Rhapsody

3: headstrong

It's nine on the dot when Maverick arrives at the precinct the next morning, groggy and in need of coffee. Last night's snowstorm brought with it a white morning, though it's quickly been reduced to brown slush by New York's perpetual layer of grime. Last night also brought the worst hangover he's had in literal months.

He doesn't get two steps to the coffee machine before a voice stops him.

"Good morning, detective."

Oh. Right.

His new partner.

Though Emery's turtleneck today is charcoal, he wears the same tailored blazer, black as the neat coif atop his head. The high collar sharpens the lines of his jaw, and the dark ensemble paints his gaze an even more startling shade of gray-blue. 

Maverick glares at him. "What? Someone forget to call the dog-sitter?"

Emery huffs. "You're late."

"Piss off, Lassie."

"I see you decided to go drinking," the werewolf says, nose scrunching.

"Don't pretend your bloodhound sniffer figured that out. This precinct loves to talk shit."

"You'd be surprised." Emery snorts. "And I'd prefer we stop wasting time with childish talk and get to work."

He stares at Maverick. Expectant. Confident. Maverick glares right back at him, knuckles twitching to give the smug bastard what he deserves. One right hook across his pretty jawline. It'd be so quick.

But he can't. He already checked. Title VI of the Werewolf Rights Act of 1952 states that any crime committed against a werewolf will be viewed in the eyes of the law with the same regard as a crime committed against a human. In other words, Maverick can't deck Emery without serious consequences.

"Well?" Emery prompts.

"Fine, killjoy," Maverick acquiesces with a scowl.

With that, he clenches his fists at his side, lowers his head, and stalks to his secluded desk.

Only, it's not secluded anymore. Today there's a second desk, placed directly across from his own. Maverick freezes, jaw gaping like a fish.

"What the hell?"

Emery blinks innocently.

"What is this?" Maverick demands, lip curling at the offending object.

Emery frowns. "That is my desk."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is."

"You've got to be kidding me."

With a groan, Maverick flops down on his chair. Across from him, Emery takes his seat at his own desk. Maverick angles his computer monitor to block the prick's stupid face.

There, much better.

"Lieutenant Darcy gave me copies of all your case files," Emery says.