Disclaimer: Yeah, I wish.

Note: And now Riff and Bernardo are dead. As much as I hated to do it, I had to, sigh. And now things are moving and the fic is getting very not happy and here we go.

—viennacantabile

fell the angels

thirteen : into that darkness peering

.

"Look," whispered Chuck, and George lifted his eyes to heaven. (There is always a last time for everything.)
Overhead, without any fuss, the stars were going out.

—Arthur C. Clarke, "The Nine Billion Names of God"

.

"Vee," she hears. It's faint and dim, sunlight through water. "Vee, wake up."

Velma yawns, opens her eyes, wondering when she'd fallen asleep. "Ice?"

He's right there on the bed next to her, pale blue eyes intense even in the darkness. She sits up, suddenly wide-awake with heady, happy relief. "The rumble's over?" Stupid question, she thinks, a smile coming to her lips. Of course it's over, otherwise he wouldn't be here.

Ice doesn't answer, just pulls her to him and kisses her. Velma, like every other Jet's girl tonight, has been waiting for just this kind of passion, but still she is surprised by the savage intensity of his touch. This is more than it ever was before. This is hard, bruising, almost painful in its crushing need.

She doesn't understand, but she doesn't need to. He's here, she thinks, holding the reality of him in her arms, and that's all that matters. "Ice," she murmurs, letting the fear and worry of the past two days dissipate into the close night air. "Ice."

He doesn't say anything, just breathes fast and deep, gasping, gulping for air in between kisses like he can't get enough of it. Don't, she thinks tenderly. It's over. You're safe. And Velma twines her arms around him and pulls him close as she can, kissing his face, eyes, lips, every part of him that is here, gloriously alive and safe and here, until there is nothing separating them, not even the beat of their own hearts.

It isn't til he's lying still, face buried in the hollow between her shoulder and throat that he says it: "Riff's dead."

She inhales, isn't sure she's heard his low airless whisper right. "What?"

It's as if that word has released him. Ice breaks away, reaches for his shirt, doesn't look at her. "It got outta hand when Tony showed up. An' Bernardo knifed Riff."

The bottom drops out of Velma's stomach; she slumps back, puts her hand to her mouth. Of all the worries she'd had for this night, this had not been one of them. No, she thinks, not Riff. "Oh, God."

Ice says nothing, only finishes hooking his belt and stands to face her, silhouetted in shadowy relief by the faint moonlight outside.

Her voice catches in her throat. "You leavin'?"

He nods, face still. There is a faint spattered tracery of dark red pinpricks on his sleeve; blood, Velma supposes, her stomach lurching. Whose? She knows it's not his. Tonight he has laid himself bare to her, body and soul, and physically, at least, he's unhurt. "Already been gone too long. I and the boys gotta plan, gotta form up and figure out what to do." He shakes his head. "No tellin' what Action'll get up to if I don't show."

She doesn't like it—actually, she hates it—but tonight of all nights, Velma doesn't question the need for him to go. Those are his friends out there, and he's already lost one this night. Instead she struggles up, yanking first her underclothes, then her skirt on. "I'm comin' with you."

"Vee," Ice says, voice flat. "Tony got Bernardo. The PRs'll be out lookin' for blood. Not tonight."

Velma pushes aside the idea of cheerful, bright Tony as a murderer and pulls her sweater over her head before resting her fingertips on Ice's arm. "He was my friend, too," she says quietly, knowing that this is the closest they will come to talking it out for a very long while.

Ice hesitates, and Velma presses, "Besides, Graziella'll need me."

It's so simple that, true or not, she almost feels guilty for playing that card. He can allow for Graziella and not himself, she thinks, swallowing the ache in her throat. Any other guy, any other night, he'dve said no, straight out. But Riff is—was—his best friend. And Graziella was his girl.

"Okay, then," he says, eyes reluctant. He puts his hands around her waist, holds her for the briefest of moments, then strides to the door. "Let's go."

She follows, staring at his back. Riff. Not Ice. Not this time.

He waits at the door, holds his hand out. "Stay close," he orders.

But what about the next time? Velma thinks, slipping her hand in his. Or the time after that? She shudders, remembering the scarlet starburst on his sleeve, and wonders what is yet to come. She is not ready for this.

There are no answers to these questions, no way to look into the future and find him there safe and waiting or dead, just like Riff. All she can do, Velma thinks, is hold on to his hand and hope that the luck that has kept him safe so far will hold through the night and until the dawn.

.

By the time they cross the street, the window at Graziella's apartment is open and the room is bare, aside from a jumble of clothes on the floor. Her best friend has already come and gone tonight, and where she is now is anybody's guess.

