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There were phone calls at the start, sporadic, brief, mostly angry on both sides.
Someone was always in trouble, or missing, or dead. All Derek had to do was look at the number on his phone and know that his day, night, or all of the foreseeable future, was going to go to shit. Which he was usually right about. To make it worse, Stiles makes even less sense when Derek can't see his face, can't get any sort of sense of his mood. Which is why he hates phone calls. It doesn't help that those phone calls always expect him to drop everything and come sort whatever shit Scott, or Jackson, or Stiles has gotten themselves into out.
But it turns out that it works both ways. That it had always worked both ways.
Derek doesn't even realise they're friends until they are. It sneaks up on him, quietly, and he's more than a little angry about that. He's made so many fuck-ups and he shouldn't get to have people that will drop everything and be there for him. There's no reason why anyone should consider him a friend, but no matter how many times he tries to shake them free - no matter how many times he tries to find some catch - eventually he just stops looking for one.
There aren't any phone calls any more. Instead there are texts. A truly staggering amount of texts. They go on and on, until Derek's pocket might as well just be vibrating constantly. Comments about the weather, questions, jokes, observations, obscure facts that Derek will never remember and never care about. He replies, when there's a break in the flow, briefly. Though he's not exactly sure what sort of comment you're supposed to make when someone tells you they saw a cloud that looked exactly like a Pomeranian. Or who decides how many food groups there are. Or if he's ever had a bruise that stayed. Derek knows he doesn't exactly run over with communication skills and sociability, but he's pretty sure that Stiles is insane. Which is why an awful lot of texts he sends simply say 'you're an idiot.'
Stiles is already sitting on the steps of the house when he gets there, scarf tugged up to his mouth, he's spinning his phone in one hand, knees jiggling. He's looking over at where Lydia is lounging in the grass, while Allison practices. It's nice to see someone taking things seriously, since Scott still seems to think that training involves jumping around until Allison looks impressed. Stiles raises a hand for a high five when Derek gets close, Derek glares at him until he puts it down, and now Stiles is giving him that look that says 'you are no fun, no fun at all.' This is the first time Derek feels guilty about it. But it's too late, and that's something he's been feeling a lot of lately, that his first reaction, his instinctive reaction is always wrong. It's unsettling.
Derek knows that four months ago Stiles would have been talking, even before he sat down, mouth running away with itself, jumping and shouting in Scott's direction until Derek told him to shut the hell up and tugged him back down again. The silence is still unnerving, he's still not used to it, used to the absence, so he can't imagine what it's like for Scott.
Stiles smacks his knee against Derek's to get his attention, head tipping to where Scott is clearly distracted when he's supposed to be watching for an attack. He's supposed to be watching Jackson and Isaac, or at the very least where he's going, one of the three. But he's not, he's watching Allison draw her bow, which is why he goes smashing into a tree - and Derek's not even going to pretend to be surprised. Stiles winces, then applauds sarcastically. A solid, steady thump through his gloves, mouth screwed up at the edge.
"That is not a genuine round of applause," Scott yells from the tree line, because he might be more observant than he used to be, but he's still Scott. He has leaves in his hair. The tree branches are still swaying gently. Derek really does want to ask about the possibility of some terrible childhood incident. Because there's no way that Scott never landed on his head at least once as a child.
Stiles cocks his head to the side, feigns surprise 'really, you think?'
Scott doesn't even look close to offended, he's smiling so hard it's entirely possible he's given himself brain damage. Derek knows it's because they're all here, they're all here and it's almost like it was, or something close enough. Stiles gestures to where Allison is still pinning every moving target with a quiet and focused ferocity. She pauses long enough to throw Scott a smile - and still manages to punch a hole through the swinging fruit she's using for practice.
'Clearly she's not distracted,' Stiles seems to be saying.
Scott's face is trying to be apologetic but it's not trying very hard, and because Allison is still moving around and breathing and generally existing in the world, Stiles doesn't manage to hold his attention for long. Derek doesn't know how that's even possible. Stiles is the most distracting person he's ever met.
Stiles is wearing the expression that Derek likes to think of as his apologetic 'I love him like a brother, but he has the IQ of a plank,' one.
Allison is laughing now, like she knows exactly what she's doing and is finding it all adorable. Derek should be more annoyed about that, wants to be more annoyed about that. But when he looks for it, when he expects to find it inside him, there's just nothing there.
