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Tim had a sunhat shading his face as he idly scrolled through his phone—Dick had just gotten home that morning, so Tim had taken the rowboat out as fast and as sneakily as he could to avoid being stuck in the middle of the passive-aggressive arguments that were sure to take up the rest of the day.

Ordinarily, he would’ve stuck around a while longer—Dick would ask him how his summer was going, neatly derailing Bruce’s unsubtle attempts to interrogate him, and Tim could’ve happily held up the conversation, but Dick was going to be here for a full week and there was a storm heading in tomorrow, which meant that Tim was going to be trapped in the house with Dick and Bruce until the weather cleared up again.

Hence the escape.

He’d spent an hour or two taking pictures underwater, and now he was quietly basking in the sunlight.  He’d have to row back eventually, but right now, it was just him, the open expanse of blue ocean, and the summer sun.

The boat swayed, rocked in a steady rhythm by the waves, and it jostled slightly as a soft breeze tugged at his hat.  Tim yawned and clicked off his phone, rubbing at his drowsy eyes—if he took a nap here, he’d wake up sunburned and dizzy.

He finished off the rest of his afternoon snack and one bottle of water before he stretched—the boat swayed a little harder, and Tim broke off with a nervous chuckle.  He didn’t want to capsize it.

It was too early to head back, but Tim was feeling sleepy—another half hour of clicking pictures, maybe, before he rowed back to shore and the frigid tension between father and son.  He covered another yawn as he hunted for his goggles and flippers amidst the other paraphernalia at the bottom of the boat—

The boat rocked violently, like it had hit something.  Tim abandoned his task and peered over the side—had he been caught in a current?  Had he drifted further than he realized?  Had he run aground on the rocks?—but all he could see was clear water.

When he looked up to spot the shoreline, however, there was nothing but blue in all directions.

Tim’s blood ran cold.  He didn’t know how far he’d drifted—he didn’t know how he could’ve drifted, he’d spent maybe thirty minutes on his phone, and he wasn’t supposed to be near any swift moving currents—but it was slowly becoming apparent that he was dangerously lost.

Tim scrambled for his phone again—surely he couldn’t have drifted far enough to be out of coverage area—but it slipped out of his hands as the boat jerked as though something had scraped along the keel.  Tim wobbled with the movement, automatically grasping the sides of the boat to steady himself as his heart crawled up into his throat.

Maybe it was a rock.  An underground reef.  Tim edged forward to peer over the side of the boat.  Any explanation that involved an inanimate object—

The boat shuddered, and Tim let out a sharp cry as he fell to his knees.  The push hadn’t come from underneath.  It had come from the side.

Please, let there be any, any possible explanation other than a deliberate attack.  Tim warily poked his head up again, half-expecting to see a shark fin the way his luck was going, and instead saw the flash of scales, glimmering in the sunlight.

Tim frowned—what was that—

Something slammed against the boat, and Tim was honestly surprised that it didn’t capsize, he held on for dear life as it rocked violently in the wake, long, shimmering scales stretching nearly the length of the boat.

This was a deliberate attack.

Tim hadn’t see a tail, but the length and shape could only be one thing, especially this far from shore.  A mer.

But there was no mer pod in the waters right now—they’d would’ve had to get permission from Bruce first, and Bruce hadn’t mentioned it, and Dick hadn’t said anything about unusual activity in the ocean either—and even if this was someone that had followed Dick, what did they want with Tim?

Something lightly scratched along the hull of the boat, like someone was running claws down the wood.

Tim couldn’t think of any mer that had a grudge against him, so he rode out the next vicious jerk before shouting, “Wait!”  He inched closer to the edge, “Wait, I’m not a selkie!  I’m a human.  Please don’t capsize me.”

The water stilled.

“Hello?” Tim called out, peering over the edge of the boat, “I can take a message if you’d like?  Do you want to talk to Bruce?”

A flash of scales—gleaming bright red, like the blaze of a setting sun—and a head slowly rose from the water.  “Do I have a message for Bruce?” the mer growled, looked intensely amused at the question, “Yes, I suppose I do.”

Dark hair with a streak of white.  Vivid, almost glowing green eyes.  A smile that looked very much like a threat.

Tim’s throat went dry.  “I’m a human,” he reiterated carefully—sometimes mers and other ocean creatures grew pushy in their definition of ‘harmless fun’.

“Believe me,” the mer said, baring long rows of very sharp teeth, “I know.”

Dread solidified in Tim’s stomach, a heavy knot of growing fear, but Tim wasn’t fast enough to scramble back when the mer lunged forward.  Clawed hands closed around his wrists and, in an instant, the world turned wet.

Tim spluttered, attempting to kick free—his foot connected with something, and the grip around his wrists disappeared.  He gasped in a breath of fresh air and spun back to the boat—he needed to get away, and call someone and—

The boat had capsized, and was slowly sinking underneath the water.

Tim stared at it in shock, before he caught a flash of red scales out of the corner of his eye and all his instincts screamed danger in true evolutionary fashion.

Tim, instead, decided to get angry.  “This isn’t funny!” Tim yelled, treading water and twisting in a circle, trying to figure out where the mer was and what he was trying to do.

“I’m not laughing,” said a cold, dark voice right behind him—claws tightened on his shoulders, and Tim nearly choked on seawater as he was pushed below the surface.

Tim twisted away from the grasp and kicked away—he wasn’t a mer or a selkie, but he’d spent his entire childhood on the beach, and he was a very good swimmer.  “I had equipment in that boat!” Tim retorted once he broke the surface again.  His phone, his diving gear, his very expensive underwater camera, all headed to the bottom of the ocean.  “Is this your idea of a joke?”

Laughter—Tim spun around and saw the mer staring at him, red scales churning the water.  “Trust me, Replacement,” Red said, and something about his tone turned Tim’s dread into very real fear, “You don’t want to see my idea of a joke.”

He slipped beneath the waves without a ripple.

Tim swallowed, his heart pounding in his ears.  He—he needed to get back on dry land.  He couldn’t see the shore.  He couldn’t contact Dick or Bruce.  He—

Clawed hands closed around his ankles, and yanked.

He was trapped in open ocean with an angry mer.

Tim kicked out again, but Red made it extremely clear that the only reason he’d let go of Tim before was because he felt like it—he could barely even twitch his feet with the vice grip around his ankles.

His lungs began to burn.

Tim thrashed harder, using Red’s grip to pull himself down and claw at the fingers closed around his ankles.  A laugh reverberated through the water, low and echoey, and Tim abandoned the task to instead lunge forward, blindly attacking.

He connected with a hard jaw, fingers grasping for something he could pinch or claw, and the grip around his ankles loosened.  Tim took immediate advantage, and kicked back up to the surface.

“Stop,” Tim gasped when he had a full breath again, “What the hell do you want—”

Claws scraping against his shins—Tim instinctively kicked out, and his foot was caught in a strong grasp.  He flailed, but there was nothing to hold onto, and nothing to stop his slow, gradual descent as the mer pulled him down.

Tim didn’t waste any time in kicking this time, and used the mer’s grip as an anchor—he couldn’t put enough force in his punches to make a mer back off, and his fingernails were blunt compared to a mer’s claws, but Tim had picked up enough grappling from obnoxious selkie older brothers that liked to smother him in seal form to manage a good approximation of a fight.

His elbow knocked into Red’s jaw, his fingers tightening in loose hair, and claws sunk into his ankles—not breaking skin, but Tim could feel the bones grinding.  He set his face into a snarl, and twisted harder, yanking furiously on the mer’s hair.

The grip around his ankles tightened, then loosened, and Tim bared his teeth in vicious satisfaction as he kicked his way up—

He didn’t make it to the surface.

A brief flash of claws scraping his knees, tugging him down again.  It was gone in an instant, and Tim tried to kick up—

Scales brushing skin as a powerful hand caught ahold of his arm and jerked him off course.  The last few bubbles spurted from Tim’s mouth as he tried to twist away from the mer, striking back up the surface—

Something slammed into his side—the tail, Tim thought dazedly, the attack expelling the last of his air as he choked.  His lungs were burning, squeezing painfully in his chest as his body screamed at him to breathe.  I’m trying, he thought desperately, flailing weakening limbs to break the surface of the water—

A whisper touch around an ankle, mockingly gentle, slowly, inexorably pulling him down.

Tim struggled furiously, panic taking over any semblance of rationality as he fought to free himself from the shackles.  It was taking everything he had not to take a gulp of seawater, his lungs spasming and overriding basic logic like he couldn’t breathe underwater.

This time when he kicked, nothing stopped him, and Tim desperately swam back to the surface, his mind split between an instinctive demand for oxygen and the growing terror that he’d be attacked before he got it.

He broke the surface—relief cascaded into him with his first breath of sweet, sweet air, and the respite was so strong Tim almost forgot he had to tread water, nearly dipping below the surface before he flailed, coughing and spluttering.

His heart felt like it was trying to carve its way out of his ribs, a sharp ache as Tim gulped in more breaths, trying to calm down even as his body desperately wheezed for more oxygen, more, more—

A sharp yank, and Tim was spluttering again.  The mer, right, the one who’d apparently not stopped trying to kill him.

Tim tried to twist his foot out of his grasp, flailing—his head tipped above the water, and Tim managed a breath before a wave splashed onto his face and he coughed, seawater burning the inside of his nose.

Tim alternated between half-breaths and swallowing seawater as he struggled—Red wasn’t pulling him down, but neither was he letting him break the surface, Tim was drowning anew every time a wave swelled across his face.

Confusion grew, amidst panic and terror—this wasn’t some stupid game, they’d passed that point a long time ago, but if Red wanted him dead, well, Tim had no delusions about his ability to fight off a murderous mer in open water with no weapon.

So what the hell was he doing?

Another gulp of seawater instead of air as Tim was dragged down half an inch and he twisted, opening his eyes and ignoring the burn as he squinted through the water.  Red was a couple feet below him, claws idly dragging against Tim’s legs, powerful tail flicking in flashes of glimmering red.

He was grinning.  Mouth wide, showcasing an array of sharp teeth, eyes vivid and narrowed—they caught Tim’s gaze, and malicious amusement swelled.

Dread bypassed fear and ran straight into terror.

This was a game, and Tim wasn’t the one playing.

His lungs started burning again—an escalation of their near-constant searing pain, because Tim hadn’t gotten a breath big enough to calm the spasming of his diaphragm—and Tim thrust his head back up, sucking in one and half breaths before Red decided that was enough, and tugged him just below the surface again.

Tim fought against his grip, eyes stinging—another second of air, another bout of coughing, not enough breath to scream or beg the mer to stop.  He didn’t know what he’d done, why Red detested him this much, what crime was horrific enough to justify this torture, but ignorance clearly hadn’t stopped him from reaping the consequences.

