Rhapsody

5: silver, silver, silver

Twenty minutes later, Maverick has two and a half usable pieces of information, access to the store's security cameras, and a steaming hot cup of coffee with no cream and no sugar.

All in all, a successful chat with a witness, he'd say.

When he scans the shop, he sees that Emery is no longer here. The werewolf has relocated outside towards the front of the car where the angled shadow of a nearby awning shields him from the sun. If Maverick thinks he looks more Vogue than NYPD detective—especially leaning against the hood of the car with his long legs stretched out like that—he'd never admit it out loud.

"I found out the reason for all the traffic," Maverick says as he saunters outside, coffee sloshing in his cup. "There's a protest a couple blocks up."

"I heard." His partner doesn't look up from his notepad.

Werewolf hearing is notoriously sharp. Maverick fights a shudder, sips his coffee, and then fights another shudder. He definitely should've added sugar. This tastes like radioactive sludge.

"And?" he prompts, screwing his face up against the taste.

"I tuned out after the anti-lycanthrope—"

"Holy shit, just say werewolf."

Emery's eyes narrow. "Would that make you feel better?"

"No, it just makes you sound better."

His lips part enough for Maverick to see a pointed tooth. "I tuned out after the anti-werewolf remarks."

And the eye contact breaks. Emery straightens up, and Maverick is once against struck by how tall and imposing his partner is. Though he should appear more canine in nature, he really reminds Maverick of one of those jungle cats. The ones that lounge in trees all day, uninterested in the world, until they wake up and stretch and you see the glint of curved claws and wicked fangs.

"Well," Maverick says, shaking the image from his mind. "Did you find anything?"

"From the shop which has already been scrubbed clean? Or from the pedestrians who weren't here an hour ago when the robbery occurred?" Emery snorts. "Either way, the answer is no."

"Alright, no need to get snappy."

"Perhaps you shouldn't sideline me in the future."

"Perhaps you shouldn't be a dick."

Emery glowers, his jaw working furiously. "Detective Carson, I did not mean to become your enemy."

Maverick rolls his eyes. "Well, I don't want to be your friend."

"Said every petulant five year old on the playground, detective, but this isn't kindergarten," he responds coolly. "I suggest we at least try to make this partnership work."

"We? You are the petulant five-year-old." Emery bristles, but Maverick continues, "You walked into my precinct like you own the place. I've been working this job in this neighborhood for years. You are the one who should be kissing my ass, and you've done a piss-poor job of it so far."

"Believe me, your ass is the last I'd ever kiss."

"Hilarious, wolfy," Maverick says. "Truly."

"I have no sense of humor and am thus incapable of joking."

Yet, as the words leave Emery's mouth, his lips twitch at the edges, though it doesn't inspire dread as much as make Maverick's stomach churn in weird ways for reasons he can't quite place yet.

"Alright, funny guy," Maverick says, placing his hands on his hips. "I've got the security footage of the perp. If we head back to the station and get to work, we can maybe an ID on this guy by tonight."