"Malia," Malia's father says, and maneuvers his jacket off, wincing at the wound Cora gave him. His face is dirt-streaked and scratched up from the drag. His palms are scraped raw, and under the jacket, both his elbows are skinned. "I wanna talk to you, honey, I want to explain all of this, but—not in front of that thing."

That thing is Cora. Derek bristles, opens his mouth.

Scott lays his hand on Derek's shoulder.

"I'm not going anywhere," Cora says. "You shot at my—You shot at Brae. Tell me why."

"I'm not talking until it's gone," Mr. Tate says.

"'It'?" Braeden says. Her voice is very light, but there's a dangerous edge to it.

"That thing attacked me," Mr. Tate says. "I just want to talk to my daughter."

"You shot—"

"I shot at a dangerous animal," Mr. Tate says. "But once again the animal is just a decoy for the true monster."

Malia goes very pale.

Braeden notices.

"Then talk," she says, lacing her hand around Cora's wrist. A crow bursts from her open palm and flies deeper into the woods.

"That is the coolest—" Kira says, wide-eyed. Then, "Sorry. Not the time, I know. Sorry."

Cora eyes her warily, then nods, laces her fingers in Braeden's, and follows the crow's path.

"You should really get that bite looked at," Scott tells Mr. Tate.

"Should I?" Mr. Tate says flatly. "What a good idea. Why don't you go find your boss? I'd like to talk to my daughter."

Scott looks at Malia. She nods.

He goes.

"They've got it all wrong." Mr. Tate says. It's not a lie, exactly, but that doesn't mean anything. Maybe he thinks he's got a—a good reason to kill all those people. He attacked Braeden's bobcat. He called Cora a thing.

"Of course," Malia says, relief pouring off her. "You're not some—Benefactor, you never—"

"I am," Mr. Tate says.

Malia stares at him. "You are," she says. "But you didn't—you didn't kill people—"

"I did have them killed," Mr. Tate says. "But they weren't people."

Derek's gut twists hard. So it's not just Kate, it's not just one—Is everyone like this?

"They were monsters," Mr. Tate says, the most horrible sincerity in his eyes. "Wild animals—Worse than wild animals. Hiding in plain sight. Buying tacos. Walking dogs. Smiling. As if—" His mouth twists. "As if they were normal."

Malia is trembling, unable to tear her eyes from her father's face, and Derek doesn't know if he wants to shield her or rip her father's throat out.

"One of those things killed your mother," Mr. Tate says. "Your little sister. For years I've been hunting animals, setting traps, while they—"

"Dad," Malia says. Her head shakes slowly back and forth, disbelieving. Her eyes fill. "Dad, it wasn't—It wasn't anyone you k-killed—"

"Baby, you don't know," Mr. Tate says gently. "You don't know what I took down. I did this town a favor."

Stiles catches up with them then, gasping, hand at the stitch in his side, just as Lydia says, "You killed kids." His head whips toward her, then Mr. Tate, still crumpled on the ground, Malia shivering under her father's jacket. "There was a baby girl—"

Derek reaches out, takes Stiles' pain without looking. It's knife-sharp and then shadow-faint, disappearing too quickly. He doesn't move his hand.

"She wouldn't have been one for long," Mr. Tate is saying. "She'd have grown into a monster like the rest of them."

"Daddy," Malia begs. "It wasn't—You know who it was, I t-told you—"

"But that's not true," Mr. Tate says. He struggles and fails to stand, reaches out for her. "You're not like them. You're my little girl. You don't have to protect these—killers, they're not your friends—"

Tears are streaming freely down Malia's face.

Derek's throat is very tight.

"Yeah we are," he says.

He steps closer to her, brushes her shoulder with his.

"Yeah," Stiles says, mimicking him on Malia's other side. "You don't know anything about us."

"We're all 'monsters,'" Lydia says.

"The thing is," Stiles says, "you're the one killing people."

"I know you've killed people, Stiles," Mr. Tate says. "That hospital? And you." He looks at Derek. "That little girl... And god knows what the rest of you have done."

"Stiles was possessed," Derek says. The words come out fast and hot and angry. "The nogitsune used him. If he could've—"

"Derek didn't want to do it," Stiles interrupts. "Paige begged him. And he took her pain until it was over, and he still—"

Derek shudders, struggling to fight the sudden muscle memory. He forces his hands into fists at his sides. Stiles' fingers graze his, unlock them gently.

