Devil of Wolves (Sterek)

Chapter One (Numbers Keep Me Sane)

I am not a good writer and this storyline is a little stupid because I write it as I go, but let's see where it takes us! It's also not beta read so all mistakes are my own. 

^^^ This indicates a change in POV.

Enjoy!

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Stiles hated the city.

It was loud, always damp for some reason, and smelled awful all the time. But it was home, about as close to home as he'd ever get.

He had been living here for close to one year after moving out of the shit-hole known as Beacon Hills. He decided to move away once high school was over and couldn't say he regretted his decision. Did he pick the farthest place away from his former home? No. Well maybe, but it wasn't always his intention.

Stiles has always wanted to go to New York. He's heard so many great things about it; the skyscrapers, the busy streets, the bright flashing signs. Only, the truth was that this city is no better than Beacon Hills. It's a wasteland, full of just as much hate and problems, and the neighborhoods weren't even half as cute.

It was loud, constantly booming with life, but at the same time, it was vastly lonely.

It felt like the only place where he could be surrounded by hundreds of other people and still feel so alone and dejected from society. Stiles was used to loneliness, he was used to not fitting in and being stared at as if he was nothing more than a stain on the ground.

However, compared to life in Beacon Hills, this was a cakewalk. New York doesn't have actual supernatural monsters roaming the streets, running wild every day, so Stiles counts his blessings.

"Stuart, get your ass in here! These last meals aren't going to hand themselves out!" His boss yells from the tiny window of the kitchen.

Stiles jolts from behind the counter where he had been doodling on a napkin and quickly crushes it in his hand.

"On it!" He calls back, trying to calm his nerves, and bolts over toward the plating area. He gathers the four plates in his arms that are decorated and ready to be served.

The food smelled good. It made him feel sick.

The restaurant was emptier tonight, more so than usual for such a noisy, crowded city - save for a party of ten people here for some company dinner. They laughed and made the space feel less empty, warm, and pleasant. It wasn't the fanciest restaurant, tucked away on the other side of the city where the crime was higher, and there was less grandeur everywhere. Less to bother hiding behind big flashing signs and crowded sidewalks.

Few people here also meant fewer tips, which Stiles was practically living off of these days, that and a half-eaten donut from this morning, plus five cups of coffee to keep him functioning.

It was fine. He was fine.

The plates wobbled in his hands—small, nearly unnoticeable tremors he could not stop, an unfortunate byproduct of the horrors he lived through. Stiles hid his damage behind a well-crafted mask of smiles and cheerful greetings, a ploy to combat the weary exhaustion he felt every day. As the night droned on, his smiles became more strained, it got harder to hide as the delicate plates threatened to topple over.

He wished for an extra cup of coffee right about now as his eyelids felt heavier with each blink.

Stiles quickly checked the time as he headed back toward the kitchen. It was nearly nine o'clock, meaning his shift would end in a couple minutes and he couldn't deny the relief that brought. This hellish day needed to end sooner rather than later.