Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it's not mine. If you don't, it's mine. Ex: the Musclers are Irving Shulman's from the novelizaton, but the individual names are mine. :)

Note: Semi-revised 3.05.11. Two things—if you haven't read catch the moon, it might be helpful. And as always, feel free to let me know if you have any questions, comments, or complaints. :)

—viennacantabile

fell the angels

seventeen : the drowned and the saved

.

O God! what a thing it is to be a ghost, cowering and shivering in an altered world, a prey to apprehension and despair!

—Ambrose Bierce, "The Moonlit Road"

.

It's so dark.

Ice, sitting on the roof, closes his eyes and takes a long, slow breath. It's the only thing he can do right now; the only thing that will keep him sane as he tries to forget about the empty spaces where his best friends used to be.

Where are they now? he wonders. Where do they disappear to? What happens to them after they leave, and to the people they loved? Hours later, he can still see them endlessly falling, toppling over, marionettes whose strings were cut so silently no one even knew it was happening until it was over. Three lives stolen in the space of a heartbeat, with no time to fight or scream or say goodbye. Gone, without even a warning.

Except Tony, he remembers, covering his face with his hand. His fingertips are numb. Riff had been bad enough, but Tony…Ice remembers his friend sinking to the ground and shudders. Tony had known exactly what was happening, had struggled with everything he'd had in him, and still it wasn't enough. Still he'd slipped away, had gone with the night and left them all behind with no direction and no idea of where to go from here.

Where? Ice thinks again. He can't believe in their absence, can't accept that there is nothing left of them. Where do they go?

He can't help hoping with every cell in his body that if he waits long enough the sun will come up as it always does and everything will be okay. That this whole night will turn out to have been just a dream and that Riff and Tony—and even Bernardo—will meet him in the morning and they will laugh. Us, dead? Never thought you'd fall for such a dumb trick, Ice-man. You're getting too easy.

(Ice doesn't think he's ever heard the Shark leader laugh like he means it but even that is easier to imagine than this horrible truth.)

And Vee, he thinks. With Riff and Tony back, Velma will have no need to ask questions he can't answer and look at him with those eyes of hers that see everything he tries to hide. With Riff and Tony here, they can continue on, as they always have. Safe. Someone else can call the shots, and someone else can give the orders. Someone else who has the slightest idea of what he is doing. Someone—anyone—who is not Ice.

He can't lead, he thinks, gazing out into the darkness, every muscle tensed and locked into place. He can't.

Time passes, and still he waits for the light. It's dumb as anything and no one else knows, but over the years, this moment—the space between night and day—has become as familiar as his own mind, a place to call home. Here he has waited, and here he has met the dawn which has never failed him before. No matter what, he thinks, straining his eyes for relief from the endless void, the sun always comes up in the end.

But Ice, stretching his arm out, stares in vain. There is no sign of light, no hint of daybreak. In this inky blackness he can't even see the shape of his hand, let alone that place where his friends have gone. Beyond time. Beyond life.

Riff, he tries to say aloud. Tony. But there is no sound, no breath left in him. No way to know he isn't just another ghost. Like—them.

Vee.

(Even if he could get it out, there is no one in this darkness to hear, anyway.)

"Ice."

He opens his eyes so suddenly he almost doesn't think it's real.

"Ice," persists the voice. "Ice, wake up."

There across the room is the faint dimness of light from the window. He can feel the the barest hint of sensation from the cool soft sheet over his skin. And as his gaze runs over the ceiling, the walls, the bed, Ice takes a deep breath, the air reaching all the way down into his lungs.

"Vee?"

The word is short, just a small sigh into the night, but it's there. It's proof that he is awake, that weeks separate them from that starless night, and that the sun rises—as it did then, and as it does now. That he is not alone.

Velma rests her hand on his bare chest, and Ice registers her touch, feather-light and gentle. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he says, sitting up. Ice shakes his head. The awareness of sight still feels so strange to him after the abyss he has just left that though he knows where he is now and that morning is on its way, after all, it's still difficult to get his bearings. Vertigo. He's all too used to that feeling these days. "Fine."