Velma watches Ice study the dark empty room, pale eyes flickering as he considers where to go next. She wants to ask if he's positive. If somehow he's wrong, that Riff is okay after all and it's just another one of his practical jokes that's just gone farther than ever before, a little too far, really, because it's not true. How can it be? How can any of the Jets, let alone Riff—Riff, who'd dodged his own girlfriend in Doc's just a few hours ago—be dead?

But then she looks at Ice and sees the way he can't stop moving, how his gaze slides over her like she's not even there. If she feels this shock, this pain about a boy she's only known a year, what must Riff mean to Ice? she wonders, heart aching for him. He wouldn't have told her, she knows, if he wasn't sure, because dead is a word you can't take back and it is then that it hits her that Riff is really—

"Doc's," decides Ice, scanning the street. "That's where everyone'd go."

Velma bites her lip as they set off into the night. The air is cool against her bare arms and she can't help shivering. "Someone must've come to tell her," she murmurs, worried. "I wonder—"

"Shh," hisses Ice, pressing her into a shadowed doorway. Velma waits, heart racing in the eerie quiet until she sees the lights of the patrol cars pass by. And then Velma, eyes locked on Ice's distant, closed face, understands one thing more: the game has changed. Riff is dead. The night is not yet over. And there are no rules here, no guarantee that everyone will be all right just because she needs them to be; tonight they live and die by chance alone.

"C'mon," Ice says in a low voice. "coast's clear. 'S okay now."

But if she knows anything, Velma thinks, heart twisting as he leads her through the maze of alleys, it's not. And it won't be, for a long time. Maybe, she thinks, not ever.

.

As Ice pushes the door to Doc's open, the bell rings with a tinny, mocking sound and the old man behind the counter lifts his head. There is no one else in the store.

"Doc," Ice says, pulling Velma inside, "ya seen anyone else?"

He stares at them for a moment, and in that half-second of hopeless hope it is obvious that he knows. "I thought it might be Tony."

Ice pauses, and Velma watches as he considers this piece of information and what it means, before striding forward. "Doc, look—"

"You kids," the old man says, and slumps over the counter again as if the weight of this whole night is too much for them. "Fightin' an' brawlin' an' killin'—for a little piece-a street?" He glances at Velma, and she can see the sorrow in his tired eyes. "Tell me—d'you think that's worth dyin' for?"

"Doc—"

"No," the old man says, shaking his head with what little force he has left in him. "You see, she does have somethin' to do with it after all."

Ice takes a step back and runs his free hand over his forehead. "Jesus," he murmurs, staring out the window.

Velma doesn't quite understand their exchange, but she is absolutely positive about her answer. "There's only one thing I know worth that," she says, feeling the solid warmth of Ice's hand in hers, "an' it ain't a street."

Doc doesn't say anything, just looks at her. At them. And Velma wonders what he sees in their two hands, linked together. In their eyes.

"Look, Doc," Ice finally tries again, "you know what happened. I just need to know if you've seen anyone."

The old man closes his eyes and rubs his temples. When he answers, it's in that tired voice again. All the strength is gone. "Gee-Tar. Mouthpiece," he says blankly. "They showed up not too long ago—Bernice an' Minnie was already here waitin'," he adds with a nod at Velma.

She frowns. "Minnie?" Velma is pretty sure that Officer Goddard would not have let his daughter out on a night like this. "She was here?"

Doc, eyes still shut, nods. "She snuck out, I think."

At any other time, Velma would be pleased and proud, but tonight the last place on earth a girl like Minnie should be is out on the streets. "Where'd they go?"

"I don't know," admits Doc, shaking his head. "Tiger came in with Graziella—she wasn't takin' it too well," he adds heavily, "an' then Joyboy showed an' said they was all meetin' someplace an' they left. I can't remember."

Velma can see Ice isn't buying it. "Doc."

"Hasn't there been enough tonight?" Doc pleads, glancing from Ice to Velma. "Don't you see where this is going?"

But Ice shakes his head. "Not now," he says steadily, "Doc, there ain't no time for that. Not now."

"You're just kids," Doc says, his voice cracking. "God help me, why can't you understand? You're just kids."

"So're the resta the Jets," Ice says, pale eyes fixed on the old man's. "An' I gotta go make sure they're okay."

Doc turns to glance at the back wall, where three scrawled names stand out from the graffitti. Tony. Riff. Ice. All connected. One left the Jets. One died for them. And one—just one—is still here as he was. Doc—he cares about the Jets, Velma realizes with some surprise. Not just wants to get rid of them like every other adult in the city. He really, truly cares.

