Romeo Is Bleeding

He visits Irene today. Thinks about how different his life could have been, would have been had she still been alive. How different her life would have been if the bullet had hit him instead, if she hadn't knocked the gun out his hand, if Zuko had had better aim.

He thinks about visiting her kids but they won't remember him. He has stories to tell, photos to show, and when he finally decides to go, they don't let him in. A close-knit family, the Zukos. They don't want to talk about it, they don't want to hear about it, especially not from the cop who put Frankie away, who let a mother of two die young.

Frank has been out for years by now; Ray always wonders how many future people he could have saved had he testified. Told them it was deliberate, taken revenge. He honored Irene's memory instead, let her brother have a fair trial. But back then that hadn't been enough for him. He let him go just to catch him again. Spent his own free time watching and waiting. Waiting until Frank slipped up one last time and he could put him away for good, without the guilt of disappointing Irene hanging over his head. But then Ray had to leave.

She was beautiful. He tells Gardino that on the way back, leaves him pigs in a blanket, removes the flowers than have died over the winter.

He doesn't watch and wait anymore. He knows however above-board Zuko claims to be now there will always be a Mafia don underneath. He understands. He understands what it's like to wake up one day, to fire a weapon and end the life of someone that was never meant to be in front of the barrel. Hates that he does. Is grateful that he does. Finally.

Ray readjusted to life after Vegas a long time ago. Dreams, if he has them, aren't of guns and poker chips, blood diamonds and cigars. They're of slow desert nights, deep, rich sunsets, a hazy mist of sand and marble and silk, cool metal, fine food, buttermilk. Cufflinks and braces, widescreen tvs, plush sofas, heated swimming pool, massages on a Tuesday and Thursday.

He's normal. Sinful. Hopeful. Sometimes he thinks he shouldn't be allowed to be any of those things, not when he's done what he's done, and when he thinks about vengeance, he knows it will come, sooner or later. In this life or the next. Because when it comes to the high desert noon, sweat stinging his eyes and finger pulling the trigger, eighteen years disappearing as a drop falls from his cheek, he knows there's no memory to honor. She hadn't lived long enough to make one. So when his Trial comes, he'll tell them that it was deliberate. And Irene will be there watching and waiting, and she will smile and let him in, wrap him up in curtains, tell him he can't dance, the man in the moon. And Ray, he will promise her it ends here.