Author's Note: I do not own West Side Story or any elements of it.
Riff stood outside the building where he knew Vivienne went to school.
He knew because, on more than one occasion, he had asked a Jet to trail her home after a late class. He had told himself it wasn't because he cared that much. It was just that it would be a pain in the ass to find another nursing student to get on their side. Yeah, that was it.
The building looked big to him. Which was strange, since everything else on the west side looked so small. Like he could hold it in the palm of his hand. But this was different.
He took in a breath and walked inside, his hand tense by his side as he did. The halls were clean, grand, and far different to any type of school he had been used to in his short academic career.
As he walked past a group of kids, probably his age, he found himself ducking his head down. Still, it did little to stop their stares. Their conversations halted at the sight of this dishevelled guy, skulking down their halls and very obviously not belonging.
When he heard them giggling at him, he swallowed down his annoyance. He knew then he didn't belong there, and everyone knew it. How could he ever belong somewhere like this?
He wandered around aimlessly for a while, not quite sure where to start. He only had half a plan, really. Getting here was the first part.
After a while, someone took notice of him and followed him a few feet. He turned around to see an older looking gentleman with greying hair and a beard staring after him, curious.
"Can I help you?" the man asked.
"Not really," Riff said.
"Well, I can tell you're not a student here. Are you looking for someone."
Riff turned around then, letting out something that sounded between a sigh and a grunt.
"Yeah. I guess. I wanna speak to someone about Vivienne..." He realised then that he didn't even know her last name. He just knew her by her name. Her voice. Her eyes. But that probably wouldn't get him very far here.
But it seemed to trigger something in the man - a recognition.
"Vivienne Harris?" he asked.
Riff repeated the name back to himself in his head like a prayer.
"I guess. She's a nursing student here."
"I know her. She's in my class."
Riff clapped his hands together, feeling like he was getting somewhere.
"Great. I need ta talk to you 'bout her. Her results on her test. Look, she--"
"Maybe we should talk in my office," the man said, stepping aside and pointing to the door of an open classroom.
Riff, for some reason, felt a very strong desire not to go in there. But he came here for a reason, so he was willing to play ball.
He followed the man inside and looked around the large lecture hall. Large windows cast in light, highlighting the dust that floated through the air and settled on the desks that spanned the room. He tried to imagine himself in that room, but he couldn't. It was an image that wasn't possible to picture in his head.
Annoyingly, it caused a tiny stir of sadness inside him.
The man seemed to catch something on Riff's face.
"You alright, son?" he asked, his voice kind.
Riff spun around, remembering his goal. He cleared his throat.
"Yeah. Look, you gotta change Vivienne's grade. She's the smartest damn person I know. She's a crazy great nurse, and she's god a damn good way'a talkin'."
"Slow down," the man said, holding his hand up. "Now, first of all, who are you?"
"I'm...a friend."
"And what do you think gives you the right to come in here and start challenging our grades? The exams are set accordingly, and everyone gets a fair shot."
"How is it a fair shot if she fails?" Riff argued. "She's probably the best damn nurse you got in here. I would know. She's been....helpin' people out around the neighbourhood."
He seemed to catch the older man's attention then.
"Oh?" he asked, brow quirked.
"Yeah, fixin' people up and what not. She also helped out when some old guy got knocked down by a car the other day. She's real good. It just ain't fair to base everythin' on one damn test."
The man stopped to think. Riff realised then that his hands were still fisted tightly at his side. He wasn't sure if it was the nerves of being in the room, or his passion for his point.
"I do like Vivienne," the man finally said. "She works hard and she cares, that much is evident. But it just wouldn't be fair. I couldn't change her grade even if I wanted to."
"Could you let her have a second chance?" Riff asked, his voice almost sounding pleading now. "Just one more chance to show that she knows what she's talkin' about. She won't mess it up. You know she won't."
The man seemed to think on it. Riff waited with baited breath. Finally, the man sighed and sat back in his chair.
"I will consider it," he said. It wasn't much, but it was enough for Riff to feel elated.
"That's great," Riff replied, feeling a smile grow on his face.
"You ain't gonna regret it."
The man and Riff watched each other for a few moments.
"So..." the man said after a while. "...Are we done here? Or are you here to speak on behalf of any of my other students?"
"Oh, right. I'll get outta here. Appreciate ya."
Riff's voice had an almost stumbling, excitable quality as he backed out of the room, knocking himself against one of the desks as he did. He took one last look of the room before ducking out, rushing back through the halls.
This time he did not notice the gawking faces of the students that he passed, because he felt too pleased with himself to care. At least now, he felt that he had paid back a small debt of what he owed Vivienne, not just for helping out the Jets, but for making him feel a little more alive than he had in months.
