Disclaimer: Teen Wolf characters are not mine.

A/N: So...this has been long overdue. Sorry. School is crazy. Anyways, let me know what you think. :)

As it turned out, my initial vision of Derek pouring freezing water on me if I fell asleep was not too far off the mark.

I woke up in a metal tub, submerged in water with visible ice chunks floating in it, and two muscular arms—belonging to no other than Derek Hale—were holding me under.

Needless to say, I got out of there right quick.

A deep-seated hatred of cold, water, and cold water gave me enough strength to explode out of the tub. Derek didn't stand a chance against a wriggling, soaking wet ball of fury. I was out of the tub in less than a second, sending him stumbling three steps back. Deaton was smart enough to get out of the way, so he didn't suffer my wrath as much.

But, pretty much as soon as I was clear of the frigid water, my legs gave out. That didn't stop me from slipping and sliding backwards across the floor until my back was against a row of cupboards, though. A towel appeared in Deaton's hands, and he took a step towards me. "No," I half-barked, half-choked as I clawed at my chest and tried to not to scream at the pain ripping through my lungs. He didn't listen, taking two worried steps towards me.

I couldn't help it, I turned. Claws and fangs made their appearances, as did my bright eyes, I was sure. I hunkered there, feeling like I was on the better side of feral, letting Deaton know just what would happen if he took another step. Derek tensed, probably getting ready to intervene in case I lost it, but it wasn't necessary. I was in full control, and I was royally pissed. Deaton got the message, though. He balled the towel up slowly and tossed it to me.

I snatched it out of the air with numb fingers, trying to get it around me. I couldn't, amidst the shudders and shivers, so I settled for just draping it down the front of me. Derek shifted in place, and I turned my gaze onto him, feeling mildly like I might attack him if he decide to take one more step. I grinned at him, to show my fangs all the better, but it wasn't a nice grin. Just like Derek's sometimes did, mine promised violence if further provoked.

"You had a fever," Deaton said, bringing my attention and gaze squarely back on him. I let my lips cover my teeth again, retreating in on myself. "The ghoul's blood and saliva worked like a virus, infecting and killing healthy body cells. Only, it was killing your cells faster than even your accelerated healing could generate more. Your body responded with a fever in order to protect itself, but the fever actually accelerated the virus replication and made things worse. We had to bring your temperature down. Hence the ice water."

My gaze flicked up to the counter behind him. There was a test tube rack, like the kind in chemistry class, sitting on the counter. Beside it were two beakers, one full of ice water and one sitting on a hot plate. Both beakers held a test tube of dark red liquid, and the test tube rack held two more. Blood. My blood.

The jar of Narcissus powder was sitting open next to the array of beakers and tubes. The two tubes on the rack were bubbling and hissing gently, much like the vomit pool had when Narcissus powder had been added. The tube in the ice water beaker looked more or less like regular blood and didn't bubble, but the tube in the beaker sitting on the hot plate held black liquid consistent with ghoul blood.

I understood. The cold slowed the conversion down. The heat sped it up. Wow. Chemistry class was actually paying off. Still, I understood it just fine, but that didn't mean I was happy about it.

"I said 'stay awake,' " Derek reminded me softly, a hint of a grin on his face.

I slumped underneath the towel, letting the protective, feral side of me fade. Yeah. He'd told me stay awake. He had me there.

"The worst of it should be over now," Deaton said, studying the test tubes again. He pinched more Narcissus power into the blood test tube in the cold water . There was no reaction. "We've bought you enough time that your body should be producing new cells faster than the virus is killing them. Now you just need to rest and let your body heal itself."

Tremors rocked me under the towel, and my teeth started to chatter. But there was an inkling in the back of my mind, and I tried to coax it out so I could follow it through completion. It slipped away, though, and I slumped forward, feeling like my joints were locking up and like my muscles were clenching uncontrollably. Pulling my knees up and wrapping my arms around them, I buried my face in the partly soggy towel. I hated being wet. I hated being cold. I hated everyone and everything.

There were footsteps and a small scraping noise to my left. I lifted my head in time to see Derek set a long, upright metal rectangle on the floor, pointed at me. Then he twisted a dial, and hot air came blasting out of it.

Hallelujah.

I stuck my hands out to it, clenching and unclenching my fingers until the movements were no longer stiff.

"It might be prudent to remain here for observation. Just to make sure there are no further complications," Deaton said in a reasonable tone.

I glanced up sharply from the heater. Oh, hell no.

