Stiles felt the gun against his Adam's apple. Peter had pulled out a second gun from his waistband, and was aiming it at Erica. As he moved forward, they stepped backward, trying to gain some space away from him. Vernon was still on the floor, gripping his shoulder wound and gritting his teeth.

Stiles decided to go for scared and hysterical, which wasn't that hard given the circumstances. Ignorance was going to be tougher to perceive on his face; he knew that Allison and Scott were OK. At least, that's what Erica's earlier words had implied.

Peter, meanwhile, was sizing Erica up, cocking his head to the side as he examined her. "Now, who is this delicate creature?" he asked. "Is this the legendary Catwoman who's held you back so much?" He turned his full attention to her. Stiles noticed how Erica kept a steady hand on her belly, her eyes fixed on Peter's bloodthirsty ones.

"That's right," Erica replied haughtily, sticking her chin up. "I got claws, so don't get too close, sweetheart."

Peter gave out a short, cold laugh. "Everything would have proceeded a lot more quickly if you hadn't been around, stifling his senses." He nodded toward Stiles, and Stiles repressed a shiver. He hated how Peter still looked at him, like he owned him.

He doesn't, Stiles told himself. He doesn't own a damn thing about me.

"I don't know how I did that," Erica replied coolly. "But I'm glad it's been working."

"I would have gotten to him within that first night if your presence in his life hadn't been clouding his mind," Peter growled out. "And now you've botched up my other plans indirectly. It's rather like a domino effect, the way you've sunk your claws in and ruined everything."

"Erica doesn't have anything to do with this," Stiles said, and he gave out a small shout as Peter shoved the gun further into his throat. He heard the click of the gun, and he swallowed nervously. Stiles felt the tears coming on, but he forced them back. He couldn't show weakness in front of Peter anymore. He didn't deserve Stiles' weaknesses, not after everything he's done.

"She has such a tight hold on you that you haven't even noticed it," Peter said. He gave Erica a push, and she stumbled back. "On your knees," he ordered. Erica rolled her eyes, but she complied when Peter slid the gun from Stiles' throat down to his torso. She bent down slowly, her eyes trained on Stiles the whole time.

"How many weeks?"

Stilesstared at Peter, utterly perplexed. "What?"

"Not you," snapped Peter, shaking the other gun impatiently at Erica. "She knows what I'm talking about. So let me repeat the question, my dear: How. Many. Weeks?"

"Exactly three when tomorrow hits," Erica sneered. "What, are you jealous?"

Stiles felt completely lost at this point. He reeled back his mind to the last time he saw Erica in the flesh; it had been the morning where he had said good-bye, and they had sex. Stiles looked over at her; her hand was still on her stomach.

Three weeks. Erica was looking off-color, as if she had been sick lately. But Erica was always at the peak of her physical health; she ate three square meals a day with no exceptions.

Wait a second, did he and Erica use a condom last time?

Oh shit.

Oh shit.

Holy shit.

Even if the mind blowing revelation had been happening in a better, less life-threatening situation, Stiles would still be stunned into silence.

"No way," Stiles mouthed. This was a discussion for him and Erica to have somewhere else, far away from the maniac threatening to shoot them dead. There were no longer three lives at stake, but four.

He wasn't prepared for this.

"That's unfortunate," Peter sighed, his voice driving Stiles back to the present circumstances. "But you brought this onto yourself; if you had just let me finish what I started then you wouldn't have to die."

"You took my boy," Erica said darkly, and Stiles felt a swell of affection for her in that moment. "You don't understand the chain of events that you had unleashed when you texted Allison that sketchy address. You don't know how overprotective his brother is; he would've wiped the floor with your entrails."

"Big words," Peter said. "Coming from someone who's at my mercy."