"I don't know why I woke up," she says, blue eyes watching him. "But I thought—I felt—" She pauses. "You had this look on your face. I never see you sleepin' anymore, you know that?"

Ice shakes his head. "No," he says, although of course he does. He doesn't remember the last time she woke up before he left. "What'd I look like?"

Velma, head propped up on her hand, doesn't say anything for a long moment. And Ice, gazing down at her, shifts his weight. She doesn't know—she can't know—the things inside of him. The dreams that won't go away. Everything that is too terrible to bring into the light. He won't let her.

Finally she sits up and presses her lips to his shoulder. "Like you were real far away," she whispers, sliding her arms around him. "Like you were someplace I couldn't reach you."

The air is still again in Ice's body. It's been weeks and still he doesn't know what to tell her. He wonders now if he ever has.

He tries to shrug it off, lets out a small chuckle. "I'm right here. Always have been."

She doesn't laugh. "Me, too."

Ice stares at the bed. The day is advancing and the room is full of shadows cast by pale light. But all he sees right now are the walls pressing in on him and the hint of dawn waiting just beyond that open window.

"It's morning," he says. "I better go."

There is no change in the weight around his waist, but Ice can feel the effect his words have on her just the same.

"Already?"

"It's morning," he says again. "Or almost. An' your dad's been workin' the early shift this week."

Velma sighs, and releases him. "When'll I see ya?" she asks, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Later," he says, putting his feet to the floor and reaching for his clothes. The sky is getting brighter now and the pull, the need to leave, is getting stronger. He doesn't have much time, not if he wants to catch that first glimpse of light. "Doc's, probably."

"Okay," she says, her voice soft in the stillness of her room. "See ya later."

Pulling his shirt on, Ice nods. "See ya."

Reaching forward, he presses his lips to her forehead, and climbs out the window and onto the steps of the fire escape. He can just see the sky changing color to the barest hint of red-gold. Daylight is coming, and as Ice breathes in, he can feel the morning air flooding his body. He is alive, he thinks, and for now, at least, he is not alone.

.

"Aww, c'mon, Ice," says Action, pounding his fist into his palm that afternoon at Doc's. "I'm sick-a stayin' inside; we got nothin' to do here."

Ice, sitting at his usual table behind the pinball machine, trades a glance with Big Deal. Little by little Action has been regaining the reckless impatience of his old self, and Ice has a feeling he'll have to deal with the Jet sooner or later. But he should have expected it—it's been weeks, he thinks with a sigh, and the others aren't so content themselves.

"Krupke an' those stooges've been gettin' real comfortable on their asses without us stirrin' up trouble," complains A-Rab, fidgeting at the pinball machine. "At least we could scout out new territory. Roll a coupla drunks, even."

"Yeah, I could use a watch," says Tiger from the counter, running his comb through his hair. "A real snazzy one. Know any drunks who got those?"

"Not any that'd be dumb enough to keep 'em where you could find 'em, stupid," snaps Anybodys, twisting around from her perch by Ice's table. She doesn't say it, but everyone knows what she really means. No watch Tiger will ever be able to nab is going to get him anywhere with Graziella. "God."

"It ain't nice to say that too much, Anybodys," says Mouthpiece from next to Tiger, looking very serious. "'Least, that's what my ma says."

A-Rab cackles, and Anybodys's face turns red. "I couldn't give two sh—"

"Hey, look!" says Baby John from the nearest table, waving his comic in the air. Ice sighs in relief at the interruption. "They got an address where you can write to Captain Marvel! An' it says right here that they're gonna print the best ones!"

Gee-Tar leans forward and peers at the faded type. "Huh. Just like that?"

"Yeah!" says Baby John, bouncing in his seat. "I gotta get started right away!"

