Krupke again.

"That's a touchin' good story," the tall redhead mock-sobs.

Riff flings his arms out with a gleeful shout. "Lemme tell it to the world!"

Tiger again whacks Riff on the head with his newspaper. "Just tell it to the judge!"

"The judge?" repeats Baby John, eyes huge.

Riff glances at the kid and cackles. "Oh, judges is fun, buddy-boy. They're always on the lookout for somethin' not on the strictly legal side-a the law; that way, they got somebody to put in the can without lookin' like baddies for lockin' up little kids."

He glances at Snowboy, who doesn't need any urging—the dark-haired Jet races up through the doorway and around to the window in Doc's store, turning his jacket backwards over his chest to look like court robes, and settles in, a very superior expression on his face. The other Jets eagerly join in the pantomime, Big Deal acting out the part of the bailiff and A-Rab taking notes as the stenographer while Baby John looks on, wide-eyed. Even a skeptical-looking Anybodys perches behind A-Rab, watching the action.

Riff grins. "So ya tell 'em your folks at home shoot the weed but won't let ya have any, an' that's why ya act up. The old man'll be so damn shocked at your lousy bringin'-up makin' ya beg for grass that he'll call ya—"

"Psychologically disturbed," supplies Snowboy in a sepulchral voice, banging an invisible gavel. "I oughta know; every single one-a 'em I an' Bobby over there ever saw in juvie court said the same thing about us an' our neuroses," he adds in an amused aside. Ice glances at Joyboy, who is scowling darkly. "Anyway. Hear ye, hear ye!" announces Snowboy, reverting back to his judge's voice. "This court declares this child's gotta go see a headshrinker to figure out why he's so depraved."

Riff grins. "It's on account-a I'm so deprived, Snowboy, don'tcha know anythin'?"

Ice half-smiles. Riff, he thinks for probably the thousandth time as the Jets hoot and holler at their leader's play on words, is a damn good leader. Telling his gang cute little jokes seems like it wouldn't do much, but Riff is smarter than he looks and knows that if he keeps the Jets busy during downtime, they're that less likely to turn on him. Action, in particular, is grinning and looking abnormally relaxed as he smirks at his fearless leader, which is a minor miracle in itself. And even Ice, well—he's amused, for sure.

"Gee," murmurs a still-anxious Baby John, "a shrink? But whaddaya tell them? Don't they got all them ways to analyze ya an' stuff, an' know if you're lyin'?"

"Oh, shrinks're the easiest," scoffs Riff. "They all wanna hear the same thing."

And Baby John takes the bait. "What's that?"

Riff grins. "Sex, little man."

If he didn't have all of the Jets' attention before, thinks Ice, stifling a laugh as the Jets visibly perk up, he does now. Behind A-Rab, Anybodys gags, and Riff is probably lucky Graziella and Velma are still messing with their hair—Ice has known the redhead to clobber the Jet captain for less.

Baby John gulps. "S—sex?"

Riff grins smugly at the only Jet who's never had it. "Yep."

"How's that?" A-Rab wants to know, looking intrigued.

Riff glances at Action with a smirk. "You wanna take it, buddy-boy?"

And Action, who is as unlike Baby John in this particular field as it is possible to be, grins. "Well," he explains, raising a mocking finger, "for them, it's all gender roles an' daddy-daughter complexes. You lie on their couch an' tell 'em your sister's a dyke an' your brother has a cute little habit-a tryin' on your nutjob grandma's dresses, an' they'll eat right into your hand 'cause you're so goddamn normal compared to the resta your family."

Baby John blinks. "But I don't have a brother, an' my sister ain't a dyke." He blanches. "'Least, I don't think so."

Riff, winking at Action, shrugs. "The truth's a funny thing, buddy-boy," he says wisely, "an' no one's ever gonna know but you."

Action snorts. "'Sides," he says, rolling his eyes, "you tell 'em the truth—that ya just like bein' bad for the hell of it—an' they'll lock you up in a psych ward 'cause it's too dumb to be true. This way, they just pat ya on the shoulder an' say ya gotta go to work 'cause bein' a juvie's just a 'social disease' or some shit like that."

A-Rab cackles and darts a meaningful glance below Action's belt. "True story, buddy?" He dodges nimbly as the Jets explode into laughter and the dark-haired boy lunges at him. "Hey, I'm just sayin'!"

Ice snorts. Considering all the time Action spends with Pauline and every other girl who isn't scared of him, it could very well be true.

"An' then they'll ship ya off to a social worker, kid," Riff says over the scuffle, clapping Baby John on the back. "So's you can find a job an' become a 'productive member-a society,' don'tcha know."

Baby John considers this, and Ice, watching him, is surprised to note that he actually doesn't look too put off by this prospect. "What kinda job?"

Riff shrugs. "Don't know an' don't care. Thing is, we don't wanna work, do we, buddy-boys?" he asks the rest of the Jets, who grin and sound their raucous agreement. "See, us, we're part-a the Anti-Work Union of America, an' I'm sorry to say that every single one of us would have to tell that social worker we ain't lookin' for a job. Not none of us," he says emphatically. "It's against our principalities."

Baby John stares. "Can ya do that?"

Riff shrugs again. "Why not? Kid, it don't matter what ya say, so ya might as well screw with their heads a little. Cops, judges, shrinks, do-gooder social workers, I been up in fronta alla them, an' they're all the same. No matter what ya say, they're gonna go right on believin' what they wanna believe about us."

