Disclaimer: Teen Wolf characters do not belong to me. This is purely fan fiction.

I said nothing after Deaton's greeting. Deaton, that was the guy who had given Derek supplies to make my "protein shake." I stared at him, remembering the disgusting smell and taste. No wonder I didn't trust him. He didn't seem bothered by my stare, though, just motioned us deeper into the clinic.

We came into a more open room. It had cabinets lining the walls, and in the center was a large metal table. There had been a table like that at Eichen House. Men in white coats had made me sit on it while they snapped on pairs of gloves to poke and prod at me with. If Deaton thought he was going to do the same, he was sadly mistaken.

Deaton reached for a slim cardboard box, pulling out some thin blue gloves. Oh, hell no. I turned to bolt, but Derek already had enough foresight to slap a hand down on my shoulder. I realized, then, that he usually did it to settle me. It was a simple, non-coercive way to encourage me to behave. But this time, I was having none of it.

I twisted in his grip, breaking free, and then I turned wildly. I was disorientated for a second, not quite sure which way I needed to go to escape, and Deaton took advantage of it by stepping to the side and blocking the direction that I had just decided was out.

Derek grabbed me again, this time by both shoulders, and it felt like my left shoulder was on fire. I snarled, whipping around and baring my teeth at him, but his eyes were already glowing in response. A heavy growl rumbled at the back of his throat, and I stopped, my energy and will to fight drained. He very slowly took his hands off my shoulders, holding them up as he took one small step back.

Deaton waited patiently, like nothing had happened. "Can you please take a seat on the table, AJ?" I scowled at him—something I was beginning to perfect—just to warn him not to try anything funny. Then I climbed slowly onto the table, trying not to let them see how much it hurt.

Deaton surveyed me calmly, making no move towards me. Then he pulled out a pair of weirdly bent scissors and took a slow, smooth step forward. My upper lip twitched, and I resisted the urge to bare my teeth at him. I was human now. I had to act like one.

But if he tried to poke me with needles, I was not above biting, I swear.

"I'm just going to cut off your shirt," Deaton said patiently, unperturbed by my wariness. I frowned, because this was a new shirt, and I liked the color of it. I glanced down and saw that it was no longer new. When I had gutted the Thing, the dark fluid had coated my shirt in a thick, congealed residue. Now it was crusty, and there was some of my blood staining it as well. It really didn't look blue anymore. Except for the right sleeve, which was miraculously clean and now being cut in two by Deaton's stupid scissors.

The top of the shirt came away easily, falling about halfway down my chest on one side and my back on the other. Then it flopped over, the remained length adhered to my skin through blood, dirt, and now-crusty Thing fluid.

Deaton stepped away, only to return a second later with small bottle held in his hand. It had a weird kind of tapered nozzle, and when he squeezed, a trickle of water came out the nozzle and ran down my chest to the shirt.

I gritted my teeth and shivered, not liking the steady trickle of cold water that he was using to loosen the crusted shirt. "Sorry," he said softly, after I shivered again. The shirt came off incrementally, revealing nothing pretty. Deaton's gentle finger traced my ribs under the guise of further loosening the shirt, but I knew what he was really thinking about.

A minute later, he glanced casually at Derek. "You have the herbs and supplies I gave you?" Derek nodded, but I rolled my eyes. Deaton was talking about the protein shake. I may have been a little ignorant from my time as a coyote, but I wasn't an idiot.

"Smells terrible," I told Deaton, just to show him I was following along.

The skin around his eyes crinkled a little, and he smiled. "I apologize. It can't be helped."

"Clearly you've never tried it," I muttered quietly. Deaton didn't hear it, but Derek's mouth twitched slightly, like he found it amusing.

"Almost got it...and there. Done." Deaton removed the last of the shirt almost like the knights removed pieces of their armor. I'd found a picture in my history book, and it came to mind when the shirt remained stiff and melded to my shape. I liked knights. They were cool. I glanced down at my torso, noting the heavy bruising. Some of it was already healed, so it was kind of a mosaic of blues and purples and yellows.

I didn't care. It would heal—was healing, really. No, what apparently worried Deaton was the bite on my shoulder. He got a soft white cloth out and cleaned the area thoroughly. By the time he was done, the cloth wasn't white anymore, and the bite burned worse than ever.

