Title:  One Hundred and Ten Percent
Fandom: Lethal Weapon (TV Show)
Rating: PG-13
Length: 2,452 words
Content notes:  violence
Author notes: First challenge response here + first fic in a fandom = 1 very nervous author (read: please tell me if I screwed anything up!)
Summary: Riggs and Murtaugh are in trouble. There is some disagreement about whose fault that is.

The room is a perfect square.

Riggs has counted the ceiling tiles twice, waiting for Roger to wake up. The ceiling is exactly thirty-three tiles wide and thirty-three tiles long. It’s a good distraction from the aches in his body, and the fact that Roger won’t wake the hell up. They both took pretty good knocks to the head (if the pain in his skull is any indication), and Riggs knows enough to know that it gets more dangerous the longer you're out. So he’s trying very hard not to freak out about the fact that he’s been up for ten minutes and Roger is still motionless. If he was being totally honest with himself, the fact that they are tied up and breathing is a scary thing: the bastards that took them must want something from them, and Riggs isn't really interested in finding out what methods they plan to use get what they want.

He's hopped his chair over to the one Roger is cuffed to. The real problem is the chair slats his cuffs are threaded through are a bit too far apart for him to get his hands together. All he needs is to get one hand free, but he can't do it by himself, damn it, or Roger would be in back of an ambulance already. So he's stuck sitting here counting ceiling tiles and staring at his unconscious partner. If he wasn't trying to watch the pulse in Roger's neck (hey, he's worried here), the staring would be creepy.

At least the situation isn’t entirely his fault.

It's like magic: as soon as he thinks that, Roger shifts and groans, waking up but not opening his eyes yet. Martin lets out a thankful sigh and says, just so they’re clear: “This is not entirely my fault.”

“Oh, no. This is one hundred and ten percent your fault,” is Roger’s immediate reply. His eyes are still closed.

He doesn’t sound that bad off, not too much pain in his voice. Riggs would feel better if Roger would open his damn eyes so Martin could see if the head injury is bad. “You must be concussed, Rog. I distinctly remember you running right down the alley with me.”

That gets two eyes squinted open at him. Roger apparently can't take the dim light of the room, but he does have the energy to raise an eyebrow at him. “Only because I don’t want to have to tell Avery you got your fool ass killed.”

Ouch. Not 'I don’t want you dead.' But, yeah, Riggs can kind of understand where Roger’s coming from at the moment, so he doesn't blame the man too much. And his eyes are open. Martin is insanely grateful for this, and his smile says so. “Also, you do know that there is no such thing as one hundred and ten percent, right?” He wheedles. Mostly because he can, but also because the more he talks, the more awake and aware Roger seems to be. Plus he seems to remember what happened, which again, is good news for his brain.

Anyway, winding Roger up is easier than rehashing what happened. A woman yelled for help, as they were walking out of a pizza place they ate lunch at (interrupting another long Murtaugh diatribe about the way Martin ate, without any new material either, Riggs had heard it all before from the man), so of course, Riggs ran into the alley. Was it his fault it was a set up? Or that he (or Roger, not that Riggs is dumb enough to point that out!) hadn’t realized that the woman was part of the crew they were looking for until after they had their guns on the ground. No. Not his fault entirely.

Banter time over. "We need to get out of here before they come back."

Roger snorts. It's rather ungentlemanly. "I'd say that's one hundred and ten percent obvious."

Riggs nods, he's not rehashing real numbers with Roger again. Who knows how long they've been here or what the bad guys are setting up as they speak. Best not to waste any time.

"If we both turn around, do you think you could dislocate my thumb, or break it if you can’t dislocate it, so I can slip out the cuffs?”

Roger's reaction is exactly as Riggs anticipated: he looks horrified. “I’m not breaking your thumbs!”

“I didn’t say thumbs. I said thumb. Only need one done to get out. Left preferably.”

“And then what about me? You’ll break one of mine?”

