Note: Well, if you're not going to update your novel-length fic during a pandemic, when are you going to update it? Heh. Anyway, it's been ten years since I started writing this thing (remember disclaimers?), and wow life took some twists and turns. But I still love these characters, and this story, and I am determined to finish fta before the world inevitably ends this year. We're almost to the finish line now, with two chapters left to go, and my motivation is higher than it's been in a long, long time, so I'm hoping the rest should be done soon. So, if anyone actually remembers this thing, here is a longer-than-anticipated chapter (some characters decided they wanted to monologue way more than I thought they would), with much love, for your wait.

—viennacantabile

fell the angels

thirty-one : there and back again

.

And George knew that he had to keep going, despite the feeling that at any moment he might slip or the ground under his feet might suddenly be taken away—he had to stay up, he had to keep moving, and in time he would learn how to do it.

—Simon Van Booy, "The City of Windy Trees"

.

When the trucker lets him off in Brooklyn, he gives Ice a skeptical look. "Ya sure this is where ya wanna go? Don't look much like home to me."

Ice takes a long look at the soaring Gothic gates in front of him, the green grass stretching beyond. Dawn is just breaking and it promises to be one of those hot, brilliant days of mid-June he knows so well. "No," he says, then drops from the cab onto the sidewalk. "But I gotta do this anyway."

The driver shrugs. "Suit yourself, pal. So long."

Ice lifts a hand in thanks as the man drives off. He knows it must look pretty strange, hitchhiking a ride straight through Manhattan and over to a Brooklyn cemetery, but on this day of all days, this is something he needs to take care of before he does anything else.

Ice has only been to Green-Wood once. It's pretty enough for what it is, he supposes as he follows the path deep into the grounds, but he didn't like it then, and he doesn't like it now. Who would? It gives him the creeps, thinking about all the lives that found their endpoints sleeping in the dirt here. There are old people, young people, poor as dirt immigrants, fat government cats, New Yorkers of every stripe, but they all have one thing in common now.

He finds what he's looking for in a small section to the west. By now, the grass has fully sprouted over the soil and the gray markers have lost some of their sharpness after months of rain and sun. There's a tumble of faded tiger lilies and a rosary on one stone, with the melted stubs of candles just under its name. And on the other, a single white rose, fresh and cool with the dew still clinging to it.

"Well, there's me—Tony Wyzek—an' Riff Lorton, here. An' now there's you. Some gang, huh?"

He sits down, the wind knocked out of him. And as Ice takes in all that's left of his friends, a choking tightness rises up in his throat. He shudders for breath, his eyes stinging.

"Goddamn it," Ice mutters, ducking his face to meet his shirtsleeve. But he can't stop the tears from leaking out. It's just so real, and so wrong, their gravestones staring him in the face, and it's so, so unfair. It could have been any of them.

He stares at their names and remembers getting out of bed and running and running, unable to face the idea that his best friends in the world were gone and not coming back. And stopping, finally, to watch the lightening horizon with airless lungs and wonder how the sun could still come up in the east, how the streets could waken to meet the next day. Just like nothing had ever happened.

June 16th. God. How can it have been a year?

Ice sits there for a long time, until his raw grief subsides and he's able to face their graves again. He reads their names, their dates of birth and death, so close together. They hardly had any time at all, he thinks. Stars burning bright and flaming out far too soon.

"I'm sorry," he says, voice low, to the ground. The old man Jim has said it wasn't his fault, and Ice knows that, but still he wants his friends to know this, wherever they are. "I woulda done anythin' to save you."

Ice digs his fingers into the grass around him and stays there, quiet, as the sun reaches higher in the vivid summer sky and what had seemed like a bottomless well dries up inside him. The dirt is warm, the blades of grass cool and faintly damp. His friends are here, six feet under the earth and sky, where he came so close to joining them this last year, and now that he's finally decided it's not his time he has to let them go.

He gets to his feet, stretches his cramped legs, rubs his sleeve over his face. "See ya, Riff. Tony," he says, and raises his hand in salute. "So long."

And as Ice leaves them behind it's almost like he can hear their whistled greetings, their footsteps racing up and down the streets, their laughter, giddy and untroubled, just like in the old days. So long, Ice-man. Catch ya later. Wouldn't miss ya for the world.

.

