Chapter Text
Dispatch. Calling Sheriff Stilinski. Domestic disturbance on Peter street. Proceed to 32 Peter Street. Over.
Stiles looked over at his Dad who sighed and shifted in the drivers seat, turning the key in the ignition.
“I guess we’ll have to postpone pizza night for an hour or so.” He muttered before pressing the gas, siren blaring.
Stiles held onto the dashboard from his place on the passenger’s side. Secretly, he wasn’t upset. The main reason he still let his dad pick him up from work on Friday nights (aka pizza night) was because that's when something was most likely to be going down in Beacon Hills.
The Sheriff’s car screeched to a halt outside a small, blue house and Stiles’s father opened the door before turning to him.
“Stay in the car, Stiles.” He warned, giving Stiles a knowing look.
“Aye aye captain.“ Stiles huffed and slumped into his seat dejectedly. He watched as his father walked up the steps of the house slowly before knocking on the already ajar door. Stiles could faintly hear him call ‘Police, coming in!’.
Stiles pressed his nose against the window in an attempt to get a closer look, but just ended up seeing his breath fog up the glass. He huffed again and pulled away lifting his hand up to wipe away the mist when bang.
Stiles jumped up and shot out of the car, flailing when the seatbelt that still wrapped around him, pulled him back into the seat in a heap. He scrambled around to find the release and as soon as it pinged open he sprinted up the steps of the house.
The door was fully open now. Stiles leapt in, looking wildly around for his father. The Sheriff was hunched behind a sofa and Stiles let out a breath of relief. The relief trickled into horror when he noticed his father was clutching his leg, hands coated in blood. Stiles scrambled to join him behind the sofa.
“D-Dad? Oh my God are y-“ he reached out to touch his dad’s shoulder when he heard a movement from across the room. He swung his head around and saw the man lunge at him, at his father, and then bang.
Stiles opened his eyes, his body convulsing in shock. He looked down at the body at his foot. Not his father. Not his father? What? Then he noticed the gun in his hand. How did that get there?
He turned from his shaking hands to look at his father who’s eyes where wide, and mouth was agape, staring at his son.
“Stiles.” He croaked, his voice hoarse, before his eyes turned to the body pooling blood onto the floor.
Stiles let out a ragged breath that he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding in. He breathed in, trying to get oxygen into his brain, but then couldn’t stop. He couldn’t let the breath out. He just kept breathing in short jagged breath after short jagged breath. In and in and in, until his cheeks started tingling and he was becoming light-headed. Somewhere in his mind he knew he was having a panic attack but for the life of him he couldn’t remember what to do, how to stop it. His knees buckled and he fell to the floor. It was only when he was face-down in the thick, dirty carpet, that his body let his lungs release. The carpet filtered his breathing making him recycle his breaths, until he could turn his head to the side, eyes closed with concentration.
He felt something wet and sticky on his cheek and blinked opened his eyes. His eyes focused on the ashen face of his… victim? The young man he had just shot. Dead, green eyes staring right into his brown ones, blood seeping out of his mouth and seeking Stiles’s cheek on the carpet, determined to mark him as the murderer he apparently was now.
It took Stiles four attempts to pick himself off the carpet, it was only when his father groaned in pain that Stiles snapped out of his panic and focused. He was gripping the wound on his leg, his eyes fluttering.
“Stiles.” He whispered. Stiles leant over his father to look at his wound. It was deep and oozing. Stiles bit back a gag and looked around for something to use as a tourniquet, finding nothing he stumbled to take off his belt. He secured the leg before dragging his father’s limp arm around his neck and pulling his body up with a grunt, shuffling out of the house and towards the squad car.
His father hissed in pain as Stiles placed him into the passenger’s side of the car. Stiles got into the driver’s seat and was about to turn the ignition when his father’s bloodied hand stopped him.
“No, Stiles.” His father said, his breath heavy and voice strained. Stiles turned at him questioningly, but dropped his hand as ordered.
“Son, you’re already… this is… you can’t… I just, need to call this in.” He looked pained for an entirely different reason as he pulled the car’s radio out of it’s pouch and spoke into it. After he’d finished he let the radio drop, not bothering to put it back in the pouch and leant back into the seat, eyes closing.
“Dad? I-” Stiles started, unsure of what to do or say, hoping the ambulance would get here soon.
“You should have stayed in the car.” Was all his father said before his body slumped, unconscious. Stiles chewed his lip, the faint sound of sirens the only thing he could hear.
---
“Mr Stilinski.” The judge's voice echoed across the large room. Stiles winced, both at the volume and the formality of his name on the tongue of the stranger. It was a long time since he had been addressed as such. It didn't sound right.
