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When Riggs said he booby-trapped the whole place, he really meant the whole place. Traps are set up in strategic positions all over the property, like at the entrance to the barn or next to an old clunker of a car almost completely overgrown with weeds.
Roger follows his partner around as he dismantles the traps, sweating and stumbling over roots and rabbit holes, cursing the sun, the heat and this godforsaken back country. Once they've got this over with, he'll never set foot in the countryside again, not even for family hiking trips. His foul mood is not improved as he steps into something that squishes unpleasantly underfoot.
Something akin to a shriek escapes Murtaugh. Grabbing hold of the other man for balance, he takes off his shoe to inspect it. Some sort of animal feces are stuck to the treaded sole. He raises his eyes to the heavens. Oh, for fuck's sake. Aside from the ickiness, this will take forever to clean.
"Would you look at that!" He holds the shoe out to Riggs who studies it thoughtfully.
"Looks like deer droppings to me."
"I don't care what animal that shit belongs to. I care that it's on my shoe!"
"You should be glad it's deer shit. It could have been bear shit. Or mountain lion."
Murtaugh lets his arm sink. Just great. Add that to the list of things to look out for, next to snakes, tripwires and probably murderous hillbillies.
Riggs starts walking again. Murtaugh has no choice but to hop along.
"Not so fast!"
The other man obligingly slows his pace. He casts his gaze around in search of the next trap.
"Somewhere around here... Yup. There it is."
He kneels over the explosive device while Roger hops to a tree and sinks down in the meager shade it throws, a safe distance away in case Riggs blows himself up. Thankfully he hasn't so far, but you never know. This bomb looks particularly complicated and will probably take a while to disarm, so Roger uses the opportunity to rest up, and to try and clean his shoe with a stick he found. He is interrupted in this important task by Riggs who suddenly looks up and, putting a finger to his lips, points to a spot about two dozen yards away where a six-point buck has just stepped into view.
"Wow," Roger breathes, totally forgetting about his soiled shoe. Such a majestic animal. The buck regards for a moment, seemingly unafraid, before turning around and bounding off. Its white tail flashes before it's lost in the undergrowth. Awed, Roger watches it go, thinking that maybe it's not so bad after all, being out here.
The rosy mood carries him through the day till the sun starts setting. That's as long as it takes to dismantle all the traps scattered around the property and collect the explosives, which, frighteningly enough, consist of blocks of C-4. Who knows where the crazy Texan got those from – or the rocket launcher, for that matter. His resourcefulness when it comes to destruction is truly impressive. It makes Murtaugh glad he's on their side.
Afterwards they take a break and have dinner consisting of beef jerky provided by Riggs and a couple of granola bars Murtaugh found in his pants pocket. They're crushed, because he's been sitting on them, but still edible. Sitting on the bed of the younger man's truck, they eat their frugal dinner. Riggs seems content enough, but Murtaugh can't wait to be home again where there's better food – and more comfortable seating. He keeps fidgeting, trying to find a more comfortable position on the hard metal surface. Finally he can't take it anymore and goes to search through the tool box that Riggs misuses to store his sniper rifle. The ridiculous serape he also used to keep there is long gone, lost in Mexico, but maybe there's something else Murtaugh can use as a cushion.
Riggs observes him with a curious expression. "Ain't not use shootin' that rifle now, big guy. I left my night vision gear at home."
"Not looking for the rifle." is the slightly muffled reply. "Hey, what's this?" Murtaugh resurfaces and holds up a see-through plastic bag. It seems to be holding everything one might need when stranded without a roof over one's head. It's clear that Riggs hasn't bought this, and just as clear that he hasn't been using it.
"The Doc gave this to me, back when my trailer was impounded." Riggs scratches his head, looking embarrassed.
"Very thoughtful of her," Roger comments. "But you instead of using this stuff, you decided to just go feral out here."
"Hey, I didn't go feral," Riggs protests.
The other man just looks at him. "So you haven't been sleeping under the stars, drinking from a stream, shitting in the woods?"
