John doesn't know how he feels, exactly. He does know that he should feel angry. His kid did sneak out at night, after all, thinking that he wouldn't notice. He may have been absolutely floored after the amount of alcohol he consumed on this particular night, but he is not stupid, and could clearly tell that the kid's bed was empty.

Oddly enough, he's not angry. Annoyed, perhaps. But he feels a tiny bit of pride, having realized that his teenager is a lot more like him than he could have ever anticipated. Maybe not physically, but definitely in attitude.

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the front door carefully opening. He quickly moves over to the couch, sitting down on it and putting on his best 'you are in trouble' face. He's learned how to do that in his short time as a father, and he's become surprisingly good at it, even if he's not actually mad.

"And where the bloody hell were you at?" He asks with a raised eyebrow, smirking to himself when he realizes that the kid is shocked by his presence.