Disclaimer: Not even the progression of the dance belongs to me. That'd be the fabulous Jerome Robbins. :)

Note: Back in the day, Bardess of Avon and I analyzed the dance to the point of ridiculousness, so chapters four and five are based off of that, and off of my interpretation of Ice and Velma's characters (they keep telling me I should let them make out more. Um.). Clearly, I have no life. So as always, feel free to let me know if you have any burning questions, concerns, or righteous outrage that you'd like to air. All and any kinds of feedback are cherished. :)

Proper credit: Jerry Robbins, for his masterpiece of a creation.

Hope you enjoy!

—viennacantabile

fell the angels

four : the dust of the stars in your eyes

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The future was with Fate. The present was our own.

—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Poison Belt

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By the time they get to the gym, half of Graziella's lipstick has already rubbed off and Riff looks like he's got some kind of tropical fever from all the red on his face. Baby John and Minnie have actually graduated to holding hands. And Velma, if she hasn't exactly forgotten about the challenge tonight, has managed to push it out of her mind. All of that is later, and right now she just wants to dance.

But as soon as they walk into the hall, a middle-aged man in a suit and bowtie eagerly comes rushing over to greet Riff and Ice. Velma raises an eyebrow. She has no idea who this man is, but she can already tell that whatever he's selling isn't going to fly with any gang member worth his name. He is actually reaching for the Jets' hands as they roll their eyes and do their best to ignore his gabble.

"Well, damn," says Riff, surveying the room after they finally shake the suit off, "ain't this a sight. All this for little ol' us?"

Velma looks around. The gym, with its red-painted walls and arched, stained-glass window half-hidden behind a basketball hoop, does appear to have been cleaned up a bit. There is a table with a punch bowl and cups scattered all over it, and Velma smiles as she catches sight of Clarice and Big Deal already working the dance floor, along with several others she doesn't recognize, including a squinty-eyed blonde wearing green and a curvy brunette in a dress that looks just like the Cheshire Cat's stripes in Alice in Wonderland. Her smile fades a bit, however, when she sees Bernice and Pauline standing to the side like hungry cats ready to pounce. Velma sighs. It's not hard to figure out who they're waiting for.

"Uh, Riff," murmurs Ice, glancing at his fearless leader, "speakin'-a sights…ya got lipstick all over your face."

Riff considers this with a grin as his hand drifts up to touch his cheek. "Well, gee. I guess I do."

"Ain't that somethin'," adds a smug Graziella with a titter.

Velma rolls her eyes at her best friend, then scans the room again. Clarice and Big Deal have stopped dancing and are making a beeline over to the group, as are several other Jets and girls around the room. Ice squeezes her shoulder as the couple reaches them. "Back in a sec."

Velma nods as he settles in with the other boys and turns to the girls, who are all ooh-ing and ahh-ing over dresses and hair and makeup. By this time, an arm-in-arm Pauline and Bernice have sauntered over, too. Velma, giving Bernice, the once-over, has to admit that the brunette looks good. Though Bernice's blue, ruffled dress isn't quite to Velma's taste (especially considering what Velma herself is wearing), she can't find any fault with her short dark bob or makeup. Bernice looks—well, very pretty. It's not hard to understand how she gets so many boys.

That's just it, though, Velma thinks, hiding a frown as she nods to both girls. Sometimes she wonders if she'd like Bernice a little bit more if the brunette hadn't so very emphatically expressed her appreciation for Velma's boyfriend when they'd first met. Of course, Bernice hadn't known Velma and Ice were an item at the time, but that still doesn't change the fact that Velma is pretty sure Bernice would happily jump into bed with Ice if she thought she could get away with it. If Ice wanted to.

At this thought, Velma relaxes. That's the nice thing about her boyfriend, she remembers contentedly with a cautious smile at Bernice. He doesn't want to.

It's a good thing, too, with girls like Pauline around. Now that Velma has a better view of the older girl, her eyes widen. Pauline is wearing a string of pearls and something that can't accurately be called a dress, because no dress Velma has ever heard of exposes quite so much bare skin from the ribcage down to the waist. Graziella, too, has her eyebrows raised, though what with the slit in Graziella's own skirt and the low scoop of her neckline, Velma thinks it's probably more because Graziella is irritated that she didn't think of it first than any real outrage at Pauline's immodesty.

