Disclaimer: Same as always, with the caveat that I really think Jerry Robbins wants to beat me over the head by now, haha.

Note: 3.05.11. This was formerly the second half of chapter 17. Hopefully it's easier to read now. :)

—viennacantabile

fell the angels

eighteen : shadows in the dust

.

No one may know of it, but you never forget the thump—eh? A blow on the very heart. You remember it, you dream of it, you wake up at night and think of it—years after—and go hot and cold all over.

—Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

.

Weeks later, he is crossing 67th when he sees a boy on the sidewalk.

Ice stares. He isn't sure which one it is, but he does know it is a Shark. In Jet territory. In the old days, that would have meant chasing him back to his own neighborhood and maybe a little souvenir to remember the Jets by. But today—a month and a half after that uneasy truce he'd agreed to with Pepe—he's not sure what to do.

He considers leaving, just walking away. It's only one of them, after all, and a skinny, scrawny one at that, who, if Ice remembers correctly, is the youngest and the newest. Which usually goes along with being the dumbest, and most likely to get caught up in trouble. Ice thinks of Baby John and sighs. He's not too sure he feels like beating on the kid's Shark counterpart, especially when they're not too far from the border anyway. A deal is a deal, though, and whatever else has changed in the last month, this is still Jet territory.

But before he can do anything, the Shark turns. At first his eyes widen, and Ice can almost see the muscles in the kid's legs shifting, readying to run. He'd be good at it, too, thinks Ice, taking in the Shark's thin, wiry frame. He's lighter and probably faster than Ice, that's for sure, but the Jet leader has a longer stride and familiarity with the neighborhood. The Shark could run—but there's no guarantee he'd get away.

The kid stands frozen for a full minute before Ice realizes that he is not, in fact, going to bolt. In that case, he thinks, holding the Shark's nervous gaze, what is he going to do?

They stand silent for still longer before the Shark visibly gulps and takes a deep breath. "Oh," he says, accent made more prominent by the quaver in his voice. "It—it is you."

Ice blinks, at a loss for words. The kid's fearful gaze looks so much like Baby John's that he is having a hard time reconciling the voice with the face. He shakes his head. "What're ya doin' here?"

The boy shrugs his skinny shoulders. "I did not—I was just—"

"You ain't supposed to be here, kid," Ice says, in an effort to remember who he is. "The deal was we stay off each others' blocks an' no one gets hurt. This is Jet territory. And last time I checked, you're a Shark."

"I know—I am sorry," the boy says, taking a step back. "Maria asked me to bring something to Tony's mother, and I did not think it would be so very bad."

It is at this point, Ice knows, that he should remind the Shark that, reason or no reason, this is still Jet territory and he still needs to keep out. But all Ice can hear is that name of the girl who stood before him and pointed a gun at his heart, and all he can see is that anguished face and the heartbreak written there. Maria.

It takes him a moment to decide, but in the back of his mind he has an uneasy feeling it's what he was going to do all along. "Okay," he says, voice gruff. "You get a pass this once, but not again, dig? Now beat it."

The boy nods, eyes wide, before scrambling in the opposite direction as fast as he can run. Ice, watching him go, raises an eyebrow. Maybe, he thinks, he wouldn't have been able to catch him, after all.

As Ice begins walking again, he wonders if he's gone soft. He remembers a time when he wouldn't have thought twice before jumping a Shark and chasing him all the way back to his block. June. It's only August now. Has he really changed so much?

If he is honest with himself, Ice doesn't hate them. He doesn't. But he doesn't want to be buddies with them, either. He just never wants to see them again in his life. He wants to forget everything that has anything to do with the fact that Riff and Tony are gone, and that things have changed so much that the Ice of today, the captain who'd hooked a small fish and thrown him back, is unrecognizable as the Ice who'd taunted a powerless Bernardo months ago, confident in his own status as a top Jet. The Ice who had no worries at all.

If he'd known then, he wonders, would he have done anything different? Would he have pushed for peace instead, backed Tony up at the rumble? He can't stop thinking about it, can't stop replaying that night in his head. He has to fix it, Ice thinks. He has to find what went wrong and make sure it never happens again. It's about more than the Jets now. He remembers that exquisite face and shudders.

You all killed him.