There is one other grave he has to visit, and it takes Ice awhile to find it, because in the four years it's been here he has never seen the marker. When he finds it, though, he stands and stares in silence for what feels like an hour, chest tight and breathing shallow.

"Happy Father's Day," he finally says. He's just one day late. It's a strange thing, he thinks, looking at the name of the dead man you spent so long wishing wasn't your father.

Ice wonders if it's true that everything can be explained by that psychological analysis crap. If it's true that sons turn into fathers. If it's true that there is no escape from the past that made him who he is today, in the future that Reaper saw in his eyes and fists and anger.

He doesn't think so. Even if all those things are true, Ice believes now in his own present. That no matter where he came from, he decides his future from here on out. In any case, thinks Ice, pale eyes locked on the black stone, one thing is certain.

"I ain't gonna be you," he tells Sean Callahan, voice low and steady as his gaze moves to his clenched fists. "Not now, not ever."

Ice takes a deep breath, air filling his lungs to the very bottom, and releases his fists. For the first time in a very long while, he feels the hard knot of tension in his body begin to relax.

He has not forgiven his father. There are too many years of memory to put aside entirely, too many things broken beyond repair for him to just pretend nothing ever happened. There is his mother, after all.

But what he understands now, thinks Ice, taking one last look at the grave before turning and heading back to the entrance, is that the dead are the dead and all the wishing in the world won't change that. All he can do now is keep moving forward and live—really live—his life, starting today.

.

As he reaches the cemetery entrance, Ice sees a small, slight figure slipping through the gate, and stops.

"Juano."

He's never used the boy's name before, never even really realized he knows it, but there it is.

The Shark stops, views him with wide, wary eyes, opens and closes his mouth before he finally steps forward.

"They said you were gone."

Ice wonders briefly who they might be, then shrugs. "I'm back now." And then he realizes that this boy—a little taller, a little more solemn than a year ago—also knows what day it is, and how much time has passed, and his heart drops. "Where'd they put him?"

Juano swallows hard. "Under a tree, in the south. Anita leaves red flowers there every month. I am going there now."

Ice thinks about it, then decides he doesn't need to see the grave of the boy who killed his best friend. It's enough to know that it's here, in the same vast acres where they'll all wind up someday.

"How are things?" he asks, curious in spite of himself. "How you been doin'?"

Juano eyes him, as if deciding how much to tell.

"It is different now. After Bernardo, and Chino," he finally says, shaking his head. "Most of our girls and our parents say they have had enough. Indio, and Luis, and Del Campo have all left to take work for their families. I think Rocco will not stay much longer. And Pepe is a good captain, but even he speaks more now of wanting to fix automobiles than of plans for the Sharks."

Ice blinks. It seems that things have been changing for the Puerto Rican gang, too.

"You been fightin' anyone?"

Juano shrugs. "No more than before." He hesitates. "We have seen some of those Soviets around our territory. So we have Rafa now, and Cachorro, but he is younger even than I am, and with just eight—Pepe thinks it is better to keep to ourselves."

The Ice of a year ago would have filed that information away, gone straight to Riff to let him know the Sharks no longer have the numbers to go toe-to-toe with the Jets, that maybe they too might get taken out by the Reds like so many other street gangs. The Ice of today just nods. For the last few years all he's heard from busybody adults is that the gang kids of the Upper West Side have the rest of their lives ahead of them. Jobs. Families. Kids. What with the changes in lineup to the Sharks, and the Jets, it seems the rest of their lives has arrived in a hurry.

"Do yourselves a favor an' watch out for their leader," he says to Juano. "The one with a big slash down his face. They're all good at makin' trouble, but him especially."

The boy nods. "We have heard this. Thank you."

Ice hesitates, then figures he might as well.

"An'—Maria? Anita?"

Ice isn't particularly sure why he's asked but the image of a girl in mourning lingers in his mind. He doesn't know them, hasn't run into them since their lives intersected one summer's night at a dance, and in a playground. He will probably never see them again. But the names on the graves here tie their sorrows with his, and Ice, thinking of the redhead who used to be his best friend's girl, hopes that they too have found at least a small amount of peace.

Juano looks startled before the corner of his mouth quirks up in a small smile. "They are all right. The little ones keep them running, but we all try to help out. They are as happy as they can be, I think."

