Chapter Text
There is some unspoken rule that a tale must begin precisely where it should, with a once upon a time and perhaps a song. That the start is immutable, for any story worth telling has a structure, a meaning, a moral. That stories are neat and tidy in the way that life is not.
Life is messy, and this tale is, ultimately, one about life. Where this story starts depends largely on who you ask.
If you ask Bernard Dowd, this story begins with a storm and a shipwreck and the certainty that he is going to drown. He sinks beneath the waves, his father’s ship sinking with him as the rest of the crew calls for him frantically from their lifeboats, but it’s too late. They’re not going to find him, and he is going to die.
His head slips under the waves, and he holds his breath until he can’t anymore, breathing in lungfuls of water and choking, and realizing that the murky deep is the last thing he’s going to see. In his dying stupor, he imagines hands grabbing him, pulling him to the surface, to the shore, to safety, and at some point he realizes he’s not dying at all. That the light he’s seeing isn’t some great beyond, it’s the morning sun, and the shifting ground beneath him is the shore. He coughs water and heaves air into his lungs, and his vision clears just enough to make out a beautiful boy with ink black hair and sea blue eyes asking if he’s alright. He manages to nod, and then promptly faints from the strain on his body. When he wakes, the boy is gone.
If you ask Dick Grayson, this story begins with the death of his father. Clark returns to Gotham’s grotto, head heavy and tears in his eyes, a cluster of shredded and bodied scales clenched in his fist. Dick listens, stone-faced, as Clark explains how the League was trying to drive humans away from their homes, to discourage the hunting parties from venturing to their corner of the sea. That any hope for negotiation quickly turned violent, and though they fought off the Darkseid, the attacking ship, Bruce was lost, dead before his body was even hauled from the water.
Dick thanks Clark. He relays the news to his brothers, and they bury the scales in a small ceremony. Then, Dick has a quiet breakdown as he grapples with the crushing weight of responsibility on his shoulders. Gotham needs a protector, so it falls to him. His family needs a patriarch, so that falls to him too. Damian needs a father, so somehow Dick needs to figure out how to be one, and along the way he has to make sacrifices, has to do what he thinks is best for his family, for Gotham. As Dick struggles to pick up the pieces, Tim falls through the cracks.
If you ask Timothy Drake, this story begins with a conviction that Bruce is alive and a deal with the Demon’s Head.
Swimming in the depths of Nanda Parbat, Tim knows this is a bad idea. Ra’s al Ghul is not one to be taken lightly, but he has magic, something Tim desperately needs. If Bruce ever finds out he was here, he’ll be trapped at home for the next century and a half. But Bruce isn’t here, and Tim has to get out of the sea. If Bruce is anywhere, then he’ll be on the surface, and Tim can’t just leave him there. Can’t abandon him the way everyone else has. He looks at Ra’s al Ghul, lounging on a coral throne.
“So what’s the catch?” Tim asks, eyes narrowing. “You give me three days and then steal my soul?”
Ra’s sighs. “Nothing so gauche, Timothy. This is simply a favor. One I expect to be returned in kind when I so choose. Proportionately, of course.” Ra’s extends a hand to him.
And well. Tim has done more for less. He’s sure that if Ra’s asks for something he’s truly unwilling to give, he can find a way out of it. Tim steels himself, and then clasps Ra’s’ hand.
The change is not instantaneous – he would be dead from the crushing weight of the water in seconds if it was. One by one, his glittering red scales start to vanish, and he grows colder as his skin loses its insulation. He casts one last nod at Ra’s al Ghul before swimming up and away, his strokes becoming less powerful as his tail morphs into legs, his vision blurring as his eyes lose their ability to see through the haze. His chest tightens as his gills vanish, and he barely breaches the surface before he has to suck in a breath, coughing water from his lungs.
The surface looks different through human eyes, the sunlight brighter, the blue of the ocean more vibrant. The waves glitter as the light hits them, and Tim trails a hand through it. The webbing between his fingers is gone, leaving five distinct digits on each hand that slice cleanly through the water and create little eddies. He can feel the same happening beneath him as he kicks his legs to stay afloat, struggling with his coordination as he fights the urge to move them together. When he’s figured it out, he turns to head toward the sandy shore of Port Grieve in the distance.
Now, Tim knows about humans. He’s read about them, seen them, saved a few poor souls from drowning over Gotham. It’s different though – knowing and being. Tim’s never had toes before. When they hit the shallows, sinking in as the sand presses up and around them, it’s one of the most bizarre sensations Tim has ever experienced. Even if he doesn’t find Bruce – he will, but even if he doesn’t – he’s learned more in ten minutes as a human than years of study.