"The damage to the trapezius muscle doesn't look too bad, but some of the tissue seems borderline necrotic. What was it that bit you?" I didn't understand much of what he'd said, and I also didn't know what bit me, so I said nothing. Deaton then looked at Derek, who uncrossed his arms and pushed off the wall he'd been leaning against.

"We don't know. Argent hasn't seen anything like them. They were at the cemetery, and they smell like rotting flesh." Derek seemed almost respectful when he talked to Deaton, which was something entirely new for me. Then he caught me watching, and he did that thing where he pins me in place with a single look. I think it was probably an alpha stare.

I blinked slowly at him, feeling kind of dizzy as Deaton probed the bite with a gentle finger. "Not just rotting," I said, my voice sounding kind of fuzzy in my own ears. "Sickly sweet. They smelled like disease."

Derek's eyes narrowed, and he crossed his arms again. I didn't smell that, his look challenged.

The smell didn't make you lose your breakfast, either, I wanted to tell him. Maybe my sense of smell is just better than yours, wolf. Derek looked like he was going to murder me in my sleep, and Deaton went still at my shoulder. Had I said that out loud? I hadn't meant to.

"I'm going to try something," Deaton said in his calm, unhurried tone. He went to the cupboard and pulled out a little jar with some light yellow powder in it, then he came back over and pinched some of the powder out, sprinkling it on and into the bite.

My entire shoulder, not just the bite area, lit up on fire. I think I screamed. Derek was there in an instant, pinning me down to the table even as I thrashed wildly about. I heaved and twisted, trying to escape the mindless agony, and then it faded. Only a little at first, but then it just seemed to drain away.

The metal of the table was cool against my back, and I tried to sit up. Deaton stopped me. "Just lie still," he said quietly, almost urgently. "He's taking the worst of it, but as soon as he stops, it'll hurt again." I gazed around blearily, not understanding. One of Derek's large hands was splayed on my chest, pinning me in place. His other hand was clasping my wrist. As I watched, inky veins of darkness slithered down my wrist on up into his.

"What?" I whispered slowly, dumbfounded. I looked up at Derek, but his eyes were closed, face tight with concentration. A muscle in his cheek jerked, and droplets of sweat dotted his forehead. Then Deaton pulled another jar of powder out, and I couldn't help but whimper. No, please, not again, I wanted to beg him. He looked pained, and I wondered if I'd said it out loud again. Then he tossed the powder onto the bite, and I tensed, but this time nothing happened.

"Good," Deaton murmured, more to himself than me. "You can let go now. He shouldn't feel much anymore." Derek jerked his hand free of mine, and lifted the one from my chest as well. As soon as he let go, the myriad of aches and pains flooded back in, but they were a minor distraction compared what the pain had been only a minute before.

"I've seen that kind of bite, before," Deaton explained. "But not for a very, very long time. The reaction to the narcissus root confirms it. You're dealing with ghouls."

Derek looked a little lost, and I certainly had no idea if that was supposed to be a good thing or a bad thing. As it was, I wasn't too concerned. If it bled, I could kill it, which was all I really cared about.

Deaton frowned unhappily. "I regret to say that ghouls are a bit out of my normal area of expertise. You say you killed one? How?"

I blinked again. Oh. He was talking to me. Yes. I had killed one. "Gutted it. Then tore out its throat." Deaton looked a little taken aback. "Stiles hit it in the head a couple times with a metal baseball bat, too," I added helpfully, mostly as an afterthought.

"How fortuitous of him," Deaton said absently as he cast a speculative glance at the bite on my shoulder. "Ghouls are known to consume dead flesh. Something in the saliva must have a way of killing live tissue. Interesting. Very interesting."

I did not think that was interesting at all. I just wanted to go home and sleep. But I was supposed to meet Scott tonight. And I had a ton of homework, too. I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose as the dozen of different things I needed to do bounced around in my brain. I didn't like having so much to learn and memorize. It was overwhelming, and when I got overwhelmed, it was like I couldn't focus on anything at all.

When I opened my eyes again, I found Deaton looking at me thoughtfully. I didn't like his careful inspection of me. It reminded me of the doctors at Eichen House for a second, and I slid off the table before he could try and study me some more. I didn't like those kinds of looks—when it stopped being about me and started being about the discovery of something new. It was like I wasn't even a person anymore when they got that look, just some sort of...sort of...specimen, or something.

