Rhapsody

4: curled fists

Outside, the sky is awash with a soft, dreamy gray. The blanket of clouds doesn't show any threat of dumping snow, and the sun's white light peaks through in intervals, dotting the New York skyline with patches of pale yellow. Though spring is still two months away, the promise of it hangs in the air, a splash of brightness in a city of bleak tonal grays.

Maverick hates it.

His soul yearns for the harsh darkness of night, the cutting neon and sharp shadows. Something about this morning is too calm. Too peaceful. Too ominous in a way Maverick can't put into words. Maybe it's the detective inside of him—that occupational tendency to be suspicious by default—but something about today puts him on edge.

Or, maybe it's the werewolf beside him.

Yeah, definitely the werewolf.

Emery is unnervingly calm. He sits there, cool and collected, a block of glacial ice in the passenger seat.

Maverick scoffs. "Are all werewolves stuck-up pricks, or is it just you?"

Emery doesn't respond.

"Fine, I get it. You're like half wolf, or whatever. But—"

"As I've already said, detective, I don't care much for small talk."

Maverick huffs. "Oh, this isn't small talk. This is shit talk, at best."

That gets Emery's attention. The werewolf looks at him. Maverick almost thinks he's going to respond in that cutting manner of his, but after a few moments, Emery returns his gaze to the window, committed to silence.

The next few minutes are quiet with the lull in conversation. In front of their unmarked, department-issued car, red tail lights blink through the shadows of New York's high rises, and the traffic slows to a crawl. Maverick thumps his head against the back of the seat, stifling a groan.

He finds himself glancing at Emery, who, by all accounts, looks absolutely ridiculous folded up in the passenger seat. The space wasn't made for his tall, lean body or sharp, squared shoulders. His strong brow is furrowed as he stares through the glass. The window is cracked slightly, and Maverick guesses it's to catalogue scents.

The reality hits him like a ton of bricks. The man sitting next to him has a sense of smell stronger than a dog, can probably snap a human spine in two with his pinky, and turns into a weird wolf creature every full moon. Maverick tries not to think of it as freaky but—no, that's definitely freaky.

He clears his throat. "I don't understand you. Like, at all."

It's silent. Tense. Then, Emery responds, slowly and carefully, "Do you even want to?"

"Absolutely not. I think all of you wolfmen are freaky and dangerous."

"So I've gathered." Emery hums in the passenger seat. "May I ask you a question?"

"Is it about my extracurricular activities?"

Maverick can practically feel the annoyance in Emery's blue-tinged glare. "Don't make the mistake of thinking I'm interesting in anything you do outside of work," the werewolf says. "I care about my job, and my job only. Any care I've extended to you is because you, unfortunately, are entangled in my career."

"The feeling's mutual." Maverick rolls his eyes. "I bet you're going to ask no matter what, so whatever. Ask away."

"Did something happen in the past that would make you hate my kind?"

Something. Maverick's first thought is of bright red flesh and neon yellow eyes, but no, he shoves that down, far, almost as soon as it surfaces. He frowns, masking his trepidation with what he hopes is indifference.