"And what happened to your family," Stiles says quietly. "It was an accident."

"But you planned this," Lydia says. "You made a list. And you'll make another when it's all crossed off. It'll never be enough."

"Those things slaughtered my family," Mr. Tate says. Eyes wide, pleading. "What would you do? If it was yours? If you spent years thinking it was animals, when really—And then your eyes opened, and you saw what was really out there in the dark..."

Malia bites her lip. Blood drips down her chin.

Her fangs are out.

Stiles puts his hand on her shoulder.

She shakes her head, shakes it off gently.

"Dad?" she says. "Dad, look at me."

Her new claws gleam in the darkness. Blood shines in her mouth.

"This is what I am, Dad," she says. "This is who I am."

"No, honey," Mr. Tate says, but there's a sudden thread of fear along the edge of him. Derek bites back bile. "That's just—I know who you really are. You don't need to try to impress these—these things—"

"Kate Argent kidnapped me," Malia says. Her voice is small, but getting stronger in increments. "She stuck me in a cage in Mexico and just left. These things came to find me." Her voice catches. "Where wereyou?"

"Baby—"

"You must've noticed when I didn't come—come home," Malia says. "Did you even look for me?"

"Honey, you have to understand—"

"I do understand, Dad," Malia says. Her eyes are very bright, but her voice is even. "You know what I did. You know I—"

"Don't say it," Mr. Tate says, terror tight all through him.

"Why?" Malia says. "So you can keep pretending you think it was somebody else? So you can keep killing people? I—" Her voice shakes, breaks. "I did it, Dad. I shifted, and I killed them, and I didn't—"

"Malia, don't," Stiles says, so softly.

Malia shakes her head. "I didn't m-mean to but I did it, it was m-me, so if you're gonna kill anyone, then, then—" She spreads her arms wide, half surrender, half open target. "Then just—And they'll finally, they'll finally be—"

Mr. Tate drags himself to his feet, pulls something from his pocket—

But the pack is quicker, moving in unison, surrounding Malia, blocking her off.

Derek bares his teeth, roars.

The tree behind Kira sizzles.

"It's just a picture!" Mr. Tate says, holding his hands high above his head. "It's just a picture of—of your mom and I, and you—"

He limps closer, tries to reach her through the protective blockade.

"You wouldn't have hurt her," Mr. Tate says. "You never would've hurt them. You loved your sister."

"But I did," Malia says.

Her father closes his eyes.

"The monster did," he says. "It's dead now."

Malia doesn't say anything. Derek isn't sure she can.

"I killed the monster, baby," Mr. Tate says, still holding out the faded little picture. "I shot it dead. It's safe now."

"No, it's—"

"It's safe now. You can come home."

"You shot Kate Argent," Lydia corrects. "And she didn't die."

"I killed the monster," Mr. Tate repeats. There are tears in his eyes. He doesn't seem to hear Lydia at all. "I killed the thing that did this to us. I know it wasn't you."

"You would've killed all of us," Stiles says.

"You're the monster," Lydia says.

"No," Mr. Tate says, but he's shuddering, sinking to his knees, sobbing. "No, no, no, no..."

"Daddy," Malia says, and then she's darting between Derek and Lydia, rushing to his side.

"Be careful," Kira says worriedly.

"He won't hurt me," Malia says, but Derek thinks of Malia's shape, so still, speared by Mr. Tate's arrow, and he tenses, braces ready just in case.

But Mr. Tate doesn't look capable of hurting anyone right now. He's shaking his head, eyes squeezed shut, still begging, No, no, no, no...

And Derek thinks of the emptiness, the sudden crushing weight, and knowing it was him, all him, that Peter and Kate might've played their parts but Derek is the one who really broke all of it—

And he thinks he might understand the look of absolute loss, the wave of absolute denial rocking all through Mr. Tate.

"I'm sorry," Malia says, hugging her father. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Daddy—"

"I don't know what to say," Kira says quietly. "I never know what to say."

"There isn't anything," Derek says. "Not really. It's just—words."

"Just be there," Stiles says.

When Stiles' father shows up with handcuffs, Mr. Tate lets himself be led away.

Derek hears Cora and Braeden before he sees them. He's not eavesdropping, exactly. He's—waiting for his sister.

"—but you have Derek now," Braeden says.

"He's my family," Cora says. Her voice is muffled slightly, like Kate's against Derek's chest all those billions of centuries ago, that whole lifetime ago. "He's not my pack," Cora continues, and Derek stops listening. White-noise waves crash over him, deafen him.

