Disclaimer: Nope, nothing. Although the Betas belong to LCV Productions. :)

Proper credit: I've used a line/idea concerning Action from the script or the novel, can't remember which, heh.

—viennacantabile

fell the angels

nine : down to business

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"Here's the rule for bargains. 'Do other men, for they would do you.' That's the true business precept."

—Charles Dickens, Martin Chuzzlewit

.

Once the girls are gone, the Sharks file in, footsteps thudding slow and sullen, and Ice, still standing, lights up a cigarette. Velma doesn't like it when he smokes (according to her, it makes him taste like broccoli, which is just about the oddest thing she's ever said) but it'll be awhile before he sees her again and that's what Big Deal's gum is for, anyway. Right now, with an enemy gang in their headquarters and tension thick in the air, all he wants a smoke.

"Okay, Doc, set 'em up," instructs Riff, heading toward Ice's table. "Cokes all around."

But Bernardo isn't having any of this. "Let's get down to business."

Riff shoots the Jets a contemptuous smirk as he moves to sit down. "Ooh, Bernardo hasn't learned the procedures-a gracious livin'."

Bernardo echoes the Jet leader's mocking smile and adds a half-bow, to boot. "l don't like you either." His face darkens, as does his voice. "So cut it."

Riff eyes him for a moment, then turns his head. "'K, kick it, Doc."

Doc, as always, doesn't understand. "Boys, couldn't you maybe talk—"

"Kick it."

The old man sighs and disappears into the back. Sure, maybe when he was their age, things were different and you could talk, thinks Ice as Riff gestures to the two empty chairs at their table, but that was then and this is now. Ice taps the ash off his cigarette as Bernardo and Pepe take their seats. He's willing to bet Doc didn't have to deal with half of what they do today—lousy cops on the take, social workers sticking their noses everywhere they're not wanted. Puerto Ricans trying to take over their territory. No, he thinks, things are different now.

Once Doc is gone, Riff stares Bernardo down. "We challenge you to a rumble. All out, once and for all. Accept?"

A cool Bernardo stares right back. "On what terms?"

"Whatever terms you're callin'," Riff shrugs, eyes narrowing. "You crossed the line once too often."

"You started it," says Bernardo in a low, terse voice, and Ice's eyebrows contract. The Sharks were the ones to swan in on Jet turf months ago, just like they owned it. All the Jets are doing is protecting what little the world grants as theirs. What excuse do the Sharks have?

"Who jumped Baby John this afternoon?" demands Riff.

Bernardo makes a fast, angry gesture with his hand. "Who jumped me the first day I moved here?"

The Jets—Ice included—don't appreciate this at all. "Who asked you to move here?" sneers Action.

"Who asked you?" retorts Pepe.

But Snowboy backs Action up. "Move where you're wanted!"

"Back where ya came from!" fills in A-Rab.

"Spics!"

"Mick!"

And Ice jerks his head up to glare at Pepe, suddenly furious. Fucking PRs—who are they to talk about Micks? But Ice keeps his seat. He's heard worse, and this is a war council, after all; there'll be plenty of time to settle scores at the rumble. So when the last "Wop!" is fired, Ice, along with Riff, Bernardo, and Pepe, is able to hold the lower-ranking members of the gangs back. Later, he thinks, directing a warning glance around at the Jets. Later.

After a long, tense moment, the gang members settle back and Bernardo returns his dark gaze to Riff. "We accept."

Riff doesn't hesitate. "Time."

"Tomorrow?"

"After dark," Riff specifies.

Bernardo gives a deep nod; the two gang leaders shake hands.

"Place."

Bernardo shrugs. "The Park?"

Ice thinks it over, mind running through the possibilities in a few seconds. No. That's the first place the coppers will look and there are always too many not-so-innocent bystanders in there. And in the Park, where there are trees and shadows and countless places to hide, there is always the risk of an ambush. He shakes his head ever-so-slightly at Riff, who knows his lieutenant well enough to catch the movement.

"The river," the Jet captain counters.

Ice watches Bernardo consult Pepe, who also shakes his head behind the wisps of smoke drifting up from his cigarette. Ice can guess why: too open, too obvious, and too easy to get cornered by. It's also a hell of a lot closer to Jet territory than it is to the Sharks' neighborhood, and no way are the PRs about to agree to that kind of advantage.

