Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Teen Wolf.

A/N: This is something that has been kicking around my brain for a while. It replaces Malia Hale with my own character AJ. Let me know what you think.

It started when Sheriff Stilinski saw me walking along the road in the pouring rain. I was fresh out of Eichen House with nothing but the clothes on my back and knowledge that if I found Scott McCall, then he could help me control the change. And I wanted control. When Scott had gone full alpha on me, he had forced me to change back into a human, and now I was stuck. I needed to know how to control the change so that if need be, I could go back to partially being a coyote.

Stilinski slowed his car, cutting into the rain with his bright headlights. I kept walking. Despite my very obvious lack of invitation, he drove the car beside me at a snail's pace. The passenger window rolled down, and I glanced over to see him craning his head to look at me. "AJ," he said, very reasonably, "get in the car."

I kept walking.

But he didn't give up. "Look, son, you're wet, and you're cold. At least come out of the rain. Let me take you somewhere dry."

I looked up sharply. "I'm not going back," I told him harshly. He didn't ask back to where, because I think he already knew. I wasn't going back to Eichen House, and I sure as heck wasn't going back to live with my so-called father.

Henry Tate was many things, but a patient man he was not. I'd been excited to see him at first, and he'd felt the same way. But then it became painfully obvious that the compounded knowledge of my missing eight years was too much to handle for him. He had shipped me off to the Eichen House in hopes that they would help me "better acclimate to the stresses of a new environment."

I hadn't totally known what that all meant, but the gist had been clear enough. He wasn't prepared to raise a teenage boy who had just spent eight years surviving in the forest and hills. There were so many things I didn't know, and my dad wasn't ready for that burden.

But he wasn't a cruel man. He had left the Eichen House paperwork open to both of us, so without his consent needed, I had checked myself out. He was basically taking the easy way out, but I was still free. And now I was walking in the pouring rain with nothing to guide me but the instinctual need to find Scott and get him to help me. It wasn't a great plan, but it was all that I had.

"I won't make you go back," Stilinski said after a pause, breaking me out of my thoughts. "You have my word." He looked thoughtful for a second. "Are you hungry? Oh, who am I kidding? You're a teenage boy. You're always hungry. Look, get in the car, and I'll take you somewhere to eat."

I hesitated, wondering if this was a trap. But it didn't seem like it. I stopped walking and studied Stilinski's face. He had been kind to me, when Stiles and Scott first made me change back. He had given me his jacket when I couldn't get warm, and more than that, he hadn't pushed me to talk about what had happened during those eight years. So at the very least, I could give him the time it took to eat one small meal.

Besides, I didn't have any money, and who knew when the next opportunity for food was going to come along.

I nodded finally and climbed into the car. I hoped he didn't mind that I was making his seat all wet. Stilinski said nothing, just cranked up the heating knob and turned the air on full blast. I guess he remembered, then, how hard it was for me to stay warm now that I wasn't covered in fur.

In the end, he took me to a diner. There was no fuss, he just dropped a hand onto my shoulder and steered me inside. He even let me choose the booth. I picked the one closest to the door, just in case I needed to make a quick exit. Then we sat.

He slid into the red vinyl seat across from me, studying me with tired eyes. It made me uncomfortable, but I didn't say anything. I wanted food more than I wanted to be comfortable. Finally, Stilinski let out a sigh, running a hand over his face. "I was trying to see it," he explained. "The family resemblance. I just...I don't." I shrugged. Right now I considered myself alone. I didn't have a family. Family meant loyalty, and my father had forfeited his when he had checked me into Eichen House.

The waitress walked up, giving the sheriff a wink. "Your usual, Sheriff?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Joan. And whatever the kid is having." They gave me expectant looks, and I squirmed under the weight of both gazes and picked the first thing that came to mind.

"Pancakes?" I asked, unsure if that was a thing at dinnertime.

Joan pursed her lips for a second, her pen still pressed to the little pad she carried. Her eyes measured me up and down, just as thoroughly as the sheriff's had. There wasn't as much tired skepticism in hers though. She just looked like she wanted to give me a hug. "It's a little late for pancakes. But for you, we can make an exception." Then she smiled. I stared back at her, and her smile faded a little before she walked away.