That's when everything happened at once. Vernon shot off the ground, grabbing Peter's legs and tackling him to the hard floor. The gun pointed at Stiles went off, and he screamed in pain as a bullet whizzed through his arm, a clear through-and-through. He heard the bullet ping the wall behind him as blood spurted from his wound. He collapsed to the ground as Vernon wrestled one of the guns out of Peter's grasp. Erica crawled over to him, applying firm pressure to his room. Her hands were soon drenched crimson. Stiles was starting to feel light-headed as blood soaked his shirt. He tried to sit up, but he slouched against Erica, his body sagging and going pliant as she tried to staunch the flow.

"Stay awake, alright?" she said. Stiles nodded blearily. Vernon was now standing above Peter, aiming the gun at the other man's face.

"Do you feel proud, Vernon?" Peter asked. He spat out a mixture of blood and saliva from his mouth; Vernon had clocked him good. Peter's cheek was bruised from Vernon's fist. "Do you feel satisfied to know that your assumptions about me have been proven true?"

"I know who you are," Vernon replied calmly. "I've looked up everything about the Hale fire. I thought I was seeing a ghost, the way you showed up at my bar. But you're actually him, aren't you? You're Peter Hale." He left out a hiss of air, tilted the gun down, and squeezed the trigger. A bullet rang out, lodging itself firmly into Peter's thigh. Peter swore, but his gaze never left Vernon's face.

"I'm sorry for your loss," continued Vernon. "I know what it's like to lose someone precious to you. You just want to take it out on the world, don't you? It feels good, getting back at someone that caused you harm. But you've gone too far, Peter. Vengeance is one thing, but what you're attempting to do is murder. Do you have any proof that the rest of the Argents were involved with the fire?"

"Kate Argent headlined the entire plot," Peter sneered. "Therefore, the rest of them are guilty by association." He held up his remaining gun, and pointed it at Stiles.

"I lost them all," Peter said, his gaze unwavering and relentless. "How would you feel, if everyone you loved were ripped away from you?"

"You're a fucking hypocrite, you know that?" Stiles snapped out. He felt weary, but seeing Peter trying to gain his sympathy was disgusting. "You know how important Allison is to me, and you were going to kill her anyway."

"It's not my problem that you love the wrong people," Peter said, glaring at Erica.

"You raped me," Stiles said more quietly.

Peter rolled his eyes. "You consented last night, did you not?"

"Yeah, I did," Stiles agreed. "But that doesn't mean it carries over to the next day. You raped me." His voice was getter louder, more hysterical. Erica clutched him as Stiles began to scream at Peter, sounding the same miserable words over and over. "YOU RAPED ME!" Uncontrollable sobs bubbled out of his throat. He pressed his face into Erica's chest, willing for this nightmare to end.

Peter, on the other hand, wasn't amused by Stiles' crying. He looked like he was ready to pull the trigger, but Vernon still had the gun aimed at him.

"The police should be here at any moment," he informed Peter.

Peter rolled his eyes. "Yes, to arrest you for breaking and entering. I will tell them that I shot you out of self-defence."

"What's your excuse for shooting an unarmed civilian then?" Vernon demanded calmly. Peter remained silent. Stiles wondered how the bartender could be so cool and collected when faced with a madman. Having a weapon on hand must've helped. His bar was located in a safe area, so how often did he have to deal with a robbery or a hold-up?

"One of the secretaries downstairs saw you go up to your penthouse with Stiles. That's going to bring up a lot of unpleasant questions for you. Why would you shoot a houseguest? Also, Stiles can get testing done at the hospital and prove all of the accusations he has against you." Vernon gave Stiles a quick, sympathetic look before returning his attention to Peter.

"You think you got me trapped in such a clever way," the older man hissed. Another shot rang out. Stiles barely felt the bullet pierce his stomach. Erica screamed as Peter jumped to his feet, giving Vernon a swift punch across the face. A guy like Vernon with his impressionable build barely staggered, but it was enough. Peter shoved Vernon aside, making his way to the front door.

Stiles' vision blurred. Everything sounded so far away; Erica's screams as she tried to halt the blood flow from his new wound, Vernon's shouts of protests as he ran after Peter.

He thought he heard sirens, but he must've been imagining them. There was no way he would hear them from so far up.

