I can't handle these two. Four episodes and I'm already trying to live my life without constantly writing one-shots for them. So far, I'm not succeeding.
Also, can we just have a moment dedicated to how adorably proud Milt looked of himself when the Commander asked if they pulled the accountant's phone records from nine years ago in last night's episode, Heirlooms? Thanks.
He's drowning.
Or, at least he feels like it as the rain pours in blindingly, thick sheets around him and if it weren't for his feet striking the ground like a pick of a hard-labored coal miner, he wouldn't know which direction was up or down. As if caught in a current, he twists and turns down one alley or another with his heart hammering enough to make up for the lack of thunder in the air, but he grits his teeth against it and manages to run just a bit faster when it prevents him from sucking in watered down oxygen.
"Here, here, here!" Font yells from somewhere off to the side and it's remarkably close to sounding like he's just found evidence to break a case wide open, or a stash of pot, or at this point, because honestly he can't even tell over the sound of the blood pumping in his ears and the downpour, proper rain gear.
Russ manages to redirect his feet on the course of where the voice wedged between the raindrops and where he can see a small light moving rapidly in a blur indicating the screen of White's cell phone.
"He's in here!" Font yells and this time Russ can tell his voice sounds more relieved than anything he had previously assumed, but Agnew looks at the building, craning his neck back to see how high it ascends regardless of the rain.
"Seven stories! Where the hell is BCPD?! We need back up, now!" Russ exclaims, but despite his pessimistic read on the situation he all but falls through the stairwell door of the building and decides to leave the emotion of finding blood leading up the stairs to Detective White who sloshes in behind him.
"Maybe they knew there was a blood trail and stopped for eclairs," Font pants out an answer to Agnew's previous question somewhere between a cough and a tight laugh, but Russ finds himself halfway up the first set of stairs by the time he gets it out and decides to ignore him all together when his legs begin to burn at the realization that the trail keeps winding up higher and higher.
"Damn it!" He yells, and for a spilt second, he wishes that he was actually drowning because at least he would suffocate without the physical exertion. He's on the fifth floor by the time the sound of a gun going off pours from the ceiling in a bone chilling echo and he stumbles over the platform going to the sixth flight of steps. He catches sight of Font staggering up the stairs far behind him and curses at him to move faster while trying to take the remaining steps two at a time.
He's at the bloodstained door to the rooftop with Font long and forgotten at least three stories behind and he's back out in the rain before he's even got his gun aimed. Not that it would do him much good, because even when he does get it properly aimed, he still doesn't have a clean shot.
"Let him go," Russ says, and if he wasn't focused on the situation at hand he would wonder how he got his voice to become as low and steady as he managed while still trying to catch his breath.
He's talking to one man, but staring at the other and apparently that's all his suspect needed.
"Oh, Detective Agnew. Experiencing a bit of Deja Vu, are we? Over Agent Chamberlain of all people?"
Russ slides his finger over the trigger slow and even like the drops of water gliding over the bulged bones of the back of his hand as he grips his gun in anger. "Not in the slightest, Larson, but you know me and how I am about paperwork, and if you kill him, well damn, I'll be doing that shit for weeks. You know, in between making sure you get the very best treatment in the penitentiary, and all. Especially in solitary confinement this time."
Larson, a thick muscled man with thinned hair and an even thinner temper, tightens his arm around Milt's neck with a pleased chuckle. "You're right, I do know you, and I was just explaining that to Milton here," he trails off, letting the gun in his hand do the same by moving it slowly down to the bleeding bullet wound in Milt's right leg and pressing the end of the gun into the ripped flesh. A harsh groan fizzles out between the threads of the soaked gag in between the FBI Agent's clenched teeth and for a moment Chamberlain squirms causing both captor and captive to sway like a dance as Larson attempts to keep him still.
"Sounds like he's got the gist of it," Larson assures, but then repositions his gun back at Milt's temple. "But, we were just getting to the good part."