“Plea—” was all he managed before he was choking again, caught between holding his breath and desperately gasping for air as his chest squeezed painfully.  He was drowning by millimeters, a death stretched sadistically out for minutes and minutes and Tim didn’t know whether the burning in his eyes was seawater or tears.

“Stop,” Tim managed underwater, a garbled sound, but Red clearly understood the meaning.  The teasing jerks stopped and Tim finally, finally broke the surface fully, taking in deep, spluttering breaths, too fast and too panicked to calm down.

Red breached the surface as well, dark stare locked on him as Tim sucked in desperate breaths, his hindbrain telling him to draw in all the oxygen he could before the mer started drowning him again.

Drowning was a painful, agonizing death.  Drowning slowly, the act stretched out over an eternity, until fatigue overwhelmed him or his lungs gave out—it was like watching a fish flop around in an inch of water, desperate and panicked and dying too slow and too painful for it to realize it should just give up.

His breaths turned into hiccupping sobs as he kept treading water, his legs aching and worn out from all the flailing.  The mer caught the change in cadence, smile widening.

“Aww,” Red crooned as he swam in lazy circles around Tim, tail lashing around to block off any avenue of escape, “Does the little human not have gills?”  Another flick, circling tighter—now he was wrapped around Tim, sharp claws on either side of his very fragile neck.  “Does the little human want gills?” Red asked, low and dark.

Tim’s breath stuttered in his throat.

“No,” he said hoarsely, his voice cracking, “No—I don’t—stop—”

Claws pressed in deeper, just below his ears.

“But you want to swim with the fish,” Red hissed into his ear, “Take pictures with your fancy camera and go back to a house you share with selkies.  If you wanted to be one of us, all you had to do was ask.”

The claws dragged down, and it felt like they were carving lines of fire into his skin.

“Stop,” Tim said, strangled, “Please—I didn’t—I’m sorry, whatever I did to you—” Claws pressed in deeper, and Tim couldn’t hold back the scream.  “I’m sorry!” he sobbed, “Please, I’m sorry, stop, please!”

Claws retreated, curling around his shoulders, and Tim screamed again as saltwater stung on the cuts, writhing in the mer’s grasp.

“Because you asked so nicely,” Red laughed, “Let’s see if you can breathe underwater now.”

Tim managed a half-gulp of air and lost it immediately—Red pulled him underneath the waves and the shrieking agony of saltwater on his wounds was enough to lose his breath in soundless cries.

“Can’t breathe?” Red’s voice echoed around him as he was pulled deeper and deeper, “Are you sure?”  The water was getting darker.  “You haven’t even tried.”

Tim kept looking up—at the glittering blue of the surface, and the light beyond it, blurred and distorted.  His lungs burned, and then screamed, his heartbeat pulsing behind his eyes as his throat squeezed like a giant hand had wrapped around it.

He couldn’t help his futile struggles, his body too panicked to listen to reason, his hands reaching for a sky they’d never touch, and, as his vision began to darken with more than just depth, terror curled into painful reality.

I’m going to die.

He was going to be drowned by a mer that had singled him out as a target, he didn’t know why, and Bruce was going to lose a second son to the sea.  A second body they’d only recover in pieces.

This was going to break Bruce.  Shatter him along the fault lines that Jason’s death had created, and snap the tenuous threads on his sanity that Tim’s presence had helped hold in place.

This was going to break Dick too—last time he’d been in a completely different ocean, way too far to help, but this time he was just a few miles away.  He was never going to stop blaming himself.

Tim closed his eyes, and let his air exhale in a rush, panic receding to a terrifying calm.  He was going to die, and it was going to be slow and cruel, and Tim—Tim was scared.

But if he took a deep breath, it would be over.  Just one deep breath.  Just push past all the instincts screaming that he couldn’t breathe seawater, and—

Red snarled, low and vicious, and Tim didn’t have time to do more than splutter before they were breaking the surface again.

Tim coughed, seawater burning on the way up worse than it had on the way down, and clawed hands closed bruising-tight around his arms as an angry mer shoved into his blurry field of view.  “You don’t get to die,” Red hissed, “Not until I’m done with you.”

Terror slithered right back inside.

“Please,” Tim begged, “I—I don’t know what you want, I’m sorry—”

“Oh, Replacement,” Red crooned, claws drifting along the edge of Tim’s face, oh-so-gentle.  Tim whimpered as they traced around the corner of his eye.  “Did no one warn you about the dangers of the ocean?  Did no one tell you what happens to people who stick their noses where they don’t belong?”

“St—stop—”

“Why?” Red asked, baring his teeth, “Because you asked me to?”

“Pl—please—”

“I begged once too,” Red said softly, “I begged and screamed as a monster gouged out my scales, and all they did was laugh at my pleas.”  Claws settled around Tim’s neck, curling into the hollow of his throat.

Tim went as still as he possibly could, taking shallow breaths.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I’m—I’m sorry—”

“For what?” Red snapped.

Tim had no idea, but whatever this was, it felt personal.

“You don’t even know,” Red said, the water around them beginning to froth as he whipped his tail around them in a frenzy, “You don’t have a single clue what you did, you spoiled, entitled brat—” Red made an inarticulate sound of fury, and suddenly pushed—Tim wheezed, and then went still in shock as his back slammed against something cold and hard.

“Do you know what it feels like to have your skin flayed off?” Red asked, almost conversational, if it wasn’t for the way his hand was constricting around Tim’s throat, crushing him against the hard stone.

Tim scrabbled against the wet, smooth surface—it wasn’t the shore, they were in the wrong place for that, but Tim knew there were rock outcroppings about seven miles out, it was what made the area so dangerous for ships—and gasped for breath, lunging out at Red’s face in a feint.

It worked—Red jerked back instinctively, as though he thought Tim had managed to find a weapon, and Tim immediately grabbed a handhold and pulled himself up onto the outcropping.

It wasn’t land, and it certainly wasn’t dry, but it was the only choice he had—Tim ignored the shards of rock slicing into his palms, against his bare feet, the sharp stinging pain as saltwater burned against the wounds, and made for the very top of the outcropping.

It wasn’t a large rock—maybe three feet above the water, and six feet wide—but there was an indent in the middle, a little hollow just large enough for Tim to wedge himself inside if he curled up into a little ball.

Tim had no illusions that it was enough to deter the mer if he was truly determined—he could pull himself up onto the rock, grab Tim’s leg, and drag him out again, like snatching pearls from oyster shells.  But there was no sound of scales slipping against rock, or the mer’s growling voice.  Nothing but waves splashing against stone.

He buried his head in his knees, arms wrapped tightly around his shins, and shuddered.

Tim banged his head against stone three times before his fatigued head finally figured out where he was—rock.  Boat capsizing.  Angry mer.  Fear slipped back in, next to exhaustion, as Tim blearily opened his eyes.

It was night.  Stars stretched across the sky above him, twinkling merrily.  It was a new moon night, so the faint starlight was all he had to see by.  Tim warily poked his head out of the hollow, half-expecting an enraged mer in his face, but the ocean was quiet and there was no sign of anyone nearby.

“Hello?” Tim called out, and winced at the raspy tone.  He tried to clear his throat, but it didn’t do much, still sore and aching from the abuse it had taken.  “Dick?” he tried.  Surely they were searching for him.  Surely they were out turning over every rock in their territory.

Surely they’d noticed he was missing.

“Bruce?” he called out, a little louder.  No response.

They had to be looking for him.  The mer couldn’t still be around, not with Bruce and Dick patrolling.  Tim knew where he was, knew where the rocks were in relation to the shore, and while he wasn’t an expert navigator, he could pick out the North Star, so he had a general idea of where home was.

He could start swimming back.

Tim pulled himself fully out of the hollow, scanning the ocean—it was a stupid idea, he could admit that to himself, the smart thing would be to stay put and wait for Dick or Bruce to find him, but Tim could feel the prickling down his spine and the desperate desire to go home and he wasn’t safe here and he just wanted to be back on dry land.

Tim took a couple of deep breaths to choke down the sob, breathing slowly until the lump in his throat subsided.

A stray splash of water on stone.

Tim immediately whirled around, but there was nothing there.  Nothing he could see anything—in the darkness, the water was a mass of black, and he couldn’t make out anything underneath the surface, much less red scales.

Tim ducked back into the hollow, curling up again, keeping still and silent.  He had to wait for Dick and Bruce to find him.

If they would find him.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

This time, it was light out—early morning sun rising slowly, turning the water pale as its reflection shimmered across the waves.  Tim uncoiled gingerly, wincing as his muscles fiercely protested all movement—his legs were shaking, his arms trembled as he tried to stretch, and swallowing was physically painful.

He also smelled like a salt shaker, and Tim shivered as a low wind picked up—his suit was still damp and cold.  It was a good thing it was summer.

“Dick?” Tim called out, hoping to catch a glimpse of a seal, “Bruce?”  No movement in the choppy waves.  Not Dick, not Bruce, not the shimmer of red scales or sharp teeth or a malevolent smile.

Tim turned, and finally stared at his biggest threat—dark clouds hovered southwards, and the wind was blowing stronger.  The storm was arriving early.

Land was about seven miles due west.  Tim knew the waters, he’d boated and swam here all his life, and there were no unexpected currents to trip him up.

Staying where he was should’ve been the safest.  Stay, and wait for Dick and Bruce to find him, because they had to find him eventually.  Stay—so he didn’t have to trust exhausted limbs to carry him forward, so he didn’t have to keep looking over his shoulder for red scales.

Unfortunately, even selkies weren’t safe out in stormy waters, and Tim’s rock would definitely be underwater in an hour.  Getting closer to home was in his best interest—he just didn’t know if he could make it all the way to shore before the storm hit.

Tim took a deep breath and tried to think through the lethargic fog.  Fact: the rock was safer than the water.  Fact: the rock was not safe enough.

Tim turned in a slow circle, scanning the waves as far as he could see.  No strange wake, no odd waves, no sign of a tail or flashy scales.  The mer was not in sight.

This was the best chance he was going to get.

Tim swallowed, and slowly climbed off the rock.  He crouched at the edge for a good ten seconds before he finally worked up the courage to slip into the waves.

The first thing that hit was the searing agony of fresh saltwater washing into all his wounds—the deliberate cuts that stretched down his neck on either side, the scrapes on his feet, the jagged cuts on his palms—and Tim had to bite down on his fist to muffle the scream.

The wash of excruciating fire cut through the shivering at the frigid water, so there were small mercies.

Tim took a couple of shuddering breaths, motivated himself with the warm bath and dry clothes that awaited him, and struck out towards shore.

