Disclaimer: TW characters are not mine.
A/N: Review please? I love reviews. They make my day (for realsies, they totally do).
We pulled into the parking lot of a busy store, and I slumped lower in my seat. I hated stores. Henry had tried to take me shopping in one like this. It was loud, and there were too many people, and the myriad of scents morphed into something massively overwhelming. I was not going to go through that again. I mean, school was pretty busy and loud, but at least that was a predictable chaos. Stores like this were not.
Derek turned off the car and got out. He came around to my side of the car, opening the door. I moved to pull it shut again, but he just held it open with a forearm. "You're coming," he informed me pleasantly. "Get out."
I shook my head.
Derek smiled. It wasn't his nice smile. In fact, it was usually reserved imminent violence or threatening Stiles.
I got out.
I trailed behind Derek the whole time, keeping my fists clenched tightly in my pockets. We walked from one aisle to the next, dropping food into the basket. I didn't pay attention to any of it, knowing I probably wouldn't be eating it anyway. When we got to the bread section, there was a rack of pastries that smelled good. Beside them, though, were crinkly packages filled with Twinkies and other things from the same brand. I came to a stop, my eyes getting wider.
I was in heaven. There were so many things that I'd never tried, and if they were even a fraction as delicious as Twinkies, then I would never have to eat anything else ever again. I twisted, looking for Derek, but he was already gone. I stood by the rack, unwilling to leave it. I wanted Twinkies, but I didn't have any money.
I inhaled, catching a wild array of scents. They were overwhelming, but I fought through all the extraneous smells and sought out Derek's. I found it easily and, with one last glance at the Twinkies, went to find him.
I got maybe three steps before panic welled up and crashed over me. It wasn't mine, per se, but the heady burst of hormones that rushed into my nostrils made me automatically respond. Someone was terrified. I sucked in another whiff of air, starting to run and dodge people as I found the trail. I could hear soft whimpers now, and it made me feel...not right. I didn't like that sound. It was wrong.
I burst through the giant swinging doors in the back, greeted by the sight of packing crates and pallets of food. I skidded to a stop, searching for the scent or the noise. It was quiet, and the scent had changed. There was a sharp tang of urine, but there was also something else. Something faint. It took me a second to figure it out, but when I did, alarm bells went off in my brain. Death. It smelled like death.
My instincts screamed, and I ducked as a ghoul shot through the air, arms reaching for me. I pivoted on a foot, flicking my claws out. The ghoul landed on a crate in front of me. It crouched, jaws lolling wide and saliva dripping from its mouth. It was him, the big one.
I took a step forward, a low growl building in my throat. A noise behind me had me spinning around, though, and I was hit hard by another ghoul. I went flying, slammed to the ground on my back, the ghoul's arms still wrapped around my waist.
It looked human. The skin was gray and kind of pebbly, but it still looked liked a person. The smell had only the barest hints of decomposition, which meant this was a freshly turned ghoul. Regardless, I wriggled and slashed trying to get at it's throat. In the chaos, one of my arms got pinned and the other was wrenched excruciatingly in the wrong direction. Something popped, and my arm went limp. I cried out, unable to stop myself, and the ghoul on top of me laughed. It leaned over me, breathing putrid air and spit in my face as it gnashed its teeth.
It made one mistake, though. It hesitated, as it leaned into my face, unconsciously baring its throat in a way no self-respecting predator ever did. I didn't hesitate, seeing the opening and lurching upward to tear into its jugular with the last free weapons I had at my disposal.
My fangs ripped through muscle and flesh easily. Black liquid spurted—over my face, over me—pouring into my mouth. It burned like fire, leaking down my throat. I coughed and choked, swallowing some and spitting the rest out. The ghoul slumped onto me, but I pushed it off with my uninjured arm, rolling onto my side.
The doors burst open, behind me. I gagged, trying to expel the last of the blood out of my mouth, before contorting around to see who it was. Derek. Thank God. "Der'k," I managed to choke out right before the remaining ghoul made his exit.
