It really is her.
She's been knocked out for the surgery and Derek can't help the lump in his throat, the instinctive panic of seeing her like that, laid out on the table like a sick animal. Her wrists are strapped down still, and Derek almost wants—almost needs to ask, Are you sure? Are you sure this isn't all some huge mistake, are you sure Kate—You just don't know her, you just don't—understand, maybe—
Maybe—
Scott's hand finds Derek's shoulder, stays.
Derek wants, needs to throw up.
Kate stirs, blinks slowly into focus.
"Yeah, that's right, bitch," Stiles snaps. "You're ours now."
Derek almost glares at him for talking to her like that. He fixes his gaze on the floor, teeth locked tight together, jaw tensed.
"And don't even try using Derek to get a better deal," Stiles says. "He knows everything."
Kate looks right at Derek.
His throat goes tight, all air stilling around him.
"Everything, huh?" she says, smirking. "I doubt it."
Her voice is—different.
"Unless he told you how much he loved fucking me," Kate says, and Derek's stomach drops, because this—this isn't Kate at all.
This isn't the right Kate at all, this isn't—
"I really think it was a growing experience for him," she muses. "Of course, in hindsight—"
"Shut up about him," Stiles says sharply. He's so angry he's shaking. "What did you do to Malia?"
Kate laughs.
Bile rises in Derek's throat.
It's the same laugh.
It's the same laugh, it's the same, she's the same.
"I'm gonna kill you," Stiles says. "I won't feel bad about it, either. It'll be a fucking public service. Where is she?"
"Oh, honey," Kate says. "You never did get that message, did you?"
Something seems to occur to her; she laughs again.
"Oh, that's right," she says. "You got the message. You just followed it to him."
Derek can hear Stiles' heart stutter, then thump into overdrive.
"The text," Stiles says. "'Nahual.' It wasn't about the temple at all."
"Oh, it was," Kate says. She's still laughing, somehow, in every word that comes out of her mouth. "But it wasn't about Derek."
"You've been Malia since Mexico," Scott says.
"Finally," Kate says, "someone's paying attention."
Stiles does call his father this time. The phone rings four times and goes to voicemail. Stiles' hand tightens around the wheel.
"Hey, Pops?" he says after the beep. "So, funny story..."
Derek doesn't say much on the drive. He's pretty sure something terrible will happen if he tries making any sound at all.
Stiles keeps looking at him, Scott keeps looking at him, Lydia keeps... and he can just hear it, what they're all thinking. He wishes they'd just stop.
Sometimes Stiles looks over at him and his knuckles go white around the wheel.
"You can have the radio," Stiles says, eventually. Derek's been staring blankly out the window for any amount of time, not actually seeing anything. "You can do whatever you want with it. Fuck it up, I don't care."
The thing is, he's not lying.
There's food.
Derek can't even stand smelling it. His stomach tightens, recoils, he presses his lips thin together and tries not to breathe.
He's sick anyway, some rest stop in the middle of nowhere that already stinks of piss and vomit and Lysol that goes straight to his head till he's nearly keeled over, choking on the back of his own throat.
Stiles raps on the door, says—something. Derek can't understand words anymore.
He wipes his mouth, swipes at his eyes with the heel of his hand, steps dizzily back into the light.
The temple is exactly as Derek remembers it, he's just going in the opposite direction. Maybe it would have been better, maybe all of it would've been fine if Stiles had just gotten Malia out and left him. He's just been an idiot, he's just been a distraction, none of those people would've died and everything would be so much—
"Hey, don't," Scott says, touching his arm just enough to force him back to now. "Don't let her get to you. She's not worth it."
Derek could laugh, except he can't, except he'll probably never laugh again.
Let her?
She's already there. She's already destroyed everything.
Derek's just barely keeping the last wall standing.
They find Malia fully shifted, her eyes wide open and watchful. They narrow when Stiles says her name hoarsely, uncertainly.
She's trapped in a circle of mountain ash, and she shifts back to human slowly, like she's half-forgotten how. Stiles goes towards her, holds his arms open, but she walks around him, shivering slightly.
She doesn't seem to care she's naked until Stiles is pulling his plaid button-up off and offering it to her. Then her eyes drop, fill, but she takes it.
Underneath, Stiles' t-shirt says, The third rule of Fight Club is have fun and try your best.
Derek gives Malia Dad's jacket. It doesn't matter.
They're all gone, and it smells faintly of Kate now, and they're all gone, and she's cold, and they're all gone, and he doesn't deserve it.
Wolfsbane doesn't affect were-coyotes like wolves. She was awake the whole time, just waiting.
Derek's throat hurts.
"I'm Derek," he says.
"No shit," Malia says.
There's food again. Malia eats like she hasn't in years.
"What are you staring at?" she asks. Derek forces his eyes away.
"I'm sorry," Derek says. Stiles turns to look at him.
"You didn't trap me in there, dumb-ass," Malia says.
"Still," Derek says.
They've been watching Kate in shifts; when they get back, it's Kira and Deaton. Kate's off the stretcher, sat in a metal chair with leather cuffs tight around her wrists. After everything, she's human; mountain ash won't hold her.
"Okay, who's taking next shift?" Lydia says.
"I'll do it," Derek says.
