Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Truthfully, Hal never planned on flying seaplanes for a living. It wasn’t like he had anything against them. Planes were planes, and he was the kind of guy who would’ve flown a beat-up F7U if it meant he could be in the sky. It was just that ‘seaplane captain’ wasn’t the kind of career he thought he’d fall into, not when his résumé included cool things like Captain and aircraft test pilot.

Then again, he also never planned on quitting Ferris Aircrafts

Or breaking up with Carol.

Or realising that there was just no good way to keep working for his ex without it turning into an awkward exercise in social interaction. There was really only so much missed eye contact and strained smiles a man could take before the impulse to eject himself out the nearest window became way too tempting.

In the end, Hal had been the one to fumble it all. Out of the two of them, he was the one who wasn’t emotionally evolved enough to suffer through that brand of workplace torture for five, sometimes six days a week.

So, he left. Told her it’d be easier that way, and he was right. The soft look of relief on her face would’ve stung if Hal himself hadn’t felt an embarrassingly similar rush at the thought of seeing the back of her. They exchanged the standard pleasantries of exes that somehow managed to twist their very bad break up into something only a little tragic. ‘Let’s keep in touch’, ‘no hard feelings’, ‘sorry for stringing you along since we were kids but you’re way too good for me and I’m a total asshole who sabotages every good thing in my life’. Casual stuff like that.

He landed a new job pretty quickly. Way quicker than he expected in the current climate, if he was being honest. Turns out, a guy who put his callsign on his résumé and had as many flight hours logged as he did had no trouble finding work. It wasn’t exactly the high-stakes flying he was used to, but it was steady. And, bonus, it came with his own plane.

Well, technically it was his. In the sense that he was responsible for keeping it in the air, paying for its maintenance, and sinking a heavy portion of his salary into it month. If he stuck with it for about ten years, he’d be able to pay off the company and the plane would officially belong to him. Just in time for his late forties, when he’d be well on his way to dying alone.

Still, there were worse ways to spend a decade. At least he had the sky.

It was a simple gig, but simple didn’t matter if it kept him in the air. It did mean, however, that now he was a glorified delivery boy with wings. He flew supply runs out to the Channel Islands. National Park stuff, mostly. Some days it was researchers and rangers; other days it’d be crates of equipment and food. Every now and again, he’d even get an eccentric billionaire who paid through the nose because they wanted to impress a date by whisking them off to an island. (Which, incidentally, was how he met Ollie and Dinah.)

So maybe it wasn’t flashy work, but it paid well enough and it gave him something to focus on besides wondering if Carol had moved on yet.

Which she had, of course. Hal found out through the gossip pipeline. Carol had met a nice guy, someone stable and reliable and kinda hot, the kind of person you could build a life with without worrying if they were gonna get cold feet because things got a little too real. They were getting married next fall.

Hal wanted to be bitter about it. He wanted to feel something sharp enough to match the old ache in his ribs whenever he thought about what they used to be, or what they could’ve been if he hadn’t been so emotionally immature. But at the end of the day, if anyone deserved to be happy in love, it was Carol. And if Hal wasn’t the guy who could give her that, well, at least someone could.

Life went on. Hal got a crummy apartment a few blocks off the Coast City strip. He flew his rickety seaplane from one island to the next, patched it up when it complained too loudly, and got just enough of a paycheck to keep everything going smoothly.

Every other night, he ate out at the same local diner where the waitstaff now knew him by name. Every Thursday he killed time at the laundromat with a magazine left behind by someone else. Every Saturday, he’d buy a six-pack of beer and pretend he was going to pace himself, but by Sunday he’d have drunk them all.

It was all one big routine by now. Not how he pictured his adulthood when he was a kid dreaming of the clouds and watching Dad soar, but it was good enough for him. He was happy in the sense that he was settled. For now, at least. Until he inevitably got itchy feet and started chasing that rush of excitement once again.

Routines, no matter how established, never stayed the same. There was always some little thinking barrelling in out of nowhere to mess with him. Nothing catastrophic, not these days in his boring, humdrum life. Just little, irritating distractions. The kind that weren’t big enough to ruin his life, but were just annoying enough to feel like a pebble in his boot for the rest of the week.

Maybe it was his plane throwing a fit over some minor mechanical issue that wasn’t terribly urgent, but still meant he’d be shellign out for repairs. Maybe it was the laundromat eating his quarters again, or the ancient plumbing in his apartment deciding, hey, what if we just stopped working? Or maybe it’d be his local diner eighty-six-ing the Big Boy Burger he liked, leaving him to stare blankly at the menu and wondering if crying about it was too much of an overreaction.

It was the little things. Stupid things.

Take now, for instance.

Hal lingered at the open door of his seaplane, one foot hovering over the edge of the floating dock as he stared down at the angriest seal he’d ever seen in his life.

He’d been to this island a few times in the past year. Some marine researchers had set up shop for a long-term study, and Hal had become friendly enough with them that he managed to bag a retained position. He hauled out their equipment, food, and whatever else they needed for their remote research station somewhere along the north side of the island.

In an ideal world, he’d be able to land and dock by their station, but thanks to shifting tides and the occasional temperamental sandbar, he had to settle for the closest viable dock. It wasn’t too far out, just a little further east than he’d like, but it meant he always had to hoof a dolly full of supplies on foot.

A small colony of seals had taken over the coastline a few months ago, which should’ve been a cool thing. Nature was fascinating, nature was majestic, nature was cool, all that jazz. Hal had nothing against it in theory. He liked to fall asleep on the couch with a wildlife documentary lulling him in the background, and it was always nice to see an unusual animal just chilling and living its life in the real world. It was just that Hal was pretty much convinced that these particular seals had the devil in them.

Before he took this job, he hadn’t even known seals could get angry. He always figured they were just happy, blubbery beach slugs that spent their days flopping around and living their best, stress-free lives in the Californian sun.

They usually left him well enough alone, probably because he was a frequent flyer on the island. He’d set his plane down a little ways out from their haul-out rocks and do his best to ignore how all of them, without fail, seemed to immediately lock onto him the second his pontoons touched water. They’d just look at him. And not with the confused curiosity of wildlife, but with the flat, assessing disapproval of the TSA..

He’d nod politely most days. Like an idiot. Like they were old men on a porch instead of giant sentient sea tubes silently judging him and his life choices. It was mostly because he couldn’t not acknowledge them, not while they stared at him with an unsettling sort of intelligence.

There were seven of them, by Hal’s count. No, wait — eight. He always forgot about the small creepy one that liked to circle the jetty in slow arcs, watching him with a weird intensity he would usually associate with those gothic portraits with eyes that followed you around the room.

They were different shapes, different sizes, and, when they weren’t busy banding together to form some kind of marine intimidation circle, they had completely different vibes. There was one that flopped around like a beach ball and made kazoo noises whenever it sneezed. Another had weirdly intense energy, like it was seconds from launching itself into the stratosphere just to see what would happen. A third just sat motionless with serial killer eyes, blinking once every ten minutes.

The only thing that seemed to connect them was how they orbited Spooky.

Goddamn Spooky.

That one was the biggest of the bunch. The top dog. The hot tamale. The one who always parked his broad, glossy ass on the central rock and looked incredibly displeased about it. He only ever sat there when the plane was docking, like he was deliberately putting himself on display to warn Hal not to start some shit in his weird little seal kingdom. Otherwise, he preferred to avoid the sun and sit in the shady outcrop of rocks by the shallows.

Spooky was midnight black and, somehow, was easily the size of a small boat. Hal was pretty sure seals weren’t supposed to get that big, but this one had either missed the memo or decided he simply didn’t care. And if his size wasn’t unsettling enough, he looked like he'd been through hell. Scars covered him from tip to tail; long, jagged things that crisscrossed along his body. Some had faded into silvery streaks, while others were fresher, new enough that Hal could still see the way the skin puckered where something big had taken a swipe at him.

Hal liked to stay far away from Spooky. Which was just as well, because Spooky liked to stay far away from him.

The same could not be said for Asshole.

Asshole was the current problem. He was nearly as big as Spooky, which was already stretching the limits of what Hal thought a harbor seal was supposed to be. His coat was dark, nearly black in some lights, but his fur tapered off into a patch of white at his forehead.

He showed up very rarely, but when he did, he usually hung back from the main group. He liked to sprawl on his own patch of rocks a little further down from the shoals, spread his flippers, hunch himself over, and bark at anyone and anything that came too close to his territory. Which was a problem, because recently he’d decided that the wooden jetty was a part of that.

“You can’t do this every time I come here, man,” Hal said. “Move.”

Asshole didn’t bark so much as he made a deep hnnk noise at him. Hal snapped his teeth back in retaliation. At his core, he was a petty little shit who was absolutely down with wrestling a seal if it meant he could go about the rest of the day without incident.

He shifted his weight further onto the dock and Asshole lunged a little. “I will cut you,” Hal hissed, brandishing the closest thing to a weapon he could find. It turned out to be a really pathetic looking clipboard with a soggy flight log attached.

“Hnnk,” Asshole snapped.

“You’re a seal. You can’t just take over the dock, I need to use it. I’m just here to do my job.”

“Snrk.”

Hal bristled like he’d just been insulted. “I swear to god, if you don’t let me pass I’ll—I’ll—” He flailed a little before pointing at Spooky, who was glaring over from his rock throne. “I’ll tell your goddamn dad.”

The noise Asshole made in response to that threat was definitely not a good thing. It was low and guttural, like he was an engine ramping himself up for takeoff. It was the kind of thing that made Hal suddenly very aware of just how much muscle was packed into that big, blubbery blob. Asshole slapped his flippers hard against the dock like he was seriously calculating the cost-reward of launching himself at Hal’s gut like a torpedo.

He didn’t think Asshole would actually attack him, but Hal braced himself just in case. Not that it would help in the slightest. He had excellent reflexes, sure, but there was no universe where he won a fight against a seal that was almost as big as Spooky.

“Oh, you wanna go?” he called out, squaring his shoulders and wielding his sad little clipboard like a sword. “Step up, I’ll send you back to the trench you crawled out of.”

He didn’t know if he actually intended to go through with a duel against a huge fucking sea blob, but before he could do something truly stupid, Spooky made a noise. It wasn’t loud, not really. It was more of a low, rolling vibration like distant thunder rumbling over open water.

Hal glanced over grudgingly, still holding his clipboard like he was about to slap Asshole with it. Spooky stared back.

Despite the overt threat, there was a pup nestled between his thick front flippers. That image should’ve destroyed the whole fear me, mortal effect he was clearly going for, but Spooky had a strangely cognizant gaze that trumped any fluffy exceptions. It was a weird experience, Hal realised absently, being menaced by a group of animals that were supposed to be adorable.

The pup, for its part, looked profoundly offended to be involved. Just a disgruntled, wiggling meatball of pale brown fur, making irate little hissing noises and trying to worm free. Spooky was too busy glaring at Hal to acknowledge it. He shifted his weight, half-resting on the little thing to keep it from escaping

“I wasn’t really gonna hit him,” Hal called, inexplicably feeling the need to defend himself.

Spooky just continued to stare. The baby continued to hiss at Hal’s general existence.

“I wasn’t!”

Apparently, Asshole had very strong opinions about the big boss getting involved. The moment Spooky so much as twitched — not even all that aggressively, just in a way that made it very clear he was aware of the situation and would probably eat Hal if he started shit — Asshole whirled on his blubber to face him. He growled low and bobbed his head, honking in that very specific way teenagers did whenever they wanted their parents to stop barging into their room without knocking.

Spooky didn’t look particularly offended, just resigned. If seals could look resigned.

“C’mon, man,” Hal groaned. “Let me pass already. I got work to do.”

Asshole either didn’t hear him, or didn’t care. Or, more likely, didn’t understand because he was a seal and seals didn’t have the mental capacity to grasp the finer points of human speech. Though Hal had his suspicions, with the way all the seals liked to stare and laugh at him.

The pup wedged beneath Spooky’s flippers tried to wiggle free again, perhaps angered by whatever exchange had just happened in the seal hierarchy. Spooky just shifted to press a little more of his weight on him. The pup let out an angry squeak of protest, but it went completely ignored. This was, Hal realised the equivalent of a dad placing one massive hand on his kid’s head to stop him from running away.

If he let go, Hal had no doubts that the little one would dart straight over to the jetty to help Asshole be a nuisance. He’d never seen the two interact before — in fact, he hadn’t actually seen Asshole interact with any of the other seals before today — but the pup just looked like it was born to be a dick. Something that probably ran in the family.

“Move,” Hal tried when Asshole stayed put. “Move. Move. Move.”

“Hnrk,” replied Asshole.

Hal stared at him. “Move.”

Another bark in the distance made him shut his eyes and almost pray for salvation.

“What now?” he said weakly.

A lithe, dark seal who had up until now been lounging in the sun like a melted piece of saltwater taffy, evidently decided that whatever telenovela that was currently playing out in front of them was definitely worth getting involved in. With the slow, languid grace of something that has no immediate plans beyond continuing to exist, he flopped over onto his belly.

Then…well, Hal didn’t have many words he could use to describe the way this seal moved.

This one didn’t do the usual sluggish, belly-scooting seal walk. This one bounced. Just…like…straight up bounced. Less like an animal, more like an overfilled water balloon with dreams and ambitions and the inherent need to be a show off.

Hal did not know if this was normal. He only ever watched animal documentaries when he was feeling sucky and needed some British noises to lull him to sleep on the couch. He stared, a little impressed, as the seal (here on out named ‘Bouncy’ in Hal’s head) moved towards Asshole with a series of oddly graceful bounds, like his flippers had figured something the rest of seal-kind never got the memo about.

It wasn’t just a distraction for Hal, but for Asshole too. He cut himself off mid-bark to first stare at his…brother(?), before snapping his teeth like an afterthought. Notably, he didn’t actually move into attack. Hal was pretty sure male seals were supposed to be, like, nuts when it came to protecting their territory.

"Right, so, I’m just gonna…" Hal shifted his duffle further up his shoulder. "...let you guys sort out whatever this is on your own. No need to drag me into—" He didn’t even get to finish before Asshole honked at him specifically,

“Hwah,” said Bouncy.

“Hnk,” said Asshole.

“Are you kidding me right now?” said Hal, who was probably two minutes away from committing a federal protection crime.

At least the presence of Bouncy gave Hal the opportunity to be a little sneaky. With all the honking and flopping and seal-ish flailing, he finally had a window of opportunity. Very, very carefully, he stepped fully off the seaplane onto the dock. The wood shifted under his weight, bobbing a little in protest, but Asshole was far too busy being physically bodied by the other seal to do anything about it.

“That’s right,” Hal said as he began the slowest, most awkward side-shuffle of his life. He hugged the delivery crate to his chest and turned his body just enough to make it clear he meant no harm. “Thaaaaat’s right. Good seals. Just stay there…”

The dock creaked beneath him and he was pretty sure Asshole tried to look at him. Hal paused mid-shuffle, foot half-raised, muscled tensed in waiting for the inevitable seal-sized football tackle. When nothing happened, he resumed his slow walk onwards, inch by painful inch.

Behind him, Bouncy had decided that now was the time to assert dominance. Hal didn’t turn to look now that he was finally making ground, but he could hear the enthusiastic flops, the exaggerated honks, and the indignant noise Asshole made that sounded a lot like a motorcycle backfiring underwater.

By the time Hal risked a glance over his shoulder, Bouncy had apparently won the battle of attrition through sheer force of will and lack of personal space. Despite being smaller than Asshole by a fair margin, he had thrown his whole weight onto his massive back and was now fully melting across in a wobbly puddle.

Nature documentaries dictated that Asshole should’ve been going ape-shit at this point, but while he looked furious (for a seal), he also looked completely resigned. He was staring straight ahead with the dead-eyed expression of someone who had made mistakes in life and was intimately aware of this fact. His flippers twitched like he wanted to slap something but knew it would only make things worse.

“Hang in there, Asshole,” Hal muttered as he slipped past the last cluster of seal-shaped obstacles and finally reached the path to the inland. “You’re doing great.”

Chapter Text

Whenever it was needed, Hal liked helping out at the researched hub. The researchers, Arthur and Mera, were good people. They were passionate and sincere, and just cool enough to make the way they talked about fish seem more interesting than it was. There did come a point, usually around the third enthusiastic lecture about benthic ecosystems, where Hal’s brain kinda tapped out, but he appreciated their collective zeal.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care about what they had to say. He liked the ocean. It was big, dramatic, and full of fun things that could kill you, so Hal had a healthy respect for it. And, yeah, he also didn’t want the planet to die or whatever, so their conservation efforts were always appreciated. It was just that Hal had always been more mechanically minded. The finer points of Island Kelpfish breeding grounds didn’t stick in his head the way an engine schematic did.

That didn’t stop him from helping out. Whenever he had a light schedule and a little extra time to kill, he’d linger to lend a hand. Move some crates, drag equipment, help fix whatever part of the station had decided to fall apart that week. It wasn’t glamorous, but it passed the time with a good workout and company.

Mera in particular had clocked his soft spot for manual labour and mild praise within fifteen minutes of knowing him, so she was usually the one he’d be answering to. She didn’t try to trick him into work, but the way she framed her instructions had a way of making him feel like the task in question was both vitally important and uniquely suited to his skillset.

He didn’t mind. The research team were fairly short staffed, with only Arthur and Mera pulling the weight and their two interns following suit, and if Hal could help them save the world by carting heavy things from point A to point B, then sure, sign him up. And if, in the process, he happened to learn the occasional fact about phytoplankton or how to pronounce ‘ctenophore’ without choking on it, then that was just a bonus.

Freshly freed from the seal barricade, Hal dumped his cargo just outside the station’s back entrance with a grunt that made it seem like it had all been much heavier than it actually was, just in case anyone happened to be watching. He sent a lazy wave to the interns, Garth and Kaldur, who had been hunched over a folding table nearby and were elbow-deep in seawater and some kind of wriggling sample, and set off to find Mera.

Today’s job was mindless hauling. Mera had corralled him into ferrying bags of equipment across uneven terrain while she conducted an ecological study on weather patterns. Or maybe it was ocean currents. Or fish politics. Honestly, Hal had stopped paying attention after the first five minutes. All he knew was that halfway through, Mera started lecturing a cloud for blocking her data readings.

A few more trips to and from the station, thirty minutes spent fixing Arthur’s old UTV, then another hour holding up an aerial for Mera, and he quickly found the day was getting away from him. By the time they’d milked him dry of all unpaid labour, the sun was sinking low over the horizon and an unusually thick mist was rolling in from the sea.

It had started creeping in sometimes around the last set of Mera’s inland readings. At first it was barely noticeable, just a bit of coastal haze that made the horizon look smudged, but now it was getting thick and low, drifting in from the sea in a slow, creepy crawl.

Arms full of Mera’s gear, Hal paused near the edge of the trail and he squinted towards the shoreline. The path sloped down just enough that he should’ve been able to catch a glimpse of the breakers through the gaps in the driftwood and dune grass, but all he could see was a blank wall of white that was thick enough to look solid.

The seals were quiet now, after honking at each other all day. That was probably the weirdest part about it. Usually, the same three would keep up a steady racket from dawn until dark, almost like they were bickering or playing with each other. The silence was…strange, but not so strange as to put him off. He hadn’t been on the island during a mist blanket before. He figured they just headed home for the evening.

Speaking of heading home it was going to be hell flying through that fog later, but Hal had probably flown through worse. Fog was fog. Weather was weather. He’d once taken off in crosswinds that nearly flipped his plane sideways and he’d landed in storms that sent more sensible pilots back to bed. This was nothing.

“You’re staying for dinner,” Mera said from up ahead, just as he was mentally calculating his flightpath.

“Dinner, Mera? Why, I didn’t know you felt that way about me,” he replied. “What would Arthur say? Think of the scandal?”

She didn’t turn around to bother acknowledging his bullshit. Instead, she just lifted one hand and flipped him off without breaking stride. Hal chuckled and kept walking, putting the mist aside for now. Food was more important.

He’d been counting on an invitation for dinner, if he was being honest. If he went home now, he’d end up staring into his refrigerator and would have to acknowledge that he had officially become the kind of bachelor who survived off of three eggs, four beers, and a sad, suspiciously old can of processed pineapple chunks.

Even better, Kaldur was cooking that evening, judging by the smell of something actually edible coming from the kitchen as they arrived back at the station. Garlic, lemon, something fresh and green that might’ve been herbs. Whatever it was, it promised actual nutrition, which Hal hadn’t experienced in about four days.

The five of them gathered at the long table tucked beneath the wide eaves of the hub, all warm wood and faded paint. It was surrounded by old lawn chairs and scavenged benches, and one of Arthur’s interesting attempts at carpentry. He had made it with pride, some driftwood, and an old harpoon handle, and it had somehow passed the station’s informal ‘does it hold weight’ standard. Mera adored it.

She made her own attempts at sprucing up the place up with some of the local fauna potted in colourful jars she lined along the windowsills and the porch. Unfortunately, for as brilliant as she was with marine life and her climatology, she didn’t exactly have a greenthumb. All the plants were overwatered and drooping, save for a stubborn succulent Garth had labelled ‘The Survivor’.

It was nice. Homey in a way Hal didn’t get often. Dinner, as usual, was better than good. Kaldur, god that he was, made something with fish and rice and some weird vegetables Hal couldn’t identify but liked anyway. He’d spent the last few days living on takeout and the odd protein shake (made with powder that expired last year), so anything homemade would’ve tasted like ambrosia to him

Arthur sat at the head of the table and had taken it upon himself to pile more and more rice onto Hal’s plate every time it started to dip below concerningly full. By the third helping, Hal had started to protest. By the fifth, he was actively slapping the spoon away between mouthfuls.

Across the table, Mera sipped from a chipped mug that declared her the prettiest princess in all the seven seas, while Garth launched into a soft explanation about phosphorescent algae and the one time he fell into a tidal pool full of sea cucumbers.

The conversation meandered easily, looping from research to the bizarre mating habits of local fish to the rattling noise Hal’s plane had developed sometime last week — an ominous rattle that he’d been expertly ignoring in the hope that it would fix itself out of fear that it might be expensive.

Crawling in from the coast, the mist thickened.

“What’s with that, anyway?” Hal asked, pushing Arthur’s serving spoon away again. “I’ve never seen the island like this before.”

Arthur glanced up at him before he turned to look out onto the island. “Hm? The mist?” he said. “Oh, I suppose this is your first time seeing it.”

“This a regular thing?”

“It rolls in every three months,” Kaldur answered. His plate had also become victim to Arthur’s idea of portion control. “It’s one of the reasons we came to this island.”

Mera, resident Climatologist, took over the explanation. “It’s a localised weather phenomenon,” she said. “Cyclical, every ninety-eight days, right on schedule.”

“I thought weather was supposed to be unpredictable.”

“Not necessarily, but this is unusual. Even migratory patterns vary year to year.” Mera absently took the serving spoon away from Arthur and set it aside before he could inflict more rice upon the table. “The conditions all lined up for an unusual thermal pocket, but the more I studied it, the more it stopped behaving like weather. It shows up every ninety-eight days on schedule. Always from the same direction, always at the same hour, and always with the same density curve. It’s amazing."

Hal glanced out towards the thick of the island, at the formless grey sinking into sand and crevices and plantlife. He couldn’t see beyond the hub’s ground, almost like the fog had sunk into the earth to take root. No wind, no shift. Just the endless mist.

“It’s creepy as hell,” he decided.

“We tried keeping our instruments by the coast to monitor the humidity and air pressure levels,” Mera continued. “But when it reaches its peak density, our electronics start to behave erratically. We haven’t quite figured out why yet.”

“Sometimes we hear things,” Arthur said.

“Audio illusion. When the mist gets thick enough, the brain automatically searches for meaning in the noise. It’s that, or the seals. They tend to disappear when the mist settles in, but that doesn’t mean they’re not still there.”

“They’re a vocal lot, that’s for sure. Speaking of the mist. Won’t you need a humidity profile?”

Only half understanding what they were talking about, but finding it fascinating nonetheless, Hal asked, “What’s that for?”

“Baseline readings of the boundary layer,” Mera explained. “It helps us compare this event to previous ones and flag anomalies and see if anything’s changing in the long-term structure of the phenomenon.”

“That sounded like science, but also like you’re about to send me into the fog with a bucket and a prayer.”

Arthur grinned. “Sounds like you’re volunteering. Good instincts.”

“You’ll have to take some supplies.” Mera, finished with her meal, deliberately slid her plate away from Arthur’s new serving spoon, which he procured while she’d been distracted with her explanation. “It’ll take five minutes. You can do it for me when Arthur takes you to the cabin.”

Hal, fork halfway to his mouth, blinked. “When Arthur takes me to the where?”

Mera dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “The cabin,” she said, unbothered. “There’s an outpost about a kilometre out from the coast, not too far from where you land your plane. We converted it into a secondary observation point so I could track the vertical movement of the fog. It’s perfectly livable.”

“Well, Mera, I kinda figured I’d be going home after dinner.”

“Yes, I assume you thought that.” Mera smiled at him in a way that Hal was familiar with by now. It was her don’t even try to argue with me smile. “But the fog’s saturation is already high and it’s still climbing. Visibility is already near-zero, it can only get worse from here. We wouldn’t want you to fly through that.”

“I’ve flown through worse.”

“Maybe so,” Arthur said, “but we’ll feel better if we know you’re safe.”

“You know, I was expecting dessert and maybe a pat on the head. This is getting real close to kidnapping.”

Arthur chuckled and clapped Hal on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine,” he said, entirely too cheerful as he stood and started helping the interns gather up the dishes.

“We’ll pack up the hygrometre and a log sheet for you,” Mera added. “It’s analogue, so all you’ll have to do is read a number. You don’t even need to press a button. I’ll expect a complete set of readings by morning. Include visibility notes and any unusual acoustic distortion you may experience.”

“I don’t even know what counts as acoustic distortion here, Mera.”

“You’ll figure it out.” She was already sliding out of her seat and heading inside to fetch supplies for him. She continued as she went, “It’s not terribly important to my research, but it would be interesting to know if you experience anything anomalous while you're out there.”

Kaldur took the opportunity to pass him a tupperware box of leftovers. “Please write clearly. Garth struggles with your handwriting. Good luck.”

“I imagine you’ve dealt with dials before,” Mera cut in, coming back with a small crate. She pulled out a small dial, something shaped like a cross between a compass and a pocket watch, and she showed it to Hal. “Just note the needle position at ten o'clock, and then again tomorrow morning at seven. If there’s any variation in time, log it, though I’d appreciate accuracy.”

Hal narrowed his eyes at her. “Did you lure me in with dinner just so I’d say yes to free labour.”

“You regularly say yes to free labour. Dinner is just diplomacy.”

“It’s entrapment. With catering.”

She brushed him off with a wave. “You’ll have a roof over your head and a beachfront view,” she said. “You’re getting much better amenities than Arthur did on his first assignment. “

“I had to sleep in a shipping container during a tropical storm,” Arthur said.

“You volunteered to sleep in a shipping container,” Mera corrected. Arthur shrugged and disappeared into the back with Garth and Kaldur and the pile of dishes. Mera, meanwhile, returned to packing. The small crate now held the hygrometre, a log sheet tucked in a waterproof sleeve, a pencil taped to the side with labelled masking tape, and what looked like a tiny flashlight Hal was pretty sure was just decorative.

In an effort to at least pretend he had any control over the situation, Hal acquiesced. “Fine, fine, since you asked so nicely,” he said. “I’ll go to the creepy little weather cabin and write down your haunted mist notes, but I want it on record that I was coerced. And if I get lured into the fog by a hot woman in white, I’m haunting the hell out of this place.”

“We’d appreciate detailed notes on that as well.”

“Do I at least get a badge? If I’m gonna be a weather deputy, I’m gonna want some recognition.”

“Would you like us to write you a certificate?”

“Actually, yes.”

Mera rolled her eyes and turned to Arthur as he returned. Inside, Kaldur and Garth were bickering softly as they cleaned up.“Take him out before the fog gets worse,” she said, already halfway through a checklist Hal was pretty sure she’d prepared in advance. “And make sure the generator kicks on before you leave him there.”

Arthur saluted with two fingers. “I’ll tuck him in and sing a lullaby, too.”

“Careful, Curry,” Hal said, giving Arthur a sideways glance and a grin that had gotten him punched at least twice in his life. “I might start expecting flowers in the morning too.”

Hal accepted the crate and followed Arthur off the porch, shooting Mera an obliging grin as he left. As soon as they stepped down and headed further outland, the world went quiet in that particular way it always did when fog fell. Everything felt dampened, muffled, like someone had found the volume knob for the island and dialled it back to near zero.

They walked without speaking, which felt incredibly surreal given the circumstances. Hal had walked through mist before, but never to this density. There was no wind or birds or even the distant crash of waves, even though the ocean couldn’t have been more than a few hundred metres away. Just the sound of their boots crunching along the path, and Arthur humming something under his breath. .

As they crested the low rise near the trail’s edge, the soft-edged outline of the chain came into view. It was a squat little structure of weathered wood and corrugated metal, framed by leaning trees and tangled grass. It didn’t look haunted, exactly, but it had the kind of personality that could become haunted if left unsupervised.

Arthur strode up first. He hit the generator switch on the side of the cabin. The small box let out a low clunk, followed by a stuttering whirr and a few mechanical hiccups that sounded way too suspicious to Hal. But after a tense second, the light above the door buzzed faintly to life. It barely illuminated anything in the mist, but at least Hal could now check out the porch.

“This is cosy.”

“The owner said we could do whatever we wanted to the place,” Arthur said. “His only stipulation for renting on the island was that we keep clear of the seals.”

“I didn’t know you rented. Figured the place was given to you by the government. Or, like, your bosses.”

“I’m my own boss. And no. The government would have given us an old prefab, and Mera hates those on principle. We have the money to rent, so we took over a few cabins around the island. It’s useful for data collection.”

“So this place is just some guy’s spare vacation home?”

“More or less. We’ve never dealt with him directly, just his… Well, I don’t actually know who we dealt with. It was an older guy, British. Maybe his personal assistant? He didn’t actually say. He dealt with all the paperwork on behalf of the owner. Didn’t even care what we used it for, as long as we didn’t bother the wildlife.”

“Isn’t it literally your job to bother the wildlife?”

“I study the wildlife,” Arthur countered. He unlocked the door and opened it up for Hal to take a look.

It was nicer than Hal was expecting. He’d braced himself for a cramped, half-rotted shack with mildew in the corners and a half-hearted paint job to hide the evil. What he got instead was a compact space that had been renovated by someone who had enough taste and enough money to make it work to their advantage.

The space wasn’t all that big. Just a single room with a bathroom tucked off to the side and a bunk wedged beneath a built-in shelf, and it had that kind of lived-in stillness that felt less like abandonment and more like it had been waiting quietly for someone to come back.

Hal settled Mera’s crate down on a little desk under the window. “Real talk? I thought this place was gonna be a dump,” he admitted. He’d spent the night in worse places.

“It was already like this when we got here,” Arthur said from the doorway. “Some of the furniture was in storage, but the desk and the heater were already here. Mera added the books. Kaldur fixed the wiring. I installed the coat hooks.”

Hal automatically glanced to a set of mismatching hooks by the door, four of them, all slightly uneven. One was made from what looked like a repurposed boat cleat. “I can tell.”

Arthur ignored him and pointed outside into the mist. “The coast is about three minutes that way,” he explained. “There’s a narrow trail that leads straight to the bluff. You won’t see much in this fog, but the path’s marked by stakes. You’ll know it when you see it. Keep your flashlight angled down—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know how mist works. Stay low, don’t blind yourself.”

“This cabin is as close to your dock as possible without being in the sea,” Arthur continued. “So you can head out in the morning if you have more jobs. Just leave Mera’s data on the desk and I'll get one of the interns to pick it up when they’re free. There’ll be a radio in the supplies, too. Call us on channel three if anything goes wrong.”

There was a neatly labelled two-way radio sat near the top of the crate, along with a small backup battery and a laminated instruction card scrawled with Mera’s loopy handwriting. “‘If anything goes wrong’,” Hal repeated. “Cool. Really soothing detail to end it on.”

Arthur just smiled. “Thanks for helping out, Hal,” he said, tapping two knuckles against the doorframe like he was testing the integrity of the place. “The fog will clear by morning.”

With that, he stepped back in the mist, and within a few strides, he was completely swallowed up by the grey.

Chapter Text

Hal had a few hours before he was due to do Mera’s bidding, so he made use of the time the only way a man alone in a cabin could do without taking his pants off: by giving the space a thorough once-over to familiarise himself with it. He tested the old bunk (surprisingly firm), found the first aid kit dusty (mostly bandages and a flask of alcohol), and he flipped through a stack of field journals until he found one that wasn’t entirely incomprehensible. Someone had doodled sea creatures in the margins of every other page.

He tried to nap for all of three minutes, but quickly decided that if he gave in to that temptation, he wouldn’t wake up until morning and Mera would kick his ass for dereliction of duty. Instead, he stretched out on the bunk with one of the books he’d scavenged from the warped little bookshelf in the corner. It was a romance novel of the seafaring variety, apparently meant to combine salty adventure with equally salty anatomy. The cover featured a shirtless man riding a dolphin and Hal could think of at least three reasons why that wasn’t feasible.

Riveting stuff, really. There was a lot of chest-heaving, lip-biting, and bodice-ripping, though Hal had never quite figured out how that translated when everyone involved was supposed to be in swimwear. By page fifty, he was deeply invested in whether the heroine would forgive the dolphin-rider for betraying her to the Spanish navy, and by page seventy, he was determined to see how many more times the author could possibly describe the hero’s chest as ‘bronzed by Poseidon himself.’

Eventually, just as he was getting to a terribly written passage in which a string of pearls were being inserted into very creative spaces, his watch ticked past nine-fifty. Right. He had a job to do.

Hal stuffed the book under his pillow for later, because he was far too invested in Jean-Paulo’s tenuous grip on human romance and Mari-Elena’s enthusiastic jiggling to disregard the book forever. Besides, he stopped right before all the steamy bits. He really wanted to know what happened with those pearls.

He set out at a comfortable pace, keeping his flashlight angled down and following an old trail back to the coastline. There was an outcrop of rock shouldering out over the surf that he figured would make a good start. It was close enough to the waterline that he’d be able to get the humidity profile Mera wanted, but far enough from the seals’ usual stretch of beach that he wasn’t likely to run into trouble.

Even though they'd been silent since the mist rolled in, Hal kept a wary eye on the shadows anyway. He was half-convinced the bastards were lying in wait to ambush him, though that was probably just an unserious bout of paranoia in response to Asshole being, as it happens, an asshole. Those seals were dicks. He stood by that.

Hal realised abruptly that this whole situation was unnerving in a way he wasn’t used to. Not frightening, per se, but…unusual. He could hear the low rush of waves sliding over the sand, but with the thick white fog hanging over the island, it was entirely disembodied. It could have been five feet away, or fifty. That was the problem with mist like this. It bent your sense of distance until you weren’t sure if you were heading toward the ocean or if the ocean was coming to meet you.

He slowed his pace, just in case. The last thing he wanted was to wander straight into the surf, vanish in the fog, and become another campfire story told by people who never actually liked him that much. Knowing his perfectly bad luck, he’d trip over a half-buried log, crack his skull on a rock, and get washed out to sea, never to be seen again. Someone would find his shoe a month later, chewed on by crabs.

Just as he was considering a Cast Away situation, the ground beneath him shifted, with sand giving way to the crunch of pebbles underfoot.That felt promising. He angled the light ahead, squinting into the pale soup of fog, and decided he must have reached the outcrop he’d been aiming for. At least, he hoped so as he found a slab broad enough to sit without immediately bruising his tailbone.

With exaggerated care — because if there was one thing he’d learned in life, it was that you respected other people’s equipment more than your own — Hal dug out the tools Mera had entrusted to him. She’d made her stance on damage to research gear perfectly clear the first time they met, and her stance had included the phrase ‘Your life is worth no more to me than the batteries in my radio’, so he was treating the pack like it was the most precious cargo in the world.

The hygrometre was easy enough, just an old-school dial with a simple analogue readout. He was good with things like that, the kind of tools that didn’t talk back and didn’t require seventeen passwords to function, having learnt to fly in a cockpit full of dials and switches and levers that got stuck unless you had the right biceps for it. The sight of a clean little needle swinging between numbers was downright comforting, like a trustworthy old friend. He squinted at it dutifully, tongue caught between his teeth, as he jotted down the figures he supposed were important

It was there, while fumbling with Mera’s precious equipment and making a valiant effort at keeping his handwriting within the realm of human legibility, that he found the thing.

Some slick, black, entirely out of place thing.

At first he ignored it. He chalked it up to a trick of the light. Maybe another slick rock on the uneven ground or a fog-shadow caught between the rising mist and the tide-damp stones. There were plenty of black and shiny things around here. Wet kelp looked black in the moonlight. Mussel shells, pebbles polished by the surf, little squelches of sea-stuff that fell outside of Hal’s expertise.

Except, the more he recorded Mera’s data, the weirder it seemed to him. This black blob of thing had shape to it, though not in the messy, haphazard way nature usually scattered its junk. It was…folded? Literally folded up in a deliberate geometry that never happened by accident.

Hal finally looked up to frown at it. His pencil stalled on the log sheet, leaving a half-finished flourish under the words he’d been in the middle of writing: ’Probably not haunted’. He added those kinds of notes purely to antagonise Mera, because nothing brought him more joy than watching her left eyebrow try to climb off her face. Now, though, a joke like that was falling a little flat when it looked like this blob of thing had been hidden there deliberately. Possibly by a ghost, if Hal was as incredibly unlucky as he liked to think himself.

He stuck out a leg and gave it a cautious nudge with the toe of his boot, grimacing at the way it slithered over in a fluid slump. “Urgh, gross,” he muttered.

Perhaps optimistically, his brain didn’t immediately make the connection to animal hide. To him, with only Mera’s gear, a flashlight beam, and the quiet of the coastline for company, it just looked like a wet, heavy-looking pile of thing.

He thought it might be a coat, for a moment. Maybe waxed canvas or some oilskin windbreaker for when a storm rolled in. That actually made sense, if Hal didn’t think too hard about it. Arthur was forever losing bits of gear in odd places along the shoreline, and usually he managed to collect it all again before heading back to base. Maybe this one had slipped through the cracks, abandoned here for a week or two until the damp made it look like something dredged up from a Lovecraftian novella.

Hal slipped off his rock to get a better look. The beam of his torch caught the sheen of it, glossy and dark, a surface that seemed to drink in the light more than reflect it. It had a weight to it, this weird pile, even just sitting there all innocently.

The texture was all wrong for a coat. He could see that without having to even touch it. It was softer, more organic. Almost like…huh. Kinda like fur, he supposed, though denser and sleeker than anything he’d seen hanging off a hanger. He squinted at it and pulled in his lower lip to chew on it in thought. Unless Arthur and Mera had turned their backs on their ethics and started sourcing their outerwear from the endangered species aisle, this wasn’t clothing.

He crouched, letting the cold from the rock seep through his khakis even though he knew he’d complain about it to himself later, and he leaned in suspiciously. The fur — because it definitely was fur, he could see that clearly now — was tight and fine. There was subtle sheen to it, water-beaded and sleek like something freshly pulled from the back of a living thing. He followed the line of it with his gaze, down to where the pelt tapered into a clean, natural edge that didn’t look cut so much as complete.

There was a blissfully ignorant moment of huh, that’s pretty cool, before Hal realised what he was looking at.

“Shit,” he said. “Shit. Shit.”

He stood up fast, scrubbing his hands against his khakis even though he hadn’t touched it, and he turned in a slow circle to try and spot something, anything, that would make this make sense. A blood trail, maybe. A carcass. A scatter of prints. Any kind of sign that whatever this was had been part of something else before it wound up tucked here.

Weirdly enough, he found nothing — though, maybe that was the mist hiding the evidence. Had to be, right? There was no way a pelt would just be neatly folded up in the hidden seams of the rocky outcrop, like someone had peeled it from its owner and stashed it for later.

Poachers. Had to be. Someone had come to the island, seen a family of seals chilling and living their best blubbery lives on the beach, and decided they were a mealticket. That was the only explanation that made any kind of sense. If, of course, you ignored all the parts where it didn’t.

Oh, goddamn it. Some stupid, asshole, loser, dickfaced poachers had actually taken one of the seals, hadn’t they? Hal may not have had the warmest reputation with the local colony, but that didn’t mean he wanted any of them flayed for the sake of lining someone’s wallet. They were dicks, yes. They were his dicks.

But if it was poachers, then why did they decide to leave the pelt behind? That was like stealing a car and deciding the engine was optional. Hal didn’t know much about the fine art of wildlife crime, but he was pretty sure the pelt was one of the more valuable aspects of perfectly peeling a goddamn seal.

He ran a hand through his hair, catching his fingers on a knot, and glanced from the black pelt to the empty shore. He still couldn’t see a damn thing in this fog, not even the suggestion of a silhouette, but that didn’t stop him from squinting accusingly. He figured if he looked long enough, maybe some asshole with a gun and a skinning knife would emerge from the mist with a monologue locked and loaded. Assholes, Hal found in his three-plus decades of experience, always had a goddamn monologue.

With the pelt just sitting there, Hal figured he probably needed to pick it up and bring it to someone who could help, but he didn’t want to touch it. God, he really didn’t want to touch it. Everything in him screamed that it was a boundary he wasn’t supposed to cross, the kind of line that got you cursed in fairy tales or chewed out by priests. It felt like trespassing into a cathedral with muddy boots and a lit cigarette, or licking the third rail just to see what would happen. But leaving it there seemed worse. It was just…there. Looking like a creepy lump of flesh in the thickening fog, all glistening and exotic-y.

Hal grimaced and stretched out a hand anyway. He hovered his fingers above it for a long second, half-expecting it to lurch or whisper or bite him, before he finally decided that being overdramatic was a way of life he liked to inflict on other people, and not himself. He let his hand settle against the fur.

Ugh, it was still warm. Not radiating heat so much, but carrying that residual living warmth of something that had just been shed in the past twenty minutes, like the latent heat you’d get on a coat after shrugging it off. Which was, he decided, creepy as hell. The night was warm, as they tended to be in Californian summers, but the fog and the coast and the definitely-haunted-but-probably-not island had brought with it a weird chill that Hal was pretending didn’t exist.

When he picked it up, it flopped into his arms with way more weight than he’d braced for, sending him skidding sideways on the slick stones. Bigger, too. Much bigger than it had looked tucked neatly into the outcrop like a folded towel. Which, by process of logic he really didn’t want to pursue, probably meant that it was one of the heavyweights. Asshole, maybe. Or even Spooky. If anyone on this island could conceivably wrestle a seal as big as Spooky out of his own skin, then Hal didn’t particularly want to meet them.

He shook the thought off and glanced down at the bundle squelched in his grip, as if it might cough up an explanation if he stared hard enough. Well, squelched was probably the wrong onomatopoeia to use here. That was the sound of boots in mud or fish guts being dropped on deck or the skin of something that had just died, and this thing wasn’t any of that. The pelt was alarmingly dry. Neat, weirdly enough, like someone had taken the time to tan the skin properly before leaving it on the coastline.

Creepy.

Hal was too pretty for this National Geographic: Blair Witch Edition shit. The pelt didn’t bleed. It didn’t drip. It didn’t even smell, which was what convinced him more than anything else that something weird was going on. Everything on this damn island smelled. Seaweed, salt, mildew, damp wood, Arthur.

Before his brain could really go into overdrive about the logistics of carrying around a mystery skin, Hal tucked it under his arm. He had Mera’s data and he had an unsettling feeling in the back of his neck, so there was absolutely no need for him to linger along the creepy coastline. Not when there was a perfectly good cabin sitting warm and safe and entirely un-haunted back where he came.

He made pretty good time on the short hike back, mostly because he wasn't interested in stopping for anything less than a natural disaster. And even then, depending on the disaster, he might’ve just picked up the pace. The pelt was shifting against his ribs every few steps as though trying to remind him it existed. Which was unnecessary, really. It was very hard to forget you were carrying a full-on animal skin under your arm.

The minute he got back to the cabin, he dropped the pelt over the back of one of the wooden chairs. The thing hung there limp and damp and a little sullen, draping way too neatly for something that was stolen off some poor creature. The thought made his stomach twist, and he shot it a narrow-eyed glance before giving it a wide berth so he could grab the radio from Mera’s crate.

“Coastwatch to Salty Boy, do you copy?” he drawled, dropping into the opposite chair. “Arthur, come on, man. I’ve found something weird and I’m willing to overshare about it.”

It gave a splutter of static in response and then fell to dead air. Hal waited for a moment. He tapped the table with his fingers, he absently wondered if he could afford to splash out for the good beer this month, he mentally reminded himself to do his laundry. The radio stayed silent.

On occasion, Hal could be pretty patient. He calmly twisted the dial to move through every available channel in the slim hope that Arthur had decided to camp out on an obscure band for no reason other than to be a dick, but no luck. Just a hiss, a mechanical whimper, and the occasional pop.

Less patiently, Hal whacked the rounded end of the set against the edge of the table. Not hard enough to break it, just enough to establish dominance. The radio responded with another grumbling sputter, coughed out a garbled scrap of static, and fell dead again.

“You cheaped out on the radio,” he hissed into the cracking receiver. “How do you have that much money and cheap out on the radio?”

He threw it down to the table and folded arms pettily, glaring at it like he somehow expected the radio to feel shame for being shit. It didn’t oblige, of course. Radios never did. Hal let the silence stew for a second longer before sighing and dragging it back towards him with one hand. He flipped it over, jiggled the plastic node that made up the antenna, and inspected the block for visible damage. It would suck if he actually had to fork out for a replacement just because he decided to take a chunk out of the thing.

Once he assured himself that he hadn’t damaged Arthur’s equipment, he set it down a lot more gently and then leaned back in his chair. Automatically, he cast another glance at the pelt.

It hadn’t moved, obviously. It just hung there over the spine of the chair, looking all weird and fleshy like a shawl in a Curios shop. The longer he stared, the less sense it made that someone would go out of their way to poach a skin like this. It was a deep, lovely black, but it wasn’t exactly the kind of pristine you’d expect from a prized pelt. The whole thing was crisscrossed with pale scars, each one jagged or curved or puckered like someone had gone at it with a blunt blade.

Definitely Spooky, then. Asshole had visible scarring too, but not to this level. And that… Well, that sucked some serious ass. Hal rubbed the back of his neck, uneasy. What would happen to the rest of the pod now that the big boy in charge had been reduced to a creepy throw blanket? Colonies didn’t just keep humming along without their top bruiser, did they?

God. The baby. What about the damn baby? Would one of the others adopt it? Did seals even work like that? Or would the little guy just be left to honk miserably at the waves until he got picked off by the next opportunistic shark?

Hal fished his phone out of his pocket to check dear old Google, but was treated to a blunt notification telling him there was no signal. Of course. He shoved it back and told himself firmly that the pup would be fine. One of the older seals would take it under their wing. And if not, Arthur and Mera would know what to do. They probably had a whole catalog of ethical facilities that raised orphaned seal pups.

“Poor bastard,” he muttered, unsure whether he was talking about the pup, Spooky, or the whole pod in general.

There was no way he could let this go now. He’d have to delay his flight out in the morning so he could head back to the research hub. Not the end of the world, Hal supposed. He was pretty sure he didn’t have anything logged for tomorrow anyway, so he could hike out in the morning, hand Mera’s data over personally, and dump the pelt in their laps with an impassioned, “Look what someone left me on your creepy beach, please explain.”

For now, he decided to shove the whole situation into the cluttered junk drawer at the back of his mind and let it be tomorrow’s problem. He kicked off his boots, shimmied out of his cargo shorts, and crossed over to the little cot in the corner. The mattress creaked too-loudly, but he dropped into it anyway, flung an arm over his eyes, and let the rhythm of the fog-muted surf fill in as a lullaby.

Sleep came quickly and quietly, tugging him under before he had time to rerun the evening’s weirdness too many times. But, because today was evidently not going to let him win, it didn’t last. Not nearly long enough.

Hal had never been a deep sleeper. Even before the military had trained his body into constant half-alert readiness, he’d always been the guy who jolted awake at the snap of a twig, or the world’s most inconsiderate floorboard. It was one of those cute little quirks that made napping a gamble and resting through the night a luxury.

He wasn’t all that sure what woke him this time around. A noise, maybe? Or even the absence of one. Some kind of subtle shift that pried his eyes open before his brain had caught up, leaving him staring up into the dark with the bleary but primal sense of shit-something’s-wrong-here.