Tim was a good swimmer—he’d spent his entire childhood on the beach or in the water, and after he’d been adopted by Bruce, the ratio shifted to more time spent in the water and less time on land.  He had to be a good swimmer to keep up with Dick and Bruce, and both of them had joked that he had seawater in his veins.

Right now, he definitely felt like he had seawater in his veins.  And his stomach.  And his lungs.

Tim was a good swimmer, but unfortunately, he was only human.

He didn’t know if it was lingering panic, hyperawareness—thrice Tim thought he saw the flash of scales in the sun, freezing in sudden terror only to realize it was just the sunrise reflecting off the waves—or exhaustion, but he had to stop every so often to gulp in deep breaths, treading water slower and slower as he took a break.

He didn’t know how long he’d been swimming—the sun was higher in the sky, the clouds were closer, and he could finally spot the dark smudge that signified land.  The rock he’d slept on had vanished from sight—the waves were getting choppier, tugging at him, making it more and more difficult to swim.

“Bruce!” Tim called out again, but his voice was too hoarse to yell, “Dick!”

No response.

Tim suppressed the hitched breath—crying wouldn’t help anyone now—and kicked out with aching legs, pushing forward in slow strokes.  He managed three kicks before his right calf clenched, and Tim was forced to a sudden halt, gritting his teeth as his calf muscle spasmed.

Cramps.  Exactly what he needed.

Treading with one leg was more similar to flailing than Tim liked to admit, and he was wrung out by the time his leg finally uncurled.  He kicked out slowly, like his legs were moving through molasses, just enough to keep his head above water as he stared up at the darkening sky.

His toes had started cramping a minute ago.  He didn’t even bother trying to force them to relax.

Tim closed his eyes for a moment, before he resumed swimming.  His freestyle had turned jerky—jagged movements forward followed by a period of sinking stillness as Tim tried to force his muscles to cooperate.

He was exhausted.  He could barely keep his nose above water, and he coughed as he accidentally inhaled seawater.  The rocking motion of the waves was beginning to feel soothing—like if he just let go, just drifted, just slept—

No.  He needed to keep swimming.  He couldn’t do that to Dick or Bruce.  He had to keep fighting.

Tim pushed forward, forcing his legs to keep kicking—just a little bit further—okay, that was a lie, it was a lot further, but if Tim could pretend that the beach was right there, so close, he just needed a few more strokes—

Shooting pain stabbed up his left calf again, and Tim cursed, flailing as he tried to stretch the muscle out underwater.  He attempted to keep treading water, but his right calf spasmed at the odd angle, and Tim choked back a cry as both his legs cramped up.

He kept his arms moving in frantic circles, tilting his head back so his nose was above water.  He just needed to wait for the cramps to stop, just needed to hold on a little bit longer, just—

He was slipping underwater, millimeter by millimeter, and he took one last desperate breath before a wave brushed over his face.

He hadn’t been underwater for five seconds before hands closed around his waist and pulled him up.

Tim broke the surface and stared, stunned, at bright green eyes.

Oh shit.

There were several thoughts swirling through Tim’s head—how had the mer found him?  Had he been following him?  Why had he pulled Tim up instead of yanking him further down?  What was the point of all this?—but the one overriding one was how fucked he was.

He was exhausted.  He could barely keep his eyes open—if Red had given it another five minutes, Tim would’ve drowned all on his own, but the jolt of adrenaline kept him aware and alert for whatever Red had planned.

Red wanted him dead.  And he wasn’t going to make it quick.  And Tim—Tim had tried so hard to get back home, and the mer had been toying with him this whole time, and Tim was never going to go back and he couldn’t even fight and he was helpless and he couldn’t stop the tears even if he tried.

Breaths were replaced by large, hiccupped gasps as Tim shook, tears curving through the salt water, hot and thick, and he couldn’t inhale without dissolving into hitched sobs.

“Stop crying,” Red growled.

Tim shuddered harder, bringing his hands up to cover his face because he didn’t have the energy to stop crying, he didn’t have the energy for anything, he didn’t have the energy to fight off Red and he didn’t have the energy to stop the curl of horror and terror and dread and exhaustion and misery, beating in tandem with his heart as it spread through his limbs.

He was shivering violently—Red’s grasp tightened, sharp claws digging painfully into his hip bones, and Tim gasped wetly, pressing his hands against his face like if he didn’t see it, then it wasn’t happening.

He was going to die.  It was going to be painful.  And there was nothing he could do about it.

He couldn’t stop crying.  He couldn’t stop shivering.  He tried to tell himself to calm down, he needed every breath he could get, Red would start drowning him any minute—but what did it matter, anyway?  He’d be choking soon enough.

“Stop crying,” Red snarled again, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Tim’s next breath ended on a slightly hysterical wheeze.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Red repeated, sounding like he was two seconds away from ripping out Tim’s throat with his teeth.

“T—then l—let go.”

Surprisingly, Red let go.

Tim snapped his eyes open in shock, too startled to keep crying—Red was indeed gone, no trace of red scales in the now-gray waters.  This was definitely a trick, but Tim didn’t have any other choice.

He tried to swim forward, but his limbs had turned to jelly, and the sobbing had only compounded his exhaustion.  He felt like a limp tissue, with the structural integrity to match.  He forced himself forward, but his next stroke didn’t push him up above the water and he was slowly sinking again.

Hands settled on his waist as his lungs started burning, and Tim broke the surface with a gasp, keenly aware that his continued ability to breathe depended solely on Red’s goodwill.

He clutched Red’s shoulders, like that would deter the mer from letting go again.

“If I let go,” Red said flatly, “You’re going to drown.”

“Y—you almost s—sound like y—you care,” Tim said through shivering, hitched breaths.

“I don’t want you to die,” Red scowled.  Tim was far too close to razor-sharp teeth for his peace of mind.

“Could’ve f—fooled me,” Tim muttered anyway, because self-preservation instincts had been sacrificed somewhere along the way of his journey.

“I don’t,” Red snapped, baring his teeth again.

Tim thought about jerking back, but he was too tired.  Too tired to even come up with a rejoinder as he stared blankly at Red.

“I wasn’t trying to kill you,” Red glared, green eyes flickering, “I was—I was just trying to scare you.”

“M—mission acc—accomplished.”  He was shivering so hard his teeth were chattering.

He squeezed his eyes shut—he didn’t want to look at Red, and he didn’t believe the whole ‘don’t want you to die’ thing, but if Red wasn’t going to start torturing him right now, Tim was going to enjoy the last few moments of peace he had left.

“I—I really was just trying to scare you,” Red said, quieter.  Tim squinted at him—Red was looking somewhere over his shoulder, avoiding his gaze.  “I didn’t meant to—” His gaze sharpened on Tim’s throat, and Tim shuddered with the instinctive urge to curl up.

Red exhaled slowly, and looked away again.  “…I’m sorry,” he said.

“What?”

Red snapped his gaze to him, and Tim froze as glowing green eyes fixed on his face, going perfectly still in some screwed-up instinct to play possum.

“I’m sorry,” Red repeated, sounding remarkably sincere for someone who’d spent the previous afternoon slowly drowning him.

“I—I don’t understand,” Tim said hoarsely, because it didn’t make any sense, “Why did you attack me?  I don’t—I don’t remember meeting you, and I’m sorry, whatever I did to you, I—”

“It wasn’t you,” Red cut him off, glowering again, “Well.  Not entirely you, anyway.”

“…What?”

“Bruce,” Red growled, “I wanted to—it was just supposed to scare you and remind him that—it—it’s a long story, okay.”

Tim thought that, as the person who’d suffered the consequences, he was owed that story, but pissing off the person flip-flopping between drowning him and saving him was probably not a good idea.  “Okay,” he agreed.

Raindrops began falling, a low drizzle swiftly turning into a downpour, and Tim looked up to squint at the dark, heavy clouds.

“You should get back to land,” Red murmured, looking at the clouds as well, “It’s going to be a bad storm.”

Tim almost started crying again, laughter on the edge of hysterical, because what did the mer think he was trying to do?  “I can’t swim anymore,” he admitted—if Red let go, Tim was going to sink like a stone.

Red eyed the shoreline in the distance, and turned back to him.  “I can get you closer,” he offered.

Tim stared at him.  At the way it was phrased like an offer when Tim was shaking, exhausted, and clinging to the mer because he was the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Please,” Tim said, wishing he could shove the manners so far that the mer would choke on it.  What was he going to do if he said no?  Tim was entirely at his mercy, so this was just another game, albeit one Tim was too exhausted to follow.

Red didn’t wait for any further begging, though, and Tim blearily tried to keep his eyes open as they were suddenly moving much faster than Tim had been swimming, helped by Red’s massive tail.  It was an awkward angle, because Red was still trying to keep Tim’s head above water, but Tim let the dread uncoil, piece by piece, too exhausted to keep up the vigilance.

At this point, Tim didn’t care if Red did drown him, he just wanted some sleep.

Unfortunately, the storm was almost upon them—the waves were getting choppier, and Tim squinted his eyes open the third time he accidentally swallowed seawater because a wave slapped him in the face.

“Sorry,” Red said, making a face at the roiling waves around them, “It’s just—I can go faster, but I can’t do it like this.”  He aimed a speculative glance at Tim, “How long can you hold your breath?”

Tim did not like the sound of that question.

“A minute?” Tim guessed, feeling dread curl into his stomach again.

“Okay,” the mer nodded, and shifted so that Tim was on his back, arms wound loosely around the mer’s neck.  Clawed hands held his wrists in place.  “If you struggle, you’ll burn up oxygen faster.  You need to trust me.”

I don’t trust you, Tim wanted to say, but they were underwater before he could open his mouth.

Panic slammed back into him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, interlacing his fingers as he pressed against Red’s back, frantically counting in his head—Red was right, though, they could move much faster like this, and they were unhindered by the rough waves.

Tim reached a panicked count of fifty, his lungs squeezing painfully, before Red broke the surface.  Tim took deep gulps of air, shuddering, and raindrops mixed with the salt on his lips as he waited for the burning in his lungs to subside.

Tim warily unwound before Red sank back down again.

This time, it ticked past fifty—fifty-one, fifty-two—his lungs felt like they were going to burst—fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five—it felt like he was being squeezed through a trash compactor, pressure on all sides—fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty—

Sixty-one.

No.

Sixty-two.

Please.

Sixty-three.

His chest felt like it had been doused in acid.

Sixty-f—

Air.  Sweet, sweet, glorious air, and Tim was gasping and shaking and trying to inhale and exhale at the same time.  Red sounded slightly panicked, and Tim realized he was clinging to the mer like a koala as he shuddered.

The mer made low, soothing sounds, patting Tim’s arms, and exhaustion won out over adrenaline—he dropped his head on Red’s shoulder, still sucking in desperate breaths.