Stiles peered over from the glass booth he was standing in and looked across the courtroom to find his father, still on crutches but otherwise fine, staring back at him sorrowfully. Stiles felt guilty, not just because he had taken a random man, Timothy Finley’s, life. But because he’d probably taken an extra ten years off of his father’s too.
“It is understood and appreciated,” the judge continued, and Stiles reverted his eyes towards her. Even under her stern expression he could see that she regretted giving the sentence that she was about to give, “that you thought you were defending your father, an officer of the law. It has been proven that the defendant did not shoot with intent to kill, nor was the action pre-empted.” She cleared her throat before continuing, “However, evidence in the form of web-cam footage found on the victim's laptop proves that the weapon used was unwillingly taken from an armed officer.”
Stiles couldn’t bear to look at his father’s guilt-ridden face so just kept his eyes ahead.
“The victim’s weapon was found to be a low-velocity bb gun. Which, at the distance fired, was unlikely to be used with intent to kill or cause serious bodily harm. This, with the additional knowledge of an officer of the law being present, means the claim of self-defence cannot be upheld fully." The judge hesitated for a split moment, and Stiles knew what was coming- "It is therefore my regret to sentence you as guilty of involuntary manslaughter.” She cleared her throat again, her eyes flickering to the Sheriff before landing back on Stiles “The sentence carries a term of 3 years imprisonment, with a possibility parole in 1 year.”
The judge’s gavel hit the desk, and Stiles wanted to laugh because he had seen that happen and heard the echoing sound in movies all the time but never dreamed that he would hear it like this, for this reason. Barely a second passed before people began standing up around him, the jury looking around, avoiding his eyes as a guard placed his hand on Stiles’s shoulder and lead him away. Stiles managed one last glance at his father who looked like he wanted to say something, to shout something and Stiles knew exactly how he felt. He wanted to scream for his dad. He wanted to sob, to crawl on the floor toward his father’s arms. He wanted to feel safe, just one last time, but it was too late. A short whine escaped his throat as the metal bars slid closed behind him as he was being shuffled down a long corridor.
---
Beacon Hills is a small town with a small population and low crime rate. This meant the single holding cell in the courthouse for prisoners waiting to be transported to the state prison 45 miles away got used 30 times a year at most. So Stiles was shocked when he was led into the cell and a young boy was already there. It was rare for anyone to be sentenced in Beacon Hills, much less two people on the same day. Stiles felt a little special for being part of such a rarity.
The boy was sitting on the single bed at the back of the cell, knees under his chin, when the grate was opened and Stiles was marched in. He wore a dull grey suit that was far too broad on the shoulders for him, and his dark, curly hair was dishevelled.
One Guard unlocked Stiles's cuffs and stepped out of the cell, closing the bars and locking them. Stiles massaged his wrists, they’d been in cuffs for the entirety of the court process and Stiles knows they’ll leave a mark for at least a week.
Stiles peered around the room, not sure what to do with himself.
“Uh hi, I’m Stiles.” He licked his lips. He couldn't help but feel sorry for the young boy, who looked so frightened. Even though, for all Stiles knew he could be an axe murderer. "This is a bit different from my usual sleepovers. Normally there‘s popcorn and videogames.” That was so lame it couldn’t even be called a joke, Stiles cussed under his breath. That made the young boy look at him, blue eyes wide, like Elijah Wood wide, bottom lip between his teeth.
“I’ve never had a sleepover before,” he whispered, and there was something so young and innocent about him, Stiles wasn’t even sure this kid was eligible for jail. Young and innocent surely wasn’t in the prison criteria.
“Isaac.” The boy murmured after a pause. “My names Isaac.” The faint ghost of a smile seemed to waver on his lips, but then a sound from outside, probably one of the doors closing, made him flinch and his eyes returned to their wide-eyed state.
Stiles cautiously sat on the bed, petting at the coarse sheets and grimacing. Did they really expect him to sleep on this? For him and Isaac to sleep on this? Was there even room for two people?
They sat there in silence for an hour or so. Stiles pondered numbly all the horrific scenarios that could happen to him in prison, he’d seen enough shows and movies to imagine some pretty graphic scenes.
After a while Stiles shifted slightly.He didn’t know how Isaac could stay so still, the boy hadn’t moved since Stiles had entered the cell. Stiles had started getting all types of cramps after just 10 minutes, and at that moment he really needed to pee.
He glanced at the small metal toilet in the corner of the cell, contemplating having to pee in front of another person. It wasn’t that different to using a urinal, right? But did he warn Isaac that he was going to pee, or did he just do it? He opened his mouth about to announce his intentions and then decided to opt for the latter, hopping up and grimacing at Isaac before scooting over to the toilet and unzipping his pants.