'Kryptonite,' Stiles mouths, and Derek shakes his head and scowls. Because it's true.
The next time he looks over Stiles has taken his gloves off, and stolen the bottle of water Derek had dropped between his feet. He's fiddling with the cap, screwing and unscrewing it. Derek reaches out a hand, he's not really expecting Stiles to let him have it, but he's expecting it to be tugged away, not held tightly enough that Derek is going to have to pry it out of his hand.
"If you wanted one you should have texted."
Stiles shakes his phone, and yes, getting a signal out here isn't always easy but he'd had all day.
"That one's mine."
The gesture and the expression seem to indicate that Derek hadn't been doing anything with it, and it didn't have his name on it, and he had thus given up the right to have it. Or possibly some sort of 'my thirst is more important than yours,' protest. Which is crap because anyone else would lose their hand if they tried that, thirsty or not. Derek can feel Stiles's fingers around the bottle, slim, less breakable than the plastic but not by much. They squeeze, just a little, and the plastic squeaks.
The look Stiles is giving Derek now is more complicated. If he had to give it a name Derek would call it 'your things are also mine.' His hand relaxes, almost slips free. He doesn't know what to do with that.
Stiles's fingers twitch under his own, tongue pressing against the corner of his mouth, expression amused. He's daring Derek to try and take the bottle. He's been doing that a lot lately, pushing, and Derek has been letting him, ever since - ever since it happened. Because he doesn't know how the hell you're supposed to deal with someone who shoves themselves between you and things that want to kill you, over and over. Not instinctively, not because they have to, not because they felt compelled to, or because they were strong enough to take it. Someone who did it just because they didn't want you to die. Derek hadn't known how to deal with it when he didn't understand it, or when he resented it, and he definitely doesn't know how to deal with it now. When it's become something far more complicated.
He does lets the bottle slip through his fingers then, but Stiles doesn't tug it over straight away. He gives him this little crooked, squinty look which Derek can't read. That's happening less and less often now. The words are no longer a wave covering everything else, and Stiles is somehow sharper like this, clearer. Thinking it feels like a betrayal, and Derek would never, ever tell him, but it's true. The fact that he can't read his expression now seems to amuse the hell out of Stiles though - amusement is old and familiar, because there had been a lot of anger, and a lot of frustration, a lot of failure to communicate. Bitter and unpleasant and foreign.
Stiles flips the cap off and drinks half the bottle, then passes it back, watches Derek finish it with an odd sort of satisfaction.
"You're an idiot," Derek growls at him, and he means it, but he also doesn't.
Stiles knocks him with his elbow, face scrunched up in silent laughter. The scarf has slipped down from his neck, and the messy run of claw marks is visible just above the curving loop of material. Derek's teeth grind and clench, hard enough that he can almost taste the faraway metal tang of blood. Until he forces them to relax, and then he's reaching over and tugging the scarf back up, shoving it into the top of Stiles jacket.
There's a smirk that Derek refuses to translate, he glares at it instead - but it doesn't go away, if anything it gets sharper, brighter, more obvious.
"No, I don't," Derek grumbles. Which is a lie.
Stiles makes a harsh, wheezing noise, which sounds forced and uncomfortable, but determined.
'You do,' Stiles face says. 'You totally do.'
Derek doesn't know what his own expression is doing. But Stiles shuffles a little closer, knocks their shoulders together. It's an easy movement, one that he thinks is supposed to reassure him that it's all fun and games. That Derek doesn't have to take any of it seriously if he doesn't want to. Stiles is always willing to pretend they're having a failure to communicate. Because Derek's not the only one who sees too much sometimes.
Instead Derek turns his head and looks at him. Stiles watches him, like he's waiting for a comment, or an observation, or even an insult. But his eyes drop to find Derek's mouth, and then flick away again. Which is an invitation and a question all at the same time. Derek can't think of a single good reason why he shouldn't, and at least three for why he should. So he kisses him, one brief, hard press of mouth, before he draws out of his space again. Stiles watches him for a beat, face completely expressionless - then there's a cold hand in Derek's hair, pulling him down again, and the second kiss isn't brief at all.
There's a crunch in the distance. Derek's not looking but he's almost certain that's the sound of Scott McCall running into a tree again.