#lethal weapon 1989

"My father never talked a lot

He just took a walk around the block

'Til his anger took a hold of him

And then he'd hit"

He was furious. About what, you couldn't tell; it didn't take much to anger him as you both grow older. You'd think, as the time goes and the years amount to decades, this man would learn to be more calm and wise. Quite frankly, you'd at least hoped that he would become more rational.

You stand tall despite his menacing frame and vicious tone. You weren't going to let her stand by another second of this. The screaming, yelling, punching, broken shards in your feet as your feet hit the pavement; begging to be anywhere but the place you'd call home.

Your sister was too young to know how to cope. You didn't want her to, though - to compromise. It wasn't a choice she had to make, it wasn't a sacrifice. It shouldn't be.

If she were to be forced to become tough and cold-hearted as the man that had stormed out of the house, the known chain of events to happen in a course of a few hours, she'd be just that: cold-hearted.

She doesn't have to grow up the way you did.

She doesn't have to watch her young, naive doe eyes turn to stone cold orbs that reflect no light; no happiness or love.

You watched as the man who gave you life smashed the front door open, storming through it and down the street. He hadn't said anything, or even gave you a slight hint in his expression. He just had to flip a switch.

In the same quick fashion as he'd left, he returned. You experienced this whiplash before like a slap in the face, though the sting faded the more you'd grown to become accustomed to it.

He was a drinker, a gambler, an abuser, a father.

He lost that sense a long time ago.

"My mother never cried a lot

She just took the punches, but she never fought"

His eyes were set on you, white-hot rage fueling his every move as his long strides carried behind you to the couch in the living room. The stand-off was anything but loving - not as a child would be chased around the couch by her father in a game of tag. It was all a matter of calculation and persistence; a predator unrelenting his devotion to the prey.

"No! Stop! They did nothing wrong!" you mother screams helplessly, trying to dissuade your father from you as you go to grab your sister's hand, standing before her on the opposite end of the couch.

Then there was the switch again, his eyes now set on her.

"'Til she said, 'I'm leaving, and I'll take the kids"

He didn't like that. He came for her, just as he had in the passed ten years. You lunge for him, grabbing the kitchen stool as he chased her into the kitchen. Now you stood before her, your eyes revealing nothing.

He laughs. A cold, sinister laugh - a familiar laugh.

"Go," you tell the girls.

"Y/N, no. Stop. Please," she pleaded, looking between you and your father, your knuckles white from the tension in your hands still wrapped around the stool held over your shoulder for defense. "Stop," she all but begged the man.

He didn't look at her, his eyes were glued to your E/C ones. The ones you shared.

"Mom," was all you said, not allowing your eyes to stray to her in this moment. You heard her whimper, but she had given up, taking a step back.

"So she did"

Driving over the endless roads and highways, you crossed two state lines, charging as far away as you could. It didn't take much time until she was convinced she'd made a mistake, wanting to go back to the man that lived in your nightmares.

It was only temporary, only a certain amount of time before she'd return to that monster. You couldn't make her decisions for her - you wouldn't.

She made her bed; a woman well over her thirties that chose to bring two bundles of life into the world she had created for you. This wasn't your decision or your obligation to go back to him.

Except for one thing: your sister.

///

She was only 12 then, and you 20. You were only there to comfort your sister, the awareness of the horrors in the house not allowing you to leave her behind in your early adulthood.

Your mother went back to that monster, but you never allowed your sister to. You couldn't let her fade away, too.

It had been 8 years since you left that house in Wyoming to Los Angeles, California. You joined the armed forces as a police officer there.

It was a 180 from the world you were accustomed to and hoped as the time went, all the good you've done would return the little girl you once were; the one who believed the world was a grand and spacious place that would provide dreams and comfort.

You had set a nice life for your sister, and for a while you had felt a sense of hope.

Until tonight.

"I say they're just the ones that gave me life

But I truly am my parents' child"

You were working late on a patrol. You were told that in the morning, due to your high resilience, strength, and education, you were going to be relocated to a higher position on the force in the center of the city.

What was supposed to be a normal patrol was soon lead to a tour around the city of where you'd be newly focused on by one of your peers. It wasn't supposed to be this long.

Cursing as you look down at your wristwatch, you find the time glaring back at you. 3 am. You can feel the exhaustion in your bones, the only thing you wanted right now was to be home with your sister and safely secured in your comfy bed.

Pulling into the driveway, you park your patrol car and lock it, leaving all remnants of today's activities in your car to be cleaned out later on in the morning.