I moved forward a step, testing out the dizziness that had come—and apparently gone—so suddenly. "Can we go now?" I asked Derek, trying not to sound like I was pleading. I didn't like it here. There were too many smells, and they reminded me of Eichen House. The worst, perhaps, being the clinical sting of disinfectant. I hated that one. Not to mention all the delightful scents and noises of the animals in the next room. The dogs barked, and I could hear the cats hissing. Yeah, domestic pets and coyotes don't necessarily tend to get along. They didn't want me here, and I didn't want me here, either.

Derek nodded towards the door, and I slipped past him towards freedom.

It was still warm outside, and the sun beat down on me with welcome heat. I hesitated outside Derek's SUV, soaking in the daylight. Derek came out a few minutes later, and I begrudgingly gave up the warmth to climb inside the car.

We didn't really talk during the drive. I didn't mind. It was one of the things I liked about Derek. He never felt the need to fill the air with meaningless words. Stiles, on the other hand, never shut up. Though, Stiles' chatter was kind of nice sometimes. It grounded me during the times when everything else was so chaotic and overwhelming. But still, I liked the quiet.

It wasn't until Derek shut off the car that he finally spoke. "I fought one of the ghouls." He frowned out the windshield thoughtfully. "It was fast, strong, and well trained. Argent shot it, but it kept coming." He paused, then he turned to look at me. "How did you beat the second ghoul?"

I blinked slowly, which was quickly becoming my favorite stall tactic. What did he mean? He'd heard me tell Deaton what I'd done to kill the ghoul. Did he want to hear it again? Or maybe he was wondering something else, which would mean...

You. "How did you" is what he'd put the most emphasis on. Oh, well that part was easy. I knew exactly why I had won, aside from the whole self-healing part. "It was fast," I conceded with a half a shrug. "But I was faster." Then after half a beat, I continued my self-assessment. "And it didn't have claws."

Derek looked like he was carefully weighing my answer, and then he nodded. "Full moon is coming," he said after a pause. It was different this time as he said it, though. This time he was looking at me thoughtfully, not just gauging my reaction like last time. I didn't even say anything, but after a few moments, he inclined his head slightly, as if making an important decision.

I did not understand, and that frustrated me, so I wordlessly got out of the car and started the slow trek up the many stairs. My backpack dangled uselessly from one hand, bumping each step as I went up. All it did was remind me of how much crap I still had to do before tomorrow. I wanted to shred the entire thing and drop it over the railing, but something told me that would not be productive, and Derek would probably make me clean it up anyways. So I dragged the thing spitefully behind me, letting my displeasure show in my scowl.

Peter was in the living room when I finally slid the metal door open. If my shirtless, bruised appearance came as any surprise to him, he certainly didn't show it. I ignored him, my scowl unwavering as I morosely dragged my backpack to the guest room without a single word to him.

When Derek came into the loft, I heard them have a soft, yet heated conversation. As I had noticed last night, things were tense between them. Interesting. I sighed and sat down at the desk. Interesting didn't make economics homework get done any faster. Shoving the low murmurs to the back of my mind, I pulled out the textbook and started floundering through the assigned chapter.

Fifteen minutes later, Peter and Derek were still at it, and I had gained no further insight into the madness that was economics. Even though the sentences were made of simple words that I understood, when put together, the whole thing seemed to morph into some abstract concept. It was bizarre. And maddening. I made one last attempt to comprehend the paragraph I had already read four times and failed yet again. Scooping up the book with a furious exclamation, I hurled it at the wall.

It hit with a solid thump and fell to the floor in a terrific slam. Outside, Derek and Peter went quiet. I dropped my head onto the desk, hating school and teachers and economics and books. Then I pulled the phone Stiles had given me out of my backpack. It took a while, and the pressing of many random buttons, but finally I figured out how to call him. The screen went dark as I held it to my ear, and Stiles picked up after the first ring.

"What? What's wrong? Did something happen? Please tell me Derek didn't kill you for being in the cemetery today. What am I saying? If he'd killed you, then you wouldn't be able to call me. Hey, you're calling me. Wait, what do you need?"

I paused for a second, thrown off by the sudden onslaught. Then I remembered why I'd called. "Can you come over?" I asked miserably.

There was silence on the other end. "Is Derek there?" Stiles asked after a moment.

"Yes," I said, not getting why that would matter.

Another pause. Then, "Is Peter there?" He sounded a little nervous this time.