"Yeah, Baby John, don'tcha get it?" adds A-Rab with a grin, having finally managed to get away from Action. He screws up his face and pitches his voice about two octaves higher into a shrill imitation of a woman. "Deep down inside, you're just no damn good!"

As the Jets crack up again at what is easy to recognize as A-Rab's social worker impression, Baby John's shoulders sag. "Oh."

Riff claps him on the shoulder. "Cheer up, kid. It ain't so bad." He grins. "Sure, they might stick ya in the pen for a year, but just play along an' snow 'em a little, an' they can't resist. It's bein' old an' ugly, see. Every single one-a them wants ya to tell 'em what's wrong, so's they can fix ya an' go on their merry little way. No one ever wants to hear it ain't that simple." His tone is light and amused and matter of fact, and Riff has never spoken a truer word in his life. "So we tell 'em what they do wanna hear so they can label why ya went bad. They'll fill in the blanks all by themselves—they gotta have a reason for everythin'. Makes 'em feel good about themselves." He glances around at the Jets with a grin. "Me, they always say I ain't right in the head. What about you boys?"

Ice keeps his mouth shut. He knows what adults have always thought about him, but he's never subscribed to it. The obvious explanation is too easy. But the other Jets have more than enough to say on the subject.

"Lazy," says Snowboy comfortably, leaning against the window. "Won't apply myself."

"I drink too much," puts in his twin with a hard smirk. "Me, I say I don't drink enough."

A-Rab lets out a giggle. "I'm just a no-good stinker."

"I'll say," mutters Anybodys, pinching her nose. "Pee-yew!"

Baby John shrugs. "They think it's 'cause my old man passed when I was little an' made me funny in the head," he says. "I don't got no father figure, see."

Ice eyes him, curious. In Baby John's case, at least, that could very well be it. Which is maybe why the kid joined up with the Jets in the first place. Huh, he thinks, amazed. Maybe this psychobabble isn't all bullshit, after all.

"My ma always says it's 'cause I'm a growin' boy," says Mouthpiece happily, humming under his breath.

The Jets stare up at the beanpole for a minute until Riff snorts. "You're what, six feet? Couple under? How much more she figure you're gonna grow?"

"I don' know," answers a beatific Mouthpiece, "but she says my dad was real tall."

Riff, after a moment, waves the blond off. "Anyway, see, Baby John? It ain't so hard."

Baby John shrugs. "I guess. So if Krupke comes back I just—make up stories about drugs an' drinkin' an' all that?"

Riff grins. "Right you are, buddy-boy. Learn fast, don'tcha?"

Ice can't help but chuckle. Sure, the cops and judges and psychiatrists and do-gooders think they know everything about them, but it's just the same crap over and over again and none of it really matters. What does matter, he thinks, is them, right here. The Jets. The world's a shitty place, yeah, but when you're a Jet, you've got everything you'll ever need.

Ice smiles to himself, a true smile, and refocuses on his friends just as an obedient Baby John nods. "Okay, Riff. I dig it."

The Jet leader smirks. "An' if even that don't work—an' it will, trust me—do what I do."

"Whaddaya you do?" asks the kid, wide-eyed.

"Oh, Krupke?" Riff calls innocently. He sticks his palm out at Tiger, who hands him the newspaper he is still holding. Without turning, Riff whacks Tiger one on the head and grins. "Tell 'em to, er—krup off."

The Jets burst into laughter as Tiger crashes to the ground in a mock-daze. "Why the hell didn't I ever think of that?" wonders A-Rab, cackling.

"'Cause you're a dumbass," snaps Anybodys, shoving him as she drops down from her perch on the ledge of the stairs.

Ice feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to see a smiling, friendly Doc. "Curfew, gentlemen! And ladies," he adds quickly as he walks down the steps and catches sight of the two girls. "Aren't you up a little late, Baby John?"

But Ice, who's stuck a piece of gum palmed from Big Deal into his mouth and is chewing away, barely hears him. Velma, finally done with Graziella's hair—which, to be honest, looks exactly the same to him—is hurrying back over after retrieving her purse from the window and yet again, Ice can't help but notice that damn, she looks good. Velma takes his outstretched hand and Ice immediately feels something wound up tight in him relax. He doesn't know how, but somehow everything is right-side up in his world again. Yeah, Ice thinks as he pulls her to his side and ushers her through the narrow doorway into Doc's, when you're a Jet, you've got everything you'll ever need.

They skip to the back of Doc's store, Ice trashing the gum on the way, and settle in their usual corner, just out of sight behind the pinball machine. Ice, pulling Velma onto his lap, finds plenty to get distracted by in her lips and hair and skin, all of it warm and softer than he can believe. This is life, he thinks, content. Just him, and his girl, and his buddies.

Out of corner of his eye, he can see Anybodys leaning over. She might be saying something about Velma and Gee-Tar and a dance, but Ice is too utterly absorbed to care.

"D'ya hear somethin'?" Velma breathes.

Ice shakes his head with a half-smile and pulls her closer. "Not a damn thing."

But then Gee-Tar's warning whistle sounds and as they break apart, they see Riff jerk his hand at her to get out. Velma obediently hops off his lap and starts to go, but Ice holds onto her fingertips until she he looks back.

"See ya later," he says quietly.

She nods, blue eyes steady. "See ya."

Ice stands up, watches her keenly as she sidles past the PRs, daring any of them to so much as touch her. Just try, he thinks, eyes narrowed, just you try and you'll be out quicker than you can say sorry.

But Velma passes unscathed and through the door, followed by a pouting Graziella and—after some prodding—Anybodys, and just like that, Ice thinks, mind turning to the matter at hand, it's all back to business again.