"Under the highway," Bernardo says, proud face watching theirs.

Ice considers. Good cover, well lit, no cops. Yes. Riff thrusts his hand out; they shake again.

Things are really moving now, and as Riff calls for weapons, Ice feels relief. At this rate, they'll be able to settle up, get out of here, and plan. He doesn't trust being in this small space with the Sharks; either they'll make a move or Krupke will come sniffing around again, and to be honest, Ice isn't sure which would be worse. The former, Ice supposes, taking a drag on his cigarette, because Krupke would just be a nuisance. An attack in close quarters, however, would be more than that.

But everything changes when Ice hears a happy, excited voice he knows very well.

"Doc! Hey, Doc!"

Ice, along with everyone else, glances at the door to see Tony burst in, flushed and full of energy. The hell, thinks Ice in disgust, that's the last time they post Gee-Tar as lookout. What is he doing facing away from the window? A little warning would have been nice.

Tony stops still as he sees the gangs clustered in the back and an eager Riff, who perks up and waves his hand at his friend. "Tony!"

Action, however, focuses on Bernardo, whose angry gaze is glued on Tony. Right, Ice remembers; Tony, at the dance, had been with Bernardo's sister. "Weapons," pushes Action. And again, when Bernardo doesn't respond. "Weapons!"

Bernardo, turning back around, makes an obvious effort to return to the present problem, raising his hands in surrender. "Weapons."

"You call," offers Riff shrewdly. Ice, watching him, remembers his earlier words: I wanna hold it like we always held it—with skin. Riff knows that if that's what he calls, though, he'll look like a chicken. So he puts it on the Sharks. Smart, but risky.

"Your challenge," says Bernardo, and Ice, masking his surprise, wonders if the Shark leader is thinking the same thing.

Riff lets out a small chuckle. "Afraid to call?"

At this, the Jets snicker, and Bernardo's narrowed eyes dart over in the direction of the gathered Sharks. When at last he opens his mouth, his usually-smooth voice is tight. "Rocks."

Riff doesn't hesitate. "Belts."

"Pipes."

Their words move faster and faster as the two find a rhythm and escalate to bricks, bats, clubs, chains, gaining steam. Neither leader wants to look weak in front of two different gangs. And Ice, lowering his eyes to stare at the table, dismisses the idea of a skin-to-skin rumble. Forget that, he thinks, it's not going to happen now. All they can hope for is that they don't end up fighting with—

"Bottles, knives, guns!" interrupts Tony derisively, striding over. Ice and every other boy in the room stares at him as he yanks his jacket off. "What a coop fulla chickens."

"Who you callin' chicken?" challenges Action as Tony crosses back over behind the pinball machine.

"Every dog knows his own," suggests Bernardo, lifting his hands in amusement.

Tony ignores the Shark. "l'm callin' you all chicken," he declares. Leaning in over the pinball machine, his gaze moves from boy to boy, dancing feverishly. His voice quiets. "Big tough buddy boys gotta throw bricks, huh? 'Fraid to get in close? 'Fraid to slug it out? 'Fraid to use plain skin?"

What the hell is Tony doing? Ice wonders for the second time that night, furrowing his brow. If he's got some plan up his sleeve—and for his sake, he'd better—Ice can't figure out what it is.

Snowboy wrinkles his nose. "Not even garbage?"

"That ain't a rumble!" protests Action.

"Who says?" Riff scoffs. Ice isn't too surprised to hear the guarded support in his leader's voice. They're best friends, after all, and chances are that if Tony does have a plan, Riff will be on board in a minute. As will Ice, if it's any good.

Bernardo turns accusingly toward Riff. "You said 'call weapons.'"

And Tony is back over to their table in a minute, eyes sparking, intense as he talks fast and hard. "A rumble can be clinched by a fair fight. If you've got the guts to risk that." He pauses, and Ice, watching the effect Tony's words have on the gang members, is impressed. This is the old Tony, who always knew exactly how to get his way. He still can't figure out, though, why Tony is pushing for a fair fight. "Best man from each gang to slug it out."

Bernardo's eyes gleam as he rises silently to his feet; he abruptly changes tack. "I would enjoy to risk that. Okay, fair fight."