"Ain't ya cold?" the redhead sniffs.

Pauline smirks. "Nah, I got a nice trick-a warmin' myself up. If ya know what I mean," she adds, casting a long, slow glance over at the Jets.

Clarice darts an alarmed look at Minnie, but when it becomes apparent that her happily oblivious best friend does not, in fact, know what Pauline means, she visibly breathes a sigh of relief. Still, Velma can see that the brunette is not pleased with the older girl, and she can't exactly blame Clarice. Minnie doesn't know the first thing about what Pauline gets up to with the boys and none of the Jet girls wants to be the one to tell her. Except, it seems, Pauline.

"Yep, we do," says Clarice, rushing to distract her. "Say, did ya know Minnie's here with Baby John?"

Pauline arches an interested eyebrow. "Really. Well, ain't that cute. Ya mind if I steal him for a dance or two later, Minnie? He's just so…" She trails off and exhales throatily.

Every Jet girl besides Minnie glares at her. And Pauline smirks. "So sweet," she finishes innocently. "I feel like his big sister, or somethin'!"

"I just bet ya do," mutters Bernice, earning a swat from her twin. "Ow!"

"Of course you can!" Minnie beams. "Who's your date, Pauline?"

The older girl smiles quite suggestively. "All of 'em. Any of 'em. I ain't choosy. Maybe I'll even take a turn with Riff or Ice."

"The hell ya will," Graziella snaps.

Velma gives Pauline a cool stare. Bernice might have a taste for running around with the Jets, but Pauline is something else entirely. She is—there is no other word for it—easy. Velma has never exactly been fond of girls like that, and she likes Pauline even less right now. "Ice can do what he wants. Not," she pauses, eyeing the older girl's bare midriff again, "that I think he wants to."

Pauline doesn't appear to have heard the last sentence. "Oh really?" she coos. "Thanks, Vel!"

Velma gives her a doubtful look, but decides not to comment. Ice was turning down Pauline even before he'd met Velma, after all, and she has a feeling Pauline won't lack for other company, anyway. She turns instead to Clarice. "How're you? Ya look real pretty," she adds sincerely. Clarice's dress dips low at the neck and hugs her hips in a way that Velma imagines must drive Big Deal crazy—something her friend is very good at, she thinks with a small smile. But what Velma really likes is the shifting shade between taupe, pink, and purple. "I wish I could pull that color off."

Clarice laughs. "Well, I could say the same for that blue, Vel. How many times has Ice told ya how nice ya look?"

Velma dimples. "Four, so far. What about Big Deal?"

The brunette flashes a matching grin back at her. "Oh, Frankie ain't doin' much talkin'," she says quietly enough so that Minnie can't hear. "An' I ain't exactly complainin'."

Velma giggles. Then she catches sight of a gloomy figure on the other side of the room and raises an eyebrow. "An' Gee-Tar?"

Clarice smirks. "Ten. Frankie don't like it too much, but Gee-Tar's just bein' nice, so what can I do?"

Velma gives her friend a knowing smile. "I bet I could think of a few things. Tellin' Gee-Tar to pick his jaw up off the floor an' stop droolin', for starters."

Clarice laughs. "Frankie's a big boy, he can take care-a himself." Her grin widens. "'Sides, how else'm I s'posed to keep him in his place?"

"Oh, Clarice," Velma sighs, amused in spite of herself. Clarice has a habit of making her boyfriend jealous, and she has an uneasy feeling that it's not strictly fair to Big Deal. Or Gee-Tar, either, for that matter. But as Clarice is always reminding her, Gee-Tar knows she'll never like him as more than friends and he still keeps coming around. Theoretically, that makes it his own fault if his heart gets broken. Still, though, Velma has a feeling that Clarice doesn't try very hard to keep Gee-Tar away. "Y'know—"

Before she can say more, though, Minnie flutters over with a rustle of caramel-orange tulle.

