Riggs came awake with a start, his phone buzzing itself to life on his chest before the resulting surprised flail threw it to the floor.
After falling off the couch and scrambling about for a minute he eventually managed to snag the stupid thing and was able to drawl out a vaguely understandable, "Yello?" before it went to voicemail.
"Up and at 'em, Riggs. Murder on the beach only about ten minutes north from your place."
"My truck—" he began, but Murtaugh didn't give him a chance to explain, talking right over him.
"That vehicle you somehow consider a decent method of transportation is in the shop, I know. I'm swinging by to pick you up because I am a good partner and nice like that."
"But I don't—"
"Appreciate me enough? You definitely don't. But in case you were going to mention something about not having coffee Bailey said something about the new guy bringing some."
Searching around the trailer finally netted him a pair of clean pants - well, cleanish anyway - and an okay looking shirt. "You mean she's ordered him to bring some," he said as he started dressing. Socks, socks, socks… Where were his socks? Aha. Eventually spotting a pair hanging over the back of the chair where he'd put them to dry after washing them last night he snagged them quickly and slipped them on.
"You say potato." A car horn tooted twice quickly from not too far away. "I say get your butt outside. I'm pulling up as I speak."
"I'm coming, I'm coming, keep your shirt on," Riggs said, ending the call so he could pull his own shirt on, which was only slightly ironic come to think of it. Taking an extra second he ran a hand through his hair before grabbing his badge and gun and heading out the door to start the day.
Considering the lack of caffeine the ride was mercifully uneventful and fairly quiet. The Beach Boys played softly on the radio and Murtaugh tapped his fingers to the beat but didn't try engaging Riggs in any kind of serious conversation about the case they'd been assigned, instead opening with, "Oh hey, remember that Trish is expecting you to come over for dinner tonight."
"Dinner? Tonight? Yeah, I don't know," he mumbled, trying to come up with some kind of excuse to get out of it. The truck being in the shop should work.
"You will be there even if I have to drag you there myself. Trish threatened to do something unspeakable to my own meal if you do not show up."
"Unspeakable?" With Trish, you never knew just what to expect. She could be the epitome of sweetness and light one moment and the next she just might gut you with a spoon. Amazing woman, Trish Murtaugh. Riggs respected the hell out of her.
"There was tofu involved." Murtaugh made a gagging noise and shuddered violently and Riggs couldn't blame him. Tofu. Yuck. That was dirty pool on Trish's part since in all good conscience Riggs couldn't force Roger to have to eat tofu just because he didn't feel like facing yet another Murtaugh family dinner. However, if he agreed to go now then the tofu would stay off the table and in the fridge where it belonged and if he didn't happen to show up? Well, life got hectic sometimes. Those sorts of things happened.
"Yeah, no, we wouldn't want that. I'll try to be there. The truck is supposed to be ready by this afternoon so I can pick it up after work and then I should have time to swing home and change before heading over. Need me to bring anything? Whiskey? Beer?"
"No, we're good on that front. According to Trish all we need is your quote unquote 'sparkling personality.' I love my wife, I really do, but sometimes I really question her sanity."
"Well, she did marry you, after all."
"A fact I shall always be thankful for. I don't know what I would do without her." There was a momentary awkward pause before Murtaugh seemed to realize what he said and hastily began stumbling over an apology, "Riggs, man, I. I mean. I didn't. I'm sorry."
In what was probably the best timing ever they pulled up to the crime scene then and therefore Riggs didn't have to comment on that and make things even more awkward. "It's fine. Trish is a great woman, you are lucky to have her. Thanks for the lift, Rog," he said added, because he had manners and could be polite when the moment called for it. Slipping out of the car, Riggs spotted Bailey and Scorsese up ahead but there was no sign of the promised caffeine anywhere in sight. Damn.
There didn't seem much to the scene, just a DOA in the middle of nowhere with nothing but scrub and sand and the hubbub that an investigation brought with it as far as they eye could see. Something about it was off though and Riggs felt the hairs on the back of his neck start to tingle. Having stopped to look around them to try to figure out what he was sensing, Murtaugh walked past him, heading up to talk to Bailey and the rest when something caught Riggs' eye- a momentary flash of light where there shouldn't have been anything of the sort. Shit. "Sniper!" he shouted before he'd even finished processing what he saw, his reflexes kicking in. Lunging forward he dived for Murtaugh, knocking him to the ground. He had been quick. Quick enough to save Murtaugh, but he should have been quicker. A sharp pain blossomed in his side.
Chaos swirled around him. Shouts of "Shots fired!" and "Officer down!" More bullets pinging and thwacking around them. A yell of "Shit, Riggs, you're hit!" from right next to him.
"Stay down!" Riggs ordered as loud as he could. "Sniper. Maybe six fifty, seven hundred yards north northeast."
Murtaugh was next to him, lying mostly flat, just up on his elbows enough to reach his hands over and provide pressure on the wound. Riggs attempted to work out the sight lines in his head to try to figure out if Murtaugh was putting himself in danger, but his thoughts were starting to slip away from him.