Ice is quiet for a moment, thinking about the fatherless sons of the Upper West Side, about the boys they will grow to be. They'll have mothers. As many uncles and aunts as they could wish for. This time will be different, he thinks. It has to be.

Juano shuffles his feet. "I should be going," he says. "I will need to return soon."

"Yeah," says Ice. "Take care, Juano."

Juano, eyes meeting his, nods. "And you."

Ice watches him move off into the cemetery and shakes his head. It's strange and different, for sure, talking to a Shark like he's just another neighborhood kid. Aside from shooing Juano out of Jet territory last summer, this is the most conversation he's had with a Shark since he and Pepe agreed to a cease-fire. And the most unsettling thing about it is that for all that Ice wanted to pound them into the dirt last year, looking at this scrawny little kid, it's hard to remember why.

Some part of him isn't sure he likes it, that Riff wouldn't have approved. But Tony—

Ice has to smile. Tony, at least near the end, would've been up in the sky, over the moon, and believing his heart out that happy endings really could exist. That the Jets and the Sharks could be buddy-buddy, and that there was a place—somewhere, maybe even right there on the Upper West Side—for him and his girl.

And who knows? thinks Ice, heading off down the block, remembering a sardonic smile. After all—in America, nothing is impossible.

.

It's summer again in the city and once he exits the subway onto Broadway what Ice notices, more than anything, is the heavy heat shimmering in a haze above the pavement. It's always hotter in Manhattan, muggy and sweltering in a way that he remembers all too well. That's New York, he thinks, you take the good with the bad.

Almost on cue, a car pulls up.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," says Schrank, cynical gaze running over Ice as he gets out and slams the door. He's wearing the same hat, the same suit, and probably even the same tie as the last time Ice saw him on the day of the rumble with the Reds. "Where've you been?"

Ice shrugs, eyes narrowed. He is standing on a sidewalk in broad daylight, in the middle of the city, but a lifetime of wariness has his muscles tensed and ready to go. He isn't expecting trouble—Schrank prefers to goad them into losing control instead of getting his hands dirty—but there is no sense in not being prepared. "What's it to you?"

"You know, I almost thought they got you," Schrank says, lighting up a cigar and leaning back against the car. "Those Reds. Bad bunch if I ever saw one. But I figured I would've seen your body in the morgue."

"Sorry to disappoint," Ice says, keeping his tone even. "I'm in good health."

"So where'd ya go?" Schrank wants to know, blowing a steady stream of smoke into the air. He releases a humorless laugh. "Get picked up by one-a them do-gooders? Bet the Jets'll be happy to see you."

"Maybe," Ice shrugs. "Look, cut to the chase, Lieutenant," he says. He's never been fooled by Schrank's buddy-buddy act, his cute little small talk, and the detective hasn't gotten any better at it since Ice left. "Whaddaya want?"

"What do I want," the lieutenant says, considering his cigar, its faint glow in the bright morning. His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "What if I don't want anything?"

"Everyone wants somethin'," says Ice, his gaze steady. "Just some people talk about it more."

"What do you want, then?" asks the detective with a puff of smoke. "A guy like you?"

"That's my business," Ice says, thinking of those names carved in stone. "What's yours?"

"You know, I've never been able to figure you out, kid," says Schrank, narrowed eyes doubtful. "You wanna know what I want? Right now I wanna know if you're gonna go back an' stir up trouble I'll have to deal with in that shithole you call home. That's what I want."

Ice feels his mouth form a rusty half-smile. "Too bad," he says. "We don't always get what we want. You talk a lot about our mothers; maybe you oughta listened to yours."

"I'll find out," snaps Schrank. "I'll find out what you're up to, an' then I'll throw ya in the can. An' not some crapshot juvie, either. The real thing." He gives a thin smile. "I told ya, Ice. We stop going easy on ya after ya get to the wrong side of eighteen, remember?"

"You got nothin' on me," Ice says, his voice low and sure. Schrank doesn't scare him, and he never will. "I ain't a kid you can step on anymore. I'm just as good as you."

Schrank regards him for a long moment. "You are, huh?"