He was gone, but he left me a present. Rage, God-awful rage flooded the room. I could smell it in the air. Rage, anger, fury. The acrid mix of hormones flooded over me, and I felt my body respond. My brain went red, and when Derek crouched by me, I leapt at him with a feral snarl.
Derek slammed me back onto the ground easily with a hand to my chest, a look of surprise rippling across his face. I swiped at him with my good arm, and he slapped that to the ground as well. "Control it," he hissed, his voice tight and annoyed. I jerked, fighting to get out from under him, but the movement jostled my elbow, sending pain ripping through me.
The red haze in my mind popped like a balloon, shredded by the pulsing pain in my arm. I immediately went still under Derek, panting and coughing but not fighting him anymore. He eased back, holding his hands up.
Rolling onto my side, I curled into a ball, feeling like my throat was burnt raw and my stomach was going to come out my mouth. Derek heaved me up, murmuring about needing to leave, and I stumbled blindly forward, propelled by his careful grip.
When we reached the car, I collapsed in the passenger seat, wrapping my arms across my stomach with a moan. I was dying, I was sure of it. My inside were eating each other and slowly dissolving into toxic sludge.
Derek didn't say anything, just threw the groceries in the back and started driving. "Wanna go home," I groaned, slumping sideways against the door. He didn't answer, but we drove in a direction that was thankfully homeward.
Fifteen minutes later, I let out a quiet sigh, pressing my cheek to the cold window. We were not home. Not even close. In fact, we were at the last place I wanted to be. The now-familiar, stupid white brick building was mocking me, and I didn't want to get out of the car.
We had been heading home until I'd vomited on the side of the road, Derek having had the presence of mind to see it coming and pull over. The vomit, of course, had come out black and yucky. Apparently that had been enough for Derek to pack me back into the car, turn around, and drive to Deaton's torture lab.
"'M fine," I mumbled, trying to talk him out of it as we sat in the parking lot. I felt a lot better after both throwing up and Derek relocating my elbow. He didn't respond, though, so I opened my eyes and turned my head to look at him. Derek wasn't even in the car anymore. How the heck did I miss an entire mountain getting out of the car?
The door I was leaning against opened, and I collapsed sideways, not having put my seatbelt on after puking. Strong arms caught me, pulling me out and getting me upright. Ugh, I hated him. I hated him so much right now. He half marched, half dragged me inside, and Deaton didn't even act surprised to see us. I hated him, too.
Deaton didn't waste any time pulling on a pair of blue rubber gloves and asking that I sit on the shiny metal examination table. I refused, though it was more of an issue of queasiness than actual rebellion. Derek took one step toward me, and I huffed, pulling myself onto the table in slow, labored movements.
Four minutes later, I was about to go insane.
"He can't control it," Derek announced to no one in particular.
I rolled my eyes and searching my brain to figure out how I always ended up in this situation. I was back on the hell table, being examined by the doctor. The only reason I hadn't bolted yet was Derek's menacing gaze mixed with his broody arms-crossed posture just warning me to try it. That, and I felt like I might puke again.
Maybe I should just give up on pretending to be a real boy and go back to the woods. There were no ghouls in the woods, no Dereks, no Deatons. No Twinkies, either, but I could probably live without them.
As if to remind me of why I disliked him, Deaton shined a light in my eyes for no reason, and I snarled at him, showing him my fangs. He didn't react, which was kind of disappointing. Derek, however, reacted for him, stepping forward and lightly smacking the back of my head again. I scowled because it was annoying and I hadn't seen it coming, but the gentle slap did its job, and I remembered that Deaton was helping us.
Allegedly.
I put my fangs away, thinking about Lydia until they weren't extended anymore. Derek stepped back, and Deaton tilted his head at me, peeling off his rubber gloves thoughtfully. If that wasn't control, then I didn't know what was.
"I see," Deaton said, getting all wiggly and blurred. "Oh dear," he murmured, taking a quick step back. I slumped forward off the table, vomiting for the second time. Dark liquid splashed against the concrete floor, and I might have fallen off the table if someone hadn't grabbed my waist and pulled me back onto it. As it was, I felt like maybe lying down would be easier, so I did. My head slumped onto my arm, and I lay there on my side. It did make me feel better, which was nice.