And what he hadn't said then—what he is still afraid of, even now—was that she was right.

.

Despite his best intentions, Ice still can't stop the Jets from getting into scuffles with everyone from the kids at the basketball court to the man in the ice cream truck.

"Knock it off!" he snaps, frustrated, as he yanks A-Rab and Joyboy off a dark-haired kid in mid-August. It's broad daylight and still the Jets can't keep from picking fights with every Tom, Dick, and Harry who walks by? he thinks, incredulous. "The hell d'ya think you're doin'?"

A-Rab wipes his sleeve across his damp face. "It was them who started it!" he protests, jabbing an accusing finger at the departing boy and his friends. "Them little rat-faced Sicilian wops! Right, buddy-boys?"

"It's true," adds Baby John with a shudder. "They just came outta nowhere!"

"Yeah," spits Action, glowering after them. "An' then they said Jets was stinkin' cowards an' lousy fighters. What'd ya want us to do, roll over an' play dead an' prove it was true?"

Ice stares at them. God, he thinks. What is he supposed to say to that?

"No," he finally says, feeling a strange sort of thudding in his chest. "Jesus, no."

"Well, then, whadda we do?" asks A-Rab, and from the look in his eyes, he really wants to know. He isn't the only one—how can the Jets keep cool without taking that kind of crap? Ice wonders. How can they stay out of trouble without other gangs giving it to them? Where is the balance in all of this?

He wishes he knew. He wishes a lot of things.

But in the end, Ice is the leader of a gang, and there is only one answer.

"I want you to give 'em hell."

"Really? Ya mean it?" A-Rab gapes, taking a step forward. "We can?"

Ice nods. "They can't—they can't go around sayin' crap like that," he says. His mouth is dry. "So you let 'em know that."

"There's the Jet I knew," says Action, throwing up his hands. "Ice-man, where ya been?"

Ice just shrugs. He isn't sure that this is the right thing to do—he never is anymore—but in the end, he can't tell his gang anything else. It isn't so much about what the kids said, he thinks. It isn't even about the kids themselves. He knows his gang. In this heat, they need something or someone to fight against. They need the struggle they've been living all their lives. Almost two months of quiet or no, the Jets were born to rumble, born to fight, and try as he might, there is nothing he can to do stop them. All he can do, he thinks, is stop it from going too far.

"I knew he'd say that. We're Jets," pipes up Baby John, blue eyes bright and still somehow innocent. "An' they gotta respect that, don't they, Ice?"

"Yeah," he says. His mind is a mess right now. He wonders if Riff or Tony had ever felt this way. Riff, maybe, after Tony left—Ice still remembers those furtive glances toward the door on the day of the rumble. But if Riff felt like he had no clue what he was doing, he never let on. And that, he realizes, is what he has to do now. "Yeah," he says again, stronger this time. "They do."

.

Ten days later, the Jets get what they've been waiting for.

Ice is sitting in his usual spot in the back when the door to the candy store slams open and three dark-skinned boys in leather jackets saunter in.

And in an instant, the other ten Jets are up, alert, eyes narrowed and fists clenched. This is their territory, their headquarters, and as the Musclers advance Ice sets his jaw. Here we go, he thinks, resigned. There is no avoiding this anymore.

Doc takes a step forward, face worried. "Boys—"

But Ice shakes his head. The Musclers are from a rough part of town, and yeah, he might be getting soft, but he wouldn't put it past them to knock out Doc's windows or rob him or something and the old man doesn't deserve that. He remembers another meeting, another time. "Later, Doc."

The old man glances back, then releases a helpless sigh before retreating into the back. Only Baby John watches him go. The rest of them have better things to look at.

As the three boys make their way over to Ice's table, Ice taps the ash from his cigarette and inhales. He doesn't get up. "Little warm for leather, don't ya think?"

"Looky here, boys," the biggest one says, crossing his arms. "A buncha little Jet planes. I think I used to play with stuff like that when I was little."

And there it is, Ice thinks. The first shot. "You're on our turf," he says, his voice low and flat. "Got any excuse?"

"Oh, we thought we'd pay ya a friendly visit, make peace with the natives," says the leader. "I'm Tank. This's Bullet," he says, gesturing toward a whippet-quick, wiry boy, then to the huge one. "An' Basher. Nice matched set, ain't they?"