“We’re almost there,” Red said softly, “Just a little bit further.”

Tim didn’t even try to raise his head and see if he was right.

He just took in a deep breath as the mer started sinking again.

This time, Tim got to forty-two before they were rising again, and he took deep breaths, still slumped against Red’s back.  He didn’t have the energy to lift his head.  He didn’t have the energy for everything.

“We’re here,” Red said, untangling his arms and twisting around—Tim slipped down with the loss of support and Red made a surprised sound before grabbing his arms.  “We’re here,” the mer repeated, and Tim managed to twist his head enough to see the wooden pier next to him.

Land.  Home.  Tim reached out a hand, but he could barely manage to grab the edge of the pier, much less pull himself up.

Red sighed, and the hold moved to Tim’s waist as he effortlessly heaved Tim out of the water.  Tim coughed and shivered, fumbling as he got his knees braced against the wood and crawled forward.

He had to stand up.  He had to walk up the pier and onto solid land, and up the path to the house in the distance, where the lights were shining brightly.

Tim shifted to the balls of his feet, and his legs answered with the structural integrity of an overcooked noodle.

Okay, he would crawl up the pier and onto solid land, and make his way up, step by step, and hope that Dick and Bruce had actually noticed him missing and—

His arms wavered, and crumpled, sending him collapsing into a heap on the wooden slats.

Or, he could stay right here.  This wasn’t land, not entirely, but the wood was solid under his cheek and the waves only brushed the underside of the planks, and this was fine, someone would find him eventually.

“Replacement?” Red said.  It was accompanied by a light tug on his right ankle.

Tim couldn’t hide the muffled sob.  If Red dragged him off the pier now—if this whole thing was some sick game of dangling escape in his reach, allowing him to take it, and then tearing it out of his hands, then Tim would break.

He didn’t have the energy for games, but apparently he still had the capacity for tears.

Red made a sharp, frustrated sound, accompanied by a low curse, but there were no further tugs on his ankle.  Instead, Tim could see red scales flashing beneath the wooden slats, heading closer to shore and Tim managed to crinkle his forehead in a frown.  What was he trying to do, break the pier off?

A loud, mournful sound echoed across the water, swelling with the raging wind to carry across the ocean and along the shore.

In the house at the top of the path, the door banged open.

Tim had heard that sound before.  Many times, as a child.  There was a conch shell tied to the underside of the pier—a sound that would summon Bruce down to the water.

Someone was shouting in the distance.  Red scales flashed back the way they’d come.

Tim hadn’t heard that sound in four years.  Dick had no need of it, when he could just walk out of the water.  Tim didn’t even know exactly where it was.  The shell had been for a different child, a mer child, who couldn’t leave the water on his own.

Tim struggled up onto an elbow, watching the swift-moving wake as the tail flashed.  “Wait!” he rasped, straining to spot red amidst the dark grey waves.  “Wait!”  He swallowed, and said hoarsely, half a question, half a deduction, “Jason?”

Green eyes latched onto him, sudden and vivid and wide.

Pounding footsteps rumbled the wooden slats underneath him.  Tim blinked, and the green eyes were gone.

“Tim!” Dick shouted, sprinting down the pier, nearly tripping as he threw himself into a crouch next to Tim, “Oh, thank god, we’ve been searching for you since yesterday, and then the storm picked up—” He was tugging Tim up as he spoke, an arm curling below his knees so he could carry him, and another set of footsteps vibrated down the pier, stuttering and uneven. “—little fry, we were so worried—you terrified us—what happened?”

Tim—Tim couldn’t think, he was exhausted—the conch shell, Jason—he’d called him Replacement—he was angry at Bruce—

“Long story,” Tim murmured, twisting further in Dick’s embrace so he could rest his head over his brother’s heart and listen to the comforting beat as silent tears spilled into his shirt.  Home.  Family.  He’d made it back.

“We’ll get you warmed up and dried off,” Dick promised, heading back up to the house, and they passed Bruce, who was staring out at the roiling waves with a haunted expression on his face.

“Bruce,” Dick said softly, and then again, louder, “Bruce.”

Bruce jerked, like Dick had hit him, and shakily made his way back to them.  “Tim,” he said hoarsely, and Tim had a feeling that the water on his face wasn’t just rain.  “You’re okay,” he murmured, gently brushing Tim’s cheek.

“You’re okay,” he repeated, but this time he looked to the sea.

Chapter Text

He couldn’t believe he was so stupid.

Everyone knew better than to swim too close to shore in a storm.  No matter what kind of sea creature you were, the waves would slam you against unforgiving rock without a second thought.  Go far and go deep, those were the rules in a storm, and Jason had learned them at a young age.

And yet.

He’d planned to leave.  He left the Replacement on dry land—well, it wasn’t land, and only moderately dry, but the point was that the kid wasn’t going to drown.  He turned to leave, only to be stopped by a name that the kid shouldn’t have known.

Surprised blue eyes, staring at him, and Jason was too stunned to swim away.  He sank below the churning waves, but only enough to hide his scales as two figures dashed to the pier—one lanky, the other broad.  He watched as Dick picked Tim up, as Bruce stared at the water, and a tiny part of him urged him to go forward, to break the waves, to let them see—

But he didn’t.  And he also didn’t swim away, which was the problem.

The waves were too high, the ocean floor too shallow—Jason tried to swim parallel instead of breaking through the peaks, aiming for the narrow ravine that opened up next to a field of rocks.  Unfortunately, he miscalculated.  He was too big for the ravine, his tail snagged in the rocks, and the next wave sent him crashing straight against stone.

Jason felt something crack inside his chest, a starburst of agony.  The next wave slammed it home, and Jason lost what little grip he had.

The current jerked him forward, jagged rocks catching the edges of scales and tearing, and Jason’s cry was lost in the winds and churning sea.

He could taste the blood in the water, the burning agony jolting through his senses for the one precious second he had before the next wave came along, dragging him over the rocks and slapping him against rough stone.  He wasn’t fast enough to cushion his fall, and his head cracked painfully against the rock, darkness swirling at the edges of his vision.

No, Jason had enough time to think, enough time to fear, before the next wave came and dragged that clarity from him.  The next one stole his breath as it slammed his ribs against stone.  The third one merely overpowered him, forcing him down into the darkness as salt burned in his wounds.

The sky was blue, not a speck of a cloud to be seen.  Jason stared at it, at the endless, fathomless expanse—the ocean was deep and dark, but never empty, never so pure, and Jason imagined what it would be like to swim in a sea that never changed.

A fierce shudder wracked his frame, and he bit down on the shout as the movement jostled his wounds.

The tide had gone out, leaving the jagged rocks bare and sea-slick.  Jason could see glimmers of drying blood on several, could smell the sharp iron tang contrasting with the rotting salt.  He didn’t dare look at what mangled mess remained of his tail—he’d seen it butchered once already, he had no desire to see it again.

Pain throbbed insistently, going from stinging, aching cuts along his tail to the pulsing agony of a chest full of broken ribs.  Cuts littered his skin, and his palms were shredded from their instinctive attempt to hold onto something as the waves battered him against the rocks.  His head ached fiercely, a dull throb like a spike through his right eye, and Jason didn’t attempt to move it.

He stared at the sky and took shallow breaths and felt his eyes prickle.  At least no one was around to observe his weakness and capture him and tear the rest of his scales out.

Yet, a charming part of his mind reminded him, yet.

Someone would be by soon enough—this stretch of shore was all Wayne territory, but it wasn’t the villa’s private beach.  Human would be here soon, no doubt cleaning up after the storm washed half the ocean ashore.

Someone would find him.  A beached, injured mer, too wounded to fight.  No pack to protect him.  Just as alone as he was in another ocean, another life, hunting for a mother who drew him close and smiled and abandoned him to poachers.  Abandoned him to that monster.

Jason could hear laugher, faint and echoing and malicious, and he stared up at the sky and wished to swim in its empty waters.

The tide finally came back in as the sun grew sweltering hot, warming the rocks underneath him and sinking lethargy deeper into his muscles as he panted.  The cold water coiling around the rocks beneath him were a balmy touch against his overheated skin, and Jason ignored the pounding headache to shift his face enough to press it to the water.

He had to get out of here.  His wounds were painful but not deadly—but being staked out in the sun would kill him in a day, dehydration and heat sickness combining to wring him dry.  He couldn’t afford to wait for another storm to wash him free.

Jason shifted, and bit back the groan as wounds flared into fresh prominence.  The water level was about three inches above the tallest rocks, this was the best chance he was going to get.

He waited for a wave to swell up, and squirmed down another inch, gasping as the rocks dragged painfully against his scales.  He just needed to make it past the rocks.  Then he could go lick his wounds in peace.

Come on, he mentally prayed, clenching fingers around stone to ease down another inch, and strangling the scream as he slipped from one rock to the next.

He couldn’t take deep breaths, ribs pressing painfully against his chest, and the stinging cuts drew tears to his eyes.  He had to get out.  Had to.  He—he couldn’t go through dying again, couldn’t go through the screaming agony of poachers gutting him alive—

Jason slid a few inches more than he’d planned, startled by a low, fierce barking cry.  The agony swelled, and Jason took a few harsh gasps before he turned in the direction of the shout.

His heart instantly dropped—two seals were making their way towards him, flippers slapping the water as they approached.  One was dark, black with gray shadows.  The other was mostly black, aside from some bright splotches of blue.

Both of them looked angry.

Jason had never been good at understanding selkie barks, but the body language and cadence was unmistakable.  And also entirely what he expected, given that he’d done his level best to drown the Replacement the day before yesterday, before he realized he was actually killing the kid and broke off.

Selkies were territorial—not as overprotective as mers, but a rogue mer in their territory, threatening their pack, would be enough to set off all their aggression.  Jason hurriedly tried to slide away, scrabbling against stone as he attempted to get back to open ocean—torn or not, his tail was more powerful than flippers, if he could just reach the water—

The dark shape reached him first, sprawling across his chest—the heavy weight shifted his broken ribs into fresh agony, and Jason didn’t even have the breath to scream as the air was punched out of him.  He barely registered the second selkie trapping his tail, struggling to breathe under the crushing weight—trapping him, forcing him down, and they would start gouging his tail any second now, ripping off scale after scales as they laughed and laughed and laughed.

He couldn’t breathe.  Something shifted in his chest as he kept struggling, and a sharp burst of pain exploded—dark spots gathered across his vision, swirling around as furious barks turned confused and worried and—

“Jason?” someone called, someone familiar, and he wanted to answer, he did, but he was gasping for breath and there was blood on his tongue and he was choking.

