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Tim pulled his pelt from his backpack and cringed. It was still damp, and so was the entire inside of the backpack. And of course that lovely Gotham Harbor smell clung to the pelt, and by extension, the inside of his backpack had that lovely Gotham Harbor smell too. A sad side effect of spying on the boats smuggling guns and drugs into the city. But it had to be done.
The backpack wasn’t a huge deal; he could toss it in the wash and hopefully, it wouldn’t wreck the fabric too much. The washing machine was always a toss-up.
The pelt, on the other hand, he’d have to saturate in dish soap and let sit in warm water for a few hours.
But first, a shower.
He dumped his pelt on a towel on the floor. I’ll get to it when I get to it, he thought— and he actually would get to it; letting a soggy pelt sit for too long made it a bitch to clean out.
His parents wouldn’t be happy with him leaving it on the floor like that. They wouldn’t be happy with him for taking his pelt out from the safe. But they were rarely happy, and more importantly, they weren’t home, so Tim decided it was fine.
Really, Tim’s pelt was supposed to stay in the safe behind the big painting in the middle of the second-story corridor. Close enough to him that he wouldn’t get shaky and lightheaded—as long as he stayed in Gotham, and easily accessible so he could bring it with him if he ever left the city.
He was supposed to keep it in the vault, hidden and secure. He was not supposed to pull it on and actually use it.
Because a selkie skin wasn’t meant to be worn and Tim wasn’t meant to take the shape of an animal. His pelt was just an unfortunate side effect of his genetics. A dangerous inconvenience until it could be taken care of.
He definitely wasn’t supposed to be stalking smuggling boats and gathering intel for Batman. It was an activity both Bruce and his parents would be appalled by if they knew. His parents would be enraged at him for degrading himself by shifting into an animal and Bruce— Bruce wouldn’t approve of him taking a risk outside of his supervised patrol; he barely approved of Tim being Robin at all—wouldn’t be thrilled about suddenly finding out that his normal, human partner wasn’t exactly all the way human.
A huge benefit to living alone for about nine months out of the year: dodging those lectures like a champ.
Tim shed his clothes and got in the shower. He had to scrub at his skin borderline aggressively to get all the grime out. His skin was tinted red when he stepped out, and he filled the bath up halfway and let his pelt marinate in a mix of water and a bottle of Dawn dish soap. He’d leave it overnight. It wasn’t like it would get water damaged.
Then, he wrote up the information he’d gathered because Bruce was a visual thinker and Tim didn’t want to forget any of the main points between now and tomorrow. He could have typed it, but with the most recent Gotham-wide hacking incident, it felt safer to have it all down on paper instead of a computer.
Finally, he texted Bruce to give him the heads-up that he got an anonymous tip about the smuggling operation on the water, and that he was available to discuss it with him.
Tim slipped into pajama pants and settled into bed. Tomorrow—today—was a late start day at school, but he still had only about five hours before school. That gave him about three to four hours of sleep. Not a lot, but he could function on less.
It wasn’t a big deal. He could sleep through his study hall and they were watching The Great Gatsby in English, so the room would be dark and no one would notice him taking a nap.
His phone buzzed.
“Good.” Bruce’s message read. Then a terse-feeling, “ Go to bed.”
Tim typed out a light-hearted “You go to bed.”
Bruce probably didn’t appreciate the reply; he didn’t text back. Tim shrugged to himself. He hadn’t expected Bruce to actually respond to that anyway.
/-/-/
“So, according to my source, they’re smuggling in stolen art, drugs, and weapons. As of right now, there are no people in the catalog.”
He handed the lined paper over to Bruce so he could get a sense of some of the smugglers’ inventory. He’d rewritten the scribbled list in neater handwriting during study hall—he’d overdone it with the coffee and hadn’t actually slept during study hall. It was fine, he’d catch up over the weekend.
Bruce glanced over the paper and looked back at Tim. “Who exactly is your source?”
Tim groaned. “We’ve talked about this, B. They don’t trust Batman, but they’re okay with Robin, and I don’t want to compromise their trust.” If his source was a real person and not just himself, he might have actually given Bruce details about them. Or not… It was always good to hold a little back, to stay needed.
“And you’re sure they're reliable?”
Tim nodded. “Positive.”
He knew his information was good. He’d listened in on dozens of meetings, skimmed through several secret documents, and personally walked through cargo holds at least ten times.
The auction was happening in two days. He doubted they’d add anything new on such short notice.
“You’re sure?” Bruce asked again.
“B, I’m sure. I’ve done my research, checked it all three times. I’ve been cautious. I’d bet my life on this.”
“Hn.”
Tim smiled because Bruce must have accepted that. He was sure that was a positive “hn.” It could be loosely interpreted as “Alright, Robin, I’ll trust your good judgment and extensive research because you’re my partner and a very competent vigilante.”