"You mean how you sold out our entire department for a few pounds of cocaine and a hooker?" Russ counters and lets his index finger twitch over the trigger when the gunman falters for a hair's breadth, but freezes when he pulls Milt further against him and taps the barrel of his weapon against his partner's forehead.
"More like how you couldn't shoot me when you had the chance and let your old partner take one right between the eyes. Of course, that's what friendship does to a man, makes him do foolish things. But I'm sure no one blames you, Detective Agnew, not even Scotty's kids could blame Uncle Russ now, could they?" In the span of silence, the corner of Larson's mouth curled. "Or maybe they do."
Russ opens his mouth to respond, but someone crashes through the staircase door behind him stealing his opportunity and attention for a fraction of a second, but that's all it takes, because by the time he turns back around after seeing Font stumble behind him, he catches the shadow off the wrong end of a gun barrel and Milt's desperate regard.
He's heard people say that things happen in slow motion, but as a cop, he's never had that fortune. If it had, he would've pulled his own trigger, ordered Milt regardless of his lack of authority to "stay the hell still" , or a number of other things his years of experience and disregard for by-the-book police procedures had taught him, but in the time that Larson's wide shot ricocheted off a nearby air conditioning unit, Milt had already grabbed his captive's arm and shoved them both backwards over the ledge.
He feels like he's caught in a river's current again, being pulled and dragged to a place he doesn't want to go, but he's moving so fast he can only hope for a final destination. The brick lip of the rooftop prevents him from following the path he was caught in, like a broken tree branch jutting out from the riverbank, and it treats his ribs the same, but the pain is lost to the sight of a broken and bloodied figure drowning in the bottom of the downpour.
"Milt!"
Font's voice slices through the muffled white noise in his ears and he finally realizes there's only one body on the pavement, instead of two. He searches frantically for the second, hitting Font's arm when he can't find it fast enough and the detective points to a balcony two stories down where bloodied hands are slowly slipping down the rain-dampened, iron rail bars.
He doesn't remember descending the stairs, but when his sternum collides with the concrete balcony two stories below he knows that he has. He shoves his hands through the rails and grabs Milt's soaked wrists with crushing force.
The agent jerks at the unexpected touch, hands slipping against the rails even more before he squeezes them hard enough that Russ hears the knuckles pop, and jerks his head up from where he was staring at the painful drop.
Something that sounds like "Russ," is whispered with a voice full of relief behind the gag in Milt's mouth, but Detective Agnew can read him well enough now to know that he's only glad that his stupid, life-endangering stunt saved Russ' own.
"Milt," he counters through gritted teeth and he hopes Chamberlain can read him well enough to know that he's angry as hell about this whole situation despite the worried look that's seeping into his exerted expression.
Milt just blinks at him and even though Russ thinks it's just to get the rain and the blood from a gash on his forehead to quit running into his eyes, he yells at him out of frustration anyway when the agent suddenly looks down and shakes his head with force.
"Hey, hey, stop it! You're heavy enough as it is! Damn!" He grunts, squeezing his hands tighter around Milt's wrists when he thinks that maybe his partner has slipped a little.
A weary and muffled, "S-sorry," floats up from below him and he knows that they don't have long before it'll be up to him to hold all of Milt's weight.
"Yeah, well..." and Russ swears to himself that there was a spiteful comment supposed to be on the end of his response, but he can't think of it and it ends up sounding more like a palliative assurance than anything else.
Milt's fingers suddenly slip further, so much so that there's a faint squeak between the rain, bloodstained skin, and iron rails from the descent, and Russ is pulled forward until his arms are snug between the gaps of the railing. "Woah! Woah! Shit, man! What's the point of you working out if you can't even hold your own weight? Jesus, do a pull up and save your ass!"