---
LATER THAT NIGHT
Riff stepped outside into the cold night air where the Jets were waiting.
There was a shift in the air - a tension that hung between them when they knew they were onto something damn serious. It was beyond mild plans to spark annoyances for the Sharks, or Shrank, or anything like that.
It reminded him of that night. The night of the rumble. When their eyes were wild and their limbs were coiled to spring, waiting to get a taste of blood. It was a rare side of them that he only saw when things were beyond their control. These were the times when they really came together, and he was very much their leader.
When he stepped outside they stood to attention.
"Okay," Riff began, trying to hide the shake in his voice. "...We're lookin' for a fucker named Michael. Blue shirt, blue jacket. Scratch on his face."
"What do you want us to do when we find him?" Ice asked, his voice quiet and calculating.
Not if, when.
"Bring him to the docks. We'll all meet there. Don't touch him until then - just get him there."
"This is big shit, isn't it?" Mouthpiece asked.
Riff nodded. "Big shit. Same as it would be if someone did that to any'a you. This ain't kid's stuff. I'll ask again if anybody wants to stay if they ain't up to it."
Nobody said a word. They all had the same look on their faces - determination. Rage.
"Okay, let's split."
They made their way onto the street and broke apart, splitting across the west side like cats. Riff kept Ice and Diesel with him. They didn't say much - distracted with steely intent. It was only after a while, when Riff's thoughts became too overwhelming that he knew he needed to be alone.
He turned to Ice and Diesel.
"Hey, you guys keep goin'. I'll catch up to you."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, go ahead."
When they rounded the corner and were out of sight, Riff ducked behind a building and leaned against the wall.
His breath quickened and he thought he might lose control.
Lose control in the same way that he had a few times after leaving the hospital and walking the streets for the first time. When he thought that everyone who looked at him on the streets might have a knife. When every dark-haired man was Bernardo, ready to get him again. It was a loss of control that meant he had to stop, often collapsing onto the floor, and feel like he was drowning. It used to take him a long time, seemingly forever, to catch his breath again. Ice was the only Jet to ever see this happen to Riff and had helped him out of it. Since then, it hadn't happened again, because Riff knew he had people who looked out for him.
He tried to do what Ice had taught him. Take deep breaths. Pick a spot on the wall. Remember where you are.
Thankfully, it passed before it began, and Riff stood up straight. His hands were shaking, anger overcoming him.
Seeing her face when she came into the room, covered in blood and echoed with bruises...it was almost too much to bear. Even with their argument earlier in the day, Riff knew then that none of it had mattered. Because in that moment, he had realised that none of their bullshit mattered. None of their harsh words and joke-tinged jabs at each other.
Because, at the end of the day, Riff now knew that the happiness that was returning to him - the freedom, the comfort, and the relaxation, was because of her. Her stupid insults and her willingness to listen to his stupid insults. The face she made when she was fixing up one of his guys. A slight squint, flickering eyes, and crinkled nose. Or the softness in her voice when she joked with them to try and distract them from whatever pain they were in. The way she whispered into his ear when they had touched each other until it felt like they were in another world.
These were the things that had brought him back to life, making him finally feel like himself again just when he never thought he could.
And the idea of someone trying to take that away from him or bring her distress was unforgivable.
Riff knew there was only so much he could do. But if he couldn't kill this guy, then he was going to make damn sure he would wish he was dead.
He stepped back onto the street, feeling strengthened by his resolve for vengance.
After perhaps an hour, he heard his voice being called. He turned around to see Balkan and Numbers running up to him, panting and excited.
"Riff," Numbers called. "They got him!"
"Asshole was wanderin' through the park. They got him at the docks now."
Later, when they had quickly made their way there, Riff saw the others standing around a figure in the middle, their eyes lusting for violence. Ice stepped forward and held something out to Riff - his baseball bat - which he took in his now steady hand.
He stepped forward and saw the kid, Michael, on his feet, looking like a rabbit caught in a trap.
Riff studied him. He was exactly what Riff had pictured. Well-to-do, handsome, well-dressed, and a complete fucking coward. He could see from where he stood that his hands were shaking rapidly and his chest was rising up and down in panic.
"Hey, I already said, I don't---"
Diesel stepped forward and kicked him, hard, causing Michael to stumble down and fall on his knees.
"Shut the hell up," the Jet spat.
Riff stepped forward.
"Hey you," he said, his voice low. He kneeled down in front of him. "You know why you're here?"
"Look man, I got some money in my wallet but it ain't much, I--"
"We don't want your money. It ain't worth shit," Riff bit back. "You know Vivienne?"
