Disclaimer: Reaper and his cohorts are my sick, twisted creations. Other than that, it's all theirs!

Note: Augh. I'm going to say that this was a really hard chapter to write in terms of wanting to get it right, and then mostly leave it at that. But if you only leave feedback on one chapter in this fic, this chapter might be the one to do it because I've been kind of terrified about the reaction since November. -.- On that note, hope you enjoy! ;)

Musical accompaniment: Very strong suggestions, in this order as you read. Especially the Shostakovich—it's just about the scariest piece I've ever heard. Written as a musical portrait of Stalin, if that gives you any idea. All of these are on YouTube, with links on my profile.

Sergei Prokofiev, Symphony No. 5 in B-flat Major, movement II. Allegro marcato
Dmitri Shostakovich, Symphony No. 10 in E minor, movement II. Allegro
Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, "Pathetique" Symphony No. 6 in B minor, movement IV. Finale

Proper credit: Anybodys's role in this chapter is Bardess of Avon's idea, but tweaked to work with fta. And now I have rambled for days and will shut up and let you read the chapter.

—viennacantabile

fell the angels

twenty-five : the red and the black

.

Anger's my meat; I sup upon myself,
And so shall starve with feeding.

—William Shakespeare, Coriolanus

.

And they had to choose, had to face it, and whichever way they chose they still got hurt. And all the time he did not want to do it, did not know he did it, until afterwards… Maybe there were things in themselves men should not look at, just as there were things in the very deep bottom of the sea that it was better that men did not know about.

—James Jones, From Here to Eternity

.

The time is dusk, the place is set, and the weapon of choice is ready and waiting for his hand.

Ice and the Jets scale the fire escape in silence, mindful of just whose territory they're in now. If Schrank could see them now, Ice thinks with a half-smile as he checks his watch. Sneaking up the walls of police headquarters, where the lieutenant'd just about kill to get them permanently. It's almost a funny thought.

They're eight feet from the top when the fire escape ends and Ice glances to his left. "Anybodys."

"Gimme a boost," Anybodys hisses, and as Mouthpiece pushes her up she peers over the side of the wall before scrambling up all the way and disappearing from sight. They wait for a moment until she's back and shaking her head. "Nothin'."

Ice nods, and the rest of the Jets haul themselves up and onto the roof as quietly as possible. After one last glance around, he follows.

They've scouted it, mapped it as much as possible without tipping off the police, but actually being here and standing on the concrete of the roof is different. Anybodys is right: there isn't much up here, just some Coke bottles and cigarette butts lying stubbed out on the floor. And a door, standing up by the far end and leading into what must be the stairwell. Locked, of course, but almost a little building, slanted roof and all.

"Bottles," he says, and Joyboy detaches himself from his twin and heads over. Taking two, he smashes them against the wall and slides the jagged top halves into his pockets. The rest he swings over to the roof of the next building before coming back and handing one to Snowboy. Action, hearing the glass shatter, scowls.

"We coulda used those!"

"Worry about usin' what we got," Ice says, scanning the walls with a frown. It's the one weakness of the place. Exit routes. They've planned those, too, but he still doesn't like that their only real options are the fire escape—right against the stationhouse windows—and the roofs of the buildings next to them. He knows that the whole point of having the rumble here is that they won't need exit routes, but still. It's a long drop to the street with the cops waiting for them and while he's worked just about every way this could go south, it's always the one thing you don't expect to go wrong that does.

"I can't see a goddamn thing," A-Rab says in the silence that follows, squinting at the clouded sunset. "How they gonna know when after dark is? It's been dark all day."

"Just like your brain, stupid," says Anybodys, but her heart doesn't seem into it. She, like everyone else, is waiting, muscles tensed and eyes sharp, and all of them know that the waiting, more than anything, is what drives you mad.

"Quiet," says Ice, more to distract them than anything else. "Check weapons."

The Jets slide the pipes out of their sleeves and loosen their backups in their pockets. Their pipes are all different, picked up from wherever they could nab one without getting caught, and chosen for whatever reason. Action's is dark, the screws jutting out all over just as Snowboy has instructed. Tiger's is flaking with rust. Anybodys's has a curved part at the end that almost looks like a handle. And Baby John's is painted blue and yellow. Jet colors.