Bruce’s words, not Tim’s.
“I figure we have a few different options for how to go about it. Going in as Batman and Robin probably wouldn’t be ideal given the setting, but I should be able to pose as a server or—”
“I’ll handle this one alone,” Bruce cut in.
Tim’s mouth snapped shut and he glared. “You can’t push me out of this mission,” he said. “I gathered all the information for this. I planned out half of this already.”
Bruce’s face was unreadable.
“This isn’t the whole mission; this is a small part of it,” he began, speaking with a vaguely condescending tone. “Since there are no humans or live animals getting sold at this auction, no one is in immediate danger. We have time. The only goal is to put trackers on the merchandise so we can track it back to their hideouts.”
Tim nodded, a little too emphatically. “Yeah, B, I know that.” He forced himself to keep his voice and face impassive. “I know what the plan is. I helped come up with it.”
Bruce sighed. “There's no room for you in this part.” His tone wasn’t harsh, but it stung all the same.
“But—” he began.
“That’s final. Don’t push the issue,” Bruce said, his tone leaving no room for argument. Tim’s firm expression must have slipped; Bruce’s eyes softened a fraction and he put a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “We’ll carry out the next part of the plan together, alright?”
“Okay,” Tim mumbled.
“Good,” Bruce said, some of the lines in his face smoothing out.
“If there’s nothing else, I’ll show myself out.”
Bruce blinked twice like he didn’t quite process Tim’s words. “I mean, yes, you can go home, but you wouldn’t prefer to go over some of the other cases we’re working on or train?”
Tim shrugged. He’d wanted to train initially, but getting shoved out of his spot on this mission dampened his enthusiasm.
“I only came over to drop this thing off. So… yeah. I’ll see you when we’re moving on to the next part.”
Besides, he had other things to do.
/-/-/
Tim’s pelt sat in a sodden pile by his door again.
It was fine. He’d clean it later.
After his last check on the smuggling ships, he wasn’t in the mood to do anything resembling chores.
This last check wasn’t really needed. It was really just so he could blow off some steam. Swimming in his seal form helped clear his head. Normally. It didn’t work this time.
In theory, he could still get involved in the case. He had more than enough dress clothes that would fit into an auction just fine. He’d tailed Bruce without him noticing before. Sure, Bruce would probably notice him more readily now since they’d started spending so much time together, but still, Tim was pretty sure he could make it work.
He sighed.
It probably wasn’t even worth it.
Bruce wasn’t even going to handle this as Batman. He was either going undercover as Matches Malone or going as Brucie Wayne. He could put trackers on stuff without Tim’s help. Tim would be extra weight if he came along.
It was still annoying to be brushed to the side.
Oh well, it’s not like it was anything new to him.
Screw it, fine. He’d call it a mini-vacation. He could use the time to binge watch whatever was new on Netflix or mess around with the settings on his new digital camera that he’d ordered on an impulse five months ago.
And that’s how the next several hours passed.
He picked a show at random, pausing when the “Are you still watching?” screen popped up to saturate his pelt in Dawn dish soap again, kept watching, paused again to take a call from Dick, took another thirty minutes to vent to Dick about the unfairness of the whole thing. Dick was sympathetic, which helped.
Then, he scrubbed out his pelt and hung it over a towel in his room to let it dry.
He went back down to the kitchen, made some popcorn and coffee, and went back to Netflix.
Only about eight hours into his mini-vacation and he decided that he absolutely hated it.
He’d spent seven of those hours watching an unfunny sitcom, and the characters’ voices were really beginning to grate on him.
Crap, none of this helped.
Tim was losing brain cells with every corny joke and cliche plot. It didn’t even serve as a good distraction.
He supposed he had a paper due in a week, but he'd been planning on doing that in five days. He groaned to himself and the empty house. A paper would be better than nothing, even if it wasn't much of a challenge.
So, he settled down in the library to work, making himself some decaf black tea because he'd accidentally seen an article title about increasing cases of kidney issues in youths due to caffeine consumption. Being Robin was hard enough without dealing with renal conditions on the side.
He typed out the first few lines of the essay. Tedious, boring, non-Robin work.
/-/-/
Tim wasn't sure when he'd fallen asleep, but when he woke up, he knew something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. Something had his chest in a vice-grip before he remembered how to breathe.
There were footsteps .
His parents weren't supposed to be back for another five weeks.
Assess the situation, make a plan, and carry it out. He heard in his head, the voice Bruce’s.
He rose from his chair as quietly as he could. An educated guess said someone—multiple someones, based on the footfalls—had broken in.
He glanced down at his phone.
Dead. Of course.
Fuck.
Using the landline was out of the question, too much risk of being caught.
His parents had always instructed him to get out of the house ASAP in the event of a robbery. Get to safety, get help before too much could be stolen.