Moving abruptly felt like the wrong move, so Hal barely moved at all. Not at first, anyway. He kept himself flat on the cot, eyes barely slitted, and turned his head just enough to get a wider slice of the room in view. The habit was old, drilled deep from two different schools of hard knocks: the Air Force’s endless training games of spot the ambush and his childhood specialty of pretending to be asleep so Mom didn’t catch past bedtime. Same principle. Don’t twitch. Don’t freak out. Don’t reveal. Just listen. Let the body do its best impression of sleep while the brain tried to line up the puzzle pieces.

The fog-muted surf was still out there, low and steady, but the air in the cabin had shifted just a fraction to the left. There was weight in the air that hadn’t been there before. Not noise exactly, more like the sense of someone else’s breathing, faint, measured and definitely, certainly, absolutely not his.

That was all it took. Hal’s body kicked into gear, adrenaline snapping into place before he’d fully formed the thought. He knew, with the awful clarity of instinct, that he wasn’t alone. There was another man standing at the door of the cabin. And goddamn, he was naked.

Chapter Text

The first coherent thought that struck Hal, right after the mental gong of what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck, was that the man had excellent posture. Which, frankly, was an unfair thing to lead with. If you were going to appear naked in the middle of someone’s cabin at ass o’clock in the morning, the least you could do was have the decency to look uncomfortable about it. Maybe hunch a little. Cover the bits. Exhibit some goddamn humility.

This intruder stood in the doorway like he’d placed himself there to be deliberately silhouetted by the moonlight behind him. Shoulders back, chin high, feet bare, goddamn dick out and just, like, hanging there as if it were no big deal. It was almost like his nudity was just a minor oversight and the burden of shame lay squarely with Hal for being awake to notice it.

And Hal, very grudgingly, was certainly noticing. In the split-second midst of fight-or-flight, he was clocking all the angles and shadows and plains of skin, just in case this happened to be a dream. He’d had his share of vivid, embarrassing dreams involving mysterious visitors appearing in his bedroom before, but those were usually accompanied by flattering lighting, better sheets and the soundtrack to a cheesy 80’s porno flick.

Mr. Nudity had that sheer, ghost-pale pallour of someone who hadn’t ever seen the sun, and it made him near translucent in the moonlight. His hair was dark and damp, sticking to his furrowed forehead in waves that almost looked styled. Actually, no, it wasn’t just his hair. It turned out the whole naked lot of him was wet.

If that discourtesy wasn’t enough, this stupid, gorgeous stranger had the sheer, unmitigated gall to glare at him. Not even in confusion, the way Mera sometimes did whenever she found a problem she hadn’t solved yet, but in that kind of sharp, imperious way that suggested Hal was the issue here.

It hit him right in the base of his skull, right in that caveman spot where all his deep-rooted issues with authority stewed until provoked. Alongside it, there was a little voice hissing, “Fight him now, right now, kick him in the dick.”

Hal’s second coherent thought, which followed on the heels of the first, was that he needed to get his ass into gear and react appropriately to the situation. Really, any response would be better than standing there in bewilderment, caught in that terrible, glittering moment of staring at a naked stranger in his cabin and trying to decide if this counted as a crime or an especially vivid symptom of brain damage.

“You’re dripping,” he said at last. Then he threw a punch.

Hot or not, this guy was still very wet, very naked, and very uninvited. Hal had a personal doctrine about situations like that. If someone materialised out of nowhere, bare-assed in the moonlight, and then had the audacity to treat you like you’re the asshole, you hit first and sort out the extradition treaties later.

Hal could throw a mean right hook when it came down to it. He wasn’t a fan of unnecessary violence, but he was a strong believer in necessary violence, if that at all made sense to anyone who wasn’t him. While, yeah, there were certainly cleaner ways to handle a conflict, but none of them really delivered that raw, visceral satisfaction of landing a punch square in someone’s centre mass.

He’d been throwing hands since he was a teenager, the first time being behind some shitty gas station in Barstow after some mouthy kid — Leo or Larry or Liam, something forgettable and beginning with L — said some shitty things about Dad. His temper had answered before his brain could draft a rebuttal, and that moment had become the blueprint. Don’t start shit, but don’t stand there with your thumb up your ass either.

He’d learned to talk his way out of trouble since then, mostly, but this didn’t feel like a talking situation. This felt like a solve-with-punch moment.

The naked guy was fast. Not in that twitchy way of someone hopped up on adrenaline or drugs, but in that smooth, infuriating way that made Hal suspect this wasn’t his first time being a nighttime weirdo.

He didn’t dodge so much as he declined the punch. He drifted out of the way, barely shifting his weight to let the fist glide by. The momentum had Hal stumbling forward half a step before he caught himself and whirled back around to launch into what quickly became the weirdest fight of his life.

The guy moved quickly like he’d been trained in some serious shit, something heavier and more brutal than the standard-issue hand-to-hand Hal picked up in the military. Hal knew how to fight, he was good at it. He could drop a guy twice his size if he had to, and had done so more than once. But this guy … Well, fast was one thing. Hal could deal with fast pretty well. It was the precision that was screwing him over.

Every movement was disgustingly tight and economical, like he’d mapped out Hal’s brawly, go-for-broke fighting style in advance and rehearsed counters in his spare time. A block here, a shift there, never more or less than he needed. All with a cool, burning indifference that made Hal want to plant a fist right in his pretty face, just to see if it’d crack.

All that would’ve been fine. Great, even. Hal had been in plenty of fights where he was the underdog. He kind of liked it that way. There was nothing more satisfying than winning a round you were probably supposed to lose. But, Jesus, there were limbs everywhere and all of them were naked.

It was incredibly difficult to focus when every sidestep came with an accidental flash of things. It would’ve been completely impossible if Hal wasn’t so good at what he did. Thank the powers that be far all those years of training, because those instincts were probably the only thing keeping him from getting absolutely wrecked by a slippery, butt-naked weirdo.

Hal’s big, beautiful money brain kept firing off signals between skin and muscle and damn, that’s hot. It wasn’t enough to actually distract him from the fight, but he still caught a solid strike under the chin that sent him staggering backwards into the table with a grunt. And even then, that traitorous little corner of his mind perked up helpfully with with, well that’s gonna bruise sexy

The jab snapped his head sideways and knocked his balance all to hell. Hal stumbled, regrouped, and barely had time to snarl something appropriately violent before his legs were swept clean out from under him.

The floor rose up and smacked into his back, knocking the air straight from his lungs. Before he could even think about throwing himself back to his feet, the man was on him. He moved too quick, straddling Hal’s hips and slamming one forearm across his sternum with absurd ease.

His physical strength was obscene. Hal’s limbs flailed for purchase for half a second, but there was nowhere to go. The guy had one of Hal’s arms pressed into the floor, and managed the other by pressing his knee painfully against his wrist. Most of the pressure fell into the dip of his tendon, where it kept his hand trapped and useless against the wood.

The man leaned in close and said with a low, slow growl, “Where is it?”

“Screw you,” Hal spat back. Then, he drew his head back against the cabin floor, grit his teeth, and headbutted the fucker.

The crack that followed was loud, ugly, and extremely gratifying. Hal’s vision flashed white for a second and he felt something give. Hopefully not his own nose. There was a hot sting across the bridge of it, sure, but the more important part was that the man reeled back with a sharp, surprised grunt and a gloriously satisfying spatter of blood.

Hal shoved upward, trying to ride the recoil into breaking the hold, but the pressure against his chest didn’t budge. Apparently, tall, dark, and naked had all the fortitude of a goddamn bastion.

It looked hopeful for a second, because Hal had done some real damage with his good ol’ thick head. The weirdo was stunned for maybe a moment where his expression flickered. A thin line of blood dripped down his nose to curl along his Cupid’s bow, and his lips were pulled into a disbelieving sneer.

Hopeful seconds didn’t mean shit when the guy he was fighting was made of stone. Instead of reeling away to instinctively cup his broken nose, Weird Naked Man just shifted his weight more deliberately to keep the upperhand. Two-hundred-some pounds of damp, implacable muscle settled a little more heavily onto Hal’s already struggling chest.

Didn’t matter. Hal was good at wringing advantages where there were none, and that microsecond of an opening was enough for him. He twisted hard, ramming his shoulder into the guy’s ribs with everything he could muster. There wasn’t a lot of room to throw his full weight behind it, but Hal didn’t need perfection. He just needed impact.

It was enough to knock the guy sideways. He went with the blow, though not gracefully this time. It was a rough, forced roll that had more grunt than glide, and Hal scrambled after him to press the advantage while he had it.

When he collided with him this time, it immediately introduced a new kind of problem. There was just so much exposed flesh. Grabbing for leverage turned into a disorienting game of ‘what body part is this and do I want to be holding it,’ which wasn’t really ideal mid-fight.

Hal ended half-kneeling on his chest. He cut his arm up and under the guy’s jaw, bracing the crook against the hard line of his throat, and drove down with everything he had to keep the guy in place. Which should’ve worked, really. It would have worked with literally anyone else in the world.

Apparently, this guy had a neck made of rebar. Instead of choking or straining or even looking remotely bothered, he just…refused. He decided he wasn’t going to be pinned, and his body agreed. Every tendon flexed against Hal’s effort and he began to force himself.

Fine, asshole. Plan B it was.

Hal caught a handful of dark, water-damp hair and yanked. He slammed the guy’s skull back into the floorboards with a nice, wonderfully solid thunk that should’ve rattled teeth and loosened some brain cells.

“Why—” Thunk.

“Wont—” Thunk.

“You—” Thunk.

“Go—” Thunk.

“Down!?”

He put all of his irritation into that last slam, driving the back of his head into the floor hard enough to splinter the wood a little. By all rights, the bastard should’ve been out cold, drooling into the cabin floor.

The universe clearly had it in for Hal, because the guy just blinked through the impact. In the next heartbeat, he caught Hal’s wrist and twisted, burning a line of pain from forearm straight into the elbow until it all felt like static. Tomorrow’s flight home was going to be hell if it stayed like that, and the brief thought alone of fucking his arm up longterm was enough for Hal to react accordingly.

He drove his knee up into the stretch of inner thigh, just below the groin, and twisted hard into the nerve cluster. Honestly, he’d been aiming higher. Gotta go for a more dramatic statement with situations like this, you know? But the guy yanked on his arm mid-swing like he was trying to tear it straight from the socket, and the shock of it sent Hal’s aim wide. Which was unfortunate. Weirdos like this deserved getting a knee to the balls.

They shifted again, rolling into the side of a chair with matching grunts. Something slipped free from the back, and Hal barely had the wherewithal to realise it was the strange, scarred pelt thumping to the door. It landed a little ways from Hal’s head, coiled and shining in the breakways of moonlight through the window.

The fight stuttered. It didn’t exactly stop really, but it paused that wild way animals go still when something is moving in the dark. Hal, breathless, bruised, and now flat on his back, tipped his head awkwardly against the floor to stare up at it. The naked guy froze above him, hand braced against Hal’s throat as an afterthought, and his eyes locked onto the pelt.

He lunged with warning. Hal had seen people move that instinctively only a handful of times in his life: once when his handler went for the ejection handle back in his training days, and once when Dad had to catch Jim after he fell off their motel balcony on a trip to Daytona. It was that sharp kind of urgency that said ’if I don’t get to it first, something terrible is gonna happen’.

Hal got a faceful of damp skin and solid muscle as the guy surged forward over him. And, yeah, okay, maybe the inner voice in his head that lived to cause problems whispered a low, appreciative nice as he ended up essentially motorboating a stranger, but Hal had bigger things to deal with. Namely, a lunatic trying to grab the animal skin.

“Oh no you fucking don’t,” Hal snapped, throwing himself up after him.

They crashed down again with a thud that rattled the windows as they scrambled over the strip of fur. Hal caught him around the waist and, for lack of space to do any real damage, ended up sinking his teeth just below the ribs. He tasted vaguely of seasalt, kind of like when you open your mouth while bodysurfing and instantly realise you’d miscalculated your own mortality.

It worked. Sort of.

Well, it ‘worked’ in that it gave Hal a brief sense of satisfaction, but not in the sense of doing anything useful. He was either a kinky bastard, or he had the ability to completely shut off his pain receptors, because even though Hal bit down hard enough to break the skin, the guy didn’t even flinch. He just twisted one hand into Hal’s hair to keep him out of the way, and reached for the pelt with the other.

He got to it first. Hal’s fingers were just half a second too slow and they skimmed uselessly over the slick surface as the weirdo clamped down on the pelt with a singular feral focus. Then, without even giving Hal a chance to, like, choke a bitch out, or whatever he thought he’d be able to do on impulse, the guy rolled away.

He didn’t even have the decency to look stupid while he disengaged. He slipped out of Hal’s grip and onto his knees so smoothly that it wouldn’t have looked out of place in one of those cheesy action movies where the characters are just a bit too cool for it to be believable.

Hal scrambled after him, of course, halfway to feral himself now. His own knees barked against the floor, and his hand shot out to catch whatever he could of that pale, wet bastard before he vanished into the shadows to do whatever weirdos did when they engaged in a light bout of home invasion to — what, steal a pelt?

Before he could do anything, the man slung the pelt around his shoulders like a cloak and—

And—

And.

There was a fucking seal in the cabin.

There was—

There was a fucking seal in the cabin.

In one blink, there was a crazy naked guy crouched on the floor, and in the next, there was a pop or a whoosh, or maybe just the sound of Hal’s sanity just straight up snapping.

A goddamn seal. Huge seal. Familiar seal. Wedged between the toppled chair and the table, black and scarred and gleaming in the moonlight. Staring at Hal with the same open derision he always did when he presided over his coastline to watch the seaplane come to dock.

“What the fuuuuuuck?”

The seal… The seal. Goddamn, the seal. It huffed in that way seals do when they found themselves in situations they’d rather not be in. Only, it was less of a ‘oh my god, stop, I’m just a blubbery ocean-baby’ kind of noise, and more of a very specific, very pointed, very human-sounding exasperation, like Hal was somehow the one being unreasonable here.

It — he — Spooky? — narrowed his seal-eyes at Hal, which was probably not a thing seals should’ve been able to do. They were supposed to be round and doe-eyed and vaguely apologetic about existing on land and in Hal’s cabin.

With Hal’s entire understanding of the natural order collapsing around him in an instant, he did the only thing any reasonable person would’ve done when confronted with a potentially supernatural event of incomprehensible magnitude.

He, of course, punched the seal in the snout.

Listen. Listen. It didn’t count as a violation of any wildlife protection laws if the seal in question was an asshole. Or, and this was important, if the seal was secretly a super hot naked guy who just finished breaking and entering while Hal was sleeping. That was textbook creep behaviour, and nobody could get sanctimonious about it when that was the situation.

Besides, it wasn’t even a good punch. More of a startled jab, really. HIs fist connected square with that shiny black nose and sent a small ripple through all that blubber. It was like throwing a haymaker at a wet beanbag chair. Not satisfying at all.

Spooky froze. His head retracted into the fat, and he stared at Hal with an expression he could only interpret as ‘???’. Then the…the creature turned his head very slowly, and fixed Hal with a long, deliberate stare. It wasn’t angry, exactly. More… disappointed. The kind of look that made Hal wish the thing would just go ahead and call him an idiot out loud, just so they could both move on with their lives.

Hal threw up both his hands. “Lemme explain—”

As it turned out, Spooky did not feel like letting him explain. Instead, he launched itself forward with all the weight of a small boat and body-slammed Hal flat onto the floor. All the air whooshed out of him in something between a wheeze and a tragic squeak, like someone had let all the air out of his balloon, and he flailed weakly at the sudden bulk squishing him into the floorboards.

“Fu–oof—” Hal shoved at his side, then at his shoulder, then his entire blubbery ass. “Get— off— me—!” he barked between silly little slaps.

“Hnf,” Spooky said, which, in context, was somehow both a noise and a fully articulated threat.

To make sure Hal truly appreciated the gravity of the situation, the seal shifted his considerable bulk and sank down even harder on his ribcage, until something deep inside him creaked ominously. Not quite broken, not yet, but definitely flirting with the idea. Hal had absolutely no doubt that if he so much as breathed wrong in this bastard’s direction, he would flatten himself until Hal’s ribs were generously introduced to his spine.

That, Hal realised as he let his head drop to the floorboards, should’ve been a far more concerning factor. As it was, Hal wasn’t the kind of guy to think ahead about things like that, and he settled for glaring up at the seal with all the venom he could muster.

“Okay, okay,” he snapped — or croaked, technically, since his lungs were currently more decorative than functional right about now. “I get it, you’re mad. Jesus, I yield, I surrender, whatever! Just— off!”

Only after a moment of proving his big blubbery point did Spooky slide off him in one smooth dismissive motion. Weirdly graceful for something that had no legs.

Well. Until he did.

Because suddenly it wasn’t a seal any more. It was the man again, crouched bare on the boards and still wearing the slick, scarred pelt around his shoulders. When he rose to his full height, it closed around him like a cape.

The moonlight caught only the sharpest lines of him in that position. The cut of his jaw, the gleam of pale eyes sunk in shadow and, the straight sneer of someone who had absolutely no patience left for whatever fresh bullshit Hal might’ve been cooking up.

“Touch this again," he said, “and I’ll break every bone you have.”

It took a beat for the threat to actually register, because Hal’s brain was still busy trying to piece together what the hell had just happened and whether he could write it off as fun hallucination. But when it did register, Hal’s hackles shot all the way up. He threw himself upwards, ready to fling himself into the fray and tell this lunatic exactly where he could shove his edgy threats.

Only, when he did, Spooky was somehow gone.

Hal’s legs were bowed in preparation to lunge, and his hands were already baled up into fists, halfway to a punch that now had nowhere to land. His gaze darted wildly around the room, still expecting…something, he supposed. A spooky shadow, maybe. A breath of movement in the corner. Maybe even the unsettling sound of evil blubber just, like, sliding menacingly across the floorboards or something.

Because he committed to poor decisions, Hal scrambled towards the door. His bare feet met an uncomfortable dampness on the planks, but that was the least of his worries as he planted himself in the frame, hands gripping either side like he was fully prepared to use it to propel himself out into the night and go for round two in the ring.

He leaned out into the fog with a squint. Not that he’d actually thought all this through. If the guy-seal-nudist-thing was still out there, maybe lurking in the enveloping grey, then Hal wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to do about it. Yell? Nah, that was loser behaviour.

He could throw a punch and hope it connected hard enough to make steaks out of the seal. Maybe. Or — and this had its appeal — he could just shake his fist at the mist and die theatrically, because clearly he was up against some kind supernatural bullshit with big biceps and no regard for personal space or human propriety. Both viable options, really.

In the end, there was nothing to see and nothing to fight. Just the mist pressing in from the coast and the unnatural silence of being alone in a cabin.

Chapter Text

Bruce was pissed.

The day had already been going pretty terribly for him, and Bruce had always been the type who could brood on the smallest hitch until it became near obsessive. WIth catastrophes on a grander scale, sure, he had taught himself to handle those with nothing but a frown and the belief that this too shall pass, but it was the little things that like to screw him over.

The minute he stubbed his toe as a human or got caught in an old abandoned net as a seal, it was over. The day was done. He was grumpy. He was staying grumpy. And everyone else could drown.

It started when a crab pinched his ass. Completely unprovoked, too, which was the kind of disrespect he should probably have been accustomed to these days. Bruce had long since resigned himself to such indignities, ever since he adopted an orphaned selkie pup from a travelling circus sixteen years ago and somehow kept acquiring more. The sea, it turned out, was vast, full of lost children, and utterly incapable of respecting boundaries once you became the sort of creature who parented.

Today’s culprit was a small, bulbous-eyed crustacean. It had scuttled up behind him while he was floating belly-up in the shallows with Cass napping on his stomach. The little monster had chosen to wait until Bruce was in a contented mood to strike, and it snapped its claws right at that vulnerable patch just below the small of the back.

He hadn’t reacted at first. He’d had bigger injuries and bigger insults before, but such boldness couldn’t go unpunished. With narrowed eyes, he rolled over to his front, gently sliding Cass off. (Waking her up, doubtlessly, but she remained floating like she was happy to go back to sleep and leave Bruce to his vengeance.)

That left him free to hunch back and coil himself ready for launching. Dramatics like this were necessary when one had to gather the proper velocity required to torpedo over and swallow the offender whole, legs first.

But then Damian had stared at him with his big green eyes and his fluffy brown coat, all doe-eyed and wounded and ’You told me we were better than this’. An absurd bit of moral posturing from a child who used to bite fish in half just to prove a point, but it was enough for Bruce’s wind up to fizzle out into nothing.

Ever since he realised he was, horrifyingly, allowed to love things, Damian had started to direct most of his affection into the protection of animals. He’d recently discovered veganism, and while he grudgingly tolerated the family hunting for their food, he drew the line at mindless snacking.

A difficult lifestyle for a species who had legs maybe four times a year, but Damian was happy and healthy so Bruce couldn’t complain. He let the crab go and chewed kelp instead. This, he reflected, was the price of fatherhood.

Honestly, it wasn’t just the crab that ruined his day, but it had been the catalyst for it. The real rot in his mood had been festering for months, even since they migrated to California some six months ago.

For all its poisons, Gotham had been home for Bruce. Its waters were slick with industrial runoff and pollution, but Bruce had known ever current and cove and rusted out shipwreck more intimately than he knew himself. He’d known how the seat tasted when the tide was low and brackish, what it meant when the gulls left the shoreline to scream inland. It was a living, rotting, beloved thing and he belonged to it as much as it to him.

He hadn’t wanted to leave, but Dick had looked at him with his bright, earnest eyes and firmly said, “We need to go.” That had been the end of it.

For someone who spent the majority of his life exterminating his own weaknesses, Bruce could certainly be soft. He took one look at his boy and folded. He liked to believe he wasn’t always that easy to manipulate, especially not when it came to seismic things like relocating the entire family. But unfortunately, Bruce loved his family more than he hated change.

In the end, it had been Talia who tipped the scales. Well, not Talia herself, precisely. She’d arrived in Gotham with a knife in one hand and a secret son in the other, and Bruce had taken one look at the boy and understood. Damian, all baby-fat and eyebrows, carried himself with the deliberate fury of someone that had been denied something essential, and it had been painfully, heartwrenchingly clear that Damian was not as human as his mother was.

It turned out Damian had never even seen the sea when Bruce met him. Which was… God, the thought gutted him. To think that his son had spent his entire life severed from what made him whole, all because his grandfather was a complicated, cruel man with motives that went beyond Bruce’s already comprehensive understanding.

Talia had tried to play it off, like she hadn’t been watching their son stare longingly at puddles, but she wasn’t fooling Bruce this time. For all her edges, she had never been as heartless as Ra’s expected her to be. Cruel, yes. Ruthless, certainly. But her love ran deep and terrible and sharp, and there was no way she’d let her baby grow up in a pain that permanent.

She’d seen Bruce, after all, during that long, bitter stretch in Nanda Parbat when he’d been nothing more than muscle and rage and a feckless fool who was withering out of the water. Bruce didn’t talk about his past often, but he still carried them in the hollowed spaces of his chest. To go willingly without his pelt, to bend to Ra’s under the pretense of discipline and training, to try and beat the call of the sea, it had left him calcified in ways he was only just beginning to unlearn.

Ra’s hadn’t cared for the sea. He told Bruce as much back when they met all those years ago. He’d cared for lineage, inheritance, and what Bruce’s unique blood could offer his murder cult once separated from the salt. It made a terrible sort of sense that he would treat Damian the same way he tried to treat Bruce.

That was all in the past. They’d moved west to give Damian a chance in waters that didn’t try to choke him with pollution, and Bruce had been making an effort to focus on the now. He was really, truly trying, but California grated at him in ways both petty and profound. The sand was the wrong texture. The fish tasted strange. The rocks were drying weird. And now, on top of everything, some oversunned stranger had punched him in the face.

If Bruce were the type to groan, he would have stuck his head in the sand and screamed instead. The worst part of the whole miserable evening was that he hadn’t even intended to be seen, and usually that meant he wouldn’t be. The plan was to collect his pelt in silence and slip away before that Hal Jordan guy even knew he was there.

What he didn’t bank on (though he certainly should have, given the man’s military history), was that Hal Jordan was a terribly light sleeper. Bruce hadn’t made a sound. He knew every creak and corner of that damn cabin, and he was light enough on his feet to make even the slightest of noises silent in the night. Apparently the mere crime of breathing a fraction too loud was enough to wake the dead.

Bruce had underestimated him. How annoying. He’d factor that in for next time, should there ever be a next time.

His frustration worsened as he headed back to the family. The same family he had just put in danger by being reckless enough to change in front of a stranger. It had been…unintentional. Unlike him, too. Bruce had never been the type to act so foolishly, especially when it came to something as vital as the family secret. It was just… He just…

No. He shouldn’t make excuses. It didn’t matter that the fear of losing his pelt had cinched at his heart until his body was ice cold. It didn’t matter that his vision had tunnelled when he saw it in the possession of another man and that the instinctive fury and dread had threatened to shake him apart. It didn’t matter that the relief of wrestling it free had been so overwhelming that his body had shifted beneath its hide before he had the sense to stop it.

All of that, all of it, should have been avoided. Bruce was meant to master himself, to bend instinct into discipline, and tonight he had failed. There was no excuse for that.

Two of the boys were waiting by the time Bruce slunk into the cave on the west-face of the island. It was their usual hideaway whenever they were able to shed their coats in exchange for seven days on land. Dick was rummaging through one of the drybags they'd stashed up on the ledge while Damian supervised from his usual perch towards the back.

Dick glanced up as Bruce emerged from the water, dripping and bruised and incredibly, characteristically grumpy. “Well, you sure took your time. Why aren’t you dressed yet?”

Bruce grunted in response and pulled his pelt tighter around his shoulders.

“Okay,” Dick said. “Second question: Why are you bleeding?”

Bruce stared at him, blood still trickling from his broken nose. There were, Bruce thought, a hundred ways he could answer. None of them would make him less pissed.

“You look like you’ve been in a fight.”

“Hm.”

“What even is there to fight around here? Did you mess with that flounder again? I keep telling you, it’s not out to get you.”

“Do you really think I got into a fight with a fish?”

“Honestly, B, I’d believe you could get into a fight with your own reflection.” Dick lobbed a bag towards Bruce, who caught it one-handed and started riffling for some clothes. “Though I’m pretty sure you’d win in a fight with a fish, so…what’s up? What happened?”

“Nothing, I’m fine.”

“You hear that, Damian? He’s fine.”

From his perch, Damian didn’t even lift his eyes from the battered book he stole from Jason. “He’s dripping blood on the rocks,” he said flatly. “I’m sure he’s in wonderful health.”

Bruce wiped his nose with the back of his hand, as discreetly as he could manage, and resolutely did not wince at the stab of pain that followed.

“The only way I can see you picking a fight on this island,” Dick mused absently, “is if someone was trying to screw about with the researchers, or if—” He cut himself off and looked up to narrow his eyes at Bruce.

After sixteen years of weathering Bruce’s moody silences, stubborn retreats, and spectacular emotional repressions, Dick had become something of a savant when it came to reading him. Usually, Bruce appreciated that fluency. It saved time, prevented misunderstandings, reduced the need for words. Bruce had never been good at using words.

“Bruce,” Dick said.

“Hm?”

“You didn’t.”

“Hm.”

Damian was frowning at him now, trying to track whatever hidden signal Dick had picked up on, but he hadn’t been with the family long enough to learn the subtleties of Bruce’s body language. He was still deciphering the basics, like when a grunt meant I love you more than life itself, versus I’m in a really bad place but I will die before I admit it, versus this one patch of water is a degree cooler than the rest so I will sit here for the rest of my life if given the opportunity.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Bruce said.

Dick snorted. “B messed up is what happend.”

“Father never messes up.”

“Kid, I love you and it’s cute that you still think Bruce can do no wrong, but he messes up all the time.” Dick glared at Bruce, but there wasn’t much venom in it. In fact, he looked like he was trying his best not to be amused by the situation. “What happened? Did someone see you change?”

Apparently, the way Bruce yanked a pair of pants out of the drybag was now family code for Haha, no, it was definitely worse than that.

“Did someone take your pelt?” Dick squinted at Bruce, and when no response was offered, he let out a disbelieving laugh. “Oh my god, Bruce.”

“It was perfectly safe.”

“‘Perfectly safe’,” he repeated with a roll of his eyes. He flung a dry shirt toward Bruce’s feet. “Because history has shown that no one has ever been dumb enough to steal your skin.”

“It wasn’t unattended,” Bruce said stiffly. Which, while not a complete lie, wasn’t exactly the full truth either. The rock he’d hidden it beneath had definitely been within range. Technically. He’d just been… momentarily distracted.

“Someone took your pelt?” Damian exclaimed, aghast.

“That’s not—”

“Unbelievable.”

He yanked his own pelt around himself judgementally, straightening up like he was trying to look down on his father with his posture alone. Recently, he’d taken draping it it around his shoulders the same way Bruce did, as if imitation could speed up intimidation. It was, admittedly, a lot less intimidating when his pelt was still lanugo.

After his mother finally gave him his skin (which up until six months ago had been held in a vault in Nanda Parbat), he’d been furious to discover that it was still lanugo at ten-years old. Bruce and Dick had both assured him it would shed when he hits puberty, but that somehow offended him more.

“I expected better of you,” he continued.

“Does it look like my pelt is missing?” Bruce countered.

“No, but it looks like you went through hell to get it back,” Dick said. “You know you’re bruised, right? You’re bleeding and bruised, B. How the heck did you swing that?”

Bruce, with all the dignity he could muster, chose not to respond. Because, truly, there was no explanation that would cast him in anything resembling a respectable light, and nothing he could say would make the situation sound any less absurd than it was.

It wasn’t like he could admit to two of his beloved, judgemental sons that a Californian flyboy had picked up his pelt after he, Bruce, patriarch of the family and longtime advocate for never letting your goddamn skin out of arm’s reach, had left it tucked behind a rock for five minutes while he climbed a damn tree.

Not a usual pastime for him. Bruce did not climb trees. He loomed in them, maybe, if the situation required it. Which wasn’t often the case, to be honest. It was just that he fell victim to an uncharacteristically whimsical act of parental sentiment

Cass had liked the fruit from that tree the last time they’d all had legs. She’d bit into it with such radiant delight that Bruce had stored the information away for later. His plan had been simple. Climb the tree, retrieve a handful of the fruit, and deposit it in a neat, awkward pile next to Cass’s belongings in a completely deniable gesture of affection. He might not have been good at saying nice things, but he was excellent at silently providing for the people he loved.

Really, he should’ve headed back to the cave to stow his pelt somewhere safe. Maybe put on pants — which, in hindsight, would’ve been preferable to wrestling a stranger in the nude — but the tree had been closer and it took five minutes tops to grab the fruit. The pelt, hidden out of sight between the rocks, should’ve been completely safe.

Should’ve was a word he never liked in reference to his own actions.

God, Bruce was going to dwell on this mistake for months.

“Who was it?” Dick asked. “That Mera lady looks like she can kick your ass.”

“The pilot.”

Dick barked out a laugh, one of those delighted, disbelieving laughs that made Bruce want to hurl something soft and dense at his head. Damian, meanwhile, looked like he was trying to peel himself away from the conversation entirely through sheer force of disdain. Bruce found himself more inclined to align with Damian's emotional weather system. Grim, grey, and brimming with the potential for sudden violence.

“The pilot,” he sneered with such elegant disgust. “What was he still doing here?”

“He stays to eat with the scientists sometimes,” Dick supplied. “The mist must’ve made it hard for him to fly home. It happens.” He looked at Bruce. “Do you think he’ll be a problem?”

Oh, he was a problem alright. An annoying, tanned problem with nice arms and a punchable smile.

Bruce hadn’t expected him to be at the cabin, of all places. He’d figured out pretty quickly that the researchers had invited Hal to stay overnight when the plane didn’t leave. The mist rolled in fast when they were able to change back into human, and Bruce didn’t fault them for offering shelter. What he did fault was the pilot’s apparent inability to respect spatial boundaries and stick to the central hub like every other visitor with a modicum of basic social grace.

It was a stupid oversight. Bruce rarely made stupid oversights. He couldn’t afford to, not with a secret as vulnerable as theirs. But now, because he’d made one assumption too many, Hal Jordan had seen far too much.

Sure, no one would believe the guy. The average mainlander could barely wrap their heads around reusable grocery bags, let alone the physics of myth and seals and shapeshifters, but that hardly mattered. It still stung.

Bruce had known it was a mistake to open the island to outsiders, even with all the precautions he’d taken. It always felt like tempting fate, but Arthur Curry had shown up with a clean record and a sincere face. His wife Mera was brilliant, too. Her climate research had been published in every reputable journal Bruce bothered to trust, with theories about deep ocean thermal shifts that he sometimes read whenever he was able to physically hold an article with fingers rather than flippers

They paid a modest rent for the privilege of being there and Bruce, in a moment of quiet optimism he now deeply regretted, had turned right around and funneled it back into their research funding. Against all odds, they’d seemed like good people.

He’d even done his research on the pilot, of course. One Hal Jordan, thirty-seven, Californian born and baked. The Currys had put him on retainer for supply runs and emergency flights, and Bruce had pulled every record he could get his hands on.

It turned out the man was impulsive. Reckless, even. Three bar fights in five years. One speeding ticket in a rental car. A dishonourable discharge from the Air Force, which had raised more than a few flags until Bruce dug deeper and found a mess of bureaucracy, red tape, and one high-ranking officer with a bruised ego. If anything, the whole incident reflected a rare kind of moral backbone. Jordan had done the right thing at the wrong time in the worst place, and refused to flinch when it cost him his career.

In theory, he was someone Bruce could respect.

In practice, they'd just beat the shit out of each other and now Bruce was bleeding from his face.

He pulled on his pants. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Your version of taking care of it is threatening him into silence,” Dick said. “What are the chances that he’ll actually do anything with the information? Everyone will think he’s nuts.”

Damian disagreed. “We can’t simply let an intruder to this island leave with the knowledge of what we are,” he said crisply. “Father, allow me to take care of it. I’ll make sure the pilot stays silent.”

“Okay, junior, dial it back. I’m not saying we should trust him,” Dick continued, plopping a heavy hand on Damian’s head to shut him up. “And I’m really not saying we should disappear the guy. B, you wouldn’t have let him come anywhere near the island so often if you thought he’d put any of us at risk. Maybe it’ll all just blow over.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Well, no, obviously, but I like to pretend we can be optimistic sometimes.” Dick raised his hands placatingly. “Look, I know you, B. You’re probably thinking of a hundred different things we can do to minimise the damage, and I know that your first instinct is to move the whole family to another state.”

"Another country, actually.”

“And I’m telling you now that we’re not doing that. This place is great, and we’re not leaving just because you messed up.”

Bristling was a fairly reasonable response, Bruce thought, when all he really wanted to do was smack his head against the rockface until he fell to blissful unconsciousness. “There are other places,” he said.

“Sure, but do you really want to upheave everyone again?” Dick’s smile, perhaps more so than all of his other children, was magic. It had the uncanny ability to take thirteen percent of Bruce’s anxiety and soothe it into something almost hopeful. “We already left one home because of something we couldn’t control. We don’t need to leave another over something we can.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Nope,” Dick agreed, “but when have we ever done anything simply?”

“Hmm.”

That hopeful smile slipped into something a little more cautious. “I get why you’re concerned,” he said. “After what happened with Jay—”

No, nope. Absolutely not. Bruce was not thinking about that. Bruce was living in the now, thank you.

“Where are the others?” he cut in abruptly.

Dick paused, then sighed as he always did when Bruce avoided the topic of what happened to Jason three years ago. “They already headed out to the mainland. And don’t worry, they’re all gonna report to Alfred before they go exploring. Damian and I were waiting for you and Jay.”

Bruce nodded, comforted by this. The kids liked to play in the city when they had their seven days on land. He didn’t love it — cities were unpredictable, loud, and crawling with all kinds of risk, but the kids were well trained. More importantly, Alfred had settled in a luxury beachfront apartment near their secondary haul-out spot and visiting him before anything was non-negotiable.

He’d followed them all to California, of course, and Bruce had wanted him on the island with them. Alfred had gently, immovably declined. “No butcher. No bookstore,” he’d said simply. “Forgive me Master Bruce, but I refuse to live in isolation and become the local eccentric.”

It made sense, Bruce figured. Alfred was getting on in years. He deserved to be near the city’s amenities.

“Look, before you decide to go all Bruce about it, let me check the guy out,” Dick tried. “I’ll hold off going to the mainland for now and I’ll hit him up tomorrow.”

Damian snapped his head up. “We were supposed to go to the zoo tomorrow.”

“Relax, we can still go to the zoo. Bruce can take you to the mainland and I’ll meet you guys at Alfred’s in the morning.”

“I don’t want you dealing with this,” Bruce said. “We don’t know this person. He could—”

“He could be completely harmless. We don’t know until we’ve checked him out.” Dick squeezed Bruce’s shoulder in the way he always did when he needed to remind him that he wasn’t a kid anymore. “Bruce, you just wrestled this guy on a moonlit beach—”

“No, I wrestled him in a moonlit cabin.”

“The point is, if he managed to put you on the ropes, I don’t think he'd be willing to talk to you without either of you immediately going for the throat. I’m a neutral party. I’ll get a feel for him, and if he’s the type to blab, we’ll sic Dami on him.”

“I would destroy him.”

Bruce, ignoring his youngest, frowned at Dick. “I don’t like this.”

Dick smiled softly, familiarly, and said, “Trust me, B.”

A low bark broke the air before Bruce could completely crumble, and they all watched as Jason swam into the cove. Always the last to shed, if he did at all these days.

Since he'd come back (returned, re-emerged, resurfaced, whatever language made it sound less like a tragedy and more like a miracle) Jason had spent more time in his coat than out of it. There was a weight to him on land these days. Some kind of lumbering reluctance that Bruce recognised all too easily. He’d worn the same haunted gait after clawing back both his pelt and pieces of himself from the Al Ghul vault.

Bruce didn’t like to think of it. When he given up his own skin, sure, that was fair game to ruminate on, but Jason…

Three years, Jay had been without his pelt. It still showed in the way he held himself, always tense like he was bracing for something. Even now, as he straightened on the rocks, coat slick and dark against the moonlight, he looked less like someone who had come home and more like someone who was still expecting to be chased.

Another reason to thank Talia, Bruce supposed. She had given him Damian, who didn't know enough about the sea to miss it as desperately as the others would have, and she had also brought Jason home. Well, brought was a generous term. She’d deposited him. Released him. Opened the cage and let the wild thing loose.

Jason had come back half-feral, wholly furious, and more inclined to murder than Bruce remembered. At least he was home.

Today seemed to be a good day. Bruce watched as the blubber sloughed away, slinking down into the shape of a young man nearly as tall as he was. God, he missed so much in those three years. When did his little boy get so big?

Jason took one look at him and snorted. “The hell happened to you?

Bruce grunted.

“Got it. You lost a fight.”

“I won a fight.”

“Sure.” Jason headed to his little alcove far away from everyone else’s so he could pull on his clothes. “You gonna fix that up, or are you just makin’ a statement?”

“I’m on it,” Dick cut in cheerfully, crouching beside the stream that trickled into the cave from the sea. He scooped up a handful of saltwater, already grinning in that I’m helping way he had since he was eight.

Bruce braced himself just in time for Dick to smack the water directly onto his face. He was never gentle when it came to things like that, but at least it had gotten better with age. When he was thirteen, he’d been delighted to discover that their selkie blood allowed them to heal minor wounds with saltwater touch. A helpful revelation when your adopted father had a habit of getting himself injured and brushing it off.

What had not been helpful was Dick’s flawed interpretation of how to deliver the healing. For a solid year, he’d announced “I’ll fix it!” before launching himself across the way and punching the injury in question.

“There we go,” Dick said with a grin as Bruce felt his broken nose slot back into place. “Just like magic.”

“Hilarious,” Jason muttered. He picked up a drybag, shoved his pelt into it with more care than he wanted anyone to notice, and swung it onto his shoulder. He never left his pelt alone anymore. “I’m outta here.”

Bruce bristled. “Alone?”

“Yeah. Alone. I’ll be back before the week’s up.” He paused by Damian’s rock and, without ceremony, plucked the book out of his hands.

“Hey!”

“You’re reading the sequel first, kiddo,” Jason said, swapping the novel with another dog-eared paperback from the bag. “Start with that one instead.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Damian spat, but he opened the new book anyway.

Jason gave a vague two-fingered wave as he padded toward the cave’s mouth, and Bruce didn’t stop him even though every cell of his body was asking, Where? With who? What route? What if? But Alfred had told him that Jason needed space and trust and understanding, and all those pretty words you tell someone when their little boy experienced something horrible and didn’t come back from it the same way.

Dammit.

Bruce let him go because he was trying to grow as a person. Reluctantly so. He was learning, he was living in the now, which apparently meant letting his recently resurrected son wander off into the real world completely unsupervised with nothing but an old red hoodie and probably a knife.

Chapter Text

Morning came eventually. It slunk in slow and sheepish through the crooked blinds like it was embarrassed about showing up at all after last night. Hal lay flat on the cot with one arm thrown over his bruised face and the other dangling off the side perhaps a little melodramatically. His ribs ached. His pride ached worse. The only thing that didn’t hurt was his complete and utter sense of denial.

Obviously he’d dreamt the whole damn thing. That was the only reasonable conclusion, right? Hot naked men simply didn’t break into cabins in the middle of the night, wrestle you to the floor, and then explode into a billion pounds of Spooky. That was not, by any earthly measure, a thing that happened in real life.

It would’ve been so much simpler to believe that it was all a dream. At least then he could’ve chalked it up to stress, dehydration, maybe even the tragic drought in his sex life. He would have laughed about it later, told all his friends about his weird dream, and filed it neatly next to that one recurring nightmare where he crash-landed in his high school football field in nothing but a towel and aviators.

But, and herein lay the rub, Hal hadn’t actually gone back to sleep last night. After failing around in the mist for a while, he’d ended up at the cabin table to stare at the grain in the wood. That took about thirty minutes, during which he made zero progress towards rationalisation and gave serious thought to whether or not this counted as a psychotic break. Then he’d gone back outside, barefoot and half-dressed, into the damp, soupy air to continue not finding any trace of the seal man.

Eventually, he ended up lying awkwardly on the bunk in at least an attempt to doze, but his brain kept tuning back into the whole…situation, he supposed was the best word for it. Incident, maybe. Whole-ass event featuring a magical mystery with a face and hands and a body and whole lot of goddamn blubber.

Hal groaned and sat up so he could glare at the empty floorboards. There was a large damp stain in the centre that was suspiciously seal-shaped. All the furniture was still toppled, too. He’d have to fix that before he left for the day.

Looking closer, there were also a few rust-brown drips along the seams of the wood. Hal eyeballed them warily. Could’ve been from his own split lip, maybe from when Spooky tackled him. Then again, maybe it was from the stranger’s broken nose. It was hard to say. Last night had involved an awful lot of grappling, and very little clarity.

This, Hal figured grimly, was probably the part where he had to reconcile reality with a sexy seal-man. Which was objectively a batshit thing to be contemplating at six-thirty in the morning.

He screwed his eyes shut like he could somehow press reset on the last twelve hours. When he opened them again, the messed up room remained stubbornly real. Seal stain, overturned furniture, blood drips and all. Reality had not, regrettably, rebooted.

With another groan, this one sounding like it came from a region of the body not medically associated with noise-making, Hal leaned sideways and patted around the floor for his phone. It had somehow ended up in his left boot, probably during the part of the evening where things got especially unhinged.

He fished it out, smeared a little damp sand off the screen with his forearm, and squinted at the signal bar. Now that the mist had cleared, it was mercifully back. One pitiful bar. Two, briefly, if he held it up at a precise angle and channeled the full power of his yearning into the sky.

It was enough to do some digging. He opened his browser, told himself it wasn’t weird to ask Google, and typed, ’hot guy turned into a seal what do i do’.

The AI overview was unavailable. There was just an unhelpful blank space where the intelligence was supposed to go, which felt like a pretty solid metaphor for how his day was going so far. Undeterred, he scrolled down, hoping the internet would throw him a lifeline. It, of course, did not.

The first result was a YouTube thumbnail featuring what looked like a half-melted mannequin screaming in a bathtub. A low-budget body horror trailer, judging by the fake blood. Next was the IMDb page for the same movie that confirmed a sequel was coming out next year. Entirely unhelpful. Hal hated horror flicks.

Beneath those was inexplicably a clickbait tutorial on how to tie-dye a shirt, and then the Wikipedia entry for Seal. The singer, not the animal. This meant that Kiss From A Rose immediately started playing in his head and would, based on previous experience, be lodged in there for the rest of the goddamn day.

He hummed a bar or two before catching himself and backspacing his search. He amended to a more humble, ’hot guy seal.

Now he was staring at an ad for a self-published romance novel, Kindle-exclusive, with a cover featuring a bare-chested Navy SEAL of impossible vascularity staring solemnly. It was called SEAL OF HONOUR. Hot, in that unrealistic way men were on the cover of smut novels, but definitely not what he was looking for.

Finally, he tried again with ’seal people’ — plural, because he had a gut feeling that if he went singular, he’d just summon Seal Henry Olusegun Olumide Adeola Samuel again. Much as he respected the man’s soulful crooning and mysterious facial scars, that was a vibe for red wine, thunderstorms and drunkenly remembering that he used to be in a grown up relationship.

“Bay-beeeh,” Hal muttered in a sing-song, “I compare you to a kiss from a roooose on the grey—”

He shook his head to dislodge the melody, failed miserably, and redirected his attention to the cracked screen of his phone. Finally, he seemed to be getting somewhere, though whether ‘somewhere’ was actually any kind of believable was a different matter altogether.

Right at the top of the page, nestled between a paid ad for marine wildlife tours and a quiz that promised to tell him what kind of fish he was based on his birthday, was a single Wikipedia link.

Selkie, the text said. It sounded more like a brand of lady’s razors than anything connected to last night’s incident, but it had the holy trifecta of keywords stamped into the summary. Seal, human, and skin were all strung together in the same sentence, so Hal figured this was probably what he was looking for.

He tapped the link, waited three whole minutes for the Wi-Fi to catch up with his impatience, and then squinted at the first few lines.

‘Selkies are mythological creatures that can shapeshift between seal and human forms by removing or putting on their seal skin’, the Wikipedia entry told him.

“Bullshit,” Hal said.

It was the correct reaction, he thought. He was a grounded, functional, adult man who paid taxes, had a full time job, and decidedly didn’t fraternise with folklore, mythos or anything in between. There was no conceivable reason why he should believe the words of a publicly edited Wiki page that cited itself as a source.

Except, well. There was still a large damp splodge on the floorboards that was very much shaped like someone had spilled a seal, and his shoulder ached where he'd been slammed into the ground by a man who was either extremely committed to the fursuit or was not a man at all.

He scrolled.

“...most common in Orkney and Shetland folklore…”

“...captivity, longing, transformation…”

“...finding and hiding a selkie’s skin can…”

Hal squinted at a passage that told him he might’ve married a seal last night.

The page was doing that dumb thing Wikipedia did where it got weirdly specific and weirdly vague at the same. Half anthropology, half dramatic synopsis, all of it generally considered to be completely mythological. There was a whole section on selkie lovers and selkie spouses. A disturbing number of stories involved lonely fishermen making ethically questionable decisions and then acting surprised when things went south.

If he believed this shit — and he wasn’t saying that he did just yet — but if he believed this shit, then surely it meant that because Spooky took the skin back, Hal wasn’t actually at any risk of being, like, mythologically bound in holy matrimony.

Right?

Right.

He threw the phone at his jeans on the floor and ran both hands through his hair until it stuck up in six directions and looked as exasperated as he felt.

Hal knew some things for certain:

1. The pelt had been real. There was no question about that one. He could still remember the feel of it between his fingers and the heavy weight of it in his arms. The way he’d rubbed it absently between his thumb and index finger while trying to decide just how many laws he was breaking by touching it.

2. The naked seal-man-weirdo was, unfortunately, also real. As evidenced by the very specific shape of damp seal-print still glistening faintly on the cabin floorboards, and also by the absolutely trashed state of the room.

3. His face fucking hurt.

God, he was probably gonna need a tetanus shot. Or a rabies shot. Did seals get rabies? Probably, knowing his luck.

Gingerly, Hal reached up to try and realign his face into something a little less painful. His fingertips barely brushed his cheek before a sharp, blooming bolt of pain zapped behind his eye. He could already feel his face ballooning into the kind of lopsided swollen ruggedness that made people say, ‘You look like you’ve been through something,’ in that concerned-but-also-into-it tone that Hal hated almost as much as he secretly enjoyed.

His jaw was aching, his shoulder throbbed, and there was a tight rhythmic pulse behind his right eye that had big precursor to a migraine energy. Going by the radiating pain down his arm, he was fairly certain his elbow had, at some point during last night’s spontaneous Greco-Roman sea-mammal smackdown, bent in a direction elbows simply weren’t meant to go.

