Work Text:
It's only Monday afternoon and Jordan is already more than done with the week.
The full moon is still three weeks away, but the whole town doesn't seem to have gotten that memo. In the twelve hours that passed between the time his shift started and the time he was finally able to climb back into his own vehicle, he was met with a laundry list of bizarre calls: multiple reports of some huge animal lurking on the edge of the Preserve, someone stumbling through the downtown streets with a bloody hunting knife, someone else standing on their roof and practically foaming at the mouth as they yelled obscenities towards the sky. He'd been so busy zipping from one end of town to the other that he didn't have time for lunch. The only kind of sustenance he's had at all was a half dozen cups of the tar-thick coffee at the sheriff's station and he's starting to crash from that too.
But at least he's finally going home now, cruising to his apartment through an evening that's rather pleasant, all things considered. The sky is slowly darkening from crystal clear periwinkle blue to navy, but the sun's warmth is still lingering around. There's a soft breeze twisting through his open windows and even though he knows that it's impossible, when he inhales deeply, he swears that he can smell the ocean lingering on the wind.
Even if he'll only be awake for a few more hours, the day is definitely looking up.
He pulls into the drive of his apartment building a few moments later. There are a few kids playing in the grassy square out front, being watched over by their parents on the balconies above. He continues around to the back of the building, to the parking spot labeled 310, and glances up out of habit at the balcony of the apartment he shares with Stiles. The sliding door is open and Phoenix, their orange cat with a face that could only be the result of running head-first into a wall, is poking his face through the bars of the railing, staring down at Jordan with a flicking tail.
"Hey Phoenix," he calls up as he slides from his car. "Did you hold down the fort?" The cat yowls and sneezes and Jordan doesn't bother to hold back his laugh. The cat had easily been the ugliest at the animal shelter and has a personality best described as temperamental, but Stiles had fallen in love with him at first sight and, well, Jordan isn't exactly good at denying Stiles anything.
The cat is growing on him, he has to admit.
He takes the stairs over the elevator. The stress of the day has melted right off his shoulders and, unless he's called in for some catastrophic incident (which is surprisingly common in Beacon Hills), he's not thinking about work until his next shift, in a little over twelve hours. He's not sure what kind of food they have in the fridge, but his evening plans consist of nothing more strenuous than making a quick dinner (or waiting for takeout to arrive), settling down on the couch with Stiles for an episode of one of the shows they're making their way through, and maybe ending up doing something a little more physical before bed.
The door is unlocked when he reaches it and when he steps inside, he's met by the cat once again. Phoenix trundles around his feet as he tries to take off his boots and when Jordan reaches out to pet him, his efforts are rewarded with a nip.
"Stiles?" he calls out, pressing his thumb against the small wound on his hand. "Are you home?"
Instead of being met with Stiles yelling from the living room or bedroom, he's met with an almost impressive barrage of profanity from the kitchen. It's definitely not out of character for Stiles to swear (far from it), but this goes beyond the normal level, and Jordan gives up on taking off his boots in favor of crossing the apartment to the kitchen.
Which is where he finds Stiles holding his hand above the sink, blood dripping from his palm.
"Fuck," Stiles hisses, flailing his non-injured hand backwards in the direction of the paper towel roll sitting beside the stove. He misses and stumbles, just far enough for another round drop of blood to land on the counter.
At the sight of that, Jordan shuts off most of the emotional part of his brain. Even though there's a hot spike of anxiety in his stomach, worrying isn't going to stop the bleeding. He crosses the room, yanks a piece of paper towel off the roll and places his hand on Stiles' back, to steady him.
"Can I see?" he asks. Stiles takes a moment before he nods, eyes squeezed close, face far paler than usual. He uncurls the fingers of his injured hand and wraps his other fingers around the rim of the counter, swaying discernibly on his feet.
"Don't pass out on me yet," Jordan says quietly, wetting the towel slightly before patting at Stiles' palm.
"Trying my best not to," Stiles says with a high-pitched laugh that Jordan really doesn't like the sound of. He continues dabbing away the blood until he can see the wound better. It's not exceptionally deep but it's long, extending from the base of Stiles' thumb to the other side of his palm. It probably won't need stitches, but it definitely requires bandages and cleaning.
"What happened?" he asks, gently pressing his thumb against the skin on one side of the wound. More droplets of fresh blood well from within it and Stiles hisses through his teeth.
"I was going to make garlic bread," Stiles says, nodding his head towards the sink, where one of their sharpest knives, now blood speckled, is sitting on top of half of a loaf of homemade bread they picked up from the farmer's market a few days ago. "And the bread was going stale and the other knife wouldn't cut through it, so I tried using that one and the door opening scared the hell out of me so, voila. Now I'm bleeding." The last sentence comes out weakly and Jordan wraps his arm around Stiles' waist.
"I thought blood didn't bother you," he says, tossing the paper towel onto the counter and steering Stiles towards the bathroom.
"Other people's doesn't," Stiles says, holding his injured hand out in front of him, palm up. "It's different when it's actually coming out of me."
"Well, I think it's coming to a stop." Once they reach the bathroom, Stiles plunks down hard on the edge of the bathtub while Jordan grabs the first aid kit stashed under the sink. Thankfully, they've had no reason to dip into it since moving in together and he easily finds cleansing wipes and a rolled up gauze bandage in it.
"Do I need stitches?" Stiles asks, face going even paler. "If I do, you might wanna grab me a bucket, so I can puke."
"It's not that bad," Jordan says. "Trust me, this is the least terrible thing I've seen all day."
"Oh, it was one of those days?" Stiles replies, holding out his hand and biting down on his lip when Jordan rubs one of the antiseptic wipes along the cut.
"It was," he affirms, making sure the wound is as clean as possible before he unrolls the bandage. "I'm just glad to be home."
"Even though I bled all over our kitchen?"
"Even then," Jordan laughs, wrapping the bandage around Stiles' hand one more time before securing it with a piece of medical tape from the first aid kit. "If you call for takeout, I'll clean up the kitchen."
"You're the best," Stiles says, craning forward to kiss Jordan's forehead. "Is Italian alright? I still really want garlic bread."
"Italian is always alright." Jordan gives his bandage work a quick once over before packing up the kit again. Stiles is still pale, but there's some color slowly flowing back into his cheeks and his eyes are a little less glazed over. Once the kit has been tucked back away, Jordan sits up on his knees and leans in to kiss Stiles, hands resting on his thighs. When he pulls back, Stiles' mouth is quirked up into a smile and the spike of fear in Jordan's stomach finally starts to dissipate.
"I'm glad you're home too," he says, resting his non-injured hand on top of one of Jordan's. "So, Italian and Netflix and maybe hand jobs later?"
"Just don't try and use that hand," Jordan laughs, getting to his feet.
"Good thing I'm almost ambidextrous," Stiles says, wiggling his eyebrows comically high before stepping out of the bathroom. Jordan huffs out a laugh and ducks back under the sink to grab a package of cleaning wipes for the kitchen.
Stiles may have bled all over the counter, but this is still easily better than the rest of his day and, for the next eleven hours, he's not going to think about anything beyond the walls of their apartment.
Work can wait until tomorrow. Until then, he has Stiles to focus on.