"Ain't that from a month ago?" Big Deal asks, popping his gum. He reaches for the comic and squints. "June 16th, 1957. Yeah. 'Less you got a time machine or somethin', you're a little late, Baby John."

"So what else is new?" Anybodys grumbles as the boy deflates, but the rest of her griping is lost on Ice as his mind registers the date. June 16th, 1957. One month ago. He has been aware of time passing, but still he is surprised and somehow ashamed. It's the strangest thing, he thinks. Four weeks on, and everything is exactly the same. Action moaning for action. Baby John and Captain Marvel. Tiger and Mouthpiece, making them all look a little smarter. And Ice, watching it all from the corner.

But even though the picture in Doc's is familiar, so many details are off in the smallest, subtlest way. The girls, off who knows where now that Graziella has no reason or desire to be here. Anybodys, presence unquestioned now and proud of it. And the Jets, looking at him. It all adds up to that horrible hole in their midst, that absence Ice can't ever forget: Riff. Tony.

"Ice?"

He glances up at the man standing in front of his table, face falling into its usual blank expression. "Yeah, Doc?"

The lines in the old man's face have gotten deeper, his faded eyes sadder in the month since he began working alone again. Here, at least, thinks Ice, is one person who hasn't forgotten what day it is, and what they've lost. Though what this means he isn't sure.

"I been thinkin'," says Doc, a ghost of a smile on his face. "I could use a little help around here. Mind lendin' me Baby John?" Face flat again, he glances at the boy, who is engrossed in his comic again. "You an' I both know he's a little young for all of this."

"Sorry, Doc," says Ice, trying for a smile in return but ending up with a grimace. "We need him."

"Yeah? For what?" Action asks in disgust, flinging a dart into the board. "It ain't like we're doin' nothin'. I might as well sign up with them army schmucks; at least then I'd get to hit someone."

Doc shakes his head. "You wouldn't last two seconds in the army," he says, that flicker of a smile passing across his face again. "Too many orders, not enough patience for kids like you."

As Action scowls, Joyboy gets up and joins him at the dartboard. Firing a dart into its center, he removes the lollipop from his mouth. "Speakin'-a hittin' someone—"

"We heard there's been a coupla them Musclers down by the river," fills in Snowboy. He chuckles. "Maybe they was fishin', huh?"

"Yeah, fishin' for our territory," snaps Action. He yanks his dart from the board and wheels around to face his leader. "Ice, when're ya gonna let us beat 'em into the ground, huh?"

There is a chorus of agreement, and Ice sighs. He knows as well as they do that there have only been more sightings of the Harlem gang in the month since that night. He doesn't blame them—it makes sense. Any gang that has just lost its present and former captain is going to be weak. Easy pickings. It's what he'd do, if it were him. And they'd already been nosing around in the weeks before the rumble. It's not too hard to see what their next move is going to be.

But Ice shakes his head. "Not yet," he says, reaching for the excuse he's been giving them for the past few weeks. "The cops're all over our block now. We do anythin', they ship us off to some do-gooder school or even juvie." He glances around. "We gotta make like we've gone straight. Seen the error of our ways, an' alla that. Remember?"

"Yeah, yeah," grumbles Action. "We heard ya the first million times. Act like we don't gotta care in the world. Make like we're a buncha cute little kids, an' all that. You don't gotta tell us no more, okay? Play it—"

"Cool. Yeah, an' I mean it," Ice snaps, a hard edge to his voice. He will say it as many times as it takes for them to finally get it. "It's us against everyone else now, an' like it or not, it's us I'm lookin' after, buddy-boy. So we gotta wait for them to start it." He glances around at the rest of the Jets. "Then? We string 'em up an' run 'em out, right under the cops' big noses."

"Sounds good to me," says Big Deal, giving his captain a cautious look. Ice has a feeling his lieutenant might have his suspicions about why they're really not challenging the Musclers, but he knows Big Deal isn't the type to raise a stink about it. A good quality in a lieutenant, Ice thinks, and probably even in a friend.