Stiles woke up with a sterile smell filling his nose. He sat up, groaning and wincing from an immense pain in his stomach. He looked down, and his view came back into focus.

He was wearing a hospital gown, and lower half were covered with crisp linen sheets. He was hooked up to several machines that surrounded him like mechanical guardians.

I'm dead, he thought. He remembered Peter shooting him, the blood, Erica screaming at him to stay awake, and then nothing. And now he was dead.

But why would he dream of the hospital if he was? Stiles had bad memories of that place, all of the white halls and the faceless doctors telling his father about the treatments they were going to try on his mother.

If he was dead, would he get to see her again?

"Stiles?"

He looked to his right, now fully awake. Erica was sitting next to his bed, her hands clasped over his. It was the one with the broken wrist, only now there was a small cast encasing the injury that had been agonizing to him before.

"Hey there Sleepyhead," she said, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. Stiles stared at her in bewilderment.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"Where do you think?" she replied with a cat-like grin.

"Not… his place," Stiles said back.

Erica gave out a small laugh. "Nope, that's for sure. The ambulance got there in time to get you to the hospital. There was a ton of questions asked, but Vernon's dealing with them right now."

Panic suddenly rose in Stiles' chest. "What happened to Peter?" he asked urgently. "Is he dead? Please help me he's dead!"

The defeated expression Erica gave him was his answer. Stiles sunk back down into the pillows, trying to fight off the tears. Man, he's been doing a lot of that lately, crying. It sucked and he felt like a wimp when he did, but at the same time it was cathartic.

"So what happened?" Stiles asked quietly.

Erica leaned over, smoothing down Stiles' hair. "Vernon went after him while I phoned 911. Peter… I don't know how he managed to get away, but he did. He must have knocked Vernon out because the police found him on the staircase."

"How is he?" Stiles asked. "I mean, he got shot right? That must've hurt like a bitch."

"Takes one to know one," Erica laughed weakly. "But seriously, he's okay. He's getting patched up right now."

Voices could be heard on the other side of the door. Stiles tried to strain his ears to listen. He could make out Scott's muffled voice arguing with someone.

"Apparently some FBI hotshots want to question you," Erica explained, rolling her eyes. "Scott isn't happy about it."

"Is my dad here?" Stiles asked. His father was going to retire in a couple of years—he and Claudia had Stiles so late in life—but he should be here, manning security or something.

"He'll be here soon," Erica replied. "Scott phoned him before coming to the hospital."

Stiles hated to sound like a parrot, repeating the same words, but he had to know. "What about Allison? Is she alright?"

"She went to the cafeteria to grab some food," said Erica. "Her parents are with her, so you don't have to worry about her going off on her own and getting killed."

Erica was one step ahead in his thoughts, as usual. "Thank you," he said.

"For what?" Erica said, grinning at him. She raised an eyebrow, trying to coax him to sing his praises to her. Which he didn't mind; she deserved all of them.

"For stopping Allison from falling into a trap," Stiles began. "For finding me. For everything, really."

Erica bent over, and kissed Stiles on the mouth. Her breath smelled like mint and her lips were soft; a comforting touch that lingered long after they broke apart.

"So," Stiles said, his eyes looking over at her stomach. "Are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?"

Erica sighed. She stood up, and walked over to the other side of his bed, and sat down on it. Stiles moved over enough to give her some room and she curled up next to him. She gently grabbed his hand, and placed it on her belly.

"I just found out about a week ago," she said. "I was going to call, but—I don't know, I froze up."

"The great Erica Reyes got cold feet?" Stiles grinned, and she lightly swatted at his arm.

"I was terrified, because we had always been so careful and we forgot the condom last time," she said. "I didn't even realize that my time of month was coming up, so I was obviously ovulating."

"We got caught up in the heat of the moment," Stiles murmured. He slid his hand down her stomach, and closed his eyes. He couldn't believe it; he was going to be a father. He was twenty-three years old, and he was going to be a dad. The idea seemed surreal to him; it was just so hard to comprehend at this time.