The dangling agent laughs and whether it's because of what Russ has said or the fact that his face was nearly smashed into the bars while he said it, the detective can't be sure, but finally Font appears next to him and grabs Milt's left arm causing the agent to jerk again. Russ notices it, but focuses on switching his right hand to join his other on Milt's right arm and relishes in the distribution of weight until he hears a injured groan below him. Looking down, he sees Milt push his head into the arm he's holding and watches the water pour from the gag in between his teeth as he clenches them.
"His arm," he tells Font and motions for him to look down at the disfigured way it bends at the shoulder up to his elbow.
"Shit."
"It's fine," Russ replies, although shaking his head because it's anything but, and looks back down at Milt. "It's fine, " and this time it sounds as if he truly believes it and Font can only blink at the difference. "But we're going to have to pull you up, Milt. It's going to hurt like a bitch, but just...just help us if you can."
Milt's head wobbles against where he's buried it in his arm, so he takes that as conformation that he understands and looks back at Font. "On three, be quick about it."
Font jerks his head and they both wait for Russ to ground out the third number before pulling up with every bit of strength they can muster. Milt yells against the gag in his mouth and Russ has to tell Font to keep pulling when he does, but they get him up high enough that Russ can catch him around the chest and pull him over the rail with shaking arms and staggering feet. He drags them both back into the building out of the rain, collapsing them both back against the wall until they're sitting side by side, breathing heavily.
Font's stumbling towards the stairs again muttering something about back up and an ambulance by the time Milt starts coughing. Rolling his head along the wall, Russ watches Milt struggle with weak fingers of his right hand to pull the gag from his mouth, before reaching over and pulling it out himself and letting it fall around his neck.
Milt nods his head in way of thanks, too indulged in breathing dry air to give effort into words, but in the moments of catching his breath, Russ has let anger catch up to him, too.
"What in the hell was that?"
Milt rolls his head enough to look him in the eye. "You couldn't shoot him."
"Listen to me, that son of a bi-"
"No. No, I mean...he told me...told me why you couldn't shoot him the first time. That he...he was like a second father to you when you graduated from the academy. You can't ..take someone's life like that and not have it mess with your head."
"And you know all about it, is that it?"
There's a silence that fills the two inches between their shoulders and if Russ wasn't preoccupied with trying to build his walls back up from where he feels unguarded, he might have noticed that his partner had no intention of breaching the gap.
Instead, Milt presses down on the bullet wound in his leg and Russ half suspects that he's forgotten that there isn't a gag between his tightening teeth at the sound that breaks between them.
Rolling his eyes, Russ bats Milt's trembling hand away and presses down with his own, grimacing as the blood and rainwater squish underneath his fingers. "Hey, Milt, do me favor, the next time you decide to get yourself killed at least make sure it's not raining."
"Sure, as long as the next time someone breaks out of prison with a price on your head you tell me so that when they approach me I can tell them where to find you."
"You know, I don't really mind the rain that much."
"Oh, well in that case I'll tell the bureau to cancel the order of rain gear for the precinct."
That causes Russ to bite his bottom lip and he decides to busy himself with inspecting the bullet wound a bit closer even though he asks, "How's the arm?"
"Ah, broken, but I'll take it given the alternative."
"That was really stupid - what you did - just so you know," Russ says, and if he presses down unnecessarily hard on the wound, neither make mention of it, but it's Russ that flinches when Milt grits out, "Maybe. But I trusted you."
"Trusted me?!"
"Uh huh," and it's so simple and perfectly honest, and annoyingly Milt, that Russ rolls his eyes despite the weight he feels in his chest at the sudden responsibility he has, because he had a partner not so long ago that said the same thing and ended up with a bullet between the eyes.
"Well, next time you decide to trust me how about a civilized conversation far away from rooftops and balconies?"
"And guns?" Milt asks, and the detective can't tell if he's being mockingly hopeful or annoyingly serious, because he's grinning at him like they've somehow decided to become friends without Russ' consent, but when all Russ can do is give a small smirk in return around an, "And guns," he realizes Larson was right. Friendship makes a man do foolish things.
AN: Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think.