A/N: I started this with the intent to go in a very different direction, but then Roger wouldn't stop griping and things just spiraled out of control from there. Still, I think it turned out fairly decently, so I hope you all enjoy it as well.

Standard disclaimers apply.

The problem with Martin Riggs is that the man is crazy.

Plain and simple, the man is nuts. There really is no other way to explain it.

For example, on a beautiful and sunny day like today - the kind of day you'd want to go to the beach or take a nice walk with the kids down a quiet, peaceful neighborhood street - what does the man want to do? The man wants to sleep in. In his worn out, dog-urine-stained, stale-beer-smelling, decrepit trailer on the beach. On the beach! The least he could do if he really wanted to play hooky would be to go sit outside and enjoy the view. But to be fair, this is Riggs we're talking about.

So when I pull up outside of his trailer on this fine morning, I'm more than a little… let's just say I'm very annoyed with my partner. Not answering his phone when we've been assigned a new case is just like something he would do because he drank too much last night and is now sleeping through me calling him. And that's if he even remembered to charge his phone in the first place.

The first thing I notice when I park and climb out of the car is his mangy dog huddled by the door of his trailer. Actually, I'm not even sure if it's his dog in the first place. Might just be a stray that wandered in off the road and felt guilted into making sure this human had a reason to get up the next day. Even if that reason was that the mutt had peed on something else. I'm about to ignore the dog and start banging on the door, yelling for my partner to get his sorry butt off of his couch so we can get to the new crime scene, but then I happen to glance down. And I wouldn't say the dog looks worried, necessarily - it is a dog after all - but there's something in the animal's demeanor that catches my eye. It's tense and tightly wound, and when it notices me looking at it, it starts whimpering and pawing at the door. And that's when I notice it's favoring its left side.

"Hey, buddy," I say, squatting down to eye level with the dog. It stinks, for the record, if anyone was wondering. Smells like rotten seaweed and pee. What a surprise. It lifts its head and looks me in the eye, as if it's trying to tell me something. Like in those ridiculous movies Riana used to like to watch when she was little, where the dog ran for the parents every time the kid fell down a well or something.

Also, yes, I might be going crazy, thank you. Apparently my partner is rubbing off on me.

Then I look a little harder and notice there's some brownish-red staining on the fur around the mutt's mouth. Not much, but it's enough that it stands out. "Easy now," I croon gently as I reach for it. The last thing I need is to have to tell Trish I got bit by a dog trying to wake Riggs up. Although I think she'd actually believe me, ridiculous as that would sound to most other people. But the mutt just whines a little before nuzzling its head into my hand. I pat the top of its head with one hand while I use the other hand to steady its muzzle. Its scraggly fur is definitely discolored with blood, and when I look closer, I suddenly realize it's not old and crusted. The blood in the mutt's fur is fresh. My stomach starts sinking more as I gently move its top lip up to check its teeth. Leave it to Riggs to let a killer dog adopt him.

There's something dark blue stuck in the dog's teeth. I reach in my shirt pocket for a pen and gently manipulate the bit of fabric until I loosen it enough to extract it from the animal's mouth. It looks like denim, slobbery as it is, and I pull a small baggie out of my pocket and wipe the scrap off of the pen into the plastic, which I then seal up and stick back in my pocket. I regard the pen in disgust before reluctantly wiping it on my pants and replacing it as well.

"Good dog," I say as I give the animal a pat on the side. The pained whimper I get in response worries me, and my brow furrows. Further gentle prodding makes the animal duck its head and cry more, and I stop, feeling guilty but also incredibly worried now as it seems the dog has a cracked rib or two. I rub its ears in apology. "Sorry, buddy; I'll get you some help in a minute. Which probably means I'll be paying for your vet bills because we both know that man in there can't afford it, but I can't afford not to because I'll have to hear Riggs complaining that I'm cold-hearted and don't care about helpless animals. Which you're not, by the way."

Then I stand, my detective instincts kicking into overdrive and putting all of the pieces together. If I had to guess, and at this point I do, I would say that the mutt had taken a bite out of somebody and that that somebody had paid it back by kicking it away. I'm really worried at this point because I can't see Riggs kicking this mangy stray, and that only leaves a couple of other options. Hopefully it's just a coincidence that Riggs won't answer his phone at the same time his dog attacked someone, but I've been on this job too long to believe in coincidences.

"Riggs?" I call, knocking at the trailer door. No answer comes from inside, so I bang harder. "Riggs! Riggs, get up and open this door right now!" Still nothing. I know Riggs, and that means I know his door is never locked. So I do what any respectable friend and partner who is already fifteen minutes late leaving for a crime scene would do. I turn the knob and walk inside.