I turned back to the table, staring at my hands. People were complicated. It made me want to just go back to the forest. Except I couldn't. Not without learning how to control the change.

A minute later, Joan came back with two mugs balances on a tray. She set one down in front of Stilinski and then one in front of me. I stared down into it. The smell of chocolate wafted up from it. Chocolate, milk, cinnamon. "It's called hot chocolate, dear," Joan said, patting me on the shoulder. I tried not to jump at her touch. I didn't like being touched, but when she did it, it was different from the people at Eichen House.

She walked off, and the sheriff fixed his tired eyes on me. "So what's your plan?" He tore the top off a packet labeled sugar and dumped it into his drink. Coffee. I remembered that smell.

My eyes flicked back up to his as I remembered his question. My plan? I didn't have one. And even if I did, I wouldn't have told him. But then again…Stiles and Scott were friends. If I told Stilinski, maybe he would take me to Scott.

"I need Scott's help," I finally told him. If he was surprised, it didn't show.

He shook his head. "What's your long-term plan?" I stared at him blankly, not understanding. He sighed. "Where are you going to stay, AJ? Who's going to take care of you?"

I bristled. "I can take care of myself," I snapped.

Stilinski held his hands up. "No, I know. I'm sorry. It was a bad choice of words on my part. What I meant was, you're going to need someone to look out for you. To sign papers, to make sure you have food and clothes, to be your legal guardian."

I took a sip of my hot chocolate, and it was good. It was good, and I kind of remembered drinking something like it all those years ago. I looked back up at Stilinski. "I can't." The words kind of stuck in my throat, but I wanted him to understand. I couldn't do another thing like living with my dad, and I really couldn't do something like the Eichen House again. "I can't…do it like it was with Henry or the House."

He looked kind of sad. Sad, but not confused. He understood what I was saying. Maybe I was getting better at this communicating thing. There had been a psychologist at the Eichen House. She was the only person I had liked there with the exception of Stiles. She had told me that communication was important, and that words were my greatest tool to make people understand how I was feeling. Words not fists, AJ, she had told me repeatedly. I was still working on that part.

"Okay," Stilinski said finally. "Let's just eat first, and that'll give me time to think."

Joan came back with our food. The sheriff had a hamburger and French fries. "Thanks, Joan," he said as she slid his plate in front of him.

"Thanks," I echoed, when she gave me my plate. It was polite. Or so the House psychologist had said. Please and thank you were apparently polite. I hadn't needed to say them in the forest, so I was a little rusty. Please stand still, rabbit, so I can eat you. Thank you, rabbit, for being slow enough to catch. Nope, it just didn't fit.

The pancakes were good, though. Better than Henry could make. I didn't know how to make food at all, so they were definitely better than I could make.

When Joan came back to check on us, I practiced smiling. It must have worked, because Joan got this little sparkle in her eyes, and she came back a second later with a towel for me. Oh. Smiles equal friendly. Friendly equals more generosity from people. I had to remember that for later.

When I turned back to the table, I found Stilinski staring at me. "You know, I think that's the first time I've seen you smile." He reached over the table towards me, and I flinched out of sheer reflex. But all he did was shake the towel out and drape it over my shoulders. Oops.

The sad look was back on his face after that, and we ate without saying anything more. As we got closer and closer to finishing, I got more and more nervous. I couldn't help myself from shifting and fidgeting. I thought the sheriff would have been annoyed—Henry hadn't been able to stand it when I couldn't stop moving—but Stilinski didn't even seem to notice.

Then finally, after taking one last sip of his coffee, he addressed my unease. "I'm not going to take you back, AJ," he said with a long-suffering sigh. Oh. That was good. I relaxed a little. Setting his coffee mug down, he ran a thumb over the rim. "I know a guy. He's a good man." The sheriff shook his head slightly, as if mentally correcting himself. "Well, he's not much older than you. But he's good with teenagers…and you know, your…type of thing."

I tilted my head at him. My type of thing. Did he mean being a werecoyote? I shifted, getting ready to bolt, but Stilinski reached over and set a hand on my arm. I could have run. I could have easily pulled free, but something stopped me.