A pause. "No." He actually has been doing all those things, but Roger doesn't need to know. "And I simply forgot that's in there."
"Right," his partner responds, distracted while he extracts a blanket from the bag and places it under his butt, then wriggles said butt a bit to find the perfect position.
Riggs watches him fuss about with amusement. "You quite comfortable?"
"Quite," the older man replies, much more content now.
"Good for you."
They finish eating. Riggs swallows the last bite of jerky and says with a decided lack of enthusiasm, "About time we get started, ain't it?"
"Uh-huh."
Roger's just as unwilling, and not just because he has come to appreciate the peace and quiet of the countryside – and the smog-free air – and is loath to shatter it with a massive explosion.
The problem is the house. After the nice, relaxed atmosphere outside, not to mention the breathtaking sunset, it seems especially gloomy now.
Riggs gathers up his supplies and sets on preparing the fireworks. As he walks through the house, setting up the blocks of C-4, connecting them with wires and rigging them to the detonator, the old emotions start to creep back. It's like they have all just been waiting here to ambush him when his back is turned. They press down on him with almost palpable force, but he concentrates on the explosives and tells himself that this is the last time he'll have to see this wretched place.
Unconsciously he straightens back up when he leads the wire back outside. He has bought just enough of the stuff to be able to stand a reasonable (at least by his standards) distance away when he sets off the explosion. The rocket launcher on top of the C-4 is overkill, he has to admit, but he really wants to raze the house to the ground, burn the fucking thing till there's no trace of it left.
Finally everything is ready. Riggs adopts a shoulder-width stand, ready for the kickback, and raises the rocket launcher. "Alright. Here we go."
Just before he pulls the trigger Roger yells, "No, wait!"
"Why?"
"Just wait!"
Perplexed and irritated at the delay, Riggs lowers the rocket launcher and watches as his partner runs into the house. He wondering whether he has forgotten his keys or his wallet – and if it's too early for him to be getting senile.
"Here." There he is again, panting and carrying a small rectangular object in his hand. As he tries to hand it to him Riggs sees it's a family photo, the same one that has been hanging on the wall of the living room for as long as he can remember.
Riggs makes no move to take it, just glances at it with the same wary expression he would give a cottonmouth lying coiled up and ready to strike right in front of his feet.
"I thought maybe you'd want it." Roger holds it out again, but Riggs backs away, hands up and out like he's telling him not to shoot, and shakes his head vehemently. "No, I don't."
"Oh." Roger deflates slightly. "Fine. But I want to tell you something."
He points to the woman in the picture that Riggs still refuses to look at.
"You have her eyes. Your mother's eyes."
Riggs turns away, but Roger grabs his arm and forces him to turn back around. The younger man's muscles are tense almost to the breaking point – clearly he's desperate not to have this conversation – but Roger doesn't let go. Riggs may not want to hear this, but he definitely needs to. If it takes tough love to get him to listen, then so be it.
"Don't shut me out, man. This is important."
Finally the younger man stops resisting and lets out a weary breath. "What is, then, that's so fucking important?"
Roger loosens his hard grip as he feels the fight leaving his partner. Riggs is standing there, head down and shoulders slumped in defeat, as he waits for him to speak. This isn't what Roger wanted to achieve, but it'll have to do.
"Every time your dad looked at you, he saw her," he starts, choosing his words carefully, because he has one chance to get this out right. He can't mess it up. "He was in pain, too. I don't want to make excuses for him, and I'm not telling you to forgive him – fuck, I think he deserves to burn in hell for what he did – but maybe you can forgive yourself. It was his own pain that made him hurt you, not something you did or didn't do. You did not deserve that."
Roger pauses to check if his words are having any effect. The younger man stares back at him, eyes wide in his too-thin face. He looks about as shocked as Murtaugh has ever seen him and it almost makes him stop. But he steels himself and continues,
"And getting beaten up as a kid doesn't make you weak, or a bad person, or any less worthy of love or happiness. There. That's all I wanted to say."
Slightly out of breath, he stops and waits for the other man's reaction.
