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He doesn’t set out to spy. But it’s his cop instinct on top of his parental one that makes him slow down when he sees Stiles’s Jeep parked outside of the laundromat. His curiosity wins out and he parks on the opposite side of the street when he remembers that it’s a Monday night that Stiles says he’s spending with Scott.
They have a washer and dryer at home, so John doesn’t know why Stiles would be lugging his clothes and quarters across town. He looks through the floor to ceiling windows and as he's looking for a familiar profile, he wonders why on earth every laundromat seems to have floor to ceiling windows. It can’t just be for curious fathers semi-accidentally spying on their offspring.
He's got the perfect view to easily see inside and to watch Stiles sitting on a machine the color of a boiled egg yolk and talking (naturally) and gesturing with his hands (of course). John's gaze wanders and he sees who Stiles is talking to, he sees Derek at the bank of dryers against the wall pulling clothes from one dryer and tossing them into a rolling laundry cart and filling another dryer.
John’s not surprised to see who it is—more and more, if Stiles isn’t with Scott, it’s a safe bet that he’ll be wherever Derek is. And he knows Stiles knows he’s good with them dating. So why, he wonders, didn’t Stiles just say where he’d be?
He has his phone in his hand and is ready to hit send on Stiles’s number when he sees Derek push the cart in Stiles's direction. Stiles hops off the washer, catching the cart, and even though John can't hear, he can see Stiles's smile and knows he's laughing.
John watches as Stiles starts to fold the clothes in the cart and he remembers Stiles as a kid, sitting on the bed and folding clothes with his mom. How hard he'd work to make sure everything looked right and how patient Stiles's mom would be, talking him through each fold. That’d been their thing -- John would wash the clothes, and then she and Stiles would fold them.
After Stiles’s mom had passed away, Stiles had inherited the folding duties and then they’d both kind of let it slide. He can’t remember the last time they did laundry together.
Those lost opportunities aren’t something he wants to dwell on. They’re in the past and unchangeable. But he remembers what those moments felt like, the ordinary routines that he probably never thought twice about when he was doing them and that now he’d do anything to have again. He’d even go so far as to say he feels a little jealous of the two of them--his kid and his kid’s boyfriend--and the boring, wonderful things they’re starting to do together. John’s starting to get an idea that this might be more serious than either of them let on.
He drives away and doesn’t mention it. Doesn’t think much about it until a week later when he happens to drive by the laundromat again and, again, there’s Stiles. And there’s Derek. And this time John sees that Stiles has brought food.
John drives by weekly, stops just for a couple of minutes. Enough to watch them talk and laugh, sneaking kisses in the few steps between the washer and dryer.
When he sees clothes he recognizes as Stiles’s, he knows it’s time for a talk.