"He'll give you a roof over your head, and he's old enough to be your technical legal guardian," Stilinski said quietly. "But most importantly, he'll give you space. He won't try and force you to be something you're not, but he will make sure you're in control."

My head snapped up at that last part. Control. I never wanted to be out of control again. The night of the crash, I hadn't been in control, and my family had paid the price for it. And now I had no control. Again. I didn't want anyone else to pay for it. Maybe, just maybe, this unknown guy could help me.

I nodded, unable to meet the sheriff's eyes, and he let go of my arm. Joan came back, glancing at my half eaten plate of pancakes. She had an unhappy air about her when she saw it, and I kind of got why.

At Eichen House, they had portioned out a "well-balanced diet." Basically it meant that they controlled what you ate and when you ate it. I had never been able to finish my meals there. Spending years as a coyote had made me lean and my stomach small. I was used to eating whenever I caught something, which was usually a small rabbit whenever I could. Small scraps of food on a random basis.

But at Eichen House, they had actual meals, three times a day, every day. I could eat maybe one. Sometimes two, if I ate bits and pieces of both. The bottom line was, I couldn't handle the amount of food they pushed at me. They had called it passive-aggressive and had written me off with an "obsessive need to control the environment around me."

I called it a disgusting overabundance of food and had written them off as thick-headed, overbearing, fascist morons. I'd learned the word fascist from Stiles. He'd said it meant dictatorial. I'd thought that fit them quite well over at Eichen House.

Either way, I wasn't very good at eating this much food yet. Spend eight years as a coyote, I wanted to tell people. It's excellent portion control. But people never saw it that way. They saw my lean frame and the uneaten food, and they disapproved.

"You want a box, sweetie?" Joan asked kindly. A box? Why would I need a box?

"Box would be great, Joan," Stilinski interjected when I didn't answer fast enough. Joan came back with a Styrofoam box, and handed it to me. Oh, a box to take my food with me. Yes. I wanted that. I shoveled my pancakes into the box and folded the lid closed.

We stood, and Stilinski paid. I kept a tight hand on my box. I didn't want to lose it, especially when I didn't know where my next meal was coming from. We walked back out to the sheriff's car, and I climbed in again. I started shivering as the evening air made my wet clothes even colder. Stilinski turned up the heat, and we sat in the diner parking lot with the car running for a while. Finally he pulled out onto the road, and we started driving through town. We wove through the residential area, working our way deeper into the warehouse district. I didn't remember all the buildings and the streets being there, but it was faintly familiar. This part of the city was relatively unchanged even in the last eight years. Eventually, we came to a stop outside a warehouse.

There was a dark SUV, not unlike the sheriff's, already parked there. We got out, and I got the familiar urge to run. Run to where, I didn't know. But something was weird about this place, and it made me uneasy.

Unfortunately, I had taken too long to decide, because Stilinski walked over, putting a hand on my shoulder. I wondered if Stiles was as jumpy as I was, because the sheriff seemed highly practiced at spotting and diffusing the moments when I was about to lose it.

He guided me forward, and we came to a staircase. I hesitated at the bottom, but the sheriff urged me on. Slowly, I started climbing. It was like four flights of stairs, and by the time we got to the top, the sheriff was breathing hard. I waited patiently for him, and together we walked forward into the gloom of the warehouse interior.

We came to a wide door. It was the sliding kind, and it reached all the way to the ceiling. But then again, we were in a warehouse, so it really wasn't that unthinkable. The sheriff rapped against the metal door with a hand. Then he stepped back, keeping his other hand squarely attached to my shoulder.

It was good for him that he did, because I was seriously thinking about running. But something in his touch was reassuring, and I wondered why it felt different depending on who was doing the touching. Henry had put his hand on my shoulder sometimes. I hadn't liked it, and he had been my own father. The orderlies at the House had touched my shoulders or sometimes my arms, and I hadn't liked that, either.

It was different, though, when Stilinski did it. And that was something I didn't understand.

There were footsteps. They were very, very quiet, but I could hear them. I could also hear the heartbeat of the person on the other side of the door. Finally, the door slid open, and I was confronted by a tall man. He was big.