Trekking to the door, your back stiffens and you stop dead in your tracks.

The door is slightly off on one of the hinges. The shattered glass panes that decorated the door gives way to the sight inside the house, finding both of the deadbolts you had set up broken and out of place.

You quickly reach for your gun, holding it up with your dominant hand as the other brings a flashlight over top of it. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears and your blood rushes, enabling you to step into your house.

You call out to your sister in the eerily quiet, increasing your nerves. You call out once more to no answer. Quickly, you search the perimeter, glass shards decorating the floor and furniture tipped over, things misplaced and haphazard remnants of what was thrown.

You can feel your throat start to close up, finally taking the search upstairs. You call out for her one last time, praying there would be a response somewhere in the dark.

Your vision starts to adjust to the darkness, still blurry as the tears start to cloud the world you'd built around you. If only you could've lived life like this, unable to see and feel the destruction and ruin.

You check the bathroom, your room, the guest room, until finally, her room.

The first thing that catches your eyes are the blood stains of the floor. There is signs of struggle everywhere given the messiness of the room. You feel your blood go cold, taking a deep breath in to analyze the blood splatters by her windowsill.

There are no puddles, which instantly nixes the assumption of being killed or having laid in one spot for a long period of time. So they didn't kill her.

The droplets are almost spray-like, as if someone was either hit, slashed, or cut in an unorganized way. An indication of even more struggle. Your eyebrows furrow as hollowness fills your core. You search her windowsill for any other signs, but only find more sprayed droplets of blood.

Following your way around the house, you look closely now, examining for more blood, the trail leading down the stairs and through the backdoor of the house.

Whoever was here is gone now. The blood is dried in some places by the door, meaning it has been a good amount of time, but still fresh.

You drop to your knees as you let out a loud sob in the chilling darkness of your house - a carbon copy of the home that was. Shakily, your hands reach for the walkie talkie on your chest, unclasping it from the padding to call it in.

Just like your parents, you were unable to protect your sister - your little girl.

Strolling around to the back of the supposed drug dealer's extravagant condo, Murtaugh, Riggs, and I engage in light conversation, silently noting and observing our surroundings. Stopping just near the edge of the rather expensive-looking below ground pool, Murtaugh and Riggs catch sight of two brunette women inside. Rolling my eyes, I expect Riggs to do something flirtatious, a painstakingly common reaction to almost every woman he lays eyes on. Every woman... except me. Yet, I pay no mind, Riggs' crazy nature probably too much for me to handle anyway.

Murtaugh flashes his gun, indicating to the women that he is armed. In a flash of a second, just merely after he had shown his weapon, the women duck and run from within the glass-paned wall, just in time for a man to blast a shot from behind. More specifically, the source being a shed occupying the space on the opposite side of the pool we resided on, destroying bits of its siding from the sheer distance and voracity of his attempt of subduing at least one of us.

But, we came prepared, although we were slightly taken aback, Murtaugh's swift abilities with a gun coming in handy as he lands on the drug dealer's right knee, lower thigh area. Splitting off, Murtaugh and I take either end of the pool's side, desperately trying to corral the person of interest. All the while as Riggs takes the women from in the house outside and to the nearest tree, in case of them being suspects as well, handcuffing their wrists together around the tree.

Once the task is done, Riggs hurries over to our aid, following our one, sole purpose: keeping the suspect alive for questioning.

Coming around the perimeter of the pool, Murtaugh reminds Riggs of this rule, replaying it to refresh his sometimes questionable mind. This, however, does not work in our favor as the man pulls yet another gun, this time a pistol, as Riggs had went to pull the man up.

"He's got a gun!" I scream, yet it's all in vain, as Riggs tries to act just as fast as his reflexes would've allowed, lifting the man's aimed arm as the trigger was pulled.

Yelping in surprise, I clench my teeth as the copper red liquid instantly encompasses the injured area, jerking as far away from the incident as possible.

"Y/N!" Murtaugh yells, instantly coming to my side as I go crashing to the concrete floor, catching my head and my left side as I now slowly lean into the ground below me, clutching the stinging injury to the right of my abdomen.

As Murtaugh had come to my side, Riggs took care of the suspect, unfortunately not being able to accomplish our sole purpose of being here, but overall getting rid of the threat.

"Cocksucker," he all but grunts, as he makes sure to shoot the man once more, pissed at the fact that I had gotten shot, although that fact being unbeknownst to me. "I'll call the ambulance," he all put spits out some time later, not making any attempt to check on my well being nor even making eye contact, stalking back through the side gate we had entered through.