Hal gave himself a generous three full minutes to lie in the cot and stare at the ceiling like it might have answers. It didn’t, so he figured he should probably put on his big boy boots and face reality for what it was. And what it was, he decided resolutely, was nuts. But Hal was a trooper and he wasn’t going to let something as incidental as magic seal men ruin his life.

After pecking at the tupperware of leftovers Kaldur had given him, rinsing the container and setting it by the sink, Hal tidied up the cabin as best he could. Righted some chairs, straightened the table, wiped some cheeky smears of blood off the floor with a quiet internal monologue of this is fine, everything’s fine, this isn’t weird.

He probably should’ve grabbed his shit and left at that point. His plane was still docked not too far away from the cabin and Hal had work to do on the mainland. That was the sensible option.

But.

Urgh.

But there were a helluva lot of questions and not a lot of answers. If he didn’t at least try to subtly extract info from the actual wildlife professionals, then he was going to spend the rest of his life wildly speculating and possibly shouting slurs at marine life.

He wasn’t entirely sure how one was supposed to bring up real life selkies in polite conversation without making Arthur and Mera think he’s lost his mind. So Hal, in his infinite wisdom, decided not to think about it too hard at all. Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets, muttered darkly to himself, and let the path guide him up through the trees.

The creepy mist had finally receded, burned off by the slow rise of the Californian sun, and the morning was shaping up to be disgustingly beautiful. The sky was a postcard-blue, and filled with seabird cries. The breeze brought with it the briny kiss of salt and kelp and some traitorous sweetness from the cliffside wildflowers. The ocean was straight up glittering over the horizon. It was the sort of morning that might make a person stop and take a deep breath and say something like, ‘Wow, it’s good to be alive.’

Except Hal was grumpy as hell and he was disproportionately annoyed that the weather hadn’t settled to match his mood. Every time he caught a whiff of seawater, his brain flared with a vivid, high-def flashback of bareass nipples, glistening muscles, and a right hook that had bruised his pride way more than it bruised his jaw. Though the jaw still ached like hell, if anyone was keeping score.

At this point, Hal wasn’t sure if he was mad, confused, tired, or just a little bit turned on. Probably all four, in that order.

As he crested the rise to the main hub, he caught sight of Arthur elbow deep in something that looked like it squelched. Which, unfortunately, was not an uncommon sight for him. He was hunched over one of the outdoor testing tables, sleeves rolled to his shoulders and his expression so serious that it bordered on the comical. Whatever was in the tray glistened wetly, gelatinous and faintly pink.

Hal figured, given his condition, he deserved a doubletake when he approached. A shocked gasp and some coddling at the very least. Really, bare minimum, someone should be ushering him into a chair and telling him he was very brave. And sure, he wouldn’t say no to an hour or two of gently resting his head in Mera’s lap while she made soothing noises and ran her fingers through his hair. Or Arthur’s lap. Hal wasn’t picky.

What he got was a squint and a slow once-over. “Wow,” Arthur said. “What happened to you?”

“Tripped on my way down to the coastline.”

Arthur raised a brow. His gaze lingered on the fist-shaped bruise darkening Hal’s cheekbone. “Right.”

He pulled his hand out of the mystery mass with a wet shluck, tossed a hunk of something gooey into a metal tray, and gave Hal another long, unimpressed look. He wasn’t wearing gloves, which was a bold choice when one took into account the slimy residue going all the way up his forearm.

“You look like you’ve been in a fight,” he said bluntly.

“And then some,” Hal replied, leaning against the station’s sun-warmed wall. It would’ve looked cooler if his elbow didn’t twinge halfway down and force him to reposition. “The radio you gave me sucked, by the way.”

That, at least, seemed to warrant some concern. Arthur’s frown deepened, and he angled toward Hal slightly, the gooey arm held aloft like it might still be of scientific value if he didn’t accidentally smear it on anything. “What happened? Is there someone else on the island?”

There was the tonal shift that reminded Hal that Arthur wasn’t just a weak-boned nerd and more of a jacked human bunker of a man. He took island security seriously, especially when it came to his wife, his research, and the two interns wrangling kelp somewhere on the south side of the coastline.

“Relax, it’s been dealt with,” Hal said. Spooky had been on the island for six months without bothering Arthur and his team. Last night, as much as Hal hated to admit it, was likely an exception because Hal had taken the pelt. Returning it, or having it forcibly returned, probably put the whole thing to bed.

“Dealt with how?”

“Mostly with me getting punched in the face, but you should’ve seen the other guy.”

“Hal.”

“Look. It’s complicated. There may have been a guy. There may have been a fight. Which I definitely won, by the way. And if you’re planning on alerting the Coast Guard, you should really invest in better equipment first. Because I repeat: your radio sucks.”

Arthur reached up to brush his fingers through his glorious golden hair, only to stop at the last second when he remembered his hands were full of mysterious gloop. He glanced at his hand in quiet betrayal.

“I’ll call someone to do a sweep,” he said. “Nobody’s supposed to be on this island without clearance. Thanks for letting us know, Hal. And for...defending the place, I guess? Unless you just get into fights for fun. Which, now that I think about it—"

"Hey. Hey, hey. Hey."

"Do you deny it?"

"No, but you don't need to call me out like this, dude."

Arthur gave a noncommittal grunt and grabbed the towel tucked into his belt. “Do you need me to grab the first aid kit?” he asked, mopping up his gunky hands as best as possible. “You look bad.”

“Thanks. And no, I’m good. Got the worst of it last night. It’s mostly superficial stuff.” He rubbed the back of his neck in what he hoped came across as super casual. “Actually,” he added, “I got some questions for you. Y’know. Aquatic, marine-type questions.”

“You get stung by something?”

“No.”

“Eat something weird?”

“No.”

“Find a new kind of fish?”

“No, no. I got questions about those seals out on the coast.”

“Ooooh,” a new voice cut in before Arthur could answer, “what about the seals on the coast?”

Hal, a little thrown off balance, looked towards the little work tent Kaldur and Garth usually held court in when they weren’t out in the field. The voice belonged to a kid. Well, early twenties, which was basically fresh out the womb by Hal’s current standards. Hal, who was now firmly on the wrong side of thirty-five and had definitely made a small involuntary noise when he stood up this morning.

The kid was good-looking. Floppy dark hair, easy grin, lean build that suggested he did a lot of cardio and probably didn’t even have to stretch beforehand. He had the look of someone who’d never had a lower back spasm just from sneezing too hard. It all belied just how sharp his eyes were when they zeroed in on Hal.

Immediately, and perhaps irrationally, Hal pegged him as dangerous. It was probably because of the easy way he walked with his hands in his pockets, or maybe it was just the fact that he wasn’t supposed to be here. To Hal’s knowledge, there had been no new hires approved for Arthur’s project, and the place didn’t exactly get visitors.

“Hal, this is Dick Grayson,” Arthur introduced. “His father owns the island. Dick, this is Hal. He flies out supplies for us every few weeks.”

Ah, great. A nepo-baby. Hal could practically hear the echo of a trust fund from here.

“Thought I’d visit,” the kid added, all sunshine and dimples. “Check the place out a little, you know? I met Garth and Kaldur over on the coast and they told me all about it. You guys are looking into some real interesting stuff.”

He tilted his head slightly, and in the sunlight his hair did that annoying gleam thing that only happened to people under twenty-five and fictional princes. There was an easy charm to him, but when his eyes landed on Hal, something flickered behind the bright blue. Almost like he saw just a little too much.

“So,” Dick said casually, “you were wondering about the seals?”

Red fucking flag.

Hal felt it in his gut, the way you feel turbulence before the cockpit shakes, that specific feeling of wrongness. It wasn’t that the question itself was suspicious — he had literally just said he had questions about seals, after all — but there was something about the way Dick said it. Perhaps even the timing of it, after the night Hal just had. It set his teeth on edge.

It was probably nothing. If the kid didn’t check out or have the necessary paperwork to be there, Arthur wouldn’t have let him anywhere near the station. But still. Hal was the type to trust his gut over paperwork, and his gut was telling him that this innocent-looking guy was more than he seemed.

“Oh, you know. Just some basic questions about the locals.”

“Well, I’d love to learn more too, actually,” Dick replied. He looked at Arthur. “I’m thinking about going back to school to study marine biology. We’ve got all this land and it’d be great to be able to understand it more, y’know?”

“Uh-huh,” Hal said slowly. “School.”

It sounded so truthful, but there was a pinprick in the back of Hal’s neck that continued to tell him this kid was lying through his perfect teeth.

Hal may have his problems with the seals, but he wasn’t about to out their super secret magical selkie-cult to some land baron’s baby boy. He wasn’t even all that sure he wanted to talk to Arthur about it. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Arthur. On the contrary, in the year he’d been hauling cargo for Arthur and Mera’s aquatic research wonderland, Hal liked to think they’d gotten pretty friendly. Friendly enough that Hal could imagine inviting Arthur out for a beer sometime, if the guy ever showed the slightest inclination to dry off and leave the ocean for more than three hours at a time.

There were only two people in the world Hal would feel remotely okay telling about the kind of wild, magic-adjacent nonsense he’d stumbled into. One of them lived in Central and would probably show up on the next flight west with a crisp high five and a friendly face. The other lived in Star City and would absolutely laugh first, call bullshit second, and help him bury the body third.

(God, sometimes he wished Barry and Ollie lived closer. It sucked being a thirty-seven year old loser who lost the combined local friend-group when he and Carol called it quits.)

Instead of explaining the part where he’d maybe stolen a cursed coat and possibly almost coerced a mythological creature into marriage (accidentally — that part was important), Hal squinted into the middle distance and carefully said, “Nothing serious, it’s just… Well. Do they ever…like…look at you weird?”

Arthur blinked. “...The seals?”

“Yeah.”

“The animals.”

“Yes, Arthur, the animals.”

There was a pause. The breeze picked up again, tousling Hal’s hair like it, too, was trying to figure out what the hell he was doing with his life. Beside him, the Grayson kid smiled secretly.

Then, Arthur frowned and said, “I think I know what you mean.”

“Right?”

“We started studying them when they started hauling out a few months ago,” Arthur continued thoughtfully. “There’s a lot that’s off about them.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, for one, the pod isn’t made up of a single breed.”

“And that’s…weird?”

“It’s pretty weird,” Dick cut in. When Hal glanced at him, the kid offered a loose, easy shrug. “Like I said, I want to go back to school. I know a little something about seals.”

“Right…”

Arthur didn’t have the same bad feeling, because he just smiled like he’d found another intern to add to the collection. “He’s right. Pinnipeds usually stick with their own kind. There’s territorial range, diet, breeding cycles, all that stuff to consider,” he explained, probably for Hal’s benefit. “This group is small, but it’s pretty mixed. We’ve got some harbour seals, a handful of greys, even a little hybrid. Oh, and a spotted seal.”

“Like…leopard print?”

“No. Spotted. Like the actual species, Phoca Largha. You don’t normally see them outside the North Pacific, but we’ve somehow got one on our coastline. Beautiful girl, too. You might’ve seen her. She’s small and dark. Likes to hide away in the shallows.”

“Okay,” Hal tried, “but maybe they’re… I dunno. Tourist seals.”

“No, Hal.”

“Multicultural seals.”

“Hal.”

“Progressive seals.”

“Really not how it works.”

Hal was pretty sure these seals on the coastline weren’t interested in how things were supposed to work.

“Their general behaviour is really weird too,” Arthur continued absently. Now that he’d managed to wipe all the goop off his hands, he’d started scratching his beard like it helped him think. “You noticed that, right?”

“Well, weird is relative,” Dick said.

“Relative to seals, they’re extremely weird. There’s about eight in the herd, and there’s a clear leader. You’ve definitely seen him, he’s the big black one. Likes to sit in the shadows and watch over the rest ”

“Spooky,” Hal offered. “We’ve…met.”

“Spooky?” Dick repeated, eyes sparkling. “You call him Spooky?”

“Yeah, he’s the big bastard. Gives me the stink-eye for existing. We’ve got beef.”

Dick nodded towards the situation with Hal’s face. “He the one you lost the fight to?”

“I won that fight. And…uh, no. Obviously.” Hal shifted his posture a little. “I mean, who’d punch a seal? That’s…yeah, no.”

“I don’t think your Spooky would be the type to fight,” Arthur said, because apparently he knew absolutely nothing about the seals on the beach. What was his stupid degree for if he didn’t know that Spooky was a secret lunatic with excellent shoulders. Even Dick, who had just arrived on the island, snorted like it was a bad take.

Arthur continued, too wrapped up in his lecture to fully appreciate Hal and Dick’s disbelief, “Usually, I’d say an adult male of his size would be more than willing to fight, but his behaviour is completely atypical of a dominant seal. He only postures when one of the juveniles gets too bold, and even then it’s minimal. Not the kind of showy aggression we usually see in this species.”

“Oh, he’s not the showy type,” Dick said sagely, like he knew Spooky personally. “Dramatic, though. I’d say theatrical. Different strokes.”

“Well, as theatrical as he is, we’ve never actually seen him fight with the only other adult male in the group. They just sort of…exist near each other. Males don’t do that. They avoid each other, they fight for territory and the right to mate. They don’t just...sit.”

“Maybe the other adult male is just really, really chill.”

Hal cut in, “But he must’ve gone a few rounds with something, right? I mean, he’s pretty beat up.”

“That could be from anything,” Arthur explained. “He’s unusually scarred, but it’s not unheard of. He might’ve tangled with predators. Boats. Maybe even some poachers.”

“Or clowns,” Dick said.

“Uh…okay. Or clowns. We’re pretty sure he’s got bullet wounds in his flank, too. It’s amazing he’s lasted this long. Kaldur thinks he’s had a rough life, so now he just doesn’t want to fight anymore. Not worth it.”

Hal’s entire body throbbed with the memory of the bastard that ’doesn’t want to fight’, so they could safely put a pin in that idea. “Cool theory,” he muttered.

“Hey,” Dick said suddenly, grinning to himself, “you said they were all pretty weird. Which one would you say is the weirdest? Just for personal reference.”

Arthur thought about it. “All of them exhibit unusual behaviour,” he said. “I’d say…hm. The pup, probably.”

Dick looked delighted. “Really?”

“The baby?” Hal asked. “How come?”

“There are two females in the colony,” Arthur explained, “but they’re both juveniles. Relatively older juveniles, sure, but not of breeding age just yet. So where do the pups come from?”

“...Maybe they brought it with them from home?”

Clearly, this was a big topic for Arthur and the conversation opened a floorgate in his curiosity. “No, no,” he said. “Pups keep their lanugo for just a few weeks after they’re born. After that, they moult into their first real coat. Helps insulate them while they develop blubber. The pup we keep seeing is always in its lanugo. We’ve been watching this colony for months. It can’t be the same pup.”

“So you’re saying they keep… swapping out pups?”

“We don’t know. We don’t know where they’re going when they grow up or how more keep appearing. Or why, for that matter, your Spooky is the primary caregiver.”

“So he’s a hot single dad, is that weird?”

“Extremely weird. Males don’t rear their young. It’s just not in their biology, they breed and then they leave. And if he’s in the surf, then the other adult male takes over. Like…a babysitter. It’s madness.”

“Okay…” Hal tried. “But what if, and hear me out here. What if they’re, like…gay seals? Co-parenting their series of adopted babies they found under a bush or something.”

Dick immediately said, “Oh god, no.”

Arthur shook his head. “Seals tend to mate in groups and only during the season. It’s not impossible for them to be monogamous, but unlikely. And even if they were the exception, they don’t exhibit any mating behaviours. It’s more like…”

“More like what?”

“Mera doesn’t think I should assign human behaviour patterns to pinnipeds, but the two adults exhibit behaviour that’s more reminiscent of a father and son dynamic. It’s lke that for the entire pod, really, with the way they interact. The whole colony’s kind of… structured around him.”

Hal nodded, slowly connecting dots in his head that he wasn’t quite ready to share with Arthur. Or anyone, really. “So…Spooky’s kinda like the big daddy of the group then,” he said, only to grimace at his phrasing. “Please don’t tell him I said that.”

“...Okay.”

“Thank you.”

“This entire pod is breaking the entire behavioural model we’ve been working from. Either they’re the least aggressive seals on the west coast, or they’re operating on a completely different set of rules we haven’t figured out yet.”

Hal considered that. Then he said, “You ever seen them punch someone?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes like he was using all three of his degrees at once. Then he decided to ignore the comment entirely. “Anyway, that answer you question?

“I wanna say yes, but I feel you’ve raised a lot more questions.”

“If it makes you feel better, we’re just as confused by these seals as you are.”

He gave Hal a broad pat on the shoulder, just hard enough to send a fresh jolt of pain down his arm. “You need anything else, or are you going to stay and watch me argue with the Coastguard for the next twenty minutes?”

Hal opened his mouth to say something. He didn’t know what. Maybe something real unwise like, “How do you feel about shapeshifters?” or “Do all seals moult into men or are these ones just fancy?” Instead, he figured it’d be in his best interests to keep it all to himself forever and ever until he died.

“No, I’m good. I should be wheels up by now,” he said. Next to him, Dick was watching him carefully. “I got a delivery to Santa Catalina in the afternoon. The lady who runs point really hates me so I shouldn’t be late. Tell Mera I said bye.”

“Tell her yourself. She’s been running climate data all morning not too far from your dock.”

“Mera’s like some kind of beautiful dolphin. She appears, does something impressive, and then vanishes before I can even tell her she’s looking good today. I can never keep track of her.”

“That’s fair.”

With absolutely none of his questions answered to his satisfaction, Hal gave a casual salute and pivoted back the way he came. It was good to know that Spooky wasn’t the only weird seal around. Definitely not something that was going to haunt him in the shower.

He squinted around suspiciously as he headed back to the coast. The tide was lower than he remembered and the air had that briny sharpness that meant the wind was about to change and make for a bouncy ride back to the mainland. He kept expecting to see a whiskered head bobbing out of the surf. Maybe more than one. Maybe with judgement in their eyes.

Then, Dick was suddenly walking beside him.

“Jesus,” Hal barked, jerking sideways. “Do you teleport?”

The kid gave him a winning grin, hands stuffed in the pockets of his stupid fancy jacket. “Looking for the seals?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. They’re usually here… Y’know, to laugh at me, probably.”

Dick shrugs. “They like to wander after the mist disperses. They’ll be back after the week is up.”

“Oh yeah? That behaviour common in seals?”

“In these ones.”

Something about the way he said it snagged on Hal’s brain like a fishhook. Dick wasn’t looking at the beach, or the rocks, or the ocean, or literally anywhere seals might actually be. He was looking at Hal, still smiling genially.

Hal’s mouth went dry. His brain, lagging three hours behind his body and running mostly on irritation, started making connections that should’ve been ridiculous to the average layman. There was a line, very clear now, between the too-friendly kid in front of him and the shadow-eyed bastard who’d choked him out against a wood stove last night.

“Wait…”

“You should put some ice on that,” Dick said, nodding to the bruises. When he shifted, deliberately so, Hal caught sight of a fur pelt resting comfortably beneath his jacket. “Looks like it hurts. He hits pretty hard.”

Immediately, Hal went on the defence. “You here to fight?”

Dick’s smile widened just a bit, like Hal had told a joke without knowing it. “Let’s say I’m doing damage control.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We like it here,” he continued, gesturing to the haul out rocks. “Well, most of us do. And we’re not going to let some outsider ruin everything we have. Do you understand?”

Hal glared at him. “Last I checked, I was the one getting assaulted by a crazy naked guy.”

“You had something that belonged to him.”

Dick didn’t elaborate on that, but the way he said it didn’t leave room for questions. He didn’t even look like he wanted Hal to understand it, just to accept the fact that some magic pelt was worth more to Spooky than Hal could ever possibly conceive.

“Look, kid,” he said, tired. “I’m not interested in whatever weird little seal-cult you’ve got going on, okay? It’s been a helluva night for me, so long as you guys stay out of my way, I’m more than happy to forget all this happened. In fact, I would be delighted to forget all of this ever happened.”

“...You really mean that, don’t you?”

“Buddy, I’m gonna repress all this so hard it’s gonna give me whiplash.”

Dick watched him for a moment longer, squinting just slightly like maybe he was using some kind of magical cetacean lie detector to check Hal’s sincerity. Which Hal obviously was going to pass with flying colours. Frankly, even if he wanted to lie about this bullshit, he didn’t think he had it in him right now.

Then, he smiled again, easier this time, and he nodded once. “Okay then.”

Hal frowned. “That’s it? You’re not gonna threaten me to stay off your turf?”

“Why bother?” Dick said with a shrug. “You’ve seen what — wait, what did you call him? Spooky?” He chuckled like the name amused him more than it should. “You’ve seen what Spooky can do. If we find out you’ve told anyone, or if you’re planning on telling anyone, or if you’ve even written it in your diary, you’ll see that he’s one of the more restrained members of the family.”

“Sounds like a threat to me.”

“Mm, maybe, but you don’t look like the kinda guy who responds to threats. We’ve never had a problem with you before, Hal. Don’t be a problem now.”

Hal raised his hands. “Fine by me.”

“Then we’re good.”

If Hal thought Dick’s demeanour was easy before, it practically melted once he decided that things were a-okay. He gave a cheeky thumbs up, an unnecessary wink, and headed back into the island with an almost familiar bounce in his step.

Hal stood there for a long moment, staring at the place where he’d been, then looked out toward the waves. The seals were still missing.

Chapter Text

Hal had every intention of keeping his promise and forgetting everything he’d learned about magic men and naked seals. It wasn’t like he had anything to gain by making a fuss, and the effort all seemed like it would just cause him more problems.

If he started spouting off to authorities or strangers on the street, then Hal was suddenly that guy. He had no interest in being a punchline or the local marine life conspiracy nut, so just dropping it seemed like the best course of action. That kind of drama took effort, and Hal firmly believed that any effort not spent flying his plane was effort wasted.

Problem was, it turned out that something like that was hard to forget. Go figure.

There wasn’t exactly a guidebook for carrying as normal after a supernatural event. Ah, well, no actually, that was a lie. There were several, technically, if you counted the ones tucked into the dusty corners of New Age bookstores. Most of them were less a practical guide, and more of a cautionary tale telling you what not to do when your ghost roommate started smashing the good china.

Unsurprisingly, none of them covered what to do when a grownass man wriggled out of a seal and started throwing punches. Perfectly reasonable, Hal supposed. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing most people had to pencil into their week. Still, it felt like an oversight.

Arthur had texted him later that afternoon to say the Coast Guard sent a few guys out to comb the area. Real professional types too, with binoculars and union pensions and the presence of mind to be looking for a bipedal maniac instead of a really, really angry said.

They found nothing, of course. Just Hal’s watch he left at the cabin and Mera’s smutty novel he never got to finish.

They were gonna keep an eye out, Arthur relayed. Patrol the inlets, comb the cove, all that routine stuff the professionals did when they were just trying to appease the rich researcher occupying the island. Hal read the message three times and tried not to imagine a seal peeking out from behind a rock like a little pervert in a fur coat.

The diligence in protecting the island would’ve been more comforting if Hal didn’t know that the weirdo they were looking for was probably hiding out in the shallows right now, sunning his blubbery ass on a rock. Probably surrounded by the whole gaggle of other weirdo seal-people-selkie-things who were absolutely, one hundred percent laughing at the chump pilot with the nice hair and great ass.

It was a concern he couldn’t exactly admit out loud, so he just texted Arthur back a sequence of emojis and a link to a government document on the legality of using a harpoon gun in defense of one’s home.

For three whole months, Hal continued to live his life with the enforced delusion that nothing was wrong and everything was normal. It was a long time to pretend that something hadn’t happened, but there was nothing else he could do without getting significantly weird about it. And by weird, he meant explaining to the landlord why he kept chatting shit to the tropical fish kept in the lobby.

He liked to think he put it all behind him. The circuits across the archipelago ran smooth, his deliveries were on time, and he kept his boots dry. It was all any man could ask of a respectable summer when they were desperately pretending that nothing weird had happened, ever. Business as usual, Hal maintained, except for the mild paranoia and the way he caught himself squinting toward the cove every time he flew over Arthur’s island.

Usually, he flew out to the island every couple of weeks to drop off supplies and gossip, but in a desperate attempt to regulate his newly adjusted worldview, Hal had filed for some time off.

He spent a week in Central with Barry and Barry’s nephew, both of whom operated at a pace that made Hal feel like he was perpetually three steps behind and slightly hungover. After that, he detoured to Star City, where he suffered through Ollie’s current fixation with urban rooftop agriculture. All that was followed by a semi-reluctant swing down the coast to visit his family, which always began with optimistic intentions and ended up with Hal stress-eating three Big Belly burgers in his mom’s driveway.

It meant that in three months, Hal had landed at Arthur’s research facility exactly once.

He’d been petty about it, too. Took the long way in, looped a little wider than necessary just so he could approach from the opposite angle of his usual flight path. It wasn’t dramatic enough to raise any alarms with air traffic, but it was just offbeat enough to catch any magic assholes off guard. He came in low and fast over the eastern cliffs, where the updraft made the plane shudder just enough to be annoying. It rattled the fuselage, jostled his coffee, and guaranteed a spectacular amount of splash as he skimmed over the waves to his usual dock.

To top it all off, because he was feeling particularly spiteful, he made sure to wear his most reflective, most unnecessary pair of douchebag aviators.

With all this in place, he expected to make full eye contact with Spooky across the beach, exchange some spiritual static like they do in those old cartoons he used to watch on a Saturday morning, and then immediately cause a scene.

The seals weren’t there, though.

Well, no, they were there, but there had been a shift in dynamics that were particular enough to make Hal squint around and front suspiciously.

After throttling down and deboarding, the first thing Hal noticed was that Asshole wasn’t on the jetty. Not the worst turn of events, really. Dick probably talked to him after their one-to-one and convinced him to stay out of Hal’s way. Maybe that was the olive branch to sweeten the whole ‘forget about it’ deal.

Good. It meant he wouldn’t have to sneak his way onto shore anymore. Though…hm. The absence was weirdly notable, like there was a point in the routine that he never got round to so now his whole day was thrown off balance. Hal didn’t miss Asshole, per se, but he’d mentally budgeted for a minor confrontation before challenging Spooky to round two.

He had lingered at the door of his plane and squinted suspiciously at the coastline. He even took a moment to poke around the floats with a long pole, just in case Asshole had decided to turn his particular brand of assholery to ambushes. Hal wouldn’t put it past him, especially now that he knew the guy was probably also a magical seal-person.

(Which, incidentally, made the whole territory thing a crock of shit. If Asshole had been sentient the entire time, then that meant he’d been choosing to be a bastard. Every time he lunged at Hal’s boots or slapped the dock with his flippers, he was making a conscious, informed decision to be as annoying as possible. Was it just a trait among selkies, or did they all just take exception to Hal?)

Asshole’s absence could’ve been explained away if it were the only weird thing. Turned out that all the seals in the colony were acting unusal.

The younger seals, previously content to bob around the cove in lazy loops or half bury themselves in the sand, had taken a hard left into a lifestyle Hal could only describe as paramilitary. They darted through the water in tight pairs, flicking between rocks and through kelp beds like they were clearing corners. Kind of like a coordinated perimeter sweep, somehow.

He remembered standing on the jetty, watching the palest of the seals break formation to chase off a nosy gull that had gotten too close to the inlet, only to resume position next to her creepy little buddy almost immediately. That was super weird, right?

It was almost like they were waiting for something to go wrong. Or, worse, something had gone wrong, and they were just trying to hold the line until the next disaster crested the horizon.

The pup, for one, was especially displeased about the new development. Hal could tell from the sheer volume of sulky noises that echoed across the water. Before, the little guy had split his time between grudgingly sticking close to Spooky and barking at seagulls like he’d maybe try to bite one someday but liked them too much to try.

Now, though, he’d been permanently paired with Bouncy (Dick?), who had apparently entered his drill sergeant era. The sleek beanbag moved through the water quicker than the rest of the squad, redirecting the pup every time he strayed more than a flipper’s length off-course. It seemed that a motion was passed and now none of them were left alone.

What really put Hal on edge was that Spooky hadn’t been on his rock.

He got himself all worked up, ready for some kind of showdown despite Dick implying that they were going to live and let live, and instead ended up staring vacantly at the empty space where the big blubbery bastard usually postured.

It kind of felt wrong. Not just unsettling, but, like, incorrect. Like a line had been skipped in the script of Hal’s day and now reality was three beats behind and scrambling to catch up. Spooky not being there felt almost pointed. Like somehow Hal had pissed him off so much that the only way to cope was full-blown ghosting.

Goddamnit. If Hal was responsible for Spooky up and abandoning his weird selkie family he was going to be so pissed.

Not so pissed as to actually do anything about it, though. Hal had boundaries, and while he was totally down with squaring up to Spooky, those boundaries didn’t include sticking his nose into whatever drama he may or may not have caused to upheave the status quo selkies. As far as Hal was concerned, Spooky could screw himself.

So he did what he promised Dick and left them alone. He unloaded the plane, pretended not to notice the weird behaviour, and went about his morning. He had dinner with Arthur and his crew, had a spirited discussion about mollusc mating rituals, complete with hand gestures and exactly one contribution from Hal (“So... they stab each other?”). Then, like a normal man intent on living out the rest of his stupid little life in peace, he flew back to the mainland.

Whatever beef he had with Spooky was quashed, as far as he was concerned. He didn’t want answers. He didn’t need closure. Sure, he’d probably wonder for the rest of his life about the weird naked guy who could turn into a seal as a party trick, but there was nothing he could do about it. So, nothing he did.

It all culminated, as things like this always did, on one lazy Friday morning. It had been a full three months since he had to deal with any supernatural shit, and life was going great. Or, well, it had been going Hal-great, which was a very specific flavor of moderately functional. He was paying his bills on time and the mould patch in the bathroom had stopped spreading, which was a victory he celebrated with pizza and new socks.

It was as good as life could be for a single guy in his thirties who still unironically used the term ‘Bachelor Pad’ to describe his shitty one bedroom apartment.

That morning, his job delivering a crate of materials to the Navy base on San Clemente had been cancelled — reason unknown, and Hal had exercised the appropriate level of professional curiosity by not asking even a little. This left him blissfully free to lounge around in his sweatpants and bask in the glow of having gone for a morning run after the cancellation came through. It had been a short run, mostly because he was trying to get back into the habit, but the point was he had done it and that made him better than everyone else in a three-block radius.

He was, at that precise moment, pretending very hard that he wasn’t thinking about going down to the corner store to restock his beer supply. He wasn’t out, technically. He had half a can of something suspiciously named ‘Lager Ultra’ in the fridge and Hal was trying to respect his own dignity by not cracking it open at 10:17am. Also, the corner store had those little chili lime peanuts he liked and the cashier was just nosy enough to ask about his day, which was basically therapy without the copay.

He was just about to shift his ass off the couch and go looking for his wallet, only to pause mid shuffle when he heard a soft scuffling outside his door.

Not the normal kind of apartment hallway sounds, he realised instantly. Those were familiar to him, like the low groan of the ancient elevator coughing its way to life, or his upstairs neighbour stumbling out on the wrong floor again and making it Hal’s problem. This was more soft, more deliberate. It was the click-clack of metal and the snk of a tool meeting resistance. It was the very specific rhythm of some asshole tampering with his goddamn lock.

Someone was trying to break in. Oh, great. Just what he needed.

Instantly, his body snapped out of lounging mode and straight into fight mode, which looked, in his case, like springing up off the couch with a grunt, smacking his shin on the coffee table, and staggering toward the door.

Hal wasn’t the type to doubt himself when it came to confrontation. He was, by nature and unfortunate habit, the kind of man who could square up to anything when he knew that he was in the right. It had gotten him into some trouble in his time, but he liked to think that planning to physically corner a would-be burglar in his own damn apartment was a perfectly justified extension of that same trait.

He flung the door open just as the lock gave its final click.

Oh, goddamnit.

Spooky the fucking seal man.

Clothed this time, which was probably an improvement, unless you were a firm believer in continuity. In which case it was deeply jarring to see the same man who once decked Hal while naked and dripping seawater now crouching in his hallway in a dark jacket and looking for all the world like he belonged to real life human civilisation.

He blinked up at Hal, still in lock-picking position.

“...Don’t you have a job?” he asked flatly.

So, of course, Hal swung for him. Apparently, this was just their thing now.

Spooky dodged, catching his shoulder against the doorframe with a grunt before using the crouch to launch himself forward. He drove into Hal’s middle in a tackle that, if Hal had been paying any real attention beyond ’this fucking guy’, was more reactionary than aggressive.

Hal was reminded very abruptly and very painfully that this tank of a magic-seal man was stupid strong. He also had no apparent reservations about using all that strength to shove Hal backwards with enough force to drive him straight into the coffee table.

It went over in a crunch of cheap wood and laminate veneer and, honestly, he didn’t mind its demise so much. He had assembled it too close to the couch, so every time he got up too quickly he’d whack his shins on it. It was an easily solved problem he never got around to fixing, mostly because it felt like admitting defeat.

Now after a year of living in that apartment, it was finally solved. A lot more violently than he intended, but solved. Which was little comfort when his ego was shattering right alongside the particle board.

What really stuck in his craw was that he’d been under the impression, after that awkward talk with Dick on the coast, that there was some kind of truce between him and the fucking selkies. Not friends exactly, but more of a ‘you stay on your side, I’ll stay on mine’ agreement. Either Dick had lied through his pretty boy teeth, or nobody had given Spooky the memo.

One home invasion had been bad enough back at the cabin, but two? Two was some psychotic, serial killer shit that Hal was certainly not in the mood for.

He twisted hard enough that under normal circumstances the shift in weight might’ve freed him, but Spooky had a good twenty pounds on him and the kind of leverage you only got when you knew exactly how to use it. Apparently, being a seal gave him an instinctive level of combat that made absolutely no sense. Especially when Hal was legitimately military trained and should, by all counts, be easily winning a fight against some no-name weirdo.

All that training wasn’t nothing, though. Muscle memory kicked in as it always did when the odds were stacked against him but, to his frustration, Spooky seemed to have the ability to anticipate every single shift and counter. It was like he was reading Hal’s body language mid-motion, even all tangled up on the floor in his shitty apartment.

Fortunately, Hal liked to pride himself on being unpredictable. When Spooky went for the same move he’d used back at the cabin — the one where he’d press a thick forearm across Hal’s sternum to pin him to the floor — Hal pivoted fast. He drove a sharp elbow into his side and bucked up erratically enough to dislodge the weight.

The living room was tighter than the cabin. There was less room to roll, more furniture to demolish, but that didn’t stop them from crashing around. They knocked into the shattered coffee table and sent one of its sad little legs skittering across the floor before rolling the other way into the side table. A stack of old takeout menus, long overdue for recycling, came fluttering down around them.

Spooky reached out for leverage against the floor. Wrong move. His palm landed square on one of the menus, slid, and sent him off-balance just long enough for Hal to lurch upward and seize the opening.

He got behind him in a graceless scramble, locked one arm tight around his throat in a practiced chokehold, and cinched his legs around the guy’s waist in a weird horizontal piggyback. Then he squeezed as hard as he could. Which, for posterity, was pretty damn hard. Hal had great thighs, strong thighs. He was going to squeeze this bastard until something cracked.

In retaliation, Spooky twisted with a low, guttural grunt, and rolled them both. He flipped himself, and therefore Hal, onto his back and slammed into the floorboards with way too much force.

Hal, instantly winded, let out a strangled wheeze that might’ve started as profanity but came out more like a deflating pool toy. He didn’t let go, though. Instead he squirmed a little, legs still locked around Spooky’s waist, and made sure to tighten the chokehold.

“Oh, you heavy little—”

“Harold Martin Jordan!”

The new voice cracked across the room, sharp enough to make both of them freeze.

They both turned their heads toward the front door where Mrs. Boehner stood with a sneer. Eighty-four years old, five-foot-nothing, retired school principal and longtime next door neighbour. She was wearing her usual crime-fighting outfit: A floral overcoat, khaki green rainboots (which made no meteorological sense whatsoever, considering it hadn’t rained in weeks), and the frown of someone who had dealt with naughty boys like Hal for sixty years had zero tolerance for any of it. She had a tote of groceries in one hand and a rolled-up issue of Bird Watcher’s Digest in the other, held up like she was threatening them.

“What have I told you about making so much noise?”

Hal, still pinned to the floor under two-hundred pounds of supernatural meat, blinked up at her. “...Not to?” he offered weakly.

“That’s right,” she snapped. “So why have I come home to find you…you…covorting with this young man?”

“Sorry, Mrs. Boehner.”

“And you—” She pointed her magazine at Spooky. “This building is for residence only.”

Spooky, still being choked out, nodded. “I apologise, Mrs. Boehner.”

There was a long, awful pause where Hal could feel his soul trying to claw its way out of his body and flee through the nearest floorboard crack. Mrs. Boehner had that effect on people.

Then she sniffed. “...Well. Alright then. Keep it down, boys,” she said. “If you want to play, do it quietly. There are others who live here too, you know.”

With gentle finality, Mrs. Boehner reached in and shut Hal’s door for him. He could hear the tip-tap of her silly rainboots recede as she headed to the room next door. Only when the muffled sound of her own door creaked open and shut did Hal finally realize the fight had stopped.

Somehow, the interruption was enough to break the ice. Not in a pleasant, social way. Not in the “teehee, what a silly misunderstanding let’s laugh about it over candlelight and coffee” sort of way. It broke the ice the way a submarine might, by forcibly surfacing through it and taking out a few unfortunate pedestrians in the process.

Spooky sat up first, the movement smooth and irritatingly graceful, and Hal went with him by sheer necessity. He was still clinging to the chokehold like it mattered. It wasn’t even strategic anymore. It was more spite. Hal was good at spite.

Then, because he was incapable of not being an asshole, Spooky reached up with one deceptively gentle hand and pressed his fingers into some vile little nerve cluster at the wrist. It was a so precisely evil that Hal’s entire arm lit up with pain and went numb at the elbow.

“Agh—!” Hal yelped, flailing as his grip gave out on reflex. “That’s cheating!”

He was tossed aside and Spooky started to rise again, but Hal scrambled upright just as fast, face flushed and anger gnawing at him the way it only ever did when he got into a fight that didn’t have a satisfying conclusion.

“Oh, no no no,” he snapped, getting up in his face. “You don’t get to just quit. What the hell was that? Why were you breaking into my place to attack me?”

Spooky glared back just as hard. “I didn’t attack you,” he said. “You tried to punch me. I defended myself.”

“Punching you is a perfectly reasonable reaction to finding you trying to break into my place!”

“I didn’t break in.”

Hal stared at him incredulously. “Dude. You were literally picking my lock when I opened the door.”

“I was inspecting it.”

“With a lockpick?!”

“Yes.”

As Spooky valiantly tried to gaslight him, Hal felt something snap, very quietly, in the back of his brain. A tiny blood vessel in the part responsible for patience, probably. “Goddamn,” he said, mystified. “I’m gonna punch you. Right in your stupid face.”

“I never intended to fight you,” Spooky said.

“Oh really? Well, that’s so comforting. Really glad you just wanted to break in my place for no reason”

Spooky did not appreciate the sarcasm. He stepped in closer and squared up like a man with a personal vendetta against boundaries. He rose to his full height, and leaned into Hal’s space like he was trying to physically intimidate his way through the argument.

“I’ll tell you exactly what’s going to happen right now, Hal Jordan,” he said in a low voice.

That stopped Hal short as something extremely unwanted shivered straight up his spine. How in the goddamn hell did this weirdo know his name? Like, sure. Sure, Mrs. Boehner had said it earlier, but she’d said Harold. For some reason, despite Hal’s insistence that she not do that, she always called him Harold. She said it made him sound more mature.

It begged the deeply uncomfortable question of how this seal-man-creep knew him as Hal. He could’ve been a Harry or a Hank. Hell, or a Hazza. God. Hazza. An ex had called him that once. It was cute until he realised she wasn’t kidding.

“Hey, you don’t get to tell me shit—”

“You’re going to sit quietly,” Spooky cut in, “while I find what I came here for. Then, you’re going to answer my questions. If you can’t keep quiet, I can knock you out until I need you. It’s up to you.”

“Counterpoint, asshole,” Hal snapped, stepping in even closer, “let’s play twenty questions now, shall we? Starting with what the hell do you expect to find here?”

They were in each other’s space now, nose to nose, shoulders squared. That stupid testosterone-fueled posturing men did when they didn’t know how to be mad without getting closer. Hal was near enough to count each individual eyelash on the guy’s stupid, frustratingly symmetrical face. He was exhibiting great restraint by not knocking his pretty blue eyes right out of his skull.

He had to admit, grudgingly, silently, and only to himself under extreme protest, that Spooky’s glare probably had his beat. The man had the eyebrows for it. All sharp and pointy and furrowed into a permanent scowl. Right now, they were working overtime in a way that should’ve made Hal uncomfortable. He wasn’t just glaring normally, it was more like he was dissecting. Peering at Hal like he was peeling back layers, trying to find something ugly underneath.

Whatever he was looking for, Hal could tell he didn’t find it. Spooky’s jaw tightened, his nostrils flared, and then, without warning, he shoved Hal aside

“I don’t have time for this,” he said, pulling away.

Bad move.

Hal let the momentum carry him half a step, just enough to snap him into motion, and he twisted around to shove Spooky into the nearest wall as hard as he could. The man hit the drywall with a thud and before he could recover, Hal caught his arm and twisted it behind his back. He didn’t have the weight advantage, but that didn’t stop him from slamming forward to keep him pinned

“Oh, you’re gonna make time, buddy,” Hal snapped. “You and I are gonna have a nice long talk.”

There was a pause where Hal was pretty sure he’d won this round. Which, in hindsight, was a really optimistic thought. If there was anything Hal had learnt about this weirdo in the two times they met, it was that he didn’t know when to stop and just accept defeat.

There was a low, organic crack.

“...Did you…just dislocate your fucking arm?”

Chapter Text

Pop.

Spooky’s arm went limp in Hal’s grip and the motion that followed was wrong in the way that made Hal’s lizard brain throw up a wall of static. He didn’t even get the full beat of ‘what the fuuuu—?’ before he was suddenly the one slammed ino the wall.

A heavy pressure pinned him to the plaster and his own arm was cranked so far up his back that his shoulder crunched like a broken taco shell. A burst of pain followed, but it was hard to say if it came from his own tendons being yanked up, or if it was just sympathy pains from watching a maniac at work.

“One of mine is missing,” Spooky hissed, close enough now that Hal could feel the shape of the words against his jaw, “and the last time I saw him, you were on the island taking things that don’t belong to you.”

Hal paused mid-wiggle and turned his head just enough to catch a glimpse of his profile. “The hell d’you mean?”

Spooky didn’t elaborate. Instead, he doubled down, shoving Hal harder into the wall. “Now,” he said, “are you going to answer my questions, or do I have to give you some motivation?”

If there was one thing Hal Jordan didn’t respond well to, it was coercion. His entire personality was wired against the incoming tide of any kind of authority, and God help the idiots who thought they could bully him into cooperation. His old COs had tried everything short of an exorcism to fix it until one of them eventually gave up and wrote ‘chronic authority issues’ as a footnote in his discharge papers.

It wasn’t that Hal wanted to be difficult, and it wasn’t that he particularly enjoyed mouthing off to the crazy seal-man. It was just that the moment someone squared their jaw and barked an order, his brain twitched and started suggesting alternatives. Especially when he knew, with absolute certainty, that he was right and they were being a jackass.

“You accusing me of something?”

“Not yet,” Spooky said. “I’m collecting the facts, and the facts tell me you’re one of the few people who knows about us.”

“So your big plan was to show up here and try to scare me? Nice try, asshole, but I don’t do intimidation.” He turned his head as best he could to sneer at him, but only managed to aggressively brush his nose against his cheek. “You might wanna try a different approach before I really give Mrs. Boehner something to complain about.”

Spokyk seemed to weigh his options for a moment, just long enough for Hal to seriously evaluate the logistics of a surprise headbutt. He’d need the right angle, a sharp jerk upward, maybe a little backward momentum…

Before he could commit to the idea of another fight, Spooky let him go. The weight on Hal’s back vanished, and he stumbled half a step away from the way with a wince and a flare in his shoulder.

It still somehow felt like part of the fight. Spooky had stepped just far enough back to be out of easy swinging range, but his whole vibe hadn’t relaxed an inch. He was wound up so tight and ready to spring, almost like he was waiting for another excuse to turn an already tense conversation into a second round of dental rearrangement. (Or a third round, if you counted the cabin. Hal certainly did.)

Even though his dislocated arm hung wrongly at his side, Spooky didn’t pay a lick of attention to it. Apparently, a busted up limb wasn’t enough to keep him from throwing hands if required. Pretty damn hardcore if you ignored how empirically stupid it was.

“Thank you,” Hal snapped, rubbing at his chest like it might coax a little dignity back into place. “You wanna talk? Let’s talk. Let’s start with that the hell do you mean ‘one of yours’ is missing? Like, one of your freaky seal people?”

The silence that followed wasn’t quite threatening, but it was unsettling in the way that suggested it might become threatening with very little notice. Spooky didn’t respond right away, and Hal really didn’t expect him to. He just glared at him in an unnerving, hyper-focussed way like he was trying to scan the lies out of Hal. Or maybe he was looking for truths instead. Maybe his star sign. Hal couldn’t get a good read on the guy.

“You gonna answer me?” he continued. “Or can you only talk when you’re trying to kick my ass?”

When Spooky finally spoke, it was targeted. “You are the only mainlander than comes to the island frequently.”

“Uh, yeah. I fly by there all the time. You’ve given me the stinkeye enough times to know that.”

“And you,” Spooky continued again, slower this time, “were on the island just before my son went missing. I’m sure you can make the connection.”

Later, Hal would regret how fast indignation could rear up before his brain had a chance to sync up to the situation. It wasn’t his fault, exactly. His mouth tended to hit the gas before the rest of him had found the keys. And, to be fair, it wasn’t like he and Spooky were on good terms. Why the hell would he try to give him the benefit of the doubt after all the shit he’d just pulled.

All Hal could see was a magical asshole breaking into his place and throwing punches before asking questions. He was so caught up in the attitude and anger that maybe he should’ve raised his hands, clock the thin lines of grief under Spooky’s glare, and realise that he was dealing with a desperate father and not the average home intruder.

Still, habits were hard to break and Hal’s jaw hurt.

“What,” he said incredulously, “and you’d think I’d be stupid enough to try and kidnap him?”

“Smarter people have done stupider things.”

“Oh, come on!” Hal flung out his arms in a wide, exasperated gesture that nearly clipped the wall. “What sort of idiot do you take me for? I was leaving you guys alone just like I said I would. Why the hell would I screw myself over by taking your kid? I learned my lesson when I accidentally picked up your— your—” He flailed for a moment to describe it. “—Your raincoat!”

“My raincoat?”

“Yes! The coat! The— the— you coat. The do-not-touch-or-you’ll-get-curb-stomped coat,” Hal exclaimed. “You really think I’m gonna double down on that experience and just, like, casually stroll back to an island I regularly fly to, where all you seal people already think I’m suspicious, and steal an entire seal? Yeah, sure, no one’ll notice that. That’s real under the radar stuff, right there.”

“It’s a possibility.”

“‘Possibility’, my ass. C’mon, man, be reasonable here. How would I even do that? Lure him in with a fish, toss him in the back of my plane and hope no one checks under the seats?” He gestured at Spooky now, up and down with a flailing hand. “Have you seen the size of you guys? Where would I even keep a seal kid? In the tub? Wait— no, hold up. Is that why you were breaking into my place? To see if your kid is tied up in the closet?”

Spooky’s glare somehow managed to get sharper. “The more you talk,” he said darkly, “the more suspicious you become.”

“Oh bite me, asshole. I talk a lot, it’s my process. And if you think I—”

Hal cut himself off abruptly.

The whole stupid situation sunk in a few minutes too late as the gravity of what Spooky was telling him finally clicked together. All of a sudden, all that fire that made up Hal’s anger didn’t exactly cool down, he was way too amped up for that, but it did inverse. Like, swapping heat for ice and being plunged into water so quickly that it burned.

“Wait,” he said, quieter now. “Your son is missing?”

Oh goddamnit.

Goddamnit!

Hal wanted to stay mad. He really, truly did. He wanted to kick this guy out on his ass, slam the door behind him, maybe even set his shoes on fire for good measure, just to really drive the whole point home. It would’ve made sense, too. Would’ve been satisfying in that primal, chest-thumping way he got whenever he butted heads with another guy and came out with the moral (and physical) high ground. He could even picture himself flipping the bird as the door slammed shut, adding a sarcastic “Good talk!” for flair.