"You say he ingested ghoul blood?" Deaton queried. He was crouched by the puddle of vomit, and he took a pinch of the familiar Narcissus powder, sprinkling it onto the small pool. The liquid hissed and bubbled for a second. I watched it for a little bit then closed my eyes. Gross. That had been inside me.
A hand was at my wrist, but I was too woozy to shake it off. "He's not in pain," Derek said quietly. I wanted to remind them that I was in the room, too, and that I was lying right in front of them. "AJ had just killed one of the ghouls when I found him. The blood was all over his face and teeth. Then the main ghoul left, and he just lost it."
Deaton stood, and I listened to his footsteps as he crossed the room. There was a flipping sound, and I identified it as pages being turned in a book. Deaton sighed. "I doubt that had to do with swallowing the blood. If anything, his body is rejecting it. That's why he's vomiting, to purge it from his system."
No, I knew why I'd lost control. They weren't getting it. It was in the air. Whatever hormones and smells the main ghoul gave off were particularly potent. They kept overwhelming and flooding my senses. I couldn't help but react.
"It's the smell," I groaned, forcing the words out right before my stomach heaved again. Nothing came out this time, but my brain didn't send the message to my body, because I kept right on heaving and jerking.
Finally, when the spasms were done, I tried again. "The ghoul gets angry. Then I smell it, and I get angry." I didn't have the energy to open my eyes and check what kind of reaction that gained, but I didn't care. It was the truth. They could do with it what they wanted.
"Sense of smell is vitally important to coyotes," Deaton said in a quiet murmur. He rested his hand on my arm, and I wanted to remove it, because I didn't like being touched. All I managed was a twitch, but it was enough to make his hand lift. "It's possible that AJ is still overly sensitized. Certain hormones can bring out a very primal response. Even in humans, I'm afraid. What AJ smelled was probably a much, much more elevated sense of aggression and anger. It could be enough to jumpstart his own hormonal cascade in response."
Yes, that's it, I wanted to tell him. That's what keeps happening. But I kept my mouth shut. I was done with this conversation, done with this clinic. I pulled my eyes opened and dragged my legs of the table, landing in an awkward crouch. I had to get out of here. I couldn't take the voices, the animal noises, and the smells. I just needed to be outside, where the air was clean and things were quiet.
I wobbled along the wall, dragging my hand along it to give me stability. "I'll be outside," I said with the strongest voice I could muster. They let me go, maybe sensing it wasn't worth arguing over.
I felt better in the biting cold. The sun was fading, leaving a cold dusk in its wake. I didn't mind. There was something about it that cut through the nausea and kicked my brain into gear. I ran back through what had happened, actually processing the details instead of just reacting like I had earlier.
The ghoul had turned someone. The person had died and then become a ghoul. It had been quick. I'd heard the soft cries, smelled the moment when the person had truly died. Then I'd run into the room and been foolishly blindsided. God, that had been stupid. Still, at least I'd killed the ghoul. Maybe the main one would think twice about making reinforcements if we just kept killing them off.
No, that didn't make any sense. It would keep making ghouls, that was a given. What we needed to do was hunt it down and kill it. If all of us got together, then we might be able to bring it down. There was no way of knowing, other than just going out and doing it.
I closed my eyes, bringing in several deep breaths of clean air. It was cold, and it stung my nostrils, but it was clear of death and decay and disease. The nausea swirled in my stomach, making my head spin, and I was glad my eyes were closed. Leaning back against the brick, I took slow, even breaths. The nausea passed, and I struggled to open my eyes. They didn't cooperate.
I slid down the wall, not really realizing how close the ground was until it met me with a thump. Then I finally managed to pry my eyes open to mere slits, taking in the hazy gray of the sky. After that, everything went dark, and I didn't see anything at all.
I woke up back at the loft in my bed. Derek was slapping my face and shaking me, loudly demanding for me to wake up. My eyes leapt open, and I flinched away before he could hit me again. "Geroff me," I grumbled, shoving his hands away, not happy with the slapping and touching binge he'd been on lately.
