The smell of freshly brewed coffee woke Zuko from a troubled sleep. He'd dreamed again about drawing that chalk outline around a child's body, only this time, the child wasn't The Duke. Each time he looked at that destroyed face, the faces of his own children looked back at him, their gold or blue eyes filled with tears, their mouths open forever in a silent scream. These dreams had become routine. Somewhere around two in the morning, Zuko had given up on going back to sleep, but he must have drifted off again. The sun was shining through the curtains, which Katara had opened before leaving the bedroom, the pattern of the lace mirrored on the floor.

When the smell of bacon joined that of the coffee, Zuko quickly rolled out of bed and hopped in the shower. He was struggling with his tie as he trotted down the steps and entered the kitchen, the buttons on his cuffs still undone, and his shirt not tucked in. The children were already seated, pancakes and bacon on their plates, orange juice in their cups, and when they saw him, they all started chattering at once. They leapt from their chairs and ran toward him, but Ira literally pushed her brothers out of the way and launched herself at him.

"I knew it!" she yelled. "I knew I wasn't dreaming, but they didn't believe me." Ira buried her face in Zuko's neck, and he laughed as he held his daughter close.

Zuko knelt to hug his sons, squeezing them to him and savoring the moment, before leading the troop back to the table and getting them seated again.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," Katara said, leaning back against the counter. She smiled and held her arms open to him, and Zuko was more than happy to hold her, too. "I knew you needed the sleep, despite what you like us all to believe."

"Well, I can sacrifice a bit of sleep for this—"

Katara silenced him with a kiss, and the children giggled. Zuko melted into her, his hands at her waist and hers on his shoulders. He'd always loved the ease of their intimacy, her ability to make him forget the weight on his shoulders for just a bit. When she pulled away, she began tying Zuko's tie, then smoothed his shirt, tucking into the waistband of his suit pants.

It was good to sit down to a family breakfast, and Zuko and Katara took turns making sure the children ate pancakes with their syrup, and Zuko read through the morning paper, mentioning interesting tidbits to Katara. The children all vied for his attention, telling him of their latest accomplishments, and wanting Katara to show him papers they'd brought home from school with stickers and happy faces and good grades. Zuko missed these moments with his family; he missed wiping Khan's face with a wet towel because he insisted on missing his mouth on most mornings. He missed watching Kurzu do his best to set an example for his younger siblings, wiping his mouth, and sipping his orange juice rather than guzzling it like Ira did.

The sun shone brilliantly into kitchen, a light breeze fluttering the curtains at the window over the sink. It was promising to be a beautiful day, even if the sun did nearly blind them when it glinted off the table.

"Will you be home for dinner?" Katara asked toward the end of the meal. Three eager faces turned to him with large, pleading blue and gold eyes. They bore identical expressions with wide eyes and trembling lips, tiny hands gripping the edge of the table. Ira even made a little whimpering noise.

"Yes," Zuko sighed, shaking his head. "I'll be home for dinner." He bet Katara taught them that.

.O.

They all rode the train into the city together, but when Katara and the children got off at the stop closest to the school, Zuko kept going, heading downtown to the district office. The streets were busy with people going to work, the click of heels against the pavement battling against the cry of newsboys hawking their papers on street corners and the chatter of friends meeting friends at the start of the day. Car horns blared at passing pedestrians, and Zuko strode past them all and pushed open the door to his building, giving a friendly wave to the receptionist.

"Morning, Detective," she said cheerfully. "The Inspector's looking for you."

"Thanks, Jin."

Zuko smiled as he rounded the corner and walked into The Pit, where all the detectives had their desks. When he'd first passed his police exam and been assigned to this district, Zuko's personal relationship with the Police Inspector had caused more than a few problems. For this district, the Police Inspector was his uncle, Iroh, and there were no end to the people who cried patronage and foul play, but Zuko had proven time and again that he'd passed his exam and been assigned to the busiest district on his own merit. He had a long list of accomplishments which earned him a reputation as a man who gets things done. Unlike some of his fellow officers, Zuko didn't even have to go outside the law to accomplish what he wanted.