Unfortunately for his temper, Hal happened to be a good person.

Which sucked, by the way. What Hal wouldn’t give to be able to hear the words ‘missing son’ and not give a solitary shit. Now, in light of this new, messed up context, the whole situation had thrown itself on its head. It reached right on into his chest and yanked on the inconvenient string labelled ‘conscience’ — that little bit of empathy he tried to keep buried when it came to assholes, but always unravelled whether he wanted it to or not.

All of his anger and indignation didn’t seem to fit anymore, and he hated that he couldn’t keep a solid grip on his anger.

Okay, that was workable. Hal could be the bigger man. He brushed a hand through his hair and valiantly tried to put aside his many, many grievances. “Look, man,” he said, calmer. “I don’t know anything about your kid. I go to the island to make deliveries for the research team. That’s it.”

Spooky didn’t seem convinced. “That’s it?”

“Yeah. I don’t know how I can prove it to you. All I’ve got is my word.”

“You’ve got an apartment,” Spooky said. “Let me look around and I’ll go.”

“Huh?”

Again, Spooky failed to continue using his words. He just stared at Hal with this weird intensity that probably should’ve been uncomfortable if Hal had been the type of person to let things like that get to him.

He had blue eyes, Hal noticed. It wasn’t the first time he noticed the colour, but it was the first time he was noticing just the kind of blue they were. Pale blue, icy blue, murder-on-a-mission blue. No warmth in those eyes, other than the soul-burning, unblinking gaze of slasher standing in the rain to watch you relax in the comfort of your home. They probably should’ve been unnerving, but to Hal, they just looked sad.

“That’s a super creepy thing to ask,” he said flatly.

“If you’ve got nothing to hide, then it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“‘Shouldn’t be a problem’? Are you kidding me right now? Do you just not understand the concept of privacy, is that it?”

“I understand it.”

“You clearly don’t respect it.”

“Not when my son is missing.”

Hal winced. That was a low blow. An effective one, too. Right below the belt, straight into the squishy part of his conscience.

There was absolutely no reason on earth for him to smile a pretty little smile and invite this very intense man to rummage around through his sock drawer. That was insane behaviour. That was what happened before a very avoidable murder happened. It was also way beyond the line. There were boundaries, there were limitations, and then there was handing over your entire living space to some maladjusted weirdo who hadn’t even knocked.

He dragged a hand down his face. “This is so dumb,” he muttered to himself. “This is so unbelievably dumb.”

Then, louder, he looked up and fixed Spooky with a glare. “Fine,” he snapped, stepping back and waving inward with a sweep of his arm. “Fine. If you don’t believe me, and if it’ll get me off your shitlist, knock yourself out.”

Spooky frowned like the idea of someone actually agreeing to this lunacy was suspicious. Which, to be fair, it was. Hal hadn’t given him a single reason to expect cooperation — or, Spooky hadn’t given Hal a single reason to cooperate. After everything that had happened between them, the weirdo-bastard didn’t actually have the right to Hal’s compliance.

“You’re actually letting me look?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Hal clarified, “this is a total invasion of my privacy and I think you’re a complete douchebag with absolutely no concept of boundaries, but…” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Listen, we got off on the wrong foot—”

“When you stole my skin.”

“—When I accidentally picked up your skin because I thought poachers left behind an animal pelt—”

“Why would poachers leave the pelt behind?”

“Really not the point right now.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Oh my god, do you want my help or not?”

“Not really, but I need to cover all bases.”

“You. Are so annoying.” Hal exhaled sharply and pointed inwards again, this time with a little more force. “What I was trying to say is that I’m willing to let you cross me off your little suspect list. I’m gonna supervise, obviously. You don’t get to go digging through my things on your own, but I got nothing to hide.”

Talking was a complex and painful endeavour for people like Spooky, apparently. He didn’t respond, too busy letting his eyes flick around the room like he was already plotting out his search pattern. God, he probably had a mental grid overlaying Hal’s living space, measuring it for closets, trapdoors and hidden seal compartments.

“Fine,” he said after a moment. “But if you try anything—”

“Yeah, yeah. You’ll twist my spine into a decorative shape and throw me in the bay. Message received.” Hal waved him in, resigned. “You want a head start on the closet or do you wanna check the fridge first? I might’ve stuffed a baby seal under the beer.”

Spooky gave him a look that could sour milk. “You think this is funny?”

“No. No, I really don’t. I just— You gotta understand that this is all insane, right? We all have our ways to cope.”

Silence. Again. Hal let out a breath through his nose, rolled his eyes skyward, and turned away just enough to put a few inches between them before he said something else regrettable. He reached up to scrub the tension out of his neck, trying to ignore the dull throb in his shoulder from earlier, and focussed his attention on Spooky’s arm instead. It was still dangling there, limp and wrong, like a coat sleeve stuck halfway off a hanger.

“You want me to shove that back in for you?” he asked, jerking his chin toward it. “You know. While we’re bonding.”

“No.”

“You sure? I know what I’m doing with things like that. Former military. We had training for things like—”

“No.”

“Fine. If you wanna go around with a wet wind sock for an arm, be my guest.”

Spooky met his eyes without flinching. Then, still holding the stare, he reached across his own body, gripped his shoulder, and with a nauseating crunch, he popped it back into place.

“You are so weird,” Hal said blankly. “I need you to know that. Like, not even in a cute quirky way. You’re weird in a horrifying way.”

Reluctantly, and because he already said he’d allow an impromptu search of the premises, Hal motioned broadly toward the small, cluttered interior of his apartment. There were charts and spare parts stacked on chairs, a worn flight jacket slung over a lampshade, and at least three coffee mugs in inexplicable locations. It didn’t exactly scream ‘child abduction den’. It was more ‘middle-aged hot mess’.

Spooky gave the room a long, assessing stare.

“Alright, Sherlock, are you investigating or judging my lifestyle? ’Cause if it’s the second one, you better dislocate the other shoulder and prepare for round four.”

“Just making observations,” Spooky muttered, and got to work.

Hal trailed after him, mentally apologising to the version of himself who thought he’d be spending the day eating leftovers and watching episodes of Airwolf on DVD. Having someone searching his house, even with his grudging permission, made him feel antsy, like he’d actually done something wrong. He inexplicably found himself glancing around his apartment like he might suddenly spot a smuggled seal pup hiding behind the radiator.

The completely unwelcome and thoroughly weird investigation was done in silence on Spooky’s part. Hal watched him inspect the room with a clinical detachment, brushing his fingers over piles of maps and glancing under the edge of a blanket like something might be hiding beneath it

The cluttered desk was the epicentre of suspicion, apparently. Hal had shoved it into the corner near his bedroom mostly because there was nowhere else to put it, and every time he swung the bedroom door open too fast, it smacked into the desk chair. It was less a workspace and more a sad pile of dog-eared charts, a half-dismantled altimeter, and at least one coffee-stained envelope Hal was ninety percent sure contained his W-2 from three years ago.

Spooky picked up one of Hal’s old flight ledgers and started flipping through.

“What do you think you’re going to find here?”

“Potentially nothing,” Spooky muttered. Hal was surprised he answered at all. “Potentially proof. Paper trails. Shipping logs. Transactions. Anything that shows where you’ve been and what you’ve taken off the island”

“What, you think I sold your kid?” Hal asked, grimacing. “Who even buys seals? Like…Seaworld, maybe? Is that still a thing? Pretty sure they’ve already got enough lawsuits. Bunch of assholes, anyway. I mean, look at Shamu.”

That stopped Spooky’s rifling for a moment, and he levelled Hal with a long glare that somehow managed to be equally annoyed and exhausted. “What exactly do you think is going on here, Jordan?”

“Well, currently, I think I’m being accused of international seal trafficking, which—”

“You know what I am. You’ve seen it. You know what my family is. Why is it so hard to believe someone would take my son for their own gain?”

“I…” Whatever Hal had lined up just fizzled out on his tongue. There wasn’t a single thing he could say that wouldn’t feel cheap the second it left his mouth.

It was easy to get on this guy’s nerves. Too easy, really. Hal had fallen into that rhythm the way he always did when he was dealing with someone who riled him up — that being a good old fashioned shit talker. It was probably the worst instinct he could have followed right now, considering the circumstances.

It was also incredibly easy to forget that Spooky and his seal-army weren’t regular creatures. They were walking, breathing, punch-throwing parts of something ancient and strange and magical, and for all the shit Hal gave him for being a dick, there were probably some even bigger dicks out there who were more than capable of making a quick buck out of something so fantastic. Just because Hal wasn’t the kind of person to see something strange and immediately think of profit, that didn’t mean the rest of the world operated on that principle.

It was a sobering thought, and Hal hated being sober when it came to responsibility.

“…Okay,” he said quietly. “Yeah. I get it. People suck. And I’m not…like, trying to be reductive. Or trying to make a joke outta the whole thing. I understand, man.”

“No you don’t,” Spooky said. He yanked Hal’s laptop out from under a precarious stack of Flying International back issues and what might’ve once been a pizza menu. “Password?”

“‘Fly-guY_69420’. Capital F, capital Y.”

“...Right.”

“You don’t get to judge me.”

Spooky stared at him a moment longer, clearly weighing whether helping find his missing child was worth the psychic damage of typing Fly-guY_69420 into a keyboard. Apparently, it was. He exhaled sharply through his nose and punched it in.

Hal watched him click through folders like he was actually expecting to find an incriminating spreadsheet. Which, for the record, Hal did not have. He barely used the old laptop for anything except basic flight logs and taxes. Half the folders on there were either system defaults or labelled things like stuff and stuff 2 and ACTUALLY IMPORTANT. So, naturally, Spooky clicked into the file ominously named DO NOT OPEN.JPG that he himself no longer remembered creating.

It opened to reveal a blurry photo of Hal at nineteen: drunk, red-faced, and mid-squat in a pose so unholy it somehow produced both a double chin and unnaturally chiseled abs. Likely because someone had drawn them on in Sharpie. He was wearing nothing but too-tight American flag boxers and his combat boots. There was a lit sparkler dangling out of his mouth, and a half-crushed Pabst in his hand. Definitely 4th of July, possibly back when he lived on base.

“I could be a model,” Hal said blankly.

Spooky clicked out of it and stood up. “I’m checking your bedroom.”

“Great.”

Entirely unmoved by either the raw patriotic sex appeal of the photo or the sheer historical significance of the laptop still functioning after two decades of abuse, Spooky pushed the bedroom door open

It was not, strictly speaking, a disaster, but it was definitely the kind of space that said Hal had flexible definition of ‘clean’. The bed was neatly made since that part of his morning routine had been hardwired into him back in boot camp and had never quite shaken loose, but everything was a little less disciplined.

One of the dresser drawers refused to close all the way because it was full of tangled headset cords wedged in with his old t-shirts. Beside it, the bookshelf had collapsed under mysterious circumstances last month and was currently just a slanted pile of particleboard and paperbacks. Hal had been meaning to fix it.

Spooky mercifully didn’t comment on the state of the room. He just stepped inside and started scanning it with that same cold, clinical precision Hal was beginning to realise wasn’t entirely personal.

Unable to keep quiet while a stranger poked around his private possessions, Hal cleared his throat. “So. You got a name? Or do I just keep calling you ‘Spooky’ in my head forever?”

Spooky didn’t look up. “Bruce.”

“Bruce? That’s it?”

“Something wrong with Bruce?”

“No, no,” he said with a shrug. “It’s just…kinda normal. Old-fashioned, I guess. I thought it’d be something mysterious. Like…Neptuno or Selachian Prime.”

“The selachians belong to a subdivision of the Elasmobranchii. It has nothing to do with what I am.”

“I get the feeling you’re using complicated fish words on purpose.”

“Big sharks with big teeth.”

“Gee, thanks for dumbing it down for little old me. Appreciate it, really.” Hal crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, frowning as Spooky — Bruce, apparently — eyed up his drawers. “You know,” he added, “you’re kind of an asshole.”

“Mhm.”

“Like, I was starting to think maybe the whole ‘punch first, ask questions never’ thing was, y’know, because you were worried. About your pelt back at the cabin, about…uh, your kid. Thought maybe you were just on edge. But no.” Hal gestured vaguely toward the man rifling through his underwear. “Turns out you’re just naturally a dick, right?”

“You don’t have to offer commentary,” Bruce said without glancing up. He moved on to the bedside table. Inside, he found the sacred offerings of Hal’s nightstand: expired credit cards, a tangle of loose batteries, three dog-eared political novellas Ollie had begged him to read, and what might’ve been a single, unwrapped cough drop melted into the woodgrain. “In fact,” he added, “you don’t have to be here at all.”

“I’m not letting you snoop around my crap unsupervised, man. Deal with it.”

“I’ll deal with it better if you stopped talking.”

“Oh, I’m the problem?” Hal jabbed a finger vaguely in his direction. “The only reason I’m letting you near my stuff is to get you out of my life, okay? The sooner you realise I’m not some nutso sealnapper, the sooner you can get the hell out and leave me alone. You’re not gonna find anything suspicious or weird in here.”

Bruce chose that exact moment to hold up a glossy magazine with XXX Flight Attendants: Spank Me At Cruising Altitude emblazoned in bold letters across the front.

Hal felt himself go red. “Ah. Okay, that’s…uh… That’s— sentimental.”

“I’m done in here.”

“You sure?” he snapped. “I think there’s a VHS under the bed that might raise more questions. It’s got cowboys in it. Period accurate costumes and everything.”

Clearly unsatisfied, Bruce disappeared into the bathroom next.

It was, objectively, the cleanest room in the apartment somehow. Mostly because Hal only used it for its intended purposes and never stayed in it long enough to mess it up. That didn’t make it immune to clutter though. The countertop was littered with the standard mess of aftershave, half-used toothpaste tubes, and a very expired bottle of painkillers he still used for emergencies. The cabinet under the sink was worse, filled with old shaving kits, tangled cords, four near-empty cans of deodorant, and a suspiciously fuzzy bar of soap that may have once been blue.

Bruce was horrifyingly thorough as opened the cabinet doors like he expected to actually find something. It was somehow worse than Hal’s first military inspection from almost two decades years ago, and that had involved contraband whiskey, a sock full of mini liquor bottles, and a sergeant who disliked Hal on principle.

“I wanna ask—”

“No.”

“You’re literally invading all kinds of privacy right now. I’m gonna ask my damn questions.” When Bruce didn’t respond, Hal took that as reluctant permission. Not that he was waiting for it. “Which one was it? Your kid, I mean. You got a lot of them, it looks like.”

“You wouldn’t know his name.”

“So? I’d know what he looks like.” Hal watched as Bruce stood up to open the mirror. “...Was it the baby?”

“No.”

Hal nodded, a little relieved. The baby was kind of weird, yes, but in the vaguely adorable way that all miniature fluffy creatures were. Losing one of the bigger ones felt less… gutting, somehow, but at the same time, it was also much worse. Older meant more independence. Older meant more ‘they know better’ and ‘they’ll come back’, which just made the silence hit harder when they didn’t. It brought up all the unspoken ‘what if I’d just paid more attention?’ and ‘why didn’t I notice they were gone sooner?’

If Hal was in Bruce’s position, he supposed he’d be an asshole too.

And speaking of assholes…

Hal thought back to his last drop-off on the island a couple of weeks ago. That was around the time the whole seal crew had started acting weird — or at least, it was when he first noticed they were acting weird. The pod had been weirdly organised, almost militaristic in the way they patrolled the surrounding bodies of water. And, yeah, now that Hal had the context for it, it kind of made sense.

He checked off each of the seals one by one.

There was Bouncy, who was almost certainly Dick. He’d taken point while Spooky was presumably off doing recon for the missing kid and he’d kept the fluffy unhinged baby by his side. It briefly made Hal wonder if the pup actually was a baby in his human form, because he showed way too much conscious belligerence to be an actual toddler out there swimming around in his pampers.

There was a pale one too. That honky little shit. While she never got in Hal’s way directly, she had a habit of making this godawful noise that sounded like she was laughing. Knowing what he did now, Hal realised she probably was. It was nice to know that all the seals were naturally little bastards and it wasn’t just concentrated all on Bruce.

Little Miss Honky had buddied with the one Arthur had called a spotted seal, the sleek black one that moved like an oil spill through the waves. That one was Creepy. She was unblinking, the type to lurk, and even though she was the one Hal saw the least, somehow he always felt like she was watching him.

Together, the two ladies swam faster than most of the others. Hal remembered catching glimpses of them darting through the rocks and inlets like they were tracking something invisible. Even though Honky was the loudest seal of the bunch, she had read the vibe and blended into the shadows with Creepy.

So that was…Bouncy, Baby, Honky and Creepy all accounted for. Who did that leave?

Aside from Miss Creepy, there were the two that gave Hal a wide berth, though it was more in a way that implied that he was irrelevant rather than any kind of threat.

The first was the chocolate-brown one with golden dapples across the top of his head, like he was half-made of light. Hal only remembered him because he was the only one in the pod who actually seemed to like the sun. While the rest of the crew slipped back into the water or the shadows whenever the afternoon got too bright, this guy would chase down every beam and bathe in it until sunset.

The only time Hal had seen him break character was when he got into a staring contest with a hermit crab, lost, tried to mess with it, and accidentally launched the poor thing square into the back of Bruce’s head. It had made a sound, too. A dull little plink, like someone flicking a carapace against a brick wall. After that, Dapples had just slowly slid off his rock and vanished with no intentions of claiming responsibility. Honky got blamed for it.

And then there was the one who looked like a more streamlined version of Spooky, though perhaps less outwardly murdery in posture. He was smaller, but he had the same dark fur and the same general sense of judgemental silence. Though, where Bruce looked like he’d seen some shit and kept a ledger about it, this one just looked tired.

Unlike the others, Sleepy didn’t actually sleep all that often, but whenever he did, it was always in the weirdest places. Once Hal had spotted him draped sideways over a rock like a used towel, halfway in the water and his head dangling like he’d just given up mid-exit. Another time, the guy had curled up inside an abandoned crab trap even though he was too big for it. He gave off the vibe of someone who’d fall asleep in the overhead compartment of Hal’s plane and wake up with no memory of how he got there.

Most notable was his beef with the baby. It wasn’t entirely aggressive, but there was certainly some sibling-level hostility between the two that was more present between them than anyone else in the pod. Hal once saw the baby launch itself teeth-first at Sleepy's tail and then swim away snorting like he had won. In return, the older one would casually shove the pup off rocks, flip him mid-air, or sometimes just roll on top of him and pretend he wasn’t there. Passive-aggressive older sibling shit you’d only entertain if your kid brother was deliberately being annoying. Hal, who had been both the annoying little brother and the exasperated big brother in his family, could relate to both sides of the argument.

He remembered Dapples and Sleepy had been swimming in formation the last time he came to the island, so they were accounted for.

Which left… Oh shit, it left—

“Asshole,” Hal said in realisation. “It’s Asshole who’s missing.”

Bruce snapped his head up to glare at him. “Excuse me?”

“I—” Hal grimaced, one hand already up placatingly. “Okay, maybe that came out wrong.”

It hadn’t, really. Hal was the kind of guy to stand by his stellar interpretation of someone’s personality, but even he could admit that calling a missing kid Asshole right in front of a concerned father was maybe not his most empathetic move.

He didn’t backtrack, exactly, but he did offer Spooky a weak shrug and figured he’d understand. Missing kid or no, Hal didn’t actually owe Bruce anything. He’d already let the guy rifle through his stuff and judge his living habits. That felt generous enough. More than, really.

Bruce gave him a long, withering look like he was mentally placing Hal onto a list, before turning to silently head out of the bathroom.

Hal trailed after him, expecting Bruce to resume his search of the living room in case he missed something, but was surprised to see that he didn't linger. Instead, he headed straight for the door.

“Wait,” Hal said. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes.”

“You’re just gonna break into my place, accuse me of some serious felonious shit, rummage through all my crap, and then leave?”

“Yes,” Bruce said again.

“That’s—! You can’t just—! Are you kidding me right now?”

Bruce opened the door and paused long enough to glance back over his shoulder. “Unless I find something that proves you’ve lied to me,” he continued, “I won’t bother you again.”

Hal sneered at him. “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t lie to you then.”

Without so much as an apology for being the most proactive creep on the eastern seaborn, Bruce stalked down the hallway and disappeared down the stairs. Apparently, he was totally fine breaking into someone’s home and rooting through the underwear drawer, but drew the line at using the elevator. Which, if Hal were in a more charitable mood, made a weird kind of sense. The elevator had been threatening to fail since before he moved into this building, and Hal only used it so often because his personal relationship with safety was deeply screwed up by a lifetime of looking for adventure and all that leftover military bravado.

Now alone, Hal hovered in the doorway, glaring at the empty hallway like it might offer any kind of closure.

The anger was still there, bubbling low under his ribs in a twitchy need to fight, but it was already starting to cool into something a lot more annoying. Unfortunately, guilt had a much faster boiling point for Hal.

He didn’t have kids. He didn’t want them, didn’t plan for them, didn’t know the first thing about wrangling them full time, though that didn’t mean that he was completely unsympathetic to Bruce’s problem. On the contrary, Hal probably felt too much. He’d always been a pretty emotional guy, and he was, unfortunately, the hero-type who saw a problem that needed to be fixed, so he’d fix it.

Hal rocked on his heels, torn between common sense and that infuriating pull in his chest that showed up whenever he was tempted to do something decent.

He shouldn’t get involved. He’d done his part. He’d opened his home, dealt with Bruce’s bullshit, and let the guy walk away without another fight. As far as Hal was concerned, he’d fulfilled every moral obligation required of a guy who was otherwise unable to help out. It was done. He could move on.

…Move on knowing that there was a kid out there, missing, possibly in danger, and he’d done nothing to help.

That sat deeply, nauseatingly wrong in his chest.

“Goddammit,” Hal muttered.

Before he could think too hard about it, he spun on his heel, stormed back into his bedroom, and swapped his sweats for the old pair of jeans hanging off the chair. He grabbed his jacket from the lampshade, yanked on his boots, and slammed the front door behind him on the way out.

Chapter Text

Though it felt silly to dwell on things he could never change, Bruce was a man who had many regrets in life.

He regretted being unable to do anything when Mother and Father were murdered — Mother for her pelt, Father for being mistaken to be the same kind of creature she was. Bruce had been too young, too scared, and far too small to do anything but huddle in his lanugo and watch.

He regretted being the kind of person who was so terrible at giving his children basic words of affection. It was a simple thing that came so easy to others, but the words would catch in his throat and get stuck there, leaving him to hover awkwardly around the family and hope that a firm pat on the shoulder translated well enough to ‘I love you, I’m proud of you, I’m so sorry you have to deal with me.’

He regretted falling out with Dick ten years ago. It was over nothing, really. His overprotectiveness didn’t gel well with Dick’s wanderlust, and the disagreement had twisted in on itself until Dick left Gotham entirely. It had taken him five years and a new brother to finally come back to reconcile, and even then Bruce struggled with a simple apology. Things were better now, mostly. Dick had used the time to turn himself into a wonderful young man, so it all worked out for the best. Still, it didn’t stop the old ache every time Bruce remembered how lonely it had been when he was too stubborn to ask Dick to stay.

More recently, he regretted ever existing within proximity of Hal Jordan, who against all reasonable logic, was somehow present every time Bruce's many skills failed him.

Bruce had marked the incident at the cabin as a terrible fluke, and flukes were unacceptable. He took the memory, examined it carefully, and then slotted it directly into his brain where all his bad decisions sat. He kept them catalogued, mostly so he could ruminate on them obsessively and never make the same mistake again. That was the plan. That was always the plan.

The whole situation was supposed to be over. Dick had assured him that Hal Jordan wasn’t going to be a problem, and Bruce, for all his paranoia, was inclined to believe him. He had, of course, double-checked just to be sure. For as much as he trusted Dick, Bruce had so many issues, and most of them couldn’t be fixed by a familiar smile and an ‘It’ll all be okay, B.’

In the end, he’d allowed himself the rare indulgence of agreement. He had cautiously decided that he would never have to deal with Hal ever again and business in the pod would resume as usual. Life would go on, and he was going to pretend that this stranger had never watched something magical transform in front of him.

Then Jay didn’t come home.

Truthfully, Bruce didn’t actually think Hal took Jason. There were no flags on his record that suggested he was anything other than an honest, principled, if reckless person. That didn’t stop the niggling in the back of Bruce’s brain. He would’ve been remiss if he didn’t cover all bases. What if Hal was more than he seemed? What if he had seen magic in the moonlight gotten greedy? What if , what if , what if?

Bruce had lost too much in life to ignore a ‘what if’. Though, if he were being honest (and Bruce Wayne rarely enjoyed honesty when it turned inward), he could admit that perhaps he’d reacted a little hastily to the realisation that Jason still wasn’t home. He couldn’t help it, really. The last time Jason hadn’t come home, he was presumed dead by the family, lived without his skin for three years, and came back wrong in all the most tragic of ways.

The rest of the pod had surfaced on schedule. Steph and Cass and Tim had been swimming in lazy circles in the cove, caught in idle conversation with each other as their younger siblings…bonded, Bruce supposed. Duke and Damian were taking it in turns to headbutt each other in the water, coming in at speed. It was probably a game, but also could’ve them just testing to see how hard they could concuss each other.

Dick, the only other one who remembered what Jason had been like before the original incident, had stayed with Bruce on the rocks, barking about nothing in particular just to make noise to fill the silence. Keeping watch, like they always used to, as they waited for Jason to march on into the cave and grumble that he wasn’t late, everyone else was just early.

By the time the tide shifted and the change was locked in for three months, Jay still hadn’t come home and there was nothing they could do but swim.

They’d searched every saltwater stretch they could, but nothing came up. The water had gone silent on Jason, which meant it was time to search on dry land.

With three months wasted being stuck as seals, Bruce wasted no time. The minute they could shed their skins again, he sent Dick and Damian to re-check the research station on the island to poke around and ask leading questions. The others were sweeping the city in pairs, searching every crack and corner and crevice, from top to bottom and back to the top.

It left Bruce to follow the only other lead he had.

When he lined everything up and viewed it from the high ground of logic and necessity, Bruce assured himself it was not an overreaction to slip into Hal’s apartment building behind an unsuspecting neighbour. Okay, yes, he may have crossed some boundaries when he decided to pick the lock instead of knocking, but Bruce was not going to let something as arbitrary as manners get in the way of answers.

He had timed it down to the minute. Jordan’s flight manifest had put him in the air. Bruce had double-checked. Triple-checked, in fact. He had a system in place to ensure that everything would go exactly according to plan, as he always did.

Now, he realised that he acted too quickly in his haste to make use of the seven days before the sea started calling him. He should have cross-referenced his information with a secondary call-in report from the landing strip of the naval base. Then, he should have watched the man take off himself from a bluff, just in case everyone involved was lying. Which, evidently, was the case.

Going forward, he would have to account for the variable that was Hal Jordan. That being, an unpredictable, loud-mouthed, perpetual risk of a man with no real concept of self-preservation.

Bruce didn’t like variables and therefore, he didn’t like Hal Jordan. He wanted that on record.

Though perhaps, if he were feeling kinder, he would later reevaluate his opinion on the man. Despite all the yelling and punching and posturing, he’d empathetically allowed Bruce to search his personal possessions. He didn’t have to (even though one way or another, Bruce was absolutely going to toss the place), but he had taken Bruce at his word, believed him when he heard about a missing kid, and opened his home to scrutiny.

Incredibly reckless, really. Bruce could’ve been lying. He could’ve been some unhinged conman running a very niche long game. How was Hal to know? Especially since the only interaction they’d had previously was a fight in a cabin and some prolonged glaring over the coastline.

What sort of moron willingly lets someone like Bruce into their house?

The same sort of moron, apparently, that would follow him out into the street.

“Hey!” Hal called. “Wait up!”

Bruce didn’t stop walking.

“Are you listening to me? I said wait up!”

Bruce, if anything, sped up a little.

“Oh, you sonuva—” He heard Hal break into a jog until he caught up and fell into step beside him. He glared sideways at Bruce. “You’re not a people person, are you?”

“Stop following me.”

“Stop being a jerk.”

This… This was going to be an exercise in patience that Bruce was going to fail. He exhaled slowly through his nose in an effort to steer his thoughts away from unnecessary violence. Maybe, if he ignored the problem, it would realise that Bruce is too much effort to interact with and go back home.

“Hey, uh…” Hal continued after a moment, “I’m sorry I didn’t kidnap your kid.”

That earned him a flat, incredulous glance. “What.”

“What I mean to say is, I hope we find him, man. I know we’re not exactly friends, but it must suck.”

“...Yes, Jordan. It sucks.” Bruce stopped short and glared at him when what he said actually registered. “What do you mean, ‘we?”

“I mean ‘we’, as in, you and me. As in, I’m helping,”

“No you’re not.”

“Just try and stop me.”

Hal, it seemed, was entirely immune to Bruce’s glare. That tracked, really. The man had completely upended all of Bruce’s expectations and then had the gall to make Bruce feel like he was being ridiculous for even attempting to herd him in any direction other than the one he’d decided to walk in.

Most people, when faced with Bruce’s dead-eyed stare, tended to backtrack quite a bit. The natural intimidation was a wonderful side-effect of being incapable of accurately emoting anything beyond disappointment, but Hal was having none of it. He looked like he was getting ready to square up like he was angling for another fight. It was a maddening sort of confidence that would have been attractive if he hadn’t already tried to punch Bruce in the face twenty minutes ago.

There was a frustrating contradiction to Hal, Bruce was beginning to realise. Even though he was all puffed up and ready to brawl, his whole stance was an open hand that was unmistakably sincere. He was offering help, even after all the things that had happened between them in the short time they’d known each other.

In a way, the blunt offer wasn’t unwelcome. Bruce was running on too little sleep and too much fear, and every passing minute without a solid lead was winding the coil of panic in his chest that hadn’t eased since Jay hadn’t come home. Help would be…appreciated.

But this offer of help, this kind of help — that being unsolicited, unearned and so stubbornly human — made Bruce feel uneasy. He’d seen enough of the world to know what kindness looked like, and it rarely came without cost. People offered help all the time, sure, but they offered it with strings and motives. Strangers didn’t just show up. They didn’t follow you down the road and insist on inserting themselves into your crisis just because it ‘sucked.’ Not the strangers Bruce had met, anyway.

He had the propensity to believe in the best of people when they were battling their own demons. Inherently good people who had taken a wrong turn after a bad day and had let life throw them down into the dirt. That kind of struggle, Bruce understood. That kind of change and redemption, he could believe in.

When it came packaged as something meant to help him though, his opinion was perhaps a little more convoluted. Kindness, when pointed directly at his storm and promised to steady the ship, was a lot harder to stomach. Impossible, sometimes.

It was a contradiction, to be sure. One of many. Bruce had never pretended to be particularly consistent, and he certainly never laid claim to being well-adjusted. Self-awareness didn’t equate to self-correction, after all. His trust issues and deep-seated paranoia weren’t the kind of things that were easily placated by a nice face and persistence.

Instead of accepting the offer like he probably should have, Bruce said, “I don’t need help from you.”

Hal snorted in response. “Yeah?” he said. “Well, too bad. I’m helping anyway. Just think of me as a community service. Y’know, like the volunteers that band together when an Amber Alert goes out.”

There was no point arguing with someone too hardheaded to fully grasp the concept of Bruce’s utter disinterest in being accompanied. He allowed himself one final scowl before turning to walk away. Hal must have taken that as permission, or acceptance, or simply an invitation to continue doing exactly what he wanted regardless of what Bruce said.

“So,” he said, boldly falling into step, “thorough guy like you, I figure you’ve already checked out the kid’s usual haunts, right?

Bruce resolutely said nothing.

Hal continued. “This one time I lost my nephew for like three hours at a strip mall. Thought my brother was gonna kill me. Turned out he’d fallen asleep behind a stack of fifty-pound mulch bags at the garden centre. Only found him ‘cause he snored like a buzzsaw. Kid was seven.”

Still no reply. Bruce didn’t want to dignify his babble with conversation. Unperturbed, Hal added, “So I’m just saying, if I were a slippery little runaway, I’d probably hide somewhere weird. Somewhere small and annoying. Like maybe inside one of those donation bins no one checks until they’ve been picking up trash for six months.”

That, unfortunately, was enough to crack Bruce. “He didn’t run away,” he said tersely.

“You sure?”

“Yes.” Bruce was mostly certain of that fact. Jason was far too dramatic to run away without telling anyone.

“Okay, I believe you. Still, those donation bins are tricky—”

“How small do you think he is?”

“I… Well, now that you mention it, Asshole is almost as big as you. As a seal, that is. Which is an objectively weird thing for me to think about, so thanks for that.”

“Stop calling my son Asshole.”

“Wouldn’t have to if you told me his name.”

Bruce sighed sharply through his nose. “Jason.”

“Seriously? First Bruce, now Jason. What, is there a Kevin in the family too? Whatever, not the issue here. Let’s start with what you do know. Like, when exactly did Jason go missing?””

“Months ago.”

Hal let the silence rest for a moment, like he was waiting for more. When nothing came, he rolled his eyes. "Yeah, great, super helpful. Wanna narrow that down a little?"

Bruce’s jaw tightened, like this was physically painful for him. "Three months, four days, seven hours. Would you like me to pin it down to the second?"

“Now was that so hard?” he drawled, stuffing his hands in his pockets with a defensive swagger. “See, we’re making progress.”

“Hn.”

Hal glanced over, squinting like he was trying to decide whether that noise meant thank you or drop dead, and settled on neither. “I’m gonna let your crabby personality slide because you’ve got a good reason to be a dick right now. I get it. Your kid’s gone. The world feels like it’s on fire and you’ve got a pocket full of water.”

“I don’t need your condescensio—”

“But let me tell you something, tough guy,” he continued, cutting Bruce off, “the whole intimidation schtick doesn’t scare me, okay? Just talk to me straight and maybe we can find your kid a helluva lot faster than you would if you were looking on your own. I’m here to help, dude. You’d be doing your kid a disservice if you turned that down.”

And damn, that very much felt like Bruce just lost the argument. The truth of it cut him down to the quick and a voice in the back of his head — one that suspiciously sounded like Alfred when he was disappointed — was saying that being right didn’t matter if it meant staying alone and losing more time than he had already.

Grudgingly, reluctantly, Bruce bit out a sharp, “Fine”

“Great.”

“But if I find that you’re here for any other reason than to help, I’ll—”

“Jesus Christ, okay. Relax, man. You may be some mythical sea monster or whatever, but not everyone’s out to get you, alright? Sometimes help is just help.” Hal waited for that to sink in, even though stubborn Bruce was making a solid effort not to let anything this flyboy said get to him, before nodding to himself and continuing on as if the matter was put to rest. “Now, you gonna tell me why you’re only just knocking down my door three months after he went missing? Figured I’d be suspicious enough to at least warrant a surprise home invasion on day three of the search.”

“Do you want to be more suspicious?”

“No, but I get it. I hate that I get it, but I do,” he said with a shrug. “When your kid goes missing, you’re obviously gonna track down all the people that come to the island, right? And I guess that since I technically know about your whole…magic seal selkie shit, that’d give me motive.”

“There’s no ‘technically’ about it,” Bruce said. Ah, there was that familiar load of self-hatred as he was abruptly reminded that he was the one to spill the secret.

“Okay, I am intimately aware of your selkie secret, then. More than intimately, actually. Dude, you were naked. And the fact that you’re wearing clothes right now makes me think that you being naked when we met was even weirder than it was.”

Right, yes, Bruce should probably defend himself here. It wasn’t like he meant to fight a man in the nude. His missing pelt was far more important to him than human propriety.

Instead of articulating that, he said, “Drop it.”

“I saw your whole business, Spooky. I physically can’t drop it. I’m gonna be thinking about that forever.” When Hal realised what he implied, his ears coloured and he pulled a face. “Wait, no, that came out wrong.”

“You don’t need to advertise every thought you have.”

“No, no, hang on. You need to know that I don’t think about your dick.”

“I didn’t think you did.”

“...Well. Looks like we’re both terrible at communicating.” Hal dragged a hand down his face for a moment, muttering something inaudible to himself, then straightened up and visibly rebooted his ego. “So, back to the point. Why now? It’s been three months, right? I can’t imagine you’ve been sitting on your blubbery ass the entire time.”

“There were complications.”

“Such as…?”

“Just because you decided to follow me doesn’t mean I need to explain every aspect of my life to you.”

“God, every conversation with you is gonna be like pulling teeth, huh?” Hal snapped.

“You’re more than welcome to leave.”

“No, see, I can’t leave,” he exclaimed, throwing up his hands. “How could I when there’s a missing kid out there and I’m in a position to help? I leave now, and that shit is gonna eat me up for the rest of my life. I come with you, then at least I can do more than sit on my ass and pretend that I couldn’t be useful.”

“You don’t owe me or my family anything.”

“You’re damn right, I don’t. You’re all assholes. But could you just walk away if you were the outsider here?”

Bruce didn’t answer right away. He paused mid-step, shoulders tense, and let his gaze drift somewhere off beyond the Coast City strip. The sea wasn’t visible from here, he noted absently, but he still stared like he could see it anyway. The pull to return hadn’t started yet. It wouldn’t start until the seventh day on land, but the memory was always there.

It was easier to think of the ocean than to acknowledge that someone else, least of all a stranger, was right. If the situation were identical but their positions were reversed, here’d be nothing Hal could do to stop Bruce from helping. He would’ve done it in a far more clandestine way, of course, but the sentiment was the same. It wasn’t a choice, really. More of a compulsion.

The silence was enough of an affirmation for Hal to try again. “Tell me what happened.”

Bruce hesitated for a moment longer before he relented. “He shifted. He left. He didn’t come back. He always comes back,” he said. It was a truth as much as it was a lie.

“You let him head out on his own?”

“He’s old enough to do what he wants.”

“You said he was a kid.”

“I said he was my son. It doesn’t matter how old he is.”

“No, no, you’re right.” Hal grimaced like it physically pained him to admit that. “So, we’re looking for a teenager or young adult then. And he’s huge as a seal, so…we’re looking for a huge kid.” He looked up at Bruce and said, “Wait, are we looking for a kid or a seal?”

“Either.”

Bruce wasn’t sure, and that made him uncomfortable. They had seven days of shifting at will before the tide changed and locked them in place. Whichever shape they found themselves in on that final night, that was the one they kept for three long months.

It wasn’t the worst thing in the world if Jason was in his seal form. Not ideal, but…surviable. It’d mean he had his pelt, and if he had his pelt, that meant he hadn’t lost the most vital part of himself. It also meant that he wouldn’t spend three months itching from the inside with pure, unfiltered need to return into the blue.

But if he was stuck as a human, if he didn’t have his pelt…

Bruce didn’t let the thought finish. He didn’t want to imagine Jason cut off from the ocean again.

“Cool,” Hal said, unaware of the mental arithmetic Bruce was currently going through. And I figure you’ve already checked underwater, right?”

“The entire archipelago. Twice.”

“The ocean’s a big place. You sure you didn’t miss anything?”

“If there was something to miss, it’s been swept away,” Bruce said. “Jason is smart. If he ran up against something he couldn’t handle alone, he would’ve found a reliable way to leave a sign. If not in the sea, then wherever he is on land.”

“So you’re saying we just need to find one clue and then the rest will come together, right? Like a breadcrumb trail.”

“That’s the plan.”

“Alright, then we find a breadcrumb.” He looked at Bruce. “Was my place your first stop on land?”

“Yes.”

“I’m honoured. My ribcage really thanks you.”

“If you didn’t attack me, I wouldn’t have had to defend myself.”

“And once again, I wouldn’t have to attack you if you weren’t a maniac who broke into people’s apartments.”

“If you say so.”

Hal rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Did you speak to Arthur and Mera?” he asked. “And when I say ‘speak’, I don’t mean descend upon them in the night and threaten them. I mean ‘did you ask them nicely?’”

“They’re a low priority. My oldest is taking care of that.”

“That’d be Dick, right?”

“Hm.”

“Well, at least he’s more personable than you,” Hal muttered. “I’m the only mainlander who goes to that island regularly. You won’t find any other flights heading out there for sure. Our best bet is heading over to the docks. If you’ve got a timeframe, we can check out the logs, see what boats were nearby when your kid went missing. Maybe even talk to some of the crusty old guys who work down there. One of them’s been manning slip twelve since before electricity. If anyone saw something weird, it’ll be that guy.”

Bruce gave a small nod. It wasn’t exactly an agreement, but it wasn't a refusal either. It had always been the plan, after all.

Clear the suspect (Hal). Hit the docks. ‘Talk’ to the locals. Scan the logs. Retrace the edges of the map, looking for gaps in the ink. He didn’t need Hal to point him there. He knew how to investigate quite well, thank you very much., but he supposed that having a local with a big mouth might be tactically useful.

So, fine. This was happening. He could make his peace with having a tagalong, so long as he didn’t get in his way.

He continued walking without a word, already mentally cataloguing names and registration numbers from past dock records, tides on that particular week, and the currents that might’ve carried a stray seal out farther than he’d meant to go.

Hal glanced at him. “Wow. No argument?”

Bruce gave him a long look.

“Oh yeah,” Hal muttered. “You and I are gonna get along great.”

Chapter Text

The fishing docks in Coast City were brighter than the ones in Gotham. Too bright, in Bruce’s perfectly honest opinion as he squinted along the jetty.

Most of the boats were small, privately owned things with names like Trudy’s Luck and Miss Opportunity painted on them in cheerful cursive. A few looked like they hadn’t left port in years, while others were littered with the scuff-marks and rust of constant use. Absolutely none of them, Bruce noted in annoyance, were familiar.

He kept pace behind Hal, who had decided to lead the way. He walked with a swagger, though Bruce suspected he absolutely had no idea where he was going and had decided to compensate by walking faster. His sunglasses were perched on his head, his sleeves were rolled up, and he had already nodded at three different fishermen like they were old friends, despite clearly not knowing any of their names.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Hal said, despite the easy smile on his face. “Boats, man. I don’t trust ’em.”

“Hm.”

“I’m serious. You know how many things can go wrong on a boat? Tiny engine, open water, no brakes. No brakes, Spooky.” He waved a hand vaguely at a passing trawler as if to illustrate his displeasure. “You hit the gas too hard in a jet, you go up. You hit the gas too hard in a boat, you explode into fish food. It’s unnatural.”

“Boats don’t explode under normal operating conditions.”

“There’s nothing normal about the deep blue sea.”

It was strange, being out in broad daylight. He hated it. There was no weight to the Californian air. It was dry and bright and far too clean, like it had never learned the proper way to press down on a man’s shoulders. Not like Gotham, where even the daylight had a certain thickness to it. Here, there was just sun and wind and the echo of the gulls laughing overhead.

Whenever he came ashore, he had a very particular rhythm that decidedly did not involve looking around the city. The first stop was always Alfred, even before they migrated west. They’d sit quietly, chat if it was warranted, and Bruce could relax in the comfort of parental familiarity. Then, after checking in with Lucias to make sure the company hadn’t imploded, he'd check in on the others as needed.

Barbara was doing well. She’d finished her master’s and recently decided to pursue a PhD in computer science. Bruce hadn’t said anything about it directly, but he’d read the thesis abstract when it was published and felt a tight, inexplicable pride lodge itself in his ribs. He had always been fond of Barbara. One of the few who knew the family secret and was trusted enough to keep it to herself.

Harvey was still in Arkham, but he had a new therapist. One that, according to both Bruce and Alfred’s intensive research, was actively helping him make small strides in managing his condition. Progress, Bruce knew, came in inches.

Selina was still sending Alfred articles on struggling cat sanctuaries in a not-so-subtle demand for funding. Alfred, of course, would always dip into the Wayne accounts to appease her. She’d done far too much for the family to ignore and, well, they liked to humour her in case she decided to go back to a life of crime. (Though Bruce was under no illusions that she wasn’t still crawling across the rooftops at night to steal from the rich and give eighty percent to her old neighbourhoods.)

Kate was the most surprising. He hadn’t spoken to her this cycle, but three months ago she had bluntly told him that she found a reason to stay on land. She’d mentioned a detective working under Commissioner Gordon, someone sharp, stubborn, and had a mouth that didn’t quit. Just the right amount of hard-hitting gusto to sweep Kate off her boots and plant her firmly on dry land.

Strange, Bruce thought. He knew it was possible for their kind to stay on land permanently. His mother had done it, after all. She loved his father enough to overcome the ache of being away from the sea, and she gave up the ocean’s cradle for a child and a manor and the ordinary. By the time Bruce was old enough to wrap up in his own skin, he spent most of the time in the half-submerged oceanic cave beneath the manor. She’d join him a lot of the time, but not in the way he thought she should have. She would sit, he pelt around her shoulders, with a human hand in the water as he barked at her from the shallows. He’d barely ever seen her selkie form.

It had always been such an abstract concept for Bruce. He thought he would be able to do it for Talia, then for Selina. He’d made promises, told himself that this time it would be enough. But each time the seventh night came, the wind shifted, and the pull returned with it. Quiet at first, then louder. A gnawing in his ribs. A hum under the skin. A voice telling him to go home.

He lasted a year with Talia — though that could’ve been because Ra’s had taken his pelt. With Selina, it had been three months before she told him flat out to put his damn coat on and go back to the water. He still didn’t know if she sent him away out of love for him, or if she wanted to remove the temptation of taking his pelt for herself.

He loved them both, but not enough to stay.

It was his biggest fear, one he didn’t know he had until right this moment, that if he couldn’t find Jason before the seventh day came, he’d fail him completely. Not because he didn’t want to stay on land to find him and not because he didn’t love him, but because the sea would call and Bruce’s body might listen even if his mind refused. That somewhere, deep in his bones, he was still a creature of instinct and tide, and not even the weight of grief would anchor him fully to land.

He would stay, he told himself as he ignored whatever Hal was babbling about. He would stay in his human skin until it cracked apart at the seams, water withdrawal be damned. He’d done it before.

(But really, what he wanted — what he needed, just this once — was for the universe to believe him. To acknowledge that he loved his children more than he loved the water.)

“You know,” Hal said, far too close and breaking Bruce from his reverie, “you think audibly.”

“What?”

“Yeah, like—” Hal waved a hand vaguely in front of his face like that might help convey the concept. “—when the silence gets so loud it’s obvious your brain’s playing bumper cars with itself? That’s what you do. You think too loud. Makes my teeth itch.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“Sure it is. It’s like sonar, but for overthinkers. I’m picking up the stress signals and buddy, they are pinging.”

“Right.”

“Look, I get it, you’re probably thinking about all the things that can go wrong,” Hal continued. “Which is pointless. If you start thinking about everything that could go wrong, you’re just inviting Murphy’s law.”

“So your solution is…what. Ignoring reality?”

“No. My solution is to relax, Spooks.” Hal shrugged easily, sidestepping a rushing courier as they continued. “Just for five minutes. Let your brain cool down before it cooks itself. You think too hard, you’re gonna drive yourself straight down a really crummy road.”

Bruce didn’t reply. He was too busy imagining what would happen if he quietly knocked Hal into the water and walked away.

Unbothered by the silence, or maybe even invigorated by it, somehow, Hal kept walking. He gestured toward Slip Twelve with a jerk of his chin where an older man was hunched over a heavy tangle of rope. The guy was looping it into slow, practiced coils beside a squat little fishing boat called The Lady Legless.

“There’s the guy,” Hal said, keeping his voice low but not quiet. “Been here longer than I’ve been alive. He used to throw stones at my kid brother when he came to play in the storage sheds.”

“Sounds friendly.”

“I don’t know him personally. Jim says he’s an asshole, but not like an asshole asshole, you know? Not the kind that drowns puppies or complains about immigrants on Facebook. More like a… crusty sea curmudgeon. Like, he’ll yell at seagulls and knows the exact number of minutes you’re allowed to idle in a loading zone.”

Bruce frowned. “What reason would he have to tell us anything?”

“Maybe he’s secretly friendly,” Hal offered. He squinted toward the man, who was currently glaring at a passing gull as he spooled. “Point is, if anyone’s gonna have seen anything, it’ll be him. Old bastards like that notice everything and pretend they don’t.”

“Hm.” Bruce started forward, already planning exactly how he was going to extract information from this man, only to be abruptly yoinked back by the sleeve. His relocated arm screamed at the jostle.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Hal hissed, pulling him just out of view behind a stack of crates. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Bruce glared at the hand on his arm, then removed it with slow, hard grip. He was not gentle. “To talk to the man,” he said. “The reason why we’re here.”

“You look like you’re here to collect unpaid debts. He’s not gonna talk to a square like you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Look at you. You’re not exactly friendly, man. It’s the eyebrows. You’ve got angry eyebrows. The guy’s gonna take one look at them and assume you’re a bailiff.”

“And you think you’re any better?”

