Okay, I have no in-depth idea how the legal system in the US works, especially when it comes to kids and adolescents. What I portrayed, I got from internet sources that hopefully aren't too bad. If anyone's got pointers to make it a little more realistic, let me know and I'll see if I can fit it in. If not, just take it as poetic licence. Thanks. :)

Chapter 33

With Sheriff Stilinski's release from hospital, things around Stiles were set in motion. Despite having already given a comprehensive statement, Stiles still missed two full days of school to meet with Mr. Whittemore, Scott's lawyer Ludger Clark, and the judge, to go over the proceedings and hash out some details. Both the sheriff and Melissa, and of course Scott, were present as well, which made for several very uncomfortable hours. The only high point of the second day was the announcement that their actual day in court had been moved up by almost a month, to the middle of June.

Stiles was certain that Scott's failing health played a big part in this decision.

"Mr. McCall has repeatedly expressed an interest in a conversation with Mr. Stilinski," Mr. Clark said to Mr. Whittemore because Stiles' father had made it clear that he wouldn't say a word directly to the somewhat slimy opposing lawyer. "In my opinion it would be in both their best interests if such a conversation were allowed to take place, so they can begin to heal the rift between them."

"Excuse me," Mr. Whittemore said coldly, "but in what manner the Stilinski family sets about their healing is none of your or the defendant's business. Both of them have repeatedly made it very clear to me that they don't have any interest whatsoever in communicating with the boy who so selfishly and thoughtlessly endangered both their lives."

"Your refusal won't look good in court," Mr. Clark warned, disregarding Melissa's sound of protest. "Nobody likes a hardened attitude, and the court of public opinion does play a role."

The judge, a woman in her late fifties by the name of Stephenie O'Neill, cleared her throat. "Calm yourself, Mr. Clark. You're very close to threatening the Stilinskis with defamation of character to gain ground for your client and I won't have it. I can't do anything about what the press has already published, but be assured that I can make your professional life very difficult going forward."

"Your Honour," Mr. Clark gasped, scandalized.

"Do not test me, Mr. Clark. I know that you hotshot lawyers from the big city think you've got it all figured out, but there are laws in this country to protect our minors, and I'll ensure that we all adhere to them. Be grateful that all concerned parties have supported your plea for an adjudication instead of a trial, because as far as I'm concerned, Scott McCall is both old and educated enough to stand trial as an adult. He was best friends with the son of a sheriff, after all, so there is no way I'd allow him to claim ignorance."

"Judge O'Neill," Mr. Clark tried, but she cut him off sharply.

"No, Mr. Clark, you will be satisfied with the concessions already given. The adjudication is closed to the public, you will do nothing to rile up the participants or the public unduly, and you will behave in a manner becoming your profession. I realize that this isn't asking for much, but we do have some standards and I'll hold you to them."

Huffing, Mr. Clark sat back down and from behind him and Melissa, Scott made pitiful eyes at Stiles, who did his best to ignore him.

Judge O'Neill then turned to Mr. Whittemore, eyebrows raised high above the rim of her square glasses. "Are you very sure that you still support the decision to have Scott McCall tried as a juvenile?"

"Ma'am, it's already been decided!" Mr. Clark spluttered, promptly jumping to his feet again.

Stiles wondered whether Scott's father could've found a more excitable guy and decided that no, probably not.

"We do, in fact," Mr. Whittemore said. "Our primary goal is Stiles' protection from further public speculation, and since Mrs. McCall is an exemplary member of society, we thought it prudent to afford her son one chance to redeem himself and atone for his poor choices before it permanently mars his criminal record. It is a courtesy to her." Whittemore looked coldly at Scott, a sneer curling his lips. "Do make use of the opportunity given to you or you won't like the consequences."

"Yes, sir," Scott said quietly and so sincerely that it set Stiles' teeth on edge.

"Thank you," Melissa mouthed, tears in her eyes. In her lap, her hands were so tightly clasped that all of her knuckles stood out bone white on her lightly tanned skin.

Stiles felt furious anew on her behalf for Scott's idiocy. Even though he wished for the full measure of the law to befall his former best friend, he hated what it would do to Melissa.

Next to him, his father took his hand and squeezed it gently. It was that which allowed Stiles to take a couple of deep breaths, and to ignore Scott's continuing boring gaze.

"Good," Judge O'Neill said. "The adjudication will take place on June 16, as planned. Scott McCall will remain in custody as his connection to the Argent family is investigated further. Mrs. McCall, your son will continue to have meetings with both law enforcement officers and psychologists to further determine his involvement. Mr. Clark will need to be present, but I'll impress upon you all, again, how important his cooperation is. Any lacking willingness to fully clear up the circumstances will influence my ruling."