His arms were crossed over his chest, and he was wearing a t-shirt. It showed off his physique with ease, and I wondered vaguely if I could take him in a fight. Probably not. I moved my gaze up to his face, deciding that was a question for another day. He had a strong jaw, covered in dark stubble. A proud nose, heavy brow. And his eyes. He stared down at me with hazel eyes bordering on green. They were unamused, and they pinned me in spot very easily.

He will make sure you are in control, Stilinski had said back at the diner. Yeah. I could see that. I could see that very easily.

"Derek," the sheriff said pleasantly, his grip tightening on my shoulder in warning. Damn it, the man knew me almost better than I knew myself.

"Sheriff Stilinski," Derek said back. It was almost a growl, but not quite. His voice was low and smooth, promising no tolerance for pretty much anything.

"This is AJ. He needs a place to stay while he gets a handle on…things." Whooap, there it was. That was the sheriff, right down to business.

Derek's eyes narrowed, but I met them. Looking away first was a sign of submission. All predators knew it. Derek stared me down, and finally I couldn't take it anymore. I looked down at my shoes, trying to suppress the shivers that were coming back. It was times like this that fur was utterly useful. Being in wet clothes was even worse. It was like the opposite of fur. On a spectrum, there was fur, then there was no fur, and then there was being in wet clothes.

I hated it.

I clenched my jaw tightly, just to keep my teeth from chattering. If the sheriff felt my tremors, he said nothing. But his hand was still there, warm and comforting on my shoulder. I couldn't see his face, but if I had to guess, I was thinking that Stilinski was staring Derek down with his patented tired, patient look. I think it was a dad thing, because I had seen the look many times on Henry's face when I had stayed with him. Though his was more of an annoyed-tired look instead of Stilinski's tired-patient combo.

Finally, Derek sighed. He backed up, letting us inside, before sliding the door shut again. The sheriff propelled me forward. I shuddered and shook my way into the loft, still clutching my box of food. We came to a stop in the middle, and a second later, a folded blanket came flying through the air. The sheriff caught it before it hit me in the chest. It was a good thing he did, because I wasn't willing to let go of my food to catch it. Eight years of survival instincts were hard to overcome.

Just like the towel, Stilinski shook out the blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders almost without thought. I looked around the loft, careful to avoid the piercing eyes that were locked onto me.

The loft was pretty bare, which I liked. On the far wall, there was a large window, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. There was a large table in front of it, and off the right was a bed. To the left of the window was a winding metal staircase, and in the center of the room was a couch and a small coffee table. Then, through the gaping hole of the brick wall on the right, I could see glimpses of a fridge and kitchen.

Derek uncrossed his arms, motioning for us to sit down on the couch. He didn't look pleased at having to talk to us, but the sheriff pushed me along anyways. Once seated, Stilinski plucked my food from my cold, shivering fingers and put it on the coffee table. I had to fight the urge to pick it back up again, but I hid it by closing my fingers into a tight fist and resting them on my thigh. I still couldn't help but stare at the box, though. Instincts—hard to overcome. Besides, it was easier to look at my food than the man angrily straddling the chair across from us.

"Look, I don't know any other way to say this, but the kid needs someplace safe to stay." Sheriff Stilinski, going to bat for me. I wondered why he was so willing when Henry had not been. Stilinski wasn't even related to me, and it didn't make any sense.

Derek's jaw twitched. "Oh, so you naturally thought 'I'll bring him to Derek Hale.'" He said his own name with a small tinge of bitterness, like maybe people didn't have a very high opinion of him. I pulled the blanket tighter around me and settled back into the couch. I had no opinion of him other than he would probably kick my butt from here to Atlanta if I did anything to displease him. But right now I wasn't too worried.

I was starting to get warm, and I had a full belly. There was food for tomorrow sitting right in front of me, so I didn't have to worry about that, either. Plus, the couch was super comfortable, better than the Eichen House beds. So yeah, I wasn't worried.

Stilinski said something in return, but I missed it. My eyes were getting heavier, and I wasn't really interested in their argument. Either Derek would take me, or he would kick me out. I didn't have much preference in either direction.

The words being shot back and forth faded into a gentle buzzing, and I let my head tip to the side against the soft material of the couch as warmth spread through my body. I was warm, I was full, and I was safe.

And with that, my eyes slid shut, and I let the world around me fade into oblivion.