“Look, if he’s seen anything, he’s more likely going to tell the approachable one. Which is me, just in case that slipped you by.” Hal began to count on his fingers: “I’m local, I’ve got a great smile, and I don’t look like I’m here to repossess his boat. I swear to god, Bruce, if you march on over there and give him the same hello you gave me, someone’s gonna call the cops.”

“Do you think I fight everyone I meet?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t even try with me, man.”

Bruce opened his mouth again, prepared to rebut that in a way that would probably include the phrase ‘operational necessity’, but Hal didn’t give him the chance. He was already peeling away, heading straight for Slip Twelve and the clearly uninterested fisherman.

“Hey there, Captain Ahab!” he called out, far too loudly for Bruce’s comfort. “Nice day for fishing, huh?”

The man looked up mid-coil, slow and suspicious, like he was prepared to be disappointed by whatever interaction was barrelling towards him. He was on the older side, as Hal had said. Maybe Alfred’s age, but twice as grizzled and five times as ornery, with a thick beard and grime streaking along his nose.

“It’s a day,” he grunted.

“Yeah, a great day,” Hal said. “Nice and clear. Bet the water’s smooth as hell out there. You get a lot of traffic lately? Boats coming and going, anything like that?”

“Some.”

“Great, that’s great.” Hal leaned a little too casually against a tarp-covered crate. Arms folded, one leg crossed over the other, grin just a little too big. He looked far too confident for what Bruce was certain was going to be a terrible attempt at getting information. “You look like the kinda guy who gets around a lot.”

“I guess.”

“Yeah. I was wondering if you ever, you know, see anything unusual in the water. Not that I’m suggesting there’s gonna be anything out of the ordinary. Just a little curious. I mean, strange things happen out here sometimes, right?”

The old man frowned at him. “Strange things, huh?”

“Yeah,” Hal said. “Like, maybe you’ve seen something… unusual in the water, huh? Like, say… oh, I don’t know…” He made a vague, circular motion with one of his hands, like he was attempting to mime ‘mysterious sea creature’ but it was coming across as vaguely phallic. The confidence in this man, Bruce realised, was unmatched. “Something mysterious. Something that might, y’know… vanish unexpectedly.”

“...What’re you tryin’ to say, son?”

“Oh, you know, just the usual. Something big and wet and… well…” His hands made a second, even less coherent gesture. "Not fish, I mean."

Then, because apparently this all wasn’t uncomfortable enough, Hal gave the man a big, unnecessary wink.

Bruce sighed audibly and lowered his face into his palm.

Meanwhile, the man’s expression twisted and he leaned back and away from Hal in what could only be deep personal discomfort. “Son,” he said slowly, “I don’t know what you’re offering, but I’m not interested.”

“What?”

“You look like the type who likes to fish in different waters, if you catch my drift,” the man muttered, giving him a grimacing once-over. "But I’m too old for that game. Take yer man and go find someone else to play with."

“No, no! I’m just… I wasn’t… I meant—” Hal stumbled over his words, suddenly bereft of any of the charm he claimed to have earlier. Meanwhile, the old fisherman was already standing, muttering under his breath as he gathered his things to haul onto The Lady Legless.

Hal stared after him before turning to Bruce, who had his face firmly in his palm.

“Did I just… did I just proposition that guy?”

“Yes.”

“Like…I winked at him. Why would I wink at him?” He shook his head, mystified with himself. “I’ve never winked at anyone in my life.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“That’s ‘cause it’s a lie, but still. That was new for me. Maybe I’m nervous.” Hal frowned and looked at Bruce. “In my defence, I don’t see any way that could’ve gone better.”

“I see several.”

“I was improvising under pressure. You know, staying fluid. Adapting. You can’t teach that.” He gestured vaguely at his own chest. “I can’t help it if I’m just naturally magnetic.”

“Natural magnetism doesn’t mean you need to hit on the fishermen.”

“I’m gonna try again.”

“Please don’t.”

“Oh, I’m gonna.”

“Jordan—”

Too late. Hal was already halfway up the gangplank, obnoxiously boarding The Lady Legless without permission. He did it loudly, too. He made sure to knock something with his boot and call out a cheerful “Ahoy?” that made Bruce’s molars grind together.

Bruce didn’t follow him in. He had absolutely zero interest in watching Hal stumble into another misunderstanding, especially with suspect old men who looked like they had no time nor patience in dealing with him. Instead, he turned on his heel and headed in the opposite direction.

Enough time had been wasted on this farce when he could’ve been doing something constructive instead. He cast his gaze over the pier as he walked, scanning faces and tracking body language. There was an older woman sorting nets near the edge of a slip. Two teenage boys loitered near a dinghy with rods and an overflowing bucket of bait. A man in a stained sweatshirt crouched beside a stack of lobster traps. Normal people doing normal things.

He wasn’t so naïve as to think he’d find someone suspicious lurking on the docks three months after Jason’s disappearance. He was more interested in seeing if— Ah, there. Hooked haphazardly onto a lamppost was a scuffed, sun-bleached CCTV camera. Its angle was a little crooked, but it had a perfect view of the dock. Another, newer one, still dusty but mounted more solidly, was affixed to the wall of the dockmaster’s office, pointed toward the main pier.

Outdated and likely badly maintained, but there was a chance that those cameras had been recording the docks for the last few months. If they had been recorded, and if the data hadn’t been wiped yet, and if the dockmaster hadn’t used the DVR system as a coaster, then maybe…

Bruce altered his aimless course, veering toward the little squat office just ahead.

The door was open, which wasn’t surprising, and there was a cardboard ‘Gone Fishin’’ sign wedged into the crease of the windowpane. He stepped up to the doorway and leaned inside, just to check for any surprises. The place smelled like old bait and rust. A mug half-filled with what had probably once been coffee sat precariously close to the edge of the desk, and beside it there was a monitor.

There was a lot to look for in three months. Bruce wasn’t under any illusions that he’d find something immediately, and he certainly knew he couldn’t trawl through every frame quickly on his own. Not without missing something, anyway. Fortunately, Bruce was the kind of person who liked to carry around portable drives the way people carried house keys.

Steph used to tease him about that. She’d say something about ‘pointless paranoia’ and ‘hoarder behaviour’, usually while playfully rolling her eyes and sticking one in her pocket too. Well, look who’s laughing now, Stephanie. Bruce slotted the drive into the port with a satisfied huff.

The system was ancient and it flickered when it booted up, but at least it worked. It had preserved four months’ worth of footage by sacrificing resolution and movement — one of those obsolete setups that took a still image every few seconds instead of proper video. It was a cost-saving compromise. Terrible for detail, but just enough to catch the shape of things.

While the data moved at a glacial pace from one ancient directory to another, Bruce had started skimming. He dialled the time back exactly three months and four days, set the playback speed to triple-time, and proceeded to have absolutely no expectations whatsoever.

“Hm...”

Maybe he could afford a few expectations after all. Bruce hit pause on day eight and squinted at the scene. It was too grainy to make out any real information, but the sight of a man in a clean, pressed suit and holding a suitcase was always going to stand out in a place like the docks.

It wasn’t much. Could’ve been nothing. Could’ve been a visiting executive, a property investor, a man who got lost on his way to a coastal board meeting, but Bruce’s gut twisted the way it always did when something was out of place. He made a mental note of the timeframe and checked day nine.

The stranger was there, too, standing in the same spot and wearing a similar suit. He didn’t move much, which made it all that more suspicious. He just loitered in the same place like he was waiting for someone to show up and didn’t particularly care how long it took.

Day ten, same story. Still waiting. Still alone.

Bruce leaned back slightly in the metal folding chair, just far enough to glance out the narrow office window. He scanned the stretch of dockyard the man had claimed — empty now, save for a seagull doing its best to harass a discarded sandwich wrapper. Which meant there must have been a point where something changed…

Just as he was narrowing his eyes at the empty spot and overthinking every possible explanation, he caught sight of Hal leaving The Lady Legless. He was looking around with a frown, probably wondering where Bruce had gone, and he was inexplicably holding a juice box. Bruce was almost certain he didn’t have that with him before.

He rolled his eyes so hard it gave him a brief moment of vertigo and he turned back to the monitor.

Day twelve: The stranger was still there. No changes.

Day thirteen: Still waiting. Still motionless.

Day fifteen: Same man. Same spot.

Day twenty: A wiry local finally came to approach him. If Bruce could figure out who this guy was, maybe he could—

“You lost or something?”

Bruce looked up to find that an elderly gentleman had hobbled into the office, wielding a chipped wooden crutch and wearing a flatcap that had seen the better half of the last century. He smelled faintly of fish, seaweed, and the kind of tobacco that came prepackaged with a huge warning label.

The data transfer was done. Bruce snatched the external drive and stood up with a sheepish, charming smile. “Ah, you caught me,” he said, aiming for harmless and confused. “Sorry, yes, I’m a little lost. I thought I might stop to ask for directions.”

“That mean digging into harbour property?” the man grumbled.

Bruce scratched the back of his neck with studied clumsiness. “Well, when I didn’t find anyone here, I thought I might try my luck with the internet…” He gave a helpless shrug and let his expression go soft and a little stupid. Poor me, please don’t be mean, aren’t I so pitiful? “I’ve never been good with tech, though. I couldn’t work it out.”

The man squinted at him. Then, trusting Bruce’s weak smile and his open posture, let out a soft snort. “That’s ‘cause it’s not for computing,” he said. “Just the cameras for the dock. No Wi-Fi here, kid. Not unless you steal it off the tackle shop, and he changes the password every month.”

“Ah. That explains a lot.”

“You need directions?”

“Only if you don’t mind. I need to head over to—” Bruce made a show of blinking and looking out the window. “Oh! Actually, I think my friend came to pick me up.”

He pointed at Hal, who was now halfway into an animated conversation with an unimpressed-looking fisherwoman. From this distance, it looked like he was describing Bruce as roughly ‘this tall’ and ‘this wide’ while doing a very poor impression of his resting scowl

Bruce offered another apologetic smile. “I’m sorry for bothering you, sir. I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Wait.”

He paused mid-step, automatically calculating the odds of having to incapacitate a man with arthritis, only to stop when something papery hit his chest.

“Map of the area,” the man said. “Keep that on you. Coast City ain’t much of a maze, but it’s better to know than to not.”

It was unneeded, but Bruce accepted the offering with both hands and a nod of sincere gratitude. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

The man waved him off and Bruce took the hint. He had what he came for, so he stepped out into the day and barely resisted the urge to sigh when Hal spotted him immediately. He’d almost hoped he could slip away silently, but apparently Hal was more observant than Bruce gave him credit for. Really, he should stop underestimating the man.

Hal broke off mid-sentence, abandoning the long-suffering fisherwoman with thumbs up and a charming grin, before he headed to Bruce in a light jog. “Thought you ditched me,” he said, falling into step beside him.

“I considered it.”

“Wow. Did you also consider how deeply that would wound me?”

“I did.” Bruce handed him the map. “I wasn’t moved.”

Hal took it on instinct, blinked down at the folded paper like he didn’t expect to be holding it, then tucked it into his jacket pocket. “Well, while you were breaking into more places, I actually found something that could be pretty useful,” he said, steering them toward a different section of the dock with a casual hand at Bruce’s back. “Once he realised I wasn’t looking for a salty sea threeway, the old curmudgeon was actually pretty cool. Gave me a juicebox. Not sure why. You want it?”

“No.”

“What, too good for mixed berry?”

“What did you find out?”

He popped the foil on the juicebox and took a sip. “You know how sailors start telling each other tall tales?” he asked. “Well, there’s some guy, Brick Donoghue — his real name, by the way. Brick. Like, it’s not even short for anything. I was hoping for a Brickward or Brickolas or something, but—”

“Jordan, focus.”

“Right, right.” He took another sip. “Anyway, apparently Brick fished up something weird a few months ago. He kept going on about how it was gonna make him rich and that he’d never have to work again, blah blah blah. Real prophet-on-the-docks energy.”

“And?”

“And he never told anyone what it was,” he said. “Which, according to my new buddy, is the weird part. Everyone brags about their catch around here, no matter what it is. Like, you see a shopping cart full of eel, it gets hauled up onto the dock and they’ll be exaggerating about it in the bar for months. But this guy Brick never went into details. Whole thing got hush-hush real quick.”

“Hm.”

“That was three months ago,” Hal continued. “Brick’s still working the docks, so either the thing he found didn’t pay out, or he’s still got it.” He looked at Bruce. “What do you think? Worth checking out?”

“Everythig is worth checking out.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say. What about you? Find anything relevant.”

“Maybe.”

“Words, Spooky. They’re free. Use them.”

Bruce exhaled heavily through his nose. “Checked out the CCTV. There was a man standing in the same place. Multiple days. It looked like he was waiting for someone.

“Okay, ominous. You think it’s connected?”

“It’s a little too specific to be a coincidence.”

“God, I love it when a conspiracy starts to congeal. It’s like soup.”

Bruce glanced at him sideways. “You’re comparing an active investigation to soup?”

“Well, yeah. All the weird little bits start floating to the top. You just have to skim the scum off and see what’s left underneath.”

“Soup doesn’t work like that.”

“It does when you’ve left it out for three months.

“Why are you leaving the soup out for three months?”

“It’s a metaphor, Spooky.”

“I understand it’s a metaphor. It’s a bad metaphor.”

In response to that, Hal brought the juice box back to his mouth and sucked noisily through the straw, never breaking eye contact. Bruce briefly reconsidered the ethical logistics of drowning a man.

The box gave a weak, high-pitched wheeze as Hal kept going, over-sucking until the sides caved in and the last drops of mixed berry were wrung from the cardboard. Then, he popped the straw from his lips with an audible smack and, without looking, tossed the whole thing into a nearby trashbin. Perfect shot.

Then, he said, “You’re a bad metaphor.”

And, really, Bruce didn’t know how to respond to that kind of powermove.

Chapter Text

Brick Donoghue was a dumb name, Hal decided, but the name of his bait and tackle shop was even dumber. He squinted up at the crooked sign, trying to make sense of a choice that seemed to miss its demographic so completely. It wasn’t even the clever, wink-wink kind of dumb that’d make you groan and shake your head. This was just brain-rot stupid.

Hal prided himself on his tolerance for bad jokes. He was, by his own generous estimation, something of a connoisseur. Especially when one of his best friends (looking at you, Barry Allen) couldn’t get through a sentence without stumbling into a pun.

Master Baiterz looked above the door in peeling red paint, the Z a little bigger than the rest of the letters. Hal stood beneath, hands on his hips, gaze flat as he tried to remember if he was lame enough in middle school to have a handle as bad as that.

(God, he was, wasn’t he? His AIM username had been JetFuelz, and when he made the adolescent migration to MSN in 2002, his profile picture had been a grainy JPEG of a fighter jet bursting through some flames with the caption ‘Top Gun, Bottom Problems’. Fourteen year old Hal, only interested in women back then, hadn’t understood the implication.)

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered.

The shop itself was tucked into a less maintained area of the docks. It was the part that Hal suspected permanently smelled of diesel fuel and where the boards always creaked beneath your feet. One of the front windows had a spiderweb crack taped over with three generations of duct tape, and a sad little neon OPEN sign blinked weakly from inside.

Beside him, Bruce was glaring up at the sign too. Hal imagined he would’ve been real edgy in the late 90’s, early 2000’s. Probably had one of those MSN screen names like xX_DarkTide_Xx, wrote nihilistic poetry in courier font, and ended every stanza with ’and so I drown’. The real tragic kind of teenager you crossed the street to avoid because you just knew he was going to ask if you’d ever heard of Bauhaus.

Well, that was assuming Bruce had even been on land during his teenage years. Hal hadn't asked, and Spooks wasn’t shaping up to be the type to volunteer any personal information. Spending the morning with him made it easy to forget he wasn’t technically human. He walked like a man, glared like a man, but then he’d move in that fluid, quiet way, far too graceful for someone of his size, and Hal would remember he was a sea monster.

He didn’t want to come across like he actually gave a shit about Bruce’s life, so he made a note never to ask him about his past.

The inside of Master Baiterz looked older than the dock itself, and not in that charming, sea-weathering kind of way. More like it had been slowly rotting from the inside out and nobody cared enough to do anything about it. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with a migraine-inducing hum, and one in the corner was flickering. Bruce had narrowed his eyes at it the moment they stepped in, though Hal couldn’t tell if the flickering bothered him because it set off some finely tuned selkie spidey-sense, or just because it was imperfect and Bruce was allergic to that.

Hal, meanwhile, was grimacing at the wall of bait buckets. He wasn’t a squeamish guy really, but there was just something about seeing that much bait in one place, all slimy and twitchy and squelching at each other. It triggered something primal in him. Not fear. Just a deep, visceral urge to say ‘gross’ and throw it at someone else.

He leaned slightly away from them and into Bruce’s space. “Hey, you’re a fish. You eat that kind of thing?”

“I’m not a fish.”

“Po-ta-to, po-tah-to.” Hal frowned. “Wait, was that racist?”

“No.”

“Like, fish-cist? Marine profiling?”

“Stop talking.”

Before Hal could start talking about ‘seal-shaming’, a gravel-thick voice yelled out from the back room, “We’re outta nightcrawlers.”

“That’s fine,” Hal called back. “We’re not here for that.”

A head popped around the corner of the back door, and even though Hal tried not to have any expectations, he was immediately disappointed.

He didn’t look like a guy named Brick. Hal had been expecting something a little more…well, cartoony, he supposed. Someone square-shaped, maybe. Thick neck, thicker brows, a massive underbite that made him look more homo neanderthalensis than your average guy. Hal pictured someone who could be used to prop up a sagging shed or could punch a hole through drywall.

In reality, Brick turned out to be just a regular guy. He was lean, wiry even, and was a good head shorter than both Hal and Bruce. Middle-aged, in a wind-worn kind of way, with hair thinning at the crown. His shirt was tucked in too neatly, and his glasses were a little askew because his ears weren’t symmetrical.

“You’re Brick?” Hal said incredulously.

“That’s right,” Brick replied, nodding. “Can I help you?”

Bruce stepped forward, but Hal threw out an arm and wedged himself in front as a buffer. Personal experience had taught him that Spooky’s approach to interpersonal communication skewed heavily towards intimidation, property damage, and straight up violence. The weirdo could swear all day that he didn’t fight everyone he met, but Hal had a potentially cracked ribbed and enough bruises to consider that particular claim aspirational at best.

“You sure can,” he said, ignoring the way Bruce’s glower bore into the back of his skull. “Heard you pulled something interesting out of the water a few months back. Thought maybe we could swap some stories, maybe even buy a worm or two for your trouble. My friend here likes the taste.”

“Now it’s racist," Bruce said flatly.

Hal just grinned innocently. “So…you found something cool, right?”

Brick eyed them both suspiciously for a long moment. Which was…fair, Hal supposed. He and Bruce didn’t really look like they belonged anywhere near this end of the California coastline.

Maybe Hal could’ve passed if he didn’t look like the kind of guy who once did a keg stand on and never emotionally moved on, but Bruce was hard to explain. With the dark, tailored jacket (that made his shoulders look excellent) and the aristocratic cheekbones, he looked less of a guy who would step foot on a grimy dock, and more like someone who owned a megayacht.

Put together, they didn’t read as fishermen. They didn’t even read as tourists. Bruce looked like a magazine model and Hal was the guy who carried his bag.

“What kind of ‘something’ you think I found?” Brick asked slowly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hal said, rocking back on his heels. “Something cool. Something unusual. Something that got you real excited for a week, then real quiet real fast. Y’know, something you might get paid for.”

The mention of money, at least, got Brick’s attention. He brightened up and smiled. It was a crooked smile. “Yeah?” he said. “It’s been three months. Been waiting for you guys to come back. You finally here to pay up?”

“Yes,” Bruce lied immediately.

Hal instinctively turned to glare at him for deciding to play pretend, but he had to admit it was a good idea. A little premature, maybe, but smart enough — and hey, who was Hal to judge someone for a quick decision? If Brick thought they were part of the same operation that paid out for mystery ocean loot, he would probably be a bit more talkative. Hal could roll with that. He could pretend to be a shady guy who paid for shady items in shady stores.

“That’s us,” he said, picking up the thread like he’d never dropped it.

Brick leaned back slightly to study them both properly. He looked at Hal’s worn aviator jacket and the scuffed edges of his boots, and then at Bruce, dressed all in monochrome like he was party to a funeral procession.

Apparently, Bruce passed whatever test Brick was running in his head, because he tipped his chin at him and said, “You’re not the same guy as last time.”

“I’m the one you get this time.”

“And you,” Brick continued, glancing at Hal. “You don’t look like you work with them.”

Bruce didn't even blink. “He’s an intern.”

“Unpaid,” Hal added.

Brick nodded slowly, like that actually cleared something up for him. Hal wasn’t sure if he should be offended or impressed by how easily the man bought the bullshit.

“Well…alright then,” he said at last. “I already handed over the…ah, merchandise. You wanna show me the money?” He fixed his eyes on Bruce again. “The last guy had a case full of bills. You…don’t.”

“That’s because we’re not paying in cash, my guy,” Hal lied. “Bitcoin. It’s the future, you know. Everyone’s a Bitcoin guy. My brother’s a Bitcoin guy. My mom’s a Bitcoin guy. That’s why I’m here. Gonna set up your account and get you a nice little wallet going.”

“Bitcoin?”

Bruce, surprisingly, nodded. “It’s the future.”

Clearly out of his depth, Brick scratched his cheek. “And that’s gonna make me rich, right?”

“Sure,” Hal said. He gestured towards the back of the shop. “You want to show me your computer?”

“It’s in the office. It hasn’t been updated in a while.”

“That’s okay. We can talk while I get you set up.”

Brick probably should’ve asked more questions. At least, he should’ve asked for ID, credentials, maybe even a secret handshake, whatever. Apparently, whatever void-dark, government-adjacent vibe Bruce gave off was enough to convince him that not only were they legit, but also trustworthy. Hal didn’t know what that said about Brick’s judgment, but he was absolutely willing to exploit the hell out of it.

They were led into the back without protest. It was a dim room, windowless, and exactly as depressing as Hal had expected. There were filing cabinets piled up to one side and pushed up against the wall, overflowing with old files and maps, and other shit Hal probably wouldn’t care about even while Bruce was immediately glancing over to them

The desk was a chipped laminate situation with a folding chair tucked beneath it. On top, there was a battered desktop computer tower, complete with a CRT monitor and a peeling sticker on the side citing that the warranty expired fifteen years ago.

“Oh wow. Look at that tower. Vintage.”

“It works,” Brick muttered half-defensively, making his way over and jiggling the mouse. The screen plinked reluctantly to life to reveal a cluttered desktop with at least five overlapping pop-ups and a wallpaper of a speedboat

Bruce hadn’t joined them by the computer desk. He, because apparently acting like a normal human wasn’t in his skillset, remained looming in the doorframe like he was anticipating an escape. His arms were folded, and he was radiating so much unnecessary intensity that it was honestly starting to affect the room’s pressure. He looked like a stone-faced bouncer at one of those rich-people-only clubs, only with better hair and prettier eyes.

What a weirdo. Hal marked it down as one of his many eccentricities and sat down at the desk. “Alright, let’s get you on the blockchain, buddy.”

Brick hovered a little too close behind Hal as the computer wheezed its way toward full consciousness. He scratched the back of his neck and said, “So… what’s your name, anyway? The last guy wouldn’t give me one. Acted like I was asking for his Social.”

“Yeah, that tracks,” Hal bullshitted calmly. “We don’t really do names. It’s, uh— Security protocol. You know how it is with us clandestine types.”

“Then what am I supposed to call you?”

Hal paused in thought, fingers hovering theatrically over the keyboard. “You can call me… Maverick.” He grinned and jerked his head towards Bruce. “That’s Val Kilmer.”

In his periphery, he could see Bruce roll his eyes, which only made Hal’s smirk twitch a little wider. He liked getting a reaction out of Spooky.

With Brick over his shoulder expectantly, Hal figured he should probably do something to help back up his dumb cover story. The problem was, he didn’t actually know the first thing about cryptocurrency or how to manage it. He’d heard of it (Ollie had lectured him on the environmental effects enough times), but it had always just been one of those things that other people did.

Fortunately, Hal was excellent at improvising. By trade, he was more of a mechanical engineer. He could build a working engine from junk parts then willingly fly it cross-country and back, but ask him to jailbreak a phone and he’d mostly just sigh at it. That being said, Hal had also seen enough terrible ‘80’s movies to know exactly what someone like Brick would expect to see.

He pulled up the System Command Prompt, cracked his knuckles theatrically and began typing.

run_bitcoin_wallet.exe
initiate_nft_protocol
crypto_wallet_generate_1000000000
Open_blockchain_magicportal
qwerty_ThunderbirdsAreGo.exe
fetch_coin_like_dog_woofwoof

Perfect. It scrolled beautifully in the terminal window, white text on black and exactly the kind of visual nonsense that looked like hacking, felt like hacking, and absolutely did not require anything to actually function. Hal was half-certain that Bitcoin mining didn’t actually involve hacking (maybe?) but regardless, he felt weirdly cool doing it.

“This gonna take long?” Brick asked.

“Oh yeah,” Hal said, nodding seriously. He slapped the side of the monitor for no reason other than to sell the whole schtick. “Integrating your IP with the… uh…decentralised monetisation streams always takes a bit. You know how it is. Blockchain’s got layers. Like lasagne.”

“Right…lasagne.”

“So, hey,” he continued, absently typing create_lasagne into the prompt, “while we wait for all this to sync, why don’t you tell me all about what you fished up?”

Brick frowned. “Shouldn’t you already know all about it?”

“Nah. See, me and Val Kilmer over there are just the money guys. We’re good for transport, accounts, currency exchange, that kinda thing. The whole operation’s got different branches. We don’t even know what we’re paying for right now.”

“That so?”

“Uh-huh. I gotta say though…they’re paying a lot for your catch. Whatever you dragged out of the drink must’ve been one hell of a haul.” He looked up at Brick, all casual curiosity. “What was it, anyway?”

There was a moment where Hal figured he played his hand too soon, because Brick furrowed his brows. It wasn’t exactly deep suspicion, but a flash of calculation like he was trying to do a arithmetic problem he simply didn’t have the skills for.

Hal kept his expression relaxed, gaze on the screen, fingers casually tip-tapping out a few more lines of nonsense. It was no big deal if Brick didn’t buy into the lies. He could just take a page out of Bruce’s book and go straight for intimidation instead. And if it turned out that Brick had nothing to do with anything after all and all this was a waste of time…well, they’d cross that bridge when they got to it.

“It wasn’t a fish,” Brick said finally, quietly. “And…if we’re being truthful, I didn’t exactly…pull it up from the water. That’s just what I told people. Made it…cleaner.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Now first off, you can’t go judging. What happened that day wasn’t natural, okay?”

“Hey, who’s judging?” Hal said. “I guarantee I’ve seen or done or heard weirder things. What happened?”

“Well. There was this kid…”

Uh-oh. The pressure in the room seemed to dip as the little red flags started pinging up faster than Hal could stop them. At the doorframe, Bruce shifted. With good reason, Hal figured, but he couldn’t’ have the guy start going all alpha-macho-kinda-hot-but-please-stop on the guy before they figured out anything useful.

He looked over his shoulder to send Bruce a warning glare as Brick continued.

“My boat, she doesn’t usually take on passengers, but we started picking up this kid. He showed up outta nowhere six months ago. Flashed some cash, told us to take him to the mainland. We figured, why not? It was a lotta money, and the kid seemed harmless enough. A big boy, like your Val Kilmer over there, but still. Just a kid.”

Bruce glared. “And what did you do to him?”

“We didn’t do anything,” Brick snapped.

“Hey, c’mon, we’re not judging,” Hal cut in smoothly. It felt weird, being the voice of reason, when all he wanted to do was preemptively put Brick’s head through the monitor. Y’know, just in case. “Don’t mind Val, he always sounds like he’s about three seconds from going nuts. He’s got bad blood pressure.”

“...Alright…”

Bruce exhaled sharply through his nose. Hal didn’t break stride. “So,” he said with an easy grin, “please. Continue with your story.”

That seemed to settle Brick enough to uncoil slightly. He sent Spooky a wary glance before continuing. “The kid liked to keep to himself. Sat real still on the bow with a book and waited until we docked. Second time we picked him up was three months ago. Same thing. Paid cash, asked for the same drop-off point.”

“But…?”

“But this time, one of my boys figured they’d talk to him.” Brick rubbed the back of his neck, but it didn’t seem to be in unease. “The kid didn’t say much, he never did, but my boy saw something in his bag. It was…”

“A pelt,” Bruce said.

Brick nodded, smiling that crooked smile. “That’s right,“ he said. “It’s weird… You see something like that and you don’t think of it too much. But there was something real strange about that kid’s pelt. I can’t explain it… If you saw it, you’d understand.”

Hal could understand. Sometimes, if he let himself drift off a little and think of nothing in particular, he could still feel the way Bruce’s pelt had felt beneath his fingertips. He could still remember the way it made his stomach sink and how uncanny it was just sitting there in the outcrop. There was something magical about a selkie’s pelt. Worse men than Hal would probably want to take advantage.

He forced a grin. “Pfft, yeah, I get it. It’s not the first time we’ve dealt with things like that. Lay it on me, man.”

“...It’s hard to explain.”

“You’re a fisherman, aren’t you? Spin me a story.”

Brick hesitated. He looked down at his hands like they might offer guidance and rubbed a thumb along a scar on the side of his palm.

“Now, you’ve got to understand,” he said slowly, “that there are strange things in the water that can’t be explained by God or Science or anything in between. You know? You work the water long enough, and you start seeing things that don’t make much sense. You learn to rely on instinct, ‘cause that’s the only thing that’s gonna keep your head screwed on straight. You understand?”

“And this kid. He do something weird?”

“No. Well, not at first. It was just that pelt…”

“Did you take it?” Hal asked. Behind him, he heard Bruce shift.

Brick was quiet for a moment before circling around the question. “It’s strange. I’ve seen fur before. My sister runs a taxidermy service down in Crescent Bay. She’s got all kinds. Bear, fox, rabbit. Even one of those stupid full-body raccoon things people use as scarves. But this pelt…it was like it wanted me to take it.”

“It didn’t,” Bruce said bluntly.

“You weren’t there, you don’t get it, not unless you saw it.”

Hal interjected before Bruce could step forward and put the fear of seals into the man. “So it was a weird pelt,” he said. “Okay, I get that. Weird things are cool. What happened after you saw it?”

“One of my boys tried bartering for it. Offered cash, even some rare gear. Thought maybe we could trade up, you know? But the kid shut that down real fast. Said it was his business, told us to keep our noses out of it.”

“And let me guess. You gave the kid a pat on the head and sent him on his way, no hard feelings and everyone lived happily ever after, right?”

“...Well, not exactly.”

“Yeah,” Hal sighed. “Thought as much.”

Brick swayed a little where he stood, like maybe he hadn’t quite decided how much of it he wanted to share. He glanced at Spooky again, gauging the temperature of the room, and then looked back at Hal, who kept his posture as open and nonthreatening as possible.

“You…heard of mermaids, right?”

“Yeah, sure. Hans Christian Anderson, Disney, Part of Your Wooooorld.”

“Right, right. But…you ever heard of mermaids that come on land?”

Hal very deliberately did not look at Bruce. “I mean, isn’t that what Ariel did?” He grinned at Brick, even though all he wanted to do was slam his face into the computer monitor. “What, are you saying that the kid was a mermaid?”

“No. Yes. Maybe? I don’t know what that kid was, but he wasn’t human.”

“Oh?”

“We figured…the pelt would be good compensation for, you know, going out of our way to pick up the kid and drop him off. He wasn’t using it, and it looked valuable. So…we figured we’d take it.”

Do not punch the man who is telling you what you want to know, Hal told himself with a tight smile. Do not slam his face into the computer. Do not let Bruce slam his face into the computer.

“So,” Hal said carefully. “You figured…unattended pelt. Finders keepers, right?”

“It wasn’t exactly unattended.”

Bruce’s voice cut in, dark and low and absolutely not prepared for any bullshit. “Then how did you take it?”

“That’s the thing,” Brick said, not picking up on the venom in Bruce’s voice. “I have three on my usual crew. Big guys, right? We figured between the four of us, we could just grab it."

Hal felt his face do something weird as his brain scrambled to stay in we’re all friends here mode. A difficult task when all he really wanted to do was torpedo his entire forehead into Brick’s nose. “You tried to shake him down?”

“Thought we’d scare him. Get him to give it over without a problem. Kid like that, travelling solo with a fistfull of cash and a duffle, that’s suspicious. He was probably doing some real suspect stuff on the archipelago. Drugs, maybe. I don’t care. All I wanted was the pelt.”

“But it wasn’t so easy,” Bruce said. “Was it?”

Brick shook his head. “That kid wasn’t natural,” he said. “The minute one of my boys touched his bag, he fought back. Sent all three of them to the hospital. Broken ribs, dislocated jaw, one of ’em even got bit. We had to say it was a fight with tourists. Coast Guard came sniffing around, but nobody had the balls to explain what really happened.”

“Did any of them die?”

Hal snapped his head towards Bruce with an incredulous grimace. “Jesus, Val Kilmer…”

Was…was that actually a concern?

Like, Hal by now had firsthand experience with Bruce’s full-body approach to combat, but at no point during one of their own brawls did Hal actually feel like his life was in danger. His limbs and ego, sure, but Bruce never went for anything vital. He seemed to be the kind of guy who could break your nose with surgical precision and not rupture anything else unless he meant to.

There was a very real possibility that Bruce had been holding back. Maybe he was a psycho selkie serial killer after all. Or, maybe he was just the father of one. Asshole was aggressive, right? How, exactly, did all that aggression in water translate to dry land?

He could guess, but guessing meant potentially getting the wrong end of the stick. What Hal did know for certain was that he wasn’t getting any more information unless Bruce decided to hand it over voluntarily. Which was, as previously established, unlikely.

“No,” Brick said with a shake of his head. “One of them’s eating from a tube in Coast City General and the other’s got a permanent limp now, but they’re all alive. Got the fear of God in them, for sure.”

Bruce relaxed marginally, like he’d ticked a box somewhere inside his mind that made all that an acceptable level of carnage. His eyes stayed locked on Brick as he asked, “How did you get out unscathed?”

“Do I look like a fighter?” Brick gestured down at himself. “While my boys were getting their asses kicked by the kid, I loaded up my gun—”

“What.”

“Tranq gun, relax. I’m not a killer. Just… cautious. Damn near emptied my whole stash into that thing.”

“That thing was—”

“—Just a kid,” Hal said, trying to flatten the growing tension before Bruce could detonate all over the room. He didn’t risk turning around, but he could feel the weight of that glare behind him.

“You didn’t see him fight,” Brick continued. “He took out three grown men in seconds. Thought I was done for, but the tranqs did the job before he could reach me. Dropped him right there on the deck.”

Hal made a noise low in his throat that could’ve meant anything. “I don’t get it. If it looks like a kid and talks like a kid, why would you think he’s not human? He could’ve just been really into MMA. Or, like, CrossFit.”

“You’d think, right? But the way he was fighting for that pelt… You hear a lot of legends when you make a living going out to sea. Might sound superstitious to you, but if you meet something weird, something that doesn’t fit in with what you know, then you better pay attention. I don’t know if that kid was a mermaid or a siren or whatever else could be out there, but he definitely wasn’t human.”

“Okay,” Hal said, frowning, “follow-up question. Why the hell does a fisherman have a tranq gun anyway?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—” Hal gestured at the air, as if a visual aid would help. “I don’t fish, but I’m pretty sure that’s not a standard tool. Nets, yeah. Hooks, fine. A big-ass stick for hitting crabs, sure. But tranquiliser darts? That feels like a leap.”

Brick shrugged, like the answer was obvious and they were the weird ones. “Sometimes the fish’s too big. Gotta ease it onto the boat, y’know? Calms them down so they don’t thrash and break anything.”

“Sounds like cheating to me.”

“You do what you can to make a living.”

“Pretty sure that could get you in trouble with, like, the fish police or something. Coastal Wildlife Enforcement Authority. C-W-E-A. That sounds real.”

“You come here to tell me how to do my job, or are you here to pay me”

Hal raised his hands placatingly. “Hey, man, relax,” he said. “You’re getting paid. I’m just real interested in the fishing industry. I love boats. They don’t creep me out at all.”

That last bit was probably unconvincing, but the point was to keep things light before Bruce — or Hal himself, for that matter — did something that veered more towards assault than a casual interrogation. Unfortunately, or maybe inevitably, Bruce didn’t care about levity.

With the conversational detour veering off-course, Bruce brought it slamming back on track. “What did you do with him?” he asked sharply. “Where is he now?”

His voice was flat. Not angry, really, or even all that loud. Just…absolute. Absolute in the way that sounded calm but it made your instincts start calculating how long you could tread water before you drowned. Hal was getting used to the way Bruce talked, but Brick tensed immediately, and all that fisherman’s bravado was sloughing off in slow, uneven pieces.

“When he was out cold, I locked him in one of the cages,” Brick explained almost casually. “We got back to the mainland and cut him loose. Just left him on a bench and figured everyone would assume it was a vagrant.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “And then?”

“Took my boys to hospital. Listed the pelt on eBay.”

“...Wow,” Hal said “That’s really, really…inspired of you.”

“He wouldn’t have just let you keep it. He would have tracked you down,” Bruce continued.

“And he did,” Brick agreed. “But not before a buyer got in touch with me.”

God…It was the smile that did it for Hal.

It was crooked and pleased. Quietly, horribly pleased, like Brick had come across something impossible, fought against the odds, and somehow managed to beat them. The responding shiver that crawled up Hal’s spine was the kind that burrowed itself under the skin and made itself at home.

See, Hal always had a semi-optimistic view on the world. He wasn’t delusional in that he thought everyone was wholly good and they just needed someone to believe in them, none of that Kumbaya crap. It more that he liked to assume that most people, on balance, weren’t monsters. Sure, there were always going to be bastards. Nasty ones that were cruel just for the sake of being cruel, but those were the kind of people that existed somewhere else. Like in news articles or movies, in court cases, or in podcasts about men who lived in the woods and wore masks made of ham.

Maybe that was naïve of him, but life was hard enough without also having to worry about evil being in proximity.

“Your bosses had me delist the post,” Brick said airily. “Apparently, I was right. There was something valuable about that pelt, and you guys said it wasn’t the sort of thing that could be out there for the public. The last guy they sent told me the kid would come back for it and we needed to be ready.”

He glanced between them like they should be impressed. “He left behind a team to watch the place. Real movie-star professional stuff. Bodyguards, maybe. Or mercs. Quiet types.”

“What were they wearing?”

“Huh?”

“We spend our lives playing tic-tac-toe and gossiping about boys until they need us to make it rain,” Hal said in a deadpan. “But we’re really interested in fashion.”

Brick gestured towards Bruce’s monochrome getup. “They wore black, of course,” he said. “Head-to-toe, face included. They didn’t speak. They just kinda lurked in my house until the kid broke in a few days later. Took all six of them to stop him. They managed it, eventually.”

“‘Managed it’,” Bruce repeated darkly.

“Wrecked my kitchen too,” Brick added in a mutter. “Broke the damn fridge.”

Hal exhaled. “God,” he muttered. “And you still have the pelt?”

Brick’s smile faded slightly and he looked at Hal curiously. “No…You guys took it. Kept saying that more people will probably try to find the pelt and that it’d be safer in your hands,” he said. “You really don’t get told anything, do you?”

“Our colleague is missing,” Bruce said suddenly in a smooth lie. Brick snapped up to look at him. “The one you met with last time. He sent a request for payment for this location, but then didn’t report back . We haven’t seen him since.”

Hal picked up what he was laying doing quickly and gave Brick a slow, easy smile that didn’t feel like a smile at all. “You were the last client on his docket,” he explained. “Did he tell you where he was gonna be next?”

“I…no—”

“He waited here longer than he was supposed to,” Bruce continued. “Every day. Same place. Same time. What was he waiting for?”

Brick shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I mean… I thought he was just keeping an eye on the place, in case someone came back. Or maybe he thought you two would show up to approve payment. Hell if I know. He didn’t say much to me after he took the pelt.

“And you didn’t ask?”

“Yeah, of course I did. I wanted my money.” He gestured toward the computer screen, where Hal hadn’t typed anything in a good ten minutes. “I asked about a week after he took the merch. He just said that he was waiting for someone. Didn’t say who.”

“Someone must have found him,” Hal said. “He’s not there any more, right?”

“He left after I spoke to him. I think he got bored of waiting.”

“And that’s it? He didn’t say anything?”

“Well…” Brick scratched his temple, then reached down and started rifling through a drawer. “He did give me a letter. Said if anyone came looking for the pelt the letter would explain enough to stop them from trying to kick my ass.”

Hal risked a short glance towards Bruce. “Smart,” he muttered.

“No one ever showed, so I guess if it’ll help you find your guy, you can have it.”

Hal took the letter, squinted at the scrawl on the front. “‘Mr. Wayne’?” he read aloud. “Who's—?”

Before he could articulate anything or shove the letter into his pocket, Bruce snatched it clean out of his hands. It was already half-open in his fingers before Hal had time to glare at him.

“That’s all I’ve got,” Brick said, eyeing the computer again. “So, we done here? I’ve been paid?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m done,” Hal said, gesturing to the gibberish. He flourished his hand towards the screen, where the last line he’d typed in boldly declared big.boyBitcoin_wallet.$10000000000. He exited the window before Brick could acknowledge the many ‘unrecognised command’ errors.

“Perfect.” Brick grinned and stood a little straighter.

He was gonna be so pissed when he realised he hadn’t actually been paid a dime. Then again, Hal was willing to bet that the actual buyers weren’t planning to pay him either. Taking the pelt without even a deposit? Brick was either extremely optimistic, or just incredibly stupid. It would’ve been pitiful, had he not been the direct reason why Jason was missing.

Riding the high of being scammed and not knowing about it, Brick added, “The last guy said he’d pay double. Y’know, for providing the kid too.”

Bruce looked up from where he had opened the letter. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah, you know. I gave you guys the pelt and the kid. Double payment, right?”

Hal stared at him, mouth slightly open as his brain was doing its best to compute the level of dumb and evil packed into one sentence. “You know that’s trafficking, right?”

Brick shrugged. “It’s not trafficking if it’s not human.”

“Oh,” Hal said softly. “Okay.”

He tried to be professional, to keep the mood light, to be the steady hand guiding their little operation away from becoming an actual crime. Right now, Bruce had a clear, barely-contained motive to go ape-shit whenever Brick opened his stupid crooked mouth again, so someone had to be the level head. Someone had to wear the tight smile, nod through the bile, and make sure they got answers without anyone getting thrown through a window.

With no personal stakes in the situation, that someone was supposed to be Hal. But Hal was an impulsive guy. He was also a guy with a deeply inconvenient moral compass and the kind of temper that got real twitchy when people started talking about living beings like property.

There was the high road, then the low road, and then there was the gutter. That’s where Brick was, face-down and drinking the runoff of shit. Taking the high road when the low road was still morally superior to whatever dirt track Brick was slithering along just didn’t compute with Hal’s internal wiring.

So, without thinking about it, Hal stood up, turned towards Brick with an easy smile, and punched him so hard that his knuckles spit.

It felt great.

Chapter Text

There were some mixed feelings about watching Hal lay Brick Donoghue out.

Don’t get him wrong, it was extremely satisfying to watch the man hit the floor, but on the other hand, it also robbed him of the satisfaction he would’ve gotten if he’d done it himself.

Maybe it was for the best. Bruce had been gearing up for something potentially much worse than a punch in the face. He had faith in his own self control (mostly), but there had been a twitch in his fist that still hadn’t let up even now the whole situation was over with.

At least the whole Bitcoin thing had worked. They’d gotten enough information to narrow down leads and confirm a few unpleasant suspicions, even if all these new answers also opened up newer, uglier questions. Even so, it felt like it cost him something. His patience, first and foremost, but also his time. In his head, while lying had worked out well enough, his need to act and solve everything before the week was up was the priority. That meant that as soon as Brick had made mention of a hitchhiking kid, it had taken everything in him not wrap his fingers around his throat and squeeze until his head popped off like a cork

Not that Bruce ever actually would do that, of course. He had a well-maintained system of ethical checks that kept him from becoming the kind of creature he sometimes suspected he could be, but this system certainly had room for the occasional non-lethal corrective action. Had they not committed to the ridiculous Bitcoin charade, Bruce’s Plan B involved hoisting Brick by the ankles and dunking him off the end of the jetty until he felt like talking.

Punching him would have been a very satisfying alternative, but Hal had jumped the gun and gotten there first.

By every metric Bruce cared about, it was a tactical failure. They’d already gotten what they came for. All they had to do was leave quietly, undetected, and follow up later through more official channels. Bruce had every intention of circling back to Brick once Jason was found. If the man was willing to deal in trafficking, of all things, then there’d probably be a whole litany of crimes hidden away somewhere in his past.

Brick being sprawled unconscious on the grimy tile floor, bloodied and slack-jawed, was potentially going to complicate things.

Bruce knew from experience how hard Hal could hit when agitated. He punched like he'd been taught to end fights fast, just a single decisive blow designed to make a point and then take the legs out from under whoever was unlucky enough to be standing in front of it. Brick didn’t stand a chance. He’d gone down instantly.

Hal grinned.

It was a lopsided, cocky thing that made him look like he’d gotten away with something now and would again, probably tomorrow, and the day after that, and possibly even in his grave if he died with enough momentum. At the sight, Bruce felt an extremely ill-timed bolt of want that he absolutely didn’t have the capacity to examine right now.

There were better moments to explore that kind of tension — preferably when they weren’t elbow-deep in an investigation dedicated to finding his second son. Then again, Bruce had never been skilled at convincing his body to follow the same logic as his brain. The brain said focus. The brain said no distractions.

The body, meanwhile, was far too interested in Hal’s jawline and how good it looked clenched like that, nostrils flared, chest rising and falling as he stood over Brick’s crumpled body.

“I thought we weren’t supposed to fight everyone we meet,” Bruce said dryly.

“That was only applicable to you,” Hal replied with a tight brightness. “You were looking at him like you were about to commit a murder and I was innocently trying to prevent that. I’m a public servant, really.”

“I wouldn’t have murdered him.”

“Probably not, but could we really take that risk?”

Bruce cocked his head, curious, and flicked his gaze down to Hal’s hand. “You break anything?”

“Maybe a tooth,” Hal replied. “Hopefully his jaw.”

“Not him. You.”

“Oh.” Hal glanced down at his knuckles. The skin had split where bone met teeth, raw, angry-looking streaks of red already crusting over with blood. He winced, just a little, and flexed his fingers. “No. Well, no breaks. Just a little scenic skin loss.”

“Hm.”

A ruminating silence followed, thick enough to chew on. Hal rubbed at his jaw like the leftover adrenaline was caught in his teeth until he couldn’t take the quiet anymore. He huffed a little. “You gonna yell at me?”

“Do you want me to?”

“No. If you do, I’ll yell back and then we’ll be fighting again.” He slanted another pretty grin at Bruce. “Sorry, by the way.”

“For what?”

“Punching him.”

“He deserved it.”

“No, I’m not sorry for him actually getting punched. That was great. I just—” Hal rubbed the back of his neck and his grin turned sheepish. “I probably should’ve let you do it. Y’know, considering.”

Bruce didn’t bother dignifying that with a response. It was faintly absurd that Hal thought he could’ve handed off the baton mid-outburst like it was some kind of tag-team bar brawl, but the sentiment was oddly considerate.

He crouched beside Brick’s procumbent body and checked his pulse. Steady, if a bit slow. Then, he thumbed open one eyelid to check for dilation. The eye rolled like it was trying to escape back into the skull, but there was no obvious sign of concussion. Nothing to be concerned about. He was just blissfully, deservedly unconscious.

Bruce rocked back on his heels and exhaled. This was a problem to deal with later. There was a distinct order to things, and Brick’s crumpled body could wait until the rest of his checklist was less on fire.

Prioritise. Bruce needed to Prioritise

First: Hal.

Hal was actively bleeding. His eyes were still sharp and his shoulders were squared like he was willing to go another round just for the hell of it. The skin around his knuckles were split messily. Not a particularly serious wound, but he was flexing his fingers like he wanted to pretend it didn’t hurt. Bruce could already see the beginning of swelling. That was something Bruce could fix now.

Second: The letter.

Because the people who had it out for Bruce and his family were all either insane or incredibly theatrical, the letter was written in code. It looked easily solvable upon first glance, but Bruce hadn’t had the time to give it more than a quick scan before Hal drew back his fist. He needed a quiet room, ten minutes and a pen.

Third: Jason

Self-explanatory. Jason was the beginning and end of the list. Everything else was just scaffolding around that single, immovable point

Bruce rose to his feet, completely neglected to say any of this aloud, and turned on his heel to leave the tackle shop.