"Understood, Your Honour," Mr. Clark said. While sporting a bland expression, Stiles was sure that the man was bitterly disappointed with how unimpressed the county judge was by his 'big city' law degree.

"Then you're dismissed. Barring any further development that'll require me to reevaluate the current proceedings, I'll see you on the 16th. Good day." Judge O'Neill stood first and briskly left the room through a door in the back.

Mr. Clark opened his mouth but Mr. Whittemore pointed a finger at him and said, "Not one word. My clients are not available for your emotional manipulations. And no, they won't retract their application for a permanent restraining order against your client so don't even ask."

"They're applying for a restraining order against a seventeen year old boy," Clark insisted. "Surely that's excessive."

"It was also excessive to backhand Stiles so hard that it nearly snapped his spinal cord," Mr. Whittemore retorted, unmoved. "I don't care whether that restraining order follows your client all through his life. If it were my son I had do represent here, your client would first rot in prison and then suffer for the rest of his life as much as possible."

Mr. Clark blanched and then flushed with anger. "Don't be so sure that you'll get your way, Whittemore."

"Save it for your plaidoyer in June," Mr. Whittemore drawled. He turned to Stiles and the sheriff. "Are you ready to leave?"

"Yes," John said. "Give us just a moment to say goodbye to Melissa. We won't be seeing her for a while now."

Both Stilinski men hugged the tearful woman but didn't stay to talk. At half five in the afternoon they were already done with the day and went straight home, where Stiles retreated to work on more healing dice and his research for offensive magic. John, his ribs already much better after three days of healing spells, chose to pick up around the house and start dinner for the first time in ages.

"I know that losing Scott like this is hard," Stiles' father said as they enjoyed their roast and salad. "You're resilient, though, and you've found yourself some good new friends. They'll help you deal with it. And if you want to talk to someone more professional, I can make that happen, too."

"I probably should, huh?" Stiles asked. "It'd look good for the adjudication, too."

"It would," John agreed, "but all I really want for you is to be happy. I know that I should've kept going after your mom's death and I deeply, deeply regret that I didn't. It cost me years with you that I won't ever get back."

"You could start again," Stiles suggested quietly. "Make it a quid pro quo situation."

"You'll go if I go?" The sheriff smiled wryly. "Yes, absolutely." He raised his water glass for a toast. "To our mental health. Let's break years, if not decades, of not-so-manful repression and denial this summer."

"Cheers, daddio," Stiles said, tapping his glass to his father's.

oOo

It should've been harder than it actually was to find a therapist both Stilinskis liked, and while finding a way to begin their talk therapy did prove somewhat complicated, the actual talking portion came easily once that was accomplished, at least for Stiles.

In fact, once he'd started airing his grievances he found it hard to stop. Stiles' mind, Dr. Rena said after only two sessions, was apparently of the pragmatic sort: once it had begun working through the trauma it was disinclined to stop for rest. No breathing exercises or yoga could curb the hyperactivity of Stiles' mind, and so they both agreed to just power through and deal with the fallout as it made itself known.

"I don't really understand why I'm this way," Stiles confessed to Derek, who'd taken to hanging out with him in the evenings after therapy. In week two, Stiles had already gotten used to it and expected the comfort the man was offering. Of all his friends, even Isaac, he really was the only one who seemed to get it. "It's not like I don't understand why people are supposed to rest and digest. I just … don't."

"Maybe it's got to do with your magic," Derek said, half his attention on the show they were watching. "You're like this with learning it, too." He glanced meaningfully about the room, where Stiles had begun taping dozens of papers scribbled full of rune clusters for his dice. "You've already advanced to bind runes after only three weeks, and Peter tells me you've started borrowing books in Latin."

"I like to keep busy?" Stiles offered. He sank low in his desk chair. "Do you really think it's magic, as opposed to simply being smart?"

Derek snorted. "Stiles, I feel like the village idiot next to you. Nobody learns Latin, never mind Ancient Latin, on a lark, and becomes good enough after a few weeks to actually use it. Even after missing a week of school and taking it easy for another one you've maintained perfect grades."

Stiles blushed. "You know I want to graduate early."

"It's a good thing," Derek told him. "Even if you decide against Peter's bite, you can use the time to work further with your magic, and …"

"And what?" Stiles prodded when the werewolf paused. "Derek, don't go all mute on me."

Derek blinked. "And I thought you would want some time to open a little shop to sell your dice, maybe. Or your bracelets." He rubbed his own bracelet almost reverently. "I know many weres who'd pay their weight in gold to have a talisman against wolfsbane poisoning."

