On their way back to Newark something slammed into the car. Derek slammed on the brakes and pulled over. He put the car into park not a second too soon, as something crashed through the window, pulling Derek out with him. Stiles could see the glass cutting into Derek's arms and face, blood still dripping down the car, even as the wounds healed themselves.

Stiles grappled around, looking for his gun. Between the sheer number of attacks he'd faced since returning from Europe and his constant pleading to both Derek and his father, he'd finally gotten a gun and been properly trained to use it – against both humans and supernaturals. Stiles could see Derek, already changed into his werewolf form, grappling with someone outside the car.

A moment later, someone else walked up to the car and opened – tore off, more like – the car door.

"Good evening, Mr. Stilinski-Hale." The vampire gave a wide smile that was usually accompanied by a twin smile from his brother. A shadow passed over Stiles and he realized someone was on the other side of the car. Oh, there he was.

"How are you, Ethan, Aiden?"

"Not bad. Not bad. It's a lovely night, isn't it?"

Stiles rolled his eyes, trying to analyze his choices. "Are you here to kill me?"

Stiles tried to reach for his gun, which he saw in the now open glove compartment.

The vampire – Ethan, Stiles thought – tilted his head to one side. "Yes."

"Really, must you? I'd much rather you didn't."

"Yes, that's what they all say."

Stiles moved toward his gun, finding it difficult to do so while trying to keep an eye on both vampires. "Not very subtle for Morrell to send you both to do the job."

Ethan (Stiles thought) moved into the car. "Well, our more subtle attempts were wasted on you."

"Subtly usually is."

Ethan ignored him and continued on. "Sometimes when you want something done, you must send the best." He lunged towards Stiles, supernaturally fast. In his hands, he held a garrote. Stiles would never have thought the dignified Manhattan Hive capable of wielding such a primitive assassin's weapon. Hell, they'd mostly been trying to shoot him as of late.

Stiles ducked. Ethan hit his brother rather than Stiles and Stiles finally had a hold of his gun. He swung about and fired. At such a close range, even he managed to hit the vampire full force in the shoulder, surprising him considerably.

Stiles aimed the gun again. "Take a seat, would you two? I believe I have something to discuss with you that might change your current approach. And I'll aim for something that probably won't hold up as well next."

The vampire looked down at his shoulder, which wasn't healing as it ought to. The bullet hadn't passed through, but had lodged in the bone. Aiden grimaced at his brother.

"Sundowner bullets," explained Stiles. "You're in no mortal danger from a shoulder injury, but I wouldn't leave it in there if I were you."

Stiles got right to the point, even if neither vampire decided to sit down in the car next to him. "You can stop trying to kill me. I've decided to give the boy up for adoption. Well, sort of."

"Oh? And why should that make any difference to us?"

"The lucky mother to be – or actual mother, although none of you seem to care – is Laura Hale."

The vampires lost their sulky expressions for ones of genuine shock. They hadn't expected such a bizarre revelation.

"Laura Hale?"

Stiles nodded sharply.

"You would allow your progeny to be raised by a vampire?"

Stiles snorted slightly. Progeny? Really? He shook his head. Vampires. Regardless, he didn't move his hand, his gun still aimed at Ethan.

"The potentate, no less." Stiles reminded him of Laura's relatively recent change in political status.

He watched each vampire's face closely. He was giving them an out and knew they must want one. Marin Morrell, Queen of the Manhattan Hive, would want one. All the vampires had to be uncomfortable with the situation. It was probably why they kept screwing up the assassination attempts – their hearts simply weren't in it. Oh, not the killing – vampires treated killing as barely more taxing then ordering a new pair of shoes. For some – Stiles thought of Laura – the shoes might be more stressful. No, they would want to get out of having to kill an Alpha werewolf's mate and possibly child. Stiles's death at vampire hands, whether provable or not, would bring a whole mess of trouble down upon the hives. It was not that they would necessarily lose a war with werewolves; it was simply that it would be very bloody. Vampires hated to lose blood – it was hard to replace and always left a stain.

Stiles pressed the point, figuring between the two of them, they had enough time to think it over. "Surely you all can approve such a neat solution?"

They both glared for a moment, but Stiles could tell they were considering it. "I don't suppose you'd allow the Queen to be the child's godmother, would you?"

Stiles blanched a bit, but recovered quickly. "Well," he tried for a polite response. "You know, my husband, he's already a little upset about Laura as it is. To add your hive might be more than he could stomach."

"Ah, yes, the wolf. Can't forget him," sneered Aiden. Stiles thought his sneer might be worse than Jackson's, if that was possible. He had a few years more practice, in Jackson's defense, though.

"You will make it fully legal? Release all parental rights and put it in writing?"

"Yes," Stiles nodded. "Newark is intending to lease the house next door. He is my – err - progeny after all."

Ethan nodded and started backing away from the car – Aiden mimicking him on the other side.

Moments later, Derek emerged, naked, but looking mostly alright.

"You okay?"

Derek grunted absently, but Stiles stared at him till he finally explained. "Ennis. He ran off though. Don't know what happened."

Stiles decided to fill him in on his conversation with the twins.

The ghost was in that space again, that insubstantial void. He thought he might float there forever if he could simply stay still. Still as death.

But reality intruded. Reality from his own mind, however little of it was left. "You have to tell someone. You have to tell them. This is wrong. You are mad and even you know this is wrong. Put a stop to it. You have to tell."

Oh inconvenient, when one's own brain starts issuing orders.

"Who can I tell? Who can I tell? I am only a ghost."

"Tell someone who can do something. Tell the effervescent."

"Him? But I don't even like him."

"That's not excuse. You don't really like anyone."

The ghost hated it when he was sensible with himself.