The two gangs erupt in protest, clamoring for something, anything more than just plain old boring vanilla one-on-one. Ice, though he doesn't get up, isn't happy either. He is all for fighting with fists, sure, but not like this. For one thing, his day is always better when he gets to flatten some punks, and for another, the Sharks have been asking for a beating for months now and for the Jets not to be able to give it, well, that just doesn't sit nice with him.

"Wait a minute!" Riff cautions, springing to his feet. "The commanders say yes or no." Ice watches, hardly able to believe it as the Jet leader meets Bernardo's eyes and extends his hand. "Fair fight."

The Shark leader hurriedly shakes Riff's hand, then whips around to face a retreating Tony. "When I get through with you," he says, voice tight and triumphant, "you will be like a fish after skinning."

But Ice barely hears him. He, Action, A-Rab, all the Jets nearest to Riff are too busy giving their captain incredulous looks. Riff, though, gestures for them to wait and eyes his lieutenant. Ice relaxes. Riff, he is sure, knows what he's doing, and Ice, at least, will be able to flatten one Shark.

"Your best man fights our best man," interrupts Riff extra-politely as Bernardo turns around, "and, ah—we pick 'im," the Jet leader finishes, clapping his hand on Ice's shoulder. The lieutenant finally stands, relishing the shocked, wary look the Shark gives him. That's right, he thinks, sending back a challenging stare. Get ready to rumble, Spic.

The PR isn't happy, that's for sure, and whips around to glare at Tony. Beyond wanting to get him for dancing with his sister, Bernardo probably figures Tony would be a pushover. After all, Tony is a nice-looking guy, and it's hard to believe his fists live up to his street reputation when his face is so wide-eyed and earnest. Ice, on the other hand, has never been accused of looking too nice. Bernardo narrows his eyes. "But I thought I would be fighting with—"

"You shook on it," Riff reminds him. In their world, where shaking hands is as good as your name or better, going back on a deal between gangs like this is not exactly a great idea. And Bernardo, scornful as he might be of the American ways of doing business, knows that, at least. He sighs in frustration and drops his hands.

"Yes," the Shark leader says, giving Tony another murderous look, teeth gritted, "I shook on it."

And Action, forever itching for a fight, bursts forward. "Look, Bernardo, if you wanna change your mind, we can still—"

A sharp, urgent whistle from a for-once alert Gee-Tar, and the gangs instantly shift, intermingle, again united against a common foe. Ice, thrusting the cigarette back into his mouth, swaps seats with Pepe as Riff pulls out a pack of cards and hurriedly divvies them up. All around them, Jets are buddying up with Sharks; Baby John is showing the shortest Shark his Captain Marvel comic, while Snowboy and A-Rab are clustered around the checkerboard with a skinny Shark who looks maybe fifteen. And Action, predictably, is firing darts at the board with a dark-skinned, heavy-lidded Shark. None of them except the boys closest to the window knows who it is, but no one is taking any chances tonight.

"Hey, Bernardo, baby, wouldja like a cigarette?" asks Riff, flashing a winning grin as he reaches for the pack in his jacket.

"No, thanks, I don't smoke," replies Bernardo, deliberately raising his voice to be heard over the crowd.

"We want Cokes all around, man," snickers Pepe, and Ice, his back to the door, rolls his eyes.

"I don't smoke," Bernardo repeats, softer, before giving his lieutenant an amused half-smile. "I would like a Coca-Cola."

Ice glances at him. Now he wants a Coke, he thinks, not immune to the irony of the situation. Well, the kid's got a sense of humor, he grudgingly admits for the second time that day. Any funnier and he'd be a stand-up comedian.

"Evening, Lieutenant," greets Doc half-heartedly over the tramping footfalls of the new arrival. "I an' Tony was just closin' up."

Great, thinks Ice with disgust, Schrank. Just who they need.

The lieutenant ignores him. "Well! Now," he says, sounding pleased-as-punch, "this is more like it, fellas. Warms me all over to see you this way. And after only a coupla words from me at the playground this afternoon; how about that?" Ice keeps his head down, concentrating on his cards. Ace of spades, he notices distractedly, queen of hearts. A jack, a ten—both spades—and a two, hearts again. Too bad they're not actually playing. "Oh. D'you mind?"

"I have no mind," mumbles Doc. Ice, gaze still on his cards, doesn't know what Schrank's talking about, but he doubts it would matter, anyway. "I'm the village idiot."