Hal, trailing behind with his busted hand and his stupid grin, glanced back only briefly. “So...I guess we're just leaving him there?”

Hm. They probably shouldn’t just leave him there unconscious. Bruce had absolutely no affection for Brick Donoghue, but those pesky ethical obligations still had claws in him. Morally speaking, leaving him there would’ve been the wrong thing to do, no matter how much he wanted to.

He slowed as they hit the dockside path, squinting down at the waterline as he worked out the fastest way to offload responsibility without dealing with paperwork. Ahead, a sunburned man on the younger side was hauling buckets of bait from the bed of a dented pickup. He’d do.

“Excuse me,” Bruce called out. Hal glanced at him incredulously, almost as if he didn’t expect someone like him to have any kind of manners. The young man turned, armful of gear, and Bruce pressed on. “We just found a man unconscious in the tackle shop. Could you call an ambulance?”

The man dropped the buckets with a clatter and started patting himself down in a panic for his phone. “Oh shit— Yeah, sure. Is he okay? What happened?”

“He fell.”

“He fell?”

Instead of answering, Bruce just nodded the affirmative and kept one walking. The interaction was a little more suspicious than he would’ve preferred. Not suspicious suspicious, but it had the suggestion of a man who definitely just left a problem behind and didn’t intend to circle back. That wouldn’t matter in the long run, he supposed. Let a stranger deal with calling the authorities. There were better things for Bruce to do than hold hands with paramedics over someone like Brick.

He made a mental note to do further digging on this bastard later.

Hal blessedly didn’t question the exchange, but getting him to shut up for longer than five consecutive minutes was a trick Bruce hadn’t quite learned yet. “Was that normal?” he asked, falling into step. “The way Brick was like with Jason’s pelt?”

“Yes,” Bruce replied. Then, he frowned and amended, “No. It depends on the person.”

“I don’t remember getting all Gollum when I picked up your pelt.”

That was because Hal was a good person, Bruce was grudgingly coming to realise.

Being a thing of myth and magic, the pelt had its own pull. It tended to call to something primal in a lot of people. Curiosity, desire, greed — especially greed. Humans with greedy hearts and grabby hands would be lured in by the magic, often without even knowing why. It was an unfortunate side effect when one’s existence was so wholly tied in with the pelt itself.

Hal wasn’t the first person Bruce had ever met who had not been tempted to keep his pelt, but it always came as a surprise. Perhaps that said a lot about Bruce's view on the world.

“It’s not important,” Bruce said, even though it was probably one of the most important things about his life. “Come on.”

He led Hal down from the dock without waiting for him to catch up. Bruce had never actually been this way before, but before the family had migrated to the overcooked stretch of California, he’d taken the time to study every map of the area he could find. He was a man who absolutely refused to be lost, no matter where he was.

(He’d gotten lost in Metropolis once, about a decade ago. Took a wrong turn trying to navigate the underground tram system and ended up in a pumpkin parade. Dick had been there, unfortunately. He still brought it up whenever Bruce so much as paused to check a street sign.)

That was how he knew there was an alcove under the jetty, tucked away behind a slatted wall of old planks and boat detritus, where the tide didn’t reach unless it was trying very hard. Private enough, exactly the kind of place you could sit a man down and tend to his dumb, self-inflicted injuries without someone yelling about magic.

Hal glanced around with a squint. “Romantic,” he drawled. “You know this is where people come to hook up, right? Hope you brought wet wipes.”

Bruce didn’t reply. He squatted by the coast and dipped his hand into the surf. There was a twinge in his skin as his own minor wounds tried to knit themselves together at the touch of salt, but he’d never been very good at healing himself. Other people, sure, but never himself.

“Oh, goddamnit. Are you about to swim off and leave me here? Because that’s a dick move, Bruce.”

“Shut up,” Bruce said. “Come here. Give me your hand.”

“If you wanted to hold hands on the beach, you should at least buy me dinner first.”

It was getting easier and easier to ignore him. Bruce turned Hal’s hand over in his own to inspect the damage. The knuckles were split from where they scraped Brick’s teeth, and bruised from the sheer impact of it all. It was the kind of injury that would ache like hell in an hour and get worse before it got better.

“Are we…are we about to commune with the water?”

Okay, maybe it wasn’t getting easier to ignore him. “What.”

“You know. Like seal chakra alignment or whatever. We’re holding hands by the sea, you’re being all mysterious. It kinda feels like witchcraft. Do we have to chant?”

“Do you think I’m a witch?”

“Obviously not,” Hal said breezily, “but I do think all of this is wildly beyond my expertise, so I’m just gonna make wild guesses until something sticks. For all I know you’ve got a moonstone up your ass and you’re about to divine your kid’s location from the shape of the barnacles.”

“I’m not a witch.”

“I never said you were a witch.”

“Then why—” Bruce cut himself off before the irritation curdled. He closed his eyes, exhaled through his nose, and made a silent vow never to argue again with someone who used their inside voice like a goddamn kazoo.

He lowered Hal’s hand to the water, just above the tide line, and let the cold sea lap against the base of his fingers. Then, with his other hand, Bruce scooped a handful of water and let it run through his palm, wetting it completely. He pressed it gently over Hal’s busted knuckles, firm enough to make contact and maybe just enough to sting.

Technically, Bruce could heal a fair few of Hal’s problems. The busted knuckles, the minor scrapes, and the fresh bruises he had put there himself this morning. They were all minor enough for the salt to seep through and refresh everything. It’d take effort, sure, but it was possible.

That, however, would require a lot more touching. It would mean hands on his sides where he’d tried to crack his ribs, palms at his sternum where he’d jabbed him between the clavicles. It would mean Hal half-naked in saltwater with Bruce actively concentrating on him.

No, thank you. Bruce had more important things to worry about and he certainly didn’t want to exacerbate an attraction he was quite valiantly ignoring. Healing Hal’s knuckles was as much as a peace offer as he was willing to give out for now. It was quiet and unobtrusive, and it could even double up as a thank you for laying out Brick Donoghue so spectacularly.

“This is weird,” Hal said quietly as the flesh knitted back together. “What are you doing? Are you—? Is this—? Oh wow, that stings.”

“Relax.”

“I’m so relaxed right now, shut up.” His ears had coloured, Bruce noticed. Just a little redness around the shell, like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to blush or whether he wanted to yank his hand away. “So you are a witch.”

“I swear to god, Jordan.”

Hal snickered but Bruce wasn’t about to rise to that. Instead, he pulled his upper palm away to inspect progress. The skin still had a little redness blooming around each shallow divot where the split had been, but the tears had closed perfectly. In the next thirty minutes, it would be like it hadn’t even happened.

This is where Bruce should’ve said something clinical. He could’ve noted the rate of healing, or mentioned something offhand about sea salinity and soft tissue, but that would’ve felt too forced. Instead, he glanced up once to check Hal’s face and found the expression there weirdly subdued. Not ideal. A subdued expression meant that Hal was thinking, and Bruce didn’t like to be reminded that this guy was a lot more intelligent than he originally thought.

Hal flexed his fingers slightly, just enough to test the stretch of the tendons, only to pause and grimace. The movement had curled his fingers into a half-fist toward Bruce’s own hand, which was still cupped underneath his to keep it steady over the waterline.

So maybe they held that position a fraction too long. Bruce was just doing his due diligence of someone who wanted to become a doctor before he realised how unfeasible it was with his shifting cycle. The skin was mostly healed, that was good, moment over.

Bruce dropped Hal’s hand and stood.

Hal took a beat, then cleared his throat . “Anyway,” he said. He glanced at his knuckles once more before moving to follow. “That’s cool. What just happened there. That was…that was weird as hell. Dude, you can just, like, do that?”

“Let’s go.”

“I feel like we’re glossing over your magic seal hands. You really don’t understand how weird that was for me.”

“You’ll live.”

“I’ll live in a constant state of existential dread, is what I’ll do,” Hal muttered. Bruce chose not to respond to that, but he was acutely aware of the temperature crawling up the sides of his neck. He clenched his jaw and picked up the pace. Maybe if he was fast enough, he could outwalk the whole thing entirely.

He needed to refocus. He needed to reorient. Get back on track. What was next on his to-do list?

Ah yes, the letter.

The nearest place with four walls and a chair was a rundown seafood diner called Barbie’s Clam ‘n’ Jam, which sounded like it catered to middle-aged surf yogis. The signage was pink and sun-faded, featuring a cartoon strawberry with decidedly unsettling bedroom eyes. Still, it would serve well enough. A broken windchime rattled against the doorframe as Bruce pushed it open without waiting for Hal.

As he’d hoped, it was empty inside save for a college girl hunched over her laptop in one of the corners. Tables were set but untouched and a single radio behind the counter hummed something vaguely country through the static. The redheaded waitress, maybe a few years older than Bruce, acknowledged them with a grunt that might have been friendly.

He scanned the room automatically, checking corners and exits, before picking the booth furthest from the corner. He sat with his back to the wall so he could have a clear view of the entrance, then pulled the letter from his inside pocket.

Hal dropped into the seat across from him. Their legs weren’t touching, but Bruce could feel the little ripple of displaced air every time Hal bounced his knee. It was already going. Tap. Tap. Tap. Not nerves so much as it was an abundance of energy.

“Are we ordering food?” he asked.

Bruce didn’t look up. “You can.”

“You’re not?”

“I’m reading.”

Hal leaned back in the booth with a roll of his eyes, but Bruce caught the look he gave him in his periphery. It was one part curious, one part something else entirely that he couldn’t quite place. Interestingly enough, the colour hadn’t quite faded from his ears. Bruce didn’t comment on it. He focused on the letter instead.

‘131144231514421131434145114215223444231132’

That was a lot of numbers to solve without a cipher key, Bruce decided grudgingly. It was certainly doable with a little time. Substitution, probably. Maybe a double-key or a reversed shift. Nothing too complex.

The waitress deigned to slump over and pour them coffee. It looked entirely unappetising, but Bruce considered asking her to leave the pot.

Hal brightened. “Hey, could I get the Oyster French Toast? It sounds gross as hell.”

The waitress raised one eyebrow and scrawled it down without a word. “And you?” she said, looking at Bruce.

“Just the coffee.“

Hal watched her go, then turned that crooked little head-tilt on Bruce like he was about to start a whole new round of being difficult. “So,” he said. “Who’s this Wayne guy, anyway?”

“I am.”

“I thought you were Bruce.”

“Do you understand how surnames work?”

“Oh, so you can say more than three words at a time. I was beginning to wonder.” Hal squinted at Bruce’s face. “Y’know, I didn’t figure had a surname. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because of the whole seal thing. Makes you seem like a one name sort of guy. Like Cher.”

Bruce ignored him. First he needed to establish a pattern. Lots of repeated numbers. Vowels, maybe? 11, 44, 23. Vowels, maybe? Common consonants? Or placeholders in a substitution cipher. No, it couldn’t be that easy. Frequency was key here. If he could group them into pairs and isolate the most frequent combinations…

It would take time without the cipher key, and time was something he definitely didn’t have. Maybe he needed to summon Tim. They always solved buzzles better when they could bounce ideas off each other. He could also send a copy off to Barbara and have her take a look back home in Gotham. It’ll be solved within the day with all three of them on it.

“You tried a Polybius?”

Bruce blinked down at the paper and then looked up at Hal. “What.”

“It could be simple,” he replied with a shrug. He reached out and taped a part of the letter. “There’s a lot of repeating numbers. If we separate them into double digits, assign them to a pretty simple grid—”

“I know what a Polybius Square is.” Bruce looked back down at the sheet. Surely it wouldn’t be that simple…

“I had a friend back in the Force. Worked Intel. One of those up-his-own-ass types like you. He figured I needed to know the basics in case I ever got kidnapped by smugglers or, like, international treasure hunters. Just simple stuff, y’know? And that right there looks real simple.” He tapped the sheet again like he was trying to prove his point. “I could be wrong, but you look like you’re thinking through a million ways to figure this out. Maybe you should try the simple stuff before you start overcomplicating it.”

“I’m not overcomplicating it.”

“Hell yeah you are. I can see it. Your forehead does this little scrunchy thing when you’re thinking too hard,” Hal continued, poking between his own eyebrows to illustrate his point. “The way I see it, they know you don’t have the key, but they gave you a coded message anyway — probably to stop Brick from getting any funny ideas about tracking them down. If they really wanted you to read it, they’d make it simple enough to solve without any real thought.”

“Interesting theory, but the kind of people who leave me coded messages don't usually make it easy for me.”

“What do you mean, ‘usually’? Does this kinda thing happen to you a lot?”

“More than you’d think.”

“You’re literally a seal. What do they do? Stuff a riddle in a bottle and hope it hits your mailbox?” Hal shook his head and slid the letter towards himself. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. You got a pen?”

Bruce did indeed have a pen. Of course he had a pen. He carried three. (They were colour-coded.)

Wordlessly, he pulled the blue one from his inside jacket pocket and handed it across the table. Immediately, Hal began to draw a five-by-five numbered grid and assign the alphabet to it, doubling I and J together in the same box. As he worked, Bruce was already solving it in his head. Every two-digit number on that page reorganised itself automatically. If every two digits represented a letter, 13 would be 1-3, which translated to C. 1-1 would be A, then T…H…E…

“‘Catherdral Square’,” Hal read aloud. “‘Gotham’.” He looked up at Bruce. “That mean anything to you?”

That meant everything and nothing all at once.

First, Bruce allowed himself a moment to be extremely annoyed that it ended up being such an easy cipher. He took another moment to kick himself for not trying a Polybius Square immediately. Finally, he let himself wonder what was so important about Cathedral Square.

It was in the southeast of the city. Busy enough, Bruce supposed. Not quite the bustle of the City Hall district, but far from quiet. That stretch of Gotham was old and that showed in the patchwork architecture and the smell of wet brick that never quite left the air. A hell of a lot of pigeons too. Bruce and Dick had spent seven solid days, a decade back, trying to figure out if someone was breeding them or if they were just particularly fertile. He still didn’t have an answer. Just a deep and abiding distrust of feathers.

Cathedral Square was mostly converted buildings now. Old churches turned into overpriced apartments, old apartments turned into overpriced studios, the occasional bar that thought exposed brick was enough of a design statement to set itself apart from the rest. Plenty of old stonework. Plenty of shadows. It wasn’t dense, but it was… liminal. Then again, most of Gotham was.

It also wasn’t terribly far from the shoreline. Maybe a mile or two from Blackgate Isle, depending on where you were standing. Could that be relevant?

Bruce narrowed his eyes. How could he know this was a legitimate lead? It felt important. It always did when Gotham was involved, but that could just be his paranoia kicking in. He’d followed enough false trails in his time to know how good people could be at leaving breadcrumbs.

If he stayed here in California, he risked losing Jason to whatever Gotham’s underbelly had chewed up and half-swallowed. If he flew back now, he might be leaping headfirst into a set piece.

“I don’t like this,” Hal said when Bruce didn’t reply. “They know your name, they knew you’d come for the kid. Now, what, an invitation? Feels like a trap to me.”

“I agree,” Bruce muttered.

He pulled the letter back toward him and stared hard at the print. Monospaced serif. Could’ve been Courier. Either typed out on a computer or done up on one of those old typewriters you’d only find with people dramatic or pretentious enough to have one. If it was a typewriter, he could study the ink bleed and the way the keys struck, maybe match it to a specific machine. He’d done it before.

Then again, that was a lot of legwork for something he might just find by walking into Gotham with open eyes. He didn’t have the time.

“You got any enemies?”

Bruce grimaced and stayed quiet.

“Yeah, probably a stupid question.”

“It’s not a stupid question,” he replied eventually, dragging a hand across his mouth. “I’m narrowing it down.”

Hal frowned. “How many enemies do you have for you to narrow it down?” When Bruce didn’t reply, Hal shook his head. “Man, you are so weird. Normal people don’t have enemies. Like, maybe one, two at the most. A rival at work or a landlord or something. I mean, I could make a case for Mrs. Boehner, but unless I’ve severely misjudged her, she’s not the type to send out cryptic notes and hang out with traffickers.

“She once took my laundry out of the machine mid-cycle because she says the third washer in the row ‘gives her peace’ and she doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Swear to god, Spooks. I came back from the store and found all my damp underwear in a plastic bag on top of the dryer like she was doing me a favour.”

Bruce tuned him out into background noise and moved onto something more pressing.

If the clues led him to Gotham, then Gotham was where he’d go. He couldn’t afford to waste time arguing with a trail that might go cold. He could leave Dick in charge of the others. If there was still something to find in Cali, the kids could handle it.

“I mean, sure, she’s got a resting witch face, but I’ve never seen her with a gun,” Hal was saying absently, cutting into his thoughts. “Except that one time she pulled a BB pistol on the seagulls, but I feel like that was justified. Anyway, point is, I don’t think she’s our guy. You?”

Bruce blinked at him. “What?”

“Mrs. Boehner.”

“...Are you saying your elderly neighbour is responsible for my son’s disappearance?”

“No, but we’ve got to consider every possibility, right?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say to you, Jordan. That’s ridiculous.”

Hal shrugged and Bruce tuned him out entirely. The coffee remained every bit as bitter and burnt as it had been ten minutes ago as he took a sip. He didn’t mind. It gave him something to focus on while he laid out the next hundred steps in his head.

He’d prepared for this. Well, not this exactly, but he’d prepared for the possibility of having to travel to another state as quickly as possible. It was the benefits of being rich and being overly cautious, he supposed.

They had swum to California when they migrated, mostly because Jason’s return had been too fresh and he refused to take off his pelt to get on a plane. It had taken months. Though, if he was being honest, Bruce had enjoyed the journey. It gave the family an opportunity to get to know Damian (feral) and for some of them to meet Jay for the first time (also feral). There had been fights. Minor disagreements, mostly. The occasional attempt at fratricide had been concerning, but the truce over a plastic-wrapped turtle had settled most of them. There had also been exactly one high-stakes game of Bite the Boat Propeller that ended with three head injuries.

A very good bonding experience, all in all. Bruce refused to ever do it again.

In an effort to discourage future aquatic odysseys, he poured a lot of money into emergency assets. One of which, of course, was a private plane. If he took the Praetor, he could be in Gotham in seven hours – six at a push. He'd have to get to the hangar in Victorville first, so he’d have to source a vehicle. Alfred had plenty in the garage. He’d become something of a collector in his retirement.

“—and then this asshole figured that I couldn’t possibly eat the entire chicken—”

Tune him out, tune him out, tune him out. Don’t wonder what the hell sort of tangent Hal had talked himself into.

What else would Bruce need to do?

Ah, his aircraft licence had expired, hadn’t it? He’d been meaning to renew it, but the situation with Jason made trivial matters like ‘legal documentation’ seem entirely optional. And it was, if Bruce ignored air traffic control hard enough. He could still fly. He’d just have to slip some bills under the table, talk a pretty talk and he was sure someone would let him take the wheel.

He’d file a flight plan through one of the dummy LLCs Alfred had set up back in ‘98 and fly under the radar. Air traffic control would be none the wiser. Just another late-night corporate hop over state lines. Private jet, no passenger manifest, nothing to see here.

“—it worked and she totally started hitting on me, but I didn’t notice her hamfisted boyfriend was gearing up to baste me. Like, dude, the chicken was right there—”

Why was Hal going to be basted? How does this relate to literally anything? Do not attempt to make a linear timeline. Do not engage.

Bruce rubbed the bridge of his nose. Hal had started tearing pieces off the menu now, little squares and rectangles, rolling them into pretend cigarettes as he talked. His hands were distracting.

Moving swiftly on…

He’d have to arrange for Dick to take over the family while he was gone. Dick was good at that. His siblings loved him (more than they loved Bruce, if they did at all), and he'll be able to keep an eye on any leads still trickling in from the coast. The whole family would stay in California, Bruce decided. Just in case he’d made a grievous error in judgment and was about to march himself into a carefully-laid, Jason-less trap in Gotham.

“—and that’s how I won the dogfight.”

Bruce looked up finally to see Hal taking a long gulp of coffee. “You talk,” he said. “A lot.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t saying anything,” Hal replied, wiping his mouth. “I’d rather talk about nothing than sit in creepy silence.” He leaned over and tapped the blocky GOTHAM he’d written. “You think my plane would be able to get us there?”

“Seaplanes are prohibited in New Jersey.”

“That’s discrimination.”

Bruce cocked his head and looked at Hal properly. “You,” he said in sudden realisation, “have a licence to fly.”

“Well observed.”

“Hm…”

It would reduce time, wouldn’t it? Having a pilot who could legally prove he was allowed in the air. It was a big ask, certainly. It was getting him to put his life on hold to come with him to Gotham. Hal would probably have to take time off work. Maybe shift a few charters around. That meant money lost, time spent, a journey into a place where Bruce was fairly certain Hal would either get stabbed, propositioned, or arrested within twenty-four hours.

Then again, he’d implied he was willing. That death trap of a seaplane wasn’t going to get them anywhere close to Gotham but if Hal was willing to go in that, then surely he was willing to come in the Praetor.
That counted as agreement.

He shoved the letter into the inside pocket of his coat and mentally calculated the distance from Coast City to Victorville. Two hours by car, assuming minimal traffic. Less if they took the coast road and Hal didn’t talk.

The waitress chose that moment to arrive, slamming down Hal’s order with a curt, “Enjoy, hon.”

The Oyster French Toast looked… wet. The syrup had formed a sad little moat around what was probably a mollusc and the poor brioche was doing its best not to give up entirely. A white-ish foam sat on top, limp and smelling suspiciously of horseradish.

Hal stared down at it. “God help me,” he said. “I’m gonna eat it.”

“We’re leaving,” Bruce said, pulling himself out of he the booth. He threw a few bills down, a few extra for a tip, and snatched his blue pen from Hal’s side of the table. Like hell he was leaving that behind.

Hal forked up a suspicious, jelly-glazed oyster. “We’re leaving? Now?”

“Yes.”

“Man, I just committed to this.”

“Then get it to go.”

Hal looked down at his plate, then up at Bruce. Then back at the plate. “You really, really suck,” he said, and he began shoveling the oyster into a napkin.

Chapter Text

Spooky stole a truck.

There really wasn’t anything Hal could do about it, short of throwing himself over the hood and wailing. He considered it, briefly, before remembering that Bruce was a bonafide madman and would totally drive off with him still clinging to the windshield.

They had been walking through a sun-bleached parking lot behind the diner, heading in what Hal had innocently assumed was the direction of Spooky’s Very Legal Transportation. In the next moment, Bruce had slowed beside a faded blue pickup, inspected its undercarriage, and then produced something from his sleeve that was definitely not a key.

Despite knowing that Bruce’s definition of legality bordered on a blurred line, Hal somehow didn’t expect him to commit an actual felony in broad daylight. Then again, the weirdo had no qualms with breaking into someone’s apartment, so maybe Hal should’ve been keeping a closer eye on him. That was his bad. He should’ve known to keep this forty-plus year old seal-man on a tighter leash.

“Are you stealing a goddamn truck?” he spluttered. “You’re just— That’s a felony. That’s, like, an actual felony.”

Bruce didn’t respond. He had already disappeared inside the cab, hands buried under the dashboard. There was a faint snapping sound, the whirr of wire against wire, and then the engine gave a coughing wheeze that shuddered into life on the third try.

Okay, so this was just a lawless world now. No big deal. Goddamn.

“You can’t just take people’s cars, Bruce.”

“I’m not taking it.”

“Wow. You know, you’ve tried the whole gaslighting schtick before. Didn’t work.” Hal pressed a hand to his forehead, dragging it down his face with the slow, mounting dread of a man realising he was going to die in prison for aiding and abetting a cryptid with no concept of personal property. “Do you own the truck, Spooks?”

“No.”

“Then that’s grand theft auto, my guy.”

Bruce slid in and adjusted the seat. “We’re borrowing it.”

“Oh, so it’s ’we’ now? Glad to hear you’re making me an accomplice. That’s great. That’s really beautiful, actually. I feel so included.”

Hal peered around with a grimace, suddenly very aware of how obnoxiously bright it was out. Beautiful summer morning. Clear skies. Optimal visibility. There was a little old lady at a bus stop who didn’t seem to be paying them any mind, but that didn’t rule out the possibility of looking up from her crocheting and squinting her beady little eyes over at these two men committing crime in broad daylight.

“Do you have, like, a checklist of crimes you’re working through?” he asked, pitching his voice just loud enough to carry over the engine but not loud enough to draw attention. “Is this a mid-life crisis thing? Because we’ve already hit breaking and entering and felony theft. Technically we’re on the hook for assault too — which, okay, that was on me, but you just stood back and watched me. Hey, you wanna go for another? I could grab a sixer and we’ll tack on a DUI.”

“They’ll get their truck back,” Bruce replied. He reached across the bench seat and shoved the passenger door open. “Are you getting in or not?”

Hal got in.

“The seat is sticky,” he snapped.

Bruce glanced at him, eyes raking down his body slowly until his gaze hit the seat. “You sat in soda.”

“Great.”

The truck shifted into gear and pulled away from the curb. It was a stick-shift. Figures that Bruce ‘weirdo selkie-man’ Wayne could drive stick.

Meanwhile, Hal exhaled through his nose, stared straight ahead, and began the slow mental process of recalibrating every major decision that had led him to this moment. Somewhere along the line, he’d clearly made a wrong turn. Possibly at birth. Possibly in grade school when he broke the hamster cage and blamed it on the kid who transferred in from Idaho. Or, more likely, possibly when he found a naked man breaking into his cabin three months ago.

To no one’s surprise, Bruce did not apologise for Hal’s sudden life of crime, nor did he actually explain where they were going. He just drove silently, like this day wasn’t at all weird to him when, by all accounts, it was pretty fucking weird.

Being a man of pride, spite, and passive aggression (if one kindly ignored all the active aggression), Hal reached for the truck’s radio. If Bruce was going to continue being a bastard-man, then he could suffer. Hal spun the dial all the way to the right until the old speakers wheezed, crackled, and finally gave way to the twanging heartbreak of a country ballad already halfway through a second verse.

(Something about a woman leaving, a dog dying, and a truck getting repossessed. Hal wasn’t sure what order those tragedies had happened in, but the guy singing about it sounded devastated enough that he might not survive a third verse.)

Naturally, Bruce didn’t react, save for a clenched jaw. Hal turned it up one more notch for good measure. It wasn’t about the music. It was about sending a message.

His non-reaction meant that Hal had to double down and just glare as hard as he could. Which, for the record, was a terrible idea because Bruce’s face was, unfortunately, stupidly good.

Sharp jaw peppered with stubble, stupid high cheekbones, straight nose with just the slightest bump in it — barely noticeable, unless you were really looking, which Hal now hated himself for doing.

The bump was clearly the result of an old break. Hal, in the name of deeply immature vindication, liked to believe he’d been the one to do it. Three months ago, when he’d greeted him the way any normal person might greet a naked intruder dripping on the hardwood. He definitely hit hard enough to do some damage.

Without thinking about it, he reached down to run over his healed knuckles, and he redirected his gaze out the window. He needed to stop the whole train of thought before his brain did something stupid like follow the line of his throat or remember how his calloused hand felt pressed over his in the water.

His tragically underemployed libido was seeing a pretty face and saying yes yes yes, that one, which was incredibly unhelpful given the context of their situation. Hal supposed he’d always been attracted to dysfunction, but with two physical fights and a missing kid under their belts, this was pushing it even for him.

“Not many cars in the sea,” he said, because he was incapable of stewing in silence. He didn’t turn the radio down, so he had to raise his voice. “How’d you learn to hotwire?”

“I don’t spend all my time in the water,” Bruce said. He had the audacity to use his turn signal like a responsible adult.

“It’s a real specific talent for a seal to have. Makes me curious about your whole deal.”

Bruce checked his mirror before turning right. “I’m not going to answer your questions.”

“Not gonna stop me from asking.” Hal turned to look at him again, this time focussing on anything other than the fact he was hot. The light scar running down from his eyebrow wasn’t helping. “It won’t stop me from guessing, either. Blink twice if I get close.”

“No.”

“You’re not as sheltered as you’d think a magic seal-man would be,” he mused, tapping his legs in thought. “So I’m thinking black-ops. You got into some classified shit, became a seal, and now you’re training the next underwater infiltration unit. Like Free Willy, but with more espionage.”

“You can’t just become a seal.”

“I literally watched it happen.”

“No, it doesn’t work like that. It’s—” Bruce narrowed his eyes and glanced at Hal. “You’re messing with me.”

“Trying to. Least you could do is play along. It’s a long way to Gotham and unless you want to parktake in a lot of I-Spy, we may as well get to know each other. You like talking, right?”

“No.”

“Wow, really? Never would’ve guessed.” Hal tried again with a grin. “Okay, so no to the Black Ops theory. How about this: you flopped out of the water as a baby seal and you were adopted by some long-beard guru-monk living in the mountains. He raises you with discipline, teaches you how to be a good boy — inner peace, outer stillness, that kind of thing. But you’re young. You’ve got hormones. That little rebellious streak that makes you punch hot strangers in the night. Eventually you run off to civilisation to live fast and make mistakes.”

Bruce gave the road ahead a deeply sceptical look.

Hal forged ahead. “You take up a life of crime. You need to pay rent. You end up working the pole. That’s okay, though, because you’re hot. The sweaty accountants with nothing to go home to are happy to see you shake it on the stage, so you make a couple hundred singles a night getting down to generic synth-pop. Life’s good.”

“What?”

“But something’s missing,” Hal went on. “You realise there’s more to life than beer, blow, and lap dances. So you head back to the mountains, hat in hand. You want to make amends.” He made a tragic little gesture with his hand. “But the guru-monk’s not there. The yurt you grew up in has gone. All that’s left is a handful of baby seals blinking up at you with their big, baby seal eyes. It hits you: this is your purpose. Protect the next generation. Make sure they grow up where they belong. In the sea.”

A long silence followed, save for the crooning of the radio.

Bruce didn’t look at Hal. He kept his eyes on the road, hands steady at two-and-ten on the wheel. He did, however, exhale heavily through his nose like he was beginning to regret ever letting Hal step foot in his stolen truck.

“I’ve never worked a pole,” he said at last.

“I just think you’ve got the bone structure for it. I’m being complimentary. You should say thank you.”

“I can’t tell if this is a really convoluted way to make fun of me, or to hit on me.”

“I can do both.”

“Alternatively,” Bruce said without much fire, “you can sit there and shut up.”

Hal grinned wider. “Now where’s the fun in that?”

The radio crooned on. Another twangy voice, this time warbling something about whiskey and tractors and something called a ‘love tornado’, which sounded more like an emergency than a romantic metaphor. Hal couldn’t tell if the girl in the song was meant to be flattered or evacuated.

He let it roll for a while, still blasting too loud in the cab of the truck. Bruce stared ahead like he was trying to astrally project out of the vehicle, but for the most part didn’t even attempt to try and turn it out. Maybe that was a power move in of itself. Hal, for his part, was trying to figure out if silence counted as a victory or just meant he needed to come up with something worse.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of him.

“So where are we going, anyway?” he asked, glancing sideways. “We’re not seriously driving this felony on wheels all the way to New Jersey, right?”

Bruce didn’t look at him. “I need to make a pit stop.”

“Ominous.”

True to form, Bruce didn’t elaborate.

They turned off the main road not long after that, rumbling down a narrow ribbon of paving flanked by lazy palm trees. It twisted inland just long enough to make Hal wonder if they were lost before the truck sloped down again. The curve of the land gave way to the ocean without warning, and that was where Hal saw the house.

Well, Villa, if they were being technical about it. It was perched right above the waterline, all soft stucco and gleaming windows, with a long balcony wrapped around the front. It seemed like the kind of place you only saw in movies, the kind with flowerboxes that stayed perfect year-round and a pool that glittered like it had never been peed in by the neighbourhood kids.

God, what kind of curated wealth was this?

“This is suspiciously nice for a guy who steals trucks,” he said as Bruce pulled into the smooth stone driveway. “This your place?”

“No.”

“Oh, cool, so we’re committing another crime.”

Bruce shut off the engine and glanced over with a look that was probably meant to be reassuring, but mostly came across as vaguely threatening. “Not everything I do is illegal.”

“Buddy, I’ve known you for all of five minutes and you’ve already committed at least three offences. You think I’m just jumping to conclusions here?”

“I think you’re being dramatic.” Bruce opened the driver’s door and slid out, pausing only when Hal reached for his own handle. “Stay in the truck.”

“Yessir, Mr. Wayne sir. You want me to count the seconds you’ll be gone, too?”

Bruce stared at him for a second, unimpressed, before he thumbed the switch on the driver’s side. The window rolled down two inches, sputtering as it went. “I won’t be long,” he said, turning away.

Hal stared after him, appalled. “Did you just crack the window for me?” he yelled. “I’m not a dog, asshole! I can crack my own goddamn window!”

Despite the righteous indignation, Hal stayed in the truck like a good goddamn boy. Not because he was at all intimidated by Bruce, but because he had a creeping suspicion that if he stepped one foot out of the cab, he’d somehow knock over a priceless urn, or tread mud into marble, or unbalance the entire structural feng shui of the villa just by breathing too hard.

So he folded his arms and watched Bruce go.

He tried to be mature about it, sure, but maturity had never really been his thing when it came to assholes. Instead, he gave into pettiness pretty quickly. He lifted a hand and pinched his fingers together, squinting one eye and lining up the distance juuuust right, and— there. Bruce’s stupid head fit perfectly between his fingertips. Hal gave it an experimental little squish.

It was satisfying in a way that he knew, deep down, probably meant something was wrong with him. But he wasn’t the one stealing trucks, so, morally, he was still in the clear.

Movement near the house pulled his attention/

A man emerged. Or maybe he descended from a higher plane of existence, because goddamn. This was the most dignified-looking individual Hal had ever seen wear velcro orthopaedic sandals.

The stranger gave the truck a single glance that somehow managed to peel back Hal’s entire psyche and dismiss it as irrelevant. Then, he turned back to Bruce. He stood there with his hands folded neatly behind his back, posture so upright it bordered on parody. In another life, Hal was certain, this man had served royalty. Possibly had been royalty. Probably still was, but in an understated, coastal-retirement kind of way.

Hal slowly lowered his hand, turned off the radio, and slouched an inch lower in the seat. In his pocket, his napkin-oyster squelched.

Oh, sweet. A snack.

He pulled it out of his jeans with a grin. Normally, he wasn’t a complete animal when it came to food. The napkin was an…unsatisfactory replacement for a to-go box, but Bruce hadn’t seemed like the kind of guy who waited for polite negotiations with waitstaff. Now, after about thirty minutes sitting wrapped up in his jeans, it was slightly warm and definitely more gelatinous than it had been back in the diner. Still. Desperate times, etcetera, etcetera.

He unwrapped it, gave it a brief once-over, and, before he could talk himself out of it, slurped the thing down. The texture was everything he expected: slippery, suspicious, oddly tender. The cinnamon was still confusing, but not bad. Actually, if he thought about it, it was actually kind of tasty.

He was mid-chew (or… mid whatever the version of chewing an oyster was) when a voice said from just outside the window, “I can’t tell if that looks gross or delicious.”

Hal jerked, half-choked, and slapped a hand over his mouth. His head whipped toward the voice, and there, leaning casually against the passenger side door, was someone new. Three new people, actually. Teenagers, all looking at him with varying levels of deliberate intimidation.

Hal, mouth full, raised one finger in warning and made a muffled “Ngghh?”

The one who spoke grinned like he just passed some kind of test. Blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a toothy smile as if she knew something obvious that Hal was missing. There was something gleefully chaotic about her, like she’d say ‘oops’ after pushing you down a flight of stairs and genuinely expect you to laugh.

Behind her was a guy with floppy dark hair and the kind of deadpan stare that looked like he was actively scanning Hal’s soul for malware. The other was a girl, smaller, quieter, almost unnervingly so. Hal couldn’t decide what was more menacing: the boy’s intense vibe-check eyes, or the girl’s soft smile that felt like she’d already predicted the moment and method of his eventual demise.

Bruce’s kids, maybe? That made a weird kind of sense. The girls didn’t look much like him, but the boy kinda did. His eyes weren’t as pale, but his skin sure was. Same hair colour, same perpetual frown, same deliberate stillness like someone had carved him out of cool stone and given him just enough softness around the edges to pass for human.

“I’m Steph,” Blondie said. She hitched a thumb over her shoulder at the others. “Tim, Cass.”

“...Hal. Good to meet you.”

“Hal. Hal. That’s a good name,” Steph said. She looked behind her at the others. “Isn’t that a good name?”

“It’s alright,” Tim said with a shrug. He had a phone in his hand that seemed far more interesting to him. Hal pretended that he couldn’t see his own name on whatever the kid was looking at. Next to him, Cass smiled.

Steph turned back to Hal and leaned against the truck. “Soooo, Hal,” she drawled. “Are you dating Bruce, or what?”

Hal made a sound. It wasn’t really a word. It might not have even been human. He blinked at her, brain stalling. “Dating—? Bruce? Me? Are you kidding me? I mean— I don’t— What?” He pointed vaguely in the direction Bruce had gone, then at himself, like she might have confused him with someone else.

“Steph,” Tim said blankly. “Not relevant.”

“I’m just asking,” she said with a shrug. “The old man leaves to chase down intel on Jay and comes back with some pretty boy pilot? Now, I’m not saying that’s on brand for Bruce, but I’m also not saying that he hasn’t done this before.”

Tim closed his eyes like he was trying to manifest a quieter universe. “...I really hate that you’re right.”

“Right?” She turned back to Hal. “B meets all his partners when he’s doing something suspicious. It's a character trait.”

This one was almost definitely Little Miss Honky, Hal decided with an incredulous grimace. “Look, Steph—”

“That’s me.”

“I am not dating Spooky, okay?”

“Oh shit, he really does call him Spooky,” she said to the others. “I thought Dick was kidding.”

“Cute,” Cassandra said.

“Super cute,” Steph agreed. She cocked her head at Hal. “Does he have a pet name for you too, or is he all demure about it? I picture B as the type to use ‘darling’ unironically. Is that you, Hal. Are you a darling?”

“I am nobody’s darling.”

“You sure? He has a type. You kinda fit it. Right, Tim?”

“Don’t bring me into this.”

“Right, Cass?”

Cass nodded. “Right.”

“Y’know,” Hal said. “I didn’t come here to be profiled by kids.”

Steph, delighted, leaned against the truck. “We’re not profiling. We’re just gathering observational data.”

“Feels like profiling.”

“Okay, okay.” She pushed herself back and raised her hands in surrender. “Then why are you here, Hal? ‘Cause the last I checked, the old man was supposed to be politely checking if you stole an entire person."

“Politely? Buddy, that asshole tried to break into my apartment.”

“That’s polite for Bruce,” Tim said. Next to him, Cass nodded again like this was a known and widely accepted metric of courtesy. Probably was for their family.

And yeah, Hal could believe it. He grimaced and, before he could stop himself, he looked back towards the house. Towards Bruce, who was now handing off what looked like a thumb drive to the fancy guy with the royal spine and the Velcro sandals. Behind the old guy, a little head popped into view, peeking around Old Man’s hip like a tiny security cam.

The kid, save for his skin being a shade darker and his eyes being green inside of blue, was a carbon copy of Bruce — more so than Tim or Dick was. Same glare, same frown, and that same barely restrained feeling of ‘I know something you don’t and I’m extremely disappointed about it.’ From what Hal could see from the truck, the kid had a pale brown, incredibly fluffy pelt draped around his little shoulders.

Oh, Hal knew that pissed off, judgemental look. The shape of his face was different in human form, but he’d recognise the goddamn baby anywhere. Although ‘baby’ was maybe a bit of a stretch. The kid was clearly ten, maybe eleven, and was glaring at Hal hard enough for him to wonder if he’d somehow wronged him in a previous life.

Steph caught him looking. “That’s just Damian,” she said. “It’s easy to mistake him for one of those attack dogs you keep on leashes. He’s not mad. That’s just his face.”

“Looks mad.”

“Well, he’s usually is, to be honest. We're training it out of him, but he was born that way.”

“C-section,” Tim said. “Too angry for labour.”

“Is that true?” Steph asked.

“I don’t know, but it sounds true, doesn’t it?”

Hal frowned. “Why…is he looking at me like that?”

Steph shrugged. “He’s probably just antsy ‘cause you’re dating his dad.”

“I am not —”

“Shh,” Tim said, not looking up from his phone. “He can smell fear.”

“I am not dating his dad,” Hal said in a hiss. Tim shrugged once and Hal, inexplicably, felt the need to defend himself to these assholes. And god, he should’ve expected this ever since one of the seals on the beach grew legs and punched him in the face. “I am helping his dad track down Jason, okay?”

That had Tim looking over his phone with an arched brow. “B actually accepted help?” he said. “From you?”

Hal sneered automatically. “I’m real helpful.”

For a moment, all three teenagers fell quiet. Steph’s smile dimmed just a fraction, her bright eyes narrowing like she was trying to figure out if he was serious or just stupid. Tim looked up from his phone (where Hal could see his own goddamn graduation photograph peering up at him for some reason, which was maybe a little unsettling but we move on). Cass tilted her head slightly. Her expression didn’t change, but it was the kind of movement predators made before they pounced. Hal had a sudden, vivid image of her wordlessly flipping him over with one arm and then offering him tea while he lay broken on the floor.

Then, Steph said, “We don’t know you. But if the Boss man and Dick think you’re on the up and up, then I’m willing to let you play ball.”

“Oh, how generous,” Hal said in a drawl. “Coming from the girl who has literally zero say in what I do with my time, that really means a lot.”

Steph just shrugged, unbothered, already winding up to say something completely inappropriate (Hal could see it loading behind her eyes), but she didn’t get the chance. Her attention snapped away as soon as Bruce started heading back toward the truck.

The old guy stayed behind, one steady hand resting on the kid’s shoulder. Damian leaned just slightly into it, which was probably the ten-year-old equivalent of begrudging affection. His eyes, however, remained fixed on Hal like he was still calculating various ways to remove him from driveway without leaving fingerprints

Bruce reached the truck, eyes immediately narrowing as they scanned his gathered kids. “Don’t listen to a word they say,” he told Hal. Cass tilted her head at him. Bruce added, “Except maybe Cassandra.”

“Rude,” Steph scoffed.

Without deigning to even acknowledge her mock-affront, Bruce jerked his chin towards Hal. “Out of the truck.”

Hal rolled his eyes and swung the door open. “Happy to, Your Majesty.” He flicked his oyster-napkin at Spooky, who caught it automatically and held it gingerly between his pinched fingers. “Do I get to walk behind you, too? Should I bow?”

Bruce ignored him. He stuffed the napkin in his pocket and looked at Tim next. “Take the truck back to where I found it,” he said. “Alfred has the location. Don’t get caught.”

Privately, Hal wondered what kind of parent looked at their teenage son and thought that he was the right man to return a legitimate felony back to its original parking space. Normal dads wore grilling aprons and handed over the car keys when the kid turned sixteen, while Bruce was over here assigning post-crime cleanup like it was a character building exercise.

Apparently, this was normal behaviour for Spooky, because Tim didn’t look too concerned. He pocketed his phone and leaned against the truck. “Where are you going?” he asked, skipping right over more natural questions like Why did you steal a truck, Dad? or Why am I your designated accomplice, Dad? or even the bigger one, Why are we all magical anomalies pretending to live normal lives, Dad?

“Gotham.”

Tim frowned. “Jay’s back in Gotham?”

“Maybe.” Bruce’s voice stayed calm, but there was an edge under it that Hal was beginning to recognise. “Dick’s in charge while I’m gone. Alfred has all the information I have so far. There’s a thumb drive with data. Go through it. Try to get an ID on the man in the CCTV footage. Could be important.”

“Got it.”

“Want me and Cass to come with you, Boss?” Steph asked. Next to her, Cassandra straightened, her spine tightening as if someone had whispered fight, fight fight directly into her bloodstream.

“No,” Bruce said. “Stick together. I’ll keep you updated.”

Orders given, dismissal implied. The kids dispersed. Tim circled to the driver’s side and crouched, already coaxing the old truck’s ignition wires, because that was definitely a trait a sixteen-to-seventeen year old kid should have. Meanwhile, Steph jogged toward the villa, calling something to the older man — Alfred, Hal guessed.

Cassandra, who Hal was beginning to realise was incredibly efficient at everything she did, lingered by the passenger side. She pulled a black credit card from her sleeve and held it up between two fingers. Bruce froze mid-turn, patted his pockets, before giving her a withering look that was, if Hal knew his Spooky-faces, was borderline affectionate.

Neither of them said anything, but Hal could somehow hear the silent conversation between them anyway:

When did you take that?

When weren’t you looking.

Give it back.

No.

After a moment, Bruce sighed. A deep, weary exhale of a man who knew he’d already lost. Cassandra gave him a satisfied little smile and slipped the card back into her sleeve. Then, with theatrical flair, she blew him a kiss and ducked into the truck’s passenger seat.

Hal, watching from the sidelines, grinned to himself. He didn’t say anything, but internally he was cheering her on like it was the playoffs. It was good, so goddamn good, to watch someone finally get one over on Spooky. The man needed humbling. Preferably once a day. Preferably for the rest of his life.

“Be careful,” Bruce said to the kids, just as Steph came back.

She launched herself up into the cab and clambered bodily over Cass, wedging herself firmly between her and Tim. “We always are, big guy,” she said, elbowing Tim in the ribs when he didn’t move fast enough.

The engine turned over with a reluctant cough, then roared back to life. Bruce gave them a nod. They peeled out without fanfare. He didn’t watch them go. Instead, he turned toward Hal.

“Follow me.”

“Woof woof,” Hal said petulantly.

Bruce led him a little further to the left of Alfred’s villa, into the garage. Although, it turned out to be less of a garage and more of a temple. Rows of classic cars lined up the walkway. Everything from sleek vintage coupes to deep-throated muscle beasts, each one lovingly preserved, waxed to the point of spiritual enlightenment.

Hal stopped dead two steps in. “You’ve got a ‘69 GTO,” he breathed. “And a Jag… Is that an Aston Martin DB5? Bruce. Bruce. I will give you my entire kidney if you let me drive one of your richboy cars.”

He didn’t even care which one. He’d take anything with a working engine and enough horsepower to kill him if he hit the accelerator too hard. He’d drive it once and die happy.

Bruce, completely unaffected by the spiritual event he just caused, walked right past the legends and stopped at a very normal, very subtle sedan. It was black and functional. The vehicular equivalent of a blank stare. Which, really, suited Bruce perfectly.

He hit a button of a key fob. The car chirped.

“Get in.”

“This is like choosing to sleep on the floor when you’ve got a goddamn memory foam mattress from God’s own bedroom. Let me drive the GTO. I’ll be so careful.”

Bruce opened the driver’s side door and slid in without looking at him.

“You suck,” Hal said for the millionth time that day. He rounded to the passenger side. “You suck and you have no soul.”

“I’ve known you for less than a day, why would I trust you to drive one of my cars?”

“I mean, technically we’ve known each other for three months. Nine, if you include all the time you’ve sat your seal ass on a rock to try and stare me out.” He rolled his head against the back of the seat and peered out the window at the Pontiac GTO. “I could be so good to her, Bruce. You’re crushing my dreams.”

“Such a shame.”

“Where are we even going anyway? We’re seriously not driving to Gotham, right? Because I will actually go insane if we’re stuck in a car together for two days.”

“We’re flying there. I have a plane in Victorsville. You have a valid pilot’s licence. Do the math.”

“So you’d trust me to fly a plane but not drive a car?”

“Trust is a strong word,” Bruce muttered. “I’m perfectly capable of flying my own plane, but having a licence would cut down on a lot of illegality. Since you’re so sensitive to that.”

“I’m not sensitive about it. Like many freedom-loving Americans, I just really don’t want to go to jail.” He gestured vaguely, like the threat of prison was hovering just outside the garage. “It’s okay for you. If we get caught, you can whip off your coat and take a swan dive into the sea while I’m the one left holding the bag. And who the hell is gonna believe ‘the seal man made me do it’? I’d rather err on the side of caution, thank you very much.”

“From what I’ve seen, nothing about you is cautious.”

“Oh yeah? Says who? I’m super cautious, asshole.”

If he wasn’t currently pulling out of the drive, Hal suspected that Bruce would be giving him the flattest stare. “You followed a man who broke into your apartment three months after he broke into your cabin,” he said blankly. “All because I told you my son was missing, which you made no effort to prove was actually true. You punched out a stranger without thinking of the consequences, and you only offered very token resistance when I borrowed that truck. If anything, I would say you’re actually quite reckless. And impulsive.”

Hal made a wounded noise. He’d heard the accusation before, sure, but that didn’t mean he had to accept it. “I am doing my duty as an American citizen to make sure that the maniac loose around my city doesn’t do any major damage.”