Action just growls and hurls another dart into the board, and Ice knows he isn't convinced. But that doesn't matter, he has decided. Nothing they think does, as long as they do what he says and keep their heads down and in one piece.

It isn't til Ice turns around that he catches Doc's gaze and blinks, unsettled. The old man is staring at him, tired eyes troubled, and if Ice had thought Big Deal suspected what he was up to, he is even more sure that Doc knows the real reason Ice is keeping them shut up in their headquarters.

It never goes away, he thinks, staring at the pile of cards on the table. Riff had stashed them behind the counter before the rumble, and though Ice had retrieved them in the days after, he'd never shuffled, never played another game. If he cares to look, Riff's last hand, Riff's last card is still on top. But he doesn't. Ice has memorized every line and curve of that particular ace of spades by now and there is no point in it anymore. It never tells him anything different.

"Don't worry, Daddy-O. He'll get over it," Big Deal says in a low voice. He snorts. "An' when ya hear about the Muscler with the broken jaw screamin' about some two-foot munchkin who jumped him, you'll know how."

Ice cracks a smile, but doesn't say anything. The truth that Doc knows, the truth he can't escape, is that hours after Ice became captain, he'd already failed. And now, four weeks after the rumble that killed his two best friends, the only thing Ice cares about anymore is that the ten other Jets remaining stay alive, for themselves and their girls and whatever family they have. Even for him.

It's not such a terrible wish, he thinks, his gaze running over his friends. And he could do it, if not for problems like the Musclers. He is the captain, after all, and they might be restless but none of the Jets is about to go against him.

But deep down inside he knows that the world which has retreated since that night will not leave them alone in this uneasy calm. Something is coming, and though he doesn't know what it is or when it will be, Ice is pretty sure he is not going to like it.

.

When he says it, four days later, she looks startled.

"What?"

"Today," Ice says, reaching for her hand. "We met a year ago today."

Velma shakes her head slowly. "We did. Didn't we," she says, sounding dazed. She stares at him, blue eyes surprised. "It feels like yesterday. Yesterday, an' forever ago, at the same time."

"Yeah," he says, watching her. She looks just the same. Maybe a little sadder. But then, he probably does, too. "I know what ya mean."

She glances at him, a rueful expression on her face. "Funny, ain't it, how the time goes."

"I guess so," Ice shrugs, although very little is funny to him nowadays. "Anyway…look, I know it ain't much, but I thought we could do it all over again," he says. "Catch a movie, take a walk." He smiles a little. "I could maybe even leave, after, if ya wanted."

A smile flashes across Velma's face before she tucks her hair behind an ear. "I thought ya wouldn't wanna do anythin'. I mean—"

She falls silent, and Ice nods. He does know exactly what she means. After all, he remembers, too, who it was who brought them together. "No," he says, though his chest aches. "This is about us. Not that. I know it's s'posed to be a big deal an' all—Clarice told me," he goes on, feeling a little self-conscious. "I'da put somethin' together, but…I couldn't think-a nothin' good enough."

Velma doesn't say anything, and when Ice looks at her the sadness on her face disappears so quickly he's not even sure it was there. "I don't care about that stuff," she says, wrapping her arms around him and resting her head against his chest. "Just you."

"It's just—you're the best thing that ever happened to me," he says, gazing down at her blonde hair. He stumbles over the words a little, but he keeps going because he has to. "An' I wanna make sure you know that."

"You, too," she murmurs, tightening her hold. "Don't ever forget it."

As they retrace their steps from her street to the movie theater, he tells her about how it was—how it had happened, how she'd looked, how he'd felt. The words are hard to get out, but she doesn't seem to care.

"You remember all that?" she asks, a strange expression on her face.

He shrugs. "'Course I do. I remember every second I'm with you."

"Right," she says with a skeptical laugh. "What's the first thing ya thought when ya saw me?"

"I don't think I thought at all," he says. He remembers that first glimpse, and his breath catches in his throat all over again. "Too busy lookin'."

Velma smiles a little. "You ain't the only one who remembers that."