"Damn it, lie still, Riggs," Murtaugh hissed at him when he tried to shift to look past the brush and bramble. "You're bleeding pretty badly. How the hell did you even see him?"
"Caught the reflection from the scope. And." Shit, it hurt to talk. "The sniper, he attempted camouflage. But. Ghillie suit didn't quite match the terrain. Too brown. Wrong brown. Weapon's a Barrett. Not sure if M107 or M828. Didn't get a good enough look."
Vehicles came tearing up to the scene, sirens blasting.
"Sounds to me like you got a great look. Hell of a lot more of one than I did."
The weapons fire stopped. The background chatter got louder and more frenzied, but more indistinct.
"Rog?"
"It's okay. Shooter's gone. He fled the scene but left plenty of evidence behind. We're safe. Help's coming right up."
Scorsese was suddenly there, hovering over him, Bailey too. Other people he couldn't quite make out were shouting orders and asking him questions but he couldn't concentrate. The threat was over, they were out of danger.
"Rog?"
"I'm right here, man. The EMTs are going to take care of you, just lie still and let them work."
There were hands on him, poking and prodding. Scissors cut away his shirt. Riggs faded in and out. One moment he was on the dirt with blue skies overhead, the next he was on a gurney being loaded into an ambulance. He thought Roger might be next to him, but he wasn't sure. He was so tired, so very tired. Despite the hubbub and chaos going on all around him he closed his eyes and let himself drift away.
The phone rang, rousing Martin from a deep slumber. He jerked awake, reaching for it quickly to try to answer it before Miranda woke up, but failed completely because it wasn't actually his that was ringing but rather hers and was all the way over on her bedside table and she grabbed it before he could get it.
"Hello?"
"If that's Jenkins tell him it's my first day off in weeks and there is no way in hell I am going into work today."
Miranda raised an eyebrow at him, her patented 'I am not your messenger service' look, as she listened to whatever was being said over the line and responded with a, "Hey, daddy. No, you didn't wake us; we were already up."
Martin groaned, looking at the clock and flopped back on the bed. It was just after eight in the morning and it was a Sunday as well. He loved Miranda's family, really he did, but sometimes….
"No, no. I'm fine. The baby's fine." Martin reached over and lay his hand over her stomach. She was just starting to show and according to the midwife everything was looking great. "Yes, I asked about heading to LA for Easter at my last appointment and she said it would be fine. No, Martin's already put in for the time off and he's looking forward to spending the holiday with everyone." Miranda grinned at him and interwove her fingers with his. Looking forward to it might be a bit of an exaggeration, but unlike that first family Christmas he wasn't nervous or anything anymore. "No, we planned on arriving Wednesday night instead of Thursday and leaving on Monday, is that alright?"
Martin rolled his eyes at how worried she sounded. Like Ronnie and Anna would complain about having Miranda home a little longer than originally planned. "Ask if they wanted us to bring something." Ronnie had certainly appreciated that bottle he'd brought the first time they'd met but with all of Miranda's sisters there and all of their kids. Maybe they should bring two bottles? Or, well, considering all the little ankle biters that'd be there maybe one bottle of the good stuff and one of juice or something?
"Is there anything we can bring? We could bring the dessert maybe? I know Mama has already probably started baking but. Okay. No, that, that is a valid point." She paused and then laughed at whatever Ronnie said. Martin was pretty sure it was her 'my husband is an idiot, but I love him anyway' laugh, especially considering the way she looked at him. "You're probably right about that but that's fine, we can do that." Yep, he'd been right about that laugh. "Daddy, be nice. Yes, I know. Love you too, Dad. Bye!"
Being a patient man, he waited until she'd hung up and put the phone down before he asked, "So why'd you laugh? What did Ronnie say?"
"Dad asked if I really wanted to have the only desserts at the Easter dinner to be the chocolate from the kids' baskets and something I made."
"What? No, honey, you're a great cook."
Miranda laughed at that and leaned over, kissing him on the nose. "Martin, I love you dearly, but even you know that is not true. Remember the pasta?"
"Hey, I ate that pasta," Martin felt he had to point out. Sure, it hadn't been haute cuisine or anything, but he'd definitely eaten worse.
"Yes, you did, and I love you for that but even you have to admit it didn't turn out even remotely the way it was supposed to. There was fire involved. Pasta is not supposed to catch on fire."
"Okay, I will grant you that, but what about your cookies! You make great cookies!"
"You mean the ones I make with the store-bought cookie dough?"
"That chicken dish—"
"Is from the deli counter at the supermarket." She kissed him again, her eyes dancing with humor.
"And what about your famous blueberry pancakes? I love your blueberry pancakes."
"Sweetie, you've helped me make them. You know they're nothing more than following the recipe on the back of the box and throwing in some blueberries right before you cook them. That's not exactly fine cuisine."
"Well, maybe not, but they taste good."
"Okay, I'll give you that, but aren't really Easter dinner worthy food, are they?"
Martin tried to picture pancakes being served along all the platters of different foods Anna had served over Christmas. "I guess not."