"I don't think I like 'em, actually," says Ice, his voice cool. "'Least not here where they don't belong."

Tank crosses his arms. "Yeah? We don't like what we see, neither." He flashes a thin smile. "This here's a nice block. It oughta have better keepers."

"It's got the best!" bursts an indignant Baby John before A-Rab shoves him.

Tank swings around to stare at the youngest Jet. "Think so, kid? Wouldn't mind puttin' a good word in with Santa Claus for me, then, would ya? I guess I'm on his naughty list." He grins, then sweeps his gaze around the Jets. "'Least, I will be after we crush this little two-bit excuse for a gang."

Action, flanked by the Boyer twins, growls and takes a step forward. Before he can do anything, Ice stands up. The Muscler is tall, but the Jet captain is taller, and as he stares down at Tank, the boy's expression grows wary.

"You talk as big as you are," says Ice, eyes narrowed. "We'll see if you can back it up."

The Muscler captain watches him in silence for a moment, before giving him a slow nod. "Count on it."

After the door swings shut behind him, the Jets crowd in around their captain.

"What're we gonna do, Ice?" Baby John asks, his face scared. "Those guys were huge."

"Them no-good Musclers!" spits a furious Action. "What'd I tell ya, huh? They're after our territory!"

"Gee, ya think so?" snaps Anybodys, pushing her way to the front. "Ice, c'mon, lemme at 'em! Single combat, whaddaya say?"

"What are ya, nuts?" scoffs A-Rab. "They'd crush ya like a bug!"

Anybodys spins on him, but her retort is lost on Ice when Snowboy guffaws. "No, let her!" he snickers. "I'd pay a quarter to see that contest—think-a the guy's face when he sees her!"

"Yeah, 'cause we sent a girl," mumbles Gee-Tar. "What kinda gang would we look like?"

Big Deal rolls his eyes. "Like you'd be any better?"

Ice clears his throat. "It ain't comin' to that, an' even if it did, it wouldn't be you," he tells Anybodys. "Not 'less they was scared-a girls or somethin'."

"Like Baby John?" Action asks, rolling his eyes. "That ain't gonna happen. If anyone's fightin' 'em, it's me!"

As the rest of the Jets chime in, in favor or not, Ice sighs. The Jets, even if they are the greatest gang in the city, aren't exactly the best at sitting back and taking a good hard look at things. "Listen—"

But no one does. Action is running his mouth, Snowboy is cracking jokes, and A-Rab and Anybodys are arguing. The same as always, except right now, Ice thinks, they've got work to do, don't they see that? Mouthpiece and Tiger are conferring and making a show of punching each other, Big Deal is cracking his gum, and Gee-Tar and Joyboy are listening to Snowboy. Only Baby John is still hovering around his captain. He should do something, Ice realizes. Get them organized.

He clears his throat. "Jets—"

But the noise is still growing to a din that doesn't stop until Ice snaps his fingers, loud and sharp, and they look at him, surprised.

"Look. We'll run 'em off," he says in the silence that follows, voice cool and confident. Now that they've been challenged, they don't have any choice. They will fight, and they will win. "We always do."

Around him, heads nod, and Ice remembers how Riff used to do it. Is this all it takes? he wonders. One guy, ready to stand up and give the orders? Is this really all they need?

"You know what to do," he says, voice steady. They have been through this before, all of them. Even Baby John. "Hang around in pairs. Keep an' eye out for them Musclers." Ice nods to A-Rab, Anybodys, and Baby John. "Rank-an'-file, you scout. Stay outta trouble. Rocketmen—" He looks at Tiger, Mouthpiece, and Gee-Tar. "Start gettin' our weapons together, makin' sure we got everythin'. I want the bats, belts, the full works. Don't be afraid to use 'em if ya see someone where they shouldn't be, but don't let 'em know how much we got, neither." Finally, he glances to Big Deal, Action, and the twins. "Acemen. Work 'em over. You see any of 'em—make 'em remember ya."

Ten heads nod, and Ice holds back a sigh. He doesn't drink all that much, but there is nothing more he wants than a glass of something stiff right now. Being captain, he is starting to realize, is is a lot harder than Riff or Tony ever made it seem. But someone has to do it, Ice thinks, and it looks like that someone is him.

