Disclaimer: At the bottom.

For: RhapsodyInProgress. She will see why. :)

—viennacantabile

fell the angels

eleven : like there's a war on

.

It was one of those hot, silent nights, when people sit at windows listening for the thunder which they know will shortly break; when they recall dismal tales of hurricanes and earthquakes; and of lonely travellers on open plains, and lonely ships at sea, struck by lightning.

—Charles Dickens, Martin Chuzzlewit

.

It was the women's tribute to the war. It taxes both alike, and takes the blood of the men, and the tears of the women.

—William Makepeace Thackeray, Vanity Fair

.

By the time Graziella tugs Riff back into the main room of Doc's, Velma has more or less gotten Ice to remember that they are in public and that they will have plenty of time for what's on his mind later. From the looks of it, Riff and Graziella have taken the opposite roles.

"Baby, just hold off 'til later, okay?" Riff says as he flops down onto the chair across from his lieutenant. "I got a fair fight to plan."

Graziella rolls her eyes as she snakes her arm across his shoulder and cuddles up to him. "But Riffy-puddin'—"

"Later." There's an edge to his voice that is just a touch sharper than usual, and Graziella, seeming to realize this, straightens up.

"C'mon, Vel," she sighs in a long-suffering tone. "Let's go sit somewhere else an' let the big bad Jets talk all by themselves."

"Good idea," says Riff, clearly distracted. He turns to Ice, who pats Velma on the waist and gives her an apologetic glance. The message is clear: they're not needed here. Velma shrugs, ignoring the sudden tightness in her throat, and follows Graziella over to the counter.

"Golly," says the redhead in an undertone as Riff swings his fist in animated demonstration, "will ya look at them? They got us; whadda they need a lousy street for?"

Velma nods her agreement without taking her eyes off Ice. He glances at her, and half-smiles before turning back to Riff. She can't hear what he is saying but she has a good idea of what it is, anyway. There are only so many ways you can plan to be the winner in a fair fight and if Velma is lucky they'll know all of them.

Graziella looks sideways at her. "Ya worried?" she asks quietly.

"Not too," Velma says, but it sticks in her throat midway through. Who the hell is she kidding? Of course she's worried. Whether or not it turns into something more than just a fair fight, it's all on Ice tonight and she wants desperately for him to win.

Graziella puts an arm around her shoulder. "Ice is a real tough guy. I an' you an' all the Jets know he's gonna pummel the PR good."

Velma clears her throat, nods. "Yeah, definitely." She can't take her eyes off him. Anyone else wouldn't be able to tell, but she can see Ice is wound up tight. She's only seen him like this once before—quiet, but jazzed up, nerves tight and bursting with energy, eyes sparking with that undercurrent of excitement just beneath the surface. Electric.

And after, well. Velma cracks a smile, watching the smooth lithe line of him ripple and settle back as he nods intently. She's looking forward to the after.

It's on Graziella's mind, too. "Y'know," she says, a smirk playing around her lips, "I'm almost glad Riff didn't wanna get cozy before. A little anticipation makes everythin' better."

Velma smiles. "You got big plans?"

The redhead smirks. "Don't everyone? Speakin'-a which," she says, raising her voice, "did ya get the you-know-what?"

Ice and Riff immediately perk up.

"What's that, baby?" calls Riff, a grin in his voice. "Didn't quite hear ya."

"Never you mind!" says Graziella triumphantly. "You'll just have to wait to find out."

A very theatrical groan sounds from the back corner and Velma shares a giggle with her best friend before getting up and reaching onto a particular shelf. "I almost forgot. Where's Doc?"

"Went out for a smoke somewhere or somethin'," says Graziella, flapping her hand. "I couldn't tell; I was busy."

Velma laughs. She knows what kind of busy Graziella was, and she can definitely understand her distraction. "Okay. Ice, honey," she says, crossing over to the boys' table and digging through her purse, "if Doc ain't back before we leave, give this to him, will ya?"

