A/N: As usual, this comes to you courtesy of a series of texts with my good friends frankiemcstein and dominatempore.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Riggs glanced around as he pulled his truck into the Murtaughs' driveway. It was late in the evening, and the house was completely dark. That was fine. Better than fine, actually, because it meant Roger was still out. Avery had sent Riggs's partner to a little town outside of LA to talk to a family member of the victim. Apparently the poor man who had been shot was some high-up with the mayor's office, so it was all-hands-on-deck until the murder was solved.

Glancing over at the bearded man in his passenger seat, Riggs flashed a confident grin. "So, here we are!"

The man glanced up from where he'd been snoring for most of the drive and raised an impressed eyebrow as he looked out the windshield. "Wow, you got a nice house here."

"I…" Riggs trailed off. Telling the man the truth was only going to make things weird, which was not what Riggs was going for. He needed to make this guy feel comfortable. "Thanks," he said with a smile. "Come on in. I'll get us something to eat."

He'd run across the man pushing a cart of belongings—which was now rattling around in the bed of the pickup even though it was tied down as much as possible—down the street earlier that evening—the same street where the shooting had taken place just the day before. Seeing as how it was just about the same time of day as the murder had happened, Riggs had followed a hunch and stopped to chat.

Sure enough, he'd been right—but then the man's stomach had started gurgling, and Riggs had frowned as he couldn't help but hear it.

The man had shrugged in acknowledgment. "Sorry," he'd said. "I ain't eaten since yesterday mornin'. Or maybe it was the day before…"

"What?" Riggs knew he wasn't the foremost expert on healthy eating habits, but that had sounded wrong, even to him. "What's this about not eating?" He'd frowned. "That's not right."

The man had just shrugged. "Well, you tell that to the people who walk past me all the time without so much as lookin' my way, much less givin' me anythin'." He'd raised an eyebrow as he'd continued, "Ya know, I wasn't always on such hard times. But, well, then the economy collapsed, and here I am."

"Uh huh." Riggs had nodded as he'd continued, "So, Mr…?"

"Jacobssen," the man had offered. "With a double 's.'"

"Jacobssen," Riggs had repeated. "Um, what's your first name?"

"Sam."

"Sam. Okay, good; we'll go with that." Riggs had clapped his hands together. "Why don't you tell me exactly what you saw happen yesterday afternoon."

"Well, yeah, I might'a seen somethin'," Sam had said. "But I got a date with a dumpster or else I might not eat 'til tomorrow. It's gonna hafta wait. Not like the cops ain't ever cared 'bout me 'fore this. Cain't imagine you guys'd start now."

He'd gone to push past Riggs, who'd known he had to do something. The man was a witness for crying out loud! "What if I can get you a hot meal?" he'd offered quickly.

"Nope, not interested," Sam had shrugged. "You just gonna take me to some old diner somewhere, and the wrong people's gonna hear, and then I'll be dead. No thanks. And I ain't goin' to no police station neither!" he'd added.

So Riggs had made the obvious choice and invited the man home for dinner.

Of course, he couldn't just use his trailer. One, it was quite the drive from where the street corner where they currently were standing. And two, he had nothing in his fridge. So, logically, the solution was to let himself into Roger's house to do the cooking. It was nicer anyway; Sam would be more inclined to talk there. Plus, you know, the stocked kitchen was a big plus.

It was perfect because Roger was out doing his interview and Trish and the girls were visiting her parents and wouldn't be back until the next weekend. And with RJ at college, there was no one to interrupt Riggs and Sam if they went inside.

"Whoa." Sam's eyes were wide as they walked through the door. "You really do got a nice house here, Detective Riggs," he continued as he took a seat along the counter where he'd been directed.

"Oh, yeah, thanks," Riggs said distractedly. He'd already pulled a beer out of the cooler for the other man, and now he was opening and closing cabinets in quick succession. Stepping back, he put his hands on his hips and glared inside the most recent door he had opened. "Now then, if you were butter, where would you hide?"

"You don't know where you keep the butter?"

Riggs sighed. "I keep it under the sink behind the Jack Daniels where it belongs. Apparently Roger doesn't."

"Who's Roger?" Sam wanted to know.

