Rhapsody

18: something's gotta give

The rain begins some twenty minutes after Maverick leaves the graveyard. It's just a drizzle when he slips through the parking lot to the door of his apartment building, but by the time Emery's car comes prowling into the lot, it's an unrelenting torrent.

Emery circles the lot a few times before he finds a spot. Meanwhile, Maverick lingers by the door, waiting. The cobalt sky is roiling with something ancient and powerful tonight. Yet, there's also an unmistakable stillness on the street. The eeriness of it all imbues him with a sense of restlessness that he can't quite shake.

The rain doesn't seem to bother Emery, though. Maverick follows his partner's silhouette as it moves through the storm in a graceful lope. Dark hair is slicked to his skin.

"It's about time," Maverick says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Emery clucks his tongue as he approaches. "Patience, detective."

The wolf's blue irises reflect the storm, and his pupils are dilated in the low light. He seems far too comfortable in the chaotic night. It's one part odd, two parts endearing, and overall unsettling, in a charming sort of way. Maverick would try to place it, but frankly, he doesn't care. He's given up on trying to understand the walking paradox that is Emery Faustine.

"C'mon, you overgrown puppy, let's go," he says. "Try not to look so excited, either. You just got shot."

Emery laughs, all sharp canines and no menace. The sound is pleasant. Not that Maverick is into him, or anything stupid like that. Sure, so maybe Emery is, objectively, hot as fuck. Maverick is not into him, thank you very much.

Placing a hand on his partner's chest, Maverick shoves Emery aside. It's not enough to do anything to him, but he moves anyway, still smiling that sharp smile like the absolute bastard he is. Maverick leads the way to the second floor with hunched shoulders, and Emery follows on his heels.

"I ordered food on the way here," Maverick says. He did, he remembers, because his stupid hands got jittery and next thing he knew, he was ringing up the Chinese food place down the street and ordering extra fortune cookies. "I didn't know how hungry you would be, or what I should get, or if you even eat. Shit—you do eat, right?"

Emery hums behind him. "Yes, I eat. On occasion."

"Oh. Good."

He jams his key in the lock, and swings his door open.

"Home sweet home," he announces. "It's uh... it's not much."

"On the contrary, detective," Emery says, stepping inside, "I think it's pleasant."

Pleasant. Maverick frowns, and looks around.

All things considered, it isn't that bad. It's a clean, nice one bedroom on 10th avenue. An old record player sits in the corner—from his mother, although there are a few records Maverick stole from his father on his last visit three years ago. There's a small dining room table—also from his mother—between the couch and kitchen. A few pictures and things hang on the walls, too, but other than that, everything is plain and minimal. Maverick likes it that way.

He'll be the first to admit, though, that he could invest in better lighting. The shadows are hazy and ambiguous. He's been meaning to buy a good lamp, but never quite got around to it. For now, he and Emery are bathed in a soft half light.

Sighing, Maverick tosses his leather jacket across the back of the couch, and ventures further into the apartment. God, he's so tired. He clears his throat, but before he can open his mouth, a loud wail interrupts him.

Pam.

The fluffy little cat struts up to them, gray tail waving high in the air like a banner. She peers at their werewolf guest with large, suspicious eyes, and her whiskers twitch.