The first thing Derek notices is that Stiles has stopped talking.
Not completely - Stiles Stilinski is physically incapable of complete silence - but the words have changed. The constant rambling commentary that once filled every room like electricity has dulled into something thinner, quieter. The jokes are there, but they land differently now, like someone trying to remember how laughter used to work.
Derek notices because he has spent years learning the sound of Stiles.
The rhythm of his speech when he’s excited.
The rapid-fire spirals when he’s anxious.
The quiet moments when something is wrong.
And lately, Stiles sounds like none of those things.
At first Derek assumes it’s normal, everyone forgets things sometimes, but Stiles used to have a mind like a steel trap. He remembered license plates, crime statistics, the exact wording of Latin spells they'd only seen once in dusty grimoires.
Now Derek catches him staring at his phone like it's betrayed him.
“Where’s the sheriff’s department again?” Stiles mutters one afternoon, squinting at the map app.
Derek freezes halfway through pouring coffee.
“You’ve basically lived here your entire life.”
“Yeah but like…street names change in my brain sometimes,” Stiles says with a shrug that’s too casual.
Derek watches him a long moment.
The next thing Derek notices is the insomnia.
He can hear it when Stiles stays over.
Werewolf hearing means Derek knows when Stiles is awake at three in the morning, pacing the loft floor. The creak of wood. The uneven breathing. The restless shuffle of someone who doesn't know where to put their own body.
Derek used to do the same thing after the fire.
Stiles used to sleep like someone who knew exhaustion was the only way to survive tomorrow.
Now Derek hears the pacing night after night.
Eventually he walks upstairs.
Stiles is sitting on the kitchen counter in the dark, staring at nothing.
The city lights through the windows turn him into a silhouette - thin shoulders, bent posture, one foot swinging idly.
“You should be sleeping,” Derek says quietly.
Not dramatically. Just enough that Derek’s chest tightens.
“Jesus, dude,” Stiles breathes. “You’re like a stealth ninja wolf.”
“Yeah well my brain missed that memo.”
Derek crosses the room slowly.
Up close, Stiles looks tired in a way Derek has never seen before.
Like someone who's been holding themselves together for too long.
“You’ve been awake every night this week,” Derek says.
“You used to say sleep was your superpower.”
Stiles gives a small laugh.
“Yeah well I also used to think fighting monsters was cool.”
The words land between them heavier than they should.
Derek sits on the counter beside him.
For a long time neither of them speaks.
Then Stiles says quietly,
“Do you ever feel like everything after high school is… fake?”
Stiles stares out the window.
“I mean we fought literal demons. Ancient fox spirits. Alpha packs. Hellhounds.” He gestures vaguely. “Actual apocalypse-level bullshit.”
“And now I work in an office.”
“I sit in meetings about paperwork formatting.”
A laugh slips out of him, sharp and brittle.
“I saved the world and now my biggest problem is a printer jam.”
Derek understands the shape of this feeling.
But hearing it from Stiles makes something in his chest ache.
“You wanted normal,” Derek says carefully.
Stiles runs a hand through his hair.
“Turns out normal is… weird.”
He swings his foot again, restless energy with nowhere to go.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be now.”
And for a second Derek sees something raw in his eyes.
The question isn't sarcastic. It isn't rhetorical.
It gets worse after that.
Not physically. he still shows up to work, still answers his dad’s calls when he stays at the loft, still visits the pack sometimes - but Derek can feel the difference.
Stiles used to move through the world like he belonged everywhere.
Now he moves like a visitor.
Like none of it quite sticks to him anymore.
One night Derek finds him sitting on the floor of the loft surrounded by old case files.
Maps. Photos. Newspaper clippings.
The table looks like a crime scene again.
“I thought maybe if I read through everything again it would feel real,” he says.
Derek kneels across from him.
Stiles taps a photo of the pack.
Scott. Lydia. Kira. Allison. Derek. Himself.
They look impossibly young.
“We were kids,” Stiles murmurs. “Kids don’t stop kanimas and darachs and nogitsunes.”
“Kids shouldn’t have had to.”
Stiles finally meets his eyes.
