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The thing is he’s not stupid. Far from it in fact. He’s been trained to assess body language, to detect the slightest tics or movements. It can mean the difference between apprehending a suspect safely and having a bullet put through your head. It can mean knowing when the man at the door is hiding something, and walking away to let his wife suffer the brunt of his anger. He’s a cop in and out of uniform, he can’t switch it off anymore than a nurse or teacher can. So he notices things, like subtle changes in behaviour. He knows when his neighbour Judy’s had a call from her son and he can tell when it’s been months since the last one. Friends, acquaintances strangers –it doesn’t matter, John can see where they give themselves away. And it damn sure isn’t any different when it comes to his own son.
John knows he’s not around as much as he’d like to be, or as much as he’d promised he would be when his wife had died. Back then he’d been full of promises and grand ideas, telling himself he’d be the kind of parent who could make up for the loss of the other. (Of course he’d come to realise early on that such a feat was impossible and he’d been stupid to ever think he could fill that hole in either of their hearts). He’d be there to pick Stiles up from school, he’d take his turn coaching Saturday afternoon soccer matches, and he’d host birthday parties that would make all the other kids green with envy. He’d make every spelling bee, every parent teacher conference, every movie night. He’d do all the things his wife had done and more, because his kid deserved it.
It lasted six months, tops, and then reality had set in. Insurance only got you so far. His wife had been ill for years, the cancer playing it’s now you see me, now you don’t games with her body, and she’d been in and out of work until finally throwing in the towel. But like most people they’d found ways of managing to make up for the loss of income. They made the smart but painful decision to stop at one child; instead of the three they’d imagined when they’d both been young and fit and healthy and naive, so very naive. They had their savings to fall back on when things started to get tough. But then there were the mounting hospital bills to pay, the mortgage to keep up with, the clothes to buy for a kid who wouldn’t stop growing, and things had swiftly gotten on top of them. It wasn’t until the whirlwind of the funeral and revolving door of friends and family had subsided that John had finally gotten a chance to sit down and look at their, his, finances. It had been a shock to see just how bad things had got. So his dreams of being the part time cop and full time father had come to an abrupt end. Because the bank didn’t care how much he loved his son or that his wife had passed away, they just wanted their money. And he’d be damned if on top of losing his mother Stiles lost his home too.
So he went to work. He sought promotion after promotion and slowly but steadily he found himself moving up the ladder and out of the red. More responsibility meant more money; it was as simple as that. And it was such a gradual process that he didn’t realise just how little time he and Stiles spent together, not until it was too late. He’d walked through the front door one night and been met by the sight of his son diligently completing his homework at the kitchen table, while dinner cooked in the oven, and he’d realised in that instant that the raising was more or less done. Stiles didn’t need him anymore.
That didn’t mean though that he stopped being a father, or a cop. So John still noticed things in Stiles’ life; mostly small, everyday occurrences that other parents might have overlooked. Like the sudden and slightly suspect spike in the number of 24 hour gaming sessions spent with Scott, or the fact that Scott could suddenly get through a ten minute walk without fumbling for his inhaler. (And he’d be damned if he was going to believe that a sixteen year old boy could just “grow” out of asthma overnight, sorry Melissa). Then there had been the gradual but noticeable decline in Lydia Martin references, which if he was being honest, he’d been glad to see the back of because that girl was never going to do anything but break his son’s heart. Oh and of course, there was Stiles’ newfound friendship with a man four years his senior. A man who, ultimately found innocent or not, had sat in John’s interrogation room one too many times for him to be completely comfortable with. And alright, it had taken him a while to figure out what exactly that particular “friendship” entailed but he’d got there in the end. Though he had to give his son credit for the wide and varied excuses he’d come up with to explain away the aforementioned (possible) criminal’s presence in his son’s bedroom.
First Derek was his tutor, then he was Scott’s tutor (because Stiles quickly seemed to realise that made much more sense), then he spent a brief period as a lacrosse coach, followed by a computer technician (the least believable perhaps, since John had witnessed firsthand Derek stabbing at the keyboard with an intensity to rival his seventy-three year old mother). There had been a dozen or so other excuses in-between until his son had finally thrown his hands up in the air and declared in a way that made John feel guilty for even asking; ‘he doesn’t have anyone else and he lives all alone in a house in the middle of the freakin’ woods and frankly dad, I’m worried about what a hermit might do to our little town’s tourism trade and as a fairly hefty pillar of the Beacon Hills community, I think it should concern you too’.
The weird thing was, that last and final excuse hadn’t seemed like an out and out lie. John knew when Stiles was playing with the truth -the kid had enough tells to rival a very bad conman- and when he was lying to his face, but it hadn’t seemed like either of those things. He’d realised that for whatever reason, his son actually cared about Derek Hale.
So he let it go. Well, in a way. He stopped badgering Stiles for reasons and excuses but he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t about to turn a blind eye to a full grown man coming in and out his teenage son’s window at all hours of the day and (or so he suspected) night. So Derek was invited to dinner –the kind of invitation that didn’t insinuate but flat out told you your refusal wasn’t an option. That being said, John had still been surprised when the guy had actually shown up. As had Stiles, going by the expression on his kid’s face. Yet he’d watched incredulously as shock had quickly faded into something warmer, something softer that he couldn’t quite put a name to. He’d kept watching as they’d sat down at the table, Derek naturally moving to sit at Stiles’ right, their arms not quite brushing as they settled into place. He saw the way Derek actually made an effort to answer his questions (even if it was with short, monosyllabic responses) and the small, barely noticeable smile that graced Stiles’ face every time he did, as if he didn’t even realise he was doing it. John took stock of the way Derek rolled his eyes at Stiles’ rambling, but with something closer to affection than annoyance. And it was right there on the tip of his tongue, what to call this... this friendship.
He didn’t get it though, not completely, until Derek was leaving. Stiles had dashed off to retrieve their guest’s coat, a bundle of enthusiasm and nervous energy, and he’d expected Hale to make a break for it the second he turned his back and moved to the sink. Yet to his surprise, he followed him into the kitchen. John had stood there, sleeves rolled up while the hot water ran, and he’d just barely caught Derek’s voice over the sound of the tap. “He misses you.” It was short and simple, a little gruff, and by the time he turned around the man was gone.
Three little words. And alright, they weren’t those words, but they might as well have been because in that brief moment Derek Hale had shown his true colours. He cared about Stiles, enough to care about his relationship with his father, enough to actually say something to his father. And that was no small thing.
It was enough to reassure John, to tell him that while he still didn’t have the full story (because they weren’t dating, he knew that from the shy, newness to their interactions) it was okay. For now he could relax and feel safe in the knowledge that Stiles had someone looking out for him. And maybe they’d figure out things between them, realise exactly what the undercurrent of their friendship was, or maybe they wouldn’t. He couldn’t do anything about that. But what John could do was go to sleep at night knowing his son missed him, and he could damn well fix that.