"Are you sure?" Scott says. "Because I could—"
"I'm sure," Derek says.
"And I'll take it with him," Stiles' father says. Derek looks at him. "That's how we're doing it, right? One adult, one teenager, one supernatural element, one human?"
"Yeah, that's it," Scott says.
"Good," Stiles' father says. "And there's one more thing that makes me the candidate to beat. I've got a sidearm, and I'm licensed to use it."
"Derek," Kate says. Every word is a taunt now, how did Derek not hear it before? "You came back."
"Tell me why," Derek says. He works to keep his voice strong, still.
"Oh, sweetheart," Kate says. "Do you really have to ask?"
"Answer the question," Stiles' father says.
"Or what, you'll shoot me?" Kate rolls her eyes. "You don't scare me, John. How many years have you been sheriff? How many years have you let animal attack be an alibi for murder?"
"Well, why don't you answer me this, then," Stiles' father says. "Who put an arrow through your spine?"
"You're no one's victim, Derek," Kate says, ignoring him. "You're the predator. The good ones don't have blue eyes." She considers. "If there are good ones at all."
"So why didn't you just kill me then?" Derek says. His jaw is so tight it aches. "My family never did anything, it's me you hate—"
"And what kind of lesson is that?" Kate asks. "You get to go and they get to cry over their poor innocent blue-eyed beta? Start a war for their sweet little murderer that doesn't end until the whole town's leveled? No. You get to stay. You get to see the damage you do. And you get to know I did it, all of it, for you. That the day you snapped that poor girl's neck? You lit a match."
"That's not what happened," Stiles' father says. Derek focuses very hard on just breathing. "What happened is you, Kate Argent, murdered nine people. Whatever twisted logic you used to justify it doesn't change that."
"That's right," Kate says. "You're not even pretending to play for Team Human anymore."
"If that means destroying a family in the name of a mistake?" Stiles' father says. "Then hell no I'm not."
"A mistake." Kate laughs. "Paige Henry was fifteen years old. She wanted to go to Julliard. You know. When she grew up."
"There were human children in that house," Stiles' father says, and Derek stops breathing. "They were, what, a—sacrifice? All in the name?"
"I did what I had to do," Kate says.
"And having a physical relationship with a child," Stiles' father says, "De-aging him and jumping right back into that, you just had to do that, didn't you?"
"It was never about the sex," Kate says, disgusted. "You think I wanted to touch him?"
"If you didn't, you sure have an interesting way of showing it."
"I needed him to trust me," Kate says. "He's no lovesick puppy going along. He was begging for it."
Derek goes cold all over. He balls his hands into fists, shoves them into the pockets of his—
But he doesn't have the jacket anymore.
"We never actually," he says, and she laughs at him.
"Oh, we did," she says. "There was this one time... You were checking out colleges, and you called me for advice. Turns out Stanford has an incredible—"
"That's enough," Stiles' father says sharply.
"You got the call in my car," Kate says. "You were still smiling until you heard the sirens."
"I said that's enough."
Derek holds himself perfectly still, measures perfectly even breaths.
Forces himself to stare straight at her.
"I think it's about time for a shift change," Stiles' father says.
When Scott and his mother replace them, Derek walks very calmly past them, makes it all the way to the cruiser.
Then he starts shaking so violently he can barely see, can barely stand. Strong palms catch him by the shoulders, steady him, and Derek stumbles against Stiles' father's chest.
Stiles' father's arms come up around him, hold him still.
Derek sobs and sobs and sobs.
Derek sleeps at the Stilinskis' that night. He can't face going back to the apartment, not after—
He takes the couch. Stiles is as badly shaken as he is, or close; it's impossible to compare. Stiles needs his own room, his own bed. Derek just needs somewhere that doesn't stink of his lust for the woman who murdered his family.
Neither of them actually sleep.
Eventually Stiles gets out of bed, joins Derek on the couch. They talk in hushed voices, hoarse voices, voices raw from screaming wordlessly, soundlessly.
"I should've seen it," Stiles says. "I should've—I—"
He dips his head, drags at his hair.
Derek thinks, It's not your fault.
He thinks, You didn't know.
He thinks, none of that matters, none of those stupid reassurances ever matter, it doesn't shake the certainty that you could have known, you could have done something, if you were—stronger, better, smarter, less naïve, if you weren't so fucking selfish, if you didn't let yourself believe what you wanted to believe, if you'd have just paid a little more attention.
He doesn't say anything.
The first morning shift is Derek and Braeden, and before they relieve Scott and his mother, she says, "Do you want to hold the cat again."
"Laura?" Derek says.
"Is that what you call her?" Braeden asks. She considers this, nods. "I can see it."
"You're Deaton's niece," Derek says.
Braeden ignores this. "Do you want the cat or not?"
The thing is, Derek does.
"Derek, you don't have to do this," Scott says, just before they go in.
"Yeah, I do," Derek says.
"You just can't stay away, can you," Kate laughs. "And how sweet, you've brought your therapy cat."
Derek just glares at her. Laura settles warm on his lap, her little nose twitching. He reaches under her collar, scratches the back of her neck.
Braeden lays her hand on Derek's back, pulls it away. His glare goes glassy.
She tucks a small needle back into her pocket.
"We don't have much time," she says.