Ice just nods. Schrank is who he is—bitter, angry, on a vendetta against this place and the kids who live here. Maybe he cared once. Maybe he never did. Either way, Ice doesn't plan to waste any more of his breath on him. Turning on his heel, he leaves, puts his hands in his pockets and does what none of them ever dared to in those days when they were just kids on their own against the world and walking away from a fight was never an option.

"You think you're different," calls Schrank, and Ice, even though his back is turned, can see the sneer on the detective's face. "You think you'll be the one who beats the odds." His voice turns scornful. "But I'm here to tell you you're just like them."

Ice doesn't turn, doesn't answer. And Schrank fires one last parting shot:

"You shoulda stayed away while ya had the chance!"

And Ice smiles. If he has learned anything from the past year, it's that running and hiding and hoping that everything will be all right is not an option. He is here now, he thinks, quickening his pace, and he is not leaving again.

.

He finds them at the playground.

They're grouped near the see-saws. Action is flicking ash off a cigarette at A-Rab, Snowboy is hanging from his knees on the monkey bars, Joyboy is sucking a lollipop. Big Deal, Mouthpiece, and Gee-Tar are tossing a basketball around. Everyone, Ice realizes, ticking off names, except Tiger, Baby John, and Anybodys.

There are small changes—what were open wounds are scars two months after the rumble with the Reds, and he hasn't seen Big Deal and Gee-Tar look so relaxed around each other in years—but they're the same. Still the Jets. Still the greatest. The one who is different now, Ice knows, is him.

He clears his throat. "Looks like you ain't doin' so bad."

As one, they turn around, and in the silence that follows, Ice half-smiles. It's not often that the Jets are left speechless.

The quiet is broken by A-Rab. "Ice?"

And just like that, the Jets move toward him, a swarm of shouts and questions and disbelief.

"Ice-man!"

"Gee, where ya been—"

"Ain't you a sight for sore eyes—"

And then a sharp voice cuts through.

"What the hell're you doin' here?"

It's Action, who's managed to push his way to the front of the pack, eyes narrowed and face set in a scowl.

Ice nods. "Action. Thought I'd come say hello."

The dark-haired boy crosses his arms. "Well, who's there to say hello to? I don't think I know this guy. He don't look like he belong here. Whadda you say, Jets?"

"What d'ya mean, who is it," says Gee-Tar, "it's—ow!" he yelps as Action elbows him in the gut. "I don't know, Action!"

"It's Ice," says Mouthpiece helpfully. "Maybe you both oughta get your eyes checked."

"You oughta get your brain checked, idiot," snaps Action, his face red. "'Course I know who it is. What, ya lookin' to be captain again?" he demands, swinging back to Ice. "'Cause ya gave it up when you just up an' left, y'know. An' if you think for one second I'm gonna roll over and take your 'play it cool' crap again I—"

Ice shakes his head. "No." And then he hesitates, because saying it out loud now makes it all real and knowing this is the right thing to do doesn't make it any less terrifying. "I'm done with that. Just lettin' you know I'm here, is all."

Action, eyebrows knitting together, looks his former captain up and down, then lets out something between a grunt and a wheeze as all the hot air goes out of him. "Well, good. 'Cause we been doin' just fine without ya."

"Sure, when we've been on the prowl at all, 'stead-a hidin' from the Reds," grumbles Joyboy.

"Our fearless leader's gotta warm up to raids again after the Commies froze him in a meat locker for a couple hours last week," snickers A-Rab, dodging Action's swing.

"We been takin' care of our turf," says the Jet captain with a glare. "Runnin out some fancy-pants rich kids who were up to no good, pushin' dope on ten year-olds."

Snowboy shrugs, twiddling his thumbs. "Just your friendly neighborhood gang."

Action turns purple. "Listen, you son of a—"

"So where's Tiger?" Ice asks, though he thinks he might already know the answer.

"Where ya think? His lousy job," the Jet leader grumbles. "'S like he's turned respectable or somethin'." He gives Ice a suspicious glare. "Don't tell me it's catchin'."

Ice shrugs, glancing to the back of the Jets at Big Deal, who has suddenly become very interested in unwrapping a new piece of gum. "There's worse things to catch."

Snowboy stares at him, mouth agape. "You been off gettin' brainwashed by the interventionary squad or somethin'?"

"Yeah, where did ya go, anyway?" asks A-Rab, eyes wary.

