"Yes," says Barry in a drawn out moan, "Steak time." He watches Derek go, leaning against the pillow at his back. He drifts a little - his bones are knitting, he can tell from the itch deep beneath his skin, all his new energy diverting to the process to leave him sleepy eyed and quiet. But Barry groans again as smells begin to drift into the bedroom, the scent of rendered fat and hot potatoes its own kind of torment until Derek returns with a tray.

"It looks amazing," says Barry with feeling when Derek lays the tray in his lap, wishing for a moment that he was the one with werewolf teeth so he could sink them directly into the meat. But Barry picks up his silverware and makes himself go slow, eyes rolling back for the taste of steak after so many days of crumbs.