"Clarice," she whispers anxiously, "I'm having a—problem—with my tights. Do you think you could help me?"

Clarice smiles at her best friend. "Sure, Minnie. C'mon, let's find the ladies' room."

"We'll go, too," adds Pauline languidly, and as she takes Bernice by the arm and strolls after them, Velma isn't sorry at all to see her leave. She supposes Pauline would be a nice girl, if she ever stopped chasing the boys—but that's just it. That's all she ever does. A Pauline without the Jets is like Big Deal without his gum, or Action without the fight in him, or even the Jets without Riff. Unimaginable.

"Oh, look," snickers Graziella, breaking Velma's train of thought, "it's the he-she. And don't it look nice."

Velma turns her head to see Anybodys lurking around the Jets. True to form, Velma can tell even from this distance that there isn't a speck of makeup on her face. And, if Velma's not mistaken, the tomboy is actually wearing jeans and a ratty-looking tank. To a dance. "What's she doin' here?"

"Hell if I know," scoffs Graziella, putting a disdainful hand on her hip. "But if that flat-chested dyke thinks she's gonna get Riff's attention by dressin' just like him, she's got another think comin'." The redhead juts her own ample chest out, seemingly unaware of the contradiction in her words. "I swear, Riff has that exact same outfit." She sniffs. "'Cept it looks way better on him."

As if she hears, the tomboy turns and makes an awful face at them. Velma stifles a giggle as Graziella's eyes bug out and she half-shrieks, jumping about a foot backward. "The hell?"

"I guess she thinks you look nice, too," says Velma with a straight face.

Graziella rolls her eyes at her best friend. "Funny, Vel. Y'know, I don't see why Riff don't just run her off," she sneers. "An' if he don't, maybe I oughta. She's just as bad as the wannabes." The redhead casts a scornful glance at the gaggle of girls who are close enough to hear her words, though they pretend they don't.

Velma grimaces as she notices Carole, Susan, Priscilla, Marilyn, Nanette, Gina, and Wilma, most in some variation of the Jet-approved shades of blue or orange. "I was hopin' they wouldn' show," she says in a low voice.

Graziella snorts. "Not a chance. They're as bad as Pauline about Jets." She turns her gaze back to where Anybodys is hovering close to the boys. "Y'know, I think I am gonna go run her off. She's annoyin' me."

Velma gives her a halfhearted smile. "Don't think she's gonna like that too much, Graz."

"Don't matter what she likes," says Graziella determinedly, putting her hands on her hips. "I'm Riff's girl, an' I say she better scat. Now."

Velma shrugs in defeat. When Graziella gets going like this, it's next to impossible to stop her, and by now Velma has learned not to try. "I'm just gonna get some punch or somethin'," she says. "Come back soon."

As soon as Graziella clacks away, a tall, blond figure pops up next to Velma. "Hiya, Velma," beams the Jet.

Velma eyes him uncertainly. "Hi, Mouthpiece."

"Gee, ya sure look pretty tonight, Velma," he goes on, trademark dopey grin stretching from ear to ear. "Just like a picture. Here, I heard ya say ya wanted punch, so I got ya some."

Velma bites back a startled laugh as she takes the plastic cup from him. "Oh. Well, thanks."

"D'ya wanna dance?" the tall Jet asks, placid face lit up and hopeful. Velma feels guilty about bursting his bubble, but for both her sake and his, it has to be done.

"I don't know if Ice would like that," she says tactfully, taking a sip and glancing around. Sure enough, she spots Ice barreling back over, looking none too happy. "Maybe later?"

Mouthpiece beams. "Gee, sure, Velma! Hiya, Ice," he adds cheerfully to the Jet lieutenant as he approaches at a quickstep. "I was just tellin' Velma how pretty she looks."

Ice's murderous expression doesn't change as he puts his arm around his girlfriend. "Yeah. I know. Scram, Mouthpiece."

Mouthpiece blinks, and obligingly backs away, keeping his eyes fastened on Velma. "G'bye!"