I looked at Derek, and he shot me back the look. But this time I wasn't cowed into submission. I might be wet and freezing and depressingly weak, but I was completely willing to fight him on this one. I was not staying here, no siree.

We stared each other down for a good minute, neither of us giving in. Then Derek finally uncrossed his arms and reached for his jacket. "We'll call if anything...unexpected...happens," he said in compromise.

Deaton nodded in concession, looking as if it pained him, but he let us go.

I practically ran out to the car. That was a lie. I hobbled and shambled, nauseated and slow, moving much like a zombie from that one weird show Stiles watched.

Derek said nothing on the car ride home. It was just as well. I didn't even know if I could speak without feeling like my chest was on fire. The single word I'd said to Deaton had made me feel like I was going to vomit from pain.

Walking up the stairs was almost as bad. By the time Derek pulled the metal door open, I felt like I was going to collapse and die. I probably would have, had the loft not been filled with a cold breeze and the stench of death.

Derek immediately went on high alert. I remained slumped against the door, really not caring at the moment if the main ghoul was back to finish me off. "Stay here," Derek growled, prowling off quietly in search of the ghoul, maybe. I could have told him that the ghoul was long gone. Judging by the breeze coming in through the shattered balcony window, several hours at least.

When Derek returned, I still hadn't moved. He stared at me, arms crossed over his chest, and his eyebrows proclaimed stark displeasure with what he saw. I stared dazedly back, not cowed in the least. I too tired and sick to be intimidated by him.

It took me a moment to realize that his displeasure was not strictly aimed at me. In fact, when I caught sight of my room behind his shoulder, the air leaked out of my lungs in a slow dribble. The room was trashed. Shreds of cloth and bedding were visible, and the door hung crookedly on its hinges. I didn't have to see the inside to know it would be much of the same.

I wobbled over to the doorway, noting that it was as I'd suspected. My room was chaos, the damage extensive. For some reason that hurt, and my shoulders slumped. Derek's voice sounded out from behind me.

"Couch," he said, all non-negotiative and stern.

I turned away from the mess that had been my room, too disheartened and tired to argue, and slumped my way to the couch. I lay there staring up at the ceiling, just thinking. Eventually, Derek made me get up and change out of my wet clothes, replacing them with the ones that had been in the wash. I dressed mechanically and eased back down, not caring that the cushions were slightly damp.

An hour later, I was coerced into the kitchen. Derek had made pancakes. I stared down at the pieces, pushing them around on the plate with my fork. I don't know how long we sat there, but it took me a while to realize Derek had gone still beside me.

I cast a quick sideways glance over at him and hurriedly looked back at my plate. He was doing that silent watching thing of his. We sat there, unmoving, for another few minutes before I finally caved. Picking up one of the tiniest pieces of pancake with my fork, I stuck it in my mouth. Then I waited. Derek didn't move, so I forced myself to swallow, ignoring the burning in my throat and nauseous swirling in my stomach as it went down. Derek reached over suddenly, and I flinched, but he only slid my plate away and took it to the sink.

I decided that was my cue and went back to the couch.

Time passed. Derek boarded up the window, much in the way that Mrs. McCall had. I didn't watch. My body felt vaguely numb, which made me not want to move. Besides, there was something in the back of my mind that was calling for my attention. It had been nagging at my since being at Deaton's, but I couldn't quite work it out. Eventually, I figured out what it was.

Every time Deaton had added Narcissus to my blood infected with ghoul venom or blood, the Narcissus had killed or at least neutralized the ghoul fluid.

It wasn't until Derek finished his work and started his staring thing again that I put my ruminations into words. "Blood," I said, tears pricking my eyes from the pain of forcing that single word out. "Ghoul blood infects ours." I had to stop, my eyes streaming, until the ragged burning in my chest and throat subsided into a manageable level. Then I tried again, desperate to present my theory. "Narcissus infects theirs?" I shuddered to another stop, my head swimming in the next wave of pain.

Derek reached out, maybe willing to take some of the pain, but I shook my head and turned onto my side—back to him—as I curled in on myself, clutching my hands against my chest.

I guess maybe I fell asleep, because when I opened my eyes, there was a blanket over me, and there was light streaming in the window. My throat itched, and I let out a dry cough, delighted to find that my chest and throat didn't hurt anymore. My muscles were still kind of numb, and the nausea was still simmering, but I guess that's what happens when parts of your body keep dying and regenerating themselves.