The smell assaults me like a punch to the gut. My partner is a prime candidate for one of those air freshener commercials where they say, "Your friends smell this," and then show your place as a giant garbage heap or something. That would be this trailer right here. But I ignore it and squint in the darkness. The blinds are shut on all of the windows, and only the light from the doorway illuminates the interior of the trailer. I manage to find a light switch and flip it on. And then all of my fears are confirmed.

Riggs is lying on the ground, his eyes closed and arms splayed out in random directions. It looks like a giant had just dropped him like a rag doll and he hadn't moved since. His face is pale, but what worries me the most is the blood. It's pooled underneath him and matting his hair, and his shirt is stained from what looks like a bullet hole in his lower side.

"Riggs!" I drop to my knees beside him, ignoring the blood that I now can feel soaking into my pants, and I frantically feel for a pulse. Thank God he has one. It's not the most healthy pulse, but it's there, and I gasp in relief. But don't tell him that. "Riggs! Come on, man, wake up!" I yell even as I scramble to pull out my phone.

As I'm putting in the call, barking out orders for an ambulance and for someone to tell Bailey I won't be at the crime scene, the mutt limps up beside me and noses at Riggs's face. It licks his cheek and then whines, as if it's trying to prod him awake like I had been. And apparently the cold, wet touch works, because Riggs suddenly takes in a gasping breath and his limbs flail as his eyes flutter open.

I almost drop my phone in my haste to put a hand on his chest. "Whoa, whoa, buddy, take it easy now!" I say as I slip my phone back in my pocket. "Do you know where you are?"

"Heeeyyyy, Rog!" he grins up at me lazily. "What're you doin' at my place? Did I invite you over and forget again?"

At least he seems to be okay overall. "Riggs, lie still; an ambulance is on its way."

"Aw, I'm fine, Rog. What's up? Did I sleep through a phone call again? Do we have a new crime to solve?"

The idiot is trying to get up, and I put a hand on his chest again. "I'm not kidding, Riggs. Lie still," I order.

Then he starts to cough and heave, and since I can't very well have him choking to death on my watch - no way I'm explaining that one to the captain or Trish - I put a hand underneath him and gently help him turn over. "Easy there, Riggs. Breathe slow, buddy."

Once he gets his breath back, I pat his shoulder and then sit back. The dog starts sniffing the back of my neck, and I jump at the sudden cold sensation. "Do you mind?" I ask, turning to glare at it. It just licks my nose in response; my death stare doesn't seem to be doing any good.

A noise from Riggs' direction makes me turn back around, and I can't contain the eyeroll at the sight that greets me. My partner is trying to get to his feet. "Riggs? Riggs would you stop trying to walk?"

"Whaddya mean 'trying'?"

"Riggs, man, you're on your hands and knees in a puddle of your own blood." This shouldn't need pointing out.

He gives me one of his trademark stupid grins. "Me? Nah, Rog, I'm not bleeding. Are you okay? Is it your blood?"

"Riggs… see now you're face down in a puddle of your own blood. All 'cause you lifted your hands off the floor."

"You're not making any sense, Rog. Did you hit your head?"

"I wish I had," I sigh. I scoot back over to put a firm hand on his shoulder. "Stay put; I'm serious. Do you want to explain to Trish why your partner died because he slipped in a puddle of his own blood and knocked his head? Well guess what? I don't, so you're gonna lie there until the paramedics come. And that's an order!" I finish as he starts to protest.

Thankfully at that moment, sirens fill the air, and Riggs miraculously does as he's been told. But even though he lies still, he doesn't shut up. "See, don't tell me you don't care about me, Rog," he smirks.

I glower. "No, I just care about my marriage, and letting you die isn't worth the pain Trish will put me through. Not to mention, that mutt apparently cares about keeping you around," I add, tilting my head at the mangy animal now sitting over to the side, curled up awkwardly and panting. I barely suppress the sigh at the thought that I should probably take it to a vet's office once the medics cart Riggs off to the hospital.

Then the EMTs are bursting in the door and pushing me to the side. I move over to let them work, and the crinkle in my pocket reminds me I have evidence. And whenever we catch these scumbags, they're going to regret tangling with Roger Murtaugh's partner. I'll make sure of it.

Also, they'd better not try to hire Trish as their defense attorney, because they might not live through that meeting. Which might actually not be the worst idea ever. Maybe I'll even give them her number when I arrest them. Who knows? I've been known to be generous once or twice before.