“—shit—lungs—need to get him—hospital—your coat—quickly—”

He dimly registered that the weight pressing down on him was gone, barks replaced by frantic human voices—someone was tugging him up, bracing him against a hard chest—his arms were being eased through cloth, black and dark gray, and someone pulled the coat snug around him—

He felt lighter.  Smaller.  His tail was gone, and he didn’t know where it went, and something ached in the lower half of his body, trembling and weak, and someone’s arms were around him, one under his shoulder blades and the other under his not-tail and picking him up, more easily than expected.

Colors kept swirling around him, and he thought he recognized a familiar face, but he kept choking until something speared through him, and he could finally breathe but the darkness swallowed him whole.

Swimming back to consciousness felt like lying on the beach at half-tide, feeling the waves tug you back to the ocean but the sand gripping just tight enough to only let you slide an inch.

Voices faded in and out—someone shouting, a loud conversation that didn’t sound like an argument—whispers of his name, almost reverent, as fingers stroked his hair.  Cold, then warmth, something soft beneath him, and the sound of crashing waves, distant but near.  Fingers interlaced between his, running down his jaw, brushing bangs out of his forehead.

Food and water carefully held to his mouth, when he was lucid enough to swallow.  Wrappings across his chest to contain the sharp throbbing, and cool, stinging salve gently smeared across his cuts.  A warm jacket around his shoulders, the scent familiar and achingly painful.

Jason blinked his eyes open to the filtered warmth of the afternoon sun.  A sea breeze drifted through the window, coolly contrasting the heat, and Jason shifted, feeling the silky sheets slide against his skin.  Not water.

He remembered being twelve and fascinated, running his fingers over cloth that felt like water and marveling at it.  He tried to twist—his spine was aching from laying prone for so long—and froze when his tail didn’t move as expected.

Not a tail.  There was…two of them, moving slightly out of sync, and Jason moved his new appendages, testing them, testing the feel of silk across the little protrusions—toes.  Toes, and feet, and legs.

He raised a shoulder enough to make out the familiar black-and-grey pattern of the coat he was wearing, and let out a sound somewhere between an exhale and a groan.

He twisted the other direction, and blinked at the kid sitting next to his bed, staring down at him.  The mattress was on the floor—Jason had never liked heights, even on two legs—and Jason was left staring up, acutely aware of how drastically the dynamics of power had changed.

“Replacement,” Jason greeted.

The kid’s eyes narrowed.  “It’s Tim, actually,” he said.

“Tim,” Jason corrected.  He was exhausted and hurt and being on land had never failed to give him the sensation of trapped, even with legs.  And the kid was perfectly justified in holding a grudge for the drowning and the cuts and the taunting—and the sickness, it seemed, because the kid’s nose was red and he was swaddled in three blankets while the day was warm enough for Jason’s single sheet to feel uncomfortable.

The kid’s eyes narrowed further.  He sniffled, and a hand appeared from the blanket mound to blow his nose.  It was loud and hacking, and the kid was definitely glaring at the end of it.

“I got pneumonia,” the kid informed him, “So thank you for that.”

Going on muddled context and the kid’s less-than-pleasant tone, Jason was going to slot pneumonia in the not-good column.  The blankets shifted, and Jason got a clear glimpse of the bandages around the kid’s neck—he winced at the memory.

Panic so close he could taste it, delighting in the scent of terror, in putting the human in its place, because if he wanted to swim with the fish, then Jason would happily oblige—

“I’m sorry,” Jason croaked out.  Tim looked slightly taken aback.  “I didn’t mean to—” no, he certainly had—“I wasn’t planning on—” he didn’t think that would cut it—“I’m sorry for hurting you.  I shouldn’t have done it.  I won’t do it again.”

Tim looked startled now.  “Jason,” he said slowly.

“Yes?”

“You’re…alive,” Tim frowned, “Bruce and Dick were pretty convinced that you were dead.  What happened?”

Jason didn’t like talking about it.  About feeling the scales ripped out of his tail, piece by piece, as he screamed and screamed and a monster laughed and jeered.  About being held down through the agony of being flayed alive, of being gutted for parts before even being killed, about being tossed overboard like he was just stray trash.

About sinking, deeper and deeper and deeper, and not knowing if he passed out—if he died—before or after he hit the dark depths of the ocean floor.

About waking up, dazed and half-conscious, and so far from home—but not from creatures that could recognize him, and diving into the acidic, bubbling green pits that the al Ghuls claimed as theirs.

About coming back—coming home—and realizing that he wasn’t missed, wasn’t mourned, had just been cast aside like flotsam—and by a better model, one that could walk on land, one that wasn’t tied to sea, one that could keep up with Bruce and Dick in the other parts of their lives.

About hating, and seething green with it, with the curse that had long been woven into the pits because there was always a price to pay with magic.

Jason had hoped that the green pits would restore his scales—the colors that he’d been so proud of, flashy and daring and beautiful under the water-dappled sun—and had been sorely disappointed.

A waste of magic.  And a curse he would forever carry—amplified to heighten his instincts, the typical mer drive to protect pack and ruthlessly eviscerate any threat to it.

But the kid wasn’t a threat to pack.  The kid…was just a kid.  The kid was pack.

“I did die,” he said hoarsely, staring up at the ceiling, “There was so much blood.  There was no way I could’ve survived.  But I woke up.  I—I don’t know when, I—it’s fuzzy, my injuries had only half-healed, I was nearly trapped in my own mind from the pain—but someone found me, and led me to the Lazarus Pits.”

Tim had clenched his hands into fists.  “Ra’s,” he spat, the vitriol sounding personal.

Jason didn’t ask what Ra’s al Ghul had done to him.  The djinn were cruel by nature—their wishes poison, their words a trap.

“Then I swam back,” Jason slumped further into the bed, his eyes falling shut, “And you know the rest.”

The kid didn’t leave.  He merely continued to stare at Jason.  “You called me replacement,” Tim said slowly, “Replacement for who?”

Jason cracked open one eye.  Why were humans so dumb?

“Jason, I could never replace you—you—Bruce lost it when he realized you were dead.  He spent weeks searching the ocean for any sign of you.  Dick had to finally drag him back home.”

Jason stared at the kid—he thought Bruce had left the moment he’d found Sheila, heading back to his own territory, his obligation fulfilled.  He hadn’t realized that Bruce had stayed.  That Bruce had searched, abandoning his territory—Wayne territory for generations—to find Jason.

“I didn’t—”

“You’re his son.  You’re their pack,” Tim said softly, “And you thought a human could replace you?”

Jason blinked at him.  “You have legs,” he pointed out, “You can follow them on land and water.”

Tim raised an eyebrow, “Funny, because you seem to have legs too.”

“Selkie magic,” Jason said quietly, “It’s their coats.  I can’t—do you know how much a selkie’s coat means to them?  And every time I wanted to step foot on land, Bruce or Dick had to hand me a piece of their soul and give me the ultimate power over them.  For what?  The little not-orphan mer desperate enough to steal from selkie territory and too stupid to not get caught in their nets?”

“For pack, Little Flip,” Dick said softly from the doorway, “For pack, you endearing, idiotic little shit, we may not be mers but that doesn’t mean we don’t love our pack.  That we don’t love you.  That we wouldn’t trust you with our souls.”  His stern gaze drifted beyond Jason, “And that goes for you too, little fry.”

Tim made a startled squeak, his whole face turning a brilliant red.

“Speaking of which, you should be in bed,” Dick said sternly, walking over and scooping up Tim, blankets and all.  He turned to give Jason a half-smile, “Get some rest, Little Flip.  I’ll be back once I tuck the kiddo in.”

Jason sank back into the bed, the exertion of carrying a conversation slowly dragging his eyes closed as he swallowed against his dry, hoarse throat.

He should’ve been planning on how to get back to the water.  How to leave.  He knew exactly how territorial Bruce was, he knew that the control issues were the reason Dick had left in the first place, and he knew Bruce’s opinion on harming humans.

The last time Bruce thought he hurt a human…the consequences hadn’t been pleasant.

But he was wearing Bruce’s coat.  He was safe.  He was tired and his wounds were throbbing and he just wanted to sleep.

He was home.

Jason did not like being carried.  Dick laughed at his grumbling, holding him easily as they walked through the villa.  “Your legs aren’t strong enough to walk, Little Flip,” he hummed as they went down the stairs, “Don’t worry, you’ll get to swim soon enough.”

“Swim?” Jason asked, perking up.  A full week of being trapped on his bed, forced to crawl whenever he wanted something, made him extremely eager to get back to the water, to whipping his powerful tail and swimming with ease.  His cuts were healing nicely, and his broken bones still ached, but he felt much better than he had at the beginning

“Swimming,” Dick confirmed, smiling as he carried Jason to the large indoor pool.  Tim was sitting on the edge, no longer wan, watching Jason cautiously as Dick set him down on the other end of the pool.  Bruce was kneeling next to Tim, watching Jason with a soft expression.  “Your wounds are healing in your human form, but we need to make sure they’re healing properly.”  He lightly tugged at Bruce’s coat, and Jason reluctantly surrendered it.

The selkie magic had transformed his tail into legs, wearing the pants he always had in this form—vivid red, with threads of green and gold weaved into the light fabric, detailing a beautiful, swirling design.  Jason had hoped—futilely, he knew, but dreams never made sense—that the magic was more than surface deep, that it could give him back the colors that the poachers stole and the Lazarus Pits hadn’t managed to restore.

But it hadn’t.  The moment Jason tugged the coat off, his legs transformed back into his long, gleaming tail—the color of blood, of violence, of rage.  No designs, no shimmering gold and green design, nothing but stark red.

“Your tail,” Dick murmured, his forehead drawing into a frown, “It changed colors—”

Jason slipped into the water before Dick could realize that it had not, in fact, changed colors.  He didn’t want anyone getting too close—close enough to see exactly what that monster had done to him, close enough to see the scarred ruin that had been left behind, close enough to touch to tear to hurt—

Unfortunately, Dick slipped into the water after him, leaving his coat behind and striking out as human.  Jason snapped his teeth and twisted away from him, but Bruce was suddenly in the water, blocking the other side, and Jason had inadvertently backed himself into a corner.

“Jason, Jason, calm down,” Dick said, eyes wide with concern.  Jason distantly noted that his lashing tail was causing the surface to break out in waves.  “We need to check your injuries, just to make sure everything is healing properly.”  He held out a jar of sour-smelling sticky paste, a salve that Jason recognized.

Dick took Jason’s stillness as encouragement and slowly swam closer.  “We’re just going to recheck your wounds, and then get all the wounds on your tail that may have not transferred to your legs—”

Jason cut Dick off with a hiss, and Dick’s eyes darkened in instinctual response to the challenge—Jason darted to the side, because no one was touching his tail, he wasn’t going to let them, no—

“Jason,” Bruce said quietly, and Jason froze.  “Jason, we’re trying to help.  Your wounds need to heal properly, or they’ll get infected.  Do you understand?”