"What's it for?" Ice asks, giving her a crooked smile.

Velma smiles back. "This," she says, putting the bottle of vanilla-scented bubble bath in her purse, "an' like Graz said, it's for later."

Ice's grin widens. "Okay," he agrees, palming the change. "I can wait."

As she makes her way back to Graziella, Velma smiles to herself. Her best friend has a point, she decides. The boys make them wait so often that a little payback is in order. And a little anticipation, as Graziella says, makes everything better.

.

They've been talking and watching the boys for about an hour when the door pushes open and a tall, thin girl with glasses walks in.

Velma blinks. She can't remember the girl's name, but Velma is pretty sure she's seen her before—someone like this isn't easy to forget. She is long-limbed, skinny, and severe, with dark auburn hair pulled back tight by a brown headband, over a brown cardigan and a dress that buttons all the way up and reaches all the way down to her brown shoes. To put it lightly, she is both the most awkward-looking and the brownest person Velma's ever seen.

The girl clears her throat and shifts her weight from side to side. "I thought I might find Minnie here. She wasn't at home."

"She's probably with Baby John," Graziella says in a bored voice. "Maybe you oughta go find her."

Velma glances at her best friend, then turns back to the girl. "She might be comin' by later, but we didn't make any plans." She gives her a doubtful look. "What's your name again?"

"Margaret O'Quinn," says the girl primly. She sighs and takes a seat on the farthest stool, much to Velma's surprise. "I suppose I'll wait, then. Mother asked me to invite Minnie for dinner."

Graziella suddenly snorts. "I know you. You're Midge, ain't ya?"

Velma's lips twitch as the very dignified girl turns the faintest shade of pink and pinches the bridge of her nose. "My name is Margaret."

"Midge," repeats Graziella, her voice loud in the small dark space of Doc's. In the corner behind the pinball machine, Riff and Ice glance over, before turning back to their conversation. "Yeah, I've heard about ya. You're Minnie's friend, ain't ya? I've seen ya around readin' the encyclopedia."

Velma stares. "You read the encyclopedia?"

Midge frowns. "It's fascinating, actually," she says stiffly. "Just yesterday, I found an article on Euclidean geometry and Tarski's axioms."

"Yeah, yeah," says Graziella, rolling her eyes, "ya sure know how to have a good time. I might even wanna trade places with her tonight, Vel," she adds with a smirk to her best friend, "'cept I got a feelin' Riff's gonna want me to Tarski his axiom, an' I wouldn't wanna miss out on the fun."

Midge glances toward Riff and Ice and looks alarmed. "Fun?"

"Yeah," says the redhead, eyes flicking over Midge. "Fun. The Jets are havin' a rumble later, an' they're always good for that after. But I guess you wouldn't understand."

Midge purses her lips and doesn't speak for a moment. Finally, she draws her shoulders back and stares straight at them. "Please do define a 'rumble.'"

Graziella's jaw drops open. "You're kiddin', right?"

Midge frowns. "I'm only asking because the sociological implications of gang interactions might be important to my future," she says stiffly. "Psychology is a growing field, you know."

Velma clears her throat. "They fight another gang. Today it's a one-on-one fair fight with the Shark captain—"

"An' Velma's boyfriend, Ice," smirks Graziella. "The tall one in the corner, remember? They're real cozy, so you can quit makin' eyes at him. And Riff."

Midge looks vaguely horrified. "I was not making eyes at Ice and Riff!" she snaps, turning red.

"Sure, sure," says Graziella, rolling her eyes. "Look, Little Miss Midge, I'm used to sluts an' whores tryin' to take my Riffy-poo, so you can just forget about it, it ain't gonna happen."

Midge's mouth drops open. "I cannot even begin to fathom where you received that impression, but I can assure you that I do not want your Riffy-poo!"

Graziella's eyebrows shoot up. "An' why the hell not? Ain't he good enough for you?"

Velma's lips twitch. "Graz," she says, turning to her ruffled friend. "I think she means it."