Zuko scanned the desks as he passed them, mostly empty in the early morning hours between the night shift and the day shift. A few of the other detectives were also arriving, just beginning to settle in and rearrange their desks for the day. He waved at a few he knew, exchanging pleasant greetings with them and asking after families. When he arrived at his desk, Zuko sat his briefcase in his chair and picked up the stack of mail in his inbox, hoping for something promising.

"Hey, buddy," Jet called from across the aisle, his feet propped on his empty desk, and his hands behind his head. A loose cigarette hung from his mouth, the smoke trailing lazily toward the ceiling.

"I don't like you," Zuko replied without looking up from his papers.

If ever there was proof he didn't get special attention, his desk assignment was it. Everyone knew he applied several times a month to have his desk moved away from Jet, and yet he remained seated where he was. Like some half deaf idiot, Jet insisted on talking to him, even though Zuko had gone so far as to lay tape down in the middle of the aisle, instructing Jet not to cross it or let his voice cross it as he tried to address Zuko. One of the more popular office betting pools was how long it would take Zuko to break Jet's nose. The odds weren't terribly favorable for Jet.

"All I was going to say was thanks for helping out with yesterday's raid. Too bad we couldn't get any hooch, though. That stuff pays big for the precinct. Maybe it'd even get the FBI down here, and we wouldn't have to take on beat cop work."

Zuko rolled his eyes as he sat down. Belatedly, he remembered he still had on his coat, and he stood to remove it. "Haru doesn't trade in speakeasies."

"Not that you know of. We didn't think he'd stockpile arms, either, but he did."

Reluctantly, Zuko turned to Jet, who had an eyebrow raised. This was Jet's game. He'd hint at something, like he really wanted to help, but it was often hard to tell if he was just poking fun or being serious. More often than not, Zuko found himself following up on these conversations in the past half a year, on the off chance that Jet was being serious.

"Say, you know The Mustache, right?" Zuko asked Jet, looking off into an adjoining room where beat cops and a few detectives were sorting through yesterday's haul.

One of the secretaries was standing at the front of the group with a clip board, diligently cataloguing everything she was being told about the weapons. Zuko watched as each gun was lifted and inspected, then tagged and handed off to a deputy. They were stockpiling all this evidence, taking it and marking it as if it would do any good. Still, Zuko wrote down a few notes in his notepad. He knew some people he could push and get the trial expedited. Weapons charges could get Haru off the street for a good while, assuming that Haru didn't find some legal loophole and pin the stash on someone else, but what Zuko really wanted was Aang's head on a silver platter.

"Not professionally." The soles of Jet's shoes connected with the tile. "Are you suggesting something?"

Zuko shook his head, allowing himself a smug smile before turning to face Jet. Jet was leaning forward in his chair, his suit jacket draped over the back and his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. A nearly empty pack of cigarettes was on the corner of his desk. Jet was scowling, but this didn't bother Zuko. He wasn't intimidated by Jet. They'd gotten into fights before, and Zuko could hold his own. That stupid cigarette still hung from the corner of Jet's mouth, the ash dropping to the floor despite there being a perfectly good and empty ashtray on the desk near the pack of cigarettes.

"I'm not saying you get in on his capers or anything. Just heard from a bull that you two went to school together or something."

Jet's reaction was interesting. He leaned back in his chair and took a long drag from his cigarette before depositing it in the ashtray. Talk had kicked up around the office about the increased gang activity, and the big cheeses, those even above Iroh, were starting to put the squeeze on the force. All one had to do was whisper about dealings with the mob, and suddenly people were being called in for questioning. Several good cops had been framed that way. The result was that any accusation of connection with the mob was adamantly denied.

"We grew up in the same neighborhood, yeah. But you of all people should know how little that means. Your old man's in jail, and your uncle—his brother—put him there." Jet shrugged. "You turned out fine, right? And your doll of a sister?"