Tiger, hefting his in his hands, takes a few practice swings. He does look like a baseball player, Ice thinks, a little reassured as he gets a better grip on his own. The pipe in Ice's hand is smooth and heavy, taken from the steel yard in one of their early expeditions, back when the Jets were still new. One of his first real finds, though he hasn't had much chance to use it. It's bright silver now, but in an hour it probably won't be anymore.

Fine, Ice thinks, taking a deep, slow breath. He lets it out just as carefully. It's nothing he can't handle. Fine.

But his left hand can't help reaching for the knife in his jeans. He hasn't used it in more than a year, and he doesn't intend to tonight, but Ice doesn't feel safe walking into this without a little insurance. Looking around at the other Jets, neither do they. A-Rab's screwdriver. Anybodys's crowbar. Even Mouthpiece has somehow picked up a police baton. It's almost funny, Ice thinks again as he stares at the letters NYPD on the handle.

Only this time, the memory of three bodies still in his head, Ice doesn't smile at all.

.

The sun is just down when the Reds appear out of nowhere, shapes in the darkness.

"Ice," says their captain. In his hand is a pipe painted black, and immediately Ice thinks of his own, how it reflects what little light there is and how his opponent will be able to see it coming. The Soviet won't have to worry about that. Another complication.

"Reaper," the Jet returns.

"One last chance," the Red says, dark eyes steady. "We will not hold back."

Ice shakes his head, deliberate and slow. "Neither will we."

And Reaper takes three steps forward, so close to Ice that the Jet captain can feel his gang tense behind him. Ice stares straight into his dark gray eyes, says nothing.

"What you could have been," is all Reaper says, so quiet only Ice can hear him, before the Soviet shrugs, seemingly disappointed, and returns to the Reds. And Ice wonders again what game he is playing, and why.

But he can't think about that now, can't try and figure out what is almost certainly just an attempt to unnerve him and the Jets. This is it. This is down to the wire. There will be no offer to shake hands today, no last pep talk. They're as ready as they'll ever be, and all they can do now—

"All right," Ice says, his words ringing out into the silence. "Go."

And the rooftop explodes into action as the Jets and the Reds meet.

Ice has had his target marked for the last month, and he doesn't take his eyes off him now, but somehow Reaper slips away. He's there, ducking behind Claw, and then he's—not—

Ice feels a stinging blow to his shoulder and staggers a little before getting his feet under him and wheeling around. It's one of the big ones, Blade—but Mouthpiece was supposed to get him, he thinks, getting his own pipe around to block another swing, and he twists his head for the smallest second to see Tiger tugging the two little Reds off of the big blond Jet and oh, that's what—but—if they're taking Pick and Pinch, then who—

Blade lands another hit, this just barely missing his knee, and Ice, his leg throbbing, yanks his attention back to where it belongs. This guy is fast and strong but Ice isn't the captain of the Jets for nothing, and even though he's never played a day of Little League he's got a pretty good idea of where to hit. And when Ice aims straight at the Red's gut Blade goes down, gasping and choking and clutching his middle.

Any other time, any other day, Ice would take another swing, get him out of commission, but he doesn't have time for more than a kick to shove the Red out of his way now before getting a wall behind him and looking around.

Already he can see that everything's gone wrong. It hasn't even been five minutes since the rumble started up but nobody's where they're supposed to be. Tiger's managed to get Pick and Pinch off of Mouthpiece, who from the looks of it has just knocked out Pick, and Action's ripping into the skinny blond Soviet and Big Deal's running over to get Snapper off Gee-Tar and the kids—

The kids are teaming up on Claw, which is either brave or suicidal, because even three against one isn't close to fair with this guy. They're holding their own, though, keeping the Red busy, and that's all he can ask for.

That leaves the twins, Ice thinks, and turns just in time to see Joyboy get nailed in the mouth with Razor's pipe.

Fuck, he thinks as the Jet crashes to the ground, spattering blood, but Ice doesn't have time to do more because now Saber is on him and Ice has seen this guy fight, he's got to take him out—

By the time he knocks Saber to the concrete Snowboy's dug out one of Joyboy's bottles and sliced Razor across the stomach, not enough to kill him but enough to really hurt and Big Deal—shit—

His lieutenant is down, hand flying to an eye that's already swollen shut and purple, and Snapper's still coming with his pipe but Gee-Tar's there, blocking—

Where's Reaper?

