Mornings are the worst. The sun is too bright, the cries of the seagulls too loud and the world just too much to bear.
Riggs has been dreaming of Miranda. It wasn't the good kind of dream, the one he doesn't want to wake from, but the other kind. The one that hurts like hell and leaves him sweat-soaked and shivering. All through the night he's been watching her getting killed over and over again. Riggs wasn't even there the day she died. He has been pursuing some criminals instead of being with his wife, but he has seen enough accidents, has been in a few himself, and knows how that goes. Plus he has seen the aftermath, when he had to identify her broken, battered body, one of the worst things he has ever had to do. It's enough for his subconscious mind to paint a vivid picture.
Riggs takes a shaky breath and looks at his phone to check the time. Bad idea. Miranda smiles at him from the screen of his phone. He closes his eyes reflexively against the stab of pain. This is how he wants to remember her, beautiful and radiant and alive, not bloody and lifeless. But that horrible image is hard to shake, especially after dreams like this. Then it feels like it's permanently etched in his mind and won't ever go away. He reaches for the bottle of bourbon on the side table and takes a swig. He concentrates on the way it burns going down his throat, trying to block out everything else.
Trish is in the kitchen, having breakfast and reading a magazine when Riggs lightly knocks on the backdoor and pokes his head inside. "Morning, Trish."
She looks up and smiles. "Oh hi Martin."
She always seems so pleased to see him. It's a wonder, especially this early in the morning.
"Come on in. You look like you could use a cup of coffee," she adds with an amused expression.
Riggs leans against the wall and returns the smile. "I wouldn't say no to that." After downing half the bottle of Jack – the fact that he's actually got something to do today the only thing keeping him from getting completely boozed up – he's a little buzzed. Coffee might help him sober up a bit more.
Trish takes the coffee pot from the stove, pours some into a cup and hands it to him.
"And how about some bacon and eggs? I'm guessing you haven't eaten yet."
Riggs shakes his head. "Nah, I'm good." Except for his liquid breakfast he hasn't had a meal since yesterday's lunch, and that consisted of a packet of Cheetos in the break room. So he is hungry, but doesn't really feel like eating. But his stomach betrays him by growling loudly at the mention of food.
Trish chuckles. "Sit down, I'll get you a plate."
She heaps it with food and sets it down in front of him, then returns to her own plate.
Riggs looks around. "Where is everyone?" Except for little Harper sitting in her high chair the rest of the family is noticeably absent.
"The kids are still asleep and Roger's in the shower. He should be down soon."
"Ah."
They continue eating in companionable silence until Trish says, "By the way, thank you for sacrificing your Saturday to help Roger transport our new wardrobe."
"It's not like he's got anything better to do."
Roger walks into the kitchen dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt. Somehow he still manages to look respectable, something that Riggs never accomplishes, not even at work. Not that he tries. Most days he simply can't be bothered to care about his appearance. Today is such a day, which is why he's still wearing yesterday's clothes that look more than a little rumpled now.
"Roger." Trish acknowledges him with a cool voice. Her whole demeanor has cooled notably with her husband's appearance. Seems like the big guy screwed it up again with his wife. It's unfathomable to Riggs how he always manages that. She's amazing. Being a cop's spouse isn't easy, but Trish is always very understanding. The job makes you miss many things, like birthdays or anniversaries. It might also make you miss driving your wife to the hospital when she is about to give birth...
Riggs pushes the half-empty plate away, his appetite gone.
Costco – the store where you can get all the crap you don't need and then some.
The huge parking lot is almost full, much to Riggs' annoyance. They have to circle the lot a few times before finally finding an empty spot. With so many cars here the store must be packed, a thought that does nothing to better his mood. He reminds himself that they're not here to shop, just for a quick in-and-out mission. Go in there, get the wardrobe and get out again. Half-hour, tops.