What would he tell his future son or daughter? Hey, me and your Mom conceived you because I wanted to have sex with a guy who turned out to be a killer!

But the thought of Peter sullied the thoughts, and he forced them away. He didn't want to think about Peter right now; he wanted to focus on his family.

Because Erica definitely had to be family now even though she was before, deep down.

"So what's your plan?" Stiles asked. "Are you going to keep the baby?"

"No," Erica replied, and Stiles felt sad for some reason. He was all about Pro-Choice; it was Erica's body, and she didn't have to go through with the pregnancy if she didn't want to. His hopes had just momentarily gone up, that's all.

"I'm not aborting it either," she said, and Stiles felt his heart lift. "There's this woman named Lydia Martin, and she's been searching for a surrogate for a while now. I found her online, where she posted an ad. I told her that I already had a bun in the oven, and wondered if she was willing to adopt instead. The kid won't have her genes, but whatever right? 'Family doesn't end in blood, boy.'"

Stiles laughed softly at the reference. "I'm glad. Well, it was going to be your decision either way, but… I'm glad."

"Stiles," Erica said seriously. "I wanted you to know, but I didn't want to burden you with the fact that you got me knocked up."

"It's OK," he said. "I mean, I get it. Well, as best as I can because the last time I checked men can't get pregnant. I just hate that you had to reveal it when we were at gunpoint."

"Yeah," said Erica. "Me too."

That's when the door pushed open, and Scott burst into the room, looking relieved at getting away from whoever he had been arguing with. "Stiles!" he yelled, racing over to the bed. Erica got up, giving Stiles' shoulder a gentle squeeze and a look that promised that they'd talk about this in more detail later. Right now Stiles had to deal with a panicky Scott, who pulled out his inhaler and took a few, quick spurts from it.

"Hey buddy," Stiles said, giving him a small smile. Scott practically climbed on top of him, embracing him without squeezing too tightly. He hid his face in Stiles' shoulder and shuddered out some shaky breathing. Stiles patted his back, just breathing him in.

"I thought—"

"I know," Stiles interrupted. He felt the old guilt bubble up past the surface from when they were fifteen, when Stiles had slipped from Scott's radar and had caused him to go into hysterics. Stiles had promised to never let Scott feel that helpless again and yet here they were. Only this time, the guy was still out there, free to do as he pleased.

"I'm sorry," Scott said.

"For what?" Stiles asked, surprised. "Scotty, you had nothing to do with this, alright? None of it was your fault."

"I know, but still," said Scott mournfully. He pulled away from Stiles, cupping his face in his hands. "I didn't want this to happen."

"Hey, NOBODY wanted this to happen," Stiles said.

"I thought Peter was just some dick, but now the FBI is swarming the place," Scott explained. "Apparently Peter has been on their radar for quite some time. That's what… what he said, anyway."

Ah, him. Stiles saw the way Scott's jaw clench and his muscles tighten from the conditioning of past childhood memories. Stiles moved in, pressing his lips against Scott's, and he felt Scott relax into their old, familiar habit.

"Did she say yes?" Stiles asked after they broke apart.

Scott nodded, and Stiles breathed a sigh of happiness. "Congrats, man. Oh geez, that means we can't fool around anymore. I can't afford to be your mistress."

"Then we'll just have to include Allison," Scott murmured slyly.

Stiles' eyes widened in surprise as Scott surged forward for another kiss. Was Scott suggesting what he thought he was suggesting? Stiles' cheeks grew warm at the thought.

"Okay buddy, my lips are going to go numb if you keep this up," Stiles said after a minute. He shoved weakly at Scott, and winced from the pain in his arm and stomach. Scott immediately backed away, concern washing over him.

"Is my dad here?" Stiles asked. "Erica said that you phoned him." He needed to see him; it felt like forever since he laid eyes on his father.

"Uh, yeah," Scott said. He was now sitting on the edge of Stiles' bed, their fingers twining together. "He was here while you were asleep and only left an hour ago when he got called for something. He wants to see you so badly, but he told me to come see you first. I think he thought that I would go crazy if I didn't see you."