Derek settled back on his heels in a crouch, breathing heavily and swiping a hand down his face. "You weren't waking up," he said roughly.
I scowled at him in response, my face still stinging. Yeah, I wasn't waking up because I liked sleeping. Rolling onto my side, I gave him my back and closed my eyes again.
"Up," Derek commanded.
"'M tired," I said, dangerously close to whining. At this point, I didn't care how I sounded. I just wanted to sleep.
"I don't care," he replied sharply. "Get up."
"Ughhhh," I groaned loudly, easing vaguely upwards and pushing my legs over the edge of the bed. Then I stopped moving, slouched rakishly upright with my hands and arms limp on either side of me. Derek was watching me with an expression alarmingly akin to worry.
"You passed out at the animal clinic. I brought you here, and you've been asleep for nearly twenty-four hours." His jaw was working, and his forehead was wrinkled. Not to mention his eyes were all solemn and green. Yeah, he was definitely worried. That, in turn, made me wonder if I should be worried.
I dismissed the thought after a mere second, knowing he could worry and brood enough for the both of us.
"I'm fine," I grumbled.
"Come eat something," was all he said in reply as he stood up and strode out of the room.
"Not hungry," I groused after to him. He didn't seem to notice.
I sighed. Asleep for twenty-four hours? Yowza. I didn't feel like I'd just slept for an entire day. A nap, maybe. A day, not even close. Pushing the blankets aside, I stood up. No wobbles, no spinning vision. I was fine. Looking down, I realized I was in sweatpants and a clean shirt. Damn it. My blue shirt was gone, no doubt in the trash, since it had been covered in ghoul blood and gunk. That was two blue shirts I'd lost to freaking ghouls.
I moved slowly over to the desk—muscles for some reason sore—and pulled on Derek's old sweatshirt, which was draped over my backpack. Ugh, my backpack. It was Sunday night, and I hadn't done any of my homework yet. Poop.
I unzipped it, pulling out the first textbook I saw, and shambled to the kitchen. Derek was mixing something in a bowl, and I was wholly thankful it wasn't a protein shake. Climbing onto the stool, I slumped down, resting my elbows on the counter as I flipped open the book and started reading.
The words stared up at me, and it was like they were in another language. I blinked slowly, realizing they were in another language. My dang Spanish book. That's what I'd grabbed. And I distinctly remember my Spanish teacher telling me that if I couldn't say anything more than "hola" and "quiero Taco Bell," by next Friday she was going to give me an F in the class.
"Hola," I muttered, defiantly sticking to the single Spanish word I could say and recognize one hundred percent of the time.
Derek gave me a sideways glance, but he kept adding and mixing ingredients into the bowl without comment. "Como es-estas?" I muttered, scratching my head. God, why did they need me to learn an entire other language? I just got back from eight years in the woods where I spoke no language at all.
"Cómo estás," Derek said quietly, not looking up from where he was stirring the stuff in the bowl.
"Eh?" I inquired, feeling like I'd just missed something.
He bent down and opened a cupboard, pulling a pan out. "It's pronounced 'cómo estás.' It means 'how are you.'"
"Hola, cómo estás," I repeated, putting the three words together in some form of greeting.
"Bien," Derek answered. "Y tú?" I stared. "Good, and you?" he clarified, raising his eyebrows in expectation.
"Bien," I said slowly. Derek turned away from me, pouring the stuff in the bowl into the pan. It started crackling and cooking. I stared at the stove top, replaying the conversation and trying to cement it into my memory. This was good stuff. If I walked into the classroom and asked my teacher how she was, then that would totally put me in her good graces.
"Hola, cómo estás?" I said quietly to myself. "Bien. Y tú? Bien." There. My own little mini-conversation. Derek levered what I now recognized as a pancake out of the pan and plopped it on a plate, sliding it across the counter to me. I stopped it, staring appreciatively down at the pancake. I liked pancakes. Maybe I was hungry after all.
"Gracias," Derek said, giving me an unreadable look. I stared at him cluelessly. "It means 'thank you,'" he said dryly, a slight smirk on his face.
