I get the impression that Rusty knows a lot more than he lets on (especially after seeing his interactions with Cole during the Vice and Arson desks), and as a result, was probably suspicious as to why his former partner was able to retire so early. He probably just didn't give a damn to do anything about it at that point, however.
Good gosh, was this prompt tricky. Word Count: 493 words
Case files fell unceremoniously to the desk's surface, the names of the dead all but lost to time as Floyd cleaned it out.
"Damn city's going to hell," Floyd muttered grumpily.
"Even I could have told you that," Rusty responded with a smirk.
Floyd drew his fingers across his face. "I've paid my dues."
Galloway snorted. "When the wife gets sick of you, you'll know what 'dues' really are."
He dropped his hand. "No one told you to fuck things up for yourself."
Imitating injury, Rusty clutched his chest. "Forgive me while I crawl back to my ex, and tend to her every whim and need when she's through banging the milkman."
"Just forget it," Floyd snapped, "You can manhandle corpses until you're eighty, for all I care. I have the sanity to get the hell out of here."
Knowing full well how it pissed him off, Rusty smiled condescendingly. "Floyd, you haven't learned a thing for all the time you've been here."
Looking away, he muttered, "If you want to squeeze a drink out of me for 'old time's sake,' you can fuck yourself."
"Maybe you'd learn something if you shut your trap for once," Rusty growled, standing up and leaning forward over his own desk.
"Now look here, I don't know what you're insinuating," Floyd grabbed his files, "I'm retiring fair and square."
"Odd," he shrugged, "I don't remember insinuating anything. What's a drunk like me know, anyway?"
Pulling the files more tightly against himself, Floyd replied, "You said it, not me. Have a nice life, Galloway." The door slammed after him.
Quite jumpy for someone who retired fair and square, Rusty noted.
Rose was a good enough man, he mused, looking at the empty name plate. The problem with him, however, was his desire for instant gratification.
Sometime during his first years in Homicide, he'd been a dreamer like Rose, envisioning a city where a man could make a living without the fear of a gun in his back, and where his little girl could walk to school without a stranger making a grab for her.
There was still one little lady he would take that bullet for, big softie he was. The problem was, collaring a few bad guys didn't stop them all.
Understandably, Floyd had wanted out when Homicide had proved differently from what he had expected. Rusty knew the department wasn't a solution; it was a drunken haze haunted by endless scores of the dead and damned. He'd expected Floyd to eventually close his eyes to the underbelly of Los Angeles, and pretend that the good guys always won in the end again. Rusty just wished the man would lie better about the underhanded dealings he'd had used to secure a cushy lifestyle while doing so.
Very soon would be his next case, and his new partner's arrival. He regarded the closed door to his office with disinterest, and wondered what to order on tap tonight. Next!