An hour later they're not even halfway through with their mission. Riggs has infiltrated enemy compounds quicker than that. At least his fears that there are throngs of people everywhere haven't come true, since the store is just so damn spacious. In fact, the counter they're standing at is pretty much deserted, without even a sales clerk in sight. A bell sits on the counter with a sign next to it that says, Please ring the bell and a member of our staff will come to your assistance. But doing so has yet to summon anyone.
Murtaugh rings the bell again. Riggs, half-lying on the counter with his head on his crossed arms, groans. "Oh my god. How much longer is this gonna take?"
"Have some patience, man." But Roger is quickly running out of patience himself. He hits the bell more forcefully. Still no one deigns to show up.
"That's it." Riggs straightens up and vaults over the counter.
Roger calls after him, "Riggs, you can't go in there!" But too late. His partner has already disappeared through a door marked 'Employees Only'. He reemerges a few moments later, dragging a protesting sales clerk along behind him.
"Dude, why are you doing this?"
"Shut up." They stop in front of Murtaugh. "We've been standing here for like half an hour. It's rude to keep your customers waiting, don't ya think?" Riggs shakes the hand fisted in the guy's collar. The clerk has no choice but to nod.
"That's right. So why don't you get my partner here the stuff he ordered so we finally can leave." Riggs releases the young man's shirt and gives him a none too gentle shove toward the computer terminal. The clerk sets on this task with alacrity. His fingers fly over the keys, and he comes up with an answer in no time. Having Riggs practically breathe down his neck appears to be a great incentive.
He tells them they can pick up the wardrobe at the back of the store.
"Great." Riggs clicks his tongue. "Let's go."
He starts striding towards the general direction of the exit, but Roger has other ideas. "While we're here, I need to pick up some things."
Oh no. "What things?"
"Just some stuff we're running low on. You might use the opportunity to stock up, too."
Riggs grumbles, "I hate shopping." But he follows his partner anyway. He's not sure he would find his way out on his own, not without losing patience and threatening someone with bodily harm.
Roger has procured a shopping cart and is pushing it along the aisles, filling it up as he goes. He seems to have a precise shopping list in his head. He says, "I know. That's why there's never anything in your fridge. And your wardrobe could need some updating, too."
Riggs protests, "There's nothing wrong with my clothes."
"You've only got one jacket and it's got a giant hole in it."
They're just passing the clothes section. Roger points out some jackets hanging on a display. "They've got some nice ones here. How about you try those on."
Riggs' reply is a curt "No."
Roger rolls his eyes, probably thinking he's just being his usual stubborn self. He is, but not without reason. His green combat jacket is a little worn, and yes, it does have a big hole in the shoulder, torn by a sniper's high-velocity bullet. But Miranda gave him this jacket, just before she died, and he wants to hold on to every connection with her as long as he can. Sometimes it's all that keeps him going. That, and the alcohol, of course.
"Can I help you?" Another sales clerk, a female one this time, approaches them with a ready smile.
Riggs shakes his head, but Roger overrides him and says, "Yes. My partner needs some new clothes. A jacket would be a start."
"We have a nice selection of jackets." She touches Riggs' arm and points out several clothes displays. "Something catch your interest?"
The clerk turns back to him. She's pretty, with long blond hair and a flirtatious smile. Maybe she's just trying to sell, but Riggs really can't deal with that. She's standing so close to him he can smell her perfume. It causes a deep hollow ache in his chest.
He shakes his head again, so vehemently his hair falls into his face. He pulls it back into place with his left hand to show her his wedding band. She looks slightly disappointed, but Riggs can't help her there.
His oblivious partner meanwhile is studying the jackets with interest. "How about the one in the corner over there?"
Riggs pushes him into moving.
Roger is pushing his ever fuller shopping cart along at a leisurely pace while he peruses the wares. It's making Riggs antsy. Maybe he should just knock him out and stuff him into his shopping cart along with his purchases. That would speed up the process. But no – if he does that, he'll never hear the end of it.