“Speaking of major damage,” Bruce said, sideyeing him, “did you eat that damn oyster?”

“I did!”

“...Don’t throw up in my car.”

“What do you take me for, man? I’m not gonna throw up in your car.”

“If you throw up—”

“I’m not gonna throw up, Jesus.”

Bruce said nothing, but his radiating judgement was loud and clear.

Chapter Text

As it turned out, Hal didn’t throw up in the car. Bruce spent the entire drive to Victorsville side-eyeing him, almost like he was daring Hal to detonate seafood all over the dash just to prove him right about the suspect oyster. Though, if he was hoping for any kind of vindication, he was in for a disappointment. Hal had a stomach of steel. He’d eaten way weirder things before, and at least the oyster had the decency to taste good on the way down.

Still, Bruce was a professional pessimist, apparently, and couldn’t seem to help himself. Every ten miles or so, he lobbed another dry salvo from the driver's seat like he was conducting a diagnostic check.

“Do you need a bucket?”

“No.”

“Open the window.”

“I’m fine, Spooks.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I always look like this.”

Bruce made a noise like he disagreed, but he thankfully didn’t escalate to offering Hal a towel to bite down on.

It had to be a dad thing, he decided. That surgical level of overprotection didn’t come baked into a man unless he’d be betrayed by an ‘I’m fine’ one too many times. Probably while someone half his size yakked up all over his fancy rich boy shoes.

Still, despite the unsolicited assessments into his wellbeing every now and again, the trip wasn’t all that bad. The highway was blessedly quiet, the sun behaved itself and remained at a polite enough angle, and the car itself was so smooth that they might as well have been gliding. He found himself slouching deeper into the passenger seat, propping one ankle on the dash just to test how far Bruce’s tolerance actually went. The fact that he didn’t get immediately swatted suggested Bruce was either softening, or he was still hung up on the whole oyster thing.

Boredom, however, was a cruel mistress and Hal never did handle it all that well. A full thirty minutes passed before he, unintentionally (he wanted that to be very clear), began a round of gently torturing the driver.

He started with humming. Just little nonsense tunes that gradually began to coalesce into something suspiciously Wagnerian. By the time Bruce started murmuring highway exit numbers to himself, Hal had morphed it into a full-blown ‘Ride of the Valkyries,’ complete with orchestral mouth-sound effects and a very compelling timpani section. It ended up eeking into the Magnum P.I. theme, which was objectively superior and came with the added benefit of Tom Selleck’s chest floating across his mental vision.

Bruce would look good with a Selleck-moustache, Hal decided as he lolled his head against the window to look at him again. It wouldn’t be as rugged as Thomas Magnum — Spooky didn’t have the tan for it — but it’d be weirdly distinguished. Like a Dickensian father telling his kids there’d be no Christmas this year. Was that hot? What that the kind of thing Hal found hot these days?

Ew, god, yes it was. That was a really weird thing to learn about himself. Time to pivot into something a little less reputation-damning.

“I-Spy—”

“No.”

“—with my little eye—”

“No.”

“—something beginning with…B.”

“No.”

Hal grinned at him. “You need a hint?”

“...I don’t need a hint.”

To Hal's delight, Bruce guessed ‘bumper’ and ‘bridge’ and ‘blue’ with a really weird, joyless intensity — the kind you get when you really don’t want to humour anyone, but there was a competitive streak deep in your bones that made it so you couldn’t not play. He kinda sounded like he hated himself for participating.

With all those answers coming up incorrect, he furrowed his brow, glanced at Hal and tried, “...Bruce?” with a suspicious lilt to his voice.

“Close,” Hal said. Then, with a big shit-eating grin, he turned in his seat, gave a jazz-hand flourish in Bruce’s direction, and declared the answer to be: “Bastard.”

If they hadn’t been going seventy on the highway, Hal was pretty sure Bruce would’ve pulled over just to deliver the world’s most disappointed stare directly into his soul. Instead, Bruce made a sound halfway between a sigh and a growl, adjusted his grip on the wheel and refused to play another round.

Heh. Sore loser.

They rolled into the hangar a little after four, tires crunching over the gravel before giving way to that eerie kind of silence unique to private strips. The whole place smelled faintly of jet fuel, fresh wax, and the kind of bespoke leather you could only buy after your third trust fund matured. The place was just a little too polished, too quiet, too curated for Hal’s poor-man’s taste.

He knew this airfield. He’d even circled a job here once, back when he’d first quit Ferris and was still trying to figure out what to do with himself before he settled on the island deliveries. The hangar had made a hell of a first impression. It was all shiny jets, smooth runways, clean-swept aprons. Then the employer opened his mouth and used the phrase ‘aviation lifestyle consultant,’ and Hal had gotten that distinct full-body itch that meant, This ain’t it, chief. He’d shaken hands, smiled through his teeth, and ghosted the follow-up call.

Still, even now, even knowing it was the sort of place where people named their planes and their kids after luxury alcohol, he couldn’t quite help the giddiness. Hal didn’t belong here, but damn, if the hangar lights didn’t catch the curve of that fuselage just right… he could feel the old familiar tug in his chest. Same one that always got him in trouble. Same one that had made him chase warbirds and bush planes and every stupid contract that could get him up in the air again.

Aircraft just did that to him. Always had, always would.

The whole process moved a little too fast to be strictly, if Hal was honest. Paperwork got shuffled, clearance was granted, and all the staff looked at Bruce with stars in their eyes and called him ‘Mr. Wayne’.

Weird as hell. Mysterious magic seal men shouldn’t have as much influence as Bruce seemed to have. If anything, Hal should’ve been the guest of honour here. For all his minor infractions (and a couple major ones), Hal had carved out a name for himself in these skies. East Coast pilots knew him. Tower crews knew him. Even the weather occasionally respected him enough to hold off on a storm until he landed.

Not great for the ego when a grumpy asshole got more respect from Hal’s field of expertise than Hal did. It was almost certainly a money thing. Hal didn’t know much about Bruce or his past, but he was quickly realising that the guy, somehow, was loaded. He didn’t really want to think of the logistics of an actual selkie amassing enough wealth to bypass regular airline cheeks.

Hal suspected a quiet bribe had exchanged hands somewhere, or maybe Mr. Wayne just radiated enough generational wealth that people did things quicker in his presence. He made a mental note to Google Bruce’s name later, then promptly forgot when the hangar doors to a private area were pulled open.

God, it was beautiful. No, no. It was divine. It was a religious experience, actually. Hal took one look at the lineup of planes and promptly threw every unflattering thought he’d ever had about Bruce Wayne into the nearest mental incinerator. If this was what the man kept in his back pocket, then Hal needed to make sure that pocket had a best friend charm keyring by the end of the week.

It wasn’t just one or two pretty girls sitting there. There was an entire hangar of sleek, gleaming, heartbreaking machines, parked like they were calling his name and telling him he was a good boy.

“Oh my god, Bruce, is that a Lockheed Electra?” he gasped, somewhere between breathless and aroused, pointing so hard his shoulder cracked. “And — oh hell, that’s a de Havilland Dragon Rapide. Look at her legs, damn, you beautiful wooden bitch—”

The Electra was so polished he could see his reflection in the nosecone (he looked lightly manic). He moved from plane to plane in some kind of glossy-eyed trance. Jets, warbirds, a stubby little twin-prop that looked like it wanted to take him out for seafood and never call again. Polished aluminium, high-gloss paint jobs, matte black monsters with wings like switchblades.

Bruce, for his part, said nothing. He stood near the door with his arms crossed and the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth that could’ve been a smirk. If Hal thought he was hot before, it had nothing compared to the absolute degenerate cinema playing in his brain now. It starred Bruce, a Tom Selleck moustache, a pair of aviators, and that saucy Cessna 310 standing proudly at the end of the row.

“You own these?” he asked, a little mesmerised.

Bruce shrugged. There was a flicker of something almost human behind his eyes. Interest, maybe. Or pity. Hard to say with Bruce. “Some of them.”

“Some of them,” Hal repeated. “You know what I own? A microwave that doesn’t rotate all the way and a couch I found on the curb. What the hell, Spooks? How?”

“Good fortune.”

“Oh, bite me,” Hal muttered, and turned back to the biplane with reverent hands and a whisper of ‘you are so valid’ to its fuselage. “This is sick,” he breathed. “The underwater cryptid has a menagerie of planes and God is dead.” He whirled around with the most charming smile he could muster. “You know, Spooky, you’re so handsome and strong and kind and—”

“I’m not letting you fly these planes.”

“—an asshole. A stone-cold, soul-deficient, joyless bastard.”

“Thank you.”

“Why not, dude?” Hal gestured broadly to the hangar, the planes, the glowing potential of his dreams. “Look— Look at them. You can’t just show me Elysium and then kick me back onto the Greyhound to Purgatory, that’s cruel. C’mon, man. Just a little zip around in the Electra. I’ll make that baby purr.”

The Electra would need a refuel halfway to Gotham,” Bruce said, already heading toward the row of sleeker, newer aircraft. “We’re taking the Praetor.”

“The Praetor? Ugh. Business jet hell. You might as well hand me a tie and a copy of Forbes.”

“It’s fast.”

“It’s boring. If I wanted to fly a business jet, I would’ve taken a job with a weird rich guy in Tampa.” He looked at Bruce. “Oh god. You’re a weird rich guy too, aren’t you? I’ve basically become the aviation equivalent of a limodriver, haven’t I? I’m the sad jazz of air travel.”

Bruce stopped walking just long enough to look at him. “If we find Jason within seven days,” he said, “I will literally give you whichever plane you want.”

“Wait, like, give give?”

“Now, please be quiet and follow me.”

That had to be sarcasm, right? Surely Bruce wasn’t serious, right? Hal watched him head towards the tarmac, as if offering out plane-sized bribes was just another normal part of his day. And even if he was being serious — which Hal doubted, because that was insane — then did he really think Hal was so easily bought by the promise of a vintage bird? Especially when he’d already agreed to help out pro bono? He though the fuck not.

Then again…that Electra was pretty damn sexy…

The Praetor was already sitting pretty near the runway, fuelled and prepped like someone had anticipated their arrival time. Hal hadn’t seen Bruce make a single call, hadn’t so much as sent a text, but he supposed that was the power of generational wealth and creepy omnipresence. It must’ve been that mysterious Alfred guy, or even one of the kids calling ahead.

“It’ll be a long flight to Gotham,” Bruce said as they approached the stairs. “The path is already logged. I’ll assume you can follow basic direction.”

“Follow direction? Baby, I can make this girl sing.” Hal ran a hand along the Praetor’s side. “She wants to fly smooth and sexy, I can feel it. She’s been waiting for someone to take her dancing.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Have you ever flown a mid-size jet before?”

“Yeah, I’ve got the ATP. Multi-engine, jet, the works. And don’t worry, my licence covers the EMB‑550 type. The Praetor’s just a fancy bus with touchscreen glass. The thing practically flies itself.” He looked at Bruce. “You got a lot of birds for a guy who lives in the sea. You fly?”

“When I need to.”

“Then why do you need me?”

“Convenience, mostly.”

Hal grinned. “‘Mostly’, huh?” he repeated.

Bruce didn’t take the bait. He turned and climbed the stairs with the same unreadable expression he used for pretty much everything, like the conversation had ended five minutes ago and Hal had missed the memo. There was something in the slope of his shoulders that made Hal want to jostle up beside him, wink, and make an inappropriate joke about handling the throttle, but he bit his tongue and smirked to himself instead.

Inside, the cockpit was cool and shadowed — an interior for rich folk. Hal had flown mid-size crafts before, mostly because he wanted permission to fly as many different kind of aeroplanes as he could get his hands on (and also because he wanted to impress Carol, who also had her own line of private jets), but nothing had ever been as sleek as this baby.

He slid into the pilot’s seat, made himself comfortable, and let muscle memory take over. For all the shit he gave business jets, the Praetor handled like a dream. She was responsive and smooth. A little showy, really. The controls rolled under his fingers with the kind of grace that made flying feel less like work and more like seduction. And well… as Hal looked over at Bruce sitting in ramrod straight in the copilot seat, he was kind of, definitely seduced.

Chapter Text

Crossing the timezone meant Gotham greeted them at one-thirty in the morning, and it sucked actual ass.

Summer or not, the air had teeth. The moment he stepped down onto the tarmac, it sank them into the back of his neck and shot a shiver through him. Rain was falling in that silly, sideways way Gotham seemed to specialise in, more mist than downpour. The kind of rain that got under your collar and behind your ears and made you feel like someone had licked your spine without asking.

The flightpath terminated in another private hangar, which spared Hal the soul-destroying experience of dealing with TSA agents. It was just as well. Despite being a respectable pilot in his field, for some reason the TSA seemed to hate him. All those random searches didn’t seem so random when he was the one being frisked all the time, even when flying domestic.

Outside, a sleek black sedan, too similar to the one in Victorsville was already idling for them.

Okay, logically, he knew Bruce was the kind of guy who probably owned a matching set of custom sedans in all major metropolitan areas, but logic had been doing a piss-poor job of explaining Hal’s life lately.

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re not fooling me, Christine.”

Bruce seemed to catch what he was laying down. “It’s a different car,” he said.

“It’s the same car,” Hal bit back.

“It’s different.”

“It followed us across state lines.”

Spooky sighed in a way that sounded internal. “The sad thing is that I can’t tell if you actually believe that.”

Hal shrugged tiredly. “I’m probably kidding, but life’s been real weird lately, Bruce.”

“Do you need a moment?”

“I need several, but let’s move on.” He clapped Bruce on the back once and headed to the passenger side.

When he folded himself into the seat, Hal realised, belatedly and abruptly, that he wasn’t in California anymore. Which was stupid, because he was the one who had flown them across the damn country. The plane had his sweat permanently fused with the fancy seats, because he always ran hot and Bruce had waited an hour before telling him where the A/C button was.

It wasn’t the timezone that threw him — though his circadian rhythm had been backhanded by the shift and was now sulking somewhere over Missouri. It was more was the creeping sense of dislocation. Like the atmosphere had changed the minute they crossed into New Jersey, only to get worse when it shifted into Gotham territory.

Hal had never been to Gotham before, but he knew it the same way you know a haunted house is haunted. It was dark, it was wet, and there was some fearless little pigeon waddling across the tarmac. Hal watched it with a sense of disjointed awe. The thing had absolutely no fear of death.

“...You know how there are seal people?” he asked, eyes on the pigeon

Bruce grunted. “A very reductive way to describe what I am.”

Hal waved a hand vaguely. “Sure, fine, whatever. But are there also bird people?”

“Yes.”

“Holy shit. Is—”

“The pigeon is a pigeon, Jordan.”

“Oh.” Hal didn’t know if he was disappointed or not. “Okay.”

God, he was all the way across the country and he hadn’t even told anyone. Classic Hal, reckless Hal. He’d always been more of a do-now-apologise-later guy, but this was pushing it even for him.

Oh. Oh now. Was this what being self-aware felt like? That faint, itchy, oops feeling beneath his ribs? He thought he wasn’t supposed to get that feeling until he was forty-five and blaming women for everything wrong in his life. He didn’t care for it.

His brain, which usually liked to run on idle, was now scrolling through a list of all the people who were probably wondering where he was. It wasn’t long. He didn’t have a lot of people these days, but there were logistics, and schedules, and a very early delivery window for a client who already hated Hal’s guts.

Not his fault, by the way. Usually, Hal’s clients loved him. Not to brag (definitely to brag), but he had always been charming in that lopsided way that’d make you shake your head, flap a hand and say, “Oh, you.”

Arthur and Mera were exhibit A. He liked to parade front and centre because they were objectively his hottest clients, but the Rothchild ticket had it out of him. All because Hal had managed to get off on the wrong foot with the guy’s husband that had somehow landed him squarely in the ‘probably homophobic’ category. Which was patently bullshit, for the record, because Hal Jordan was a poster boy for the bisexual agenda.

But alas, first impressions were sacred, and Hal’s had been a flaming paper bag on the Rothchilds’ doorstep. Now every interaction with them felt like a passive-aggressive performance review and he was busting his balls trying to prove to them that he wasn’t a bigot.

Now he was going to miss their delivery window. Definitely not cool. Or professional, which was probably more important. As much as Hal liked to pretend he was too laid-back to care about that kind of thing, he actually did give a damn about being good at his job.

He sucked in his teeth and pulled out his phone. Back home, it was just late enough to look like he was deliberately flaking on them, which sucked, but it wasn’t like he could magically head back to Cali to make the delivery window.

He sent a quick message to the dispatcher: hey sorry got a family emergency and had to fly out of state. won’t make the rothchild delivery tomorrow. will make it up to you promise

Right at the end, he added a sad face only to delete it immediately. Then added a slightly less sad face, then deleted that too. Eventually, he just hit send sans emoji and stuffed the phone back into his jacket. If he didn’t look at the consequences directly, maybe he could avoid them entirely. Besides, it wasn’t even a lie. There definitely was a family emergency, it just wasn’t his family.

No helping it now. He was hungry, sleepy, but more than anything he was wired to hell on leftover adrenaline. His body was doing that charming thing it did sometimes after a flight, where it mistook the comedown for a Red Bull enema and decided sleep was for cowards.

It had all gone smoothly, all things considered. The Praetor handled like a dream and Bruce had let his shoulders drop around the hour three mark when Hal proved he wasn’t going to fly them into a flock of birds.

They’d talked. Objectively strange, since Hal was wrestling with this guy in his apartment that very same morning, but it actually wasn’t a terrible time. They’d mostly discussed planes, because there was no way Hal was going to drop it after seeing an entire hangar of classic beauties.

To his continued surprise, Bruce actually held his own. Hal had been expecting a lot of money and very little substance, the usual combo for rich guys who bought jets. Maybe he should’ve been more optimistic about Spooky’s intelligence, especially after everything he’d already discovered about the guy, but he couldn’t help the spark of interest when it turned out he knew his stuff. He responded to Hal with the muscle memory of a guy who knew how a yoke felt in the hand and how an engine coughed when it was about to get temperamental.

Which was hot. Hal would like that noted for the record, thank you very much.

Bruce was still a huge dweeb with several visible psychological issues, but he was hot as hell, he liked planes, and he didn’t even yell when Hal tested the Praetor’s response to some more creative manoeuvring. If anything, Hal was pretty sure he caught a flicker of something like approval when he banked just a little too aggressively and brought them back into a smooth trim like it was nothing.

Maybe that’s just what Hal wanted to believe. He’d latched onto the common interest in planes, connected that to the caveman part of his brain responsible for copulation (Fly plane good, attract hot man, Hal win at life), and he could’ve been misinterpreting every single glance Bruce sent his way.

Though, there were more than a few glances, so maybe Hal wasn’t all that delusional. It certainly didn’t stop him from playing with the Praetor to see what she could handle.

He liked the way Bruce looked at him now they were on terms that didn’t involve punching immediately. There was something about the way his eyes narrowed. It wasn’t with disapproval anymore, but…consideration? Maybe?? (Hopefully???)

Hal, because he had a huge ego, couldn’t help but preen a little. Maybe arched his back when he stretched. Maybe flexed his bicep a smidge too much while rubbing the back of his neck. Y’know, just in case Bruce’s peripheral vision needed a show.

He didn’t even know what he wanted out of it, really. Validation, probably. Or maybe he was just a natural flirt and he’d been in proximity to a hot guy for long enough for all the neurons in his brain to start flashing the rainbow flag behind his eyes.

And who knows. Once this whole find-Jason saga was wrapped up, he could casually drop a hint. Just a little ‘hey, I’m around if you’re around,’ in that breezy, you piss me off but I’d still like to see you shirtless kind of way. Like, that same confusing vibe that used to scramble his brain in high school, back when locker rooms were a minefield and he hadn’t quite figured out why his eyes kept wandering when guys peeled off their shirts.

But he was getting ahead of himself, especially when Bruce currently looked like shit.

Well. Shit in a relative sense. Spooky couldn’t look truly bad if he tried, and Hal suspected the man hadn;t experienced an unphotogenic day in his life.

Even with all that baked-in hotness, he looked tired. The kind of deep-set tired that dragged behind your eyes and hollowed you out at the seams. Bruce's sharp stare had dulled into something a little more scattershot – less sniper, more guy in front of a whiteboard drawing red strings between conspiracy photos. The dark circles under his eyes had gone from moody to medically concerning, and his five o’clock shadow had somehow upgraded itself to a full beard-in-waiting in the time it took Hal’s to barely make it past peach fuzz.

Hal knew the type. Knew the mechanism, too. He didn’t have to ask how long Bruce had been awake, because he could see it in the way he held himself. He hadn’t hadn’t let a single moment go unoccupied since he realised his kid was missing, and it was pretty obvious he didn’t plan to until Jason was found.

Totally unhealthy coping mechanism, by the way. Not that Hal was in a position to judge. He was also the type to narrow his world down to a single task and lock in like a dog on a bone. Difference was, when Hal did it, he usually burned out after a day and a half and passed out facedown on the floor with a half-eaten sandwich under him.

Bruce, apparently, just kept going.

Probably because the stakes were different. Hal couldn’t really understand the distress of losing one of the brood. If their roles were reversed, he figured he’d probably be just as tenacious. What another fun thing to have in common.

There was no real time to collect himself post-flight. The Praetor’s parking lights hadn’t even fully cooled before they were slipping out of the hangar and merging into the city.

“You been to Gotham before?” Hal asked, watching the rain blur the skyline. Unlike him, with his sun-baked skin and his general refusal to suffer on purpose, Bruce actually seemed to fit in well here.

“Yes,” Spooks replied.

There was a pause where enough time passed for Hal to chalk it up as another failed attempt at conversation (disappointing, considering he managed to get full sentences out of him on the plane), when Bruce surprised him by adding, “I was born here.”

“That so?” Hal leaned into the window a little, tracking the gothic sprawl of iron and stone and gargoyles. “Yeah. It suits you.”

Bruce nodded like he agreed. He was still as tightly wound as ever, but somehow there was a strange kind of ease in him now. Not relaxed, exactly. Bruce didn’t seem like the kind of man who relaxed all that much. But here, in the cold shadows of Gotham, he looked more aligned.

Maybe it was because it was dark out. Bruce suited the dark.

It took ten minutes for them to get to Cathedral square, and the new problem they faced was that they didn’t actually know what the hell they were looking for.

Bruce had pulled a laptop out of his ass back on the plane. There’d been files, names, addresses, and one blurry screenshot but ultimately there’d been no leads other than what they’d already found out.

Hal had half-hoped a supervillain would just burst up out of a storm drain with Jason in one arm and a rehearsed monologue good to go. Just something tangible and easy to deal with so they could punch something, save the kid, and go get burgers.

Life wasn’t that easy, though.

It was pushing two in the morning and Cathedral Square was lively in a very specific Gotham way, which meant the people out and about looked like they could and would stab you for a cigarette. Bruce peeled away from him the moment they arrived and he blended so seamlessly into the gloom that Hal had trouble tracking him.

Now that he was seeing it for what it was, it was obvious Bruce was a Gothamite down to the bone marrow. He had the same fixed expression most of the locals did, like life had ended around thirty and the years afterward were just a bonus level no one asked to play. It was spite that kept these people vertical.

“What can I get you?”

Hal looked up, only just realising his legs had auto-piloted him straight to the nearest food truck. Made sense. He hadn’t eaten since that oyster over seven hours ago, and before that he’d raided his cupboards for breakfast and had come up with only a bowl of stale cereal.

He eyed the chalk menu, suddenly incredibly hungry. “Yeah, can I get, uh… You know what? Gimme whatever you recommend, man. Make it two.”

The vendor didn’t immediately spring into action. He paused and gave Hal a narrowed look, like he was trying to determine whether he was a cop or just lost. “You’re not from around here, are you,” he said rather than asked.

“That obvious?”

The vendor sneered, but it didn’t feel personal. Gothamites, Hal was starting to realise, just had Resting Disdain Face. “You can smell it,” he said, as if that wasn’t a weird fucking thing to say to someone. “Metropolis?”

“California.”

Something about that answer made the man relax a little. “Long way from home.”

“Yeah. I’m here with my buddy.” Hal hitched a thumb towards the last place he saw Bruce. “We’re looking for some assholes that might be hanging around these parts. You see anything suspicious around here lately?”

“Maybe I’ve seen something, maybe I haven’t. It’s Gotham.”

“Right, right. Sure,” Hal said. “I mean specifically suspicious. Like, head-to-toe black. Creepy vibes. Things like that.”

The vendor stared at him blankly before gesturing out to the street, where there were at least twelve different people dressed all in black. Eight of which, weirdly, were wearing full facemasks. Suspicious by Californian standards, not so much by Gotham’s, apparently.

“Right,” Hal said. The vendor handed over two foil-wrapped empanadas and accepted the bill shoved at him. “Thanks for nothing, dude.”

He headed back to Bruce, who was posted up by the corner of some weird old statue and radiating enough frustration to make even his fellow Gothamites give him a wide berth.

Hal didn’t bother with ceremony. He shoved one of the foil-wrapped empanadas into Bruce’s hand and took a monster bite of his own. “Eat,” he said through a mouthful of what turned out to be pulled pork. “Hope you’ve got no allergies.”

Bruce kept glaring at the night like he expected it to blink first.

“Oh shit,” Hal said, mid-chew, “you’re not, like, vegan or anything, are you? I can go back and get you, like, an avocado or something.”

“I’m not vegan,” Bruce muttered.

Hal nodded, satisfied and a little pleased. He nudged Spooky's elbow. “Eat,” he repeated. “You’re not helping anyone by running on empty.”

“I didn’t bring you here to mother me.”

“When’s the last time you ate something?” Hal asked. Bruce, notably, didn’t reply. He did, however, take a pointed bite of his empanada. “Attaboy. Food good. Starvation bad. A simple concept, I know, but you look like you could use a reminder.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I’d believe that if these were normal circumstances, but I figure you’re the kind of guy who hyperfixates on a goal so hard you forget your body needs actual maintenance. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Bruce tightened his jaw. “I can take care of myself,” he repeated.

“Sure you can, big guy.” Hal looked around Cathedral square. “Look, I don’t know what passes for normal in this city, but I’m pretty sure we’re wasting our time while we don’t know what we’re looking for. It’s obvious you’ve not slept in, like, forever, so why don’t we find some place to rest for the night and come back tomorrow with fresh eyes.”

“I work better in the dark.”

“God, you’re dramatic. Even if you’re all about working in the dark, you still look tired as hell. You need to take a second to relax.”

“I can’t relax when—”

“When your kid’s missing, I get it.” Hal sighed and looked at him. Bruce didn’t exactly seem in danger of keeling over where they stood, and since tiredness seemed to be a baseline for him. Still, as reckless as Hal was, the dangers of overworking while tired was drilled into him back in bootcamp. Can’t fly a plane on no sleep, after all.

“You don’t get it,” Bruce muttered.

“And you’re way too smart a guy to let yourself lose your edge,” Hal returned. “You really think you’re gonna be able to help Jason on no sleep?

“Hm.”

“Look, these guys invited you here. They clearly know who you are, so they probably know that you’ve got a mean right hook. With all the hoops they’ve already jumped through to get you here, don’t you think they’d be prepared to deal with you? I mean, Bruce, these guys sent you a coded message. That’s so weird. You really wanna face those kinds of weirdos at anything less than one hundred percent?”

“I’ve faced worse odds.”

“I’m not gonna unpack that right now. Just… With all the effort they went through to get you here, you really think they’re going to do anything to your kid in the next few hours?”

Bruce’s face did that thing where it looked like it wanted to crumple but he was forcing it to stay neutral. “I can’t take that risk.”

“You also can’t risk going in unprepared.”

“I’m prepared for everything.”

“You also prepared for that chimichurri around your mouth?”

Hal’s hand moved faster than his brain as he automatically reached forward to swipe a thumb at the corner of Bruce’s lips. It wasn’t even that much sauce, but he’d locked onto it abruptly and it was the only thing he could focus on in that one moment.

He then promptly pretended he didn’t do anything at all. Hal wiped the chimichurri on his pants before he could do something really embarrassing like lick it off his fingers.

“Anyway,” he said, maybe a little too loudly. “You’ve got your weirdly competent kids looking into that CCTV, right? What if we wait to see what they find out so we can at least get an idea of what we’re looking for. It beats searching in the rain at stupid o’clock in the morning.”

At first, Bruce said nothing. The rain tapped against the sidewalk like a reminder that it was, in fact, still raining, and above them a gargoyle dripped down on them. He wondered if the whole city looked like this, like it was designed by someone who’d read too much Dostoevsky and thought, You know what this needs? More gargoyles.

Hal was prepared to physically frogmarch Bruce to the nearest budget inn, burrito him in motel sheets, and sit on him if necessary until he agreed to nap like a normal person. But, to his surprise, Bruce’s shoulders sagged. His gaze flicked out into the drizzle, brow furrowed in a way that looked more pained than pissed, and then he gave the smallest, most resentful nod Hal had ever seen.

“Alright then,” Hal said with a small smile. He cast another look around Cathedral Square like the Gotham version of a Holiday Inn would just spring out of nowhere. “You know Gotham, right? Any budget-friendly hotels around here? Preferably ones without a body count.”

Bruce raked a hand through his rain-damp hair, collected himself, and started heading back towards the car. “We’re not staying in a hotel.”

“So…what. We’re roughing it? I didn't bring my bear spray.”

“It’s alarming that you’ve only just now realised that you’ve come to another state without any idea of where you’re staying or what you’re supposed to be doing.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed this about me,” Hal replied, “but I’m really good at winging things.”

“I’ve noticed, believe me.” A couple of kids were eyeing the car from across the street, clearly running the mental math on whether it was worth trying something stupid. One glance from Bruce and they scattered. “Unlike you,” he continued blankly, “I don’t come into things unprepared.”

“Y’know, you say all that, but it just sounds like you’re really proud of being anal retentive,” Hal said pointedly. “Where are we heading, then? What have you prepared, Mr. Pre-Plan Man?”

“I’m from Gotham,” Bruce replied. “I have property here.”

“Oh, so we’re going to your house?”

“Something like that.”

Turned out, Bruce didn’t have a house.

What he had was an architectural flex on the entire northeastern seaboard. A huge fucking mansion — oh no, sorry, Hal corrected himself as the wrought iron gates creaked open to let the sedan through — it wasn’t a mansion. That would’ve been far too quaint, far too nouveau riche for someone like Bruce Goddamn Wayne. This was a manor. A full-on, land-hungry, historical building that had the distinct vibe of feudalism sitting in the foundation.

The driveway alone was longer than the block Hal’s entire apartment building lived on. Trees lined either side of gravel road that could support a cavalry charge or, Hal figured, a very slow and dramatic horse-drawn carriage ride under torchlight. Very fitting for the Gotham climate, really.

Bruce pulled the car up to what Hal guessed was the front entrance, though there were no fewer than three separate doors, and at least one had columns.

“Why,” he said, deadpan as he stared out the windshield, “do you own a castle, Bruce? For what possible reason could a guy who lives in the sea need the property deed to a goddamn palace?”

Bruce continued to be allergic to explaining things like a normal person, which was one of his less appealing character flaws. All this felt like something that could’ve been mentioned in advance. The private jets and fancy cars probably should’ve been a clue, but it was one thing having enough money to buy nice toys to play with, and an entirely different thing to have a fuck off huge house to sit on a fancy throne and drink tea, or whatever.

It was a little dusty inside. Not dramatically, but enough that Hal felt like sneezing just walking through the front doors. All the furniture throughout looked to be covered in white sheets, like Bruce hadn’t planned to come back here in a very long time. Maybe he hadn’t.

He disappeared down a corridor before Hal could ask him if he needed to take his shoes off and five minutes later, lights flickered on overhead

Hal squinted up at a chandelier. “Why the hell did you move out to Cali when you’ve got a place like this?”

“I have my reasons,” Bruce said, reappearing from nowhere. “There are enough rooms upstairs for you to choose whichever you want. The water should be running and there should be clean linens in storage if you don’t want to sleep in dust.”

“Right, right. Storage.” Hal floundered a little. “Uh…?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

And with that helpful slice of cryptic nothing, Bruce vanished up the grand staircase, leaving Hal standing alone in the middle of the foyer. So obviously, he did what any self-respecting person would do when left unsupervised. He snooped.

Nothing all that obtrusive. He wasn’t rifling through drawers for silverware or anything like that, but there were enough white sheets draped over things to make the whole house feel like it was hiding something. The walls were covered in them, which got him sniffing around. It was probably all just boring oil paintings of hills and fox hunts, but there had to be at least one rich-people portrait hiding in here. That’s what you did if you had a manor, right? You commissioned paintings instead of just taking a selfie like a normal person. Historical narcissism, or some shit.

The one hung up by the staircase looked promising. It was massive enough to draw the eye, which meant it was important, so Hal grabbed the sheet and yanked it off with a dramatic flourish. Dust exploded in a cloud and he stifled a cough just in case Bruce heard him.

Jackpot.

It was a family portrait. Oils, of course. Rich people didn’t come in JPEGs until they made their money taking their shirts off on the ‘Gram. There were three figures, painted in cold, Gotham light: a man and woman standing behind a young boy who was unmistakably Bruce.

Damn, Bruce hadn’t changed much. Sure, he was shorter in the painting and missing about thirty years of muscle, but the stare was the same. It was intense and unblinking and judgey as hell, but he still somehow looked friendlier than he did now. Which was honestly a little sad, if Hal thought about it too long. So he didn’t.

The white, plushy pelt around baby Bruce’s shoulders caught Hal off guard until he remembered lanugo was a thing. Baby seals were fluffy. Which meant, hilariously, that Bruce used to be a puffball. A marshmallow. A noble dandelion. Hal tried to reconcile that with the mental image he currently had of a black battleship of a seal hulking on a rock with a resting bitch-face. The cognitive dissonance nearly broke him.

He barked a laugh that bounced off the walls and immediately felt weird about it.

The adults in the painting were positioned like any good portrait setup, looming protectively with their hands placed just-so around their kid. The man, in particular, was clearly Bruce’s genetic donor. They had the same face — the same face Bruce’s kids had, too — only he had a lot less muscle mass and glorious moustache. It was weirdly vindicating. He knew Bruce would look good with a ‘tache.

The woman on the left had soft features, and she was all pearls and poise. Her smile was gentle. Hal didn’t know what he expected. Something colder, maybe. Something more in line with Bruce’s personal brand of emotional inaccessibility. This woman looked warm. She had the same blue eyes as her fluffy son and they were crinkled around the corners with her smile. Around her shoulders, she wore a black pelt. The dad didn’t have one.

Hal frowned and tilted his head. Did that make Bruce’s dad human?

Did selkies get with humans? Like, willingly? Was that a thing? Did they just… get down like that?

That was good to know. Hal shelved that away for entirely objective reasons.

Suddenly and out of the blue, he felt like he was intruding on something really personal. The weight of it hit him late, as emotional nuance often did, but it hit all the same. Somewhere deep in his brain, the little voice that usually offered helpful things like ‘do a barrel roll’ or ‘bet it all on red’ was now muttering something irritating about boundaries.

He winced and set about putting the sheet back, like that would somehow undo the prying. It was harder than expected, since the damn bastard kept slipping off when he tried to fling it up. After a few failed attempts involving some extremely undignified flailing, Hal gave up on height altogether and went hunting for a step stool.

He ended up with an expensive looking dining chair, also covered in a sheet. With a grunt and a few muttered apologies to the ghosts of the manor, Hal finally got the sheet mostly back in place. It wasn’t perfect. The bottom corner still peeked out, showing a sliver of polished frame and the hint of a somber shoe, but it was enough to soothe his guilt into something manageable.

Before he could start apologising to the chairs too, he turned on his heel and made for the stairs. He took them two at a time to put some physical momentum between himself and that moment. If he walked slowly, he might start thinking too much about how empty the manor was and how Bruce didn’t look old enough to have lost his parents. Hal had learned long ago that he was not built for unsupervised introspection.

He wandered the length of the west wing, feeling like a peasant lost in some castle as he nosed into rooms that might as well have been crypts. There was a fifty-fifty shot of guessing which direction Bruce had gone in, and Hal was betting on vibes.

Plenty of places to sleep if he was feeling bougie, sure. Plenty of rooms with soft beds and privacy and probably antique bedside tables with leatherbound tomes for a bit of light reading. None of them really felt right. They were cold in that heavy, still way like it was stuck in time even when there were people here.

Money was money, but all Hal could think was how lonely this whole place seemed to be.

Maybe he was projecting. He’d done enough couch-surfing and flying solo to know what isolation looked like dressed in a nice coat, but Bruce didn’t seem like he was doing all that hot either. With everything going on, Hal couldn’t really pretend that he didn’t give a damn. There wasn’t a lot Spooky could do except wait for more info, and that was probably killing him.

Mind made up, Hal headed to the only door with light leaking under the frame. He didn’t bother knocking. If Bruce didn’t want nosy visitors, he should’ve locked it.

It was clearly the master bedroom. It had the sort of scale that was trying too hard to impress someone, with windows the size of billboards and a bed large enough to qualify for its own zip code. There was an ensuite tucked off to one side, and some actual signs of life in here. The bed was turned down, and a crumpled dust sheet lay on the floor beside the old linens.

Bruce was still in the same clothes, minus the boots which sat discarded by the foot of the bed. He was propped against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him, and a laptop balanced on his thighs. The blue glue it cast on his face made the dark circles beneath his eyes just that little more prominent.

“You had a choice of any room in the manor,” he said dryly.

“And I chose this one,” Hal replied. “Deal with it.”

He flopped obnoxiously down on the free side of the bed and kicked off his own boots. “I’m disturbing less dust this way,” he said. “Plus I don’t want to leave you alone for too long. You look like the kind of guy who’d jump out the window just to continue working.

“And you think the cure for that is your company?”

“I’m easy on the eyes.”

“You’re not that pretty.”

“Think we both know that’s a lie.”

Bruce looked up from his laptop and the corner of his mouth twitched like he was suppressing a smirk. Or maybe a grimace. Hal had learned the difference was subtle when it came to Spooks.

He just grinned under his gaze and settled in further, throwing an arm around his head to make himself comfortable. He wasn’t trying to make a move on the guy, even though the stupid part of his brain was definitely suggesting it was the perfect moment for the ol’ yawn-and-arm-over-the-shoulder routine

Bruce didn't reply to that, but he was watching Hal carefully. Hal grinned under his gaze and made himself comfortable. He wasn’t making a move on the guy, even though his fast-paced brain kept telling him that it would be a real good idea to do the yawn arm over the shoulder move right now. It wasn’t the right moment for things like that.

Instead of doing anything inappropriate, he reached over and closed the laptop.

“I’m working,” Bruce said.

“You’re going around in circles,” Hal countered. “You should be sleeping. Unclench for a minute and just… I don’t know, embrace the decadence of this oversized bed. You’re not going to squeeze new information out of your inbox just by glaring at it harder.”

“I can try.”

“Lie down.” He gestured at the wide gap between them. “Talk to me for a while.”

“I thought I was supposed to be sleeping.”

“Let my dulcet tones lull you into slumber.”

“It’s hardly dulcet when you sound like a cartoon character.”

“Way to be a dick,” Hal said, but he wasn’t all that offended. He turned his head. “What kind of cartoon character? If you say Disney—”

Bruce shrugged. “One of those Saturday morning adventure types.”

“I’m gonna take that to mean you think I’m as cool as G.I. Joe.”

“More like Launchpad McQuack.”

“I’ve got a better ass than McQuack.”

Across the bed, Bruce rubbed the bridge of his nose like he was genuinely regretting every decision that had led him to this moment. But then, small miracles, he set the laptop down on the side table. No dramatic sigh, no muttering, just a quiet surrender to the moment that had Hal smiling secretly to himself. He even laid back, stiff as a board but at least he was horizontal.

Hal turned to look at him. “You know, I looked into what you are,” he admitted. Bruce didn’t glance over at him. “There’s something about seeing a guy poof into a seal that really gets the curiosity rolling. Selkie, right?

“That’s right.”

“Right. Right. Cool. Not weird at all. That’s a whole-ass mythical creature just chilling in California. That’s a whole-ass family. What sort of seal comes from New Jersey?”

“Seals exist in New Jersey.”

“Not magical ones.”

“Evidently, they do.”

It was getting hard not to look at him in a way that went beyond the casual, appreciative once-over Hal gave to any person with an aesthetically pleasing ass. This was the kind of looking that carried layers, which was honestly kind of a betrayal. His brain had no right developing depth on him without warning.

All the animosity that had developed since that night in the cabin seemed so far away from the here and now, where he was stealing glances and noticing things. Where he was thinking about the lines on his face and how they looked less like frown lines and more like the ocean had spent a few decades carving something beautiful out of granite.

Which, in Hal’s own professional opinion, was a totally cheesy thing to think about some bastard with a stick up his ass. He grimaced at his own train of thought and amended it into something a little more characteristic of him. He thought instead of how this whole day had been a pretty sharp turn from ‘fuck this guy’ to ‘oh, fuck this guy’.

(There, that’s better. Don’t think of mushy gooey stuff. Think instead about how well that shirt clung to Spooky’s shoulders.)

God, he was running away with his thoughts again. It wasn’t entirely unfamiliar territory for Hal. He’d always been quick to warm up to people the minute he realised they had an ounce of chemistry. This was exactly why he’d only ever had one serious relationship in his entire adult life.

“How long can you stay out of water?” Hal said before he could ask a dumb question about how he takes his eggs or what his shoe size was.

“As long as I need to.”

“Sounds like bullshit to me.” He rolled over fully onto his side now, head propped on one hand. “I didn’t do a lot of reading, but I’m pretty sure Wikipedia says that you’d get all dried out and crusty if you stayed away from the sea for too long. Like a slug in salt.”

“And I suppose Wikipedia is the font of all knowledge.”

“It gets a bad rap, but have you ever been bored enough to do a deep dive into obscure history at 2am? Because I have. Three tabs deep before you notice, and suddenly you're an expert on Argentinian battleships from the 1900s. Rivadavia, baby. Don’t hate on my sources.”

“Your reading comprehension aside,” Bruce said, “I’m not going to start drying out. I don’t melt or dissolve into sea foam. It’s not…” He hesitated. “That’s not how it works.”

“Then tell me how it works. If it’s bad for you to stay away from the ocean, you should probably tell me.”

“It’s not dangerous.”

“I feel like you and I have different definitions of dangerous, so you’re gonna have to clarify, big guy.”

Bruce finally turned to look at him. “I don’t think your definition is the same as the average layman.”

“Danger is subjective,” Hal said. “I’ve got a high tolerance for it.”

“I’m unsurprised by that.”

“How long, Spooky?” he tried again.

Bruce sighed through his nose. “I can stay out for as long as I want,” he said, and he sounded truthful enough. “Eventually, I stop wanting to.”

“And how long is ‘eventually’? Is it like a houseplant situation? Do I have to start spitzing you twice a week?”

“Seven days,” Bruce said, which shut Hal up long enough for him to decide if he wanted to keep explaining. “I can become human every three months. Then, I’ve got seven days before things start to get…uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable like a pair of wet socks or uncomfortable like your lungs forget how to work?”

“Closer to the latter.”

“That why you were such an asshole when you came inland?”

“No. That was just you.”

Hal snorted and made himself comfortable beside him. “Good to know.”

His eyes wandered, uninvited but unwilling to stop, and they traced the slow, steady rise and fall of Bruce’s chest. He looked so normal like this. So stupidly human. With the sharp edges dulled by exhaustion and dim light, all the usual barricades lowered just enough for Hal to get a glimpse of him. The soft sound of his breathing field the space between them and it was startlingly easy to forget he wasn’t just some guy

“Jason’s been gone for three months…”

Bruce stiffened.

Oh, shit. That wasn’t what Hal meant to say at all. Not at all. He’d had vague, noble hopes of distracting Bruce from folding in on himself like a tragic little goth starfish. Help the guy sleep, maybe, not send him mentally sprinting down the grief spiral to get tangled back into their current mission.

“I know,” Bruce said.

Hal hesitated, but against all better judgment, and possibly some instinct for self-sabotage, he pushed forward. “Does that mean… I mean, with that Brick asshole taking his pelt and all that…” He trailed off, which was the only decent thing his brain did for him. Dragging it all up again didn’t help anyone, least of all the guy currently using every muscle in his body to not fall apart. He tried to recover with, “It’s just— Well, it’s been longer than seven days, right?”

“Yes.” Bruce’s hands curled slowly into fists, fingers twisting into the fabric at his sides. For the first time, Hal noticed that he had removed his jacket. Well, not for the first time, really. He noticed Spooky’s biceps, of course. He just hadn’t made the connection from arms to the removal of jacket.

The fabric Bruce was twisting was his own pelt, lying underneath his body like he was trying to hide it from view. He was gripping it hard enough that Hal thought, for a second, that the seams might give under his knuckles.

“Jason is strong,” Spooky said at last. “But—”

“But you don’t want your kid to feel bad.”

“Mm.”

“That…kinda sucks, man,” Hal said, then winced at how it came out. Way to minimise something potentially traumatising for the mythic creature people, Jordan. Good job. “What happens if the seven days are up? Do you just, like, go full wailing widow on the beach?”

“Wailing— What?”

“You know what I mean. Keening. Draped on some rocks. Tragic poetry shit.”

“When the seven days are up, I go back to the sea.”

That tracked with the Wikipedia entry, Hal supposed. “What about Jason?”

“If I haven’t found him, then I’ll stay human for as long as it takes.”

“So you can choose to stay?”

Bruce’s expression didn’t shift, but something in him braced. “It’s a cycle,” he explained. “I’ll be stuck in whatever form I’m in when the seven days are up. It’s unpleasant if we’re not in the water by then. I need to find Jason before that happens, or he’ll be stuck too. He doesn’t— He can’t—” Bruce composed himself. “He shouldn't have to experience that.”

“And there’s no way around it? Can’t you just take a saltwater bath or something?”

“It’s not the salt we need. It’s… It’s hard to explain to someone who can’t understand.” He mused for a moment, like he was seriously trying to put it into words for someone who lived in a completely different reality. “Being on land for too long feels like drowning. That’s why the pelt is so important. I’m sure Wikipedia told you that much.”

“Yeah. Something about lonely fishermen getting weird with selkie pelts and stealing water brides.” He offered a boyish grin, hoping to break the tension a little. “Is that what you thought I was doing when I found your skin? Trying to catch myself a hot seal bride?”

“It’s not a marriage thing,” Bruce said, rolling his eyes. “It’s control. If the seven days are up and someone else has the pelt, they control when we can go back to the sea. If you’re not on board with that one hundred percent, everything become…listless.”

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

Bruce didn’t respond to that and Hal didn’t press.

He let the silence sit for a moment, then, as was his unfortunate habit, he chose a completely different emotional landmine to step on. “I saw a picture of your mom,” he said. Immediately, Bruce went stiff again. “Well, not a picture picture. A portrait. Oil paints, dramatic lighting, that kind of shit. You really are a fancy bastard, by the way.” He rambled a bit to give Bruce a second to interrupt him. When the silence kept stretching, he plowed on. “She had a pelt like you. Your dad didn’t. He human?”

“Mm.”

“Right. So how’d that work? Did she just flop out of the waves every three months for seven days like, ‘Honey, I’m home,’ and then take baby Bruce back to the sea for tummy time?”

Bruce snorted. “Not quite,” he said. For half a second, his lips twitched upward. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it got Hal’s stomach swooping anyway. “There are ways around the limitations.”

“Oh?”

“I’m not going to tell you all the ins and outs of my species, Jordan.” Bruce closed his eyes. “After we’ve found Jason, you’ll go back to your life, and I’ll go back to mine. You can forget we ever existed.”

Figures. Honestly, Hal was impressed he’d gotten this much out of him. Must mean Bruce was starting to like him. Just a little, the way you might grow attached to a scrappy stray that kept showing up on your porch, uninvited and overly familiar, but weirdly endearing in spite of itself.

He grinned at the thought. “As if you’d be able to resist seeing me again,” he said, pitching it as a joke but not putting his back into it. “Admit it. I’ve grown on you. When all this is over, you’re going to sit on your big seal rock and pine for your legs so you can follow me around.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage.”

“You sure? Wouldn’t want that pretty face of yours getting all creased up 'cause you're pining too much. Salt in your fur. Wind in your whiskers. Me on your mind. Nicholas Sparks, eat your heart out.”

Bruce’s eyes opened again and he levelled Hal with a stare that might have been amused in the right light. “Are you seriously hitting on me right now?”

“Yeah.”

“While my son is missing.”

“My timing’s not great,” Hal agreed. “Think of it as strategic optimism. I’m planting the seeds now. Long game. Once your kid’s safe and sound, you’ll be emotionally vulnerable and I’ll be emotionally available. Stars will align. You’ll be helpless.”