Schrank goes on, his voice light, but he's not fooling anyone. "Y'know, headquarters hears about this, I may even get a promotion. Good deal all around, hey, Bernardo?" the lieutenant asks, voice tinged with derision. His heavy footsteps draw nearer and Ice, taking a drag of his cigarette, can hear that Schrank is right behind him. "I get a promotion—you Puerto Ricans get what you've been itchin' for. Use of the playground, use of the gym…. The streets—the candy store." And then he pauses just behind Bernardo, and in the silence, his next words drop like a bomb.

"So what if they do turn this whole town into a stinkin' pigsty?"

Bernardo flashes up like lightning, and Ice grabs his arm—if the Spic is going to get bloodied, he'd rather do it himself, because there is no satisfaction whatsoever in Schrank getting the pleasure—before Riff and Pepe join him in settling the Shark leader back down.

"Hey, don't stop him," laughs Schrank. "He wants to get home—write a few letters to San Juan, tell 'em how he's got it made over here! What I mean is—" his voice rises to a snarl— "clear out, you!" And without any warning at all, the lieutenant sends Bernardo's chair crashing to the floor. "I said, clear out!"

There is absolute silence as each and every one of them stares at the lieutenant.

Schrank lets out a mocking chuckle. "Oh, yeah, sure, I know. It's a free country, an' I ain't got the right." His voice drops to a slow, scornful growl. "But I got a badge. What do you got? Things're tough all over. Beat it!"

Ice's brow knits the slightest bit. Sure, he doesn't like the PRs, but he likes Schrank even less, and if anyone is going to clear the Sharks out, it's going to be the Jets, not some police officer with an jumped-up sense of his own importance. This territory is theirs to hold. Not his.

Bernardo stares Schrank down for what feels like an hour, resentment etched in the lines of his back. Then he deliberately straightens his jacket and glances at Riff, who gives him a slight nod before Bernardo turns back around, snaps his fingers, and leads the Sharks out of Doc's. They file out quietly, but as they reach the door, Ice hears a sharp, whistled melody that he vaguely recognizes: "America." And Ice, returning his cards to Riff, raises an eyebrow. He has to hand it to him yet again—that Bernardo guy does have a sense of humor. Even if he doesn't seem to get that Puerto Ricans don't exactly qualify as Americans.

With the Sharks gone, Schrank adopts a friendlier tone. "Okay, fellas," he says, picking up the fallen chair as the Jets resettle themselves. "Where's the rumble gonna be?"

Dead silence, broken only by the zip of Riff shuffling his cards.

"Come on," says Schrank, "I know regular Americans don't rub with the gold-teeth unless somethin's gonna—"

"Look, Lieutenant," begins Tony in a conciliatory tone, "why don't you let—"

"You shut your mouth," barks Schrank. Once again, an uneasy quiet settles over the store. Schrank, perhaps sensing this, tries a different tactic. "Come on, Baby John," he says, softer, turning to their youngest member. Ice, head whipping around, guesses he's trying to act all paternal, and judging from what Ice remembers of his own father, he's not far off the mark. Schrank rests his hand on the wall next to Baby John's head. "Before that smooth little kisser-a yours gets cut-up for life. Now, where's it gonna be? The river?"

Baby John darts a quick, pleading look at A-Rab, who shakes his head in warning.

"The Park?"

Baby John gives a helpless shrug. Not great, thinks Ice with a small smile, watching the kid's reaction, but better than he'd been expecting.

"Look, fellas, I'm for you!" Schrank tries next, turning around to face them all. Ice, along with every other Jet he can see, turns his head away. Keep saying that, he thinks darkly, and someday you might believe it. Sure.

But Schrank keeps going. "I want this beat cleaned up, and you can do it for me!"

Ice glances at him in derision. Does he really think they're that stupid?

"I'll even lend a hand, if things get rough!"

Apparently so.

"The playground?" guesses Schrank, moving back to Baby John and Action, who just blows a cool stream of smoke into the lieutenant's face. So he tries Gee-Tar. "Sweeney's lot?"

But the only sound to be heard in the candy store is the crash and rattle of Tiger at the pinball machine. No one—not even Doc—is talking.