In the hardware section, while Roger is comparing two kinds of paints that look absolutely identical, Riggs studies a display of tarps. He finds himself calculating how big a tarp he would need to buy to protect his trailer when he finally offs himself. His back-up revolver, a beautiful Smith & Wesson Model 686, shoots .357 Magnum bullets, which have the benefit of making him definitely, positively dead, but they also cause a helluva mess. It's got to be a pretty big tarp then, because brain mater doesn't come off easily. Or maybe he shouldn't bother with a tarp at all, just have them burn him with his trailer.
"You planning on doing some remodeling, too?"
Riggs starts slightly. His partner is standing next to him, with a now completely full shopping cart. He nods and says absently, "Been planning for some time, yeah."
Riggs glances at his partner and sees the sadness in his face. He looks away again, ducking his head. That's the problem with allowing himself to care about people; it makes departing from this world of shit a bit harder. Riggs breathes a sigh. "Anyway." He indicates the cart. "You finally done?"
Roger is still studying him uncomfortably close. "Almost. I just need to pick up one last thing."
Murtaugh is unsure what to get his wife. What best expresses I'm really sorry I said these stupid things – flowers? A nice wine? Or maybe candy? He's found a box of chocolate truffles that he knows she likes, but it doesn't feel right. Maybe his heart's just not in it – the thing with the tarp has put a damper on his nice shopping trip. He knows Riggs intends to die on the job, something he has been thankfully unsuccessful at so far, despite several close calls. But moments like that make him wonder if one day he'll give in and just do it himself. Murtaugh hates to think about this, so he tries and put it out of his mind. He's determined to distract his partner, too. Which is easier said than done, because the Texan has disappeared again. Murtaugh spots him some distance away browsing stalls offering food samples.
"Riggs, get back here right now!" he calls, aware he sounds like he's scolding a recalcitrant teenager. Well, he reckons it's only fitting – the guy is moody and impulsive enough to be one.
As if on cue, Riggs saunters over, a paper plate full of little sandwiches in his hand that he must have stolen that from one of the stalls.
"You know you're only supposed to take one sandwich and not the whole plate?"
Unconcerned, the other man keeps munching. "I'm hungry. And the lady said she wouldn't mind."
"Uh-huh." Probably she's just too polite to decline.
Riggs offers him the plate. "You've got to try one. The bologna is vegan, apparently, but it's not half bad. Though they might try fryin' it up some," he adds pensively.
Murtaugh takes a cautious bite – what Riggs considers tasty is usually not to his liking. But they are good. Maybe he'll buy one of those later since Trish always wants him to eat healthier. Just too bad vegan bologna won't work as an apology present. Which reminds him.
"You have to help me pick something for Trish. After all it's your fault I was late for our 20th anniversary."
"Why is it my fault?" Riggs pops the last sandwich in his mouth and he wipes his hands on his pants. The empty plate he hands to a passing Costco employee who takes it with a slightly startled look.
Murtaugh ignores the byplay. "Whose idea was it to go off road?"
"Mine. So what? We totally got the guy."
"Yeah. And we also got stuck in the middle of nowhere because you crashed my car. Again."
"Whatever." Riggs waves that aside. "That's not enough to make Trish mad."
"I might have said something as well. About how she's starting to sound like her mother."
"Oh, man." His partner shakes his head in pity. "You should know better."
Murtaugh shrugs helplessly. "I do. But you know I tend to run off at the mouth."
"That you do." Riggs pats his shoulder. "Okay, what have you got?"
Murtaugh shows him.
The younger man scoffs. "Flowers and candy? Cliché much?"
The quick dismissal of his well-thought-out choices makes Murtaugh bristle. "You got any better ideas? What did you get your wife when she was mad at you? Which she was quite often, I suppose."
The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. He winces internally. Nice job distracting him from his loss, idiot.
But this doesn't seem to stir up too many bad memories. Riggs is wearing a smile. It's bittersweet and a little sheepish, but still a smile. "When I really screwed up, I used to cook her favorite meal to apologize."
"That's actually a really good idea." Murtaugh is surprised. "Thank you."
But Riggs is still lost in the memory and doesn't reply.
