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Jordan stares at the uniform laid out on his bed.
There’s something wrong with it, he can tell. For one thing, it smells like it’s spent a decade in an attic. Looks like it too. For another, where his nametag is supposed to be is a piece of masking tape with ‘Parrish’ written in orange Sharpie. He’s not sure if he’s more offended by the fact that whoever did this (though he’s got a good idea who, based on what’s under the masking tape) used orange, which is just not complimentary to the uniform’s color scheme, or because the smiley face next to his name takes away from his professionalism.
But when he peels back the tape and finds an embroidered Stilinski where name plaque usually goes on the current uniforms, he sticks the tape back down, because, no. He’s not about to walk into the station and announce that this is the Sheriff’s old deputy uniform.
It’s kind of obvious, but Jordan’s going to hold onto what little pride he has left. If he had more time before he needed to be at the station, he would hunt down the person responsible and take his uniform back. But he doesn’t and he can’t very well show up to the station in his pajamas, so…
It really smells like mothballs.
--
His fellow deputies squint at him. They can tell something is off too. It’s not just the design of the uniform that doesn’t match, it’s the way it hangs too loose off Jordan’s body. The masking tape doesn’t help either.
He was going to rip off the edge with the smiley face, in some futile attempt to salvage his professional appearance, but that would have revealed the ski of Stilinski. Maybe he could have just covered that with another piece of masking tape, but then the edges wouldn’t have lined up correctly and well, that would look even more unprofessional.
He’s too peeved to realized that if he wanted to go the route of masking tape on his shirt, he could have just gotten a new piece long enough to cover the whole name. Could have even wrote his own name on it with a respectably colored Sharpie.
As it stands, he sits hunched over his desk, trying to hide his borrowed (more like stolen for him- is that the worst offense here? He feels like he should know what’s most likely to hold up in court, so he knows what to charge Stiles with when he arrests him.) shirtfront and goes about his work.
The smell of mothballs bothers him, though.
And the day doesn’t get any better when the Sheriff walks in, takes a look around his department, catches Jordan’s unhappy expression and looks down at his shirt.
“I didn’t think he’d actually do it,” is all Noah says to him before walking into his office. Jordan hears him on the phone though, talking to Melissa and asking if she has any advice on how to handle teenagers with Alfred complexes.
“It’s better than a Batman complex, isn’t it?” is all Melissa can offer.
Noah and Jordan both sigh.
--
Noah slides a key over to Jordan at the end of his shift.
“That’s… ominous,” Jordan says.
“It’s to my front door. My son should be home now with your uniform. I expect you want it back?”
“More than you want this one back, right?”
“It’s even more unflattering on you than it was on me, kid.”
“I feel like neither of us won with that comment.”
“I think you’re right. But uh-” Noah says, glancing around. “I think a startle might do him some good, and lord knows I’ve had enough of people coming in through windows.”
“I can imagine,” Jordan says and pockets the key. It’s a very good thing that his shift is over; the masking tape is all but peeling off.
“Just don’t scare him too bad. He’s jumpy and liable to break something, and it’ll be your luck that the thing he breaks is your uniform.”
Jordan weighs the benefits of scaring Stiles against having to pay for another uniform. “Can I just arrest him?”
“Nah, it won’t hold up, so it’ll look bad on all of us.”
Jordan slumps. “I’ve had enough of looking bad for today.”
“Just wait until you get to be my age,” Noah says. “It’s a lot harder to look this good.”
--
Jordan’s very quiet as he opens the door to the Stilinski house. There is another car parked out front next to Stiles’ and it may well belong to a werewolf, so stealth might be moot, but he’s going to go for it anyway.
Noah warned him about the creaky fourth step and he’s careful to avoid it. He feels like he should have his gun drawn and announce himself, though.
But this isn’t police work. It’s a matter of revenge.
He hears voices as he reaches the second floor, familiar voices coming from a door that’s half open. They’re saying things Jordan doesn’t understand, about endothermic properties and combustion rates, and well Jordan might not get exactly what they’re discussing, but he knows from personal experience that his uniform plus anything that combusts is a no-go.