Doc releases a helpless, frustrated sigh. "It was a garage. Someplace. I don't know the street."

Ice gives a quick nod. "We'll find it." Taking Velma's hand, he heads for the door. Behind them, Doc lets out a short, humorless laugh.

"Don't get killed."

Ice pauses for the briefest moment, and though his voice is even and controlled Velma can hear the undercurrent of tension there as he grips her hand tighter. It's not his fault, she wants to scream. He didn't mean for any of this to happen. No one did.

"I ain't plannin' on it."

"Ain't that it," Doc says, shaking his head. "No one ever is."

Velma glances back and sees the old man bent over the counter. "We'll be okay, Doc," she says. She wishes she could believe it. "We will."

And there is so much sadness, so much defeat in that trembling voice. "Like I told him before," he says without looking up. "It just ain't ever that simple."

.

They're just about two blocks from Doc's when there is a quick whistle. Ice pauses, then returns it as they wait to see who it is. And out of the shadows comes Snowboy, his face smeared with dirt and sweat and something else.

"Ice!" he says. He is more serious than Velma has ever seen him. "Action sent me an' Bobby out to find everyone—"

"Where are they?" asks Ice. Velma wonders at the cool authority in his voice. This is not the boy from just minutes ago, the one who lay quiet and cold and helpless in her arms. "Doc said a garage somewhere."

"Yeah," nods Snowboy, fevered eyes darting around the street. "On 66th and 11th. I'll take ya." And then his gaze lands on Velma. "But—maybe she oughta go back to Doc's or somethin'."

Velma stiffens, but Ice shakes his head. "No," he says, and his voice is strong, sure. "She's comin with us'." After a moment, he adds, "Graziella ain't at home. A Jet musta gotten her."

Snowboy seems about to protest, but subsides. "Right, Daddy-O," he says, already beginning to move. "C'mon, I'll take ya."

Velma, hand still in Ice's, follows the Jet through the night and toward the alley where the rest of the gang is waiting. And then it hits her. With Riff gone, she thinks, biting her lip, and Tony not around to lead the Jets, either, would that mean Ice…?"

She remembers a conversation with Graziella that seems like an eternity ago and shivers. If Ice was leader, where'd that leave Riff?

Oh, God, she thinks, rubbing her arms to try and get warm. She still hasn't really begun to believe it yet—what physical evidence is there, after all? but this small memory, this conversation is the barest surface hint of the seismic devastation that has hit them. Things have already begun to change. And no one knows what is next.

.

When they get to the alley outside the old garage on 66th, Graziella is there, sobbing on Minnie's shoulder. Bernice has an arm around her, too, and Tiger is hovering close, awkward and clumsy and trying his best to help, but the other Jets are spread out and disordered, standing in the alley with fear on every downturned face. No one seems to know what to do.

Velma lets go of Ice's hand and hurries over to the redhead as Tiger moves to hand Ice his jacket. "Graz, honey," she says quietly, pulling her away from a distressed-looking Minnie, "c'mere."

Graziella turns and wraps her arms around her. "Velma, oh, Velma," she wails.

"Shh," she whispers, stroking her best friend's red hair. "Just hold on to me, Graz. It'll be okay."

"He wasn' even s'posed to be fightin'," Graziella sobs. Velma looks over Graziella's shoulder at Ice, who has just ended a whispered conversation with Action. His face doesn't show it, but she knows what he is thinking, and she shakes her head at him. No.

"I know, honey," she murmurs. "I know."

"Every other time he was okay," she chokes out. "Every other time, when it was a rumble with bricks or bats or somethin'. He was just fine. Tony was lookin' out for him, he said."

Velma tightens her hold, heart aching for her friend. "Graz—"

"An' the one time," Graziella goes on, "the one time he's s'posed to just stay outta it—the one time—oh, God," she cries, clutching at her chest, "oh, God, Riff."

"I'm sorry," Velma murmurs, over and over again. "Graz—I'm so sorry." She doesn't know what to say. What can she say? Velma wonders. If it were Ice… She bites her lip, eyes stinging. If it were Ice lying dead on the ground somewhere, there wouldn't be anything that'd help. So she takes her own advice and just holds her best friend close. But for all the physical presence and love in the world, the cold, hard truth remains that Riff is dead, and for Graziella, nothing will ever be the same again. How do you bandage that wound? wonders Velma, her heart aching. How do you make that go away?

"C'mon, Graz," she whispers after the redhead's sobs have subsided to a flow of silent tears. "Sit down."