The redhead sniffs. "She'd just better keep her mitts offa Riffy-pie, that's all I can say."

"In any case," Midge says, resettling herself on her stool with a faint noise of disapproval, "why would the Jets want to fight this other gang?"

Graziella yawns. "'Cause the Sharks're invadin' their territory."

Midge frowns. "And?"

"It's Jet territory," Velma explains, sharing a skeptical glance with Graziella. "Theirs. An' they don't like Sharks steppin' all over it."

Midge's frown grows deeper. "But assertion of dominance generally only occurs when there are females at stake. There's no reason a simple boundary dispute should cause this display of male aggression, pack mentality, and increased testosterone levels. It's a logical fallacy."

Velma stares at her, troubled, and for once wishes Mouthpiece were here to answer for her. This is the same problem—albeit reworded—she has been considering over the last few days, and though she has gotten closer, she still doesn't know the solution. But Velma is a Jet's girl. She can't do it, can't open her mouth and say she doesn't know and question the framework underlying all of them and what they believe in. She can't.

After the silence stretches on for a few minutes, Graziella sighs. "'Cause they're Jets," she says with a withering stare, and Velma is relieved. Graziella, she knows, is right. There is no other answer. "An' the Jets are the best, an' they're gonna teach that to the Sharks. Got any other questions, Miss Smartypants?"

"Honestly, I just think that there must be more productive ways to resolve this," says Midge, steepling her hands together on the counter. "Some sort of aptitude test, perhaps, determining which gang is better qualified to fulfill the administrative duties of this…territory." She pushes the bridge of her glasses up. "I would be more than happy to look into it."

Velma stares at Midge, dumbfounded. Graziella isn't so quiet, though.

"Oh, my God," she says, face scrunched up. "What is it sayin'?"

Velma chokes back a laugh and promptly arranges her face into an expression of polite disinterest. "I don't think that'd work, Midge."

Midge purses her lips. "Well," she says with a sniff, "I suppose if the government and the Soviet Union can't solve their differences with all their intellectual resources, there's no reason to hope a juvenile street gang can, either."

"No," says Velma with a sigh, "I don't think so."

Graziella rolls her eyes. "Rah-rah, let's all have a peace summit, yeah, we get it. We got better things to do, don't we, Vel?"

Velma is saved from replying by the bright chime of the bell at the entrance and the appearance of a slim, sweet-faced girl—Minnie. Though Velma is pretty sure Clarice has kept the younger girl in the dark about what the Jets are planning to do tonight, still Minnie, like Velma herself, has indicated where her loyalties lie in the blue of her skirt and the green of her blouse. More than anything else, Velma thinks with a smile, it's probably a vote of confidence in Baby John.

"Oh, hello, Graziella!" Minnie says brightly. "Hello, Velma! Oh!" she says, eyes widening. "Hello, Midge!"

"Hello, Minnie," Midge intones. She lets out a short, dry laugh. "I suppose by now I shouldn't be surprised at your predilection for sanguinity."

"It's a wonderful day," Minnie beams as Graziella goggles. She doesn't seem to take the slightest insult at Midge's remark. "And I'm going to see Johnny—" She stops short and blushes. "In any case, why shouldn't I be happy?"

Midge raises an eyebrow. "I suppose you're not aware of the rum—"

"Midge," Velma cuts in, giving her a meaningful look, "have ya ever maybe thought-a getting' corneal lenses?" Minnie has a brother who was no stranger to tussles in high school, she thinks, but this is more than that and Velma isn't sure Minnie is ready for that kind of knowledge yet.

Midge, hand drifting to her glasses, looks scandalized. "Corneal lenses? Whatever for?"

"Well," says Velma, breathing a sigh of relief at Minnie's serene expression, "you'd look prettier if we could see your eyes, I bet."

"How ya ever expect to attract a decent man with those blinkers I don't know," adds Graziella with a yawn.

Midge draws herself up, clearly affronted. "I refuse to change my appearance for a man."