His voice trembles just slightly.
“I don’t know how to be a person who isn't… that.”
Derek feels something shift inside his chest.
“You think the only reason you mattered was because of the supernatural.”
“Harsh phrasing but yeah.”
“You mattered before that.”
The words come out fast. Automatic.
Like Stiles has already had this argument with himself a thousand times.
“I was just the hyper kid with anxiety and too much caffeine. Then suddenly there were monsters and suddenly I was useful.”
He gestures at the mess of evidence.
Derek says softly, “You still do.”
“No one needs me to figure out ancient rituals anymore.”
“That doesn’t mean you stopped mattering.”
“You ever notice everyone else moved on?”
“Scott’s leading a pack. Lydia runs half the supernatural research community. Kira's literally guarding a spirit sword in another dimension.”
His smile is thin. “Meanwhile I'm arguing with Karen from HR about stapler budgets.”
Derek watches him carefully.
“You think your life is smaller now.”
And for the first time Derek hears it clearly.
The quiet grief under everything.
The breaking point comes two weeks later.
Derek gets a call from the sheriff.
Something in Derek’s stomach drops immediately.
“He didn’t come home last night. And he didn't tell me he was staying at your place ”
Derek is already grabbing his keys.
He finds Stiles at the preserve. Of course.
The jeep is parked crookedly near the trailhead.
Derek follows the familiar scent path through the trees until he hears breathing.
Stiles is sitting on the fallen log where they used to plan hunts.
His shoulders are hunched.
“I thought if I came back here it would feel like something again.”
The forest is quiet. Wind through leaves. Distant birds.
“Did it?” Derek asks gently.
“No.” His voice cracks. “I just feel… empty.”
Derek looks at him carefully.
From holding it in too long.
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” Stiles whispers.
The confession sounds like it physically hurts.
Derek’s brows pull together.
Stiles shakes his head violently.
“I’m just a guy who survived some really weird shit and now I’m supposed to pretend it didn’t fundamentally break my brain.”
Derek feels his chest tighten.
“You know what the worst part is?”
The words hang heavy in the air.
“I miss having a reason to matter.”
Silence stretches between them.
“You think the only way you mattered was by being useful.”
Grabs the front of Stiles’s jacket.
Derek’s voice is low. Steady.
“You mattered because you stayed.”
“When everyone else ran,” Derek says, “you stayed.” His grip tightens slightly. “You stayed when there were monsters. You stayed when you were terrified. You stayed when people died.”
Stiles’s eyes widen slightly.
“You think your purpose was solving supernatural mysteries,” Derek says. “It wasn’t.”
Derek’s answer is immediate.
Derek releases his jacket but doesn't move away.
“That doesn’t stop mattering just because the monsters are gone.”
Stiles looks down at his hands.
“I don’t feel like an anchor.”
Then he says something he’s never admitted out loud before.
“I felt the same way after the fire.”
Stiles looks up immediately. “What?”
Derek stares out at the forest.
His voice is calm but heavy.
“And suddenly there was nothing left to fight for.”
“I thought that meant I didn’t exist anymore.”
Derek continues. “But that wasn’t true.”
“Then what was it?” Stiles asks softly.
Derek’s gaze settles on him.
“It meant I had to learn who I was when I wasn’t surviving.”
“You think that’s what this is?” he murmurs.
“You survived.” A small pause. “Now you’re figuring out how to live.”
“That sounds terrifying.”
For a moment neither of them speaks.
Then Stiles says quietly,
Derek answers without hesitation.
The word is simple. Certain.
“You’re not going anywhere, are you?”
Something fragile shifts across Stiles’s face.
Derek nudges his shoulder.
“Please don’t say something motivational.”
“We’re getting breakfast.”
Then slowly, reluctantly, a tiny smile appears.
“Okay but if we’re rebuilding my existential sense of self I demand pancakes.”
“You always demand pancakes.”
Stiles gets up beside him.
For the first time in weeks, Derek hears something familiar in his voice.
“Yeah but now they're therapeutic pancakes.”
But he lets Stiles walk beside him back toward the jeep.
And for the first time in a long while…Stiles doesn't look untethered.