"Okay," he says. "Go."

The last few Jets are just slipping out the door when Ice clears his throat. "Anybodys."

The girl is at his side in a flash. "Yeah, Daddy-O?" she asks, blue eyes bright in her grimy face. "You gonna let me fight 'em?"

"No. Keep a lookout," he says. "I wanna know how many-a those kids show up, where they go, what they do. Hell, I even wanna know how many times they get hauled down to the station house and whose ma Schrank insults more'n five times." He can feel a rusty half-smile edge onto his face. "Stick to them shadows you're always sendin' a valentine to, huh?"

A grin splits her face, and for a moment she looks so happy that Ice wonders what that feels like because he doesn't remember anymore. The thrill of just being a Jet and knowing what he has to do. That absolute certainty.

"Right!" she says, and already she is poised to run off. But Ice stops her.

"Hang on a minute, will ya?"

Anybodys pauses, and for the first time, Ice sees the alert, almost hungry look in her eyes replaced by something softer he can't identify. "Yeah?"

"Look," he says. "I got a special assignment I want ya to do for me."

The tomboy lights up. "Ya want I should scout out their territory, too? I could sneak in, maybe raid their headquarters. It's in the back of one-a them barbershop places, I know that much, starts with an H—"

"No," he says before she gets any more ideas. "Two things. One, you're already good with PR territory. Spy around, lemme know what they're up to. Don't do anythin'," he adds sternly. "Things're quiet with 'em an' I like it that way. I just wanna know if they're holdin' up on their side-a things. I don't wanna find 'em sneakin' up behind us when we got this other gang to deal with. Dig?"

Anybodys nods smartly. "Dig, Daddy-O. What else?"

Ice holds back a sigh. He has a feeling she isn't going to like this particular request. "A-Rab. An' Baby John."

Anybodys eyes him, her gaze wary. "What about 'em?"

"They stick out," he explains. "Anyplace they go. Always gettin' into trouble, an' the last thing we need's another brawl on the playground or Baby John gettin' stuck in the ear again. I need you to keep an' eye on 'em."

A look of disgust covers her face. "Aww, hell, Ice, you ain't makin' me babysit Captain Marvel an' his flyin' monkey, are ya?"

"Orders," he tells her, amused in spite of himself. "You're rank-an'-file, kid. So're they. You wanted to be a Jet; this is what it's all about. Lookin' out for your buddies."

"Aww, fine," Anybodys snaps, her face twisted into a scowl. "I'll do it. But I ain't gonna like it!"

Ice shrugs. "Ya don't have to." He hesitates, then feels the corner of his mouth creak up into that half-smile again. "Thanks, buddy-boy."

And there again is that look in her eyes he doesn't quite understand. "You got it, Daddy-O!" She is off and running before he can say anything else, and Ice, as he watches her go, sighs. It hasn't even been two months, and it is beginning again. And this time, unlike the last, he has no idea how it is going to end.

.

He's not particularly surprised to find a man waiting in the alley.

"Evenin', Ice."

Ice doesn't look as he shoulders past him. "Evenin'."

"What?" asks the man, following him. "No hugs for your old pal Schrank?"

Ice keeps his face blank. "Sorry."

"How's business going, kid?" the lieutenant persists, eyeing him with his shrewd gaze. "You thinkin' about gettin' those Sharks back for your dead pals?"

"I thought I'd leave it alone," replies Ice, his voice cold. "Like maybe you oughta. Ever heard-a respect for the dead, Lieutenant?"

"When ya see 'em as often as I do?" scoffs Schrank. "I ain't some bleedin'-heart Glad Hand. People don't change just 'cause their forwarding address is the morgue, y'know."

Ice doesn't answer, just quickens his pace until he is a few strides ahead of the man. One day, he thinks, clenching his fists, Schrank's big mouth is going to catch up with him. And Ice can only hope he will be there to see it when it does.

"You decided what it's gonna be, Ice?" calls the lieutenant, a tinge of mocking scorn coloring his voice. "You gonna go straight? Get off the streets? Or end up like your buddies?"