Tim stumbles when he hits the beach, his very new legs trying to very quickly learn how to walk. It’s extremely frustrating as the sand slides beneath him, shifting his balance with every step. It takes far longer than Tim would like before he’s able to repeatedly put one foot in front of the other without toppling. His clothes – the cuffed trousers and loose white shirt that Ra’s had the foresight to magic onto him – are covered in a fine layer of sand and stiff with salt, but as Tim steps off the beach and onto a blanket of green, he thinks he looks passably human.
The soft, lush grass beneath his feet eventually gives way to a cobblestone walkway, which is much harder and less pleasant to walk on. It’s just a touch too warm from the sun beating down, and tiny rocks embed themselves into Tim’s heels, but he grimaces and keeps going. He’s not going to find the Darkseid if he can’t find someone to talk to.
The road slopes gently upward, and Tim can see buildings peeking over the top of the hill. Sounds have started to drift down to him, and he’s amazed how much he can hear – voices calling and things moving and even the light breeze blowing the sand from between the stones. It’s nice and pleasant, until it isn’t. Tim crests the ridge and finds himself directly at the edge of a busy thoroughfare, and it’s like he’s being assaulted.
It’s so much more here, louder and brighter and bustling. Humans run to and fro on their legs, and carts trundle along, pulled by massive four-legged creatures he’s never seen with long noses and piercing eyes and noisy feet. One swerves a little too close, and he steps back, stumbling as his new feet catch on the uneven ground. Tim doesn’t have time to brace himself before he’s falling. Gravity is also something he never really accounted for. Not like this.
“Whoa there!” A voice calls as arms encircle him, keeping him upright. “You okay?”
Tim tilts his head back to see a young man. His golden hair shines in the sunlight, his cheeks pink from the heat. An easy smile stretches across his face. He’s charming, in an unruffled, boyish way, and somehow familiar.
“Um. Thanks,” Tim stutters, and then freezes as his human voice reaches his human ears.
He doesn’t know if his vocal cords have changed, or his eardrums, but it’s strange, an alien voice coming from his own mouth. After a moment, he realizes that he’s been silent in this stranger’s arms for far too long and gets his legs firmly back under himself before he pulls away.
“I’m alright,” he says with a tight smile.
The boy tilts his head. “Have I seen you somewhere before? I swear, you look so familiar.”
That’s when Tim realizes where he met this boy. The sea was harsh and churning, and he’d watched a large sailing ship get battered until it finally gave out. It’s a strange habit his family has, watching for shipwrecks, doing their best to keep the unfortunate castaways from being lost to the deep. Just because hunters are a threat to Gotham and the entire mer population doesn’t mean all humans are, and no one deserves to die horribly so far from their home. Tim had seen a number of men pile into small lifeboats, to safety, and then look around frantically, calling for someone. They were forced to give up in order to save themselves, but Tim had seen the flash of gold in the water as the boy sunk lower and lower. He’d brought him back to shore, made sure he was alive, and then left. Tim never thought he’d see him again, and so put it out of his mind entirely.
Of course, he can’t tell this boy any of that. Just because all humans aren’t terrible doesn’t mean they won’t still hurt him for what he is.
“I don’t think so,” Tim says, gesturing vaguely. “I’m actually new here.”
“Huh.” The boy studies him with slightly narrowed eyes before his face clears, and he beams sunnily. “Well, then, I’m Bernard! If you need someone to show you around, look no further.”
It’s probably a bad idea. But Tim is full of those lately, so he lets his smile turn more genuine. “I’m Tim,” he says. “And that would be great.”
Bernard holds an arm out, and Tim takes it, allowing himself to be guided down the street. Bernard is animated as he talks, pointing out different shops and people, telling stories as he goes. Tim lets the words wash over him, lets himself enjoy the experience. There’s still that weight in the back of his mind, that he needs to find Bruce, but he can't do that just yet, without any information, so he stays in this moment instead. Here, with Bernard, whose hair glints in the sun and whose eyes and smile are bright and welcoming.
It’s lovely, until Tim steps on something sharp and can’t keep the hiss of pain from leaving his lips. Bernard stops in his tracks, concern furrowing his brow as his gaze immediately searches Tim. His eyes widen.
“You’re not wearing shoes,” he mutters, and then a bit louder, just a touch shrill, “Have you not been wearing shoes this whole time? Where are your shoes?”