"If it takes me much longer to find the butter, you'll find out," Riggs said over his shoulder as he leaned inside of the refrigerator. "Aha!" and here he backed out with a stick of butter clutched victoriously in his hand. "Got it!" He reached back into the fridge for a carton of eggs, then set the ingredients on the counter and moved toward the cabinets in search of a bowl. "Now. About that murder."

"Oh, right." Sam nodded. "Guess I owe ya that." He started in on his story as he watched Riggs searching in the cabinets. "So, I was just mindin' my own business on the street corner, where I'd set up for the day, and I just saw this guy walkin' right by me, like he didn't have a care in the world."

"And he was the one who shot the victim?" Riggs wanted to know, cracking an egg into the bowl.

Sam shrugged. "Well, no. But I saw this guy's really nice shoes goin' past me, and that's what made me look up."

Cracking a sixth egg into the bowl, Riggs wiped his hands on his jeans and then started whisking the eggs with a fork. "Okay. And then what did you see?" he prodded. Apparently this Sam guy had a penchant for storytelling.

But before Sam could continue, the sound of footsteps on the stairs interrupted him. Riggs whirled to face the doorway, his mind running through all the reasons that someone would be in the house at that moment—not ruling out a timid burglar—when RJ suddenly came around the corner.

His expression equally as shocked as Riggs imagined his own was, RJ blinked between the two men in his parents' kitchen, then turned in confusion to Riggs. "Ri—"

"RJ!" Riggs interrupted quickly. "Hey, bud, come here for a sec. Please?" he added. The last thing he needed was for this to go all sideways as soon as Sam was about to start talking.

RJ seemed to take the hint that Riggs had something important to tell him, and he slowly moved over to join him by the stove, frowning between Riggs and Sam. The look on his face told Riggs that the kid was not quite sure what was going on at the moment. Which was good. Riggs could work with that.

Putting an arm around RJ's shoulders, Riggs leaned in. "I thought you were at college," he whispered.

RJ frowned and shook his head slowly. "Uh, it's the weekend," he explained. "I always come home on the weekends."

"Right." Riggs ran a hand through his hair. "Look, RJ, this is for a case. A really important case that your dad—"

"Hey!" Sam called from across the kitchen.

Riggs and RJ turned to look his way.

"While you two are talkin', where's the bathroom?" Sam asked.

Riggs indicated with a tilt of his head. "Over there," he said. He watched as the other man headed for the small room. As soon as the door had closed behind Sam, Riggs turned back to RJ. "Come on, man; you gotta play along," he urged quietly.

RJ crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow in a way that reminded Riggs uncannily of Trish. "Why's that?"

"Shhh, keep your voice down!" Riggs whispered. "He's a witness for my current case, but I had to promise to feed him to get him to talk to me. But of course, my kitchen is… well, practically non-existent. And not stocked."

"Why didn't you take him to a diner?" RJ wanted to know.

Riggs made a face. "You kidding? You think he's gonna tell me about the murder he saw if we're in public where anyone can hear us?"

"It's eleven at night, Riggs," RJ pointed out. "Who's going to be eavesdropping on you?"

"Fair point," Riggs conceded with a shrug. Then as the sound of the toilet lid clanking against the tank came through the door, he leaned in again. "C'mon, RJ; help me out here. Just play along?"

"Hmm." RJ appeared to be thinking it over. "What's it worth to you?"

Riggs frowned. "What?"

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't spill my guts the second Mom and Dad come home."

Reaching into his pocket, Riggs came up with a handful of crumpled notes. "I'll give you, uh, thirty-seven good reasons."

"Yeah, no; that's not gonna work. We're talking more like two hundred and thirty-seven."

"What? Are you…" Riggs glared at the younger man. "This is blackmail."

RJ smirked. "I prefer to call it negotiating."

The sound of the toilet flushing made Riggs glance back at the bathroom and then back to RJ. "Fine. One hundred."

"One-fifty," RJ countered.

Riggs paused, then a sly look crossed his face. "Wait. RJ. You're in college now, right? Classes, essays, girls… parties?"

"Yeah…?" RJ cocked his head in curiosity.

"You know, there's always that one guy who comes outta nowhere, at the biggest party of the year, to become a legend. And you know how he does that?"