So he pushes the door all the way open and is about to demand they all put their hands in the air, but the spectacle of Stiles’ room stops him. Because… well it looks more like the high school’s lab than the Batcave.
“What in the…” Jordan says, looking at the folding tables covered in beakers and Bunsen burners and bottles of chemicals and oh, hell no, that’s a bottle of lighter fluid.
“Okay, never mind, I don’t care. Give me back my uniform.”
“Er…” Stiles says, nudging the articles of clothing behind his back. “Your… bowling uniform?”
“Stiles.”
“I’ve heard you’re an excellent bowler,” Mason says, lifting his head from behind Stiles’ computer. Well, that explains the other car.
“Honestly, you boys need to learn to come up with better cover stories,” a voice says from behind a translucent crime board that’s so marked up, Jordan didn’t even see her.
But then Lydia sticks her head out and well, there’s no denying the betrayal now.
“Really, Lydia?” Jordan asks.
“Oh, relax. If anything, my involvement should put you at ease.”
“And yet here I am, wearing a masking tape name tag, smelling like moth balls.”
“I would have washed the uniform,” Stiles says. “But I honestly thought it might fall apart in the machine.”
“Not the best choice for an active day of law enforcement, then, was it?” They don’t need to know that he stayed at his desk his entire shift.
“Oh please, you stayed at your desk the whole day,” Stiles says, and dammit Noah.
“I could have gotten up, you never know.”
“Um, I always know, actually.”
Jordan really wishes he had a rebuttal for that. Instead he just says, “Can I have my uniform back or not?”
“Of course,” Stiles says, turning around and putting the clothes on a hanger. “Just as soon as we show you the upgrades.”
It might have been Jordan’s brain employing some defense mechanism and having him forget about all the lab equipment and talk of combustion rates, because he replies by saying, “I just hope it’s not another name tag, because you aren’t very good at making them.”
“Well, that’s just rude,” Stiles says, placing the hanger on a rack beside him and dousing the fabric with the lighter fluid.
“Wait, stop!” Jordan shouts, but Stiles is already holding a lighter to the soaking clothing. Jordan watches in dismay as his expensive (so very expensive) uniform goes up in flames again.
Stiles is grinning, and boy, does he look evil in the light of fire. Mason looks on with a contemplative expression and Lydia observes the ordeal, looking like she picking the situation apart.
“Were the theatrics really necessary, Stiles?” she asks, marking something on the board.
“Sorry, I was feeling a little punchy,” Stiles says, eyeing Jordan.
“You were feeling punchy?” Jordan demands. “You just set my uniform on fire!”
“Yes, I’m aware, I was there,” Stiles says, and wow, Jordan is going to arrest him, he
really is. “But if you’ll notice, the clothing in question is, in fact, not burnt.”
“I know how fire works, Stiles.”
“No, really, look, Parrish,” Mason says.
And something about his reasonable tone makes Jordan look back at his poor uniform. Which- okay, it’s not burning.
“How’d you… how did you do that?” he asks, coming up closer, feeling the last of the flames die away as it burns off all the lighter fluid. The fabric underneath is completely unscathed.
“Ask them,” Stiles says, gesturing to his coconspirators. “I just handled the illegal bits of this operation.”
“Science,” Lydia says, like that’s enough of an explanation.
“And a little bit of magic,” Mason says, his eyes alight. “Deaton is so cool.”
“And a lot of sacrificed, burnt shirts on my part, so you shouldn’t be mad at me,” Stiles adds.
“You broke into my apartment and stole my property.”
“I do that to a lot of people, don’t take it personal.”
“Oh my god, Stiles, I am a cop, you do remember that, right?”
“I’ve become numb to the fact, actually.”
“Would it make it better if I told you we’re also giving the science-related results to the Beacon County Fire Department? I think it’s kind of worth it,” Mason says.
Okay, he has a point.
“And more immediately,” Lydia says, stepping around the board to take a spray bottle from the table and hold it out to Jordan. “Now, you can fire-proof the rest of your wardrobe.”
“No more on-fire streaking,” Stiles tells him. “Since you’re so concerned with the law.”
