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John shows up at the house the day after the move with a bag of doughnuts in one hand, a carrier of coffee in the other, and three boxes in the trunk of his car that somehow missed making it into the U-Haul.
He hooks the coffee onto a finger, maneuvering carefully so he can check his watch to make sure he’s hit the sweet spot of late enough to ensure the guys have gotten their beauty sleep but early enough that he can still help with the unpacking. As he stands at the front door, he sees through the one of the side windows and straight into the house. There are boxes stacked up against the wall and across the floor in various states of opened and unpacked. He can see what looks like a basketball-sized wad of discarded packing tape, crumpled newspaper, and packing bubbles, and in the middle of all that, he can see two sets of feet, that are connected to legs and torsos, and there are Derek and Stiles hug--, nope, scratch that, kissing.
It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, but John makes a mental note that maybe the first item on the to-do list should be putting up curtains.
Actually, first things first, he’ll probably have to go buy them curtains. He’s willing to bet that window treatments weren’t on their shopping list.
He knocks on the door, and a minute later it’s flung open by Stiles, who’s wearing his biggest, goofiest smile. Even if John hadn’t had a sneak peek, the state of his son’s extra-disheveled hair would’ve let him know it wasn’t just from a new homeowner’s high or the sight of his dad on the his front stoop.
“Dad! Hey, hi, hello, welcome,” Stiles says, picking a particularly static-happy sheet of packing bubbles from the side of his shirt. He leans in for a hug and the loud pop when they do says he didn’t get it all. “You brought coffee. You are my hero, my absolute hero. We have no idea where the coffeemaker is and I was totally just going to hit up the shop on the corner because it was getting seriously inhuman here.”
“Are you going to invite me in?” John asks, raising an eyebrow, and Stiles springs into action with an “oh my God, of course,” as he grabs the coffee and the doughnuts and holds open the door and makes a sweeping gesture toward the inside of the house.
Derek is waiting just inside, and he kicks the packing tape ball out of the way as he reaches out his hand and asks, “John. Is your bag out in the car? I can go grab it.”
John can’t help but roll his eyes. “It can wait. And c’mon, son,” he says, grabbing Derek's shoulders and pulling him into a hug. "We are long past handshakes. You’re just going to have to get used to the fact that you’re in the hug category for life.”
Derek’s chest shakes in a kind of exhaled laugh as he returns the hug quickly and answers, “Okay.”
“Good boy.” He lets Derek go and looks around the house and can see more boxes stacked in the hallway. There’s a couch up against the wall and two lawn chairs with a card table, and he can hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. “The move went well, I take it. Nothing looks broken, and I see you're already making headway on the unpacking."
"We have a good pack of friends." Stiles says, already indulging in a doughnut by the look of his distended cheek.
"And pizza and beers are a lot more affordable than professional movers," Derek adds, taking the coffee Stiles holds out to him.
"I'm even cheaper labor. I bring the food to you." John grabs his coffee and says, casually, “It’s probably a good idea to get curtains up as soon as possible, though. That side window offers a pretty direct line into your place from the front door.”
“What? Scott said... I asked if you could see in.” John would feel worse for Stiles and his horror if he didn't have half of a doughnut in his mouth. As it is, it's difficult not to grin looking at Stiles's chipmunk cheek and a streak of powdered sugar on his lips. "He said he couldn’t see anything."
“It’s easy not to see something when you have your eyes closed,” Derek says, grabbing a doughnut out of the bag and looking uncharacteristically okay with the news. He smiles at Stiles and swipes his thumb over his own lip. "And Scott has always been really good about not seeing things."
"Oh man,” Stiles says, not catching Derek’s hint. “we should've asked Lydia. She would've told me."
John reaches for the doughnuts, but Stiles pulls them away. “No, no way, we have a banana and cereal if you’re hungry. I even bought milk. It’s skim, but you’ll just have to deal.”
“Stiles, give me the damn doughnuts. I paid for them.” Stiles gives in perhaps a bit too easily. John knows this will probably come and bite him in the ass, but he just drove an hour and he hasn’t had breakfast and they aren’t the only ones who get hairy without coffee and breakfast. “Thank you."
He heads back to the car to retrieve his bag. As he heads out the door he can hear Derek say, “You’ve got something --”
He makes sure not to look in the window as he walks toward his car.
-----
Between the three of them, they manage to unpack, assemble, and put away about a half of the boxes that had been stacked in the living room. The highlight of the day is when one of the orphaned boxes from the car turns out to contain the missing coffeemaker.
“Son, I think you’re going to make Derek jealous if you keep that up,” John says as Stiles hugs it to his chest and mutters sweet nothings.
“Just be glad you weren’t here yesterday. I’m surprised everything doesn’t have a name.” Derek collapses an empty box and adds it to the stack.
“Very funny.” Stiles throws a wadded up ball of packing tape at Derek, who catches it easily. “I'm starved. Pizza?”
---
“I gotta say, we didn’t do too bad for a day’s work,” John says, leaning against the kitchen counter and raising his beer. Stiles had literally drawn the short stick to pick up the food, and Derek had grabbed them beers while they waited. “That pizza’s gonna taste great. When it gets here, that is.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Derek says, tipping his beer forward and clinking the neck against John’s. "Thanks for your help."
John's about to say an easy 'no problem' when he catches something in Derek's expression, something he knows down to the marrow of his bones, and he's reminded at just how much Derek's lost over the years--his family, his home. It didn't escape his notice how few of the boxes were labeled 'Derek's.'
