Stiles was fumbling for his phone as soon as he was out of the class and out of earshot of any of the other interns.
“Come on, come on, pick up big guy, I know you still have this number,” Stiles said to no one, bouncing on balls of his feet.
“Heyyy Derek! Aren’t you getting a little sick of being on the run for murder?”
“Wha- Stiles? How the hell do you know about that?”
“I’m in the FBI,” Stiles said matter-of-factly. “We know everything.”
Derek said nothing.
Stiles snorted. “I got into the FBI intern program, we’ll be working with the actual feds on real cases, one of which is y-”
“Oh, wow, Stiles, that’s awesome,” Derek said from the other side of the line, cutting Stiles off. “Congrats, you deserve it.”
“Wh- oh. Thank you, yeah, my dad is really proud.”
“He should be.”
Stiles smiled. Then a sidelong glance from one of his classmates across the lawn and he remembered why he was calling.
“But actually tho, can you please stop getting yourself wanted for murder? I’m getting real tired of saving your ass from the cops.”
“I seem to remember that first time was entirely your fault,” Derek said flatly, but Stiles could hear the smirk in his voice.
“Hey, that was at least 85% Scott’s fault.” There was a pause. “Okay, maybe 50%,” he added, and Derek chuckled. “Unfortunately, buddy, I can’t hide you in my room this time - my roommate will start to get ideas.”
“Wrong ones?” Derek asked neutrally.
Stiles narrowed his eyes, even though Derek couldn’t see him, but chose to ignore the question. “So are you gonna tell me what happened?”
Derek took a deep breath and started. “Believe it or not, this is not my fault.”