RJ blinked. "Uh…"

"Wrong. He supplies the booze."

"Are you saying… No, I have literally no idea what you're saying." RJ's head tilted to the side.

"I'm saying I won't give you anything at the moment. But when the big party rolls around and those cute girls who've been smiling at you in class are wondering," and here Riggs raised his voice to a falsetto, "'but who's got a fake ID?'" He winked at RJ. "You just give your Uncle Martin a call, and you'll get the booze."

RJ was nodding slowly. "…and then I'll be the hero of the party?"

"Exactly." Riggs grinned, proud of could both hear the faucet running in the bathroom now, but RJ was still considering the offer. "How much booze?" he asked.

"Fifty bucks' worth," Riggs replied. "Beer only; no cocktails," he added as clarification.

There was silence as RJ studied Riggs. Then he grinned and stuck out a hand across the counter. "Okay. Deal."

They shook on it just as the door to the bathroom opened again and Sam came out. RJ grabbed a glass from the cabinet, then hurried over to the fridge and pulled out the carton of milk as Riggs turned back to the stove. Reaching for the bowl of eggs, Riggs poured them into the pan and then took a breath. "So, Sam," he began. "About that—"

"Hang on; I gotta ask," Sam said, raising a hand. His tone said he'd been thinking about whatever it was he was about to say for a while.

Riggs raised an eyebrow as he watched Sam's expression. Considering the way that the other man was looking between RJ and Riggs, the detective didn't think he would like what was coming next.

"I didn't realize you had a son," Sam said. "You never mentioned him."

That wasn't as bad as he had expected. "Well, you never asked," he responded with a shrug. "Now, how do you like your eggs? Because some people like them a little on the runnier side while others like them a bit firmer. Personally, I like them—"

"So… is he adopted?"

RJ made a choking sound into his milk.

"What do you mean, 'is he adopted?'" Riggs asked over his shoulder as he leaned over to peer at the sizzling skillet. "Just what are you incinerating?"

Sam blinked. "Insinuatin'?"

"That too!" Riggs whirled around and pointed across the kitchen.

RJ smirked but didn't say anything, and the look on his face told Riggs the kid was having way too much fun letting the situation play out. RJ was probably thinking of what would happen when his parents finally came home—which, Riggs had to admit, would be entertaining. He'd better hurry up and get to the point with Sam before Roger did show up.

Riggs was just glad Trish was out of town and wouldn't possibly show up, because that would be worse than Roger.

"I asked if I was adopted once, but Dad swears I'm his," RJ offered helpfully.

Riggs frowned indignantly. "You're not adopted, RJ!"

"Wait," the man at the counter seemed to have caught onto something else, "what does RJ stand for?"

Riggs paused for a moment, then cleared his throat. "…Riggs, Jr." He nodded as if agreeing with himself and then turned back to the stove.

"We just don't have the same facial features, you know?" RJ continued. "My nose is so not his nose. Isn't that supposed to be at least somewhat the same from father to son?"

"Your…" Sam blinked again. He was beginning to look like an owl, Riggs decided. "...Your nose?"

"Yeah, they're different, see?" RJ glanced over to where Riggs was scraping eggs onto a plate. He gestured at Riggs's face, then at his own. "That's why I think I'm adopted."

Riggs lowered the skillet back to the stove, then grinned at Sam. "I'll admit, they're not quite the same. But that doesn't mean you're adopted, son! Just that you got your nose genes from your mother."

The man sitting next to RJ was visibly confused, and he looked back and forth between the others as if weighing their sanity. Then he tentatively pressed forward. "Um, but, what about… the rest?"

"The 'rest'?" Riggs glanced up again. "Sam, what does that even mean?" He glanced over at RJ, pleased to see the boy trying to hide the smirk playing on his face.

Visibly paler than a moment before, Sam cleared his throat and swallowed hard. "I mean…"

"Mean what?" RJ asked innocently.

"Well… 'cause… you know… 'cause you're black!" the man blurted out in one breath. He squeezed his eyes shut immediately after, as if he couldn't believe he'd just said the words.

Riggs plastered on his best shocked expression while RJ gasped.

"I'm what?" RJ exclaimed.