"Yep," sighs Graziella as she examines her nails. "That's what I thought."

Midge takes a deep breath and turns to Velma. "Cosmetic appearances notwithstanding," she says, "corneal lenses are quite expensive—and fragile—and in any case, I am very fond of my glasses. They connote an appreciation of history."

"They connote an appreciation of bein' an old maid, that's what they connote," mutters Graziella.

"I like your glasses," says a cheerful Minnie. "They make you look very intelligent."

"Thank you," Midge says with great dignity, ignoring Graziella. And Velma half-smiles. Midge is a funny one, she thinks, but entertaining, in her own way, even if she doesn't seem to care about looking her best. At the very least, they're off the subject of the rumble now. Midge is a lot of things, but she isn't stupid, and Velma hopes she's taken the hint.

"Minnie," Midge goes on, "Mother wanted to know if you'd like to come to dinner."

Minnie smiles. "Oh, yes, Midge, I'd love to." She glances at her watch. "Though I do have an errand to run if I'm going to be busy later. Would you like to go with me?"

Midge shrugs. "I suppose so."

Minnie waves at Velma and Graziella. "Goodbye, girls!"

Graziella raises a careless hand. "Bye, Minnie. Midge," she adds with a smirk.

"Bye," says Velma, watching as the two girls exit the candy store. She turns to Graziella. "What d'ya make of her?"

The redhead makes a face. "She looks like a mushroom. What is she, allergic to color?"

Velma shrugs, feeling a little sorry for the girl. "She's real tall. I bet she'll have a hard time findin' a guy."

Graziella snorts. "Not just for that. Did ya ever see such a wet blanket? An' talkin' about the Jets like they was some sorta Commie country! Geez Louise, what was she on?"

"I don't know," says Velma, remembering Midge's sharp gray eyes and feeling uncomfortable. "She's strange, yeah, but…"

"But nothin'," says Graziella, shrugging. "She don't get the Jets. That's all."

Velma stares at the captain and his lieutenant talking tactics and sighs. "I guess so."

She can't help but wonder. Midge is so clearly an outsider, and it makes sense that she wouldn't understand. But at the same time, Velma knows that sometimes it's easier to see through a situation if you're not involved. What if—just maybe—Midge is right? What if none of this makes any sense and there is no reason for any of this at all?

Velma sighs. After the rumble, she promises herself. After the rumble, she will mull it over again and if there is any truth to the idea then there will be plenty of time to think about it then. As for now, all she can do is wait.

.

Another hour passes and finally it is time to leave and let the boys do what they will until the rumble. Velma glances at Graziella, a hard knot of worry in her stomach. "Gimme a sec, okay?"

The redhead shrugs and heads over to Riff. "Yeah, sure."

Velma turns to Ice and holds out her hand. "Let's go outside."

Ice nods and loops his fingers through hers. "Okay."

It's bright and sunny and only just beginning to get dark and looking up at Ice, whose physical presence is so solid and reassuring, it's hard to believe any of this is real.

Velma reaches forward and grasps Ice's shirt loosely, fingertips just touching his waist. There are so many things she could do, so many things she could say, if she had the courage. If she thought it would make a difference. Velma wants to ask him if he's afraid, but if she does, that will mean that there is something to be afraid of, and she doesn't want to think about the possibility that there might be. She wants to hold onto him, and never let go, but if she does, he will leave anyway. It's for this same reason that Velma doesn't ask him to stay: she knows that there is nothing on earth that could stop him tonight, and she doesn't want to hear him tell her no.

Ice strokes her arm with his fingertips, a silent, wordless apology. Velma shivers, as always, but this time it's not just because she is looking forward to the night. And it's on the tip of her tongue. Don't go. Stay with me. Please.

"See ya later," she says instead, forcing herself to meet his pale eyes. It's what they always say, even when he's not heading off to meet the unknown, and Velma thinks that if she says it now like there's no possibility that it won't happen, it will be true, like every other night. Because it has to be. Cross your fingers and hope. Pray. It all amounts to the same thing, which is luck, pure and simple, and whose side it falls on tonight.