It would be better than anything the bastards are going to do to him, but Martin doesn't say as much. He thought that threat was implied, here. He just shakes his head. “No, Rog. I won’t need to. I have an extra handcuff key in my boot.” This is one hundred and ten percent a lie, but they need to get moving while they can. “Come on. They’ll be coming back soon, probably with sharp objects, to make us talk about how much we know. I don’t want my head in a barrel of water again. It’s not a fun experience.” There is no way on this earth he will be able to handle Roger going through that. Not to mention the fact that the detective's heart probably wouldn't handle it so well either. And a barrel of water might be downright humane compare to whatever these guys do.

Roger huffs: “Fine.”

Hopefully they're not guarding the door, because they make a lot of noise hopping around in their chairs so that they're back to back. Then again, they just talked about escape, so they'd be screwed anyway. Best not to worry, then. It takes some adjusting to get Roger's right hand to Riggs' left, but the angle is all wrong, and Roger can't get enough leverage.

"Stop. Stop!" Riggs hisses. "Not working. Turn around."

Roger is either responding to the urgency in Riggs' voice, accepting that this is the best plan, or he's remembering how often he wants to punch Martin in the head, because he turns around without comment. Riggs wiggles his cuffed left hand as much as he can so it's flat against a slat in the chair's back.

"Okay, less elegant plan: kick. Aim for my thumb joint."

Roger snorts out a half laugh that Riggs has learn to mean Roger thinks he's out of his damn mind. Martin looks over his shoulder – oh turning his head that way reawakens the ache in his skull he was almost able to push to the side. "If you have a better plan, I'm willing to hear it."

Roger is not looking happy. He looks a little green, in fact. Riggs sighs, and looks straight forward. It's easier for Roger if he's not looking him in the face. He gets what he's asking here, but they don't have very many options. "Look. Just think of all the times you've wanted to punch me. Alright? Come on."

"Damn it," Roger grumbles, but he hopes his chair back a few feet.

"There we go. You got this. Just kick until I tell you to stop." As if he could see Roger balking, he adds: "It's no worse than what they're probably planning to do to us right now. Come on."

He hadn't wanted to point out the obvious again. But that seems to be what galvanizes Roger into moving. It takes four kicks and Riggs bites his lip hard enough to taste blood (unsure if he's holding back any sound for Roger's sake or because he doesn't want them to be heard mid-escape), but eventually, Riggs is confident enough to stop Roger. He may have more than a broken thumb, now, and that's fine if it gets the cuffs off.

"Okay. Turn around again and help me out."

Again, no chatter. Roger's chair thumps and then the other man has his fingers close to Riggs' damaged hand, but pauses before he touches. "This is going to hurt." Roger warns.

Riggs gives a half laugh. "Already does. Just squeeze, alright?"

It hurts like a son of a bitch (he sweats through his shirt, but other than a few grunts, he keeps quiet, so that's a good thing) but eventually the effort is worth it. Riggs gets his hand out of the cuffs. Now that he's not pulling and tugging on it, his hand doesn't hurt all that bad. Or it's the spike of adrenalin mixed in with the knowledge that Roger is about to kill him that lets him shove the pain to the side. Either way, he leans forward and removes his left boot. He's got a knife in there that the dumb asses thankfully didn't find. Only after he's replaced his boot and opened his knife does he stand and turn to look at Roger.

"You don't have a key," Roger tells him.

Well at least he doesn't have to admit it. Kind of scary how good Roger is getting at reading him, though. "No," he admits easily enough. "I think I can break your chair though."

"Or…?"

Entirely too damn good at reading him.

Riggs backs up, knife down at his side incase Roger lunges. "I could just—"

Whatever he's planning on saying, and he was just going to make something up to the effect of: 'I'm going to leave you here, clear my way out and then come back for you' because he doesn't have a solid plan, he doesn't get a chance to say. He can hear voices in the hallway. Thankfully the room is small and the idiots put them in a place with a door that opens inwards. he has to move fast. Using two hands to bodily lift up Roger and his chair is a painfully bad idea, but it works (balancing the bulk of the weight against his chest, anyway), Riggs manages to rather sloppily deposit his partner down so that he's behind the door, without scraping the chair legs across the ground and giving away their positions.