And he'd do that, but he wanted to scope out the situation first. There was a big difference between three and ten men.
Besides, they may have assumed Drake Manor was empty since his parents had been shown in articles for the past few months. It'd happened before; mostly harmless thieves came in to ransack the near-abandoned house and panicked when someone—even a defenseless preteen—saw them.
Tim downed the cold, oversteeped remains of his tea before taking the mug by the handle. It was a heavy, ceramic mug. It'd make an okay weapon if push came to shove. It'd definitely hurt if he smashed it over someone's head or a good distraction if he threw it and ran.
The sound of footsteps got louder as he got closer.
“This is nice,” an unfamiliar voice remarked. “Should go for a lot.”
Tim glanced around the corner, careful to stay unseen.
Three men. Not too bad then. If he’d been in the Robin suit, he could take them out without too much trouble. But, as Tim Drake, he’d need to make a stealthy escape.
“I feel like I saw something like that on a field trip to the museum. Might be a matching set.”
Tim stepped away from the wall silently.
He couldn’t get out through the front or back door, but he was fortunate enough to be on the first floor of the house. He’d just return to the library and slip out the window.
More footsteps.
It was definitely time to go.
“Find anything good upstairs?” one of the voices asked.
Tim froze.
Upstairs—
Upstairs…
His pelt was upstairs . Not locked in the safe where it was supposed to be—not carefully hidden—but air drying like a knit sweater.
It’s probably fine. Tim told himself, trying to push his legs to move. The house is full of antiques and old artifacts, they wouldn’t be interested in what’s clearly a teenager’s room, right? It would be fine. Tim just had to leave.
“Is that––”
“I think so.”
That definitely didn’t sound good.
The sudden tightness in his lungs returned, his heart doing somersaults in his chest.
“COME HERE!”
The vice grip on his chest squeezed harder, harder, harder. Tim’s feet moved without his permission. He dug his heels in, but he still moved like someone was pushing him from behind.
Oh no… No, no, no, no, no!
He gripped the wall as he neared the hallway, but his legs kept moving.
“Damn,” one of the men said as Tim entered the hall. “Damn, Greg. You really hit the jackpot. Selkies are hard to come by.”
Tim looked at the man holding his pelt. It was still damp, but no longer dripping. The man held it in a white-knuckled grip.
That explained the difficulty breathing at least.
One of the men came closer to him, reaching out to grab his chin.
It happened before he could even think about it. Tim slammed the mug into his head and punched him; it was a Robin-level punch. The mug was still intact, so he grasped the handle harder and crashed it into the guy’s nose. He collapsed to the ground, groaning.
The cup snapped at the handle, so Tim tossed it aside.
Then, he lunged at the guy holding his pelt.
Something in his stomach seized as he caught an edge of his pelt in his fist. He ignored it. Bigger fish to fry.
He threw another Robin-strength hit at the guy—Greg. He felt bones crack under his fist.
“ STOP!”
And just like that, his arm dropped.
He still clutched his pelt. His stomach flipped again.
“LET GO! ON YOUR KNEES!”
It took everything in him to keep his grip for another half second before his fingers released and his stomach eased. He dropped to his knees, pain bursting under the skin. His knees would be violet later.
A small, hurt sound escaped his throat. This couldn’t be happening; he couldn’t be losing his free will just like that.
“Fuck,” Greg mumbled, blood dripping from his nose. He glanced back at his accomplices before sighing and draping Tim’s pelt over his shoulder. He looked back at Tim. “Alright, kid, STAND UP.”
Tim didn’t think he could get up; his knees felt so weak. But he’d gotten a command and there was nothing he could do when he got to his feet.
Then, Greg wound back and slapped Tim across the face. Hard.
It knocked his head to the side and made his teeth ache.
“What the hell, Greg?!” one of the men snapped. “Don’t damage the merchandise.”
Tears welled in Tim’s eyes. And it had nothing to do with the slap.
He was merchandise .
“Relax, Drew,” Greg responded, grabbing Tim’s chin, tilting his head back and forth. “It was just a little slap.”
“Little” was an understatement.
“Besides, the little bastard deserved it. He’ll have a bruise, but it’ll heal. We can use some dollar store concealer if it bothers you that much.” His fingers dug into the stinging place where he’d struck Tim. Tim reached up to push his hands away and took a half step backward.
“PUT YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK. STAY STILL.”
And just like that, Tim’s hands went and stayed behind his back. His feet froze in place.
He didn’t think the man was actually shouting the orders. But it felt loud to him. The orders rang in his head like a gunshot.
“So,” one of the thieves said. “The Drakes are selkies. Who could have seen that coming?”
Greg released Tim’s face and took a few steps back, taking Tim’s pelt a further away.
“Imagine getting his parents’ pelts,” Drew said. “We could make them sign over all their money and property to us before selling the pelts.”
