Rhapsody

1: notgoodenough

Maverick's nose is not broken. To hell with the pain shooting through his skull and the blood trickling in thick rivulets over his cracked lips. It's not broken, because broken means that the suspect got enough of an upper hand to break it. And that, frankly, is embarrassing.

So if anyone asks, no, it is not broken, thank you very much. And yes, it hurts like a bitch.

It's a frigid evening outside the NYPD's 11th precinct. The windows of Lieutenant Jack Darcy's cruiser reflect the glare of the nearby streetlights. Maverick leans against the frosty glass, and his bruised knuckles clench into anxious fists. When he removes his hand from his nose, the tissues are drenched in red.

Oh God, he really hopes it isn't broken.

Lieutenant Darcy taps his keys on the roof as he rounds the car, bemusement evident in the slight upturn of his lips. "You, Carson, are one crazy son of a bitch."

"So I've been told." Maverick snorts, releasing another stream of blood from his nose. "Need I remind you, I leapt from a fire escape. I think that deserves an 'insane' at least."

"Big words coming from a man with half a box of Kleenex shoved up his snout."

Maverick imagines he looks downright ridiculous huddled against the cruiser, bloody tissues and bloody skin, jacket soiled and half-hanging off his body. He doesn't need a mirror to tell him that his eyes, shadowed by purple bags, are red-rimmed with tears. Involuntary tears—yet another reason why he hates broken noses. Damn eyes never stop watering afterwards.

With a groan, Maverick tilts his head back.

"This is your fault," he retorts, glaring around the pain.

Lieutenant Darcy blinks. "You said, and I quote, 'Sure Jack, I'll help you arrest your suspect. Yeah, I could use some time away from this shithole of a desk, thanks for asking.'"

"I was being polite because I pity you."

"Well, we got him," Darcy says. "That's what matters."

"I got him. At the cost of the prettiest face in the precinct."

"Not my fault you made the choice to jump off the fire escape."

"I consented to parkour. Not getting decked in the face." He pulls the wad of tissues away. Still red. "What was I supposed to do? Let him get away?"

"Unfortunate oversight on your part," Lieutenant Darcy huffs.

"Whatever, old man."

Above the Manhattan skyline, a burgeoning storm roils, tickling the roof of Maverick's mouth like salt. Where the moonlight finds a break in the clouds, the sky is soft, milky, and hazy with the approaching snowfall, like the smudged ink of a soaked photograph. Maverick suppresses a shiver. The moon's glow on his skin is an unwelcome feeling; invasive in the worst way possible. But not because of what it is—a heavenly body two hundred thousand miles away — or because of what he is—a poor, pitiful human—but because he knows that, somewhere out in the slivers of moonlight, there are creatures who lurk with glowing eyes and sharp teeth.

Loup-garou. Lycanthropes. Werewolves.

They're inhuman beings stronger and faster than any man, with elevated senses and killer instincts. And they pack a hell of a punch, if the bloody nose is any indication. Maverick considers himself a good cop. He goes to the gym, keeps in shape. But even at peak fitness, he is no match for the creatures.

The werewolf that he and Lieutenant Darcy have just arrested ripped apart two women within the last week. The silver cuffs keep him detained until the psych evals can determine whether the wolfman was in control of his actions. Department protocol, or whatever. It's bullshit, in Maverick's opinion. He saw the predatory bloodlust in that yellow stare. The moon is at waning crescent, nearing the end of its cycle. The creature was in complete control and knew exactly what he was doing.