Damn it, Reaper, Ice thinks, angry at himself for losing him, there's everyone but him but there's no time, he can't—

It's chaos. In the space of a minute, everything has changed again. Saber's fighting Action now, aiming strike after strike at his hands, and there's Blade again, up now and heading for Tiger—goddamn it, Ice should have taken them both out, he should have done a lot of things—and A-Rab and Baby John have lost the pipes and are swinging at Switch with all their might. The skinny Soviet kid seems to have gotten away from Action but that's no help against two Jets his own size. And it looks like Snapper and Gee-Tar are both down, both hurt, and Ice still can't see Reaper—where the fuck is he?

He only has the sound of a growl as a warning before Claw comes barreling at him.

Ice barely gets his pipe up in time to block the blow, but even so, the shock reverberates through his arms and into his body. Claw, he thinks, angry again, Claw, how could he have missed him? This—this guy is a real opponent, and he can't let his attention wander, can't look away for a second—

Claw backs up, trying to get enough room to rush him again with the hulking piece of metal in his hands, but Ice, dashing forward, pipe raised, isn't going to give it to him. And he waits for it—the rush, the high that always comes with fighting, real fighting, where you need every bit of adrenaline to push you through—but it never comes.

He's on his own now.

But it's all right, it's fine, it's working out okay because he's doing it, he's driving Claw back and the big Soviet is ducking, stumbling, and a couple more hits ought to finish it and then Reaper, he can go find Reaper—

Claw is still raining blows but Ice has to have gotten him somewhere because he's slower now, his size working against him, and there it is—Claw is raising his arms and once they're down Ice will have a clear shot to his head—now—

Ice ducks, feints, takes aim, and—

"Ice!"

He doesn't even know it's coming before something crashes into him, knocking him to the side and Ice, jolted but still on his feet, wheels around to see Anybodys stumble and nearly fall, and behind her, Reaper—and in his hand is the dull gleam of red on silver—

But his pipe was black, he thinks, confused, as time slows to a crawl, because it's always the one thing you don't expect. The one thing you're not looking for.

There's a long, jagged line of blood running down her forearm as the pipe drops uselessly from her hand, Ice notes in the back of his mind, and still Reaper moves forward, that insatiable smile on his face as he shoves the girl aside, the grip of the blade bone-white in his hand, and Ice, breathing hard and fast, drops his pipe and feels rage burst inside of him and not again, not this time—

Never again, he knows, and whatever it takes to keep that promise, he'll do.

Ice takes those three steps forward, reaches for the knife, grabs it—his skin meets the edge of the blade but he doesn't care, he doesn't care—thrusts blindly forward til he feels metal slice flesh and hears an agonized roar—and hurls it over the side of the roof as Reaper staggers back, his face a wash of red. He doesn't care about the blood he feels streaming down to his fingertips, he doesn't care that he could have used it again on the boy now stumbling back to his friends, all he knows is that he has to get it away, now, while he still can.

He remembers her voice, fast and breathless.

Claw, he's a whole 'nother level-a crazy. Reaper, at least you see him carvin' ya. Claw, he does it up the back an' twists the knife to really work ya over.

The only time she ever got it wrong, Ice thinks, shaking. He feels sick, horrified, watching that bright red blood seep out of her arm. They're one and the same, those two, and he won't ever again be so naïve as to think otherwise.

But he can't freeze; he can't stop. He has to keep going and see this thing through to the bitter end. Whatever happens.

"Baby John!" he shouts, eyes darting around the madness of the roof.

But the younger boy is already there, jaw clenched and limbs quivering. "Yeah, chief?" he pants, his eyes fixed on Anybodys and the slick of blood flowing out of the gash in her skin.

Ice jerks his head at the girl. "Get her outta here. Doc's, or somethin'."

And for once, Baby John doesn't protest, just nods and is over to her in three seconds. But even spurting blood, Anybodys doesn't go quietly.

"Get offa me!" she snaps, then turns to Ice. "C'mon, Ice, I'm fine, I'll get 'em back, I—"

And Ice swings around and glares at her because he has no illusions anymore. As bad as this is it's about to get a lot worse. "Leave, goddamn it! That's an order!"