After a few moments of stunned silence Riggs looks to the side and gives a slight nod. Roger looked so earnest delivering his little speech, as if his life depended on convincing him. If only Riggs could let himself be convinced. Believing his partner's words would give him a chance to lead an easier, less self-destructive life, a chance to actually live and not just get by. He wants that, he really does, but faced with that house and everything it holds, it just seems impossible.
There's only one thing to do: light up this place right now. He takes aim again, but gets once more stopped by his partner's call to "Wait!"
Riggs looks at him in question, hoping Rog doesn't have anything to add to that speech, because he's had enough for today. He's tired, fucking exhausted, of revelations, memories and all these goddamn emotions.
"Let me get behind cover."
"Right."
So after waiting for Roger to hunker behind the truck, Riggs hefts the rocket launcher onto his shoulder, takes careful aim and fires. The concussive boom rips the night apart in an awesome spectacle of sheer destructive power. Riggs digs his heels in as the shockwave threatens to blow him off his feet, then presses the red button. The second explosion no less loud, and much more fiery. The area is lit up for miles around as the old house goes up in flames.
Roger ducks as debris starts raining down around them, but Riggs on the other hand pays them no heed, standing there in the open, whooping and laughing. He knows he sounds somewhat manic, but he can't help it. He has wanted to blow this place up for so long. It's an incredible relief to no longer have this old house looming in the back of his mind like a wound that won't heal.
A big piece of burning wood, maybe the remains of a cabinet, crashes down right next to him and peppers him with sparks, but Riggs doesn't even flinch. He keeps watching the flames consume the ruins of his childhood, unable to tear his eyes away.
Roger pulls him into cover. He has to yell to be heard over the roar of the flames and the cracking of timbers.
"Alright, time to call the fire department. Don't wanna start a wildfire."
As Riggs drops his partner off by his car, two fire trucks speed by with flashing lights and blaring sirens. Roger follows their progress with a worried expression. "I hope they get the fire under control before it spreads."
Riggs shrugs. The whole property could burn, for all he cares. And he's feeling way too damn good right now to worry about anything. His ears are still ringing from the explosion, his clothes are singed and his skin is blistered where he got hit by sparks, but he feels good. It's funny – blowing up the place hasn't actually solved any of his problems, but if sure feels like it has. He intends to ride that buzz for a while, but his partner puts an abrupt stop to that by once more trying to hand him the photo.
Riggs shakes his head, this time in fond resignation and has to smile. "You never give up, do you?"
The other man pulls himself up to his full height and says in a haughty tone, "Never give up. That's the Murtaugh motto. It's inscribed on our family crest." He turns serious and holds the picture out again. "Here, take it. Maybe you'll want it someday."
Riggs reluctantly accepts the photo, slipping it into his jacket pocket. He's not so sure that day will ever arrive – right now he would consider it progress just being able to look at it – but it's nice to know his partner thinks so.
He starts toward his truck, then pauses and turns back. This emotional stuff really isn't his strong suit, but he knows Roger likes to have things out in the open. Not that Riggs can ever adequately convey how pathetically grateful he is for the other man's friendship. He doesn't even know how to try, so he simply says, "Thank you, Rog. Couldn't have done this without ya."
Roger looks expectedly pleased, his whole face lighting up with a smile that makes him look even more like the big cuddly teddy bear that he is.
"Anytime, man," he replies solemnly. Then, in a lighter tone, "You Navy guys aren't the only ones who're Semper Fi."
Amused, Riggs raises an eyebrow. "That's the Marines."
"Right." Roger pauses. "I knew that."
Riggs smirks."You're too cute." He throws his partner a salute before climbing back into his truck and driving off. In the rearview mirror he can see the Crown Vic's headlights as Roger pulls into the road behind him and they start the long ride home together.
Riggs rolls down the window, takes a deep breath of the cool, smoke-tinged air, then lets it out again.
The night sky is pitch black except for the sickle moon and a smattering of stars – and for a spot in the distance where his childhood home is still burning brightly.