Ice can't help the flush that comes over his face. "It was dumb," he says, feeling self-conscious. "But I was happy."

She looks down, then, and bites her lip, but when he turns toward her she glances up again, expression unreadable. "Ya didn't have to do this, y'know."

"I wanted to," he says, because it's true. Velma is just about the only good thing left in his life nowadays and sometimes he can't breathe because he is so scared he might lose her too, somehow. He never used to be like this, Ice thinks with a sigh. But he knows now that anything is possible and that even if you think you're prepared for the worst, you never are.

"Good," Velma says, voice soft. "I'm glad." She slides her arms around him with a sigh. "Just like last year," she murmurs. "That was the best date I ever had, Ice."

Ice puts his arm around her and nods. He remembers another warm summer night, and feeling like nothing was ever going to be the same again. "Yeah," he says. "Me, too."

But as much as he loves being with her, and as much as he pretends otherwise, Ice knows that this is all a lie. It's just not the same. Without Riff and Graziella, pushing them together and heading off to make out in the back, it's just another date on a day that's supposed to be something special. Theirs. It's funny, he thinks, that today of all days they can't get away from that shadow.

Even the movie—that smallest of details—isn't the same. Instead of Frank, Bing, and Grace Kelly, it's Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr, Velma whispers to him as their smooth perfect faces fill the screen. It's still about love, it always is, but this time it's not so easy, not so neat. This time it's a year later and there are real problems that can't be solved by a kiss and a wedding and a love song. They end up together anyway, of course, or at least he thinks they do, because this is how it's supposed to be. Love, conquering all. Isn't it romantic.

One year, he thinks as she makes her way up the steps of her apartment building. At the top, Velma pauses and turns around. She doesn't say anything, just looks at him with that same smile from that first date. But even this, he sees, is different.

And the truth, Ice realizes then, is that no matter how hard they try, it isn't just like last year and it can't be because nothing is the same. Not even themselves. They are a year older, a year sadder, and in that year they've lost something he doesn't know if they can ever get back.

I'm sorry, he wants to say. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

She retreats behind the door, then, and as is their habit, he goes around to the back and begins the climb up the fire escape. Velma meets him at her window with two glasses and a bottle of something fizzy in her hands. "Grabbed it from the kitchen," she says, and kisses him, long and slow. "Here's to the next year."

And it's good, it's great, just like it always is, but Velma's words make him shiver. The next year, Ice thinks, downing his drink as he remembers all that has happened in the last. And what will that bring? There is so much behind them, so much ahead, and no way to know what will happen.

"You an' me," he murmurs, and he tries to believe it, but all he can think is that he'd always believed Riff and Tony were going to be there forever, too. And as she wraps her arms around him, the weight presses down on his body and he feels a lump rise in his throat. Why? he wonders, choking it back and resting his hand on her back, why is he here when they're not?

"We've come a long way, ain't we?" she asks, her voice quiet in the darkness.

He nods. She can't see him, but he knows she can feel the movement. "Yeah," he says, thinking of all that has been and all that is not anymore. "We have."

"I love you," she says. It's more like a question.

And Ice steadies himself to give the only answer he can, the only thing he trusts himself to say now. She deserves that much out of him, at least.

"Yeah," he murmurs, running her hand so gently over her hair that he barely feels it. "I love you, too."

.

This time when the dream ends, he wakes to silence and shadow.

Ice eases himself out of the bed, relieved when Velma doesn't stir. Though a part of him wants to wake her and tell her everything—about his nightmares, the guilt, and worst of all the fear—Velma, he thinks, reaching for his clothes, shouldn't have to deal with his problems. She has enough to think about as it is these days. And it will be easier if she doesn't know, easier if he just lets this go away on its own. Because it will. It has to.

Pulling his shirt on, Ice takes one long, last look at her, and climbs out the window. He doesn't linger. Sunrise—the real one this time, the only constant left in his life—is coming, and he has to be there to see it when it does.