After proceeding through checkout there's yet more waiting to do, this time around the back of the store.
Riggs and Murtaugh get in line behind several other people waiting to pick up their newest piece of furniture, all appearing bored and testy at the same time. Riggs understands them all too well. He's only standing here for like five minutes, but he's already about to punch someone. He's much too sober to be doing nothing; it makes his thoughts stray into bad places. Remembering his flask, he pulls it out of his shirt pocket and tries to take a swig, but it's empty. Damn it. He should have filled that up before leaving his trailer this morning.
"Want me to speed things up a bit?" Riggs gives his partner a nudge, his desire to be anywhere but here making it rougher than intended.
Roger rubs the spot where the other man's elbow connected and glares at him. "Let's try to keep things civilized for once." Riggs looks a little too eager and would just start something that would get the city sued again.
The younger man is not pleased with the answer. "I hate waiting."
Roger sighs. "I know." Trying to ignore the bundle of restless energy next to him, he scans the other shoppers. They're all waiting more or less patiently, exhibiting different states of annoyance, but one woman looks more agitated than the situation warrants. One hand is buried in the pocket of her outsized hoodie and she keeps clenching und unclenching the other, showing all the signs of someone gearing themselves up to commit a crime. Riggs has gone completely still next to him and Roger knows he has spotted it too.
"I wonder what she's got in her pocket," he mutters.
Riggs keeps his eyes on her and murmurs back, "Probably candy."
Roger clicks his tongue. "Bad for the teeth. Lets relieve her of it, shall we?"
"Lets." His partner nods, and starts moving. "I'll take the right."
"I'll go left."
Cautiously they approach the would-be perp from both sides. They can't have her panicking and shooting up the place. Once they're both in position Roger puts a heavy hand on her left shoulder. "LAPD. Let go of your weapon and – slowly – put your hands where we can see them."
The woman's expression turns from shock at being caught to a hate-filled snarl. She tries to pull her gun, but Riggs' hard grip on her right arm stops her from doing so. Reflexively she pulls the trigger, but only manages to shoot herself in the leg. The bang of the gun going off – always extra loud in an enclosed space – has the rest of the shoppers finally realizing that something's up. Cue the running and screaming. The perp joins in too, howling in pain as she lets go of the gun and bends over to clutch at her upper leg. Riggs quickly disarms her and shows the weapon to his partner.
"Turns out it wasn't candy she had in her pocket after all."
"Uh-huh. Color me surprised," Roger comments drily.
Riggs flicks the safety back on and turns the gun over in his hands. It's a big, flashy Desert Eagle, no doubt chosen because it looks badass, not because it's a particular good gun – which it isn't. It's too big to be practical and the unnecessarily complicated mechanism has a tendency to both jam and go off unexpectedly. The perp clearly doesn't know the first thing about guns. Which would explain why she would put a loaded firearm in her pocket with the safety off.
Riggs knows he shouldn't lecture criminals about gun safety – thus making them more effective criminals – but he just can't let that slide. "Always put the safety on. Hasn't your mama taught you nothin'?"
The woman doesn't reply to his helpful advice. She has now dropped to the floor and is rolling around there. Seems like she has no desire to learn even though she's got a lot of room for improvement. Though he should give her credit for how quickly she has managed to take herself out of the equation.
"Bad guys incapacitating themselves. That's a new one," he muses. Criminals usually make it a lot harder to arrest them.
"You know, I could get used to that, " his partner says.
"Aw c'mon, Rog. You can't be serious. Where would be the fun in that?"
"Right, 'cause nothing's more fun than having shootouts with heavily armed criminals."
"That's what I'm saying!" Riggs replies enthusiastically, happy that the older man gets his drift.
Roger just rolls his eyes, unhooks the handcuffs from his belt and kneels down to snap them on the wrists of the woman.
"Well, in any case," Riggs indicates the room that the stampede has left empty. "We don't have to stand in line no more. We'll be done in no time."
"I'm not so sure about that. The clerks left, like all the others," Roger counters.