Leave it to Jet to toss that back at him. True, his father and his uncle had taken completely different paths, and that had influenced Zuko's decision to become a police officer, but none of that had any business being in Jet's mouth. Zuko narrowed his eyes at the man across the aisle from him. No, having grown up in the same neighborhood did not mean that Jet was working with Haru's mob.

"Look," Jet said, holding his hands up in a pacifying gesture. "I don't like this violence any more than you do. The way that kid was murdered? It almost made me upchuck, and I only saw the pictures. You've got more guts than I do, but the real difference between you and me is that I know when to cut my losses. I've got a family to protect. I'm not letting my kids get caught up in this mess."

Zuko looked up and saw Iroh sitting at his desk. "Still carrying a torch for my sister, huh? I'm sure your wife will be interested to know that," Zuko tossed over his shoulder as he made his way toward the front of the pit.

Jet huffed, scowling and crossing his arms. "You don't know from nothing."

That was petty of him, yes, but Zuko found it hard to care when it came to Jet. Zuko walked to his uncle's desk, rapping his knuckles against the edge. Iroh was busy fussing over a thermos of hot tea, but he gestured for Zuko to have a seat. Zuko stat obediently and waited for Iroh to finish sampling the aroma of his tea.

"Ah, my favorite," Iroh said, wistfully. "Jun made my tea this morning."

He tilted the canister toward Zuko, and when he shook his head, Iroh poured himself a cup and poured in a bit of honey. Iroh took a long drag of his tea before saying anything.

"You are a superb detective, Zuko, an asset to this precinct. That is why I would like to pass along a word of warning."

Iroh put down his cup and looked at Zuko across the desk. Zuko sat straight in his chair, searched his uncle's face for any clues. He hadn't broken any rules or done anything that would cause him to be reprimanded, but dread and annoyance began to pool in his stomach all the same. It was likely another warning to turn his search elsewhere, to ignore the way the gangs were going at each other. On several occasions, Zuko had one detective or another tell him that it would be best to let them kill each other off, then the police could come in and restore order in a city absent of the mob. Zuko had laughed in their faces and called them naïve and said that was little more than wishful thinking, and would get them nowhere.

Zuko was about to speak, but Iroh held up his hand. "Be very careful, Zuko. You've already caught the attention of the Bei Fongs, and I hear you're not far from catching the eye of Smiling Aang. We've got The Moustache on this weapons charge. Do not let your passion blind you to other roads that lead to the same destination."

"I know," Zuko said, a little gruffly. "Everyone keeps telling me that I need to be careful, and I'm being as careful as I can while investigating the mob for murder."

"Zuko, please—"

"With all due respect, Inspector, either we do this now, or when we get around to it, it'll be too late."

"You sat that as if you've got something new," Iroh said, raising his eyebrows. The smallest hint of a smile hovered over his face, and his amber eyes looked deep into Zuko's own. Iroh refilled his cup.

"I might have a motive."

Iroh looked off into the room where other cops were sorting through the weapons haul, nodding slowly. For a few long moments, Iroh said nothing. The cops had moved on to the knives now, pulling out handles and measuring the lengths of the blades as that same secretary scribbled as fast as her hand would allow.

"Who're we pinning this on?" Iroh asked.

"Word is that Smiling Aang wants a bigger cut of the city, and The Moustache is in his way. There might have been an attempt at a peaceful negotiation, but I believe the real target that day was The Moustache himself. I got confirmation in my mail this morning that Aang sent irises and forget-me-nots to The Duke's funeral."

Iroh winced, setting his cup down on the desk and steepling his fingers. Zuko didn't need to explain the meaning of the flowers to his uncle; in his pursuit of the perfect tea, Iroh often dabbled in horticulture. He knew that irises were a symbol of death, and that forget-me-nots meant exactly as their name implied. In short, Aang was telling Haru not to forget who caused The Duke's death. Iroh only sat quietly for a few seconds before running his hands through his closely cropped and quickly thinning hair, and returning his gaze to Zuko.