Sam hesitantly ventured to open one eye. The look on his face was one of shocked disbelief mixed with a desire to just melt into the floor where he was sitting. He glanced sideways at RJ, who glanced at Riggs, who took a deep breath.

"It's true, RJ. You are," the detective said seriously, nodding slowly. "I'm sorry you had to find out like this."

Sam looked back and forth between the other two, his face an unreadable mixture of panic and disbelief.

Leveling a look at Sam, Riggs raised an eyebrow. "Hey, you parent how you want to parent and let me do the same, okay? You just destroyed my kid's life, thank you very much."

"Oh, someone's life is about to get destroyed all right."

The three occupants of the kitchen whirled around to see Roger standing in the doorway, a look of disbelief on his face. "Riggs, what is going on here? RJ, this better not be what I think it is."

"Wait, didn't I see you at the crime scene yesterday?" Sam asked curiously. "Yeah, you're Detective Riggs's partner. Do you always walk into his house uninvited?" He looked over to Riggs. "You should probably lock your doors, Detective. You don't want just anyone walking in off the street."

"Yeah, Riggs." Roger raised an eyebrow. "This house should stay locked," he repeated. "Don't want just anyone walking in off the street."

Riggs glanced from his partner to Sam, noting that the witness seemed more nervous than he had moments before. "Uh, hey, Rog. Can I talk to you for a second?" Without waiting for his partner to agree, Riggs hurried forward and put a hand on Roger's arm.

Whether out of confusion, agreement, or morbid curiosity—or possibly a combination of all three—Roger followed Riggs around the corner. As soon as they were out of sight, Riggs started whispering frantically. "Okay, Rog, look, I know this must come as a shock to you—"

"You don't say!"

"Shh-hh-hhh!" Riggs waved his hands in the air, then leaned back to poke his head around the corner to look in on the kitchen. Thankfully, Sam hadn't seemed to have heard Roger's outburst and was busily chatting with RJ. "Rog, listen. You can kill me later. Sam saw the murder yesterday, okay? And he said he'd tell me what he saw if I fed him dinner." Riggs interjected a shrug into his explanation. "And since there was no way I could take him to my place, I brought him here."

"And told him it was your house."

"Well, I didn't want to confuse the poor guy," Riggs defended himself. "I figured it was fine since we're practically the same person."

Roger frowned. "What? No, we're not."

Riggs threw his hands up in the air. "Fine! We're not! But can you at least let me get this information from him? And then you can tell him whatever you want to, okay?"

"Fine," Roger sighed. "I'll let you get away with it—this time!" he pointed in Riggs's face, "—because he's already here. But if you ever impersonate me again, we're going to have trouble."

"Trouble like you're gonna choose the music for the next month of car rides or trouble like Trish is gonna sue me?" Riggs wanted to know.

Before Roger could respond, RJ turned the corner and nearly ran into his father. "Guys!" he exclaimed. "Sam said he saw the murderer yesterday! He can describe the guy to a sketch artist and everything!"

Both detectives blinked at RJ.

"Uhhh, RJ, did you, uh, did you just question my witness for me?" Riggs asked, rubbing the back of his neck and looking between the two Murtaughs.

RJ shrugged. "Well, you two were here, and Sam just started talking to me, so I figured I'd roll with it."

"That's another thing we need to talk about!" Roger added, raising an eyebrow. "RJ, why are you going along with this whole charade? Don't you know better?"

At that, RJ shrugged again. "I knew this was an important case for you, Dad," he replied. "You were traveling all that way to do that interview today, and I didn't want to blow it for you."

Riggs jumped in now. "And besides, Rog, if we really can get a sketch from Sam's description, then it'll help seal the case! The mayor does want it solved as quickly as possible. You know," he said, glancing at RJ, "your dad might even get a commendation if we close it tonight!"

"You know what?" Roger looked between the other two, then sighed shook his head in resignation. "Fine. I'll let it go this once. But this better not happen again. You got me? Good," he added as they both nodded quickly. "Now come on; let's get Sam to the station."

Riggs and RJ kept their serious expressions until Roger had turned for the kitchen, then Riggs turned and smirked at RJ. "Good job," he mouthed as RJ grinned back and returned the fistbump.

Fin.