Riggs waves that aside. "We don't need them. We're detectives, we're good at finding things." He vaults over the counter and peers into the storage room. "It's gotta be somewhere in here."
His partner is now on the phone, calling for an ambulance and some unis to take their perp away, but his skeptical expression doesn't need words. Riggs considers the rows upon rows of boxes identical in everything but size, all labeled with a mysterious sequence of numbers, and has to admit Roger's right – looking for the thing themselves might really take them longer than waiting in line. They'll have to wait till the clerks return, which is just awesome. Like they haven't done enough waiting today.
But Riggs is spared the renewed tedium of waiting, because all of a sudden a man in a lurid purple shirt almost the exact color of grape soda walks into the room. The guy freezes as he takes in the scene – his partner-in-crime on the ground, being arrested by a plainclothes cop while a second cop has his eyes on him. Realization sets in that this doesn't go as planned. He turns on his heel and sprints away.
Riggs twitches with the urge to follow. He calls to his partner, "Rog, got a runner!"
Roger, currently putting pressure on the hole in the female criminal's leg, looks up."I got this, go!"
Riggs nods and takes off after the fleeing guy.
He runs over the parking lot, shaking off the remains of the waiting-induced lethargy in the thrill of the chase. He weaves between cars and dodges shoppers, eliciting startled exclamations at narrowly avoided collisions. The crowds make it hard to keep the guy in his sight. Riggs keeps catching glances of Grape Soda's lurid shirt before he's gone again behind another obstruction. Angry shouting of the Watch where you're going! kind up just ahead tells him he's gaining on the guy. He rounds the corner of a van and almost runs smack into a family collecting their scattered purchases from the ground. The fleeing perp is disappearing behind another car, so Riggs doesn't slow down. He stumbles over soda bottles and steps on packets of food, causing the mother to yell at him too, then leaps over the toppled shopping cart and runs on.
The farther away from the entrance, the less crowded it thankfully gets and Riggs can finally run full tilt without worrying about bowling over civilians. The fleeing perp is now just ahead, almost in range for a tackle. Just a little closer. Exulting in the adrenaline-fueled joy of running that leaves no room for bad thoughts. Riggs pulls air into burning lungs and manages to get a bit more speed. He doesn't see the car until it's too late.
Back-up has finally arrived, so Murtaugh leaves the wounded criminal in their care and goes after his partner. There's no trace of either his partner or the criminal he's pursuing, but he only has to flash his badge at the excitedly chattering people on the parking lot and they're all too eager to point him in the directions of the two miscreants who disrupted their shopping trip. Murtaugh breaks into a jog, stopping from time to time to let bystanders point the way. Eventually he spies two running figures a good distance away. His view keeps getting obstructed by parked cars, but to his satisfaction he sees Riggs is almost on the guy. Not long before he's slammed him to the ground and they've got another perp in the bag. Murtaugh slows down to a trot, but a sudden explosion of sound – brakes screeching, glass shattering and people screaming – has him speeding up again. He catches sight of them again just in time to see his partner tumbling over the hood of a car. Oh shit. Murtaugh winces. Good thing the paramedics are already here. Though apparently there's no need for them, because Riggs is already on his feet. Swaying slightly, he looks around as if unsure what just happened, then shakes himself briefly in the manner of a wet dog and sets off after the perp again.
Murtaugh shakes his head. Unbelievable.
The car's driver shares his opinion. As Murtaugh gets closer the man gets out of the car and gapes, flabbergasted, at his destroyed windshield. He turns to the approaching detective. "They just came out of nowhere! I saw the first guy and, and I stepped on the brakes, but I couldn't– " At loss for words, he gesticulates helplessly in the direction the two have run off into. "And he didn't even stop..."
Murtaugh pats his shoulder in passing. "I feel you, man."
