It was close to midnight when Tony headed for home. The night nurse had given up trying to kick him out the first night, after Tony had, in no specific terms, told her to fuck off. He wasn't sure if she was lazy or was afraid of him-maybe both-but she hadn't bothered him since.

It had been a long day. The doctor, after hearing Riff was awake, had come in to examine him. He'd tested Riff's reflexes, running tools and pricking him on his feet and up his legs, with what looked like, to Tony, should hurt. But Riff didn't flinch until the doctor hit right above his hip, finally jerking slightly, mumbling he could feel it.

Riff was then rolled out of the room and away from Tony for more x-rays. After that it was a lot of sitting around and waiting. Riff hardly talked, and Tony found himself rambling about anything he could think of. Normally it was the other way around. Riff usually couldn't shut the fuck up and Tony never could think of enough to say.

The doctor finally came back with a slight smile on his face. He showed them Riff's x-rays, acting as if they'd both suddenly completed medical school. He explained that although the knife had hit Riff's spine, it didn't sever it completely. This meant and there was hope that once some of the swelling went down, he'd get some of his feeling back in his legs. Tony jumped up, unable to contain his happiness, and had to stop himself from hugging the doctor. Riff on the other hand had practically no reaction at all. He simply lay there, staring up at the ceiling.

As the day wore on, Tony could tell by the sharp pitch of Riff's voice and the way he was biting his lip, he was in immense pain. Of course, Riff was too damn stubborn to admit it. Even with a hole in his back, Riff still wouldn't let the mask he's worked so hard to build drop.

When they were younger-and on occasion even as they got older-and Riff was being exceptionally pigheaded over something, Tony would pin him down and tickle him until he finally gave in to reason. He didn't pull it out of his arsenal often-Riff hated being tickled-but that was sometimes the only way to break down his defenses. Of course Riff would curse him up and down after for a good five minutes and threaten him with his life if he ever told anyone. But, Tony had to admit, sometimes the verbal attack after was worthed. There was a major part of him that enjoyed seeing Riff laugh freely-even if it was forced-without any constrictions or built up walls.

But they weren't little kids anymore and this wasn't a case of Riff just being obnoxious over not taking Tony's hand-me jacket when he didnt have one. This was something far more serious. And Tony had no idea how get through to him besides just being there, sitting there rambling away about some goddamn spider that made both him and Valentina scream.

Finally, around dinner, Riff let a few tears slip and breathlessly told him he was hurting. That was all it took for Tony to find a nurse and demand she push more meds. It was only after Riff's eyes started to flutter and his face began to relax, did Tony allow himself to fall apart.

He couldn't help but notice how young Riff looked when he slept, his bangs in his face, the couple of tears he allowed to let fall still staining his cheeks. Reaching out he grabbed a kleenex off of the nightstand and gently blotted Riff's face. He could praticallly hear Riff telling him to get the fuck off of him smiling with that damn crooked smile of his.

He threw up on the way home. In the alley way, where no one would see him. He leaned against the wall, breathing hard, trying to pull himself together, because he knew like every other night this past week, the Jets would be waiting for him at Doc's for an update.

That first night still felt like a bad dream.

Action had put his fist through a wall.

A-Rab had chugged half the vodka he'd no doubt stolen from his old man.

Anybodys had taken off to god knows where.

Mouthpiece was silent for the first time in his life.

Ice simply turned away from him.

And Baby John, well Baby John had cried. Sat down at the table and bawled like a damn baby.

He had stood there helpless, knowing there was nothing he could say or do to make this situation any better. And knowing by the way they clumped together after the shock of the news wore off, they didn't really want him around.

In truth, they weren't his Jets anymore. He lost them when he got sent upstate and then again when he came back not wanting to be a part of their all everythings-a-fight-all-out-war lifestyle.

They were all Riff's now.

The day on the docks with the gun had proved that. They'd all backed Riff, tossing the gun between them, without a moment's hesitation, acting like Tony was nothing to them. Like he'd never been anything.

They used to hang off of his every word, now they treated him like he was practically a stranger. And Tony had to admit, watching them fall apart the way they were, they were probably more Riff's then they ever were his.

I guess he should have always known it. He was their commander…their voice….but Riff was always the soul and heart of the Jets.

And now that heart and soul was broken. And there wasn't a damn thing any of them could do about it.


Riff always knew he wasn't much. He knew as sure as he knew how to breathe. Hell, his old man has been beating it into his head practically since the day he was born. Every punch to the chest, every shove to the floor, every busting open of his lip, came attached with a slew of hurtful words.

Mistake.

Useless.

Waste of life.

Piece of shit.

His Ma to her credit never said those things to him, but it wasn't like she defended him either. Sometimes Riff felt that was worse. She'd just sit there, watching him get knocked around, her eyes glazed over, drinking whatever alcohol she'd gotten her hands on. Then, she'd simply get up, locking herself in her room, leaving it up to Riff to nurse his wounds himself.

So yeah, Riff had always known he wasn't much, but he knew he wasn't nothing either.

For one, Riff ain't never been one to back down from a fight. Not once. Not when he was eight years old and the neighborhood bully stole Tony's Superman comic book right out of his hands. Not when a new gang mistakenly thought they could steal the Jet's turf out from under them. Not even when it meant possible suicide when he'd dive in between his Pop's and Ma's brutal fights.

Sometimes he felt like he was always swinging at something. Like he could never really put his fists down. That he could never really relax. Hell, when he really thought about it, he'd come out into the world swinging.