Jordan stares at the bottle, trying to decide if he feels frustrated by their disregard for his… anything, really, or touched that they went through so much trouble for him.
“There’s just one condition,” Stiles goes on. “You have to say ‘Flame On’ every time.”
“Stiles,” Mason says, sounding like he’s about to chide him. “Actually, wait, that sounds cool, you should do that,” he tells Jordan.
“Don’t do that,” Lydia says, pulling the bottle back as if in warning.
“You can also say ‘Flameo Hotman’, if that suits you better,” Stiles says.
Mason’s eyes light up. “Or that!”
“Don’t do that either,” Lydia says, expecting him to agree because she lets him take the bottle.
“No, you should do that, and we’ll show you why!” Stiles says, clapping Mason’s shoulder and moving toward the closet.
“Oh, you actually finished it,” Lydia says, looking over at Mason.
“I did,” Mason replies, grinning.
“Did what?” Jordan asks, sounding only a little nervous because the touched feeling is winning out over his frustration, mothball smell and all.
“Did this!” Stiles calls, tossing something to Mason, who then holds it up for the room to see.
“You all have an Alfred complex,” Jordan says, though he can’t quite squash his smile as he looks at the jumpsuit Mason is presenting to him.
“At least no one’s Robin,” Stiles says. “Well, are you gonna try it on?”
Okay, so who doesn’t want to feel like the Human Torch? So Jordan clears his throat and says, “If you insist.”
“We do,” Mason says, looking excited.
“Okay,” Jordan says, a smile pulling on his face as he takes the garment from Mason and heads to the bathroom down the hall.
“Told you he’d like it,” he hears Mason say, probably to Lydia.
“I never said he wouldn’t,” comes her prim reply. “I just said we should focus on the uniform first.”
Jordan’s very relieved to shed the mothball smell. He looks at the suit up close, noticing the slightly raised emblem incorporated on the chest. He can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up, because of course there's a superhero icon.
It’s simple, actually, just three circles arranged to form a triangle. Jordan runs his finger over the ridges, feeling the last of his irritation fade, warmth and excitement taking its place. He shakes the suit out, looking for a zipper. There isn’t one, but there’s a slit down the back, so Jordan goes ahead and steps through the legs, nodding appreciatively at the fit.
The top half makes him pause, though, because it’s a lot looser than he expected, and with no zipper, he wonders how it’s supposed to work. But Mason’s comment on using magic has Jordan arranging the material to sit on his shoulders and he hesitates for only a second more before tapping the emblem. The material fits itself to his torso and when he turns to look at his back in the mirror, he finds that the slit has closed itself up.
Mason must have spent so much time on this.
Jordan pauses, feeling really… touched. At all of this. He doesn’t try so hard to hide his smile after he’s done admiring himself and the suit in the bathroom mirror and goes back to the kids’ make shift lab. Lydia’s pointing out something on the board to the boys, but she sees him first and nods.
“Nice job, Mason.”
“Yeah,” Jordan agrees. “Thanks.”
They seem to understand what he’s trying to say.
“Okay, so the obvious next step is to see if he can fly,” Stiles says, clearing his throat.
“I think I’d already know that by now, Stiles.”
“Have you tried?” Mason asks.
“I-” Jordan says. “Actually no.”
The teenagers exchange looks.
“I’ll get the field log,” Mason says, digging through a pile of paperwork on one of the tables. Stiles goes to his bookshelf.
“It’s probably a bad idea to film this, right?” he asks, holding a camcorder.
“Probably,” Jordan, Lydia and Mason say at the same time. Stiles’ shoulders slump.
“You win this day, Josh Trank.”
“Who?”
“Fantastic Four director.”
“I’m not sure anyone won with that,” Lydia says, hefting up a fire extinguisher.
“Finally, we agree on something,” Stiles says. “Anyway, let’s go.”
“Is it a good idea to do this in your backyard?” Mason asks.
Stiles and Lydia share a look. “The Preserve.”
When they get there, Jordan doesn’t say ‘Flame On’, but mostly because he’s smiling too much.