Once the tall Jet is a significant distance away, Velma laughs. "Honey, ya look like a little kid who won't share his toys," she informs him with amusement. "Quit sulkin'."

"So what if I don't wanna share?" grumbles Ice, still glaring in Mouthpiece's direction. "Kid should find his own girl." Then he glances at her, his pale eyes softening a bit. "Ya do look pretty, though."

Velma dimples at this fifth repetition. "What, ya needed him to tell ya that?"

Ice snorts. "As if." Taking her punch, he tosses it into the nearest trash can and busies himself in pouring her another.

"I wasn't done with that," protests Velma halfheartedly.

"Yeah, well, who knows what he put in there," Ice mutters, a dark scowl on his face as he hands her the new cup.

Taking a sip, Velma giggles. "Ya really think he'd think-a somethin' like that? Didn't ya say he didn't even make it through tenth grade?"

The corners of Ice's mouth turn up at last, and his face relaxes. "Guess not," he admits with a chuckle. "Ya can't blame me, though. Kid won't quit lookin' at ya. It's gettin' on my nerves." As if to prove his point, Ice points another patented glare in Mouthpiece's direction; a distinct, if faraway, yelp is heard. "'Sides," he continues edgily, shifting his weight, "what if you start givin' him the time-a day some time? Even if it's just like Clarice," he adds, gesturing over to where Clarice, having just returned from the bathroom, is talking to Gee-Tar, a visibly grumpy Big Deal nearby.

Velma gives her boyfriend a rueful smile. "Look," she says, "you know Clarice told Gee-Tar she ain't gonna like him. An' you know I'd do the same, if Mouthpiece ever quit starin' an' said anythin' about it."

Ice sighs. "Yeah, I know."

"But since he ain't never actually come out an' said anythin'," Velma goes on with a placating hug, "I can't do anythin' but keep on treatin' him same as the other Jets."

Ice puts his arms around her and returns the squeeze. "I guess so," he concedes. "But I still don't like it." He snorts, and Velma can practically feel the glare he sends out at Mouthpiece again. "'Specially not when he keeps lookin at ya."

"Yeah, well," says Velma, giggling up at him, more than a little amused, "I don't think I gotta worry about nothin' with you around watchin' my back." She smirks. "An' my front."

Ice cracks a grin down at her. "Nope," he says wholeheartedly, "ya sure don't. Dance?"

Velma can't help the smile that comes onto her own face. "Thought you'd never ask, Daddy-O." Finishing off her punch, she sets her cup down and follows Ice out onto the half-full dance floor, where an energetic lindyhop is just starting up. Within moments they are caught up in the rhythm of the steps and the movement of the music. This is the kind of dance that gets Velma's blood flowing, her adrenaline going, and now, Ice is caught up in it, too. He dances hard, sharp, fast, and Velma, eyes locked possessively on him, can't wait for later tonight and a not so different kind of dance.

She doesn't know how long this whirl of motion lasts—there is almost nothing better than losing herself in a haze of jazz and swing and jive, and Velma wants it to last forever. They take breaks every time they need a drink or someone new shows up, and Velma makes small-talk with the girls as she always does, but her eyes never leave him. Part of what has always attracted her to Ice is that he's not some sleek and shiny dandy; he is what he is, and Ice is never going to be the type who breaks out the tux for every other occasion. And she likes that. But she has to admit, Velma thinks as she smiles seductively at him behind the girls' backs, when he does clean up, he cuts quite a nice figure in a jacket and tie. And gee, whiz, she thinks with a sigh, watching his lean, angular form twist and move, he sure can dance.

By the time all the Jets have arrived, the dancehall is full of teenagers, social workers, and the odd policeman or two. There are some younger kids—Velma looks, but doesn't see her brother—and a few couples from school hanging around the outskirts of the room. Most of the floor, though is taken up by the local gang members. The ones in green, Graziella has previously informed her, are the Emeralds, and the few black teenagers wandering around are probably Musclers from closer to Harlem, Ice tells her.

"Harlem?" she wonders during one of their breathers. "What're they doin' here, then?"