"Yes." More silence. Why did it matter? Shoot. Oh, wait, I knew this one. Smiling made people act nicer sometimes, but he couldn't see me, so I could also use…

"Please?" I said. The word felt a little funny coming out of my mouth, but not in the laughing funny kind of way. It wasn't a word I used very often.

Maybe Stiles knew that, because he sighed. "I'll be there soon. You owe me."

True to his word, Stiles showed up. When he walked in, Derek and Peter were already upstairs, looking through a bunch of books for any mention of ghouls. At least they weren't arguing anymore. Stiles hovered about in the living room, and I went back to the guest room to retrieve my economics book from the floor. As soon as he saw it, his expression went from slightly uncomfortable to completely understanding.

Twenty minutes later, he was not quite so understanding.

Stiles groaned, drumming his foot against the ground in obvious agitation. "Okay, one more time. Econ is all about supply and demand. Supply means what's available for consumers to buy. Demand is how much or how badly they want to buy it. You can't have one without the other. Do you understand?"

Did I understand? No, not in the slightest. My brain was so full of all the other crap I had to memorize that even simple economics were evading me. "Yes," I said matter-of-factly, wondering if that would make him stop talking. "I understand." The look on my face probably wasn't convincing enough, because Stiles threw his hands in the air.

Peter prowled by, and Stiles stiffened. I knew the feeling, Peter made me uneasy in a way I couldn't explain. Stiles didn't like him, and I didn't either. But Stiles had still come, because I had called him. He called it being a good friend, and I tried to remember that for the future. Being a good friend meant doing something you didn't want to do. I wondered vaguely why people wanted to be good friends in the first place if it was so much of a hassle.

Peter paused, looking like he wanted to say something. Then he kept walking. A second later, he pulled an about-face and came back. "It's excruciating listening to you, Stiles. You're like a broken record." Peter focused solely on me, drilling into me with his blue eyes.

"You were a coyote, and you were alone. That means you probably hunted smaller prey that you could take down by yourself with minimal risk of injury." He was right. I had gone after smaller prey because I couldn't afford to be injured. If injured, I wouldn't have been able to hunt. And not being able to hunt meant starving, so I had chosen my prey accordingly.

"What happened when the smaller prey ran out? What did you do then?" How he knew that, I didn't know. There had been a winter, a bad one, a few years ago. The rabbits had gone underground, and hunting had been scarce. I had been desperate enough to try taking down a deer. I'd done it, but I'd also been kicked and had broken a couple ribs. That had been my worst winter, but at least I'd survived.

"Went for a deer," I grunted, not liking talking about this topic.

"Exactly," Peter said. "Your supply ran out, so you got desperate. You were willing to do more for what little there was left. That's one of the rules of supply and demand. Basically, if your supply and demand don't match, then you have imbalance. If you have more demand—your need for food—than you have supply—the food—then you will work harder for it. If you have more supply than demand, then you will not work as hard. Get it?"

I did get it. It was the simple ebb-and-flow of hunting. I nodded, and Peter walked out of the loft without a backward glance. Beside me, Stiles shivered slightly.

He closed the econ book and handed it to me. "Scott is coming over around seven. My house. My dad is going to be gone, so we can work on your control problem." I narrowed my eyes at him, annoyed. He held up his hands with a slight grin. "Control issue. Control issue. It's more of an issue, than a problem."

I sniffed, satisfied, and stood up. Stiles stood too. He lingered, scuffing his toe on the ground. "It'll get easier. School will, I mean. And the other thing, too. Scott can help you, and I can help you."

He looked up and met my eyes for a second, his full of understanding and what was maybe pity. It made me uneasy, so I gave him a brief nod, and then it was my turn to stare down at the ground. "Okay, well, seven at my house," he said, slapping me on the shoulder before he left. I stared after him, contemplating the possibilities of Scott teaching me how to control the coyote side of me. Scott had said he didn't know how to make me turn full coyote again, but I figured the next best thing was to learn how to control the partial shift. And who knew, maybe that would lead to control of the whole turning thing.

I checked my phone. I still had an hour and a half before meeting at Stiles' house, which meant, unfortunately, that I needed to do more homework. My shoulders slumped, and I kind of wished Henry had just shot me—back when he'd been trying to kill me—and put me out of the eventual misery that school was.

Still, I slogged onwards, working through a little of each subject in the hopes that it would keep me from feeling overwhelmed. It didn't. By the time six-thirty rolled around, I felt like my brain was being pulled in so many directions that it was just going to explode. Shoving the papers and books away from myself, I stood up. Okay, well, if anyone asked, I had studied. Now on to bigger and more important things. I was going to Stiles' house, no matter what Derek said.