It wasn't hard to close my eyes again and just doze.

Later, there was a small scraping sound, and the back of a cold hand settled against my forehead for a second. I let out a small groan, wanting the source of coldness to go away and leave me to my sleep. Brushing my hand up, I tried to push it away, figuring it was just Derek in his overly watchful mode. At least he wasn't shaking me awake this time.

A few seconds passed before my other senses caught up to my brain, and I inhaled a scent that was distinctly not Derek. The musk was heavier, more mature. Peter. And he was touching my forehead. I slid off the couch in a controlled crouch—breaking free of any vestiges of sleep—as my claws swept towards the source of the contact.

Peter had already recoiled by the time my claws ripped towards his arm, and he looked a little surprised. "Calm down," he said patronizingly. "It's just me."

I peered up at him hazily, feeling like everything was too bright. The light hurt my eyes, making my head pound, and my stomach lurched violently, turning my low crouch into a quest for solid ground to rest on. The room spun, and Peter with it, as I tried to steady myself.

Peter's wavering form got bigger in my vision, and strong arm wrapped around my waist, heaving me back onto the couch. "Spinning," I mumbled, unsure as to why the room was doing just that. In fact, I wasn't totally sure if this was even happening right now, or if it was just a dream. I hoped it was a dream, because it sucked.

Something in my chest started to hurt, and my vision started fading in and out. "Breathe, you idiot," someone said sharply in the background. I didn't really understand, but it didn't matter. Something hard slammed into my sternum, and the breath came out of my mouth. I dutifully sucked a new one back in, figuring that's how it normally worked, and my vision cleared up pretty quickly.

Peter was leaning over me, and I couldn't help but stare up into his face. It looked familiar for some reason, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I wasn't too troubled though, because as I stared up at those piercing blue eyes, my heart stuttered in my chest and stopped altogether.

Then there was only darkness.

After the darkness came pain.

Pain. Everything was pain. There was pounding on my chest when I came to, and it hurt like no other. I opened my mouth, inhaling loudly and deeply as I spasmed my back slightly off the hard floor . The harsh blows to my chest stopped, and I fell back limply as Peter leaned backwards onto his heels, untwining his hands.

"You," he said, through a slightly labored breath, "are not dying on my watch. Derek would kill me." I blinked up at him, unable to muster a response.

The scent of death flooded my nose, but it was different from smelling the ghoul. It was old and diluted with another acidic scent. I spasmed again, but this time, it wasn't a reaction from having my chest pounded on. This one was purely internal, and I flopped sideways just in time to vomit out traces of black blood onto the floor next to Peter. Then I was just retching regular stomach bile and finally nothing at all.

Eventually, I went still, my body done with its explosive expulsions. On the upside, I felt better than I had in days. On the downside, I was pretty sure I'd just died for a little bit. I had no idea how long, but I'd definitely felt my heart stop.

The worst part, though, was that Derek wasn't here. I wasn't wholly sure when I'd become so dependant on him, but it was weird that he wasn't here, and I didn't like that he'd gone without telling me. Not that he had to tell me stuff like that, but it was still...disappointing. I was hardly an expert on identifying the random emotions that seemed to pop up all over the place, but I was definitely feeling something.

Peter stood, staring at the puddle of vomit, eyebrows raised. "Well, I'm not cleaning that up," he said disdainfully. I panted weakly where I lay, taking advantage of the fact that my heart was beating and my chest didn't hurt anymore. Sliding one arm up under my side, I tried to push myself upwards and failed miserably. My arms shook too much, and my muscles were too noodle-ly to make it work.

I slumped back down to the floor, hating that I was weak in front of Peter of all people. But, now that it looked like the last of the ghoul contaminants were out of my system, I could feel my strength returning. The sounds and sights and smells were crisp and normal. My body was tired, but it was no longer sluggish. I was actually healing now; I could tell.

Peter watched my struggles for a minute then sighed. "You are so pathetic right now," he grunted, heaving me up and onto the couch. I extended my middle finger at him, just like I'd seen some of the boys at school do.

Peter snorted, crossing his arms. "You are aware that I did just save your life, right? You could at least act grateful." He looked at me expectantly, not unlike Derek when he wanted something from me.

I cleared my throat, contemplating thanking him, when something on his pant leg and shoe caught my eye. "I puked on your shoe," I murmured through a yawn, indicating to the afflicted area with a hazy finger wave. Then my eyes slipped shut, and I fell into my first real sleep.