//Some time later//

Now nestled safely and securely, I lay within the gloomy walls of the hospital, hooked up with some anesthetics and monitors, all for separate purposes. The stitches surely going to leave an awesome scar, only adding to my aggravation and exhaustion as the day finally settles and the slightest of movements constantly sending sharp pains within my whole body.

The doctors, coming in every so often, had reassured me of a discharge after the course of at least 2-4 days, only needing to ensure the proper sanitary measures are used and stitches being durable and strong without issues or tears.

Staring off at one of the four blank and colorless walls, in a daze, my ears perk up at the sound of a knock on my door, followed by Roger and Martin entering the room.

Handing me a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates, I smile at Roger as he pulls a chair beside my bed, asking, "How ya' feeling, Shortie? How're they treatin' ya' here?"

Giggling at the nickname, I respond with an, "I'm doing just as good as I can I guess. It's not so bad here either. The nurses are nice, although they're all pitiful glances and meek gestures, coming in and out as quickly as possible. I guess bullet wounds aren't their preferred cases?" I joke lightly, trying to lighten the tension in the room.

Roger catches on instantly, having caught wind on Martin's rather uncharacteristically quiet sulking in the far corner of the room. Turning to look at him briefly, he all but shrugs at me as he comes up with no response or solution to his partner's unknown issue.

Checking the time, I make up an excuse, assuming Riggs just didn't want to be here maybe? "Damn, look at the time...It's almost 9 pm guys, don't wanna be late for Trish's cooking do ya'?"

"Shit, really? Come on Riggs, you know the ass whoopin' I'm gonna get? Let's go, minus well feed you too, huh?" Murtaugh says, getting his coat and squeezing my shoulder, giving me a sympathetic look that I swipe away quickly. Riggs just gets up, side-eyeing me once quickly, but above all, ignores my presence and leaves the room. With one final look from Rog, he shuts the door, leaving me to my boredom for the remainder of my stay.

//Some time later//

Having been discharged, Roger had caught me up on the recent news, and how they had left to finish the job a day before I had gotten out of the hospital, that being yesterday evening, and it now being a full 24 hours of no communication from them.

This had struck me as odd, given that they were very advanced in their fields. Finding the whereabouts was the last big hump of every mission, the rest supposedly coming easy. This had all changed as soon as I had stepped foot onto my front porch, a not left hanging slightly within the pocket of my mailbox.

The words shocking me to the core;

"Come to xxxxxxxxxx if you want to save your partners. 8 o'clock. Sharp."

Rushing to my car, I waste no time, pulling out of the driveway and to the given destination, the time being almost too close to the deadline as I preferred it to be.

Once outside of the destination, an old, run-down warehouse stands gloomily in front of me as I slip my gun into the waistband of my jeans. Another, tucked against my ankle within my boots.

I move quietly, staying alert as I enter the warehouse quietly, instantly hit with the cries of what could only belong to Riggs, my heart wrenching. A new feeling that I instantly push aside. Following the pained screams, inching closer to the source, I catch wind of yet another's set of booming cries as well, recognizing it as Murtaugh.

With this new set of knowledge, my heart does another painful flip, as the sheer terror now courses through my veins as if it was my blood. They were the toughest men I had ever known. At least that is how I had always felt, how I feel right now, but with their pained screams, it makes me feel utterly hopeless.

Drawing my gun, I aim it before me, right beside the wall I hide on, lining it up around the corner, my full intention at being able to at least shoot down one of the three men guarding one of my teammates; their identity unknown to me at the moment with the unfortunate dimness.

Taking the shot, I hit one man, the two now swinging to guard the area, looking my direction. The man held captured, Riggs, tied to the ceiling, consistently doused in water, making the homemade shock therapy increasingly unbearable with multiple relentless blows.

"Come out now, Little Rabbit, or I pull the trigger," a booming voice commands, me now peeking out from the corner to see none other than Mr. Joshua, the man we've been after, pressing a firm gun to Riggs' limp form.

Coming out from my hiding space, Joshua motions for his goons to grab me, now taking Riggs off the hook, and into another room. The room we are led to happens to be the room Murtaugh is in, his daughter beside him, both incarcerated and handcuffed. Moving Riggs to the chair beside the pair, he is tied down just as I am, the four of us now completely helpless.

Mr. Joshua, confident and prideful of his work, moves Riggs to the center of the room, starting his interrogation, answering with beatings and threats here and there. The cause: the information given by Hunsaker on his heroin-trafficking cartel.

