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John sighed wearily as he pocketed his keys and shut the front door. It had been a long night and he was looking forward to getting a good sleep in.
“Stiles?” he called out. The silence that greeted him in response made his mouth quirk. John knew that Stiles wouldn’t really be up before 9 o’clock on a Saturday morning, but a parent could always be hopeful.
With a turn of the lock to the door and a flip of the front light porch switch, John dragged his tired body up the stairs. He paused outside Stiles’ room and placed his hand flat against the door.
“Stiles?” he called out again, just on the off chance his son hadn’t been listening to his first call. Since Stiles had hit puberty, John had learned to never enter the young man’s bedroom without announcing himself – one traumatic and forever embarrassing incident was all that it took to learn so.
His hand moved to the door knob and he hesitated for a second before he grabbed it and turned. He’d just poke his head into the room, catch his son -- who was so forever in motion -- still and at peace.
As soon as the door was cracked and his nose hit the opened space, he choked on the smell that rushed out. “Damn! How frequent did Stiles jack off last night?” he thought to himself.
In his stunned state, John had opened the door further than he had planned to and his eyes took in the state of his son’s room, the bed and his son.
“Holy shit!”
Not even his sharp expletive stirred his son from his apparently post orgasmic marathon.
John’s eyes did a more thorough sweep of the room, taking in all the extra details his first pass had missed. Clothes strewn haphazardly all over the floor – only one set by the looks. What snagged his eyes though were the open window and the jacket that hung from the back of Stile’s desk chair. Leather. Black. Not his son’s.
John frowned, he knew that jacket. “Where?” his mind whispered. He flipped through all the people he’d seen in and around his son who would wear such a distinctive piece of clothing and when his mind landed on Hale, his brain stuttered to a stop.
“Don’t jump to conclusions! You’re a lawman, there could be a perfectly legitimate reason why Stiles would have Hale’s jacket,” he told himself quietly.
With a step further into the room, he looked back to the bed and his son. What he saw with clarity was that his son wasn’t starfished on the bed like he’d normally be. There was a void in the shape of a person missing and his son had reached out a hand as if in supplication to keep that person there. To restrain them, missing them.
With a sharp inhaled breath and a long sigh out, John took a few more steps forward. His eyes landed on the waste basket next to the bed and they widened even further, if that was possible – for inside the basket were crumbled tissues, six ripped condom packets and six used condoms. A brief internal thanks inside his head went by, that Stiles had practiced safe sex; that their Talk had apparently done some good.
But his next thought was, “My son is either a stud or…?” It petered out when it truly hit him that maybe he shouldn’t have… Shouldn’t have pigeon holed his son’s sexuality based on his life-long crush on Lydia Martin and the way Stiles dressed. John cringed and ran a hand through his hair and down his face. Now he was beyond just physically tired.
Another sigh escaped past his lips and with a firm shake of his head, he spun on his heel to leave the room. He needed rest before he and Stiles had a talk about whatever was going on. He stopped at the door and turned his head back for one more glimpse of his son. He hated that it was most likely his arrival home that had made his son’s boyfriend… lover… partner leave in such a hurry. That his arrival home would force his son to wake up alone after being loved. That their fear that a father wouldn’t understand the nature of his son, was just one more burden added on top of the new world of werewolves his son lived in.
They would talk about this soon, because he loved his son, no matter what or who was in his son’s life.