Tim’s stomach flipped. He knew that’s what people did when they captured selkies, but hearing it from these men made it all too real. If he wasn’t bound by a command, he would have squirmed.
“Tell us the truth, kid,” Drew said, turning to Tim. “Where are your parents’ pelts?”
Despite the fear and helplessness he felt, the wave of smugness he felt from ignoring the order gave him some measure of satisfaction. He raised his eyebrows and smirked, staring Drew right back.
“Fucking brat,” the man on the floor muttered, only partially conscious.
Greg chuckled, grasping the pelt like his grip gave him anymore power over Tim.
“Answer his question,” he ordered.
Tim opened his mouth to speak. He may not have been trapped, but he could at least send these bastards on a wild goose chase.
“ Honestly ,” Greg added. “Tell us where the pelts are. Do not try to trick us.”
Damn it. His hands were tied then.
“Thefactthatyou’reworriedaboutgettingtrickedbyateenagerissad,” Tim hissed out quickly, before the pressure from resisting the order got to be too much. The quip earned him a light hit to the head like he was a glitchy TV.
“Their pelts are gone,” he said, taking a deep breath in as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
“You mean you don’t know where they are?”
Tim didn’t answer.
Someone cursed, and then, “Explain honestly .”
He kept himself from speaking for a whole three seconds.
“They burned their pelts to ashes like twenty years ago to make sure people like you couldn’t get to them. They’re just as human as anyone else.”
“They—” one of the men began. “That can happen? I thought they died if the pelt was destroyed.”
Tim shrugged. “Not like I can lie.”
“Isn’t the pelt like a piece of the soul or something like that?”
It was funny that the man asked that while they’d already spoken openly about selling that piece of the soul.
Tim shrugged again. Answering the question wouldn't give away any important information, but he still didn’t want to cooperate if he wasn’t being forced to.
“Huh, well,” one of the men began. “That’s definitely disappointing, but at the very least the pup is worth a fortune.”
Tim bristled at the wording. He may not have been mature in his seal form, but he hadn’t been a pup for some time. He was well into his adolescence by now.
There was something more to it that made him squirm though.
Even within selkie colonies, it was generally very odd to refer to children as pups or to males as bulls or to females as cows.
Hearing a human call him that… It felt wrong in a way he couldn’t quite articulate. It made his skin crawl.
“True,” Greg said, putting a hand under Tim’s chin again, ordering him to stay when Tim tried to pull back. He ruffled Tim’s hair with more roughness than necessary. “You’re about to make us rich, brat.”
His hands were more possessive this time. Not so much there to check if he’d left a bruise, just to make it clear that he could do what he wanted and Tim couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
Well, that was a stupid mistake on his part.
Tim inhaled deeply and spat in his face.
Greg reeled back. Some of his companions let out startled laughs.
He pulled an arm back and punched Tim in the stomach.
The hit knocked the wind out of him, and he grunted, doubling over, exaggerating a little bit. Not pleasant, but he’d taken harder hits out on patrol. He coughed and then forced a chuckle. “Worth it,” he said, straightening.
Greg stared him down, wiped Tim’s spit from his face and then, “STOP BREATHING.”
Tim’s lungs seized up.
It wasn’t like he didn’t see something like this coming. Of course there’d be some kind of consequence for pissing off the guy that was holding his pelt.
The key thing was to not panic. He’d use up the oxygen he already had if he flailed around. Batman had put him through some oxygen deprivation training. Tim was somewhat used to it already.
Just like holding your breath, he thought calmly. Just like holding your breath.
He hadn’t gotten the chance to properly prepare, but that was fine.
It is what it is.
His chest began to hurt.
It was too bad he didn’t get a seal’s oxygen capacity while in human form.
Breathe. Breathe!
He’d held his breath for almost twenty-five minutes in seal form.
He needed to breathe .
Seals could go longer, but he’d still been learning, so he gave himself some grace.
His chest ached, the need to inhale pressing in on him.
Black spots crawled along the edges of his vision.
Just a little longer, he told himself.
It was getting harder and harder to not struggle. He needed to take a breath.
The trick was to tell yourself you’d already taken a breath.
It’s not like they’re going to kill me. I’m useless to them dead.
He just had to focus on—on the thing—on breathing— not breathing.
Some of the men were talking. Yelling. “Dude, you have to let him go! Don’t kill the kid!” Something along those lines at least. Tim couldn’t quite follow their words.
“I’m not gonna kill him. I’ll stop when his face turns blue.”
Tim couldn’t fight it anymore; he took a breath in. Tried to.
He opened his mouth and tried to suck in a long overdue breath, but it didn’t go in. It was like he was choking on something. His lungs remained empty. And he couldn’t breathe.
His knees went weak, but he stayed standing since the order to stand up hadn’t been released.
