Rhapsody

2: indigo, marigold, violet

Ten minutes is about as long as Maverick lasts in Captain Vaughn's office.

Ten minutes of cursing, arguing, and threats of suspension.

Ten minutes, and Maverick is storming out of the office. Just his luck, he spots Lieutenant Darcy already at Maverick's desk with the wolfman—Emery, he reminds himself—tight at his side like a lost little puppy. The werewolf's eyes sweep over the precinct, glacial and indifferent.

Okay, so maybe not a puppy, Maverick amends. More like a doberman.

"I've got to go finish paperwork, otherwise I'd offer to help with the introductory stuff," he overhears Darcy say. When the lieutenant notices Maverick approaching, he grins. "Hey, Mav, would you mind showing our new transfer around the precinct?"

"Bite me," he snaps. Lieutenant Darcy rolls his eyes, and Maverick, realizing what he said, glares at the werewolf. "That wasn't directed at you."

The creature inclines his head. "I didn't think so."

Maverick takes the next few moments to look at Emery—really look at him. He stands stock still with his hands clasped behind his back in suave, self-assured poise. The impeccable posture draws Maverick's attention to the broadness of his shoulders, accentuated by a sleek turtleneck and sharp blazer. Observing him now, Maverick wouldn't assume he's a werewolf, other than the unnatural air about him and slight hint of fangs behind his lips. Emery seems too reserved, too even-tempered. Nothing like the aggressive, raging beast his kind is made out to be, but Maverick knows from this job that appearances can be deceiving.

He hasn't known the werewolf for an hour, but, like the astute detective he is, Maverick has already made three keen observations: Emery Faustine is an impeccable dresser, Emery Faustine is eloquent to a nauseating degree, and Emery Faustine is one stone cold bitch.

And then Emery Faustine speaks, voice like chrome and barb wire and midnight. "Perhaps you could — "

"No."

Emery's eyes narrow. "I'm sorry?"

"Whatever you're about to ask, the answer is no. I'd rather deep-fry my spleen and eat it."

The werewolf's right eye twitches, and he falls silent.

Good.

Maverick brushes past him, stalking toward his desk. And of course, Emery follows.

"Y'know, for being a wolf, you heel an awful lot like a golden retriever," he grumbles. "Or doberman. Or whatever."

Emery glares at him in response.

Maverick's desk is located in an isolated corner at the back of the precinct, just how he likes it. Most of his coworkers have covered their spaces with mementos and decorations, but Maverick has only a single photo of him by himself in Hawaii—when Captain Vaughn forced him to use his vacation days last year—and a stained mug he bought a few months ago that says Best Cat Mom Ever.

He flops down in his chair with a sigh.

"Don't you have something better to do?" he snarls, glaring up his unfortunate shadow.

Emery frowns. "You could fill me in on some of your cases."

"Also no," Maverick says. "Read them on your own time."

Emery's jaw sets. Maverick drums his fingers on the desk.

"What the hell kind of a name is Emery, anyway?" he asks.

The werewolf narrows his eyes. "A family name."

"Does anyone ever call you Em?"

"Yes, though no one has ever had the nerve to do it twice." The look in Emery's eyes almost spikes fear in Maverick. Almost. "I don't care much for nicknames, detective."