What little color she has left drains out of her face but he can't take it back; she saved his life, he's just trying to return the favor. Baby John takes advantage of the moment to haul her to the fire escape. A-Rab, too, goes along, and now they are down three men plus injuries but this has to end. Now.

There are so many times he should have died, he thinks, breathing hard. So many times it should have been him. How many times can he keep cheating fate?

Ice clenches his jaw and heads back toward the Reds, eyes narrowing. He is done with playing nice and trying to keep things clean. If this is the only way to win—

Fate, he thinks, hand moving to his jeans pocket, will have to wait one more time.

From the huddle on the other side of the roof, Claw sends him a dark, savage look, the grin wiped off his face, and starts forward to meet him with a snarl. But to Ice's surprise, Reaper, the left side of his face a nightmare, raises his hand.

"Nyet."

Ice doesn't know what this means, but the big Soviet stops dead in his tracks. He casts a final look of hatred at Ice, then hurries back to Reaper, kicking a couple Reds on the way to get them up and moving along. They don't linger.

Ice watches, not quite believing it, as the Soviets retreat back down the fire escape. Reaper is last, and though one side of his face is soaking through a makeshift bandage, one gray eye stares at him, intent.

"Not bad," he says, and is gone.

.

"How did it go?" Velma asks, breathless, as he climbs in the window. "Is everythin' okay? It started rainin' a couple minutes ago an' I—"

"Yeah," he says, heading over and avoiding her anxious eyes. Is everyone okay, she means. "It's—well, it ain't over yet, but they won't be givin' us trouble for awhile."

He hears her quick intake of breath as Velma sees the bloodstained rag around his fingers. "Your hand—"

Ice shakes his head. "It's fine. Just a little sore, is all."

She kisses him then, urgent and dizzy and relieved, but all he sees are Riff and Tony and now Anybodys and he can't. He can't.

"Look—Vee," he says, putting his hands on her shoulders and drawing back, "I'm—kinda tired."

Velma is silent for a long while, and Ice, wiping his good hand on his pants, avoids her gaze.

"Okay," she finally says, her voice quiet. "Did I—is everything—"

"It's fine," Ice says, shaking his head. "It's got nothin' to do with you."

Velma doesn't say anything, only nods and sits down on the bed. It's not until he's stripping off his damp shirt that she reaches out and touches her fingertips to his bare skin.

"You oughta sleep, anyhow."

He just nods, images flickering through his head. A scar. A silver glint. A dress the color of blood. Doc. Goddamn it—

It never ends.

.

He is tired as hell that night but no matter what he does, he can't close his eyes.

Ice knows it's not over. Nothing is solved. Reaper is pretty badly wounded—from the looks of it, he'll have a scar to match Tank and King—but he'll recover soon enough and and even if by some miracle he doesn't, the Reds will have regrouped around Claw or Saber or any one of the Soviets who is strong enough to lead them. They aren't the Musclers, or the Vipers. There will be another rumble. It's just a question of when. Neither gang is in any shape to fight right now. Beyond Reaper's face, Ice is pretty sure he saw more than one banged-up Red running around with no clue what to do. And the Jets had barely gotten out of there, grabbing pipes and belts and anything else that might tie them to the scene, before the cops showed up. Probably, he thinks, tipped off by the blood dripping down the streets before the rain had washed it away.

They're mostly okay. Tiger and Snowboy got away with just a couple scratches, a split lip, but Action's hands are a ripped-up mess, and Big Deal's sporting a hell of a black eye. Mouthpiece got hit pretty hard in the head with a Red pipe, enough to make him even sillier than he usually is. Gee-Tar's wrist is busted. Joyboy lost a tooth from that hit to the mouth. Baby John and A-Rab are fine, but then, they were never the Jets' heavy guns, anyway. And Anybodys…

The kid is all right, Ice thinks, staring at the dim outline of Velma's body in the darkness. They'd gone to check Doc's and she was more mad at being dragged off than hurt, but he can't get that moment out of his mind.

He reaches out, slow and gentle as he can so as not to wake her, and rests his hand on her cheek, tucks her hair behind her ear with his fingertips. Velma sleeps on, unmoving. What does she dream about? he wonders, staring at her. It's been so long since he dreamt of anything but the dark that he can't remember how it feels.

When he lifts his hand, there's a line of blood running down her face.