“No,” Jason shook his head frantically, trying to edge away from Bruce, “No—I don’t want—”

“Little Flip,” Dick said slowly, “You’re hurt.  Let us help, please.”

No—they won’t hurt you, his mind tried to rationalize, pack won’t hurt you—his mother had handed him over to poachers without so much as a sorry—he’d attacked a pack member in selkie territory, and no one had discussed his punishment yet, but the more he protested—

His heart hammered against aching ribs as his gaze flitted between Bruce and Dick—both worried, both implacable.  He was an adult mer, his tail was stronger—but the pool was small, and if Dick and Bruce shifted into seal form, they could pin him easily.

Jason imagined being held down, being forced still as they dressed his wounds, and the thought caused an instant surge of terror.

“Please,” Jason tried one last time, “Please don’t.”

“Jason, you’re injured,” Bruce said firmly, “We need to treat your wounds.”

The edge of the pool was pressing against his back, and there was nowhere to go.  Jason wished he’d held onto the coat, wished he could order Bruce to stop, but it was too late now.

He sank below the surface before they could see his tears, and swam for the other end of the pool—they were right, Jason could feel painful, pulling movements as his tail propelled him through the water—and crashed into another set of legs at the edge of the pool.

“Jason!” Dick and Bruce shouted in unison, but he ignored them—he needed something to hold onto, he was already shaking, he needed pack, he needed safety and he needed someone his instincts wouldn’t categorize as a threat.

The slightly hysterical part of his mind pointed out that humans were the ones that had done this to him in the first place, but Jason buried his face further against tense thighs and clasped calves as tightly as he dared as he shuddered.

“Jason—what are you doing—”

“It’s okay,” Tim said, the vibrations running through him.  Jason was crying, he knew it, he was soaking the dry pants as he tried to strangle the sobs and not claw fragile human skin.  “It’s okay, he’s not hurting me.”

“Little Flip, what’s wrong?”

Jason shook harder as a broad hand landed on his tail, and resisted the urge to tear it off.

“He’s scared,” Tim said softly.

“Scared?” Dick repeated, confused, “Scared of what—”

“Dick,” came Bruce’s low tone, “He’s bleeding.  Give me the salve.”

Jason could taste the iron in the water, he must’ve torn something when he swam away.  He could feel the fingers on his tail—gouging, tearing, a sharp metal tool with a hook wedging under each scale and ripping—feel the paste spread against his skin, against his scales— ruined, ruined forever, and he would never get his scales back—feel those fingers still when they reached the edge of scar tissue.

“What happened to your tail?” Dick gasped in horror.

Mer scales were beautiful.  Shimmering and shiny and hard, they were prized as jewels among humans.  Similar to selkie coats, poachers hunted down mers and killed them and stripped their tails to sell their scales to unscrupulous buyers.

But Jason hadn’t been dead when a laughing monster tore out every green and gold scale he had, leaving him with nothing but red.  Red as blood, to remind him of exactly what had happened.

Angry red scar tissue blended easily with gleaming red scales if no one looked too closely.  If no one touched, feeling the exact boundaries where smooth scale shifted to rough scar.  If no one ran fingers down his tail and felt them catch at every empty patch.

“Jason,” Dick murmured, almost a whimper as he traced the edges of the scar tissue, “Little Flip—who—”

Hands settled tentatively on his head, slight fingers running through damp locks, and Jason clutched the kid tighter, hiding his face.  He didn’t want to see their expressions—pity and horror and disgust, disappointment that he couldn’t protect himself, disappointment that he hadn’t had the sense to just stay dead.

“Dick,” Bruce said quietly, and Dick made a low, mournful sound—almost a bark—and Jason felt the water shift as he drew closer.  Bruce was still applying the salve, moving in quick, efficient movements to dress the cuts along Jason’s tail.

“Little Flip,” Dick whispered, next to him, a gentle hand on his back.  Jason was aware that clutching the kid’s legs any tighter would lead to breaking something, but he was still trembling and he didn’t know how to stop.  “Jason.  Please look at me.”

Jason hesitated, but the truth was already out, they’d seen his tail—he’d been so proud of it once, grinning as Dick complimented him on the vibrant colors and Bruce told him it was stunning and eye-catching and he’d preened underneath the waves as he flashed his tail in the sunlight—and he’d have to get this over with sooner or later.

At least Bruce was still rubbing the salve in, he could go back to the ocean more or less healed—vital to a mer without a pack, with instincts heightened to be more aggressive.  Jason raised his head, his vision blurry, but he couldn’t make out Dick’s face before he was being squeezed into a hug.

“I’m sorry, Little Flip,” Dick murmured, pressing kisses to his forehead, “I’m sorry for not being there, I’m sorry we didn’t find you, I’m so so sorry—” his voice was cracking, and Jason slowly untangled one of his arms to grab one of Dick’s shoulders.  “Little Flip, little brother, pack, I am so sorry we couldn’t protect you, and I will never ever let that happen again.”

Jason didn’t realize that he was sobbing until he choked trying to force words past the lump in his throat.  “‘S ruined,” he said, his voice breaking, “My tail, it’s ruined—”

“No,” Dick said fiercely, pressing his hands to either side of Jason’s face and staring at him, “No, Jason, you are not ruined.  You are alive, and that is a miracle that I thank Poseidon for.  You are here, and you are home, and you are my precious little brother, and the color of your tail does not change any of that.”

His heart felt raw and Dick enveloped him in a tight hug as he cried into his collarbone, and the steady hand pressed to the curve of his tail no longer felt like a threat.

Jason idly kicked his legs, feeling the muscles stretch and relax as they moved.  They were slowly working on walking again—Dick and Bruce both got panicked looks when Jason mentioned going back to the ocean, and he’d dropped it for now.  Being tailed by two overprotective selkies would not be fun, and at least in the villa he could get some privacy.

But walking was exhausting, and Jason had peacefully been reading in the library—catching up on his dream of devouring every book on the shelves—when Bruce asked to speak to him.

Theoretically, Jason could’ve told him to fuck off.  He was still wearing Bruce’s coat, though he hadn’t dared give the man an order.  Even when he’d been younger, the coats always felt like a trap—if he said something, if he forced them to do something, they’d yank it away and kick him out of the pack.

He’d stumbled over his words countless times, but Dick and Bruce had never gotten mad at his missteps.  Now he felt like he was twelve again, clutching onto a gossamer dream and keenly aware that one wrong move would snap the fragile threads.

As far as Jason was aware, speaking to him meant actually speaking, but the man had disappeared after Jason said yes.  He was just about to return to his book when Bruce came back into the library, holding a large, intricately carved wooden box.

“This,” Bruce said, his voice low and quiet, “This is yours.”

Jason looked at it skeptically—he hadn’t put anything in a wooden box, wood warped underwater—but took it and settled it on his lap as he flicked open the latches.

For a moment, he didn’t know what he was looking at.  Shards of green and gold glittered, muted shimmers in the sunlight, casting light shadows all around them.  Jason slowly reached in and picked one of them up—smooth and thin and hard, deceptively so for its vibrant beauty.

“Where did you get this?” he asked hoarsely, rubbing the scale between his fingers.

“I searched for you for weeks.  All I could find were the scales, and I picked each one up and packed them all away.”

He’d been captured and tortured for—for what?  They hadn’t even kept the scales?  They’d just thrown them all overboard, like they’d destroyed him just for fun?  Like his scales were worth no more than an evening’s entertainment?

Jason didn’t realize that there were tears slipping down his face until they splattered against the wood, darkening it as he took hitched breaths.

“Jason,” Bruce said softly, “Jay-pup, I’m so sorry.”

“You—you kept them,” Jason stuttered, looking again at the box—the carvings of fins and flippers on the polished wood.  Pack, the box proclaimed, treasure.

“Of course I kept them,” Bruce said, and warm, steady arms enveloped him as he cried, “They’re my son’s.  Of course I kept every single one I found.”

Jason dropped the scales and leaned forward to return the hug, burying his face in Bruce’s shirt as he shook.  His scales.  His green and gold.  He—he couldn’t wear them again, the scales wouldn’t fit back into his tail no matter what magic he tried, not after the Lazarus Pits had healed his ragged wounds, but they were his again.

Jason withdrew once he’d hiccupped his way to slightly calm, running his fingers through the box full of scales.  There were so many of them.  He—he could make something out of them, like the humans did, jewelry or armor.

He picked up a handful of the smooth, slightly curved scales and fit them together, green and gold and green and gold, overlapping them until he managed to hold together a full ring, almost the width of an armband.

He tested it, carefully holding the scales in formation as he eased it past Bruce’s wrist and up near his elbow.

“Jay?” Bruce asked, his forehead scrunching.

“Can we make a band like this?” Jason asked softly, letting the scales fall apart as he lowered his hands and let them spill back into the box.  Could he wear them again?  “One for everyone in the pack?”

Bruce’s eyebrows raised, then softened, looking at him with a small smile.  “Of course, Jay-pup,” he said, “We can make one for everyone to wear.”

Jason stared down at the collection of scales—the scales that the monster had taken from him, the scales that Bruce had so carefully kept, the scales that he got back.

The scales that could tie his pack together.

Chapter Text

Dick tilted his arm, and watched the band glitter in the sunlight, sending green and gold sparkles throughout the room.  Jason was curled up in the window seat, stroking the scales with a reverence that made Dick’s stomach twist, his face unguarded and painfully vulnerable.

Bruce had insisted on crafting the bands himself.  Any jeweler worth their salt would’ve recognized mer scales, and most of them would’ve called the cops.  Neither Bruce nor Jason wanted to reveal his identity and go through all the explanations necessary, not when Bruce could do the work himself.

The scales overlapped, one fitting under the other, so seamless that the rippled design looked natural.  If Dick didn’t already know that the band was made up of mer scales, he’d have a hard time picking it out at a casual glance.

It was beautiful.  It was humbling.  It was a gift—because Jason insisted on presenting each of them a band individually, handing it directly from his hands to theirs—that broke Dick’s heart and healed it anew in one fell stroke.

Every time Dick saw the cuff, he remembered finding Bruce lost in the midst of a dark sea, his flippers covering a small treasure of glittering scales as the seal crooned mournfully into the darkness.

Every time Dick saw the cuff, he remembered that his little brother, the little mer that was so fierce and bright and bold, was alive.  Alive and well and back home again.

Dick crossed the room and wrapped Jason in a spontaneous hug.  Jason squawked, but tolerated the embrace for a few seconds before squirming, and Dick released him.  “What was that for?” Jason grumbled, as though Dick had dumped sand on his head instead of giving him a hug.