“BREATHE.”
Tim took in great lungfuls of air, gasping and choking on his breaths.
His legs shook, but the order wouldn’t let him collapse. It felt like being held up by puppet strings over open air, painfully and cruelly suspended.
“Still worth it?” Greg asked.
Tim’s head was spinning and he felt like he was going to be sick. It took him a minute to respond.
“Hell, yeah,” he gritted out.
It wasn’t, but it wasn’t like he could let them know that.
“You little—” Greg began, raising a fist. Tim braced himself for another hit.
“Hey,” one of the men interjected, grabbing his arm. “Quit marking him up, man. Our job is just to gather the merchandise. We got the stuff, we got the kid. And the money we’ll get for him is more than we were even expecting. Let’s go already!”
Greg let his fist drop. “ Fine .” His finger dug into the pelt again. “Grab that vase and take it to the truck in the driveway.”
Tim let the order take control, too spent from his near suffocation to try to work out a loophole.
He worked out the loophole when he reached the truck.
There was a good chance he’d regret it, but as long as these bastards had a hold on his volition, the least he could do was be difficult.
The second he made it to the truck, he slammed the vase against the metal floor, shattering it into a million pieces.
His parents would have had a heart attack if they’d seen that. They loved that vase. It wasn’t an ancient artifact. They’d just been happy to win it in a prestigious art auction like five years ago. Tim had never cared for it. Aesthetically, he’d always found the thing quite ugly.
Ah, well, assuming he made it out of this, he could just blame it on the robbers.
Predictably, that did not bode well for him.
First, there was yelling. Fair. He’d expected that. Then, he got punched in the stomach again. Yeahhh, he couldn’t say that that surprised him either. And then, he was ordered to wedge himself into the corner of the truck, to sit down, and to sleep.
/-/-/
“It’s all humans, Timothy,” his mother had said once. “It’s all humans you have to be wary of. Until you’re able to burn your pelt.”
Tim had been maybe around nine or ten at the time, and his mother had decided it was time to sit him down for a talk while typing something out on her laptop.
“What about my friends?” he’d asked.
“Them too, darling,” she said, hitting a few more keys.
“What about Mrs.Mac? Or the school nurse? What if my head hurts because school is too far from my pelt?” He’d gotten the distance headaches before, not bad enough to go to the nurse, but some days were worse than others, and based on his parents’ experiences, the severity would vary as he grew up.
“Them too. If you get a headache from the distance, just say it’s from anxiety or lack of sleep, any excuse would work.”
“But—”
“Listen to me,” his mother said, putting her laptop aside to look Tim in the eyes. His pelt wasn’t in her possession this time, but he felt the order sink into him all the same. “Discuss it with no one outside of the family.”
When Tim didn’t say anything in response, she continued. “Your father and I are trusting you to be safe while we’re gone. We can’t hold your pelt from so far away.” She reached out and grabbed his shoulders in a firm grip. “Humans, even the ones you’re close to, are not to know about your pelt.”
Tim wasn’t sure what kind of face he’d made. He hadn’t planned on telling anyone he was a selkie. It wasn’t really something that came up in most conversations or, at least, he’d never brought it up before. His stomach churned whenever he thought about mentioning it.
She must not have liked Tim’s expression because she pressed her lips into a thin line.
“You remember your cousin Claire?”
“Not really.”
He remembered seeing a collection of photos of Claire at the last family reunion.
His mother had sighed. “I suppose you were rather young when it happened. She was around nineteen and had a boyfriend. Despite her parents telling her otherwise, she thought it would be safe to tell him.” Janet had looked pained as she continued. “When she transferred universities, she broke up with him to avoid a long-distance relationship. He stole her pelt and forced her to stay with him.”
“Why didn’t someone take it from him?” Tim had asked, stomach squirming.
“He made her leave the state and settle somewhere else. We don’t know where they are.” Another sigh. “And getting police involved won’t work because he most likely ordered her to say she moved willingly… and it would expose the rest of the family as selkies.”
Tim looked down at his lap, processing the story.
“Anyone could try to take your pelt, Tim. Things like that have happened to too many selkies. Their human friends betrayed them.” She’d said. “It’s okay to befriend humans, but you need to keep them at a distance. Do not let them know what you are.”
Tim nodded.
“I won’t tell anyone.”
“Good. That’s how we stay safe.”
/-/-/
Tim woke up groggy.
He always was when his pelt was used to put him down. He had a fair amount of experience with that. He was, to quote his mother,“a lot.” It wasn’t as nearly as brutal as what the thieves did, though. Just a simple, “Timothy, go get ready for bed, and then go to sleep. Wake up after eight hours.” It wasn’t pleasant, but it wasn’t the worst thing.
His hands weren’t bound, so that was something.