When Schrank opens his mouth again, it's clear his limited store of patience has run out. "Why don't you get smart, you stupid hooligans?" he snarls. "I oughta take you down to the station an' throw ya in the can, right now! You an' the tinhorn immigrant scum ya come from!"

And Ice whips around to glare at Schrank as the tension in the candy store grows thicker. Most of the Jets here right now come from at least partial immigrant families, Ice included. And for Schrank, with his hint of an accent, to act like they're dirt under his foot because of it, well, that is over the fucking line. It's not like they're Sharks, thinks Ice, face hard, at least the Jets were all born here.

Keep hold of yourself, he reminds himself, turning back around. You've got better people to take out than a lousy police detective. And Schrank, figures Ice, can always be dealt with later.

But Schrank, it seems, has finally figured out a way to get a rise out of them, and pushes further. "How's your old man's DTs, A-Rab?" he asks pleasantly.

A-Rab stiffens, looks up, but Riff cautions him with an outstretched arm. Schrank, though, isn't done yet:

"How's the action on your mother's side of the street, Action?"

Ice, seeing Action explode out of his chair, doesn't think, just moves to get a hold on Action before he can land one on the sonofabitch and send himself to the slammer. Tiger, Snowboy, A-Rab, Gee-Tar, even Baby John—all the other Jets besides Riff are there, too, desperately pushing Action back, thinking for him since he can't at the moment. Fucking Schrank, Ice curses, if Action did tear him to pieces, it wouldn't be more than he deserved. But Schrank is right: he's got a badge. What do they have?

"You know, one of these days there won't be anybody to hold ya!" taunts Schrank, and Ice grits his teeth. On that day, he thinks, glancing back, Schrank had better pray he's not around because sure, Action will be dumped into juvie and maybe even worse, but that's small consolation for Schrank if Action knocks his teeth out first.

"Come on, get him outta here!" Tony says urgently, helping them along as the Jets work to herd the raging boy through the narrow candy store and out into the close night air of the street. Action doesn't make it easy, fighting tooth and nail to go back and get his hands on Schrank, whose parting shot can just be heard from the store:

"Don't worry, l'll find out where it's gonna be," the lieutenant calls, "so be sure to finish each other off, because if ya don't—l will!"

And then they hear the slam of the door as Action redoubles his efforts to get away. "Lemme at him!" he snarls as Joyboy peels away from the nearby alley to join them. "I'm gonna rip his fat mouth out, just leggo-a me, dammit!"

"Action, shut up," instructs Ice tersely as they shove Action around the block and out of sight of Doc's.

"What's with him?" Joyboy wants to know as he catches up with his brother. Ice, glancing at him, frowns. He'd thought Joyboy had left with Mouthpiece and Big Deal before the war council. Apparently not.

"Same's always," says Riff moodily, following after the rest of them. "Too much hot air an' nowhere to blow."

"It ain't just that lousy Schrank! Riff, what the hell was that in there?" demands the belligerent Jet, flinging off their restraining arms with a growl. "Fair fight? With just him?" He jerks his thumb at Ice, who blinks. "I know a lotta things that is, but what it ain't is fair. I don' wanna just sit around an' let Ice have all the fun, I wanna pound those dirty stinkin' Spics into the ground!"

There is a chorus of approval, and Ice, even though he's guaranteed to get his hands on at least one Shark, can't help agreeing. Skin, yes, but he still doesn't see the point of a fair fight, not one that only involves two people, anyhow.

"Cut it, Action," Riff says, passing his hand over his eyes. "Can't ya give it a rest, for once?"

"An' Tony! Lousy bastard ain't been here for more'n a month, an' all of a sudden he shows up an' orders us around?" Action goes on in disbelief. "What kinda game's he playin', huh? An' why're ya lettin him boss—"

"Action. Watch your mouth," Riff snaps. He glances at Tiger, who immediately digs out a cigarette, hands it over, and produces a light. Riff, taking a long, deep drag, faces Action. "What, ya really think that's gonna happen, buddy-boys? A fair fight?"

"But ain't that what we decided on?" Snowboy pipes up.

Riff rolls his eyes. "That's cute. Look, I don't trust them Sharks," he goes on, gesturing with his cigarette, "an' I don't think for a second them rotten Spics're gonna play by the rules. An' I don' know about you, buddy-boys, but I wanna be ready for when they double-cross us."