Derek was sitting on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table with a massive book open in his lap. He didn't even look at me when I walked by, and I hoped that was a good sign. I got all the way to the door before he said anything. "Where do you think you're going?" he asked, sounding very interested in my answer.

I froze, my hand on the cold, metal handle, wondering how I could be so brave in my plans yet feel so tiny when faced with the real deal. That didn't seem quite right to me. "Stiles' house," I told him nervously, scuffing the floor with the toe of my shoe.

"Are you actually going to be at Stiles' house?" he asked, a sardonic lilt to his words. Ok, I deserved that one.

"Yes," I answered promptly, to the best of my knowledge.

He mulled it over, looking down at his book. "Okay," he said finally, and that was that. I left before he could change his mind.

It took me a little over a half an hour to jog to Stiles' house. He'd texted me directions earlier, and they were confusing as heck, but the streets were labeled, and even Stiles couldn't mess that one up.

I knocked on the door, only a few minutes late, and Scott opened it. "Hey," he greeted me.

"Hey," I said, feeling like I had to at least say something back. We went up to Stiles' room.

"Hey," Stiles said, not looking up from his laptop.

I stared at him. "Hey." Geez, what was with that word?

Then he shut the lid of the laptop, spinning the chair around to face us. "Scott? You want to do your thing?"

Scott nodded, and then he turned to me. "Control is different for everyone. Derek told me that the most important thing is to hold onto what makes you human during the transformation. You have to choose an anchor, and that's what will keep you from losing it when the wolf"—he gestured to me—"or coyote side of you takes over. Then, in time, the anchor becomes less important as you get the feel of changing back and forth."

I nodded. An anchor. Okay, I could do that. I just needed to think of one. Relatively soon. Like right now. "Do you have one in mind?" Scott asked, I nodded again, even though my mind was easing towards the concept like a slug. "Okay, back when I was a beta, Peter did this thing to call me out, to draw out the wolf. I'm going to try it with you. Remember, concentrate on the thing that makes you human."

Human. Anchor. Okay, I just needed to focus.

Scott's eyes glowed red, a definite rumble in his throat.

I closed my eyes, waiting to feel something, anything. Nothing. Nothing happened. My eyes snapped open, and I scowled. "Nothing." Scott's eyes faded back to brown, and he frowned.

"Well," Stiles interjected, "there's always the other thing. We could do that."

Scott looked uncomfortable, but I jumped on the chance. "What thing?" I demanded.

"When werewolves are feeling strong emotions, like anger, it's harder to maintain control. Stiles once threw lacrosse balls at me and got me beat up so that I could feel the tipping point. The point where I wanted to lose control. That's when I found my anchor." He went quiet after that, and even I knew better than to pry when that haunted look came into his eyes.

"So…" I prompted, focused on Stiles.

He shrugged. "What makes you mad? What makes you want to tear someone's head off, but not literally."

I stared at him. Everything made me mad. School made me mad. Stupid, noisy high schoolers made me mad. Ghouls made me mad. Derek made me mad when he woke me up in the morning. Economics made me mad.

I think Stiles saw something in my face, because he grinned. "If Scott hit you right now, how mad would that make you." Very mad. That would make me very mad. Stiles' grin got even wider. "Scott, hit AJ."

Scott looked unsure. "Stiles, I don't that's the best way to—"

Stiles scrambled out of his rolley chair and came at me, smacking me across the jaw with a wild right hook. My head jerked to the right as his hit took me by surprise. Then anger flushed through me. I slowly turned my head back to Stiles, who was standing there panting. A low growl started deep in my chest, and I flexed my fingers.

Stiles brightened. "Look, you did it! Good job, dude." I bared my teeth at him, knowing my fangs were out. He lost his excitement. "Uh, Scott, buddy, I'm going to let you handle this one." I took one step towards him, flexing my fingers again, letting him hear my knuckles cracking. My eyes flared blue in the reflection of the window, and Stiles scrambled to stand behind Scott's shoulder.

"Calm down, AJ," Scott urged. But I didn't hear him. "Your Anchor. Remember your anchor." His words were like little flies, unable to make a dent in the flood of raw aggression that was coming to the surface. I had no anchor, and I wasn't interested in listening.

What I wanted was to hit something, preferably a lot.

Stiles' face would do just fine.