It's an electric shock. Ice snatches his hand back, feeling his stomach churn as scrambles back, legs tangled up in the sheets. No. No, he thinks, panicked, and almost tumbles off the bed before he wrenches free and grabs his shirt. Swinging his feet to the floor, he wraps it around his fingers and drops his head in his other hand, rubbing his eyes and trying to unsee it. Oh God oh God oh God—

It's nothing. Just the cuts from Reaper's knife, he thinks, shaking his head and trying to catch his breath, though he hadn't realized they'd opened up again. It's not her blood, it's not her wound. Only his, and he's never been funny about that before. It'll wash off and it'll be like it was never there in the first place. Just a bad dream.

And then he turns his head, risks a look—and the sight of it is enough to make him sick all over again.

Her eyes are open now, alarmed—there's no way she could have slept through all of this and she hasn't. "Ice?" she asks, shaking her head a little as she wakes up, "I thought I felt—"

He's shuddering, gasping for air, but he can't stop. He can't speak, can't do anything but keep shaking his head, over and over again. There is a tidal wave of force in him that threatens to break at any moment, and he has to keep it back, he has to.

Velma's fully awake and looking scared. "What's wrong?"

The blood is livid on her face and she doesn't even know it and again the fear hits him. This time he manages a few words. "Nothin', I just—I—"

"What happened?" she asks, reaching for him. "I knew somethin'—"

Ice forces himself to shake his head, take a deep breath, and regain some semblance of calm. He licks his cracked, drying lips and tries again. "I—just a bad dream. Vee, listen—"

Velma turns his face toward her but he can't even meet her eyes. "Ice, what happened?"

He shakes his head. This is not hers, she shouldn't have to carry it— "It don't matter."

"The hell it don't," she says, and he is surprised to hear the edge in her voice. "I love you. Don't that give me a right to know?"

Ice turns back to her. Her determined face is pale in the moonlight and still that dark stain is there. "I don't know," he says, feeling that crushing weight in his chest. All he wants to do is run, escape from everything he can't face. "I guess."

But Velma won't let him. "Ice, you can't—you can't do this," she says, blue eyes frustrated. "I can't help you if you don't tell me. If you could just—trust me—"

Ice swings his body up and gets off the bed to pace across the floor. "I do trust you," he says, rubbing at his temples. It's so hard to breathe.

Velma puts her feet to the floor and joins him, resting her hand on his shoulder. "Then don't protect me. I can handle it."

He closes his eyes, the sound of long-ago shots echoing in his head. He can't hold it back any longer. "Fine," he says, giving up and staring her right in her blood-streaked face. "You really wanna know?"

"Yes," she insists, blue eyes frustrated. "Tell me, for God's sake—"

"I almost got stabbed."

The words fall, heavy, between them. She turns white—whatever it was she was expecting, Ice thinks, it wasn't that. "What?"

But he can't comfort her, can't even touch her or he'll snap. "I was fightin' with Claw—an' Reaper, he pulled a knife behind my back—an' Anybodys knocked me outta the way. She got a nasty slash on her arm for her trouble. She's okay," he says, as much to reassure himself as her. "Looks worse'n it is."

Velma hasn't moved. "You almost—"

"Yeah," he says, his throat dry. His head is pounding. "I know."

The admission seems to break Velma free from her stillness. She rushes forward and embraces him tightly, desperately. "Oh, God, Ice," she gasps, and he can hear the tears in her voice. "Ice—"

"I'm okay," he cuts in roughly. "Don't worry. Just gotta be more careful, is all."

She shakes her head rapidly and takes a shivering, trembling breath. "So you're okay this time, yeah, but what about the next?"

Ice rubs at his eyes, trying to clear the dark spots from his vision. "Next time I'll be fine. Just like this time."

Velma presses him closer. "If you keep goin' out an' fightin'—you're the Jet captain, you're a mark, Ice, an' sooner or later you'll get hit. That guy's still out there, and he—"

"No," he says again, more forcefully this time. "I hurt him, okay? I got his knife, an' I hurt him, an' he won't be so quick to come lookin' for trouble anymore."

Velma stares at him, her eyes wide. "You—"

"Look, I can take care-a myself," Ice says, reaching for her with his good hand, trying to remember how to be gentle again. "I told ya. I ain't gonna die on ya."