Tim winces. “I don’t have any,” he says. Start with the truth and work from there. He’s seen people on the beach barefoot countless times, so he did not think to have a lie readily prepared.
Luckily, Bernard supplies him with one. “Were you robbed?”
Tim looks away, can’t take the intensity of Bernard’s focus. “On the way here, yeah.”
Bernard gapes. “Like, on your way into town?”
Tim nods.
“So you have nothing?”
Tim shrugs, sheepish. Sure, he knows most humans own entire wardrobes of clothing, but he didn’t think anyone would notice him enough to care.
Bernard just stares for a moment, chewing on his lip as he thinks. Abruptly, he spins around, half crouching in front of Tim. “Hop on.”
Tim just blinks. “What?”
“I’m not going to let you cut up your feet on whatever’s in the street,” Bernard says, looking back at Tim over his shoulder. “I’ll carry you down to my house, and we can get you some stuff. It’s not too far.”
Okay, now this is a terrible idea. Letting a human lead him around is one thing, but going to his home? The place where he sleeps? That’s intimate and dangerous on an entirely new level.
“It’s really fine – ”
Bernard straightens with a loud sigh, turning to rest his hands on Tim’s shoulders. “Look, I get it. Stranger danger. But consider this: I literally can’t rob you again.”
“You really don’t have to,” Tim tries again.
Bernard throws his hands into the air. “I’m not gonna force you. But like, dude, your feet are literally bleeding. Doesn’t that hurt?”
It does, but Tim was doing a decent job of blocking it out until Bernard mentioned it. He’d just assumed that it was a part of having feet – that they stung when you walked. That it was the price humans paid to be able to travel on land.
“Let me help you, Tim,” Bernard says, softer this time, holding a hand out.
Tim hesitates for a moment before reaching out and taking Bernard’s hand. Bernard grins, and then sweeps Tim off his feet, laughing as Tim squawks in indignation. Tim just rolls his eyes. Maybe he can use this, can find something in Bernard’s home that will lead him to the Darkseid. Maybe Bernard’s hands on him are warm, and his touch gentle, and maybe it’s nice to be with someone without any weight of expectation. Maybe.
Bernard’s home, when they reach it, is not what Tim expects. Tim’s not sure what he expects, exactly – his books had depicted sprawling castles and modest shacks, but this is somewhere in between, a mid-sized cottage at the water’s edge with its own private dock and a small garden in bloom. The interior is cozy, with yellow and cream-colored walls and shelves filled with small trinkets. Bernard carries Tim through what Tim presumes is a bedroom to an attached bathroom, and lowers him gently until he’s seated on the countertop. Bernard rifles through a cabinet beneath him before pulling out a small bottle and some cloth. He then grabs Tim’s foot and tilts it up toward him.
Bernard sucks in a sympathetic glance as he surveys the damage. “I think you stepped on some glass.”
Tim makes a non-committal hum. He doesn’t really have a frame of reference here for what stepping on glass feels like. He’s never had feet before.
Bernard glances up at him. “I’m going to get it out and then disinfect it, okay? And then you can shower if you want and I’ll grab you some of my stuff to change into. I thought you were going for some beach-chic thing with the sand, but that was before I knew you got jumped.”
“Uh. Sure,” Tim agrees, trying not to think about wearing Bernard’s clothing. Sharing personal belongings is another thing that’s relatively intimate in mer culture, and here Bernard is, just offering it like nothing. Tim’s coming to realize that books don’t do much justice to how humans operate.
Bernard beams again, and his hands are gentle on Tim’s skin where his fingers probe. “Okay,” he says. “This will probably sting.”
Before Tim can so much as steel himself, the glass is out of his foot and plinking into the sink. It wasn’t too bad, especially not after how long he spent walking in pain, but he realizes how wrong he was immediately after as Bernard soaks the cloth in liquid from the bottle and presses it to his open cuts. Fuck, that hurts. Tim’s been injured before, of course, but Alfred would always just make a poultice to avoid infection and wrap it. Nothing this chemical, nothing that burns on contact.
Bernard must see Tim’s flinch because he says, “Yeah, I’m sorry. This part’s always better without a warning, I think. And better this than dying of a seemingly harmless cut, right?”
Tim gives a shaky nod, but it seems to be enough to satisfy Bernard, who tosses the cloth into a bin and stands.
“I’ll grab you some stuff and leave it in here for you?” he asks.
“Yeah, thanks,” Tim says, and Bernard disappears through the door.