Just as Joshua leaves yet another powerful blow, Riggs' strength starts to run low, just watching him making me squirm in my chair, wanting nothing but to take him in my arms and drag him as far away from here as possible.

"If you have to kill one of us, kill me. Take me instead, please? Just stop! Stop all of this now," I say breathlessly, doing anything in my will to get their hands off of Riggs.

"What would I want with someone as pathetic as you?" Mr. Joshua answers bitterly.

"Information. That's all you want right? You just want details about the business, you went through all this trouble, and for what? Just to kill us in the end? I know your type. You can't get off without getting what you want, and this would've all gone to waste without it," I respond, determined now.

"So, what do you want? To strike a deal?" I nod. "So, if I let them go, you'll give me what I want?" I nod again.

"Y/N no," Riggs says, now worried about what you're going up against.

"Shut it," Joshua states strictly.

"Y/N, listen to Riggs! You can't do this!" Murtaugh adds, now borderline terrified as everyone in this room is filled with the most important people in his life, all threatened with the only thing that could take them all away: death.

"SHUT IT!" Joshua all but screams now. "Fine. I'll take you up on your little deal. However, you fuck with me, I'm killing them."

"I don't agree with you unless you cut them loose right now, and I am assured that they are out of this building," I say confidently, yet shaking with fear.

He nods his agreement, showing a security camera view from one of his computers, watching as Rianne, Roger, and Martin are all led back outside, handcuffs removed, and all moved into my car, them pulling away from the warehouse.

Pulling the computer's view away from me now, he turns to me sharply, my gaze turning upward as my arms are still strapped behind my back, behind the chair. "Now," he starts, the voice strict like a parent beginning to question a toddler, "The information. What did Hunsaker tell you?"

Taking a breath in through my nose, I exhale through my mouth as I ponder my response, "Just as much as he's told you."

With this, Mr. Joshua lets out a scream, landing a punch to the jaw, my body leaning in on the stitches. Taking notice to my sharp intake of breath from the movement, Joshua uses that to his advantage, grabbing a knife, lifting my shirt, and pressing the cool metal along the line of handiwork. The only thing keeping my skin together at the moment.

"Let's try this again, what information did you receive from Hunsaker?"

"I told you. I. Don't. Know."

"Bullshit!" He digs into the skin, smirking at the cry of agony and shaking engulf my body.

"I-I don't know anymore than you do! Please! He was killed before we got anything from him!"

"Bullshit," he answers playfully now, dragging the blade of the knife wherever he pleases now, enjoying my pleads.

As he opens up my stitched bullet wound, he goes to start at another spot, the attempt being short-lived as a bullet wound of his own goes through his skull, the source standing in the doorway alongside Murtaugh with Rianne tucked under her father's arm.

Crying now, I sigh in relief as Riggs rushes to me, cutting me loose and lifting my limp body. Carrying me to the car, we make our way to the hospital once more.

During the wait and multiple switching of rooms, Riggs stays, waiting for me, only getting up once I emerge from the exit, patched up and clean. He smirks at me, wrapping his arm around my shoulders, leading me to Rog's car, taking us to the only place we find comfort; his house.

//Some time later//

Getting settled in at the Murtaugh residence, Riggs and I share Rianne's room, which was so generously offered as one of the youngest decide to have a sleepover with her.

Looking over at Riggs, he looks at me, covered in open cuts and bruises, dirt and grime, and, taking a first aid kit from Rianne's desk, I make it my priority to get them fixed up.

"What are you doing?" Riggs asks, tiredly amused.

"Taking care of you, it's the least I can do," I reply determined once again.

"Awww! Someone's got a little crush on me huh?"

"Hey! When I finish patching you up, I swear to God I'm gonna kick your ass for making me worry about you," I say jokingly. Riggs replying by grabbing me by the waist and pulling me closer.

Locking eyes on one another now, I couldn't help but joke once more, adding a sly, "Is this the moment that we kiss?"

Giggling, he looks down, placing his head on my chest, murmuring, "I think I'm in love with you and I don't know what to do. I mean, I've been married before, and I- I lost her and I don't wanna lose you too- I couldn't live if you go too, I-"

Grabbing his chin, I tilt his head upwards to meet my gaze, "Look at me, Riggs. Look at me. I love you."

Eyes watering, he leans in for a kiss, my hands finding way to his hair, while his pull my hips into his lap, wrapping lightly around them. After leaning back for air, we giggle once more, leaning our foreheads against one another.

"I never want to ever feel the fear of the thought of losing you again, okay? So don't be a dumbass, Dumbass."