"Ya really think they will?" asks a doubtful Baby John, puckering up his face. "That ain't fair."

Riff gives a hard smile. "Kid, ya gotta learn that fresh-off-the-boat punks like the PRs don't give a hoot about what's fair. Why ya think they swam over here, anyway?"

"To ruin free enterprise," grumbles Action, savagely punching the air. Ice keeps his eyes on him. Action has cooled down a little, but they all know he can go from calm to blazing hot in a second. "Says my old man, anyhow."

"To make things tough on us poor native boys," confirms Riff with a sneer. "To crowd us outta our own streets an' send us back to San Juan. Well. Like I said, I don't trust that kinda two-bit gang, so I ain't takin' a chance on 'em fightin' fair. When'd we say we was gonna rumble?"

"After dark," answers Ice. He, too, is not wasting his time holding his breath for the Sharks to play by the rules.

Riff considers this. "That's, what—nine? Okay, so we meet in the alley behind Doc's at half-past eight an' raid our armory. Load up. Belts, chains, bats, alla that good stuff." He grins. "Them PRs won't know what hit 'em."

Action eyes Riff for a wary moment, then snorts. "Good. I was beginnin' to wonder where Riff went."

The Jet captain grins. "Right here, buddy-boy," he answers easily, "always will be." He winks. "Now I gotta go find the dame an' work myself into her good graces, so you kids get on outta here an' stay outta trouble, okay? Save it for tomorrow."

Ice lifts his hand in salute as Riff jogs off and the Jets consider their options.

"Movie?" suggests Baby John. "I got my allowance yesterday, an' I still got enough dough for that an' maybe popcorn."

A-Rab snorts. "Baby John, don'tcha know anythin'? Jets don't pay for movies, they sneak in."

Baby John thinks about this. "Oh. Right."

Action rolls his eyes. "Well, you kids go ahead an' do that, but I think I'll see what Pauline's up to." And he darts off into the night. Ice, watching him go, feels some relief that he won't be out, roaming the streets and getting up to who-knows-what. Action taking out his aggression on a ready and willing Pauline is much safer than him doing the same to someone a lot less welcoming and getting busted up the night before they'll need his rocket-punch.

Gee-Tar brightens as an idea visibly occurs to him. "Maybe I'll see if Clarice's still up."

Ice stifles a groan. Gee-Tar is nothing if not persistent. It's like watching someone run head-first into a wall, over and over again. "I don't think that'd be the best idea," he says. "Vee said Clarice was, uh—plannin' on gettin' in bed early tonight." Whatever else he's leaving out about certain other absent Jets, he thinks with a wry half-smile, at least that much is true.

Gee-Tar's shoulders sag. "Oh."

"You could try Julie," suggests Ice. "You know, the one who was dancing with Big Deal."

Gee-Tar perks up as the notion of sticking it to his former best friend presumably hits him. "Y'know, I think I will. Thanks, buddy!" And he does an abrupt about-face and trots off.

Ice, tossing a piece of Big Deal's citrus-flavored gum into his mouth, rolls his eyes. He doesn't know how his buddy stands it—if he were Big Deal, he thinks with a scowl, remembering that glimpse of Mouthpiece talking to Velma at the dance, he'd just knock Gee-Tar out and be done with it. It would be faster, and a hell of a lot simpler than letting Clarice jerk him around the way she does sometimes. In any case, though, good as a buddy as Big Deal is, it's not really Ice's business.

Baby John looks around at the five remaining Jets, an eager smile on his face. "So, movie?"

Snowboy smirks. "Can't; I'm thinkin' I'm gonna pay a visit to Priscilla. She was all over me at the dance." He glances at Joyboy. "Bro?"

His twin shrugs and unwraps a red lollipop. "Carole."

"Think she'll finally give it up?" asks Tiger with avid interest.

Joyboy heaves a deeply frustrated sigh, sticks the lollipop in his mouth and begins busily working on it. "God, I hope so."

"Don't hold your breath, buddy-boy," advises Snowboy. "Priscilla said Carole's waitin' on the M-word."

As one, the Jets wince. Marriage. Ice has no idea why chicks go so crazy over it. After all, it's just a piece of paper and a bunch of words and a lot of crying. And it's ages and ages away for all of them. Sure, Ice thinks, he loves Velma, but marriage?

