prompt Person A: I hate you. Person B: I've done some calculations and come to the conclusion that you, my friend, are full of shit.
“Because I hate you, Stiles,” Peter snarls, slamming his coke onto the staircase.
There’s a moment of tense quiet, and then Stiles sways closer, (he smells so good, even now) eyes half-lidded, the curl of his lips a clear taunt. “Really? I thought you said you liked me, Peter.”
Peter bares his teeth, eyes darkening as he, too, leans forward. “Feelings change.”
Stiles hums, dragging his eyes over Peter’s face and down the strong line of his neck. (He hates, loves, when Stiles looks at him like that. Like he’s somebody worth wanting.)
“If you’re sure, then,” the boy relents nonchalantly, leaning back. Peter’s eyes flash, (startled annoyance, discontent, and stupid, pointless longing) and for a moment it looks like he might follow before he restrains himself.
“Oh, I am.”
Stiles’ smile is one of the most patronizing sights Peter has ever seen - and he grew up with Talia. It makes the whole hating him thing a touch easier.
He can see the moment the boy decides to change tracks. His (lovely) eyes sharpen, his (broad) shoulders straighten, his (long, perfect) fingers still their fiddling. “Here’s the thing, Peter... you’re being stupid.”
Peter twitches, fingers curling in. (Rude human, his wolf huffs. Mine.) “Excuse me?”
“You heard me just fine, sweetheart.” The endearment falls off Stiles’ tongue easily. It makes Peter’s wolf whine happily even as he searches for hints of mockery. When Peter says ‘sweetheart,’ it’s no kindness. The word is used against those who lack insight or insist on being purposefully obtuse. When Stiles says it the word falls pleasantly, with no scent of deception at all.
Peter attempts to ignore the potentially genuine pet name as he crosses his hands over his knees, meeting honeydew eyes evenly. He has given Stiles no reason to expect that he favored him. Even as ‘the clever one,’ there was no way the boy has realized the extent of his feelings.
Peter’s always been very good at hiding what he felt, after all. (Nobody cares so nobody knows and feelings aren’t what’s important, actions are.) A trait Stiles seemed to share, even if he grew extremely blunt when he wanted something.
“Now I know you’ve hit your head,” Peter snipes. Stiles, of course, ignores him.
“The thing is, I’ve done some calculations and come to the conclusion that you are full of shit.”
He’s smirking when he meets Peter’s eyes, something complicated and intense in his gaze. Maybe it’s a dare.
‘Lie to me.’
Peter takes it. Snatches the opportunity up and rolls with it. “Perhaps you should invest in a calculator. I am the farthest from liking you there is.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t save my life then,” Stiles combats calmly. Something in Peter shakes at the request, at the thought of leaving Stiles to bleed out in the forest, to be drowned in the lake, to starve to death with a broken leg in a cave. Touché, he thinks.
(Hold him down, wolf offers. Keep him safe in our den. Keep him forever.)
“You know how I take my coffee, Peter, and you don’t use that information to poison it.” Plush lips quirk, as if they’re sharing some joke. “You sniff me - you aren’t nearly as subtle as you think with that. You put a blanket on me when I fall asleep. Your snark is about 50% less incendiary when we aren’t fighting.”
Stiles shifts close to him again, and places a hand on either side of his face, warm eyes boring into his intently.
“You care about me, I care about you, and hate only comes into the equation when one of us is being an unforgivable dick, which I haven’t done recently. Ergo you have no reason to hate me, ergo you don’t, ergo stop trying to push me away, you proud, insufferable asshat.”
(Keep him, wolf insists.)
And of course, Peter does.