Ice exhales, thinking of the tide coming in on the beach, a kite flying through the air. "Had to get out an' clear my head," he says. He shrugs. "Maybe I'll tell ya about it sometime."

"Yeah, I bet you will," says Action without any real rancor, before raising his voice and gesturing with both hands. "Anyway, we got things to do, Jets. So don't just stand around talkin' to this has-been like the goddamn peanut crowd!"

"What kinda things?" wonders an eager Mouthpiece. "You was just sayin' you couldn't think-a nothin' but pantsin' those Boy Scouts again—"

"Top secret Jet things," snaps Action, his face red. "Why I gotta spell everythin' out for you kids, huh?"

Ice stifles a smile. Leadership, he knows, isn't as easy as it seems from the outside.

He gives Action a salute. "I'll be around."

"Yeah, yeah," Action mutters. "C'mon, Jets, form up."

And as the boys crowd in, Ice walks away, turns his back and moves past the basketball hoop and the wire fence and out onto the sidewalk. For all the worries he's had about making sure they don't get killed, they've been doing okay, he thinks, with a mixture of wistfulness and relief. They're okay.

He's just made it to the end of the block when he hears a familiar voice.

"Hey, Ice—wait up!"

Ice turns around to see Big Deal jogging toward him.

"Big Deal," he says, raising his hand in greeting. Ice isn't Big Deal's captain anymore, but now he's not exactly his fellow gang member either and Ice isn't sure where that puts him with the closest friend he had before he left. "Hey."

The tall Jet stops in front of his former leader, but stays in motion, fidgeting, hands stuffed in his pockets, gaze skittering from side to side, jaw working the gum in his mouth. Ice, seeing the tension in him, waits, knowing he'll spit it out in his own good time.

"Ya been here long?" Big Deal says in a rush. "Seen anyone else?"

Ice, who has a feeling he doesn't mean Schrank, shakes his head. "Just got back."

"Oh. Okay," says Big Deal, still avoiding his gaze. And then without any warning at all he draws his fist back and lets loose, hitting Ice squarely in the jaw.

Ice staggers back, eyes wide. "The hell?"

Big Deal cringes a little, taking a step back, but as he looks fully into Ice's face it's like the punch has eased something between them. "Sorry, buddy. But I got a bone to pick with ya."

Ice, hand going to his jaw, winces. "Yeah? What's that?"

Big Deal heaves a sigh. "One, ya up an' left the Jets in the lurch. We didn't know what happened to ya, Ice," he says. "After a godawful mess of a rumble like that? We thought the Reds came back an' disappeared ya for carvin' Reaper up." He rolls his eyes. "You don't know how many other gangs we pissed off lookin' for intel before genius back there figured out Velma was tellin' the truth an' maybe it wasn't such a good idea for us to be advertisin' that our fearless leader up an' ran. You coulda told us you was leavin' of your own free will."

Ice absorbs this. He's got a point.

"Two, the Jets were lookin' at me to be captain for a minute there, an' you know I ain't never wanted that job." Big Deal shudders, furiously chewing his gum. "Almost made me sorry for ya, just thinkin' about keepin' alla them busy. But then we got stuck with Action an' that's been a real funhouse ride, I can tell ya."

Ice winces. Big Deal is two for two on ways Ice screwed up, and he has a feeling his former lieutenant isn't done yet.

"An' three—" His gaze turns serious. "When ya get good advice from your friend, drunk or no, you oughta listen. "

Ice, thinking of a conversation in Graziella and Tiger's tiny apartment, frowns. "Wait, you remember—"

"Jesus, Ice," Big Deal says, "if you really thought your girl'd be happier without ya, I'm gonna tell ya right now, she wasn't. Nope," he adds, as Ice opens his mouth. "Ya didn't fix squat. 'Cause ya weren't here. But I was," he goes on, stronger, "an' Clarice was, and we was lookin' out for her, an' lemme tell ya, you're my buddy Ice, but if you're lookin' for her to take your sorry ass back, I wouldn't blame her if she told ya to go to hell."

Ice sighs. "Yeah, me neither."

"I mean—" says Big Deal, then stops, eyeing him. "What?"

"I fucked up," says Ice heavily. "I left you holdin' the bag, an' I'm sorry. Look, I deserve all you're throwin' at me an' more, okay? I get it. Just—" He hesitates, because the truth probably isn't pretty, but he needs to hear it. To know. "Tell me what happened. An' don't hold no punches, neither," he adds wryly, rubbing his jaw.