Riggs meanwhile is struggling to maintain a steady pace. While his reflexes have kept him from getting hurt in the collision, crashing head over heels onto the unforgiving tarmac has left him a little dazed. He inadvertently veers off-course a few times and almost runs into another car, a parked one this time, before his head clears. By now he has lost sight of his guy, so he slows to a jog and scans the area. A flash of purple behind a parked Subaru to his right catches his eye. The little bastard is trying to sneak up on him. Riggs snorts. Amateur. Should've worn a less conspicuous shirt before attempting a flanking maneuver.
Well, two can play that game. Riggs circles back and slips between the parked cars, then he climbs onto the SUV behind Grape Soda. A few light steps and he's right above the perp. He's crouching beside the Subaru, his left shoulder pressed against the car and his gun out. It's a .45 Desert Eagle, the same model the lady gangster carried. Not only do they have the same taste in guns, but Grape Soda also seems to possess a similar level of intelligence. Which is why though he frequently checks behind him, and even bends down to peer under the cars from time to time, he hasn't once thought of checking above him. Danger comes from all sides, after all – as he will soon learn. Riggs allows himself a predatory grin as he tenses his muscles and prepares to pounce.
The whoosh of air has the guy spinning around, but too late – Riggs has already pinned him down. The man wheezes as the impact knocks the air from his lungs, but he's still got a tight hold on the Desert Eagle. While he's preoccupied trying to breathe Riggs grabs his gun hand and slams it against the ground to loosen his grip. The gun goes off, the bullet ricochets off the car and carves a raw path over the side of his neck. Whoops.
A brief pang of disappointment that it missed, 'cause seriously, why won't one of the bad guys finally do him the favor and just nail him dead center in the chest? He's fucking ready. Being shot dead by a guy with less going on upstairs than a one story house would be embarrassing, sure, but that's the good thing about being dead – you no longer care, and nothing can hurt you.
The sound of running footsteps has him pulling his own gun, but it's only Roger, who has heard the shot and is probably thinking the worst, hopeless worrywart that he is.
Riggs reholsters his Beretta and flashes his partner a dazzling smile.
"Hey Rog, right on time."
Murtaugh slows to a halt. His partner clearly has the situation under control. He's straddling the squirming criminal, digging his knees into the man's shoulders' to keep him still as he casually finger-combs his wayward hair back into place. Once done he holds out his hand, palm up, to the other detective.
Murtaugh, who has by now accepted the fact that his partner never carries handcuffs, reflexively reaches for his belt before he remembers. "I already used them on the other one."
"Oh. Well, never mind."
Riggs yanks the guy to his feet, deftly twists his arm behind his back and starts perp-walking him back to the store where two black and whites are waiting. Murtaugh follows along, his adrenaline abating only slowly. It's bad enough that in their line of business every shot fired could mean the end of someone's life, but having a partner who actively tries to get killed, that raises his adrenaline level to scary new heights.
Not that Riggs is the least bothered by the close call – and it was pretty close, judging by the graze on his neck. As he hands the perp over to the waiting unis he's still wearing that crazy grin of his. The brush with death has left him in a splendid mood. Figures.
Murtaugh watches as his partner claps shoulders and offers high fives to the nervous rookie cops, telling everyone good job. He can't help wonder if this is what the younger man was like all the time before a drunken trucker took away his family as well as his will to live. Though maybe not, Murtaugh reckons. He's got the feeling Riggs always was a troubled soul, be it from his experiences in the war or from something else entirely, just like he no doubt always liked taking risks. But at least his happiness would have been real back then, not this over the top, hyper version of it, and the recklessness curbed somewhat by marriage and impending fatherhood. Too bad Murtaugh never got to meet that person.
He'd be a lot easier to work with.
Back at the Murtaugh house Trish helps the two men unload the truck. Riggs, toting a 50-pound bag of potatoes on his shoulder, has just gone inside while Trish and Roger gather up the rest of their stuff.
As Trish picks up the last bag, Roger says, "You can leave that one. That's Riggs' stuff."