Graziella nods, and Velma guides her to an overturned crate where she can rest. As she keeps her arm around her friend, Velma glances around. Tiger still lingers close by, but the rest of the Jets—everyone but A-Rab and Baby John—are in a cluster a few feet away, each one tense and coiled as deadly tight as a spring. Ice, jacket on now, has already gotten them organized and is talking to them. She only hears bits and pieces of what he is saying, but Velma can see the expression on his face that says that he is in charge now and she knows they can, too.

"—but Ice—"

"—those goddamn Sharks, they—"

"Cool it," Ice is saying, voice low and firm. "We need to wait. Just cool it."

"But what about—"

"Not now," Ice snaps, zeroing in on Action with a glare. "Just sit tight, an' wait."

They are angry and scared and furious but they are listening, Velma notes, with a mixture of fear and pride. Even Action—fists clenched and jaw set as he tries without much success to control himself—is listening.

In that small moment of silence, Ice catches her eye and jerks his head at Minnie and Bernice. They are standing frightened and alone near the open entrance to the garage and they, like the Jets, seem helpless and unsure of what to do.

And that was the other thing, Velma remembers suddenly. It's not just Riff. Now that Ice is leader, where does that leave Graziella, the leader's girl? And by default—herself?

Velma glances at her best friend, whose fingers are gripping the small gold cross at her throat so tightly her fingers are white. As the leader's girl, Velma remembers slowly, Graziella took that position with the Jets' girls, too. She spoke for them. She led them. And she was the one who always, always knew what to do.

Velma bites her lip. She hasn't even been here a full year, has known the Jets and their girls for even less time than that. And now—

The only thing she can do is try, she decides. "I'll be right back," she murmurs to Graziella, who doesn't respond, before crossing the few feet over to Bernice and Minnie.

"It's cold," Minnie says in a small voice, shuddering. "Velma, I don't—I don't understand it—I can't believe it—why would—" She takes a deep, trembling breath. It's obvious that she is on the verge of tears. "I don't understand," she says again, and Bernice puts an arm around her.

"No one does," the brunette says, voice stunned and bitter and still somehow kind. "No one does, Minnie, it ain't just you."

Velma takes a deep breath, wondering how innocent, naïve Minnie will survive this. "Go into the garage, Minnie," Velma tells her quietly. "Stay outta sight. Just in case a cop comes by. Okay?"

Minnie nods, obedient as ever, and gulps back a sob. "Okay."

"It'll be warmer, anyway," Velma adds with a sigh, rubbing her own arms with a shiver. The heat of the day is gone and for a summer that has been so hot the night is so cold. It's her turn to catch Ice's eye now, and he knows what she's after. The new Jet captain gestures and says something to Mouthpiece, who detaches himself from the Jets to join Minnie in the garage. If anyone will make the Jets' little sister feel better, Velma knows, it's Mouthpiece.

She turns back to Bernice, who has the strangest expression on her face. "What?" she asks, uncertain. "What is it?"

Bernice shakes her head. "Nothin'," she says, but the way she's looking at Velma doesn't agree with that. "Just thinkin'." She hesitates for a moment. "It's just I don't know how you two ain't runnin' around screamin' your heads off like all the resta us."

Velma bites her lip. "I don't know," she says, looking Bernice full in the face for the first time. It's like seeing Clarice in a wavy, distorted mirror. Just slightly off, but it's there all the same. "Bernice…what happened at Doc's? How'd you find out? An' Graz…" She lets her sentence trail off. "Could ya tell me?"

Bernice looks to the side and inhales before giving Velma a shaky nod. "I was at Doc's," she says, "waitin' for the boys—Minnie'd just come in—an' then Gee-Tar an' Mouthpiece showed up. An' they told us about Riff—that somethin' went wrong, an'—an' then Graziella came in with Tiger, an' well, you saw her," she says, voice quiet. "She's in bad shape."

Velma glances back. The redhead's eyes are closed, and faint drops of perspiration are shining on her pale skin. "What'd Tiger tell her?"

Bernice shrugs. "We don't really know. But enough. Poor thing," she adds, giving Graziella a troubled look before turning back to Velma. "How'd you find out?" she asks, eyes wary. "You were waitin', just like Graz an' Clarice was, right?"

For once Velma doesn't mind the intrusion. Not tonight. "Yeah," she murmurs, seeing that dark figure again and remembering that rush of happiness. It all seems like a dream now. "An' Ice came an' told me. We went by her place, then Doc's, when she wasn't there. An' then Snowboy found us."

"Oh," Bernice says with a sigh, and Velma, gazing at her, wonders for a moment what it must be like to not have anyone waiting just for you. About loneliness, and trying to find something you don't even know you need.

"I guess—Clarice doesn't know, does she?" Velma asks tentatively.