"You be very careful." Iroh dug around his desk until he found a notepad, then began writing. "I'll give you ten cops to help investigate this lead, plus whatever detectives still side with you."

Zuko stood, and was about to head back to his desk, but Iroh reached out and grabbed his forearm, the older man's grip like steel in a display of strength and superiority that Zuko was very familiar with from his days of rebellion.

"I am giving you two weeks, but after that, I'm pulling all the support you have for this. All your detectives, all the beat cops, all the funding's going away. We'll get Aang on a lesser charge, but still keep him locked up. I'm not risking your life or your family's lives."

Several detectives walking by had slowed, listening in on the conversation, their ears picking up on the topic of conversation. Everyone knew what Zuko's latest obsession was, and there was often much information sharing between cases. There was hardly a case they dealt with these days that didn't have any ties to one mob or another, though it was often hard to find concrete evidence linking them to the more serious crimes. If there was a mob war coming, then surely the entire precinct would want to know.

"I want these fools, off my street," Zuko said, as if he was the one giving orders.

.O.

The only reason he'd taken a lunch break that day instead of meeting with his new team was because he'd promised to meet Azula for lunch. He'd spent the morning collecting and organizing his team, knowing organization would allow them to cover the most ground in the shortest period of time. He'd handed out assignments and sent them on their way with instructions to report back at the end of the day. Zuko was determined not to squander this last chance.

Azula was sitting in a booth at a restaurant just down the street from the precinct, a lit cigarette dangling listlessly from her fingers. She was staring out the window, looking utterly bored, her cloche hat still on, and her coat and purse piled on the seat next to her. She barely turned her eyes to him as he sat down.

"About time you showed up."

"Not my fault you got here early."

Azula rolled her eyes and took a drag from her cigarette, purposely blowing the smoke in his face. Most days, they got along well, but then there were the days when Azula was in one of her moods.

"How's the family?" Zuko asked, pulling out his own cigarette, if for no other reason than to return the favor.

"I manage to not poison them all with my cooking. Nima's a terror. Her twelfth birthday's coming up and I have to throw this stupid party. Then Illah gets jealous that her sister's getting so much attention." Azula wrinkled her nose. "Why do you have three of them?"

"Your girls aren't that bad, Azula."

"Whatever." Azula waved them away. "I sent them to Ty Lee so I wouldn't have to deal with it. Tell me what's new."

Even though he knew Azula was as far from happy as she could possibly be, it still surprised him just how easily she could blow off her children. True, Azula hadn't wanted to marry Chan, and he was maybe one step above being a bimbo, but for one reason or another, Azula had accepted when Chan proposed. Though she never talked about it, Zuko assumed she was probably pregnant with Nima, leaving her with very little choice. Azula couldn't blame the girls for being born, and while she may have had an excuse with Nima, she didn't exactly have one for why Illah came along two years later.

Zuko rubbed his temples, hoping to stave off another headache. "Uncle wants us by for dinner this week."

"When? I'm meeting with Mai."

Zuko stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. Azula, Mai, and Ty Lee had been friends since they'd gone to kindergarten together. He had no problem with Ty Lee, other than that she was unnaturally and relentlessly cheery, but Mai had always made him uneasy. He didn't trust her, and he definitely didn't trust her father.

"You know how I feel about her," Zuko said, fixing Azula with a warning stare. "I don't want my nieces around that woman."

By definition, he and Mai were on opposite sides. He was a cop. She was a mob princess, belonging to one of the most powerful crime families in the city. Her father was The Governor, and the only reason he was more powerful than Smiling Aang was because he'd been around longer, and with age had come experience. Zuko hadn't always been worried about Azula associating with Mai, but now that Azula so desperately wanted a way out of the life she'd become trapped in, Zuko was afraid that Mai's lifestyle might begin to seem more and more attractive.

Azula, of course, waved all of this away. "I'll just call Uncle and get the date. He'll spare me the lecture."