She hopes it's hers.

Ice gazes down at her; she knows he can tell what she is thinking. He always can. And that, Velma thinks with a sigh, is probably why she loves him. Because he sees the best and the worst in her and loves her anyway. And right now, the best is that she knows he can beat Bernardo, easy. The worst is that she doesn't know if he will.

They don't talk about it, though, don't make a long and drawn-out farewell scene because that is just not what they do. Instead, Ice steps forward and presses a searing kiss on her lips that leaves her gasping, aching, almost crying, because how the hell is she supposed to let him go now?

And then he disappears back into Doc's, and Graziella comes out, and they leave. But now, as always, he's never far from her mind. Please, she thinks, remembering that last glint of sun on his hair, please. Be safe.

.

"Oh, Riff," Graziella sighs dreamily as they walk back to their block. The sun is beginning its slow slide into the night and the shadows are already longer, the sky darker. "He's the real deal, I swear."

"Yeah," murmurs Velma, still thinking about Ice, "he is."

"I never met a guy who made me feel so great," muses Graziella, a small smile on her face. "Not even Tony. An' Tony, he's the kinda guy who makes ya feel like everything's gonna be okay, y'know?"

Velma barely hears her. "Graz," she says, glancing at the redhead, "d'ya think he's scared?"

"Who, Ice?" Graziella asks, giving her a skeptical look. "Wouldn't he tell ya?"

"I don't think so," shrugs Velma. She hates to admit it, but it's true. "He doesn't like talkin' to me about stuff like that." She sighs. "But then, I don't know that he talks to anybody about anything. Maybe not even Riff."

"He talks to you," observes Graziella, quirking her mouth up. "Maybe ya don't think so, 'cause ya didn't see him before he met ya, but he does."

Velma glances at her. "Not about everything."

Graziella shrugs. "Boys don't like to. Makes 'em all antsy. I can't think why," she adds with a sigh. "I'd go crazy without someone to talk to."

Velma sighs. "I don't like worryin' this much about him."

"So don't," advises a practical Graziella. "Whatever's gonna happen's gonna happen, whether you worry about it or not. So do what I do an' don't think about it."

Velma glances at her. "You really don't?"

Graziella gives a shrug and sighs. "What's the point?"

"Yeah," says Velma. What will happen tonight is out of their hands and there is nothing they can do about it. "I guess you're right."

"I know I'm right," Graziella says, high voice confident and bright. She touches her best friend on the shoulder, and to Velma, it feels as light as a breath of air. "Now you go doll yourself up for Ice an' I swear, he'll be back before ya know it. I swear."

Velma smiles. Whatever her faults, she thinks, Graziella is a good best friend. "Thanks," she says. Leaving the redhead in the street, she takes out her key, unlocks the door, walks up the stairs to her floor. Only a few hours to go.

.

"Vilhelmina?"

Velma pauses in the hallway at the sound of her father's voice and releases a sigh. Tonight of all nights, she is not in the mood for a talk about what she is already worried about. All she wants to do is take a nice, long, hot bubble bath and relax—as much as she can, anyway. But her father is there, and as always, she answers him. She turns around. "Dad?"

A sober Dr. Andersen waits a few feet behind her. "George Goddard said that the boys are having a—rumble—today."

Velma's mouth tightens. She'd forgotten her father is friends with Minnie's, and Minnie's father, she knows, not only doesn't exactly have the best opinion of the Jets, but will also be on alert tonight, thanks to Schrank.

"If they are, I don't know much about it," she says, and her voice sounds strange to her ears. She is not lying, not exactly, because it's true. Most of what she knows about the Jets comes from the girls. Ice always tells her when she asks, but most of the time it's not something they talk about.

Her father sighs. "You are young, Vilhe, and I know it is hard to understand, but fighting—war—is not a game for the young. Things happen, and people get hurt, no matter how brave they are."