Of course he isn't. Of course she—she's been looking out for him, she feels obligated maybe, probably because he's a weak little kid now, but she doesn't actually—

It's okay. Derek understands.

As long as she's okay, as long as, as long—

He feels sick, lightheaded.

So, so alone.

"You never said we were pack," Braeden says, faintly, very far away.

"Of course we are," Cora says fiercely.

"Well you've never said it."

"We are," Cora says. "We are. You and me. Just like it's always been."

Derek just starts walking, eyes stinging, throat thick with unbreathable air.

He walks in circles. There's nowhere to go, nowhere pulling him home, no connection to anything. He just walks, because he can't stand still, and running—running would just make it worse. It's a small town and there's nothing left here for him, but there's nothing outside it, either. There's just nothing.

Laura's buried somewhere here. That's—that's something. If he could figure out where, he'd have something, at least. Some actual root here, something tying him down to something. He's terrifyingly unmoored, too exhausted for anger, but his old anchor was family and they're all—they're all—

He feels sick, but he isn't. He doesn't let himself let it out. Control, he's in control of his own stupid body. That much of it, at least.

He swallows hard, eyes streaming, and keeps walking.

He ends up right back where he started, lurking yards from where Stiles and Lydia and Kira are clustered around Malia. It's not his pack. It's not his anything. He's not even supposed to be here. He's older than them, he keeps forgetting. They're teenagers and he's—he's—useless. Pointless. Homeless, but that's okay. That's okay. He can—he can go back to the apartment, spray it up with chemicals till he chokes, till there's not a trace of Kate anywhere in it.

He could, he could do that.

He just can't actually bring himself to move in that direction.

Scott comes back with Deaton way too late. Malia's father is long gone. But his pack is here. His pack is here, he has that. Gathered together, just waiting for him. Any second now they're gonna look up and see him and the pack pull in his chest will make the whole world seem manageable.

Derek is so jealous he could cry.

"Scott," Kira says, and Derek turns around. He can't watch them, can't watch this anymore.

But then there are footsteps behind him, a shadow falling past his feet, and then warm light pressure all along his side, an arm looped loose across his shoulders.

It hits Derek like the first rush of air after a dive so deep you think you might never come up at all.

"Hey," Stiles says. "Where'd you go?"

"What kind of bobcat was that, anyway?" Stiles says at the clinic. Derek hasn't really been paying attention to the conversation. It's just a conversation, and his head is buzzing, and his chest feels tight, but different than before. Stiles is still a constant presence at Derek's side, just—being Stiles, like it's nothing, like he wants to be here or he'd go sit somewhere else, put his arm around someone else.

You think I wanted to touch him? Kate says in Derek's head. His skin crawls.

"I've never seen an all black one before," Stiles is saying. Derek forces himself to focus, to breathe.

"You've seen a lot of other bobcats?" Scott asks.

"On TV," Stiles says.

"It's a melanistic bobcat," Lydia says. "They're rare, but not unheard of."

"Not by you, anyway," Stiles says. "Is there anything you don't know?"

"Pi past a thousand places," Lydia says immediately. "What came before the Big Bang. When I'm going to die."

"You know what? That's somehow comforting," Stiles says. "Especially the last part. Do you think you, y'know, will?"

"I don't know that either," Lydia says.

Cora comes back wearing Braeden's leather jacket. Her mouth is still stained bloody.

So is Braeden's.

They're still holding hands. Braeden's fingers keep spilling sparks.

Oh, Derek thinks.

Their talk hadn't been about him at all.

Derek goes back to the Stilinskis' for dinner. Takes the couch. Stiles looks like he might protest, but instead gets Derek sheets, pillows.

"You don't have to—" Derek says. He's done enough, more than enough.

"Stop saying that," Stiles says. That same look on his face as the almost-fight outside the clinic, not quite angry but—something.

Derek stops.

It's still dark when he wakes up, drenched in cold sweat under the thin blanket Stiles gave him. He watches a cockroach scurry under the couch, unreachable, and closes his eyes again.

You think I wanted to touch him? Kate says in his head. Derek tenses, bites back bile.

Shut up, he snaps at himself.

He closes his eyes, tries to force sleep back over him until the morning.

Stiffens.

There's something wrong. There's something really wrong, impossibly wrong, because he's in the Stilinski living room. He's in the Stilinski living room, on the Stilinski couch.

So why can he smell Kate?