Dick didn’t know.  Dick didn’t know how to articulate what he was feeling—watching Bruce look down at his cuff with an aching sadness finally starting to heal, watching Tim check to make sure the band was there every five seconds, like the spells woven into it would’ve made it possible to fall off, watching Jason’s face brighten every time he saw the shimmer of gold and green.  A shimmer he probably thought he’d never see again.

“I—I’m so happy,” Dick said finally, and the words weren’t enough to express the beaming joy inside his heart.

His pack, his home, his family.  All warm and safe and happy.

That was when the doorbell rang.

Bruce hadn’t been expecting company—not today, when they’d planned a small party after Jason had finished handing out the cuffs as a quiet celebration of his return.  There had been no requests to sail in Gotham Bay, and no warnings of anyone or anything breaching the perimeter.

There was certainly no reason for a child to be standing on his doorstep, a scowl on his face and his back ramrod straight.

For a second, Bruce had a flashback to a different child, shifting nervously from foot to foot, and babbling about sea creatures he shouldn’t have heard about, but the illusion was dispelled when the child raised his head and met Bruce with too-vivid green eyes.

Painfully familiar green eyes.

Green eyes, dark skin…and a face Bruce could recognize from old childhood pictures.

“Hello,” his son said, “My name is Damian.”

Bruce’s first thought was how dare she lie to me.  His second thought was I have a son.  His third thought, helped along by Dick clearing his throat pointedly in the foyer, was that he’d spent a minute staring at the child who was still standing on the front step of the villa.

“Damian,” Bruce said, testing the name out, “My name is Bruce Wayne.  Would you like to come inside?”

“I know who you are,” the boy informed him in clipped, curt tones as he stepped onto the property.  And then, the barest hint of hesitation, “Father.”

“Excuse me?”  Bruce turned to see Jason leaning against the wall, expression shocked, and Tim watching with wide eyes.  Dick raised his eyebrows, scanning the child—clearly catching the same features Bruce had—and narrowed them once he settled on the bright green eyes.

The green of the al Ghul pack.  Jason’s were vivid, but it would never reach the luminescent glow of those born to the djinn pack that controlled the Lazarus Pits.

“Mother sent me to join your pack,” Damian said, with the casual unconcern of someone who’d been told they were going on a vacation, and half the confusion and bewilderment swirling around in Bruce’s head was dissolved when Damian presented him with a carefully folded cloth.

A carefully folded coat.

Bruce gently took the coat, and no one in the hallway missed Damian’s sharp inhale as the coat exchanged hands.

It was dark—black where Bruce’s was black, but lined with dark green where his had shades of gray.

Mother sent me to join your pack.

“Damian,” Bruce said slowly, “Why did Talia send you here?”

“She said I should spend some time with my father,” Damian repeated easily—and then his expression twisted, compelled to answer the question, the words rushed, “Grandfather found out that I was not a djinni.  He cast me out of the pack.  Mother said you could protect me—”

Bruce handed the coat back to Damian, cutting off the boy’s words, as something churned in his stomach.

Talia would’ve known her son was a selkie from the moment he was born.  Djinn might get their powers later, but Bruce had no idea what the hell she was thinking—that Damian could be both?  That she could hide it from Ra’s forever?  Poseidon, how had she hidden it for—for—the boy looked like he was eight, and he was holding his coat like he had no idea what to do with it.

Jason looked horrified.  Dick looked like he was restraining himself from bundling Damian into a hug right this second, and while Bruce agreed with the general principle, he was also aware that the young selkie was trembling.

Bruce crouched until he was at eye level with Damian.  With his son.  A son he never knew he had.  A son that was staring at Bruce with no small amount of fear as he clutched his coat.

“I—I apologize,” Damian said stiffly, “I am unaware of the customs of selkie packs, but I can learn—” because of course Talia had never taught him his own heritage—“I—just—I will complete any trial that’s required of me—”

“No trials,” Bruce said, his words almost a growl.  Damian didn’t flinch, but he went perfectly still.  “Damian.  Of course you can stay with me.”

Damian wordlessly proffered the coat to him again, and Bruce gently pushed it back.  “Your coat,” Bruce said softly, “You keep it.”

Damian stared down at the coat, and up to him.  He didn’t put it on, but his fingers clutched the material with a frantic desperation that made Bruce’s heart break.

Bruce turned to his other children—Dick was nearly vibrating in place, his expression spasming between fury and hurt, Jason’s expression had closed off, his eyes flickering, and Tim was watching with wide, upset eyes.

Each of them gave a small nod when he met their gazes, and Bruce turned back to Damian and smiled, “Welcome home.”

Jason absently ran a thumb over the cuff around his upper arm, the ridged surface rippling under his finger.  The ethereal joy of the afternoon had been deflated into surprise and anger and the general feeling of unsettlement.

Not that it was the kid’s fault.

Bruce still looked like he was in a daze, which Jason supposed answered the question did he know.  Dick was hovering solicitously over the young selkie, who was still clutching his coat to his chest like one of them would tear it away.  It made something in Jason’s heart ache.

The only way Talia could’ve concealed that Damian was a selkie was if she’d hidden his coat as soon as he was born.  And judging by the kid’s shock—oh, he was being curt, bordering on rude, but it was difficult to take offense at his blunt statements when he was hugging a small black-and-green coat—he hadn’t known either.  Probably hadn’t known until Ra’s had figured it out, and then Talia had sent him half around the world to a father and a pack he’d never met before.

Tim was flitting around the room, clearly unsure of what to do but frantic to help—he’d brought in several trays of the refreshments that they’d prepared for the evening, and went around topping up everyone’s drinks until Jason grabbed his wrist and forced him to a stop.

Stop freaking out, Jason wanted to say, but he was interrupted by the kid, who was watching Tim in idle fascination.  “Do you have only one servant?” the kid asked, “Surely a residence this big would require more labor than can be provided by a single human.”

Jason raised an eyebrow despite himself.

“Tim is not a servant,” Bruce said gently, “He is my son, and a member of this pack.  We don’t have servants, and we maintain this villa on our own.”  Which wasn’t quite true, but Jason understood why Bruce wasn’t getting into the whole ‘a ghost comes out at night to do the cleaning’ spiel right now—though hopefully he’d get around to it before Damian went wandering around after dark and got the crap scared out of him by a snippy, bodiless British voice.

Damian wrinkled his nose at that—which might’ve been annoying if it didn’t look so funny.  “Grandfather mentioned that you have a human pack member.  Timothy Drake, right?”  Tim jerked himself free of Jason’s grip.  “Grandfather hopes that your wish is serving you well.”

Dick stiffened.  Bruce stilled.  Tim took two stumbling steps away from Jason.

“You went to Ra’s al Ghul for a wish?” Bruce asked levelly.

“No,” Tim denied, but Jason could see his fingers trembling.

“Grandfather was quite certain that—”

“It’s nothing,” Tim cut Damian off, not meeting anyone’s gaze.  Jason felt cold—Tim had made a wish to a djinni.  To, possibly, the most despicable djinni on the planet.  “It—it was a long time ago.”

“Tim, there are ways to break it, if the wish hasn’t been fulfilled—”

“No,” Tim snapped instantly, before taking a shuddering breath, “No, it’s—it’s been fulfilled.  It’s over.”

“Tim,” Dick said slowly, “It’s okay, whatever it is.  You know you can tell us, right?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Okay, you don’t have to—”

“You wished for a pack,” Damian said, effectively silencing the room.  Everyone stared at him.  Tim had gone sheet pale.  “That’s what Grandfather said.  That’s how a human managed to join this pack.”

“Tim,” Bruce started, but Tim was already backing out of the room.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he murmured, before he fled.

Bruce made to go after him, but Dick caught his elbow.  “Give him some space,” Dick said quietly, and then discreetly flicked his gaze in Damian’s direction.

The kid looked startled and unsure.  “I didn’t realize it was a secret,” Damian said, and Bruce moved to reassure him that they weren’t mad at him.  Jason, however, kept watching the door Tim had left through.

Ra’s never did anything without a purpose.  Talia—Jason was fairly confident that Talia sent Damian here to be safe.  And the stronger the pack, the safer he was.  But Ra’s hated Bruce, and probably hated him even more when he learnt that his grandson was a selkie.  His only purpose would be to poison them all.

Tim had wished for a pack.  That wasn’t a malicious wish, or even an unusual one, but Tim had run out of the room like he was expecting someone to start shouting.  Aside from another lecture about how djinn loved to turn wishes into curses, and why you never trusted a deal too good to be true—his tail was proof of that—Jason had no idea why Tim was so scared.  The wish had been years ago, and the curse always befell before the wish was granted, what could possibly have been bad enough to—

Jason eased out of the chair and limped out of the room.  The rest of the villa was silent, and he made his way upstairs, clinging to the railing, until he got to the bedrooms.

Tim’s door was open.  The mess of the room was mostly undisturbed, except for his desk, which had been cleared.

A single, shimmering, green-and-gold cuff sat on the empty surface.

He hadn’t thought about Ra’s in years.

It had been long before he met Bruce, back when he was just a lonely boy with pictures of creatures that everyone pretended didn’t exist, and Tim had gone down a rabbit hole that he really shouldn’t have gone down.

He’d asked the question what else is out there and the world had answered everything.

He’d found a mention of the djinn.  He’d heard the name Ra’s al Ghul.  And when he met the man—the djinni, sipping champagne at a party his parents had taken him to, like he was just an ordinary human—Tim had wished for the deepest, darkest, most secret desire of his heart.

And he hadn’t been answered.  At least, that was what Tim thought at the time.

He’d asked for a family.  And he hadn’t gotten one until eight months later, and by that time, he’d forgotten all about Ra’s and his wish, too concerned with roiling waves and grieving selkies, and he hadn’t given a single thought to that wish until the boy opened his mouth and—

“Grandfather hopes that your wish is serving you well.”

No.  No.  It couldn’t be.  It—it couldn’t be, it couldn’t, because if it was, that meant—that meant that Tim had—that—

He had to undo it.  He had to—he didn’t care what happened to him, he didn’t care about the magical backlash, he didn’t care what he’d need to do to undo a djinni-granted wish, but this was all his fault and he had to fix it.

Ra’s wouldn’t undo it.  And even if he did—even if he could, because djinn were powerful, but not powerful enough to turn back time—Tim knew how they worked.  They’d just break something else, that was how the curse operated, you got your deepest desire at a price you never wanted to pay.

But there were things older than the djinn.  Things more powerful.  Things that weren’t actively malicious, things that Tim could bargain with, things that Tim could outwit.

Human mages.  Witches under the sea.  A multi-limbed monster in the deepest trench in the world.

Tim had options.

But he had to find them quickly.  Before anyone realized what Damian was talking about—what he’d done to them—and while there was still hope.

