Sergeant Martin Riggs glanced at his watch and sighed. If time passed any slower, it'd be going backwards. He surveyed the room with a bored eye; observing other cops hunched over their desks, scribbling notes and answering phones, nodding to their invisible callers, as if hanging on to every word, but Riggs wasn't fooled: the most exciting call that week had been for a domestic disturbance in some suburban neighbourhood… a housewife arguing with her teenaged son had answered a knock at her front door, and thrown a frying pan at the unsuspecting head of a newspaper boy who had demanded a long overdue tip.
Martin gave a small smile and shook his head… times had sure changed since Vietnam. He yawned, then finally focused his gaze on his partner, Roger Murtaugh, who, at the moment, was engrossed in an extremely heated discussion on the phone with his wife.
"No honey, I'm not saying that…no, dear, you're a wonderful cook, it's just that… well, we haven't seen these people in years, so I thought maybe we could hire someone to… now there's no reason to get personal about this… Trish, baby…" Riggs rolled his eyes. It was time that he stepped in.
He swung his legs off his desk and sauntered over behind Murtaugh's shoulder. Then, nimbly, he plucked the phone out of his partner's hands and fell into a chair beside him, swinging his mud-encrusted work boots on top of Roger's paperwork and next to the picture of his family.
"Hey Trish… yeah, it's Martin… yeah, he does have a big mouth, I usually have to keep him in line…" He deflected a blow from Murtaugh with one hand and kept talking, "So what's going on? Really?… friends from out of town?… of course not… I love your cooking Trish, you don't even need to ask," He raised his eyebrows at Murtaugh, who stifled a snort, before continuing, "You know what? You should let Murtaugh cook, he's been talking about it all week, pulling out recipes…"
With a violent shove, Martin's legs flew off the desk, and the two of them grappled for the phone, which had fallen on the floor. "You think so too? Great! Me?… oh I would love to come, thank-you…" Murtaugh at last got a hold of the phone, and reclaimed it with a vicious yank. "Darling, sweetie… no, you know Martin, he…" Roger's shoulder's slumped, and he put down the phone and turned to his partner. "You son of a bitch." He pulled a grinning Riggs to his feet by his shirt and dumped him unceremoniously back in front of his own desk.
"What am I gonna do, Riggs? You know I can't cook!" Martin laughed and draped his arms behind his head. "Don't worry about it, Rog. I have every fast food delivery place on speed-dial. I'll give 'em a ring for you." Murtaugh groaned, then swore at the mess left from Riggs' footwear.
He glared once more at his partner. "I'm telling you right now, Riggs, next time your trash spreads itself on my stuff, I'm putting a bullet through it." Marin's smile only widened. "I'm too fast for you, Rog, you know that." Murtaugh rolled his eyes, and looked away mumbling, "Yeah, how could I forget?" A phone rang suddenly, surprising Riggs when he realized it was Murtaugh's. He pulled his chair forward, and answered before Roger had the chance.
"Dr. Freud's office, Freud speaking." Martin then twisted the phone at an awkward angle around his neck towards Roger. "For you." He took the phone with an exasperated sigh. "Yes? Where?" He wrote numbers down on a pad of paper. "Alright. We're on our way." Riggs jumped to his feet the moment Murtaugh hung up. "We got something, don't we?" The younger man let out a whoop as his partner nodded. "Double homicide. South end."
Riggs shoved his gun in the band of his jeans, and turned enthusiastically to face him. "What're you waiting for Rog?" Roger took his time standing, and pulling on a grey suit jacket. "What's the hurry, Riggs? Bodies aren't going anywhere." He pointed a finger in Martin's face. "Keep in mind that crime is a bad thing. Stop getting so excited, you're making the department look bad." Martin feigned a hurt expression. "Come on, Rog, you know making people look bad is what I do best."
Murtaugh chose not to answer, so as expected, Riggs persisted. "What's wrong with you lately, anyways? Don't you want to catch the bad guys? That's our job, you know."
"Yeah, I know, Riggs, I know! But if it weren't for you, I'd be fishing on my boat right now, and the bad guys would be someone else's problem." Riggs gave him a quizzical expression in response as they left the building, and Roger shook his head. "Don't give me that look. Since I've known you, we've caused more damage than I have for the past 25 years. My pension has been paying for it, so stop asking me what's wrong!"
Martin leaned on the roof of Roger's station wagon, and regarded him with a look that always made him nervous. "Would you really want to give all this up?" Murtaugh paused as Riggs climbed into the passenger side, and glanced at the roof, smiling slightly. "God help me, no I wouldn't."