Michael's eyes flashed with something, perhaps deep panic, when he heard her name.
"Uh, yeah."
"You do, huh?"
"Yeah, she's in my class."
"Okay. And that's it?"
"Yeah."
Riff stood now, feeling the dust of the dock crunch under his feet.
"You with her earlier tonight?"
Michael looked defeated then, knowing he couldn't deny it.
"Yeah, maybe. But look, she's nuts, alright? Whatever she says, it ain't true."
"So how did she get to look like that?"
"Hey, come on. She was a fucking tease. She got me too, look," he stammered, turning his face to show the scratch marks that now lay in his skin. "Crazy bitch stabbed me in the arm, too."
"Whattd'a gotta beat up on a girl for?" Action asked, stepping forward to grab a handful of Michael's hair in his hand, yanking him straight. "Too afraid to have a real fight?"
The Jets spoke in unison then, their thoughts suddenly spilling into the air with venom.
"You fuckin' coward!"
"You think nobody was gonna find out?!"
"God damn piece of shit!"
Riff held up his bat towards the Jets, silencing them. Michael's whole body shook now.
"What are you gonna do to me? Take me to the cops?"
"Do we look like people that take shit to the cops?" Riff countered, laughing cruelly.
"Come on, please...what do you want me to do, huh? It doesn't matter. I was scared for a minute...she stopped breathing it looked like...but she's fine. She'll get over it. You guys gotta understand."
Balkan stepped forward, and between him and Tiger they lifted Michael to his feet, his hand grasped around Michael's jaw tightly.
"It don't matter, huh?" Balkan hissed. "Hey, Riff, apparently it don't matter!"
Riff shrugged and brought his bat to his other hand, gripping it in a threatening stance.
"Great," he muttered. "So I guess whatever we wanna do to you don't matter, neither."
"Oh, shit, please," Michael pleaded. "I just mean that nobody's gonna do anything about it! The chick doesn't even have any friends!"
"Actually, she does."
With that, Riff stepped forward and swung his bat down onto Michael's right knee with all his might, hearing the crack that followed. Michael screamed and collapsed, grabbing onto his leg in a frantic panic. Even under his pant leg, Riff could see the now scrambled bone beneath.
"Get him up."
Balkan and Tiger brought him up again, Tiger clasping his hand down on Michael's mouth when he screamed even louder in pain.
Riff raised his bat again, and brought it down hard onto the left knee now, emitting the same loud shatter again.
Michael wailed and howled. Riff nodded to Ice, who lead the Jets to converge. Riff stood back, listening to the muffled cries that came from underneath their flying fists and kicking legs. Each blow cracked and echoed out across the river. It was loud, but also so very quiet. So discreet.
Riff caught glimpses of the violent chaos. Mouthpiece slamming his fist down onto Michael's nose. Baby John stamping down hard on Michael's fingers on the ground. Action bringing his knee into his stomach.
Riff could not help but picture these things happening to Vivienne and Michael's hand. It only made him want to watch longer, to see more.
After a while, he stepped forward and pulled Ice back. He reached into his pocket and handed Ice his pocket knife. Ice, understanding, nodded affirmatively.
"Hold him down," Riff commanded, moving forward.
The Jets held him to the ground. Someone's hand covered his mouth to dampen the yells coming from him. Tears fell down his face as he watched them, their panting breaths and fearless eyes. Riff kneeled down, holding tight onto his leg as Ice stepped over him, reaching down to pull back his sleeve to expose the bare skin on his arm.
As the knife made contact with his arm, Michael wriggled and kicked under them, but they did not budge. The Jets watched Ice work, quickly and well. When he stepped back, they looked down to admire his handiwork that lay in jagged large letters across Michael's forearm, just visible through the blood;
FUCKING GIRL BEATER
They stepped back then. Michael did not move, but rather lay on the ground, staring up at them, waiting for something else to come. He whimpered.
Riff moved to stand over him and bend down, talking quietly now.
"Listen," he spat. "You go the cops, tell anyone, or even fucking look at Vivienne again, we'll come back and I'll break both your fuckin' arms, too. Next time, we'll write it across your god damn face. Got it?"
Michael, dazed and drunk from pain, nodded shakily.
"Good. These guys are gonna take you and drop you off outside the hospital, cause you sure as shit ain't gonna get there yourself. And we want you walkin' again. We want everyone to see what's happened to you."
With that, Riff stepped back and nodded towards Diesel and Action, who went to move Michael. Riff's job was done here, and he knew where he needed to be now. Back with her.
He turned back and handed his bat to Ice, knowing he would take care of the rest. Ice nodded and watched Riff go off into the night.
As Riff walked, he noticed that his hands once again were shaking.