By the time he was five, he became an expert at fighting for food. Most of the time, Ma fed him, but sometimes, when she was in one of her moods-the type where she lays in bed with the curtain drawn for days on end- there was no food to be had in the house. On those occasions, Riff would walk casually into Doc's, easily slipping whatever he could manage into his pockets, his fingers quick and unflinching. He'd duck low in the next alley way over gobbling down half of whatever he swiped in the alleyway, trying to please his aching stomach. He'd take the rest home to Ma, shoving it down her throat, pleading with her to for god's sake eat something.

He fought his old man too. Not so much for himself, but for his Ma. Riff learned early on that saying something sharp would get his Pop off his Ma's case. Course, that meant he was on Riff's, but it was better to be the one taking the punches then watching the punches be thrown. By the time he was twelve he faced his old man down enough times to learn how to take a proper beating with class. He learned how to cover his face, how to duck blows, how to stand tall even when his ears were ringing and the room was spinning. And Riff felt, or at least convinced himself, learning to take a beating was being a fighter too.

By the time Riff was thirteen had a pretty good rep going for himself. Not necessarily because he was such a good fighter or because he always won, but because of his nerve. Riff knew being smaller than most other guys he had to be twice the fighter they all were. He'd often challenged the biggest bully on the playground just to prove his worth. He got his ass kicked plenty, but he also knew all he really needed was to get only one good swing in before those guys started to regret their misguided judgements on him. And man did he love proving them wrong. He loved the surprised look on their faces as he knocked them to the ground, their noses bleeding onto the concrete. He might not have size on his side, but he fought scrappy and dirty and wild mainly cuz it's the only way he knew how.

Yeah, Riff knew he wasn't much, but he wasn't nothing either.

For another, Riff also was proud of how he always made it known that he wasn't scared of jack shit. Even as a kid, he'd take on any dare the other kids were too scared to even think of doing. He'd lay in the middle of the street when a car was driving by, waiting until the last possible moment to jump up and run off to safety. He'd jump any distance, relishing in the girls' screams of fear and the boys' cheers of hero worship as he did so. He'd put a cigarette out on his arm, without flinching just to show he could take any type of pain there was. Riff made sure to let everyone that would listen know he wasn't scared of nothing. And everyone who listened for the most part bought it.

Hell, sometimes he almost bought it himself.

Course, Tony knew better. Tony, who for some reason, on their first meeting, decided Riff was worth making friends with. Even to this day, Tony was really the only one who he ever let his guard down. The only person who Riff could truly just be himself. Tony was the only person who really made Riff feel like he mattered.

It was like that from the first time they met too. His dad had just whalloped him over something Riff could no longer remember. He had to have been about six and was hiding underneath a random fire escape, nursing a black eye when a small voice came from above, demanding who was there.

Riff looked up to see a boy, probably about his age perched on the fire escape, looking down at him.

"Nonya business." Had been Riff's reply. He'd been crying and was ashamed, even at six for anyone to see him be weak.

"You wanna share my sandwich?" The boy asked, "My Ma gave it to me. She and my Pops are going at it somethin fierce."

Riff paused, not really wanting to talk to his kid, who seemed way too friendly. Who the fuck offers to share his sandwhich when they first meet someone. He was about to say no when his growling stomach got the better of him.

"I guess so."

"Great! Hey, my name's Tony."

RIff climbed up the stairs, eyeing the kid,wondering how quickly he could snatch the sandwich and make a break for it. Tony was taller than him, but so was everyone. Riff was always quicker and craftier. Just cuz he had to be. But then, Tony gasped, throwing him completely off his game.

"Woah" He said, taking a few steps back, "What happened to your eye? That looks like it really hurts!"

Riff was about to spout off one of the bevy of lies he always had handy when his Pops marked his face up, but something about this kid, this kid who had just met him and was willing to share his sandwich, made him feel comfortable. So for the first time when asked, Riff told the truth.

"My Pops." He said simply.

"Your Pops hit you!" Tony seemed stunned.

"Yours doesn't?" RIff gestured towards the screaming that was now pouring out the closed window. "Sure sounds like he's got a bad temper. Kinda sounds like my old man does when he's fired up 'bout somethin."

"No." Tony shook his head, handing Riff his half of the sandwich, "My Pops yells a lot. But he's never hits me. He makes my Ma cry a lot. I kinda hate him for it."

"Mine does too." Riff replied, feeling his resolve begin to drop. "I'm Riff by the way."

From there on out it seemed like whatever way Riff was going, Tony was going too. Just like Riff, Tony seemed like he was born to brawl. Where Riff fought mainly to get control of situations or maybe get control of himself, he wasn't too sure, Tony fought to unleash himself. Tony fought like he was always full of pushed down rage, shaking and hating the world around him. Tony fought like every punch, every hit was like it was life and death. Like he was a bottle of soda that was shaken too many times and suddenly the top gets popped off

Tony was one hell of a fighter too. Hell, ever since Riff's known him, the guy had one of the best right hooks he'd ever seen, always hitting his mark with perfect accuracy. Course, now that Tony had his growth spurt and was filled out in all the right places there was now serious power behind that punch.

And, just like with Riff everyone knew about Tony too. Everyone knew Tony wasn't a force to be reckoned with.

Watching Tony fight always left Riff with a feeling of awe. Where Riff's motions were spastic and impulsive, Tony's were fluid and well placed. Watching Tony fight was kinda like watching someone and graceful and impressive.

Yep, him and Tony were legends in their own right before they made it safely through puberty. They started the Jets around the time they were fifteen, counting on their reps, and pulling in guys from the neighborhood. Guys that needed a place to call their own. Guys just like him and Tony. Guys who were so achingly heartbroken for a family but had no one or no place else to turn to.

Yeah, Riff knew he wasn't much, but he wasn't nothing either.

But for the first time, as he laid there more helpless than he's ever been, he had to think...how the hell was he now supposed to be anything at all.