Bernice shakes her head. "No," she says. "Big Deal went by, after, an' told her, but he said he wouldn't let her come." Her mouth twists up into something that can't quite be called a smile. "Guess she don't have the pull with the new leader that you do, huh?"

Velma matches her expression. "I guess not. Look, I'd better get back to Graz," she says, feeling uncomfortable. The world is turned on its head all around her and nothing is as it should be tonight and for Velma, this sense of utter helplessness in the face of the night is unnerving. She bites her lip. "But…thanks, Bernice."

The brunette nods, and there again is that strange look on her face. "Sure, Velma."

As Velma turns and makes her way back to Graziella, she glances around. The Jets are quiet now, still figures in the silence. Ice is close to Action, ready to restrain him if needed, but a few of the others have retreated to sit on the trash cans and crates around the alley. Minnie is in the garage with Mouthpiece; Bernice is nearby. And Graziella, huddled against the wall, is still crying.

"Oh, Graz," Velma murmurs as she puts her arms around her best friend again. There isn't anything else she can say, not in the face of Riff's death and the uncertainty of what is to happen next.

Why aren't they crouched over and helpless? Velma wonders suddenly. Bernice has a point. Why aren't they bent over and wailing at the incredible heartless agony of knowing that their leader has been snatched from their midst? Why?

The truth, Velma supposes, if she really wants to think about it, is that she, at least, is still holding it at arms's length. She doesn't want to accept it, and least of all does she want to understand the pain of knowing the boy you love more than anything is dead and never coming back. The truth, she supposes, is that she is sad for Riff, and for Graziella, but what Velma feels more than anything is sheer breathless relief that it was not Ice.

She was happy, she thinks, remembering that moment of release. And if Ice had been the one to fall—

Velma shudders. She can't think about that, now, or ever, or she won't be able to move or breathe or do anything but what Graziella is right now. I'm sorry, she thinks to her best friend. She keeps her arms wrapped around Graziella but her eyes on Ice. I'm sorry that it had to be him.

It takes her a few minutes before Velma realizes that Ice won't look at Graziella. Or any of the Jets; at least not for more than a moment. His gaze skitters over the wall, the pavement, everywhere but them. And Velma, eyes fixed firmly on him, realizes that Ice, far from feeling her relief, actually feels guilty that he is here. That he, and not Riff, made it out without a scratch. That he is alive.

No, she thinks furiously, no. It isn't his fault that he came back to her. She wants to reach out and make him understand that no matter what, it is not his fault and that he shouldn't have to feel sorry for being alive. Not now. Not ever.

As if hearing her thoughts, Ice raises his eyes to hers and holds her gaze for a long, long moment. He doesn't say anything. His expression doesn't change. He just looks at her like they are the only two people left in this world.

But when Action wheels around and demands a cigarette from Tiger, Velma remembers that they are not. Far from it. And that, she understands now, is his reason, why Ice is still moving and not paralyzed by the weight and grief and loss pressing down on him. The night is not yet over. The path to hell has been laid wide open tonight, and the chasm is still there, waiting in the darkness. Ice has a job to do, and he will do it. Because it falls to him, and because that is who he is.

The Jets are taking their cigarettes when Bernice moves forward.

"Gimme a couple," she requests, and Tiger, looking surprised, obediently hands two over. Bernice takes a light from Gee-Tar and exhales a long stream of smoke before she stops and looks at Velma.

"Smoke?" she offers, holding one out. "It'll help."

Velma doesn't smoke, doesn't even like it when Ice does it because then he doesn't smell or taste like him, but tonight she steps forward and lets Ice light one for her. Anything, she thinks, to drive away the cold in her bones.

"D'ya want one, Graziella?" asks Tiger.

"Yeah—no—I don't know," the redhead says, voice cracking. "I guess. Gimme one."

But when Tiger hands it over, Graziella takes a few puffs, then flings the cigarette to the ground in disgust and turns away. Velma doesn't say anything. Nothing will help, she knows. Nothing at all.

Velma leans against the wall and watches as Ice brings the lighter to his cigarette and flips the switch. He shields the flame with his hand, but Velma can still see that flicker of light flaring, sputtering in the darkness. That last little bit of hope in all of them that somehow this is just a dream, that they will wake up and everything will be all right again, because this—this is not how this night was supposed to be.

They stand in stillness, silence, frozen figures clinging to all that is left of their lives. Velma doesn't know what they're waiting for. Maybe, she thinks, the ghost of a smile passing over her face, for the world to end.

And then she glances at Graziella, huddled empty and spent, and remembers that for some of them, it already has.