Velma watches him. She'd been five the year the war ended, and she still remembers the celebrations in the streets and the way her father smiled. He was, and is, a pediatrician, she remembers, but in wartime, a doctor is a doctor and though he doesn't talk about it she knows he's seen things he can't forget. "No one's going to get hurt, Dad," she says, as much for her own benefit as his. "Really."

Dr. Andersen shakes his head and repeats his words, softer: "Fighting is not a game."

"I know," she says, and swallows. Though he probably won't believe her, she does. "I know."

Her father watches her for a long moment, then nods. "All right, then," he says. "Just stay at home tonight, please."

Velma nods. She can't meet his eyes. "I will."

.

As she goes through the ritual of turning her lamps on, Velma bites her lip. Even with everything Graziella has said to reassure her, she can't stop thinking about it. This is something she's never really had to deal with before. None of the boys she knew, let alone dated, back in her old neighborhood were in gangs, and Velma is not used to having to worry about her boyfriend's physical safety. Sure, there was the rumble with the Emeralds a few months ago before the Sharks came into the picture, but that was different. She hadn't even really had a clear picture of what a rumble really was, and what it could be.

But it's different now. They have been together for a full year, and Velma is in deep. She couldn't stop caring now if she tried. And now she's been here long enough so that she's seen the aftermath of the fights, seen the broken noses and bloody split lips and purple bruises all over the Jets' bodies. They win their fights, yes, but at what cost?

He'll be fine, she tells herself, picking up a scarf and beginning to tie up her hair. Everyone knows it, and you do, too. It's just a fistfight, and Ice is good at those. Nothing to worry about. At worst, he might come back with a bloody nose or maybe even a broken arm, and she'll hide her relief in her kisses. At best, he'll take Bernardo out with the first hit, and not have to worry about anything more than a bruised knuckle.

Velma sighs. Best would be Ice not fighting at all. Worst, well…she doesn't want to think about the worst that could really happen, if things spiral out of control like all the girls think it could and goes to an all-out rumble, with bats and chains and who knows what else. She doesn't trust the Sharks. It's a fair fight, sure, but everyone knows PRs don't play fair. Velma is positive the Jets will be ready for anything and everything the Sharks pull, but somehow, that only makes her feel worse.

She just needs to talk to someone, Velma decides, reaching for her phone. Just to hear, one more time, that everything will be all right. But when she starts to dial Graziella's number, she stops. Hanging up the phone, she stares at it for a minute. Finally, she picks it up again, dials the number, and settles down on her bed.

The phone rings twice before a long and languid voice answers. "Hello?"

Velma blinks. "Hello, Bernice."

There is the slight hiss of an inhaled breath on the other side, and Velma knows she's surprised the other Gambini twin. "Hi, Vel."

Velma's mouth twists a little bit. It irks her that the Bernice would nickname her like that when they are not exactly close. "Clarice around?"

"She might be," answers the voice on the other end. "I don't know, she's been in an' outta the bathroom all day. I bet you know why," she adds, and Velma frowns again at the degree of intimacy implied in Bernice's tone. "Hang on, lemme go see."

Velma hears the click of the phone being set down and a faint shout of "Clarice!" and sighs. She wishes she could like Bernice, for Clarice's sake, but she can't seem to get past the brunette's taste for men. Meaning Ice. She knows it's a little petty of her, particularly because there is no way he would ever cheat on her, but it still bothers her. It's not just that Bernice wants him. Velma has a feeling Bernice just wants what she sees. What everyone else sees. Not who he really is.

Another rustle on the other end, and Bernice's voice is back. "She's doin' her eyebrows," she announces, then snickers. "Can't think why, it ain't like Big Deal's gonna be lookin' there anyway."

Velma forces a laugh. "So," she says, for lack of anything better, "I, uh—heard ya had a date with Mouthpiece last night."

"Yep," says Bernice, and Velma can almost hear the brunette smirking. "I tell ya, Vel, that boy's brain ain't worth much, but he's got another head that's much more responsive."