From there, their lunch began to descend into a tense silence; no matter how much he wanted to impress on Azula the dangers courted by Mai's life, every word he spoke to her ran the risk of pushing her closer to that danger. This was another reason Zuko needed these gangsters off the streets. As if it wasn't bad enough that they were making his wife cry at night, now they were courting his sister. The courts would have no problem putting her in jail, and prison would not be a good place for Azula.

The bell over the door chimed, and out of habit, Zuko turned to see who'd entered the restaurant. His heart almost stopped. An extremely well dressed man in his early thirties with black hair neatly parted and styled strode in confidently, one hand in his pants pocket, the other stuffing a gold pocket watch in a vest pocket. Behind him was a petite blind woman, her hair cut short and her bangs long and partially covering her eyes in an adaptation of the popular bob hairstyle. The sun glinted off the diamonds and emeralds at her neck when she turned at the sound of the man's voice. He held out his arm to her, but she let out a sharp bark of laughter, shoving him roughly and striding forward. Her pale green dress hung loosely from her, swaying as she walked and whispered money as she passed.

The wait staff rushed to help them, asking if they would like a booth or a table, and the woman gave curt, specific instructions about the placements of the chairs at the table they would be using. Azula noticed Zuko watching, and when she turned, her eyes grew wide. As Zuko watched the man pull out the woman's designated chair, he could see that electric blue tie.

Smiling Aang and Toph Bei Fong were having lunch. Together.

"Zuko, please. Don't be an idiot."

Azula was holding his arm, and when Zuko looked down, he saw that he was holding his knife in his fist, as if he intended to stab somebody. He relaxed his grip, and when he did, so did Azula. He took a few breaths to calm himself. As of now, he had nothing on Aang, and the Bei Fongs weren't even remotely related to this case. Their territory was clear on the other side of the city, and there was plenty of unclaimed space to keep them occupied until Zuko could convince the police in that area to stop being cowards and do something about them.

For now, he had to content himself with the weapons charges against Haru and focus on finding what connecting information he could about Aang. When Zuko looked up, eyes grey like the sky before a storm were looking at him; Aang was leaning down, his mouth near Toph's ear, that trademark smile on his face. It was a brilliantly warm smile, inviting and open, and it would have been pleasant had Zuko not known that many victims had seen that smile before being told that the four winds took care of everyone, giving them what they deserved. This would be right before the person was pushed into the river, their feet encased in concrete.

Let it be known that Zuko will contemplate rolling out of bed for coffee. Add bacon, and it's a done deal. He'll see you downstairs.

This story was never not going to have Iroh or an Iroh/Ozai rivalry. And if there's Jet, there's got to be some Jetko rivalry, too. Iroh's in a rather difficult position, and he's doing his best not to let his familial love for Zuko get in the way. These guys do need to come down, but taking on the mob tends to mess with your head. To defeat the underhanded, you sometimes have to get underhanded, and it's a very alluring thing, the underworld. Zuko's a good cop with a spotless record, and Iroh would hate to see that destroyed.

So...Azula in this story. Given that it's the 1920s, I think she'd be pressured to marry, and I just can't see her marrying anyone, or at least none of the available characters for this 'verse. I tried so hard not to go into detail about Azula's life as a trapped housewife, and how Mai's lifestyle would seem so super attractive to her. Chan is the guy she kisses in The Beach, if you don't know. He's kind of a ditz, which doesn't aid Azula's feeling at home. It's a plot bunny, though, but if I ever get around to doing it, it'll be way at the bottom of my list because I seriously need to get to work on that Aangzula that's been on the back burner for a long time. In a perfect universe, I'd also write from Smiling Aang's POV, because I think there's a lot to be explored there, and it could get really creepy. Aang doesn't have his tattoos and Zuko doesn't have his scar in this 'verse, but I did give Aang a signature electric blue tie that he'd wear with all suits, regardless of clashing colors or patterns. Maybe I could do a series of one shots in this 'verse. Maybe.