It wasn’t really, though. One order and he might as well have been in a straitjacket. He rubbed his eyes and tried to ignore the pounding in his skull.
“HANDS AT YOUR SIDES!”
His arms abruptly dropped to his sides like they were chained to weights.
It was a woman who held his pelt, which made something in his stomach turn. Greg was definitely cruel with the pelt, but seeing someone new with his pelt in his hand made him very sure that he’d already been sold.
At the very least, that meant the previous orders were overwritten. That could—
“STAND! DO NOT TAKE A STEP OUT OF PLACE.”
Shit, too slow.
His knees ached as he got to his feet. How long had he been crammed in the corner of the truck?
He’d need to bide his time, then. If he acted obedient and docile when the next person got his coat, he could possibly grab his pelt and make a break for it before they shackled him with too many orders.
If that didn’t work… Tim didn’t really want to think about that. He’d cross that bridge if he got there.
“Mmm,” the woman with his pelt hummed. “I don’t think the arms to the sides are working.” She tilted her head and squinted at Tim. “HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK.”
And Tim’s hands went behind his back.
“That’s better,” she said approvingly.
“Where am I?” Tim asked softly, careful to not to sound too confrontational. He was under no illusion that his mouth wouldn’t be shut with an order eventually, but he might as well try to get information while he could still talk. Or humanize himself, like how the articles said.
The lady tilted her head at Tim again as though it hadn’t occurred to her that a piece of merchandise could speak at all.
“Auction,” she said shortly.
“My name is Tim,” he said because it was important to let her know he had a name. “Why am I here?”
She scoffed. “Come on, kid, you’re a selkie. There’s no way you don’t know why you’re here.” Her voice held no trace of empathy.
Okay, so not off to a great start, but it wasn’t a lost cause yet.
Tim averted his eyes, his expression verging on shame. “I guess I’m just in denial,” he admitted quietly. He willed tears into his eyes. “Please help me. Please . I don’t want to be sold.”
The woman looked at him, unimpressed.
“My parents are wealthy,” Tim said. “They’d pay a lot to get me back. More than anyone here could.”
“I doubt that.”
“Please, you can call them!” It was doubtful that they’d pick up, but anything to try and buy himself time. “They’ll wire you the money, I swear.”
The woman smiled, acidic and cold. “You think you’re the first selkie I’ve sold? It’ll take more than begging and big, doe eyes to win me over.”
Tim blinked.
Okay, so pathos was a bust. He could try to appeal to her probable love of money, but even that felt like a reach since he’d already told her that his parents were rich.
“I live next door to Bruce Wayne,” he continued. “If my parents can afford to live there, imagine how much they would pay for the safe return of their only son.”
This time, the lady laughed, it was a little less caustic than her smile, but still definitely not great. “Your parents are small fish compared to some of the people at this auction, boy.” She shrugged. “Besides, if I helped you get out of this, I’d lose more than just my job.”
“Okay, but—”
“DON’T TALK.”
Tim’s mouth shut.
Damn it!
“CHIN UP, SHOULDERS BACK, STAND UP STRAIGHT.”
Tim shifted into position, his body moving without his permission.
“STAY LIKE THAT.”
She circled him, checking that Tim’s position was up to her standards before she walked away to attend to another item at the auction.
He couldn’t get a good look at the other items aside from a vase—another thing stolen from his house—that was across from him. A big screen was mounted on the wall behind it, a bright “$1000” glowed with eye-straining intensity.
Turning around was impossible, but it was fair to assume that an identical screen sat above and behind him.
Tim bit the inside of his cheek.
Okay, so this definitely wasn’t great… It was far beyond “not great,” as a matter of fact. He was getting dangerously close to “prepare for the worst” territory.
Hell, he was already there!
It’ll suck. He thought. But I can figure a way out… eventually. Assess the situation when I get there, work it out.
Then again, whoever held his pelt didn’t have to be smarter than him to keep him trapped. They just had to be smart enough.
He shoved the panic down because it’s not like it would do him much good now.
/-/-/
His eyes went glassy by the time the twentieth person looked him up and down and put in a bid.
On some level, he knew he was panicking, and that was why he was zoning in and out. He was panicking and his brain was trying to separate him from the situation.
Tim told himself it was fine. There was nothing he could do here; he’d already tried memorizing the faces of the people and he couldn’t focus.
Someone must have recognized him because he heard someone say, “Huh, so the Drakes are selkies, that would have been nice to know a couple months ago.”
He blinked, and…
Fuck, if he didn’t live out the rest of his life as a slave, his parents were going to kill him. No one was supposed to know that.
You should accept it, his own voice said in his head. You can’t outsmart them if they’re even a little bit careful.
He swallowed hard.
Yeah, he was screwed.
Assuming Batman comes looking for you, he won’t even have the right leads to find you.