Big Deal stares at him. "It got so bad she let Mouthpiece hang around."

Ice winces. "Jesus Christ."

"I mean, it wasn't like Graz," Big Deal says, rubbing the toe of his shoe on the pavement. "She never cried or nothin'. It was just like she was a soda pop with all the bubbles sucked out from it. Just—real flat an' sad. I an' Clarice tried to set her up with a few guys—don't gimme that look," Big Deal adds, nevertheless looking a bit guilty. "What else were we s'posed to do? It never worked, anyhow. They all liked her fine, but she just kept sayin they weren't you." He pauses, giving Ice a grudging once-over. "Idiot or no, ya leave some pretty big shoes to fill, I guess."

Ice forces the corners of his mouth up. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," says Big Deal, and at last he laughs a little. "But you owe Mouthpiece big. He stuck by her, walked her to school an' everythin', made sure no one bothered her. He was the only one who could cheer her up sometimes, the big lug, an' I don't even think he tried nothin' with her."

Ice absorbs this with some guilt. In some ways, he knows, Mouthpiece is a better Jet—a better man—than he ever will be. Big Deal is right. Ice owes him.

Big Deal eyes Ice warily. "Look, now that you're back…are ya gonna stick around?"

Ice considers this. "Depends on what ya mean. If you're askin' if I'm gonna skip town again, that's a no." He hesitates. "But if you're askin' if I'm gonna be a Jet again, well…I'll always be a Jet, buddy-boy, but I'm done with gangs."

Big Deal stares at him, a strange expression on his face as he blows a bubble, then pops it. "Jesus," he says. And then he looks away.

Ice reaches forward, holds out his hand. And after some hesitation, Big Deal stretches out his arm and shakes it.

"Well…good to have ya back, anyhow," he mumbles, seemingly too embarrassed to look his former captain in the face.

Ice nods. He has a pretty good idea of how Big Deal feels right now, and he knows it will take time for him and the Jets to settle into a new kind of normal. But he also has a feeling that it's only a matter of time before Big Deal arrives at the same crossroads, and understands. There is, after all, a Jet girl waiting for him, too.

"Yeah," he says. He takes a step back. "See ya around, okay?"

Big Deal nods. "Later."

.

The roof of the police station is littered with glass and refuse and chunks of concrete.

Ice kicks at a twisted piece of metal. He's climbed up here looking for—what, he doesn't know. Pipes? Blood? Some shred of proof that it all happened, maybe, that he stared death in the face and walked away.

In another life, maybe he didn't, Ice thinks. In another life, maybe he died that night. In another life, maybe he killed the Red captain. In another life, maybe they never even fought at all.

And then he sees him.

It's only a glimpse, far away down at the intersection through the next alley, but it tells Ice all he needs to know. The boy is tall and strong and when he turns his head to check the road, Ice sees the red, red scar running down his face.

So, he thinks. Reaper is definitely still around.

Ice stares as the Soviet disappears down the east alley. He cut deep, he remembers. More out of instinct than intent, but still. Reaper, like his own victims, will bear that scar for the rest of his life.

He turns in a circle, sees the collapsed brick and crumbled mortar scattered around the roof, the scraps of oily rags lying abandoned in a heap, the deserted rooftops surrounding the police station. There is nothing up here for him, Ice realizes. Nothing he needs from this wasteland.

And for all the winding, twisting ways he came to this moment, there is the truth that Ice has struggled so long to see—that every moment given to him is a decision. If Reaper was wrong about everything else, he was right about this. Life, Ice thinks, is too short to live without using every minute of it to reach out and take what he wants. It is, after all, the only way this world of theirs is going to give it to him.

As he heads west down the alley, Ice hears three whistled notes. Years of instinct war with new resolution and against his better judgement, he turns.

It's Anybodys, poking her head around the corner he's just come from. "Ice, wait!" she calls, waving her arm. "Wait up!"

Ice watches her scamper up to him, and doesn't move. "Anybodys."

"A-Rab told me you were back. I knew you'd come here," she says eagerly. "I just knew it. It's the scene of your greatest victory, Ice!"