"Oh, okay." Trish peeks inside. All it holds are liquor bottles, two cans of spray cheese and a packet of Graham crackers. It's sad, really. "That's all he bought? No wonder he's hungry all the time." She sets it back down, but hesitates before closing the door. Coming to a decision, she takes the bags out of her perplexed husband's hands and starts redistributing the contents. She fills the half-empty bag with a couple of apples, a loaf of bread and some cheese – real cheese, not the artificial one that comes in cans and has never even seen a cow. Then she adds a carton of orange juice for good measure.
Her husband has been watching the whole process and shakes his head. "Riggs won't like that. He's not exactly keen on charity." And it won't even help. They could pile his trailer with food and it wouldn't change his erratic eating habits one bit, because the problem lies deeper. But Roger understands the impulse. Faced with the mess that is his partner you want to at least feel like you're helping.
Trish is not deterred. "It's not charity, it's looking out for a friend. And if he says anything, tell him to take up his complaints with me." She resolutely closes the door, gathers up the other bags and starts toward the house.
Now all that's left is the wardrobe.
The two men take it off the back of the pick-up and carry it inside while Trish holds the door open for them, then set it down in the hall. Now all three of them are standing there, puzzling over how to get the heavy and unwieldy thing up into the second floor. Roger wishes they had opted for a smaller model, because it's just too big – even for the good-sized bed of Riggs' truck. They couldn't close the tailgate and had to tie it down so they wouldn't lose it while driving. Good thing it isn't assembled yet or it wouldn't have fit at all.
Trish says what they're all thinking.
"We won't get it up these stairs, will we?"
"Oh, we will, don't worry." Roger states with more confidence than he feels. Riggs, being a good partner for once, seconds him. "Piece of cake."
Trish still looks dubious. "If you say so. Just don't go straining your back again, honey, like you did lifting all those boxes last Christmas."
Riggs chortles. The other man shoots him a look. "Oh, shut up, you."
The first few steps all goes well. Then they hit the first landing with its 90-degree turn. Instead of setting their load down for a moment, which would be the sensible option, the two men seem determined to figure it out on the go. It's going about as expected. There's a lot of thumping as the wardrobe or one of the two knuckleheads slam against the wall. Their biceps bunch and their back and thigh muscles strain. Still they retain enough energy to keep up a constant stream of bickering.
"C'mon, push."
"I am pushing!"
"Then push harder."
"Don't tell me what to do."
"I won't if you would just push."
The noise is enough for the two teenagers to emerge from their rooms. Riggs and Roger have reached the second landing and are stuck again, much to the amusement of Roger's kids. They stand in the second floor hall looking down at their father struggling with the front end of the wardrobe.
"Lift with your legs, not your back," Riana advices.
RJ offers his help. "I can take over, dad. Absolutely no problem."
Roger, highly irritated by now, retorts, "The day I need your scrawny butt to help me is the day you can put me in a retirement home. And you put away the phone, Riana. Don't you dare film this!"
Riggs has to bite back a laugh. It's just too funny watching his partner try to remain an authoritative figure in front of his kids while panting and dripping with sweat.
Finally they make it up the last few steps. Trish is just starting to let out the breath she's holding when suddenly there's a loud thump followed by a lot of cursing.
"Everything alright up there?" Trish shouts up the stairs.
"We're fine," Riggs calls down. "But Rog might need an icepack."
Turns out Roger has tripped on the last step and banged his head on the floor. Only his kids' combined effort prevented the wardrobe from falling down on top of him and flattening him or crashing down the stairs and flatting his partner. Now he's in the kitchen holding an icepack to his bald head and while Riggs and the two teenagers carry the wardrobe the rest of the way to the master bedroom. Roger seizes the opportunity to apologize to his wife. He makes sure to emphasize that this is only the first part of his apology, that his words about to be followed by an apology dinner that he is going to cook for her despite the crippling pain from his head wound. He paints it in the brightest colors: The kids gone for the evening, a romantic dinner for just the two of them, how delicious the meal will be and how repentant he.