Tim wastes no time in casting his sandy clothes aside and stepping behind the shower curtain. As weird as he feels about wearing Bernard’s clothes, he realizes that he prefers it to wearing something made for him by Ra’s.
It takes Tim a moment of studying the mechanism of the shower to realize how it works. A bit of fiddling later, and he steps into a cool jet of water. It’s heaven. In the short time he’s been away from it, Tim didn’t realize how much he missed the feel of water against his skin, in his hair. It’s only been a few hours, but he still feels a pang for the sea. But he’s here for a reason, no matter how much he may miss Gotham. He won’t go back until he finds Bruce.
Tim stays under the water perhaps a tad too long, stepping out when he realizes his fingers have wrinkled. Another quirk of humanity. He dresses quickly, and Bernard’s clothes are soft against his skin. A light blue sleeved shirt and dark trousers. Tim glances at himself in the mounted mirror, and he’s not quite sure who it is that stares back. Black hair, blue eyes, pale skin. Dull teeth, no gills or fins or scales. Human.
Bernard is waiting for him, curled in the center of his pillows, a book open on his lap. Bernard smiles at him, but Tim is distracted by the cover of the book in his hands – an illustration of a tail, adorned with scales, disappearing into the deep. Bernard follows Tim’s gaze down to his own hand before his eyes snap back to Tim.
“If you’re about to tell me mer don’t exist, I’m going to stop you right now and let you know you’re wrong.”
Tim can’t keep the amusement out of his voice as he replies, “I wasn’t going to.”
It’s not quite what Tim expected, but he can work with this. Because of generations of hunters, most mer have been driven so far beneath the surface that they never interact with humans at all. Tim’s family is one of the few who do, and even then, they only step in to prevent death – likely, most of the people they save aren’t really aware of what happened, or attribute it to lack of oxygen.
The hunters themselves manage to catch so few mer, these days, that Tim has to wonder how they turn a profit. Especially with a population that doesn’t believe mer even exist. He doesn’t want to know what they plan to do with Bruce.
“I’m just saying,” Bernard says, snapping his book shut and placing it on a nearby shelf. “There can’t be this many stories that corroborate without there being some shred of truth. And I know most of what those assholes on the north side of town sell is definitely fake, but there’s no way they’d go out there day after day as a scam.”
Tim opens his mouth to tease Bernard a bit more, but he pauses. “On the north side of town?”
“Yeah, the ‘hunters’ or whatever they call themselves.” Bernard’s voice is laced with disgust. “They bring trophies to the market sometimes, scales and stuff. Some of it is definitely just colorful fish, but sometimes? Sometimes they’ve got things that aren’t like any fish I’ve seen. It’s awful, what they claim to do.”
Tim’s fists clench at his sides, hard enough that even his blunt, human nails bite into the skin of his palms. “Is that where the Darkseid is?”
Bernard blinks at him, startled by the change in tone. “That’s their main ship, yeah. Why?”
Tim breathes deep, willing himself to relax. “Her crew took something from me,” he says. “I plan to get it back.”
Tim turns on his heel, intent to go directly to the north side of Port Grieve and find the Darkseid immediately. Bernard lurches off the bed and catches him by the shoulder before he can even leave the room. Tim whirls to face him, and Bernard backs off a bit, his hands in the air in surrender.
“Listen, I’m not about to stop your revenge heist,” he says, and Tim feels some of the tension leave him. “But you still don’t have shoes, first of all. And second, Darkseid left port this morning. She won’t be back for a few days.”
Tim deflates. He’s still going to go, of course. Still going to search the north side to see if they’ve left Bruce anywhere, but it does complicate things. If Bruce is still on board, if Tim can’t figure out which buildings to look into, who to follow.
“Tell you what,” Bernard says, casting a glance outside to where the shadows have begun to lengthen. “Stay here for tonight – we’ve got a guest room down the hall – and then I’ll go with you tomorrow.”
“Just like that?” Tim asks warily. Bernard is nice, but there’s no reason to think he wouldn’t set Tim up in some way. Tim shouldn’t entertain the idea at all – he’s currently lying to Bernard, after all, and Bernard didn’t ask to get dragged into the cross-species war Tim might start.
Bernard shrugs, the corners of his mouth turning up into a crooked smile. “If they don’t want people to steal from them, maybe they should be less terrible.”
Tim finds himself mirroring the smile. Whatever number of bad ideas he’s entertained today, this one is probably the worst. He’s going to let it happen anyway. If Bernard betrays him, he’ll deal with it. But if Bernard can help him find Bruce, it will be worth everything else Tim’s done thus far.