Victory, he thinks, gaze finding the long scar on her arm. It sure hadn't felt like it at the time. "Sure, Anybodys."

She smirks. "Didn't find it, did ya? It ain't there, 'cause I knew ya'd want it," she says, and Ice has a moment of confusion before Anybodys thrusts her hand forward in triumph. "I went back an' sniffed around that night, an' I found it for ya—Reaper's knife, Ice!"

He stares at the switchblade gleaming dully in her hand as his right thumb traces the ridges on the underside of his fingers. It looks like she's cleaned it up some but Ice can still see blood rusted by the handle. Whose it is—hers, his, or Reaper's—he doesn't know.

His voice comes out in a croak. "You keep it, kid."

"Nuh-uh," says Anybodys, shaking her head. "You nabbed it from that Commie creep, which means you earned it, fair an' square. C'mon, think about how many faces he carved up with this thing before you gave him a taste of his own medicine," she says, her face alight. "It's the biggest battle trophy on the whole West Side, Ice!"

Ice, swallowing hard at the thought of Tank and King and all the others, shakes his head. "You're the one who earned it, buddy-boy. You want it, it's yours."

Anybodys eyes him for a moment, and something in her expression changes. "Well, thanks," she says, flicking the blade closed. "But—damn, ya think ya'd want it to finish what ya started."

Ice, hand drifting to the wood-handled whittling knife in his own pocket, doesn't answer her muttered words. He'd wanted confirmation that he cheated death, he thinks, and here, in this skinny tomboy and her trophies of war, is the proof.

"Say, Ice?"

Ice shakes himself back to the present. "Yeah?"

"Why'd ya go?" she says now, face wary and almost—hurt. "You was the captain, an ya just—up an' left, y'know? Without even sayin' nothin'. Were ya off on a special mission? I thought maybe you was makin' yourself scarce to throw the Reds off ya, but you coulda told me, I woulda helped—"

Ice sighs. "I just—" He stops, runs his hand through his hair while he tries to figure out how to explain it. Finally, he settles on the truth, though he knows she won't understand this imperfect explanation. "I had to grow up."

"Grow up?" Anybodys repeats, her face twisting. Whatever reason she'd been expecting, this explanation clearly isn't it. "The hell're ya talkin' about?"

"I'm twenty years old, Anybodys," he says gently. "I ain't a kid playin' war-games anymore."

"Playin'—? Yeah, but you ain't—" She struggles to find the words, her face working. "You ain't one-a them, neither. You ain't a grown-up. You're one of us."

Ice gazes at her. One day in the far future, she will come to this point, too, and she will have to choose. They all will, just as Tony did, and he is doing now. "An' I always will be. But now—Anybodys, I'm done."

"But—you're gonna fight with us when we clean them Reds out," she says, her sharp voice rising. "Right? You know how bad they are, Ice, ya gotta!"

He shakes his head. "I can't, Anybodys."

She balls up her fists, and now he can see that Anybodys is—maybe has been, all along—furious. "Look, I did everythin' ya said, Ice," she says, her voice pinched. "All last year, I spied around, an' I babysat your girl, an' I never once said nothin' to the guys about any-a the things ya wanted me to dig around for because you was the Jet captain. I figured ya had your reasons an' mostly I got to find out what they were, later."

"Anybodys—"

"Hold up, I ain't done," she spits, eyes flashing. "So then you fuck off on your own without sayin' nothin' an' a-course I'm pissed but you ain't never let me down before so when monkey-boy tells me you're back after two flippin' months I think, maybe I don't know somethin' after all. Maybe you got a good reason for havin' everythin' you could ever want an' dumpin' it all in the trash like that. So I come here an' make nice an' you tell me you hadda grow up? What kinda stupid bullshit is that?"

Anybodys stops for a moment, convulsively rubbing the scar on her arm, and Ice wonders if that really is how it looked to her and the other Jets. That he'd had everything, and thrown it all away because he just didn't give a shit about them. The Ice-man, playing it cool. It's what he does, he supposes, has always done, so that no one will ever know how scared he really is. For once it seems it's worked a little too well.

"I took this knife for ya, Ice," she says, quieter this time, "an' you tell me you can't even come back for one lousy—goddammit, Ice, what did I do all that for if ya never believed in us yourself?"

That goes straight to his gut.

