Rhapsody

6: between skin and skin

By the time Maverick has forced the car through the worst of New York's traffic, the wind has begun to howl against the windows. Emery is still visibly stressed. Since leaving the liquor store, his left hand has kept a firm grip on his knee, fingers flexing against the fabric of his trousers. His right elbow is against the window, and he alternates between running a hand agitatedly through his—admittedly—very fluffy-looking hair, and resting the tip of his thumb against the corner of his mouth.

"You gonna tell me what happened back there?" Maverick asks, frowning.

The liquor store is fifteen minutes behind them, but it still makes Maverick shiver. He doesn't know what's worse, the weird encounter with Jerry or the static prickle of frustration still emanating off the werewolf beside him.

Emery's eyes shift over to him. For all his silence, there's an entire storm rolling in those blue irises. "No."

And he turns back to the window.

Maverick huffs. "Whatever."

Ten minutes later, he brings the car to a stop in front of the precinct. The wind is something of a vengeful ghost as he clambers out of the vehicle. Maverick's fingers at this point are likely experiencing the beginning stages of hypothermia, but there's no excuse for his folly. He knows New York. He knows the icy breath of its winters and the wicked bite of its storms. He knows January is cold here and yet, like the stupid son of a bitch he is, he repeatedly insists on bundling up in only a dingy hoodie and a leather jacket.

Emery is kind enough to keep the door open for him. Or, Maverick is fast enough to slip in before the werewolf can leave him behind. He can't tell, because one moment, Emery's arms are outstretched to hold the door, and in the next, his shoulders are closed off and he prowls several paces ahead as if he wants nothing to do with Maverick. As soon as he marches into the bullpen, he makes an immediate beeline for Lieutenant Darcy's desk.

Annoyance tugs at Maverick, but he tells himself he doesn't care. Good riddance. Maybe, without the distraction of a partner, he can finish up the report by tonight.

Groaning, he flops down at his desk and gets to work.

.

Hours later—judging by the clock and the shift in sunlight through the precinct's dingy windows—Maverick has no positive I.D. on a suspect, and no other leads besides the security footage and what may or may not have been a valid scent detected by Emery.

In other words, he's got jack shit.

He's nearly finished with his report when Captain Vaughn approaches his desk.

"Carson, how did the case go this morning?"

Maverick leans back in his chair, fixing his captain with a cool gaze. "How in the fucking hell do you think it went?"

Vaughn fixes him with a hard stare. "You want to try that again?"

"Sorry. I meant, how in the fucking heck do you think it went?"

The captain doesn't look impressed.

"Fine, whatever. Don't fire me." He groans, and sits up in his chair. "I'm finishing up the report, and—"

"Perhaps what I should have asked," the captain interjects, "is how your partnership with Faustine is? Are you playing nice?"

Maverick works his jaw.

When he doesn't respond, Captain Vaughn continues, "I don't need to remind you how important the 1-1's first lycanthrope detective is to the police department."

"No, sir," he says.

"Or how imperative it is that we make this work."

"Of course, sir."