He sighed in relief as he zipped his pants up and automatically went to walk out of the room, before remembering that he wasn’t in a bathroom, that he couldn’t leave. Damn, this was going to be a long up-to-three years, and he wasn’t even in the prison yet.
Just as he was about to turn around and walk back to the bed the hatch at the bottom of the door slid open and two bundles of clothes were shoved through, presumably for them to sleep in. Stiles had slept in a suit once, after his mother’s funeral, when he had fallen asleep crying, and it was not comfortable. Stiles picked up the bundles and walked over to the bed.
“Uh, I think we’re, they’re the same size.” He told Isaac looking at the light grey sweatpants and sweatshirts in his arms. He threw one next to Isaac and then hesitated before starting to undress. The clothes were surprisingly comfy, he don’t know why he’d expected them to be made out of the same material as the bed-sheet. Isaac just stared at his bundle like it was a dog about to attack. Stiles felt genuinely sorry for the boy. Stiles thought he was going to get a rough time in jail, even if he managed to keep being the Sheriff’s son quiet. But this boy, with his doe-eyes and plump lips? He was going to get eaten alive.
“So uh” Stiles began, because the question was gnawing at him, “How old are you?” Isaac looked up from his corner and chewed his already-raw lip before replying,
“Seventeen… Last Wednesday.” Stiles sighed a bit at that, relieved for the boy.
“Oh, so you’re only going to Juvie. That’s good.” he smiled reassuringly, but Isaac kept chewing on his lip.
“No.”
“Huh? No?” Stiles frowned.
“I… I um,” Isaac paused and Stiles thought he saw his chin crumple for a second. “They tried me as an adult, to set an example.”
Stiles refrained from blowing out a breath of shock, what this kid did must have been bad for them to use him as an example.
“I didn’t do it.” Was all Isaac said, his jaw firm and face so sure that Stiles believed him without even knowing what it was that Isaac supposedly didn’t do. Isaac looked up at Stiles again and seemed to sense the curiosity.
“I just didn’t have a lawyer… a good one. I didn’t have money because…” He looked frustrated and confused as if he wasn’t sure if he should divulge this information. “My dad. They think… they think I murdered him.”
“But you didn’t.” Stiles said, his voice steady. He wanted to let this kid know that he, Stiles, believed him. A small smile flickered across Isaac’s lips.
“I didn’t.” He confirmed.
“You should change, What is it? Midnight?” Stiles said, “Trust me, I’ve slept in a suit and it ain’t no picnic… wait, I totally double negatived that… ain‘t not no picnic.”
Stiles cleared his throat as he shifted down into the bed and attempted to get comfy on the mattress that might as well have been a strip of cardboard for all the comfort it gave. He closed his eyes, giving the younger boy some privacy. He was a minor after all. He heard Isaac move and heard him change, he shifted again to get comfy and yelped when a spring from the piece-of-crap mattress poked him in the hip. His eyes flew open in shock.
That’s when he saw Isaac, in the moonlight glowing through the barred windows in strips, his body was covered in welts, purple and yellow on his back in… Stripes? Stiles thought it was the moonlight for a moment but then he realised with a start, those were lines, as though from a whip or belt.
Isaac was frozen in his position, sweater half over his head, as though if he didn’t move Stiles wouldn’t be able to see him. Wouldn't be able to see his bruises and scars. And now Stiles understood why he would have had motive to kill his father. Yet he still believed this boy’s innocence.
He made a silent promise to himself to keep an eye on the boy, to help him if he could. But he wasn’t sure what he could do. He wasn’t the most muscled guy. He could run, but what good was that in a prison where the whole point was to be kept in enclosed spaces? Now he really wished he hadn’t quit karate class after only two weeks, some kung-fu prowess would really give him an advantage in prison.
“Top to tail?” Stiles asked Isaac who was still frozen, because he didn’t really know what else to say to the boy. “Though, please warn a guy if you have smelly feet.”
Isaac finished pulling his sweater on and then turned to smile tentatively at Stiles before creeping into the bed. They only had one pillow, so Stiles let Isaac have it and folded up his suit to use himself.
“Are you innocent too?” Isaac asked into the silence, voice small.
“No,” Stiles said, and could feel Isaac tense. “But it was an accident… kind of self defence? I was protecting my dad.” He paused suddenly, unsure if the dad topic was a no-go but Isaac had relaxed by then and didn’t tense up again.
“Must be nice.” Isaac whispered into the silence, and Stiles was confused until Isaac continued. “To you know… love him that much, that you’d do that.” That confession broke Stiles’s heart, Stiles couldn’t imagine life without his dad, and to think that this kid hadn’t had that love in his life, just fucking broke him. He shut his eyes before they started to well up.
“Yeah,” he replied, hoping his voice didn’t sound too choked. “Night.”
“Night.” Came the reply.