Derek crossed the room, back to Stiles' side, and covered his face with the warm, damp cloth, mopping up the sticky fluid. "Scene over," he announced, in case the boy wasn't sure. "This is called 'aftercare', when I'll tend to you. You'll tend to me, as well, but tonight you're worse off than me." And, though he would admit it if pressed, he enjoyed this part. He hadn't ever done this for the professional slaves he'd hired, and he'd missed it--the emotional connection that came from this aftertime.
"Are you injured? Do you need Heather?" He deftly freed one of the boy's wrists, one-handed, but he was a poor judge of when redness became painful.