Ice takes a breath, and slowly lets it out. "I ain't never thanked ya for that," he says, aware again of the scar on her arm, running all the way down to her clenched fist. Her eyes are shocked, hurt, but if by earning that scar she's given him a second chance, then he has to use it. "I didn't get the chance to say it before. Ya been a good Jet, Anybodys, an' I know I done some stupid things as captain, but lettin' you in the gang wasn't one-a them."

At this, her face contracts into a combination of sorrow, yearning, and something else he can't identify. "So fight with us," she says, and suddenly Anybodys sounds so young. "C'mon, Ice. Fight with the Jets."

"Thank you, Anybodys," he says gently. "For what ya done for me. But I'm through."

"You're a Jet," she protests, voice high and sharp. "It's like Riff always said: when you're a Jet, you stay a Jet. You can't just quit bein' who ya are, Ice!"

He takes a deep breath. Anybodys won't understand this either—she's not ready yet—but the part of him that led the Jets for almost a year says he should tell her anyway, because she needs to know. They all do.

"To my last dyin' day," he says. "But ya can't build a life on that, Anybodys."

She glares at him. "Can't I?"

"No," he says, not without sadness. "The Jets—they ain't worth dyin' for. An' if they ain't, then I gotta find out what there is out there to be livin' for."

Anybodys stares long and hard at him, brow furrowed, and when she speaks, there's a note of loneliness in her subdued voice. "You sound like Tony," she says. "He left the gang an' went chasin' after somethin' better'n the Jets, too, an' he—"

And then her mouth screws up, and she turns, and runs, and as she disappears down the street he sees her dash her sleeve across her eyes.

Fight with us, he hears, watching her go, and in those words lies the weight of all the years with his friends, everything he's ever believed in.

Is he really making the right choice? Ice wonders, swallowing hard. Or is he just abandoning them? Without him keeping them in line, his friends could get thrown in jail, or get hurt, or die, or kill someone just like—

No, he thinks, making a conscious effort to slow the whirlwind of his thoughts. No. It is no use thinking of all the possible things that can go wrong, because for all Ice thought he could singlehandedly plan for everything this last year, it only drove him up the wall trying and in the end, it didn't even work. The Jets were okay while he was away and they'll be okay now that he's back. It's not his battle, Ice reminds himself. Not his war, anymore.

And what had seemed an insurmountable problem for so long is now cut loose, and he can't believe he'd never seen the solution before. It has taken him to hell and back to understand it, Ice thinks with a sense of wonder and astonishment, at all that has happened to get him to this point, at what Tony saw so clearly near the end, but he really is done. For good.

.

It's almost strange, going into the front of the building. Taking the stairs up. Fitting his key into the blue door.

His head spins the whole way. Two months. Ice isn't sure what he'll find, but he recognizes the familiar sense of guilt stealing over him.

He cut and ran, Ice thinks, and only now does he truly consider what that has meant for someone who loved him. With only a scribbled note to say goodbye. If it were his kid—his and—how would he—?

The door creaks as he eases it open. Ice takes slow, tentative steps inside, peers into the kitchen.

But she's not there, he discovers. Instead, she's sitting on the worn yellow sofa by the tiny window in the living room, hair glowing gold in the afternoon sun.

"Well, then," his mother says, setting her needlework down, her blue eyes serene. She alone, of everyone he has met today, seems unsurprised. "I see you're back, John."

Ice nods, heart pounding in his chest. "Yeah."

"Well, don't just stand there, darlin' boy," she says, a warm, slow smile breaking over her face. "Come an' take a seat an' tell me all about it."

It's so sudden it catches him by surprise: a hot, prickling sensation behind his eyes. He blinks, once, twice. Clears his aching throat.

"Okay," he says, and crosses to his mother's side. He sits, stares at his feet, rubs the scars on his fingers. "It starts with this scared little kid tryin' to be someone, see. And it ends with—I don't know yet." All Ice has ever felt about needing to protect her rushes back to him. "It's a long story, Ma."

She puts her arm around him, tilts his chin up, and he sees the boundless love in her warm blue eyes. And for all he's about to tell his mother about becoming a man, it's like he's a small boy again, safe and secure and at home in her arms, with all he's ever wanted.

"For you, John," she says, "I've all the time in the world."