"You don't know that," she says, and it's like she knows everything he's been thinking over the past few months. "Every time you go out, I don't know if you'll come back again. Do you know what that's like?"

"Yeah," he says loudly, taking a step back and shaking himself free. "I do." He sees the hurt in her eyes, but it's easier to be mad at her than to direct his anger at the real culprit: himself, for letting this happen.

Velma shakes her head. "No, you don't," she says, and the pain in her voice is so hard to hear. "If it were me—"

Ice hisses. "It ain't," he says, unable to consider that. He can't stop clenching his fists because if he does the force just under the surface will break through and that just can't happen, not now, and not ever. "So it don't matter."

Velma reaches for him, eyes pleading. "Ice—listen to me—"

He doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to think, doesn't want to do anything but make this all go away. "Vee, c'mon—"

But still, she presses, voice too soft and touch too gentle and he can't hear this anymore, he can't. The pressure in his head is building and oh, hell, he can't think. He can't fucking breathe. Riff. Tony. Anybodys. The Jets. Vee. Everything crashing down at once and he has to make it stop somehow, any way he can. He is so frustrated that it's a reflex: in a moment, he is drawing his hand back and the world is blurring and he—

She stares at him, eyes wide, voice impossibly quiet. "Ice—"

Oh, God.

Ice drops his fist like a stone, suddenly terrified. "Vee, I—oh, Jesus, I—"

Velma's face is paper-white underneath that scarlet trickle but still she manages to take a step forward. "You didn't."

Ice sinks down to the bed and stares at his hand, numb. The cuts on his fingers have opened up yet again, and in the light his blood is black against his skin. And at that moment—all he can see is one dark-skinned girl. He didn't see it happen but this is how she must have looked. Afraid. And he can't look, can't face the girl in front of him, because now—now he sees he can destroy her in ways no one else can. "I could've. I almost did."

"But you didn't," she says, voice pleading, "don't you see? You didn't."

"How does that help?" he asks, taking a deep, shuddering breath. He keeps replaying the moment over and over again in his head, and each time he sees what could have happened. What could still be. Most of all he sees his mother.

"You stopped," she says with another step, voice urgent. "That's what counts. And that's why you're not—you're not like him—"

He flinches, and she reaches her hand out. But Ice can't let her forgive him that easily. "Don't touch me," he warns her. He feels his stomach twist and he puts his hand to his mouth as he retches, but nothing comes up. He's empty. "I ain't worth it."

"Ice, no," she says, and she puts her hand out again and her cool touch burns. He jerks away, gets up, shakes his head. The pressure in his head is reaching the point where it threatens to split him wide open. If it hasn't already.

"I can't," he says, breathing hard and fast. Even when he's not looking the blood is still there on her face and always will be. "I'm sorry. God, I'm—I'm so sorry."

And then he bolts out of her room and through the window and down the fire escape and into the night and runs and runs and runs but there is no escape here, or anywhere in the world for this boy named Ice.

.

In the end, he doesn't see any other way out.

"Ma," Ice says as he walks into the kitchen. It's hours later and he's cleaned up some but he's still shivering, still shaking, and all he can do is hope she doesn't notice. His mother is sitting at the table examining a stack of papers, and from what he can tell, she's not impressed. "What—what's goin' on?"

She sighs. "Just more of the same. Bills, mostly."

Ice clears his throat. "Anythin' to worry about?"

His mother shakes her head. "I don't think so," she says. "We'll just have to tighten our belts a wee bit, is all."

Ice swallows hard. He can see the deep lines etched in her face and he doesn't think there's much more weight left to lose there. "You barely eat enough as it is."

She quirks up her mouth into a rueful smile, still scanning the paper. "And you're any better?"

Ice shrugs, remembering the few mouthfuls from the day before as if from a dream. She's not exactly right—yesterday aside, he usually tries not to eat too much at home because he can always nab something out of a sidewalk grocery if he needs to. His mother, though, doesn't see that as an option. "I'm fine, Ma."

"I'll talk to Mrs. O'Quinn, down at my sewin' circle," she says. "She knows everyone. Maybe she could introduce me to a family or two, so's I could be earnin' more."

Ice stares down at her. His mother makes just enough from her sewing to support them in their tiny apartment, but as she gets older he hates to see her working so much for both of them. It's too much for her, all by herself.