"He thought right," said Stiles. He made a little shooing motion with his cast-bound hand, and Scott obliged. He pressed a kiss to Stiles' forehead and then left the room, though reluctantly.

The door didn't even close halfway before John Stilinski was pushing his way in, worry creasing at his brow. He took up the vacant seat next to Stiles' bed, and rested a hand on his son's shoulder.

"Hey kiddo," he said quietly. His body was stiff and on alert, and Stiles felt shame burn through him. His father didn't know much about his private, sex-slinging life and the newfound consequences they had brought along. This whole time Stiles had been focussed on Allison and Scott's safety and didn't even think about his father. His mind was telling him that it was okay, that Peter's number one target had been the Argents and so making sure that Allison survived was top priority. But John was his father; if Peter had discovered Stiles' true name through impeccable research, then it was no stretch of the imagination that he knew who his father was.

Peter was still out there; he could find the Sheriff when he was alone, and—

"Stiles, what's wrong?"

Stiles blinked away some stray tears before wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Do you know what's going on?"

John nodded slowly. "I was there when the 911 call from Erica was made. We got there at the same time as the ambulance was putting you in the back. You were in rough shape, and they weren't sure whether you'd make it or not." He gave Stiles' shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You got yourself mixed up the wrong person, it looks like."

"That's an understatement," Stiles murmured.

So he didn't know about Stiles' and Peter's "interactions" so far. Stiles knew that there was going to be a shitload of questions about why he, Erica, and Vernon were in Peter's penthouse, and Stiles was afraid to admit why he was there at all. He hated lying to his dad, but he didn't want him to know the things he let Peter do to him that night. Speaking of which—

"What day is it?" Stiles asked.

"July eighth," John replied. "But now that you're awake, they're going to start questioning you." They obviously being the FBI and in extension, Agent McCall. Or as Stiles liked to call him, Asshole McCall. It was a more fitting title for the bastard anyway.

"So they're just going to barge in on a patient and bombard them with accusations?" Stiles asked. "How thoughtful of them."

"Melissa has been insisting that you're still recovering from being shot, but a certain individual is trying to make things difficult," John sighed.

Even if the FBI did want the latest scoop on Peter Hale and his murder spree, Stiles wasn't going to be the most cooperative witness if Asshole McCall was headlining the "questioning." The creep had a knack for turning the blame around and using it against the innocent victims and act like it was their fault that they had been caught up in the situation. He had gotten a ton of practice mastering that technique when he was still in Scott's life.

"Then I'll just pretend to be asleep until they send the right agent in," said Stiles, closing his eyes to demonstrate. John laughed softly, sounding a little strained, and Stiles took his hand, holding it tightly. Sometimes he wished that he was still a kid so that his dad could handle everything. He wanted someone else to be the responsible one. But Stiles had gotten himself into this mess, and it wouldn't be fair to make someone else deal with it.

"I love you," Stiles said.

John nodded. "Love you too kid."

An easy silence fell between them, with John occasionally brushing Stiles' hair back and asking him how's he been or if he was in any pain. John refused to leave even when one of the doctors came in to check on Stiles' vitals and said that he should get some rest.

"I'm resting," Stiles said stubbornly. "I'm lying in bed and everything. Plus, I haven't seen Allison yet." He needed to see her, to have physical proof in front of his eyes that she was okay.

"I'll go get her," John said, reluctantly getting up. "I'll send Erica in to stay with you."

"She's still here?" Stiles asked, surprised.

"Yeah, she is." John raised an eyebrow, skeptical of Stiles' question for some reason. "She needed to see a doctor too."

"Oh" was all Stiles said before it hit him. Oh.

"Yeah, I'll be discussing that with you two after you're well enough."

"Okay," replied Stiles sheepishly. He himself had just barely found out about being a baby daddy, and now his father had figured it out. He was the Sheriff for a good reason, that's for sure.