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“Listen,” Stiles tries, ignoring the annoyed huff of breath from Isaac and the way Derek rolls his eyes. He focuses on his best friend, on the boy who has felt like home since they were seven and they only had each other, and he tries to catch a glimpse of the little boy who had brushed the dirt out of his hair in the eyes of his Alpha. “The Witches aren't going to leave. I know that it's important to you that we give everyone a chance, I really do, but they aren't good. Peter has been able to tie them to the death of four different packs, and—”
“Peter is a liar!” Scott yells, cutting Stiles off with a flash of his eyes. Stiles is human—for the most part—and the show of dominance does nothing to him, but he still clicks his mouth shut at the ire in Scott's voice. “Peter is a murdering psychopath who doesn't care about any of us and is just trying to turn us against the Witches!”
“Scott—”
“No no, darling, let the little Alpha tell me how he really feels,” Peter drawls with a smirk. Stiles snorts at Peter using such a modern phrase, something the older man has certainly picked up during their time together. Still, the interruption is not appreciated, and he cuts his eyes over to the man to give him a quick look of disapproval before he turns back to Scott.
“Scotty,” he tries, falling back on the nickname that holds so much, “that isn't true. Peter isn't the same as he used to be. And I looked over the research myself, and I was able to fact check all of it with Da—”
“Look, I know that you want to get into his pants, but that doesn't mean he's changed! Just because you think he's hot doesn't mean he isn't still evil, Stiles. He isn't going to want to date you just because you stand up for him, I don't know how many times I have to tell you that!” Scott's voice drops to a low hiss, though it's still plenty loud enough for Stiles' human ears to hear from a couple of feet away. Take into account that they're in a room full of supernatural creatures and—yep, that's Stiles' heart stopping as his stomach fills with dread.
“Oh my god,” Stiles distantly hears Lydia mutter, but it's drowned out by Peter's voice purring, “You think I'm hot, sweetheart?”
“No,” Stiles snaps, not taking his eyes off his...well, off Scott. “No. I can't believe you just said that.”
“I'm sorry,” Scott says quickly, but Stiles knows it's because it’s expected of him and not because he means it. He's been learning to read Scott since they were kids, he knows what the face he's wearing means. “I didn't mean to say that.”
“Yes you did,” Lydia says before Stiles can. He flicks his eyes over to her for a second, but he ducks his head when he sees that she's watching him with pity. Not even a second later, Isaac poorly attempts to hide a laugh in a cough and Stiles leaves.
He doesn't say a single thing, and the silence is almost deafening as he grabs his bag from beside the couch and slings it onto his shoulder. He's never been gladder that he's stopped bringing his laptop to pack nights as he is in this moment. His shoes are still on, so he doesn't have to do anything but slide the loft's door open and slam it behind him before he's able to start freaking out.
The moment he's in the hall he takes a breath that rattles inside his chest as something that feels rather startling like grief wraps around his heart and makes his shoulders feel too heavy. It isn't a feeling he likes, nor one that he knows what to do with. Scott...isn't a good friend. It's something that Stiles has known since the other boy was first bitten by a rabid werewolf and their entire life got turned upside down.
But it's never been as glaringly obvious as it is in this moment; his ears still ringing with the secret Scott had exposed to the entire pack without a single care or thought of what it might cause. Stiles doesn't take the elevator. His skin feels tight enough as it is that he doesn't need to be enclosed in a rickety box of metal.
By the time Stiles has jogged down the four flights and across the parking lot, he's feeling marginally calmer. Oh, he's still furious and filled with a too familiar feeling of betrayal, but his eyes have stopped stinging and the tight lump in his throat has melted away. When he looks up from where he'd been watching his feet, he isn't even surprised to see Peter leaning against this jeep: tight V-neck and perfectly styled goatee highlighted by the moonlight and looking ridiculously attractive for it. Stiles rolls his eyes as he walks up to him, not at all surprised at finding the man there before him.
“You weren't going to leave without saying anything to me, were you, darling?” Peter purrs. Stiles doesn’t even understand how he manages to sound like that. It’s obnoxious and Stiles is not affected by it. At all.
“You can stop with the pet names,” Stiles snaps, snaking his arms around himself in a desperate bid for comfort. He doesn’t stop walking forward, because he wants to get into his Jeep and get home, but he also doesn’t ask Peter to move from his lean against the driver’s side door.
“I prefer to think of them as terms of endearment,” Peter says easily, his impressive arms crossed over his impressive chest and not at all distracting Stiles. “I think we have a few things that we should talk about.”
“No,” Stiles said quickly. He winces when a quick flash of hurt crosses the man’s face, and he rushes to say, “no, just. We don’t need to talk. I know you’re not interested, and I’m really working on getting over you.”
“Scott was right,” Peter says plainly, and Stiles’ entire body flinches painfully before he continues, “Standing up for me isn’t going to get me to date you. But I will consider the hearts of the coven as a rather impressive courting gift.”
A happy, crazed laughed bubbles past his lips, and he slaps both hands over his mouth to drown the noise out. “You’re crazy,” Stiles says from behind his hands, but he takes a couple of steps forward until he’s in Peter’s space, spurred on by the private smile the man is wearing.
“Crazy about you, sweetheart.”