Thankfully Trish is not one to hold a grudge. "That sounds wonderful. I might even help you cook, since you're so terribly hurt," she says with affectionate humor. She leans in for a kiss, then goes to stow their groceries away.
A throat-clearing makes Roger turn around. Riggs is standing in the doorway that separates the kitchen from the dining room with his hands shoved into his pants pockets, looking uncomfortable and slightly lost after witnessing this scene of domestic bliss. It makes Roger feel guilty, knowing he's got everything the younger man has lost, and then some.
"We're all done up there. Just be careful you don't trip over the thing at night. Can't have you deforming that dome even further."
"Yeah, right." Roger self-consciously rubs the back of his head. He knows his lack of hair makes the goose egg he got from banging is head against the floor pretty noticeable. "I'll be sure to keep it in mind."
He accompanied his partner to the door, strangely unwilling to let him go. Riggs' tone is light, his words the usual banter, but Roger knows his partner enough by now to be able to tell when he's in a bad way. Once more he's acutely aware of his helplessness in the face of a grief so profound it makes all words of comfort ring hollow. So he says the one thing that comes to mind. "You wanna stay, have dinner with us?"
Riggs shakes his head. "No, you enjoy the evening with your wife. I'll see you Monday."
Roger watches him leave. The thought that his partner is going to spend the night in his crappy trailer, all alone with his sorrow, his booze and his guns makes his heart clench in his chest, a feeling not unlike the one right before his heart attack. He calls out, "But you'll come by tomorrow, help me slap this thing together?"
Riggs turns around, raises an eyebrow. "What, you can't do it on your own?"
"I could, but I'm hurt." Roger points to the bump on his head, but knows that won't work since his partner doesn't consider that a serious injury. Hell, the guy got hit by a car today and just shrugged it off.
"He really can't. Roger's got absolutely no talent for working with his hands." Trish has joined Roger at the door. "The one other thing he built is a bookshelf that turned out completely crooked."
Roger frowns down at his wife. It's great that she intuitively grasped what he is trying to do and supports him, but does she have to be this convincing? And the bookshelf looks just fine, thank you very much. He'd be fine with it – or at least more fine with it – if it was working, but it isn't, not yet. Riggs is wavering, but he's not convinced, obstinate idiot that he is.
"Don't tell me you've got other plans, 'cause I know you don't."
Riggs takes offense. "What do you know about my schedule? I could have plans, oodles of them."
"As if. I'm surprised you even know what that word means."
Before this escalates into an argument, Trish butts in. "You'd be doing me a great favor, Martin. I don't want my new wardrobe to collapse in a few weeks' time." She adds with faux worry, "Someone might get hurt."
"Aw no, we can't have that happenin'," Riggs drawls, amused. "Must be a real bitch, being saddled with such an incompetent husband."
"It truly is", Trish agrees gravely.
Roger decides to ignore that last bit. "Be there at 9 a.m. sharp. I'd like to get in an early start."
"Way too early, man. Not even workdays start at 9 a.m."
"Maybe yours don't, but for the rest of us they definitely do."
Riggs cocks his head to the side. "So that's why you guys are always starting the meetings without me. I thought y'all were just real eager beavers."
"No, just responsible adults. So I'll see you at 9?"
Riggs shakes his head. "10."
"9:30." is a reasonable counter-offer, Roger supposes.
With an insolent grin, his partner retorts, "11."
"What?" Roger sputters before realizing Riggs is haggling just to rile him up. And it's working. He takes a few breaths to calm down and says, "10 it is, then. But do me a favor and be punctual."
"Great. I'll drop by at 12."
Before Roger can protest Riggs has climbed into his truck and started the engine.
Riggs chuckles softly to himself as he starts the lengthy drive out of the city to the cove where he parked his trailer. He loves riling his partner up. Good old Roger's just too funny when he's got his feathers ruffled and all but squawks with indignation. If the man is as bad with his hands as Trish suggested – though he suspects she exaggerated for his sake –, they're going to have a lot of fun tomorrow. He dreads the long dark night ahead, but at least he's got that to look forward to.