"I think I miss Stiles's mom the most when I'm the happiest. Because I can't tell her or share whatever it is with her," he says, picking at his beer label. "She would've been here at the crack of dawn with cleaning supplies and a check list. And probably a couple of rugs."
"My sister would've probably repacked the entire U-Haul and then stood over everyone as we unpacked," Derek admits.
John smiles at that. "I didn't know your sister, or your family. Not more than on waving terms, a hello in the grocery store. But speaking as a parent, as someone who's know you as long as I have -- your family would be proud. U-Haul packing ability or no."
Derek’s phone beeps, cutting off whatever it was he was going to say to John, and he skips straight over the hello and answers with, “The whole point of picking up the pizza is so that it doesn’t arrive cold and a half-hour late.” John watches his expression go from neutral to his brow creasing in confusion and then quite possibly concern and finally amusement. “Eleven twenty four. West. Yes. Okay, see you in a few.”
Derek moves the phone away from his ear and even John can hear that Stiles still has something to say. Derek pulls the phone back quickly as he listens. “No, we’re good here. Yeah. Of course I would, you idiot. Of course I do. Yes.”
Derek’s face is soft as he hits end, and John gives him a couple of beats before he says anything.
“He forgot the address, didn’t he?”
“He was the one who made the big deal about the address being his and Scott’s old lacrosse numbers.” Derek says, laughing. “He asked if I’d try to find him if he got lost.”
“You were going to give him another five before you went looking, weren’t you?” John asks. He already knows the answer.
“I would have texted him first.”
---
“Don’t even start,” Stiles says when he finally arrives home, by now room temperature pizza in-hand. He looks straight at Derek as he continues, “I am not above denying you your cinnamon breadsticks.”
Derek flashes him a toothy grin and takes the pizza from Stiles’s hands as he passes him a beer. “I’d like to see you try.”
“Guys? Food?” John says, reaching for the pizza box. Before he can though, Stiles smacks his hand away.
“Even if I don’t live with you anymore, doesn’t mean I’m not going to make sure you’re eating healthy,” Stiles says, handing John a carryout container marked ‘salad.’ “My house, my rules. And I paid for the damn stuff, so you’re going to eat this.”
And there it is, the bite in the ass. He learned a long time ago he can’t easily win an argument when Stiles uses his own words against him.
“Yes, son,” he says, hoping that Stiles at least picked up some decent salad dressing.
---
The pizza makes it to the card table and the boys use paper towels as plates as they sit on the couch together while John settles onto one of the lawn chairs with his salad.
“So since our dinner plans are on the later side and we got a lot further than we thought -- why don’t you stay here tonight,” Stiles says, reaching for another piece of pizza.
“We have a couch,” Derek adds.
“Which is actually your old couch, so it would only be fitting if you broke it in here. What do you say?”
It’s not a difficult decision, but he does have one stipulation. “We have to put something over the windows.”
-----
A shirtless son-in-law wasn’t the first thing John expected to see when he opened his eyes, but sure enough, when John lifts his arm from over his eyes (thin bedsheets make as crappy of curtains now as they did 25 years ago) there’s Derek wearing a pair of sweatpants and no shirt, scooping coffee into the coffeemaker and pouring the water into the reservoir.
“Morning.” John says when Derek’s hit the brew button and after breakable things are out of Derek’s hands.
He still manages to make the guy jump three feet in the air.
“What the -- oh. Shit. Right. John.” Derek’s eyes flash quickly and stay wide as John waves briefly his hello. “Um. Morning.”
“Ohmygod do I smell coffee? I love you soooo...” Stiles says, entering the kitchen and skidding to a stop as he sees Derek with his arms crossed over his chest. He follows Derek’s line of sight over to John. John can see the tips of Stiles’s ears going pink. “Dad.”
“Son,” John answers.
“Stiles,” Derek says quietly. “Can you find me a shirt?”
“Absolutely, let me just …” Stiles rummages through the closest box and when he grabs a striped shirt, there’s a look on his face that tells John there’s a story behind that article of clothing. “Will this work?”
Derek rolls his eyes and snatches it from Stiles’s hand. “I can’t believe you kept this.”
“Oh come on, of course I did.”
“It still doesn’t fit,” Derek says, pulling the shirt over his head.
He’s not wrong.
“I’m going to go put on --” he says, pointing down the hall.
“How’d you sleep?” Stiles asks after Derek’s disappeared into the bedroom. He moves over to the couch and sits on one of the arms.
“About as well as can be expected on the couch.” John sits up and looks around the room, looks at Stiles. He’s sleep rumpled and wearing a t-shirt that John knows is pushing a decade old, and John can’t not think of him as still a kid. “I don’t remember this being that uncomfortable.”
“You and Derek can share horror stories. He hated sleeping on that thing,” Stiles says, running his fingers through his hair.
“My house, my rules,” John says, and Stiles laughs, and suddenly (or not so suddenly), it really hits him that his kid isn’t a kid anymore. There’s a ring on his finger and his name on the mailbox. “Your mom would’ve been so happy for you, son. I’m so happy for you.”
He reaches out his hand to Stiles, and it makes his chest feel tight when Stiles takes it.
“Thanks, dad.” Stiles squeezes his hand. They both look up when Derek comes back out into the living room. “Hey, so my dad agrees this sucks to sleep on. So it didn't just have it in for you.”
"Good to know. Especially since I have it in my house."
"Our house, Hale."
The smile that breaks out on Stiles’s face, and that is echoed on Derek’s, makes John think he should probably volunteer to pick up bagels at that corner store.
"Our house," Derek repeats.
The corner store, and maybe a walk around their neighborhood.