Surprised, Stiles sat back up. "Okay, I might've thought about it once or twice, but opening a shop is … I don't know if I actually want that responsibility. Small charms and stuff, sure, no problem, but we both know that there's a demand for larger stuff, too. I don't want to attract lunatics who think it'd be just rad to kidnap their very own magic human to make them invincible."

"Peter could help set it up," Derek said. "He knows how to be careful, and he'd never share. Not without a very good reason."

"Ugh, I see more discussions ahead of us," Stiles complained. "Things have been going so well lately."

Hearing that, Derek snorted again. "If you can call a screaming match about Peter paying your father's hospital bill going well , I fear for all of us."

"He dropped more than ten thousand dollars on us!" Stiles exclaimed. He then gesticulated towards the equally expensive new laptop Peter had sent over. "It feels weird!"

"It's normal," Derek stressed. "He is the alpha of the pack, so he provides for the pack's needs. Right now he's the only one with reliable funds, so he takes care of everything. Besides, getting your father kidnapped and injured was more or less directly his fault. If you don't want him to feel guilty, you'd best keep your mouth shut about it."

"Is that why you're trying to talk me into opening a shop?" Stiles demanded. "So I can start doing my part?"

Derek shrugged. "It'd help, but it'd also keep you busy. Or do you really want to tell me that you won't try out everything you learn about magic? What will you do with all the stuff? Hoard it somewhere, in the event that your enormous pack of four needs five-hundred healing dice at once one day?"

"First of all, we're not only four," Stiles said. He reached out and kicked Derek's foot, hard. "You're pack, you moron, and of course I count Erica and Boyd, too. And there'll be more, one day."

"I'm not pack," Derek said plainly.

"You fucking are." Stiles kicked the man again, even harder this time. "You're in my pack. Better get used to it."

Instead of bristling at the presumption, Derek merely raised a challenging eyebrow.

Stiles, little shit that he was, grabbed a handful of mountain ash he'd kept in a jar on his desk, and threw it at the werewolf. It trapped him on the bed and crept up to his neck, forming a black collar. "My. Pack."

Huffing, Derek rolled his eyes. "It takes more than a collar, you know."

"Not too much more," Stiles sniped back. "I'm already feeding you three nights a week, and I'm becoming a pro at patching you lot up. If you're worried about my finances, fine, I can do a stupid shop, too. But!"

"But?" Derek asked, unable to move and still not looking too bothered about it.

"But you'd better do your part, too, bucko. If I have to mass-produce magic stuff, you'll take care of the shipping. And the books. And you can come up with more things the supernatural community might need, because if we gonna make a profit, I won't dither around with experiments."

Derek stared at him for so long that Stiles began to fidget.

"What? Too much responsibility?" he asked sulkily.

"You'd let me help?" Derek asked suspiciously. "With the shop?"

"Yeah? Where else would I need your help?" Stiles asked just as suspiciously.

"I don't know." Derek tried to shrug but mostly failed within the bonds of the mountain ash. "Around the house. Occasional pest removal. That sort of thing."

"You can do that too, if there's time," Stiles replied. "Although cooking would be way better. My dad's got momentum right now but as soon as he's back to work full time, he'll probably backslide into his old junk food habits."

"I can do that," Derek said slowly. "But not always." He straightened a little and his jaw firmed. "I'm better than that."

"I wonder who told you that you weren't, you dumbass."

Derek's eyes narrowed, although he wasn't very threatening, tied down as he was.

"If you believed that, it's your own damn fault. Peter doesn't want slackers, and I don't want them, either, just so we're clear. You'll probably want to find a real job soon, anyway, before you die of boreout. Setting up a shop might take some time." Stiles hopped up from the chair and recalled the mountain ash into his hand. "If that's good for you, let's shake on it, Sourwolf."

Derek sat up as well and gripped Stiles' hand tightly. "Deal."

His eyes flashed amber and in response a weird heat travelled through Stiles, starting from where their hands touched and reaching into every part of him. There were also tingles all over his skin, like his whole body had been asleep and circulation was slowly beginning to work again.

"Okay, that was strange," Stiles commented, wiggling his fingers. "We're not werewolf married or anything, are we?"

"No. We forged a pack bond," Derek explained. He looked vulnerable now, almost like he couldn't believe it. "I didn't think it'd work."

"Whatever, I'm your magic alpha now." Stiles scrambled onto the bed next to him and aggressively cuddled up to Derek. "No take backs."

Sarcasm was dripping off every syllable as Derek retorted, "I wouldn't dream of it."