Tim didn’t want to leave the pack.  He would if he had to, but he didn’t want to, this was his family, this was his home, this was—this was everything he’d asked for, and it had only come at the cost of pain and misery and death.

He’d taken the boat.  Hopefully they’d assume he left on foot—hopefully they wouldn’t come looking for him until the morning, by which time he’d be out of Wayne territory, and if he asked some friendly sea creatures for a ride, he could make it out a lot further, a lot faster.

He would try the witches first.  Their deals came with curses, but the curse would only be on him, and Tim could handle that.  Had to handle that.

The boat was silent as it cut through the waves, the setting sun shining flickers of orange all around him.  The lack of the cuff was a tangible weight on his arm, even though Tim had only had it for a few hours.  He hadn’t wanted to take it off, but—but he didn’t deserve it.  Not when it was his fault—

The boat shuddered on the next stroke, and Tim broke off, hastily twisting around.

Dark hair.  Muted green eyes.  Arms crossed over the bow of the boat, keeping it in place with ease.

Staring at him, expression carefully blank.

“Jason,” Tim croaked out.

“Tim,” Jason replied, tone as blank as his face, “You seem to be in a hurry.  You left without saying goodbye.”

Tim swallowed.  Jason didn’t look confused or surprised.  He didn’t ask why Tim had left.  He didn’t ask him to come back.

“I’m sorry,” Tim whispered, his eyes prickling, “I am so, so sorry, Jason, I—I didn’t mean to—”

“Sorry for what?” Jason asked levelly.

“For my wish,” Tim breathed out.

A stretching moment of silence.

“You wished to have a pack,” Jason said, still expressionless, “What does that have to do with me?”

“It—it’s a djinn wish, they—they always twist it, they always find a way to make it worse, but I swear, Jason, I didn’t know, I didn’t—”

“What.  Does that have.  To do.  With me.”

Tim couldn’t look at him.  He owed it to Jason, he owed him that much, to look him in the face and confess, but he couldn’t, he hid his face in his hands as the tears fell.

“I made the wish two weeks before you died,” Tim whispered to his fingers. 

One week before Jason had left Wayne territory for the last time.  A month before Bruce returned, sunk deep in grief.  Six months before Tim had the courage to knock on his front door.  Eight months before his parents died, and the selkies he was spending his days with brought him into their pack.

Eight months before he got exactly what he wanted—at the cost of torture and death and an ocean of pain.

He’d killed Jason.  He’d killed his parents.  He’d caused so much torment and agony and misery—and for what?  Because he couldn’t stand a little loneliness?

“Look at me,” Jason said flatly, and Tim dragged his gaze up.  The mer would kill him now.  Tim had gotten a firsthand look at exactly how vicious he could be, and Tim deserved every second of it.

Jason’s face was still blank, like it had been carved out of stone.  “So, you’re what?” Jason said, “Running away?”

“No,” Tim said, voice wavering, “No, I—I’ll try to fix it, but I don’t know if it’ll work, if I can, but I’ll try, Jason, I swear, I never meant to do this, I’ll do anything I can to fix it—”

“Fix what?” Jason said, voice still blank.  Tim couldn’t imagine how much effort it took to suppress the rage.  “Turn back time?  Go back to the day you decided to accept a djinni’s offer?  Miraculously remember that djinn wishes are poisoned gifts?”

“I’m sorry,” Tim repeated uselessly, because he’d known, he’d heard the stories, he just foolishly, naively thought that it wouldn’t be that bad.

“Did you know?” Jason asked, reading his mind.

“I did,” Tim said softly, “I knew that djinn weren’t to be trusted, I’d read the warnings, I didn’t—”

“Did you know,” Jason repeated, “What was going to happen?”

Tim gaped at him for a solid few seconds.  “No,” he said, horrified, when he regained his voice, “No, I didn’t—I would never—I swear, Jason, I wouldn’t, there was no way I would—I’m so, so sorry—”

“And if you could go back,” Jason said quietly, “Knowing what you know now.  Knowing that I come back.  Would you really change it?  Really never make that wish?”

“Of course,” Tim breathed out.  It didn’t matter that Jason had come back—he’d died a horrific, agonizing death, he’d spent years in pain, he’d lost the beautiful, shimmering design on his tail.  “Of course I would, I never—I never wanted to hurt anyone.”

And yet he had.

Tim buried his head back in his hands, unable to stop the tears winding down his cheeks.  He doubted that Jason would let him go, let him attempt to fix things.  The mer would just drown him—and Tim’s throat closed up just remembering what it felt like to gasp for breath out of reach, lungs spasming desperately for air, frantic for survival as exhaustion swelled.

Clawed hands caught his elbows.  They tugged, and Tim moved with it, shuddering but not resisting, and a fresh swell of tears burst when he was pulled out of the boat and into the water.

He didn’t beg.  He didn’t deserve mercy.  He’d ruined Jason’s life, and there was nothing Tim could do to make up for it.

But Jason didn’t drown him.  He held him, clutching him close, keeping Tim’s head above the waves as he sobbed on Jason’s shoulder, and clawed hands drifted gently through Tim’s hair.

“You made a mistake,” Jason said, his voice hoarse with emotions Tim couldn’t name.  “You made a mistake with horrible consequences.”  Tim waited for them to drop, waited for the fingers to twist and the claws to strike.

“But I forgive you.”

Tim…didn’t understand.  Was this some new sort of game?  He wasn’t sure where Jason was going with this.

“What?” Tim rasped, when it was clear that Jason wasn’t moving.

“I forgive you,” Jason said easily, “You’re my brother.  You’re my pack.  I accept your apology.”

Tim still didn’t understand.  “I got you killed—”

“No,” Jason said harshly, “You made a wish.  A stupid one, because you should’ve known better than to go to a djinni, but just a wish.  You wanted a family.  You’re not responsible for what that green-eyed bastard twisted it into.”

“But I—”

“No one forced me to go with my mother.  No one forced me to believe her.  No one tied my hands together and shoved me into making a bad decision.”

“But the wish—”

“Djinn can manipulate circumstances,” Jason said, “Twist fate.  They can’t touch free will.  You’re not responsible for my death.”

“But if I hadn’t wished,” Tim whispered, “Then you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

“Maybe,” Jason half-shrugged, “Maybe not.”  They dipped slightly lower as Jason changed his grip to hold one of Tim’s arms, sliding something cold and rippled up until it settled into place on Tim’s upper arm.

“You can’t,” Tim whispered, tears dripping down one by one, “I don’t deserve—”

“My scales,” Jason said softly, “I get to choose who gets them.”

“I’m not—scales are for pack, and Bruce and Dick will—”

“Not kick you out,” Jason said quietly, going back to stroking Tim’s hair.

“You don’t know that.  When they find out—”

“They’ve been listening to this entire conversation, little fry, or did you think I was the only one who went looking for you?”

Tim raised his head slightly, and he could make out two bumps and two sets of beady eyes, just a few feet away.  His throat swelled again.  “I’m sorry,” Tim’s voice cracked, “I’m so, so sorry—”

“Shh,” Jason soothed, rubbing a hand down his spine, “No one’s kicking you out.”  The seals came closer, and one gently nudged Tim’s face while the other pressed against his back.

Tim let his head drop back against Jason’s shoulder.  “You should hate me,” he said quietly, because he deserved it, he deserved all of it, he—

“You should hate me,” Jason countered, claws drifting carefully over the thin scars on his neck.

“That isn’t the same thing—”

“Isn’t it?” Jason asked softly, “I also made a deal, knowing there were consequences, and someone else paid the price.”

But Tim had made it first—he sensed he wasn’t going to get anywhere with continued arguing, and gave up.  Bruce continued to nudge his forehead, whiskers brushing against his hair, and Dick stayed tightly pressed to him.  Jason didn’t let go.

“Where’s Damian?” Tim asked quietly, because it wasn’t the kid’s fault his grandfather was an asshole.

“On the pier,” Jason said, “He doesn’t know how to swim in seal form.”

Tim actually straightened up at that.  “What do you mean, he doesn’t know how to swim?”

“I mean, he’s never actually been in seal form before, and Bruce didn’t want to test it right now.”

Tim gaped at him, mouth opening and closing and refusing to form words.  Jason managed a rusty chuckle at his shock, “Yeah, in case we were looking for confirmation that Ra’s al Ghul is the absolute worst.”

One day, Tim was going to meet the ancient djinni again, and he was going to make Ra’s answer for everything he did to his pack.

“Come on,” the mer called out, well out of the shallows, “It’s instinctive!”

“Shut up, Jay,” Drake called back, sitting on the sand next to Damian.  The mer looked like he was about to say something else, but he was tackled by a black-and-blue seal and his words were lost to spluttering.

Drake snickered.  Father made some low barks that Damian took as amusement, and gently nudged Damian an inch forward into the waves.

Damian resisted the urge to scrabble back.  It felt…weird, to have flippers instead of arms and legs, and his center of balance was all off.  In the distance, Todd shrieked and Grayson barked as the older two tussled amidst the waves.

“You can do it,” Drake encouraged gently, sliding forward with him, hands hovering to haul him back if necessary.  Father barked his agreement, and pushed Damian forward another inch.  He was almost completely covered by the waves.  He flapped his flippers, and felt himself slide forward another few inches.

So if this meant he moved like that, then…

Damian shot forward faster than he’d meant to, muscles moving in unison to send him slipping through the waves.  Father’s echoing bark of pride came loud and clear through the water, while Drake’s startled cry was a little muffled.

Damian twisted, and slid through the water, figuring out how to change direction and go faster and slow down.  Flashes of red and dark blue shimmered in front of him, and Damian watched his older brothers pause to let him by.

Todd chuckled, reaching out a hand to run it over black-and-green fur, and Grayson nudged him, chittering in low barks.  One of his flippers had a searing design of green-and-gold, just like Damian’s and Father’s, while Todd’s cuff shimmered under the water.

Damian twisted away from them, and back towards the shallows, feeling a quiet jolt of fear at the expanse of ocean behind Todd and Grayson.  He overshot his stroke, however, and ended up plowing straight into Drake, who nearly unbalanced and fell back before catching Damian and scooping him out of the waist-high water.

“You look like you’re having fun,” Drake smiled, and Father bobbed up and down at his side.  “Ignore Jason and Dick, they’re apparently working through some years-old payback, and we don’t need to get in the middle of that.”

A brilliant red tail lashed through the water, sending a powerful wave crashing over all three of them.  Drake resurfaced, spluttering, as Father tried very hard not to laugh.

“You know what,” Drake said slowly, looking down at Damian, “Forget what I just said.  We’re totally getting into the middle of that.”

Damian barked an agreement with the offer of alliance, and set his sights on their new targets.