Rhapsody

8: bros before mortal enemies

The next morning is a mess of slushy wet concrete and dismal gray skies. The storm wreaked havoc on the city and has since continued to roil threateningly above the Manhattan skyscrapers, and the scent of petrichor sits in the air, thick like a fog.

Six a.m. is an ungodly time for any creature to be awake, let alone someone with as bad of a headache as Maverick. Today is the annual training day between the NYPD and FDNY—one of the most important exercises for both departments—and Maverick is hungover as shit.

It's half past six when his car screams into the precinct parking lot, skidding on ice. Beyond the obvious hangover and lack of sleep, Maverick's mind is a mess. He doesn't want to be here. And he definitely doesn't want to think about his mother, or her grave, or Callum, or Emery.

Speak of the devil, Maverick's eyes settle on the tall figure standing near the edge of the building. Emery appears as prim and proper as yesterday, with his hair neatly styled, clothes fitted and wrinkle-free. Oddly enough, he hasn't donned a jacket today. Instead, he wears a simple black turtleneck—a choice that once again highlights the sharpness of his jawline—with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing sinewy forearms to the elements. Maverick huffs. Does he seriously not get cold?

As Maverick clambers out of his car, Emery's eyes shift over to him. He fights the shiver that wants to race down his spine at the memory of those icy eyes from last night. The creature—because that's what he is, a nonhuman creature that sniffs people to get their scent—stares at him. His eyes are pale as the cool gray sky, his cheekbones a bit too sharp. He looks too comfortable here, among the slicked iron and awash in the few neon signs that blink in the early morning light.

"Good morning, detective," he says. He holds out his arm, revealing a steaming hot cup of coffee. "I thought you may want this."

Maverick's gaze shifts from the cup of caffeinated goodness, to the hand holding it, to the blank expression of his partner. The pale eyes are placid, neutral, and emotionless. Inhuman.

He sneers at the cup of coffee. "Aren't you a good boy?"

Emery's expression warps in a second. A snarl rips from his throat, and through the terrible and unholy sound Maverick hears him say, "Asshole."

"Right back at you, wolfy. If you think one cup of coffee is going to make up for all the headaches you've caused—"

"I'm not trying to make up for anything," Emery snaps. "Caffeine makes you more agreeable. Though it may seem like an act of kindness to cure your hangover, this is really to prevent me from developing a headache."

"I really hate you, you know that?"

"So I've suspected."

"And I—"

"Hey, Maverick, you got a second?"

Lieutenant Darcy waves at him from across the parking lot.

"Would you look at that?" Maverick says with a sneer. "Duty calls, wolfy. Sniff you later."

Emery snarls, shoving the coffee into Maverick's grasp. The force spills some of the hot liquid on his hands. Maverick hisses in pain, but Emery doesn't seem to care. He stalks off, chest still rumbling, and, after glaring at his retreating back, Maverick retreats, scowling through the steam of his coffee.

When Maverick approaches Darcy, the lieutenant's eyes shift between him and the werewolf's receding figure. He clears his throat.

"So," he begins. "I wanted to speak to you about your partnership with Detective Faustine..."

Maverick bristles. "I already heard the spiel from Vaughn yesterday. I don't need it from you, too," he snaps. He glares at Emery, and then redirects his gaze back to Darcy. "I didn't realize you and the wolfman were even close."