Ice wills the rage in his body to go away. "I ain't Action," he replies, voice tight. "An' you ain't gonna get me to land myself in the can. I'm done, we're all done, an' we ain't lookin' for trouble, okay?"

"I know you tough guy-types," taunts Schrank. "You think you've got it all figured out. Then something comes along an' knocks you off your feet and onto your ass an' you're worse off than you ever were." He pauses, looking Ice up and down with a sneer. "You're no better'n any-a the boys I've seen. Just luckier." He shakes his head. "At least, so far."

Ice grits his teeth and takes a deep breath. No, he thinks. It takes every bit of his self-control, but giving the lieutenant a short nod, he moves on. Knocking Schrank out won't solve anything, he knows. Just get him sent to the slammer. No.

When he gets home, his mother glances at him. "Are ye all right, John?" she asks, pale eyes concerned.

Ice pauses, a million thoughts in his mind at once. Schrank. Anybodys. The Musclers. The Jets. Tony. Riff. Velma. It never ends.

"Yeah," he says at last. "Fine."

.

They are lying on her bed when he tells her about the Musclers.

"They anythin' to be worried about?" Velma asks, and in the dark he hesitates. He doesn't quite think so, no, but nowadays he takes nothing for granted. Tank and Basher were just as big as Tiger and Mouthpiece after all, and though he's seen a couple others before he's not sure yet what their numbers are. But if he tells her, she'll just worry, and Ice doesn't want that. Especially when he's almost positive the Jets can handle them.

"No," he finally says, and the word settles deep into the air around him. It's not a lie. But between them now is that half-truth that has never been there before and Ice doesn't know what it will mean. If it will change anything. If it even matters at all.

There is a long silence, and then Velma's voice comes as if from far away.

"That's good."

Ice waits for a moment, but when he realizes she isn't going to say anything else, he releases a long breath. In the back of his mind he still remembers the sadness in her voice. I just don't want it to be you next time.

"How's Graz?" he asks tentatively. He hasn't seen the redhead much in the past month or so, and even after Velma has been with her best friend, she never wants to talk about her—just leans into him and doesn't say a word. It's not easy, Ice thinks, being the one who is supposed to have all the answers.

There is another pause, and Ice isn't sure, but he thinks he hears her inhale, quiet and slow.

"She's fine."

"I'm glad," he says, staring up at the ceiling. It's harder and harder to talk to Graziella even when she is around these days, because all he can see when he looks at her is Riff and what should have been. And he can't help feeling guilty for that. Of all people, Ice thinks with a sigh, he should be the one to understand that it isn't so easy when the person you have lost is someone like Riff.

He is almost asleep when Velma moves closer.

"School's startin' tomorrow, y'know."

Ice blinks. He'd forgotten. "Really?"

Beside him, Velma nods. "Summer's over," she says, her voice soft. "This'll be my last year."

"You excited?" he asks, putting his arm around her. He doesn't know what else to say. It's odd, he thinks, being done with all of that. Even if he'd skipped half the time and slacked off the rest, there was always that upcoming year ahead of him. And now that there isn't, he isn't quite sure how to feel.

"Yeah. Maybe. I don't know," she says, voice wistful. "I keep hopin' Graz'll change her mind about droppin' out, but even if she does, it won't be the same, not without you an'—even Bernice. Clarice said she's goin' to stay with their family in Sicily, did ya know that?"

It's a rare stumble for her, and if Ice didn't know her so well, he might not have noticed the catch in her smooth voice. But Ice knows who she really means, anyway.

"No," he says, "I didn't. But even if Graz an' Bernice don't come back, Clarice'll still be there," he offers. "An' Minnie. An' a couple Jets. Even your brother," he adds, for lack of anything else. "Oh, an' don't forget, I'll pick ya up after an' walk ya over to Doc's, same as always."

"I know," she sighs. "But still. It won't be the same."

Ice stares at the ceiling. And that's the problem, he thinks. "Nothin' ever is."

"What's goin' to happen, Ice?" she asks, voice soft. "To all of us?"

"I don't know," he says quietly. If he has learned anything over the past few months, it is that no one can. And even if he could, he thinks, the air unmoving in his body, he's not sure if he'd want to. He pulls her closer, breathes in and remembers a time when everything seemed so simple. So easy. "I don't know."