Shit. He didn’t even want to think about Batman. It was just salt on the wound, the realization that his Robin tenure would be cut short now. All that work he’d put into working cases, into helping Bruce smooth out his rough edges, and his slow-growing bond with Dick… It’d all disappear.
He’d mourn it all later. His life wasn’t over yet. Keyword: yet.
Another person stood in front of him, likely assessing him as merchandise. He’d try to notice the faces again. Token effort.
He forced his eyes to focus, and if he hadn’t been chained by orders, he would have taken a step back in surprise.
Bruce stared at him.
Tim stared back.
Oh, shoot… he thought, his thoughts moving like molasses. I’m at that auction.
Bruce’s face was barely readable, but Tim could pick up on the shock.
Tim wanted to fidget, but the stupid order kept him firmly in place. He couldn’t explain the situation, couldn’t make an excuse. Tim had never planned to tell Bruce his secret, but… this had to be the worst way to reveal it.
Bruce didn’t ask. Not like he could without people noticing. He just stared.
Tim pressed his lips together and stared back. He didn’t want to plead, but crap, if Bruce didn’t get him out of this now… Well, he probably would later. That had been the original plan. Regardless, Tim really didn’t want to get sold off to someone for any amount of time.
He looked away after a minute, the eye contact getting to be too much.
When he looked up again, Bruce was gone.
He assumed he’d gone back to the mission.
Tim would be fine. Probably…
He couldn’t get a sense of the numbers behind him changing. Everything was too bright to see any shift in the screen’s glow.
What if Bruce assumes I’m working on my own and won’t interfere? Tim thought. He bit his lip as another person placed a bid on him.
He worried over it for a moment, but then figured that probably wouldn’t happen. Meeting him as an item at an auction and the pleading eyes definitely didn’t say “All part of the plan [thumbs up emoji].” Plus, Bruce was too overbearing to let Tim work alone.
Bruce came back, gave Tim another look. A look that said, “We’re going to have a talk about this later.” He didn’t even break eye contact when he punched another bid into his phone.
Crap, he was mad.
Under normal circumstances, Tim would dread the lecture he was in for at least a little bit. But now, he could only be relieved that Bruce was putting in insane amounts of money to keep him from getting sold to any of the other auction attendees.
The upcoming scolding would still suck though, but that hardly mattered because he’d be okay.
/-/-/
When the ship docked, Tim was led out to Bruce’s car.
The woman who had arranged him for the auction carried his pelt.
“I’d recommend you give clear, specific orders as soon as you have the pelt,” she said. “According to the men who brought him in, he has a tendency to try and exploit loopholes.”
Tim waited for the pelt to finally change hands. His back had been arrow straight and his muscles had been tense for way too long.
“Of course,” Bruce said, holding out a hand for Tim’s pelt.
The second it was in his grasp and the woman let go, Tim felt like he could breathe again. He stretched his arms out in front of him and took a deep breath in.
Then, as fast as he could, he pivoted on the ball of his foot and punched the woman in the face. Her nasal cartilage crunched under his fist. She shrieked and raised her arms to protect her face, so he hit her again in the stomach.
“STOP.”
His fist stopped halfway and he dropped his hands to his sides again.
“So sorry about that,” Bruce said in the fakest Brucie Wayne voice Tim had ever heard. “I didn’t give an order fast enough. It happened so fast.”
The lady took a ragged breath in before slowly getting to her feet, blood running from her nose and staining her shirt.
She punched Tim across the face. It would definitely turn into a black eye.
Bruce grabbed Tim’s shoulder and pulled him away from another punch, putting an arm up to stop her from trying to claw Tim’s face with her manicured nails.
“You broke my nose!” she howled.
Tim grinned, his eye throbbing with the movement. “Serves you right, you bitch! You want me to do it aga—”
“QUIET!” Bruce ordered, his hand tightening on Tim’s shoulder. “GET IN THE CAR AND SIT STILL.” Tim nodded and slipped into the passenger seat. Through the car window, he heard Bruce apologize for Tim’s behavior and assure her that he’d be disciplining his new selkie as soon as they arrived home.
Bruce sat down in the driver’s seat after another minute. He didn’t look at Tim, just started the car and started driving.
Tim’s hands itched to reach for his pelt that sat in Bruce’s lap, but that would conflict with order to sit still. Damn, Bruce had probably added that order for the sake of the keeping up appearances, but he hadn’t released Tim.
“Bruce,” Tim whispered. Because that command to be quiet was still in place. “Bruce, can you—”
“What were you thinking?!” Bruce snapped, holding the steering wheel in a white knuckled grip.
“Wha—”
“How could you think something like this was a good idea?”
“None of this was—”
“LET ME FINISH TALKING!”
The order sunk in; Tim’s mouth snapped shut. And it shook him more than the other orders did because there were no eyes on them now. It was just the two of them and Tim’s pelt. And Tim couldn’t fight, couldn’t make himself disobey.