"Oh," I said, cutting a large piece of pancake with my fork. I stuffed it in my mouth. "Gracias." Derek shook his head slightly, but he went to the refrigerator and opened the door. Lifting the plastic dome thing at the top of the door, he pulled out a little plastic capsule out of the compartment and tossed it to me. I caught it easily and was delighted to see it was a container of syrup from my pancake dinner at the diner. Score!
I tore the foil top off and liberally doused my pancake in syrup. The syrup was sweet, like the Twinkie, and I wondered if that was because it had lots of sugar in it. I hoped so.
Somehow, despite previous experiences, I finished the entire pancake. Never mind that Derek ate four pancakes in the time it took me to finish my one. My plate was empty, save for a few smears of syrup, and for some reason it made me a little bit proud. I pushed it away from me and leaned back, raising my hands over my head in a stretch as I let out a burp. Then I slumped forward, resting my forehead on the book. I was full and warm and tired. "Can I go back to sleep now?" I asked quietly, hoping Derek would be in a good mood since I'd finished everything on my plate.
"No," he growled. It wasn't an angry growl, but he definitely wasn't happy. I didn't know why, but then again, when was Derek ever happy? Still, I could envision him pouring cold water on me if I fell asleep here, so I dragged my head upright and pulled my book off the counter before heading for the couch.
"Plate," Derek called after me in annoyance. I sighed, pulling an about face and snagging my plate off the counter to put it in the sink. Then I went to the couch and dropped onto it with a huff. I sat with my back against the armrest, bending my legs so that the book was on a steep hill. Sleep tugged at my brain with a gentle touch, but I pushed it away, rubbing my eyes and focusing on the Spanish book.
"Pre-guntar," I sounded out slowly. "Gracias para preguntar," I said, a little bit more confidently. Thanks for asking.
"Por," Derek called out of the kitchen. I heard the clink of dishes and the splash of water. "Gracias por preguntar."
I closed my eyes, dropping my head against the book again. "Gracias por preguntar," I repeated in a monotone. Spanish sucked. But there was no avoiding it. "Hola, cómo estás?" I quizzed myself. "Bien. Y tú? Bien. Gracias por preguntar." There was silence, and I decided that I hated school. I hated almost everything about it. "I'm not going to school tomorrow," I announced, tilting my head back and staring up at the big ceiling windows.
In the kitchen, there was a sharp bark of laughter. Ah, well, it had been worth a try. My brain felt a little bit fuzzy, and I blinked slowly. It was a sleepy fuzzy, though, not a sick fuzzy. So that was good, at least. "Coach wants me to try out for the cross-country team," I announced to the windows. "Kira told me."
Derek's big form appeared in the doorway, and in my peripheral, he leaned against the frame, crossing his arms. "Do you want to do cross-country?" His tone had a funny lilt to it, which confused me. Was it a bad thing if I said yes? I was too tired to think about it.
"I don't know." There, that was a safe answer.
"Yes, you do," Derek prompted, proving me right about being able to sense my lies.
"I want…" to stay here with you, my brain filled in. I stopped just short of saying it, my heart suddenly pounding and heat flooding my cheeks. Where had that come from? What was wrong with me? "I don't know," I repeated, tipping my head forward again and staring lasers at the page of Spanish words.
Derek didn't say anything more. He just walked away. I heard dishes clink softly in the kitchen, then quiet. A minute later, Derek prowled back— near silently—and dropped onto the other end of the couch. He had a book, just like me, except he appeared to actually want to read it.
I peeked at the title. The Great Gatsby. The cover looked weird, but Derek seemed engrossed, so I went back to my Spanish. Hola, cómo estás? Bien. Y tú? Bien. Gracias por preguntar, I told myself again and again. So help me, if this was the only thing I could say, then I was going to say it well.
I must have gone through the greeting a dozen different times before my eyes somehow ended up closed. I didn't even realize it had happened until Derek broke through the soft floaty-ness. "Stay awake," he reminded me pointedly from the background. I cracked my eyes open just a tiny bit. He wasn't even looking up from his book.
Stay awake. I needed to stay awake for some reason. "Mh-hmm," I hummed in submissive confirmation, and then I promptly fell asleep.