Ice shrugs, eyes focused on the entrance. "Prob'ly scoutin' around to see if they can take our turf. 'S what they all do."

Velma smiles at him. "Let 'em try."

Ice flashes her a crooked smile. "Oh, they will," he confirms with a chuckle, "but we'll knock 'em down the cellar, just like we do all them other gangs."

There's one last group on the dance floor, but Velma doesn't need to ask who the dark-haired, dark-skinned boys and girls in gaudy shades of pink, red, and purple are. They look different, they are different, from the way they dress to the way they dance. The only thing she doesn't know from a glance is what name the Puerto Ricans go by, and Ice has already told her that. Sharks.

Velma sneaks a glance here and there, but it's difficult to get a good look at them. She's not even sure why she wants to—they're just Puerto Ricans, after all, hardly worth the effort—but she figures she ought to take a leaf from the Jets' book and know a little bit about their enemy. The boys don't seem to understand that it's summer—they're all in dark suits that have to be sweltering by now. But then, Velma remembers, they're fresh off the boat from Puerto Rico, after all. It must be even hotter there than it is here. Still, though, she thinks with a frown, they stick out like a sore thumb. It's almost as if they don't want to blend in. Which makes no sense at all.

The girls are no different. Their dresses are flashy, bright, in eye-catching shapes and colors that are barely on the right side of proper. Some of them are pretty, Velma allows, in a strange, exotic kind of way she hasn't quite seen before, though of course not to the Jets' taste. But their smooth, proud gazes slide right over the Jets like they're not even there, which irritates Velma more than it really should. Even if this is neutral territory, even if there is nothing going on right now, still she feels everyone who is not a Jet should sit up and take notice of the best gang in the room. Especially, she thinks, the new kids in town.

The music flares into a bluesy, brassy jangle, and Velma shakes her head and refocuses on Ice. She doesn't know exactly what time it is, but it can't be that far from ten o'clock, and if Velma has to think about challenges and war councils and rumbles tonight, there will be more than enough opportunity to do it later. Relax, she tells herself as she circles Ice and the dancers around her fling their arms into the air with careless abandon. Worrying can wait.

The dance is still going but right in the middle of it all, Velma feels a tap on her right shoulder and she turns. Her eyes widen. "Action. How ya doin'?"

The stocky, dark-haired boy grins and holds out his hand. "Great, Velma. Dance?"

"Oh. Well—" She hesitates, looks back over her shoulder at Ice, who shrugs.

Action jiggles up and down on the balls of his feet, ready to go. "I—ah—already cleared it with him before. He's cool with it."

"Oh," Velma says again, looking down at him. Action can really swing it—and if Ice doesn't mind… She smiles. "Sure."

She faces him and they get to it, shimmying and jiving like there's no tomorrow as the Jets and their girls form a semi-circle around them to watch. Pauline, left without a partner, closes in on Ice, whose face blanches for a moment before he puts a resigned arm around her. Velma swallows a giggle. Ice won't admit it, but she knows the Jet-loving girl is one of the few things that scares him silly and the sight of him cautiously snapping his fingers to the beat with her is funny enough that it overcomes the other part of her that is thoroughly annoyed with Pauline for glomming onto her boyfriend the second Velma steps away.

Redirecting her attention to Action, Velma hides a confused frown. It's strange, she thinks, that even though Action's dancing with her—and the hot-tempered boy can dance; he flings himself into the steps like he's gearing up for war—he isn't all that close. Actually, Velma notes with some surprise, he's a good three feet away. And he only touches her once, as he grabs her hand to get up off the floor. Then he spins her around, and almost immediately, Ice cuts between them again, sending Action an irate glare. Oh, that's why, she thinks with a small smile, putting two and two together.

"Geez, I told him no funny business," Ice fumes under his breath as they move off to watch A-Rab, Mouthpiece, and Anybodys cut away from the others. "Sorry, Vee."

Velma laughs. Ice's idea of funny business, she thinks with amusement, is everyone else's idea of friendliness. "Well, he sure can cut a rug," she teases. Ice frowns, and she stands on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. "But I like you better, anyway."

