Stiles is missing, but then Derek sees him limping down the side of the road. He pulls the Camaro over, leans across and pops the passenger door. "Get in."

Stiles stinks of blood and salt, pain and fear. Derek's skin itches as anger washes through him, he tries to hide it but knows it's written all over his face.

"Thanks," Stiles rasps, pulls the door closed behind him and clears his throat. He watches Derek, eyes narrowed, fierce, but so breakable.

He flinches when Derek reaches out to brush fingertips over the bruise on his temple, to swipe the pad of a thumb over his still bleeding lip.

"Gerard?" Derek asks, already knowing the answer. Beating the crap out of high school kids isn't Chris' style.

"Yeah." Stiles puts the back of his hand to his lip and it comes away bloody.

Derek can't take his eyes off it. Bright red against pale skin, stark and beautiful. He brings his thumb to his mouth, tastes Stiles' fear.

Stiles widens his eyes, raises his eyebrows, turns his head to look down the road behind them. "Um, could you take me home? My dad's gotta be freaking out by now."

Derek pulls away from the curb, drives the short distance to Stiles' house tasting blood on the back of his tongue, breathing it in. It's sweet, coppery and rich, and he almost wishes he'd left the boy on the side of the road. He doesn't have time, energy, focus for what he wants, not since his bite turned a kid into a monster. Not since Peter rose from the dead. Not since hunters gave way to geriatric psychopaths. Derek has a lot to deal with, and he just...

He should drop Stiles at the curb and go, but he can't.

He turns off the engine and puts his hand on Stiles' arm when he reaches for the handle. "Wait."

Stiles looks at him with wide, wary eyes, tongue darting out to worry at the split skin of his lip. A red smear paints the tip as it slips back into his mouth.

"I'm sorry," Derek says, then he closes the space between them.

Stiles' lip is hot and swollen under Derek's mouth.

Stiles squeaks in surprise, hand twitching up to rest flat against Derek's chest, but he's not pushing away. "What...?" he manages, before he's quieted by Derek's tongue sliding between his lips.

Derek thinks of the force required to split skin like that. Of the sound flesh makes when it breaks apart under a fist. And he traces the length of the cut with his tongue, laps up the still oozing blood, cleans it, purifies it as Stiles whimpers into his mouth. Then he pulls back, tastes dried salt on Stiles' cheek. "When all this is over..." he says, trailing off as his voice becomes a solid mass in his throat.

Stiles blinks. Nods his head. Pops the door open and disappears into his house.

Derek starts the car and drives away, the taste of Stiles lingering in his mouth.

fin