Roger is silent, aware they must be quiet. But if looks could kill, Riggs would be dancing in heaven with Miranda right about now.

But he can't die while his partner is handcuffed to a chair awaiting a rather painful interrogation. He's made promises. He has standards. 'No easy out when someone else's ass is on the line' is one of his big ones. So he waits by the side of the door.

The second it opens enough for one tattooed, gun holding arm to come through, Riggs is ready. His knife goes straight into the bastard's neck, just under his Adam's apple. Even as goon one is dropping, goon two steps into his range, and Riggs drops him with a stab in the chest. The gurgling from goon one is rather uncomfortable, Riggs is sure he'll hear the sound again in his sleep, but that's another thing to shove over at the moment. No one else comes through, so he risks sticking his head out the door. No one.

He drags both goons back into the room, shuts the door to buy a few extra seconds if anyone comes down the hall, and pats them down. He finds the cuff key along with a cellphone. He pockets the phone and goes over to Roger. He's only annoyed by the blood on his hands because he drops the damn key. Yup. That's what he's telling himself until him and his buddy JD can have some quality time later tonight (or today, again, he's not sure of the time, and not really fussy about day drinking).

Roger jumps to his feet as soon as his cuffs are off. Riggs undoes the cuff still hanging from his wrist and squats to pick up one of the guns. Murtaugh has the other. The door flies open. Riggs wasn't expecting that (dumb, not listening) and gets hit with it. Between the tangle of bodies on the floor and the blood, he slips and hits the ground. When the bang comes, he tenses. Then realizes that he should've felt the pain before the bang even registered, and looks up to see Roger holding goon two's gun. Goon three has fallen back outside of the door.

"Damn," Riggs says as he stands up, retrieving his pilfered gun. Goon three is dead, shot square between the eyes by Roger. "Good shot, Rog." Translation: shit, thanks.

Roger doesn't exactly smile at him, but he gives a nod. Translation: you're welcome.

And the rest…it's rather anticlimactic. They get out through a side door, unseen by anyone else. They're in the fashion district, and after a few minutes of walking, they're confident enough that no one is close behind them that they sit on a bus bench and call it in.

Riggs leans back on the bench, eyes closed like he's enjoying the sun, except it's well after nightfall. He knows what sight they make, bruised and covered in blood, and he doesn't feel like dealing with something as dull as panicked people. Beside him, Roger uses the stolen phone to call Trish – his conversation is short, but clear: he's fine, Riggs is fine, but yes they're both going to the hospital, he'll let her know which one once he knows, no it wasn't either of their fault this time (that makes Riggs smile). He doesn't open them again until the sirens of the cars and ambulance coming for them are right there, the light from the reds and blues dancing through his eyelids.

He's not even surprised to see Avery among the first to arrive. Their boss just looks at them, half like an angry parent, half relieved to see them. They must have been gone awhile. He could ask this, he might even mean to ask this, but what comes out of his mouth is:

"Don't look to me for paperwork, boss. Roger broke my hand. He's gonna have to do all of it."

"It's only your left hand!" Roger protests (drowning out Avery's surprised ‘you broke his hand?’) but there is a laugh in his voice, crinkles around his eyes he can't hide.

Riggs grins at him and stands up, sauntering towards the ambulance. Roger follows of course, half because that is where they need to go, and half because the man cannot give up an argument – a quality that endears him to Riggs' heart.

"And you made me! And lied about having a key! Which, by the way, I haven't forgotten about that!"

"Nah, Rog. You're doing all of it. One hundred and ten percent of it, even."

If Avery says anything over the sound of Roger's laughing, Riggs doesn't hear it.