Baby John finally breaks the silence. "Tiger?"

The redhead shakes his head. "Susan," he explains, face turning pink. Well, thinks Ice, bemused, that does makes a kind of twisted sense. Tiger has hung around Graziella for years, and Ice could swear that Susan uses the exact same hair dye as her. It's so bright.

Baby John sighs. "A-Rab, ya ain't ditchin' me for Nanette or nothin', are ya?"

A-Rab pales at this mention of the girl he has told his buddies was a really, really bad date. "Nope. Movie's good."

Ice clears his throat. He doesn't see the attraction in Julie, Priscilla, Carole, Nanette, or any of the girls who hang around the Jets, but he does know what his buddies are after and that, at least, means they won't be getting themselves into trouble tonight."Yeah, well, you two have fun," he says, giving the remaining five Jets a wave and turning in the opposite direction. "I'm out."

Baby John waves back. "G'bye!"

"Have fun, Ice-man," A-Rab parrots with a smirk.

"At least somebody will," grumbles a still-sullen Joyboy.

Ice rolls his eyes but doesn't stop. It takes ten minutes to get to Velma's apartment from here. Tonight, he's aiming for five.

.

"So what's the buzz?" Velma asks as he climbs through her open window and drops into her dimly-lit blue and white bedroom. She's sitting in front of her dresser dressed in not very much at all, brushing her hair. "You'n Riff gonna ice those Sharks?" Velma doesn't turn around, but he can see her smirking in the mirror.

Ice crosses the room and lounges against the wall next to her with a chuckle, hands in his pockets. As always, he marvels at how remote her room seems from the streets outside—cool, quiet, well-kept. Not like the West Side he knows at all. "Cute, Vee. Tomorrow night. Your folks home?"

Velma keeps her blue eyes chastely on her reflection, and Ice, letting his own wander, wonders how long she's going to pretend that she doesn't want him just as much as he's wanted her all night. "Dad's still at the hospital, an' Mamma's asleep. How's it goin' down?"

"Fair fight," he says evenly, gaze moving to her face. In the warm glow from her lamps, she looks softer, gentler. He wonders what she's been up to. "Best man, from each gang."

The only way Ice can tell that she's heard him is the faint tightening of her grip on her brush. "An' who're they?"

"Me'n Bernardo."

Velma closes her eyes, and Ice can see that her hand is clenched so tightly that her knuckles are white. Then she takes a deep breath and lowers the brush down to the vanity, before standing up to finally look at him. Ice tenses; the expression in her blue eyes tells him that she is not happy, not at all. But both of them know there is no use telling him that she doesn't want him to fight, that she worries about him. Ice already knows everything she wants to say. And if he ever doubts that he is right, well, he doesn't let on because there is no point in that, either.

After a pause, Velma relaxes, her voice light. "Why you, ya big lunk?"

Ice matches her tone as he takes a step forward. "You know why, Vee." He half-smiles. "'Cause I'm the best."

She looks him up and down with a small, catlike smile. "Well, yeah, I knew that, but I didn't know they knew that."

Ice raises his eyebrows, letting out a chuckle, before moving purposefully toward her. Velma gasps as he grabs her, then relaxes into him as their lips meet and he presses her soft body into his. This is what he's been meaning to do, all night, from the moment he saw her at Graziella's, and oh, God, he wants her right now. Being around her—being with her—never gets old, thinks Ice fuzzily as he runs his hands over her bare shoulders. Damn. How the hell did he get so lucky?

There's no Purity Patrol, no war-council to interrupt them this time, and when they finally break for air, she pulls back slightly with a sighing sound in the back of her throat that just about pushes him over the edge. Ice reaches for her again, eager to continue where they left off, but Velma puts a hand on his chest.

"You be careful, Daddy-O," she whispers, face serious. "I like these—" Velma touches his face, chest, arms, before looping her fingers around his belt— "just the way they are, right now. Don't you let that PR get a hold of 'em."

Ice half-smiles. "You got it, Vee."

The corner of her mouth quirks up into a reluctant smile of her own. "An' come right back here after, okay? Don't make me wait like tonight."

"Trust me, Vee," Ice says, pressing her closer. His vision is full of only her. "I been wantin' to be here all night."

And then he pushes her back onto her bed and neither of them have anything else to say at all.