When she settles back, his face is relaxed, and she takes the moment to shove him playfully. "An' what about you? she asks, half-serious. She eyes Pauline critically. Her hair, Velma notes for the first time, trading glances between her and Anybodys, is almost as short as the tomboy's. If a bit better-groomed. "Pauline a good dancer?"

Ice's shrug is almost a shudder as they pick up the beat again. "Wasn't lookin'."

"Good," Velma smirks, stifling a surprised laugh as she sees A-Rab's foot meet the back of Anybodys's jeans. Everyone and his mother knows that A-Rab is one of the most preoccupied with the fairer sex, but she's always thought his type was, well—a little curvier.

"But if I was lookin'," Ice says, drawing her closer, "I'd say she dances like somebody's ma." He winces. "Snowboy an' Joyboy's, maybe."

Velma giggles—she's heard plenty about Mrs. Boyer and her taste for younger men, and she agrees with the comparison—and whirls into his arms. All around them, Jets and Sharks are up against their girls, hips meeting hips in a dangerously close grind as they heat up the air around them. This, Velma thinks, is what it means to be young and alive. This feeling, right here. Right now.

"An' between you'n their ma," Ice continues, pressing her body to his and moving slowly, deliciously against her, "there ain't no contest."

"There'd better not be," Velma murmurs, looking straight up at him as they sway to the rhythm. She wants him, he wants her, and she can hardly catch her breath, he's so close.

Ice doesn't say anything, just gives her a decidedly rakish grin as the music changes and he deliberately distances his body from hers, though he keeps his arm around her waist. Velma, still snapping her fingers and tapping her feet to the beat, pouts at the loss of heat. "Oh, that's just mean. How'd ya feel if I did that to you, honey?"

In answer, he backs her up against the wall and moves in close, pale eyes intense, as they keep dancing. "Don't act all innocent," he murmurs with an amused smile. "It ain't like ya ain't done it before, neither. Remember the closet at school?"

Velma dimples and just skips coyly around him. "If ya want, we could find one right here an' I could make up for—"

And then Riff knocks Ice on the shoulder and Ice, head whipping around, moves to face off against the newly-arrived Bernardo and the Sharks. It happens so quickly that it takes Velma a moment to realize where they've gone, but when she does, she sighs. Hands on her hips, Velma walks over to Graziella, exchanging put-out glances with her best friend.

"You'd think they ain't got better things to look at," Graziella huffs as they follow the flow of the Jets and their allies over to the center of the room.

"An' do," Velma adds with a sigh, putting one hand on her hip and eyeing the Sharks with dislike. Just what is it that is so important about these Puerto Ricans, she wonders, that means the Jets have to drop everything and make like they're going to throw down right here, right now?

She doesn't pretend to understand why the Jets are so territorial about the streets they have marked out as their own. Sure, Velma has a theory or two, just like most of the other girls, but that idea of ownership and defense of a few blocks of the city has never been quite clear to her, mostly because in the end—no matter which way you look at it—it's just a little patch of world no one else cares about. What would happen, she thinks suddenly, if all of this just got torn down? If this neighborhood disappeared, just like that? What then?

Velma sighs. Whatever the answer is, she supposes, it's not even important. This is the way things are for the boys of the Upper West Side, and if it matters to Ice, then, well, it does. And, even if she doesn't quite understand why, that means it matters to her, too.

"Golly," says Graziella loudly. "Would ya look at those dresses the Spic girls have on? Some of 'em look like they stuck a carpet an' a pillow on legs!"

Velma blinks. "What?"

"You know," says Graziella, gesturing at the dark-skinned girls. "Them stupid carpet-patterned dresses with the big puffy skirts. Dumb Spics," she mutters under her breath. "Think they're so great."

Velma's lips quirk up into a smile. "Don't worry," she tells her best friend. "We'll show 'em. We're with the Jets, after all."

"The greatest," Graziella automatically adds.

"Right," Velma says firmly, because it is true. Her eyes slide from the Sharks to the Jets, assembled in the center of the room, and linger on Ice for a moment before she meets Graziella's gaze again. "Which means we are, too."