Skin Deep (Are the Secrets I Keep)

CHAPTER 12

The first time is a disaster. Honestly, Stiles should've seen it coming.

He and Peter start meeting up every day, usually in the afternoon after Stiles gets off school. On Monday, they go out to a lake even further south than the river, deep enough that four of Stiles on top of each other still wouldn't be able to touch the bottom, and they spend the first three and a half hours muddling through the runes they'll need to inscribe on Peter to ensure he doesn't die of hydrostatic pressure or hypothermia on their impending trip in six months' time. Werewolves can stand colder temperatures, true, but not that cold, and they certainly can't survive the depths they'll be reaching unprotected.

Peter seems fascinated when Stiles first brings out the SquidInk from his mother's collection. It comes in all different colours with different effects, ranging from one that swirls in rainbows both in its bottle and on paper, to another that's grass green with tiny summer brown rabbits floating on the liquid, which translates to green letters on paper that literally hop all over each other unless you read it in the shade where the sun can't get to it.

There's an almost childlike wonder in the way Peter experiments with everything. The werewolf seems to prefer the dark blue one dotted with glowing silver like the night sky, and with every stroke of the pen, the lines all twinkle merrily on paper.

"Finished playing?" Stiles asks with more than a little amusement as he picks out one of the thinnest paintbrushes.

Peter sniffs haughtily, still doodling miniature dresses and shoes of all things on his piece of paper in a multitude of colours. A pair of heels drawn from ink that came in a bottle of gold liquid with black musical notes floating in it tap-dance their way across the top of the page. "I'm simply testing them out. These are all waterproof?"

"Yup, have to be," Stiles nods, shuffling over until he's sitting behind Peter, book in one hand and the broad expanse of Peter's back in front of him. The werewolf's already stripped down to his birthday suit. "And the ones for runework on a body don't even show because nobody wants to walk around looking like someone used them as a canvas. They won't come off either until you use this special cleaner thing to wipe it off. Now don't move. I'll do your back first."

Peter obliges, shifting into a more comfortable position before going still. For the next forty minutes, Stiles painstakingly copies out the necessary runes along the knobs of the spinal cord, the shoulder blades, along the base of the skull. Two big ones go on either side of the spine, and one more at the tailbone, all of it done in a black ink that shimmer for a few minutes after each application before sinking into the skin like they were never there at all.

"There," He finally says, sitting back with a sigh and flexing his hand. "Back's done so let's take a break before I do your front."

Peter hums his agreement, stretching languidly before craning his head around in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the runes. There's no risk of smudging so Stiles leaves him to it.

They take ten before Stiles picks up the brush again and takes a seat between Peter's legs this time. The part of him that grew up in a society that puts so much emphasis on covering up private parts and shaming any kind of body that isn't the majority's idea of perfection squirms a little with Peter's dick right there, but he shoves that aside and concentrates on the task at hand instead, determined not to let something so stupid distract him. He and his mother used to go swimming naked all the time – seriously, can you imagine a selkie in a bathing suit?? – and on occasion, they even went around inside the house without any clothes on, although it always seemed to bother the Sheriff, especially as Stiles got older and graduated from swimming to walking, and even before his mom got sick, those times were slowly cut back until they only stripped once they were in a body of water. Back then, Stiles didn't know why – he liked being unrestricted by useless pieces of cloth – but Mom stressed the importance of shirts and pants, and eventually, it became second nature to always wear clothes unless he went swimming alone, especially after Mom burnt his pelt.

Peter doesn't seem to mind though, so Stiles supposes it's a supernatural versus human thing. This close, even Stiles can hear his heartbeat, and it's a steady, calming thing that helps him focus. He does the lungs first, then the ribs, sweeping lines like a bird's wings taking flight, especially with every breath Peter takes. The sternum gets a single circular rune, another on each hipbone, then back up to paint a series of interlocking ones along Peter's collarbones. Sometimes, the flesh twitches under the brush, probably ticklish, and Stiles almost wants to tease, but he doesn't want to accidentally mess up if his attention's split, so he doesn't.

The last one in that area is sketched right over Peter's heart, an extra measure of protection to keep his heart beating. It would be handy if there was something Stiles could apply to allow Peter to simply breathe underwater but Talysse has already warned him that runework like that – ones that change the function of a specific body as opposed to throwing up shields around it, which is essentially what Stiles is doing – is far more complicated and takes years of study.

"Okay," Stiles sits back and blows out a breath, both of them watching as the rune scheme over Peter's heart sinks out of sight. "Five more to go. Hands."

Or more like wrists. One each on the pulse points, tiny but intricate so Stiles needs an even smaller brush, then another at the center of Peter's forehead.

"Last two – up."

Peter gets to his feet, and this time, Stiles does flush a little when he realizes the werewolf is half-hard, and he almost chokes on the faint spicy tang of arousal when he breathes in too sharply. He flicks a glance up at Peter, who shrugs, completely unapologetic and even a little amused. "You can't blame me, Stiles. I have a very lovely-looking selkie on his knees in front of me, and he's spent the last half hour molesting me. What else did you think would happen?"

Stiles splutters indignantly, turning even redder and determinedly not touching the 'lovely-looking' comment with a ten-foot pole. "Excuse you! I have not been molesting you!"

And okay, so he's had to touch Peter with more than just the brush, but how else was he supposed to know exactly where his ribs and sternum are? And he has to use something to brace himself as he's sketching the runes.

"Just stay still and spread your legs," Stiles hisses, then almost bashes himself in the face with the book because oh gods that came out wrong.

Peter actually laughs, the bastard, but he generously moves his feet so that there's enough space between them for Stiles to quickly trace the final runes on the inside of his ankles.

"Right, done!" Stiles scrambles to his feet and hastily backs off a few steps. Peter smirks but he has the decency not to tease Stiles any further. Or maybe just the self-preservation because the next step is Stiles taking Peter swimming.

They pack up the ink set, and Stiles shrugs out of his own clothes, hesitating only briefly as his pelt is uncovered. He trusts Peter, he has to remember that. Neither of them would be here right now if he didn't, and the werewolf doesn't care about his scars. When he turns, he finds Peter watching him again, something unreadable in the lines of his face, but when Stiles motions at the river, he follows without a word.

They both slip into the water, and between one breath and the next, Stiles loses hands and feet and gains the streamlined body of a seal. He blinks up at Peter and barks impatiently when the man lingers for several beats longer than strictly necessary at the edge of the lake. When Stiles swims, he swims fast, so the sooner they get to practicing, the better.

Peter finally pushes off the sloping shallows and treads water over to him. Stiles twists around so that Peter is behind him and can get a grip on his shoulders. He'll have to learn how to hold on. Selkie skin is both sturdier and more slippery than it looks.

The water stirs, one hand drops on his left shoulder, and then – a tense second later – a second hand comes to rest on his right.

Peter doesn't even have time to curl his fingers inward. In fact, there's barely any pressure, it certainly doesn't even hurt, just the graze of a palm against Stiles' scarred shoulder, and suddenly the world narrows, his lungs close up, and it's an irrational, unintentional, overwhelming panic that whites out everything in his conscious mind.

He lashes out without thought, tail slamming into Peter's stomach hard enough to hurl the man away from him and simultaneously drive Stiles in the opposite direction, down into the depths of the lake, where no one can touch him and nothing can hurt him.

Where he is alone and safe.