"Oh my god, you're fronting so fucking hard, you marshmallow!" Stils grabbed a pillow and smacked Derek in the face with it. "You're happy!"

"And you're obnoxiously smug," Derek growled, effortlessly ripping the pillow away and wrestling Stiles onto his back. "One order of 'fetch' and I'll gut you."

"Ha, I don't need no juiced up wolf for that," Stiles countered, throwing out the mountain ash he still held in his left hand and willing it to grab all the pillows at once and pummel Derek with them.

A fight escalated that had them both growling and howling with laughter. It only stopped when all of the pillows had been destroyed and the shredded foamy bits and feathers were littering every surface of Stiles' room.

"Fuck," Stiles giggled.

"Worth it," Derek said smugly.

So worth it, Stiles agreed mentally. His grin was so broad it hurt his face, and he never wanted it to stop.

oOo

"You did what?"

Stiles fidgeted under his father's unamused stare. "I, uh, forged a pack bond with Derek?"

"Is that a question or a fact?" the sheriff asked, a tad more loudly than necessary.

Peter by his side - and this was way weirder than Stiles had thought it would be - seemed to be completely unruffled. "It was bound to happen sooner or later, John."

"Was it?" Stiles' father sighed and rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Explain it to me, because I certainly can't understand on my own. To me it looks like Stiles badgered Derek into something inadvisable ." His pointed look made very clear what he meant.

"Forget that very quickly, please. Your dear son has something you humans call an 'alpha mentality'," Peter said. "It's not to be confused with an 'alpha personality', which can be horrid even on a good day."

"Where's the difference?" John asked, his gimlet eye still on Derek, who sat quietly and inoffensively next to Stiles.

"Having an alpha mentality just means that a person is unusually interested in managing the people around them. They do have a take charge personality, but they're usually very contained in who they want to be in charge of," Peter explained, smirking at Stiles. "That does sound like Stiles and his habit of collecting strays with potential, doesn't it?"

"Excuse you, I also happen to like these strays, regardless of their potential," Stiles huffed. "Plus, it's not like I made Derek agree to it. It was more like … a tease that went too far, only not. Plus plus, I can do it. He'd be here with us, instead of wherever the hell else and all alone. And I'll give him work to do, he won't be my kept guy, dad, thanks."

"Oh? Do tell," Peter said mildly while the sheriff flushed with embarrassment.

Stiles refused to bristle at the man's amusement. "Derek said I could open a shop for magical gimmicks. Apparently there's a need for it, and I could help with expenses and stuff and maybe save a little for college. He'll keep our books and handle the shipping and whatever else might need to happen. It's not great, I know that, but he offered so why not? He's also my first creative consultant."

"Creative consultant," Peter echoed, intrigued now. "In what manner?"

"Product development," Stiles said shortly. "I might ask Isaac, too, because he can draw. He could do labels and shit."

"You've got it all figured out, have you?" John asked sarcastically.

"Not even. Setting up a secure shop outside of Etsy might get me into shady waters, but hey. As long as it's helping good folks and the money's also clean, I'm all for it. We'll find a solution you can live with."

"Etsy's not bad," Derek said calmly. "There's tons of new age stuff on there, no one would even bat an eye."

"Hell, Stiles," the sheriff muttered. "I need a drink."

"Make it two," Peter said as John got up, without taking his eyes away from Stiles and Derek.

"I'll need the whole bottle for this," Stiles' father said, setting down two glasses and pouring two very generous fingers. "Are you sure it's nothing … oh god, sexual, Hale?"

"Very sure," Peter replied. He quirked a smile. "They wouldn't be able to hide it, believe me. Although I'm a little insulted on Derek's behalf that you'd even think he'd pull the same twisted games Kate Argent used on him."

"Peter," Derek said in a low voice.

"No, nephew, let's put it out in the open for Stiles' father. His concern is valid and in the interest of our continued friendship I'd like to put his worries to rest." Peter picked up his glass and contemplated the contents. "His heterosexuality aside, Derek is an obnoxiously moral individual. Even if he were so inclined, he'd never act upon his interest while your son is still under the age of consent."

The sheriff grunted bitterly. "Stiles likes shiny things. And Derek is …" He waved at the werewolf. "Shiny. Even I can see that. My son's powers of persuasion border on the unholy."

"Could you please not talk like I'm not in the room?" Derek asked, frowning.

Stiles buried his hot face in his hands and groaned pitifully. "Yes, dad. If I promise to live chastely, will you stop?"

"It'd likely be a lie," Peter said and took a large gulp of his whisky. He smirked at Stiles. "Therefore, no."

"I'll toast to that," Stiles' father mumbled and downed his whole glass at once.

End of chapter 33