"We'll think-a somethin'," he says, resting a hand on her shoulder. She's so thin. So delicate. And not for the first time Ice wonders exactly how much trouble he's caused her over the years. "I just don't want you workin' so hard. Not for me, anyway. I'll get by."

She reaches up, clasps his hand in her own. "Trust, John. That's what we should be doin'."

Trust, thinks Ice, staring down at her tired face. He wishes he still believed in that.

He shakes his head and squeezes her hand. "Wait another day, Ma," he says, his voice soft. He can't look her in the eye, can't face the mother whose son turned out to be just like his father. "One more day, an' I bet everything'll look better."

She half-raises her eyes, the first stirrings of worry appearing on her face. "John—"

He's already out the door.

.

He finds her sitting on a swing in the playground.

"Vee," he says, his mouth dry.

Velma shakes her head at him, eyes suddenly more scared than he's ever seen them. She's gotten the blood off her face but he still sees it. He still sees it. "Ice—" she starts, but he can't let her go on, or he won't be able to.

"Look," he says, "I think—I'm gettin' outta here."

"No," she whispers, staring at him. "No, Ice, don't do this."

He ignores her because he has to, and plunges on. "Vee, I gotta think about things. It's got nothin' to do with you—"

"Is this about what didn't happen?" she asks furiously, getting to her feet. "'Cause I told you, it doesn't matter. You didn't mean it, I know you didn't mean it, an' nothin' even happened, Ice!"

"But it coulda," he says, and there it is. The worst thing about it, and about him, and, he realizes now, what Reaper saw in him all along. "It still might."

"But you didn't do anythin'!" Velma cries out, taking a few steps forward. "Ya didn't even—"

He backs up, shakes his head. No. "You wanna wait for it, then?" he asks, taking a deep breath and hating himself even more. "Because I bet that's how it started with them, too. Anyway—it ain't just that."

There are tears running down her face now, and each one cuts worse than a Soviet knife ever did. "Then what is it?"

"You don't know what it was like," he says. He can barely get it out. "Seein' what kinda person you are. Seein' what you could do. An' Vee—you were scared," he says, breathing hard. "Of me. I saw it."

She glares at him. "The only thing I'm scared of is losing you."

"Look, it ain't you," he says, his voice soft. "It never was, Vee, it's got nothin' to do with you—"

"No!" Velma bursts out, her face anguished. "God, Ice—it's like you think if you say it enough times I'll believe it. Well, I got news for you: it's got everything to do with me!"

Ice stares at her, wordless. And he sees how she can't stop trembling, how she's trying to hold him with her even now, and how she looks nothing like the girl from the upper East Side she used to be. He sees what he's done to her. And how this is the only thing he can do to fix it.

"Not anymore."

The words ring out in the space between them and for the first time, Ice feels the distance stretching between them. Velma's face is stunned, and she is shaking her head in small, barely perceptible motions, breathing hard. But he can't. He can't.

"I'm going," he says miserably.

"Please," she says, her voice quieter and younger than he's ever heard it. "Ice—please."

But he can't do it. He can't stop. He can't.

"I—" he says, then stumbles. "Love you. I love you."

And then he turns and leaves the words behind.

.

He is walking close to the bridge on the highway when an dusty, beat-up truck pulls up next to him. Ice, always wary, glances at the driver, but it's just an old man whose worn face reminds him, in expression, at least, of Doc.

"Hey, kid. Need a ride?"

He has to go. He has to get away. He has to think.

"Sure," he says, swallowing hard. "Thanks."

The door swings open and Ice hauls himself into the seat. The window's cracked and the air conditioner's busted but it's a way out and that's all he cares about.

"Where ya goin'?"

Ice stares straight ahead of him, at everything and nothing. "Anywhere you're goin'," he says. "It don't matter to me."

The driver shrugs and begins to pull away. "Fine by me."

And as they leave the only home he's ever known behind, Ice glances out the window, watches the streets pass by in a blur. There are things he has to think about now. Because it's not just about surviving anymore. There's a difference, he has learned, between that and living.

Ice looks down, runs his finger over the glass face of his watch—Velma's watch—and turns his gaze straight ahead, to the bridge.

He doesn't know where he's going or where he'll end up, but it sure as hell won't be here.