"But that's okay, Dad had a different idea for what we could bring."
"I can stop by the liquor store on Monday after work if you can't make it," Martin offered quickly only to have Miranda put a finger to his lips.
"I should have figured you'd be thinking of bringing whiskey again, and while it was a nice gesture to bring it when I first introduced you to everyone I don't think it's right for a time like this. Liquor's for… introductions and apologies and making an impression. But you've done that. You're family now and family is about food, about being together."
He kissed her finger before saying, "So.. we're bringing food?"
"Yep."
"But not pasta or pancakes or cookies or whatever other kind of suggestion I might give that you're going to shoot down because you already know what you're going to make but you like listening to me fumble about and sticking my foot in it."
"You're adorable when you fumble. And, yes, I know what we are going to make."
"We?"
"Yes, we. Mama thinks it's time I teach you how to make her famous sweet chipotle cornbread."
"Bread? Miranda, I don't know…"
"I started helping Mama make it when I was about five and have been making it on my own since I was a teenager." She hopped off the bed and pulled him up after her. "I think you'll be able to manage it. Tell you what, we'll go and get the ingredients today and make a trial loaf. It's easy and they want us to bring three loaves so you'll have plenty of chance to perfect your skills when it comes to making it."
"I can hardly wait," he muttered, pulling her into a kiss.
Getting shot sucked. One hundred percent did not recommend. Not that it was something Riggs aspired to do on a regular basis or anything, but still. Overall though, he considered himself lucky this time around. No major organs perforated, so a win in his book. It still had required surgery and some recovery time, which, all in all, wasn't that bad, especially considering that once the sniper had been tracked down (the LAPD did not mess around when there was someone trying to take out their people), they'd discovered he was a guy with a grudge against cops, all cops. The asshole was proud of the scene he'd set up and admitted that flash Riggs had seen was him lining up his shot and the plan had been to take Murtaugh out with a double tap to the chest before shooting everyone else he had in his sights. Riggs would happily take a through and through to the side if that meant saving Roger's life, let alone Bailey's, Scorsese's and everyone else's. What was adding another scar to his collection in comparison to that?
Trish got all weepy eyed about it though. She visited him in the hospital and then tried to convince him to bunk in the guest room at their place instead of going home. When he told her didn't want to put her out like that and would rather stay at his own place she argued with him about it and only relented when he promised to come for dinner the next day.
"No excuses now; you are coming," she told him in no uncertain terms over the phone when she'd called him to check up on him the following morning. "We will never be able to thank you enough for saving Roger's life but one thing I can do is make sure you're eating all right so you will be at my table at seven o'clock tonight. Seven o'clock on the dot and you will not be late or there will be consequences, do you understand me?"
"Yes, ma'am."
He might have put on a little too rough a tone because there was a moment of silence between them before she continued, her voice soft with concern, "You're family, Martin. I know I've said that before but I meant it then and I mean it now. You are family. I don't want you to feel like you're an obligation or someone we endure. You are a member of our family and we love you and I just want to make sure you're okay."
"Thanks, Trish. I. I know. And don't worry, I'll be there."
"Good. See you tonight."
"See you," Martin replied before hanging up.
Well, it looked like he had plans for dinner then and it didn't look like there was anyway he was going to get out of it. Oddly, he kind of didn't want to either. What did that say about him? Trying not to think about that little insight too much he started poking about in the cabinet to see if he had anything edible he could munch on in the meantime. Pulling down a bag of barely expired tortilla chips he spotted Miranda's old cast iron fry pan. It'd once belonged to some elderly relative of hers, Riggs didn't remember who, but she'd been so excited to get it because its years of use had left it perfectly seasoned.
"See how dark and shiny it is, Martin?" she'd told him when she'd first showed it to him. "It's how cast iron shows its love." He hadn't understood what she was talking about, not then anyway. But later on, that day she showed him how to make Anna's special cornbread and how it cooked it just right and how the bread slid right out of the pan? He figured out what she saw in that pan and why she thought it was so special. That was probably why he'd kept it.
Well, that and the fact it was heavy as hell and would make a good weapon in a pinch.
He hadn't thought about the pan in years, but even after all this time it still looked perfect.
Hmmm.
"You're family and family is about food, about being together."
How did that recipe go again? Cornmeal, buttermilk, butter, and eggs. He needed to head to the store, he didn't have any of that stuff lying around. Well, he had the salt and sugar he'd need, but not the honey and for some reason she'd been adamant the recipe contained both. Same thing with both the baking soda and baking powder, he didn't know how they differed, but apparently they did. If he went to that big grocery store up the way they might even have the same chipotle in adobo they'd always used.
He'd probably need to buy a measuring cup while out and about as well. And a bowl come to think of it. And maybe a mixing spoon? But, whatever. He grabbed his keys, shooting a quick 'thank you' to whoever was listening for Roger having picked the truck up and filling the gas tank before helping him escape from the hospital. If he headed out now, he could probably make a test loaf or two, just to make sure he was remembering the recipe right.
He could do this.
He would do this.
Trish and Rog thought of him as family. It was high time he played his part.