Velma's mouth drops open at this bit of unexpected information. "Oh."

"I know, right?" Bernice goes on with glee. "Makes up for a lot."

Velma wishes that Clarice would hurry up and come to the phone. "Well, sounds like ya had a nice time."

"When I made sure his mouth was busy, yeah," drawls Bernice, and Velma wonders if this is what it is like, talking to Pauline for longer than a minute. She has never tried it and is definitely not going to now. "An' lemme tell ya, he would not shut up about ya."

Velma frowns, remembering the Jet sitting on her fire escape and wondering how much Bernice knows. "What'd he say?"

"Oh, the usual," Bernice says carelessly, "just how pretty ya are an' how your hair's real shiny an' how he's gonna have his own train an' ride all over the damn country with you an' your ten kids."

Velma sighs. "Oh."

"It was almost cute," Bernice says reminiscently. "Actually, right after that I told him to pretend to be a train an' I'd be his—hey!"

Velma, eyes wide, hears a torrent of Italian before a breathless Clarice comes on the line. "Hello?"

"Hey, Clarice," says Velma, feeling a little bit silly. "It's Velma."

"Oh, hi, Vel!" crackles the other end. "What's up? You excited about tonight?"

Velma shrugs, though she knows Clarice can't see her. "Yeah, I guess."

Clarice giggles. "I can't wait for Frankie to come over. It's been awhile since the last rumble, an' it builds up, y'know?"

Velma smiles a little. "Yeah. I know."

"Anyway," Clarice goes on "you'll never guess—Frankie was takin' me to his brother-n-law's for dinner an' we ran into Gee-Tar. Frankie just about blew his top!"

"Yeah?" says Velma, only half-listening. "What happened?"

Clarice, as always, is more than happy to tell her. And Velma, listening to her chatter about Big Deal and Gee-Tar, bites her lip. None of the girls seem worried about the rumble at all. No one seems to think it will be anything but a fight between two gangs that will be over in no time and lead into a spectacularly good night later. Only her father is cautious, and he doesn't know the Jets at all.

Velma knows she should listen to them. Graziella, Clarice, Minnie, Bernice, and Pauline have all been here and known the Jets their entire lives. If anyone can be trusted about tonight, it's them. And Velma supposes she does know everything will be all right, deep down. She's just…uneasy, and she doesn't know why.

But still, she has to ask one more time. Just in case.

"Clarice?" she says, interrupting her friend.

Clarice stops in the middle of her story about Gee-Tar's band's disastrous performance at the school Battle of the Bands. "Yeah, Vel?"

Velma is quiet for a moment. "He'll be okay, right?"

"Oh, Vel," says Clarice, voice warm and reassuring. "'Course he will. They always are."

"Always?" she asks. Velma hates to admit it, but she needs that guarantee.

"Always," Clarice confirms.

"Thanks," Velma says quietly.

"No problem," comes the voice over the line. "Now look, Vel, I'm going to go get ready now, but—you have fun tonight, okay? Stop worryin'. Everything'll be just fine."

Velma nods, then remembers Clarice can't see her. "Well, okay. Bye."

As she replaces the receiver on the hook, Velma reaches for her purse. Graziella and Clarice are right, she decides, taking out the bubble bath and heading to the bathroom. Everything will be just fine.

.

When she leaves the bathroom an hour later and comes back to her room to change into her lingerie, she glances at the window. Outside the sun is swinging from the hot yellow of late afternoon to the darker red of evening, and Velma, watching the sun set, knows that that means. When the light disappears beneath the horizon, it will be time. Despite everything she has been told—despite everything she knows—she is still worried. But that comes with loving someone, she supposes as she straightens her corselette. And all she can do is hope that luck comes hand in hand with love, too.

Velma sighs, and settles on her bed to keep watch. Good luck, she thinks, arms locked around her knees and hardly daring to take a breath. Good luck.

Disclaimer: Midge belongs to RhapsodyInProgress, who is kind enough to let me borrow her. :)