“Confident, aren’t you.”

Hal flashed him a grin. “I like my chances. If things weren’t so serious right now, I would've made a move already. I think you know that.”

Bruce made a low, noncommittal sound that might’ve been dismissive, or thoughtful, or both. “We’ve been on bad terms longer than good terms,” he pointed out.

“Well, I move fast and I’ve got a type.” Hal shrugged lazily, keeping his gaze. “I’m getting in early, just in case you lock eyes with a sexy manatee and decide she’s the one.”

“I’m not attracted to manatees.”

“Oh yeah? What floats your boat then?”

The silence that followed was sudden and alive, like the room had taken a breath and was holding it. Bruce didn’t answer right away. Instead, he rolled over, turning onto his side to face Hal in a way that felt deliberate. They were closer than Hal expected. Close enough that he could see the shadows under Bruce’s eyes, the faint tension in his jaw, the barest catch in his breath.

All Hal had to do was move. Scooch forward, just a little. A lean, a shift, a tilt of his head, and—

“I know what you're doing,” Spooky said. His voice had dropped.

“What am I doing, Bruce? “

“You're trying to distract me.”

“Maybe I am. Is it working?”

Bruce’s gaze lingered for half a second too long. “A little.”

Hal let the grin soften, tugging crooked at one corner like he couldn’t quite keep the sincerity out of it anymore. “Then maybe I can distract you again sometime,” he said, threading the line between easy and earnest. “Y’know. After the day’s been saved. After your kid’s swaddled up and back in Cali where he belongs. After all of this.”

It hung there between them, open-ended. Way too soft and tentative for someone like Hal, who’d see a pretty girl at a bar and buy her a drink with little more than a smile. This, here, now, felt more like a hand half-extended.

Spooky didn’t meet him in it. “Go to sleep, Jordan.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hal said, more amused than disappointed. “You can call me Hal, you know.”

“Hal,” Bruce repeated.

Then he turned, shifting over the covers to face the window instead. His back settled into view, broad and big, like he was manually throwing up the barricades once again.

But Hal was watching closely, because he was a big stupid wreck who had decided that this was the guy he was into right now. Just before Bruce turned, when the moonlight hit him right through the windows, he could’ve sworn he saw a flicker of something softer. A crack in the stone, dent in the barricade. Not quite an invitation, because Bruce didn’t do that, but maybe a possibility. Something, Hal hoped, that wasn’t a no.

Chapter Text

Bruce woke up to a cheerful jingle and a forehead jammed between his shoulder blades.

Even though it was summer, the window across from him was still dark. The edges were paling just enough to make it clear that it was morning whether he liked it or not. Probably around nine, if his internal clock was accurate. Early enough for him to wake up grumpy, not early enough for Gotham to remember that light was a necessity to make up a morning.

He tried to twist around, not bothering to check what exactly he was dislodging in the process, and only succeeded in sitting up in a vaguely upright position that twisted his spine in all the wrong ways. Such was the curse of growing older, he supposed.

Hal was asleep still. Or possibly dead, if one took into account the state of rigor mortis sleep had put him in. His shoulders were hunched too far forward, and both of his arms were pinned between his own thighs like he’d tried to sit on his own hands for safekeeping. His neck hung off to one side at a tilt that suggested either incredible trust in Bruce’s back, or a blatant disregard for his own spinal alignment.

He wasn’t all that much younger than Bruce. He’d also be feeling the curse of growing older if he spent any longer in that position. Good. Let him suffer.

As Bruce woke himself up in degrees, he stared at the deadweight next to him. Hal’s head lolled and his mouth was hung open in a slack, undignified O. A long, uneven snore burbled out of him every few seconds, followed by the wet sound of Hal sucking in his own spit. There was a visible, spreading patch of drool darkening the pillowcase beneath his cheek. A line of it had started to migrate toward the edge of Bruce's sheets.

Unacceptable. Those were clean sheets. Or had been, at least. As clean as anything could be in a manor vacated for several months, anyway. Bruce had spent an embarrassing amount of time breaking the linens out of the plastic Alfred had wrapped them in, and even longer figuring out how the fitted sheet worked.

He exhaled sharply through his nose and ran a hand down his face to scrape away sleep. Hal, in that moment of unconsciousness, was objectively not attractive. Subjectively, however, was an entirely different thing. Very much to his personal dismay, against every rational instinct Bruce possessed, something warm and traitorous stirred in his chest.

He did not appreciate this development. He refused to name it. Naming gave it power. No, he would smother it beneath years of finely tuned emotional avoidance and hope it withered like most of his interpersonal relationships. Whatever this feeling was, it had picked the wrong hour, the wrong setting, and certainly the wrong face drooling into his linens.

The noise that had kicked off his morning was still going. A chirpy, maddeningly repetitive beat, cheerful in the same way a car alarm is cheerful after hour two. Bruce glared around the dim room until he zeroed in on the source, muffled inside the heap of Hal’s jacket tossed halfway across the dresser.

Hal stirred with a strangled snort that startled even himself. He made a low, disgruntled noise, then slurred, “S’my cell,” into Bruce’s pillow.

He extended one arm toward his jacket, flopping his hand vaguely in its direction like he thought it might roll over and fetch itself. Bruce, despite being wide awake and entirely functional, offered no assistance.

Eventually, Hal accepted that divine intervention wasn’t coming and forced himself upright. He blinked blearily around the room like he was trying to work out which city he’d landed in and why, before his gaze finally landed on Bruce.

It was strange, seeing Hal first thing in the morning. He looked like he should be the kind of guy who whistled through breakfast, and insisted on opening windows before the sun had even finished stretching. Back in California, he’d been pretty chipper on those morning early deliveries that had Bruce grudgingly waking up early so he could sit on his rock and glare menacingly across the water at him.

This version Hal, the one currently sitting up in Bruce’s own bed, was clearly in the middle of a full mental reboot. Something about sleep had wiped his internal whiteboard clean and left him struggling to remember his own name, much less where he was or why there was another man next to him

“I,” he said, dramatically for a man with dried drool on his chin, “just had the best sleep of my life.”

“Answer your phone, Hal.”

Hal squinted over at his jacket. “Probably just Mrs. Boehner. Her cable usually craps out around this time. Probably because she’s been stealing it off the upstairs neighbours. No idea why, but she thinks I’m some tech wizard.”

Bruce grunted noncommittally and disappeared into the ensuite.

The mirror greeted him with more honesty than he wanted. He’d pulled the dust sheet off it last night, which was clearly a mistake. It didn’t look like he’d got a lot of sleep last night. The dark rings beneath his eyes were still so pronounced, and he was in dire need of a shave. He splashed cold water on his face and scrubbed until his skin felt raw, then braced his palms against the counter and gave himself a moment.

This part, the quiet moment after waking, was usually easy. It was that liminal space between complete unconsciousness and overthinking, and it’d let him have a moment of being someone who could pass for normal until all the noise in his head started up again.

Back in the bedroom, Hal’s phone continued to buzz. Bruce should’ve been annoyed by that. By Hal. God knows that he was annoying in general enough to warrant it. He was cocky, reckless, and maybe something cliché about marching to the beat of his own drum. He was everything Bruce didn’t like, but he did it with such competence and such confidence, that it was actually rather hot.

Annoying. Frustrating. Wholly inappropriate, given the situation.

They’d been on speaking terms for, what, a day now? . And already Bruce could identify the pitch of Hal’s snore. He knew Hal said yowch instead of ow when he trapped his finger in something. He knew way too much about Hal’s next door neighbour.

He also knew that Hal was serious about shooting his shot when all this blew over.

Briefly, Bruce wondered what would happen if he said yes? What if he dropped the caution and let Hal try? He could handle flirting. That part was easy. It was all superficial smiles and empty words, lingering touches and heated eye contact. Bruce was good at that kind of thing because it didn’t mean anything.

It would be easy with Hal. He was handsome enough to catch the eye, cocky enough to deserve the pushback. Annoying enough that Bruce could safely keep him at arm’s length. They could dance around the subject for a while, seal it with a quick fuck, and never speak to each other again.

Bruce hated that he was thinking like this — especially because the ‘quick fuck’ part of the fantasy was twisting itself into something he definitely didn’t have the time for, and the ‘never speak to each other again’ left a sour note in his gut.

He mostly hated it because his brain shouldn't have had the bandwidth for this right now. Jason was still gone. Every time Bruce let himself forget, even for a second, that something vital was missing from his world, it hit so much harder when it came back.

Hal was a distraction he couldn’t afford.

“Oh shit,” came a loud declaration from the bedroom. “It might be my boss!”

There was a loud thump, followed by a string of minor curses as Hal apparently attempted to throw himself at the phone and missed. Bruce closed his eyes and counted to ten. Stay focussed. Remain on target.

He rifled through the cabinets for anything that might help him get rid of the papery taste of sleep from his mouth. No such luck. Alfred had cleared out the manor kitchen before they’d left for California. Apparently, he’d extended the same treatment to the bathrooms

Bruce gave up and drank straight from the faucet instead. Cold water, sharp enough to snap his head back into the right frame of mind. He swished it around, spat, and stood still for a moment, bracing his arms against the sink. He had exactly one goal today, and that was to find another lead in his mission. Preferably one that would take him directly to his son.

He stepped back into the bedroom just as Hal was saying, “How’d you get my number, anyway?” to whoever was on the other end of the video call.

Alfred's voice came over the line. “Sir, if you believe your contact information is a state secret, I’d advise against writing it on a receipt for Chipotle at three o’clock in the morning.”

Hal blinked incredulously at the screen. “The last time I wrote my number on a receipt was way before I took the job running deliveries.”

“Then I’d daresay the world works in mysterious ways,” Alfred said. “Now, if you would be so kind…”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure.” Hal looked at Bruce blankly and held out his phone. “It’s for you. Because apparently it’s not weird that your English dad knows my number.”

“He’s not my father,” Bruce said without thinking, accepting the phone.

It was maybe six in the morning back in California. The light on Alfred’s end of the call had that golden, forgiving quality of early dawn, and by the fact that he was wearing his absurdly wide-brimmed gardening hat, Bruce figured he’d caught him either at the tail end of a productive morning or at the very beginning of one. Since he’d officially retired, Alfred had been taking on quite the assortment of hobbies. Gardening was one of the more innocuous ones. (It was the Friday evening Spin Class that had Bruce worried — the women there were a terrible influence.)

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said by way of greeting.

“‘Master’?” Hal repeated in a mutter, peering over Bruce’s shoulder with one bleary eye. He shuffled around until he could get a full view of the phone.

Bruce ignored him. “What do you have for me, Alfred?”

“An update. Young Master Tim spent the better part of last night reviewing dock footage. He is currently unconscious on the patio, on a sunlounger. I have instructed the rest of the household to leave him be until such time as he can speak in complete sentences again.”

“At least tell me he’s in the shade.”

Alfred turned toward the window with a theatrical slowness. “He was,” he allowed. “However, it appears that Master Damian has since relocated the umbrella and is now engaged in some form of mischief with the sunscreen. Judging by the expression on his face, he believes himself quite clever.”

“Is he drawing a dick on his forehead?” Hal asked before his brain could catch up to his mouth. The second the words were out, he looked at Bruce, winced, and held up both hands in apology. Bruce, not for the first time, wondered why even a slither of his subconscious wanted this man carnally.

Nonpulsed, Alfred shook his head. “I believe he is writing the Arabic word for fool,” he said, “though his penmanship leaves much to be desired.”

“Oh, fun. Multilingual,” Hal said. “I used to draw dicks on my brothers.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“I don’t know why I keep talking about drawing dicks. I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite alright.”

“And I really don’t know why I keep saying the word ‘dick’.”

“We’ve all had mornings, sir.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “What did Tim find?”

The flicker of amusement dropped clean off Alfred’s face, replaced by something all business. “The gentleman in the footage was not our primary, merely a subordinate. However, his presence was perfectly traceable,” he explained. “Master Tim found several matches in older files. It was all rather amateurish, though I suspect that was intentional. Though the man in the CCTV is, by all accounts, unimportant, he has an affiliation you are quite familiar with…”

“Which is?”

Alfred hesitated. It was a blink, nothing more, but that was the problem. Alfred never hesitated, especially with information. Which meant either this was worse than it sounded, or it was the usual level of bad but layered in a way that would hit Bruce in precisely all the wrong places.

When Alfred continued, it was in that neutral tone he took that made everything sound inevitable. “It would seem,” he said, “that the man has connections to the League of Shadows.”

Fuck.

Bruce didn’t react outwardly, but the inside of his chest locked up like a door slammed shut. He stood still, phone in hand, the room quiet except for the faint rustling of Hal behind him trying and failing to pretend he wasn’t eavesdropping.

For a second, his brain just stopped. Not in the usual way, where information filtered in and he was sorting it by usefullness, but in a way that made him bite back a grimace. That little moment of quiet that put a fork in his strategic mind and left behind a vacant, echoing windtunnel of a brain that refused to hold onto anything.

The League of Shadows. The name alone was enough to knock the footing out from under him, even after all these years. He thought he was done with them, family ties notwithstanding. The whole twisted legacy, the blood debts, the fucking manipulations. He should’ve known better.

Abruptly, his mind reignited faster than he could keep up. He thought of everything all at once: Of Talia, always two steps ahead and never once apologetic for it. Of Jason, who’d disappeared into the cracks of that world once already and came back wrong. Of Damian, who thought he knew better, but had so much more to learn. Of Ra’s. Who’d always been far too interested in Bruce’s pelt.

“Thank you, Alfred,” he said slowly.

“We will continue examining what we have here. Master Tim will resume his review once he’s regained the ability to sit upright, and Master Damian has been instructed not to interfere with any further indexing of evidence. He has been a touch unruly since your departure.”

That tracked. Damian had two modes when he was worried. He would either retreat completely, or become actively inconvenient to everyone in his immediate radius. Which one you got depended entirely on how deeply the concern had burrowed under his skin. From the sound of it, Bruce had left behind a miniature hurricane in high-top sneakers. Bruce nodded thoughtfully.

“In the meantime,” Alfred continued, “you may wish to consider making use of any existing associations you still maintain with the League. After all, a familiar face often opens doors where brute force might only close them.”

Bruce’s grip on the phone tightened by a fraction. He didn’t flinch at the idea, but he felt something in his jaw shift like it wanted to. Talia al Ghul wasn’t the kind of person you called lightly and contact with her meant stepping into a game you could never fully control. It meant questions without answers, leverage traded under the table, and too many memories of moments that had never been quite real, no matter how much they felt like they could’ve been.

Still. If it got him closer to Jason…

“I’ll consider it,” he said at last, which was as good as a yes.

“Very good, sir.”

The call ended with a soft chime, and Bruce stood there for a moment, eyes closed, trying to remember the least volatile method of contacting Talia these days. There had been a time when he could get a message to her through three blind drops and a Turkish bookshop, but that method had gone cold years ago. There was always a new one. Usually with more layers. And booby traps. Occasionally literal ones, if she was feeling affectionate.

“So…” Hal said slowly. “League of Shadows, huh? That sure does sound like an organisation."

Bruce handed Hal his phone in silence and crossed the room to his laptop. His inbox was already blinking with a new email. RE: Immediate Contact Options.

Of course Alfred had tracked Talia’s current location and identifiers down before the call even ended. Bruce skimmed it quickly, noting that most of the listed information didn’t match the last intel he had on her. Unsurprising. As much as Bruce liked to be in the know, Talia changed her numbers and dead-drops more often than most people changed their clothes. She always did prefer it that way.

After he left the League and split it off with her for the last time, she was usually the one who made contact. She’d memorised his shift cycle long ago, and would sometimes call just to hear his voice. Other times, she’d bypass him entirely to talk to Damian. It was infrequent, but Bruce was almost certain that she was an ally. Sometimes. Maybe.

One day, Bruce was going to sit down and reflect about his choice in partners, because it couldn’t be a coincidence that everyone he’d ever had a serious relationship with was unhinged as hell. To put it nicely.

Hal was grimacing in a sleepy way that made him look constipated. He was clearly not thrilled about being shut down, but smart enough to let it go for now. Which said a lot, actually. More than Bruce liked. It meant the strain on his face wasn’t as contained as he’d thought it was.

“You good?” Hal asked instead of laying into him like he probably wanted to.

No, Bruce wasn’t good. Without responding, he turned his attention back to the laptop and weighed his options.

Option one: he could send a message. It would have to be carefully worded, vague enough to pique her interest, with just enough emotional leverage baked in to make her wonder what kind of trouble he was in. It wouldn’t be kind of him to do that. He’d be playing into old patterns and old habits. A quieter kind of manipulation, one that she’d taught him in the first place.

If she took the bait, she might offer up what he needed without much pressure. Then again, she might ignore it altogether. Or wait three days and reply with a philosophical riddle and a blurry photo of a fox as her only answer.

Option two: he could contact her directly. He had the tech to trace her current signal and patch through to wherever she was hiding. Face-to-face would force her hand. She’d have to look him in the eye, and she always had a soft spot for doing that. But that method had its own risks. Talia’s affection was mercurial. She might help him without blinking, or she might smile and watch him twist, just to see what he’d do under pressure.

It was always a coin toss with her

Bruce knew better than to expect consistency. The second option, direct contact, was objectively the better one. It was faster, harder to ignore, and gave him a chance to read her in real time, but it also meant that he’d have to talk to her while Hal was still here, still hovering in his peripheral vision. For some reason, that didn’t sit right with him. He didn’t care to explore the reason why.

“Really glad we’ve evolved past the need for caveman grunts and gone straight to radio silence,” Hal grumbled. “Makes me feel like a real part of the conversation.”

Ah, good. He was still an asshole, even though Bruce was clearly having a moment. That was more comforting than it probably should’ve been.

“I’ve got to make a call.”

“I’m not stopping you, man.” Hal flopped back against the pillows and ran a hand through his hair, immediately grimacing. “You know, it’s been like three days since I showered.”

Bruce paused, midway through inputting Alfred’s location markers into his laptop, and looked up at him. “We left your apartment yesterday.”

“Yeah, I know, but I didn’t have time to shower before we left.”

“You were literally doing nothing when I showed up. You had plenty of time to shower.”

“Incorrect. I was planning on pigging out and watching four hours of Airwolf and then falling asleep face-first into a bag of kettle corn. You think I expected company?” He cocked his head. “Anyway, what’s the League of Shadows?”

“You have a strange way of trying to get information.”

“Did it work?”

“No. The bathroom has a shower. Go wild.”

Hal made a show of rolling his eyes and padded to the ensuite anyway, muttering something about hostile treatment and boundaries. The door clicked shut behind him.

Good. That bought Bruce fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty, if Hal got distracted by the fancy knobs on the shower. Enough time to place the call and brace for whatever version of Talia picked up on the other end.

God, he hoped she had nothing to do with it.

That part of him that still warmed at the memory of her voice hated the thought. He knew that he didn’t love her anymore, but he would never stop caring for her completely. He'd accepted that a long time ago. It was a constant, deep and buried and wholly inconvenient.

Care wasn’t the same as trust, though. Whatever they had, whatever they were, Talia had always played her own game. She loved in a language he didn’t always understand, and sometimes that love came with sharp edges. If she’d hurt any of his children, or knowingly let them walk into danger to get back at him, that was the kind of wound that wouldn’t scar. It would stay open for a very long time

Please. Please. Have nothing to do with Jason.

It took almost five minutes for the signal to connect. He didn’t use his name, but she would know it was him. She always knew.

The laptop screen flickered once, then resolved.

“Beloved.”

“Talia.”

She looked radiant, of course. She always did. Bruce could never tell how much of it was curated and how much was just Talia being Talia. The background was dim, lit in warm golds, and it made her skin gleam a warm brown. The green eyes she’d given their son were accentuated by perfectly blended shadow, and her smiling mouth was painted a deep, dark burgundy. Her hair spilled around her shoulders, falling over a silk green wrap that shimmered faintly every time she moved. Bruce couldn’t tell whether she’d just returned from a high profile event, or had dressed this way to drink wine in solitude.

His gaze didn’t linger long. “I need your help,” he said.

“How is our darling son?” she asked.

“That’s not—”

“He usually calls me when you shed your skin.” She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes, but the small smile on her face didn’t move. “I’d hate for him to think he’s grown out of calling his mother. Children can be so careless with their loyalties.”

“I’m not calling about Damian.”

“No? How rare. I so rarely get to be involved when it isn’t about our child.” Talia’s eyes sparkled, just for a second. She leaned back in her seat, folding one leg neatly over the other. “So tell me, my love. What disaster pulls you to me this time? Or have you finally come to your senses? A place is always open for you by my side.”

“Jason is missing.”

If he had not been watching for it, he might have missed the flicker that crossed her face. It was a ripple, quick and nearly nothing, like the surface of water hit by a single drop. Her spine straightened faster than she meant it to, and she masked the movement with a careless shift of her shoulders and a flick of her hair

That was a relief. Maybe she had nothing to do with it after all.

“Oh?” she said airily. “If I recall correctly, I released the puppy back to his owner when I gave you our son. I imagine he’s skulking somewhere along the coastline. California, was it?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. Of course she knew where they migrated to. He didn’t know why he ever thought they could keep anything from Talia. Her reach had always stretched further than seemed possible.

“I won’t insult you or Damian by asking if he told you where we went, so do me the same courtesy. We both know that if Jason was still in California, I wouldn’t be calling you.”

“Are you accusing me of something, Bruce?”

“No. I’m asking for information.”

“Then ask nicely.”

Bruce could do without the theatrics, thank you. He stared at the screen, letting the silence stretch until even the background noise of wherever she was began to feel too loud, but Talia had always been able to meet his glare with ease. The amused tilt of her head remained, but the softness in her smile had disappeared. She’d already let the mask fall for one brief second. That was generous, by her standards. Now it was back in place, and she was as composed and unreadable as ever.

He could feel the word ‘please’ forming on the back of his tongue. Not because she demanded it, but because it might get him what he needed faster. He was willing to sacrifice his pride, even with her, if it brought Jason home.

Just as he was about to say it, he was cut off with an impassioned, “Wow, who’s the smokeshow?”

Briefly, Bruce considered the existence of karmic punishment and how it related to him and his life.

He turned with a glare, but Hal was also someone who could meet his stare with ease. The bastard was standing in the bedroom doorway, freshly showered and completely unbothered, toweling his hair with something he’d probably unearthed from the depths of a plastic-sealed linen cupboard. He was shirtless, barefoot, damp, and absolutely operating under the assumption that Bruce was watching some kind of avant-garde fragrance ad.

“Who the hell takes five-minute showers?” Bruce asked incredulously, and perhaps a little hypocritically.

Hal shrugged, still not registering that Talia was, in fact, on video call. “Spooks. We’re in a ghost-castle. You think I’m gonna find soap here?” He pointed back toward the bathroom with his thumb. “Unless you’ve got something that actually lathers, I think we’re all working with what nature gave us.”

There was still time, Bruce decided. There was still time to disavow Hal and go about this on his own. It’s not like he needed him around, right?

“You have company,” Talia observed, eyeing Hal sharply. “How very… modern of you.”

It took Hal three full seconds to compute that the beautiful woman on screen wasn’t just some video, but a real human lady in a live video call. He made a strange choking noise and whipped the towel to cover up to his nipples.

“That’s— Yep, that’s a person. Okay. Hi. I’ll just—” He executed a graceless crabwalk backwards, nearly tripping over his own foot, and vanished out of the camera frame. As he went, he threw out a what the fuck expression that Bruce made a point of ignoring.

Out of camera frame didn’t mean out of sight, unfortunately. Hal pointed at Bruce, then at the screen, and then made an elaborate gesture that was either a question about marital status or an inappropriate mime about Bruce’s sexual history. When Bruce didn’t immediately reply, he folded his arms and huffed quietly. He scowled at the back of the laptop.

Pretend he’s not there. Get back to business.

“Talia—”

“Who is your friend?”

He glared at her. “That’s not what I called you for.”

“Maybe not, but perhaps I’ll be more amenable to your questions if you introduce me to him, Beloved.”

“Beloved?” Hal muttered, audibly enough. “That’s worse than ‘Master Bruce’. Who even says that?”

Bruce did not sigh. Sighing would be admitting this was happening.

Talia was stiff in the way she got when her pride was bruised. The last time he’d seen that look was when Bruce told her he’d moved on and was trying to make a go of it with Selina. She hadn't said much then. She just smiled thinly and broke the head off a terracotta lion that had been older than most countries.

“Hal, put a shirt on and get out,” he snapped. “Talia. Jason is missing and all the intel we have points towards the League. I need to know you’re not involved in this.”

“Hal,” Talia repeated. Her attention had drifted to her phone and she was tapping in that way she did when she was making a point.

“Talia,” Hal shot back, probably just to be petty.

Bruce glared at him. “Out.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going.” Hal saluted petulantly and turned to head back into the ensuite.

Satisfied, Bruce turned back to Talia. “Now—”

“What is Hal short for? Surely that’s not his real name,” she said. He gestured a perfectly manicured hand towards her phone screen. “I suppose you found him in California, yes? What city? There are more Hals in that state than you’d think.”

“Talia. Please.”

She looked up with narrowed eyes. Something in his face, or maybe his voice, finally broke through. Her eyes softened, barely, in the way someone might if they found an old letter they’d once meant to burn. Mercifully, Talia stopped typing. She let the phone fall into her lap with a flick of her fingers, and actually looked at him properly.

“Darling,” she said, as gently as she knew how, “if your little stray has gone for a walk, I am not the one holding the leash. If I wanted to take one of your children, I would have chosen my beautiful son. Or that Grayson boy. You should have raised that one with far more discipline. I always did say you spoiled him. Look where that got you.”

“All of the intel—”

“Points towards the League, yes. You’ve said. Though I don’t know what you expect me to do about it. You know as well as I do the League is not a singular beast. There are cells in the organisation that don’t answer to me.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“Yes.”

There wasn’t even a flicker of hesitation in her voice. She said it like it should be obvious, like it was beneath her to lie, as though she hadn’t spent a lifetime being the most unknowable person he’d ever loved. They stared at each other for a long beat, in what was probably a relic of an old habit they both should’ve grown out of.

“Alright,” Bruce said finally. “What about Ra's?”

“Father doesn’t tell me everything, as you’re well aware.”

“Where is he? Right now.”

“He’s in Gotham, if you’re so desperate to know,” she said, making a lazy circling gesture with her fingers. “Far away from where you and your brood ran away to, so I sincerely doubt he’s responsible for dear little Jason.”

By the look on her face, she really believed what she was saying. What did that mean? That she didn’t know that Bruce was in Gotham too? That she didn’t know about the silly cryptic clue that dragged him here?

“Where in Gotham?”

“Bruce, my love, my father is not—”

“Talia. Where.”

She paused. He could see the hesitation click into place, the war between personal loyalty and family doctrine firing behind her eyes like a code she couldn’t quite override. She always hesitated with things like this. Choosing between her love for Bruce and her duty to the Shadows was always, in her father’s eyes, her greatest failing.

“I don’t know.”

Bruce deflated. “You don’t know.”

She shook her head. “No," she said. For a moment, she looked genuinely regretful.

Behind him, the ensuite door creaked open again with a subtlety that suggested Hal had absolutely meant to be stealthy and absolutely wasn’t succeeding at it. He stepped carefully across the room like he thought walking on tiptoe would make him invisible, which it didn’t, of course. Every floorboard he crossed gave a groan after months of no maintenance and he visibly winced every time it happened.

Hal slid back into his peripheral vision, making a clear effort to keep to the edge of the room like he thought the camera had a motion sensor. From the look on his face, Bruce could tell he’d been listening in.

(Which was fine. Really. Except Bruce’s shoulders dropped about half an inch the moment Hal got close, and he hated that. He hated that this irreverent, reckless neanderthal had somehow wormed his way into being a source of stability. Who signed off on that?)

As if he was reading Bruce’s mind, Hal gave him a crooked, reassuring grin. “We’ll figure something else out,” he said, keeping his voice low so it wouldn’t pick up on the mic.

It didn’t work, of course. Hal’s ideal of quiet was more of a stage-whisper that Talia picked up on immediately.

She rolled her eyes. “There’s no need to be dramatic,” she said. “Send me what you already know, and if I’m feeling charitable, perhaps I’ll be able to point you in the right direction.”

“You’ll help?”

“I suppose I’ve returned Jason to you once already. I’ll have to do it again, won’t I?” The smile she offered curled like smoke. It always made him uneasy, that smile. “I may be able to find my father’s exact location for you, though I expect something in return.”

“Anything.”

“Then, I’ll hold you to a favour, my love.” Her eyes flicked around him, like she expected Hal to come back on screen again. When he didn’t, she settled and her smirk slipped into something more thoughtful. Softer, almost. Enough to remind Bruce that she wasn’t always as sharpened as she liked to pretend she was. “Bruce…regardless of what you uncover, know that I had no part in this. If my father took your son, then it was done without my knowledge, and certainly without my consent.”

“I believe you.” And he did.

Talia blinked like she hadn’t expected him to say then, but quickly schooled her expression. “Give me two hours,” she said, and ended the call without ceremony.

Bruce stared at the reflection in the black laptop screen like it might still yield something useful. It didn’t. Just his own face looking ten years older than it had this morning. Then Hal leaned sideways into view.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Somehow, I now have even less information than I started with, and I’m not convinced that’s a fair turn of events.”

Bruce didn’t look at him. “She’s going to help.”

“Which is great, sure, but I don’t even know who the hell she is. Or what this League thing is. Or what anything is, really. Honestly, Bruce, at this point I feel like you’re just keeping me around for the view.”

“Do you really expect me to explain?”

“No, but it’d be nice to be looped into some pertinent information every now and again.” Hal narrowed his eyes on Bruce. “You have a lot of lore that doesn’t track with a guy who spends most of his time in the surf. I’m going crazy trying to connect all the dots here, man.”

Bruce shut the laptop and slid off the bed. “You don’t have to connect anything at all.”

“Maybe not, but I’d still like to know,” Hal said, following him. He pulled a face. “Is she the hot manatee, Spooky? Do I have to, like, fight her for your hand, or something? Because I’ll do it. It’ll be messy and possibly misogynistic, but I’ll throw hands for you.”

“Once again, I’m not attracted to manatees.” Bruce also pulled a face when he realised he focussed on the wrong part of that sentence. “And no, Hal. You don’t have to fight her. That’s not a fist fight you’d win, anyway.”

“So if I don’t have to fight the hot manatee—”

“She’s not a manatee.”

“—then that means you already picked me, right?”

“That is nowhere near what I said.”

“But it’s what I heard, Bruce.” Hal clapped his shoulder with a grin, far too pleased with himself. “C’mon. We’ve got two hours before the manatee drops us a location. Let’s get breakfast.”

Chapter Text

Hal had mentally filed that Talia lady under Active Threats, right between flying blind through coastal fog with a busted altimeter and finding an envelope from the IRS with a smiley face sticker sealing it shut. She had that look about her. Like a Bond Girl who’d skipped the bikini phase, done away with the big bad guy, and took his job for the fun of it. Tenured, pensioned, and now making cuts to overhead. No, Mr. Jordan. I expect you to die, and all that jazz.

Ordinarily, Hal might’ve been into that. Well, ’might’ve’ was generous. He had, historically, made many poor decisions while dazzled by danger in heels. Talia would’ve been ticking every single box he had, if not for the way she’d looked at him during that call. Not like he was any sort of real danger, though. It was more of that subtle, deep bitterness of someone who suspected Hal of sleeping with her husband.

Which was extra weird, considering Hal was pretty sure she wasn’t actually married to Bruce. And highly misinformed, too, because the only sleeping Hal did last night was of the physical kind. The bed was fantastic, he’d slept without having to punch a spring back into position, and Bruce’s steady breathing was more of a lull than he thought it would be. Sure, he’d woken up with a sore back, but that was because he’d stayed in the same weird position all night, and not because he got up close and personal with Bruce’s dick. (Unfortunately.)

Frankly, it was a waste. If he was going to be glared at like he was a homewrecker, it would’ve been nice to at least earn it.

Oh god, was he a homewrecker?

He and Bruce hadn’t exactly discussed romantic availability. Their post-hostility détente had mostly involved Hal Hal hitting on him shamelessly, while Bruce perfected the art of the withering glance. He’d interpreted this, naturally, as mutual interest. Carol had been like that too, rolling her eyes whenever he did something roguishly charming.

Spooks hadn’t explicitly told him to quit it either. In fact, he’d even acknowledged the flirting out loud, which in Spooky-speak was practically an engraved invitation. He hadn't said stop. He hadn’t said don’t. What he’d said, exactly, was that Hal was confident, and Hal had heard all the subtext squished in between. That was the kind of line a man delivered when he was trying very hard not to shove someone against the nearest wall and make out with them.

Clearly, Bruce was barely holding it together. Gripped by lust. Crippled by desire. Eye-rolls weren’t rejection, they were foreplay. Weren’t they?

But then Talia and the whole ‘Beloved’ thing.

Had Hal been misreading the whole thing? Had he somehow inserted himself into the middle of a centuries-long supernatural romance because he got distracted by Bruce’s bone structure and tragic eyebrows?

Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t even established if Bruce was into guys the same way Hal was into guys. He’d been running on the assumption that he could sniff out a fellow bisexual by the way they walked, but with how Spooky seemed to respond to literally anything, he might just be a complicatedly confusing straight guy. It would be just like him to exude painful levels of mutual attraction as a form of psychological warfare instead of legitimate interest.

No, scratch that. Hal was just overthinking it. Spooks was an asshole, but Hal didn’t think he was the type to be deliberately cruel. Besides, no straight man looked at another man the way Bruce sometimes looked at Hal.

This… This was a digression. His sexuality was beside the point. The point here was Talia.

Talia, with her perfect skin and glossy hair. Talia, who looked at Bruce like she didn’t know whether she was either about to kiss him or use his ribcage as a conversation piece. Talia, who was definitely something to Bruce, even if she wasn’t his wife.

And look, Hal could admit when someone outclassed him. Talia was flawless. Absolutely stunning. One of the most beautiful women Hal had ever seen through the shaky lens of a video call conducted over satellite. Which was saying something, because satellite calls were not kind. She could do way better than Bruce.

Like, objectively, the man was hot as hell. Absolutely. Hal had clocked that the minute he first saw the maniac naked and dripping in the moonlight of Athur’s cabin. But hotness only got you so far when you were also a secretive, emotionally repressed sea mammal with the communication skills of a burnt giblet.

No, no. Talia. Sweetheart. Have some self-respect. Get yourself a man who believes in therapy. Let Hal take the pinniped mermaid. He was built for this. He’d been thriving on mutual confusion and no standards since puberty. He didn’t need healthy boundaries or reciprocal communication. He was emotionally invincible.

Anyway.

Exactly two hours to the minute after the video call ended, she sent the location.

Hal had dragged Bruce to the first coffee shop they found when they headed back to Cathedral square. It was some atmospheric little Gothamique place wedged between a boarded-up occult bookshop and a laundromat that almost certainly laundered more than clothes

A taxidermy owl glared down from the top of a bookshelf. Behind the register, a live snake was draped and chilling across a warm rock like it was waiting for someone to ask its opinion on something — and given his experiences these past few days, Hal wouldn’t have been surprised if the little bastard looked him in the eye and asked, “Ssssso, what’sss the deal with Sssartre?”

Bruce looked perfectly at home, naturally. The low lighting loved him. Hal, by contrast, had reached a dangerous caffeine threshold. He was three cups deep into something called a Fog Widow, which tasted like burnt molasses and was somehow delicious. It was just enough of a kick to make him consider time travel, and then contemplate how to package some of this good shit to send to Barry in Central just to see if he could breach the fabric of reality.

(Barry was the kind of guy who jogged for fun but it still didn’t burn off all his energy. He was always so insufferable when he was loaded up on caffeine, which was why Hal always treated them to the strong stuff whenever one of them visited the other.)

By the time his phone buzzed, they were deep into a petty argument about whether or not coffee counted as breakfast. Bruce was pro; Hal, firmly con. Not out of any nutritional integrity, mind you (Hal had eaten chili out of a vending machine once) but because Bruce was wrong, and that was all the reason he needed.

“This makes no sense,” he said. He waved a hand towards Bruce, who had his phone out like it was about to serve a peer-reviewed study and not whatever garbage he’d probably doctored. “You have a cell. Why isn’t she sending all this to you?”

Bruce looked up from where he was definitely making up sources. “She’s doing it to prove a point.”

“Oh, cool, mysterious lady making some weird dominance play against my phone. And the point is what? That she somehow knows exactly who I am and has full access to my personal data?”

“Yes.”

“Great.”

“I don’t know why you’re surprised,” Bruce added. “Alfred did it too.”

Ah, that’s right. Master Bruce’s parental figure had also contacted Hal’s phone directly to judge him for hitting on a cute girl during 3am Chipotle shortly after he and Carol called it quits. It was like the universe was playing a long con to make him feel increasingly penetrable. (Digitally. Not, unfortunately, otherwise.)

“You hang out with some weird people, Spooky,” Hal said, resigned to his fate. “This mean you’ve got my number too?”

On cue, his phone pinged with a text from an unknown number. Hal glanced down and immediately huffed a laugh. Attached to the message was a high-resolution, suspiciously well-edited image of the food pyramid, only the entire top third had been dominated by a single cup of coffee.

God, that was stupid. Stupid and cute. Hal bit the inside of his cheek to kill the grin forming on reflex. Of course, any warm fuzzies he might’ve been developing were immediately extinguished when Bruce reached across the table and took his phone like he had any right to.

“Hey!”

“Hm,” Bruce said, thumbing to Talia’s message. “The Cathedral has a new chamber beneath the catacombs.”

“I want to believe you mean that some union guys with hard hats came in, got permits, poured some concrete, and legally built a tasteful new crypt in the basement of the house of God,” he said. He made the sign of the cross to illustrate. “But I’m starting to suspect Gotham just spawns that kind of thing whenever the creep-factor leaks out somewhere else.”

Hal gestured at Bruce. “You gathered your weird little family and skipped town for California,” he continued, “so Gotham panicked and built itself a Death Tomb to balance the vibes. Yin and yang, baby.”

Bruce didn’t deny it, which made it probably true. Without another word, he grabbed his jacket and tossed a full fifty on the table. Hal stared mournfully at the bill. Not because he didn’t think the staff deserved it, but because Hal’s bank account had taken a series of direct hits lately. His rent had come out, his mechanic had finally cashed that cheque, and he was currently operating in that delicate space where one poorly timed tap of his debit card could trigger a cascade of overdraft fees.

Maybe he should’ve checked to see if his work offered personal leave. He might have a cushion coming, if Arthur and Mera processed his latest invoice before his cell provider processed its next threat. He was on retainer with, which meant there was a possibility of being comfortable until he could hit some other jobs.

Outside, Bruce was already on the move, gliding toward the massive stone carcass that gave Cathedral Square its name. From Hal’s vantage point, it looked condemned. Boarded-up windows, ivy strangling the outer buttresses, and a healthy splattering of graffiti that ranged from crude civic critique (‘dent sukz GCPD cok’) to helpful community engagement (’call [redacted] for a good time’). The [redacted] looked like someone had taken the time to lovingly paint a censor bar over it, and under that someone else had started a running tally, presumably of successful good times. It was currently at twenty-seven.

Hal jogged a few steps to catch up, sticking his hand out. “My phone, if you please,” he snapped. Bruce tossed it to him without looking back.

[11:23] Unknown
South east catacombs, third level. Tell my father I said hello, Beloved. 🌵

He wasn’t going to question the cactus, but the catacombs having three levels sure was weird. Gotham wasn’t Rome. You weren’t supposed to start digging beneath old churches and find Dante’s expansion pack.

“You know,” he said, “I was kidding when I said I might have to fight her,” he said, “but the fact that she has my contact info makes me feel like I might actually have to one day.”

Bruce was conspicuously quiet.

“This is where you say ‘Don’t worry Hal, you won’t have to fight the super hot mysterious lady to prove yourself, it’s all in your head.’”

“I’m not saying you’ll have to fight Talia."

“Good.”

“I'm also not saying that you won't have to fight her,” Bruce finished. “She’s…complicated.”

“Real reassuring. Thanks for letting your girl doxx me in real time. That’s a special kind of milestone.”

“She wouldn’t have done it if you stayed out of the room like you were supposed to.”

Hal squinted at his cell. Now that he looked at it, that cactus emoji was probably a threat. “I feel like this is a challenge,” he said. “It's because I was shirtless within ten feet of you, I think. She's threatened because she's seen my nipples.”

“We've all seen your nipples, Hal.”

“Oh yeah?” Hal perked up, slipping his phone back into his jacket pocket. “What do you think?”

Bruce threw him an incredulous glance. “What exactly do you want me to say here, you want me to rank them out of ten?”

“Couldn't hurt. A guy likes to feel appreciated every now and again.”

“I'm not ranking your nipples.”

“I'm gonna take that as a ten out of ten.”

“More like an exasperated sigh.”

“Ouch, Spooky,” Hal said, tapping his chest with one finger, right over his heart. “That hurts. Right in here.”

“You’ll live.”

“Anyway,” he went on, “point is, your girlfriend—”

“Ex.”

Hal grinned. That was one question answered. “Your ex seems like she’s into some really shady stuff,” he said, far too cheerfully now, “and I need to know if I should expect her to drop in at some point because you think I'm hot.”

“I never said I think you're hot.”

“Not verbally, sure, but I'm an expert in body language. Answer the question.”

Bruce sighed, which was usually his way of conceding defeat without letting Hal celebrate it. He didn’t deny anything further, he just ran a hand through his hair in a way that was probably unconscious but landed like it had been scripted. The gesture made a few strands fall over his forehead in this artfully tousled way that would’ve looked pretentious on anyone else, but on Bruce, it was that kind of Heathcliff drama Hal had always been a little weak for.

“She has strange priorities,” Bruce admitted, “but she can be reasonable. We’ve been broken up for over a decade and she hasn’t attacked any of my other partners before.”

“Yet.”

“She’s the mother of my child, Hal,” Spooky said, looking at Hal properly. “She’s going to be involved with my life whether you like it or not.”

“Implying that I've got to get used to her if I want a piece of Spooky, huh?” Hal was grinning as he said that, but then he blinked as his brain caught up to what Bruce actually said. “Wait, she’s the baby mama? Damn. She looks great for someone who’s had seven kids.”

“Only one.”

“Ah.” Hal nodded. “You know, Arthur told me about this. Seals mate in groups, right? Like, whole colonies getting down and sandy on the beach. Which means you’ve probably got multiple—”

“If you finish that train of thought, I will put you out a window.”

“Try it, seal boy. I'll break your nose and you'll be swimming in circles for the rest of your life.”

Bruce let out a short, sharp exhale that might’ve technically been a snort. It had shades of amusement, the kind of sound that meant he was probably totally endeared to Hal’s existence and was just too prideful to admit it, the coward. To cover it up, he flicked his eyes up to scan the wrought iron gates as they came closer.

They were massive, blackened with age and weather, and crowned with sharp decorative points that probably violated several building codes in any place other than Gotham. Zip-tied to one of the prongs was a sun-bleached laminated flyer advertising an underground rave dated three years ago, complete with glitter ink and a QR code that had long since peeled away. Gotham didn’t clean up after itself, it seemed.

Bruce stepped forward, wrapped one hand around the metal bar, and looked up to judge the distance. Satisfied, he didn’t even glance at Hal. “Stay here, he said.

“Wait, what?”

But Spooky was already moving, scaling the gate like it was nothing more than a ladder. It was both infuriating and impressive. His stupid long, rich boy coat didn’t even catch.

“Absolutely not,” Hal snapped, stepping forward. “You don’t get to leave my ass behind, asshole.”

Bruce dropped down on the other side in a crouch, straightening up just in time to see Hal already halfway up the gate.

“Hal.”

“Nope.” Hal was glaring as he hooked a leg over the top, very aware of how dangerously close one of the iron prongs was to his left butt cheek. He adjusted. Carefully. With dignity. “Don’t Hal me. You’re not ghosting me into the danger zone after dragging me across the goddamn country. I’m coming with.”

“No, you’re not.”

Hal landed beside him with a thud and mentally congratulated himself for not stumbling in front of Bruce — even though he hadn’t stumbled jumping off things since he was a tween.. Bruce’s face had moved past disapproval and into the realm of actively irritated, which was how Hal knew he was winning.

“I don’t have time to babysit you.”

“The hell? You don’t need to babysit me, man,” Hal snapped. He jabbed Bruce in the chest. “When are you going to stop underestimating me, huh? I can handle myself.”

Bruce caught his finger mid-poke and squeezed. Not painfully, just enough to make a point. His voice was low, sharp, steady. “You can handle yourself against normal people,” he said. “The League of Shadows aren’t normal.”

“Oh, so now it’s time for the ominous exposition?”

“They don’t play by rules. They don’t have limits. They’re trained beyond anything the military prepares you for.” Bruce looked at him seriously. “You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Yeah, well.” Hal folded his arms over his chest. “Maybe I’d like to decide that for myself. You can’t stop me. You know that, right? You ditch me now, I’m just gonna break in another way. I’m invested.”

“You don’t even know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“And I don’t care. I’m not getting my ass kicked by some theatre club that missed roll call for the Phantom of the Opera so they took it out on the world.” He handed his hand out of Bruce’s grip and shoved him, just to make his own point. “You don’t get to decide how brave or stupid I want to be, okay? I’m not here to play by your rules.”

“No,” Bruce said coldly, “you’re here because you think you can score after all this is done.”

Oh, that pissed Hal off.

“Are you kidding me right now?” The exclamation bounced around the empty cathedral courtyard. He shoved Bruce again, harder this time. “Do you really think I’m that shallow? You really think I came all this way, got involved in all this shit, just to get laid? Is that what you really think?”

“I think—”

“You think wrong.”

“Do I?” Bruce bit back. His glare, much to Hal’s frustration, was effective enough to send angry shivers right up his spine. “My son is missing, Hal. Do you understand that? And for the past day and a half, you’ve done nothing but hit on me. What did you expect me to do? Drop everything for a quick fuck? I can’t afford a distraction right now.”

Hal faltered. “I…” he started, then reset. “If it makes you that uncomfortable, then I’ll quit it, but don’t you dare twist this like I don’t give a shit—”

“I didn’t say it made me uncomfortable.”

“Then what the hell is this?” Hal demanded. “Because I am not some guy who tags along for the chance to jump your moody little bones. You don’t get to dump that on me just because I’ve got a thing for dysfunction.”

Bruce’s expression flickered. “I’m tired of dealing with people like you who just tag along because they think they can get something out of me, and—”

“Woah, woah, hit the brakes for a second, Spooky.” Hal lifted both hands, suddenly furious — though he was unsure at who now. “That’s not what this is. I’m not after anything you don’t want to give. You’re trying to lump me in with all the other people who let you down so it’ll be easier to push me away when things get hard. Don’t flatter yourself, Bruce. I hit on you because I’m into you. I stayed because I give a shit. You're frustrating and you're gorgeous and so goddamn annoying that you make me want to tear my hair out, but somewhere in the middle of all that shit, I realised I actually like you. If you think I’m just tagging along to flirt, then you weren’t paying attention.”

Hal let his voice drop a little in the hopes of getting through to him. “You make it sound like I’ve been into you from day one. If you’d take one second to remember, you didn’t exactly give me the best first impression. I offered to help you before I started to like you, Spooks,” he continued. “I think I made myself pretty damn clear that I care what happens to your kid.”

“I—” Bruce cut himself off but didn’t break eye contact. In the Gotham overcast, his eyes looked grey.

“And don’t think you’re slick, douchebag, I know what you’re doing right now,” Hal muttered. He packed his arms tight against his chest. “You’re trying to piss me off so I’ll get too angry to follow you in there, but I think we both know that it’s not gonna work.”

For once, Bruce looked genuinely at a loss for words, and not in the usual calculated way he liked to cultivate silence. He just stood there, staring long and hard, like he was waiting for Hal to blink or disappear or maybe combust on the spot.

Then, predictably, the shutters came down. Bruce’s face tightened. His mouth pressed into that grim little line he used when confronted with vulnerability or compliments or the concept of joy. Hal watched it happen with a bitter twist in his gut. He’d thought they were getting somewhere. He thought all that silence and closeness and shared glances was beginning to mean something. You know, some sappy shit where the two guys in some queer Hallmark movie realised that they could only save Christmas if they worked together, and maybe get together on the way.

Maybe he was misreading things after all. Wouldn’t be the first time he got too close to someone that didn’t want him, or didn’t know how to.

God. That sucked.

“Fine,” Bruce said.

“Fine,” he said back.

They turned together, not quite side by side, and started toward the Cathedral. And Hal, despite all the bravado, despite the fight still coiled in his chest, felt like the world’s biggest dick.