Do not let them know what you are, his mother’s voice said in his head. They’ll turn on you.
Bruce kept talking, but Tim didn’t hear him. His whole body went cold and numb like he’d taken a dip in icy water.
Bruce knew now. He knew what Tim was and what he’d hidden for the past several months.
How would he handle this later? He was certainly no stranger to giving Tim orders.
On one hand, he could ensure that Robin would never disobey his orders again. He never appreciated it when Tim went against orders. Even when it worked out for the better, he was always a bit disgruntled at least.
On the other hand, Bruce hadn’t wanted another Robin. Tim had wedged himself in when Dick had refused to step back into the mantle. Bruce could just order Tim back to his house and stay there, and as long as Bruce kept Tim’s pelt, there’d be nothing Tim could actually do about it.
Tim didn’t know which would be worse.
Still be Robin, but become Batman’s puppet instead of his partner or get sent back home, his pelt in someone’s possession, barred from one of the things he loved most in the world.
His throat was tight, and it was hard to breathe.
His fingers wanted to twitch or interlock or do something. His whole body wanted to move , he wasn’t sure how. Maybe pull his knees to his chest or jump out of the car. But he couldn’t do much more than tense and untense his muscles. He might as well have been paralyzed.
“Tim,” Bruce said, exasperated.
Tim couldn’t turn to face Bruce, but he could see him in his peripheral vision.
“Do you even realize what could have happened to you if you’d had one misstep?”
Yeah, he thought bitterly. This.
They were getting closer to the manor and Tim kept looking straight ahead. The chill permeated him all the way down to his bones.
“I thought I made it clear that you weren’t to get involved with this case, and you just decided to go undercover?!”
Undercover?
Oh.
Tim’s eyes widened as he realized what Bruce hadn’t realized yet.
“Even if you have autonomy, pretending to be a selkie in order to get into the auction was incredibly reckless and dangerous! You could have been trafficked regardless of your ability to disobey orders.”
Bruce didn’t actually know .
There was still a chance for Tim then. If he played his cards right, he could make it out with his pelt and with his secret intact. Maybe Bruce would only bench him and not fire him and he’d be able to keep Robin too.
He began to feel a little warmer. There was still hope; it wasn’t all over yet.
They pulled into the garage and Bruce parked the car, moving the gear shift into place with more force than necessary. Bruce fully turned to Tim before putting a hand on his shoulder. “Tim, LOOK AT ME.” The words were spoken more gently than his earlier rant, but it still felt like a slap in the face.
Tim turned to look at him.
Bruce held up the pelt in between them. So close, but still far beyond Tim’s reach. “Selkie skins are a black market item.” Tim knew that. “Where did you get this, Tim? TELL ME THE TRUTH.”
Tim tried to swallow his words, but they bubbled up against his will.
“It’s mine,” he blurted out. “I was born with it.”
The car was absolutely silent.
Tim watched Bruce, he couldn’t look away after all, since Bruce didn’t release the order. Bruce looked down at the pelt and then back at Tim.
He missed the movement, but one second Bruce’s orders were coiling around his soul, and then next, his fingers were digging into his pelt. He pulled his knees to his chest, curling around his pelt.
“You’re a selkie?” Bruce said, his voice strange.
Tim shut his eyes for a second. There was no backtracking now.
“Yes.”
“I-I am so sorry,” he said. His hand came close, probably to pat Tim’s shoulder, and then he pulled away. “I never would have told you—I wouldn’t have used it if I’d known… I thought you were working undercover.”
“Yeah,” Tim said, still curled protectively around his pelt. “I got that.”
“I’m sorry,” Bruce said again.
Tim uncurled a little. “It’s okay,” he mumbled, the ice in his veins slowly melting. “It’s not like it was intentional. I know."
Some little voice in his head nagged at him. He could always take your pelt from you. Keep a tight grip. He pushed his pelt to the side, just a little further from Bruce. The man could still take it if he tried, but at least it’d be a bit more of a struggle.
“How did you get there?”
“Some guys robbed my house,” Tim began. “I left my pelt out and they found it.”
He got a sinking feeling in his stomach, as though he’d swallowed a stone. Regardless that he’d make it out in one piece, people knew he was a selkie. When he went back to normal life, someone would try to track down his pelt and trap him again. They’d tear the house apart to find it. He’d never be able to live as Tim Drake without looking over his shoulder.
Unless… He could solve the problem in about ten minutes.
Tim rubbed his eyes. “Thanks for getting me out,” he said. “I really didn’t want to go through the trouble of escaping from someone. I’ll pay you back. Eventually, probably when I inherit Drake Industries.”
“The money isn’t important,” Bruce said, opening the car door.
“Well, most of the other auction attendees would probably disagree.” Tim muttered. He rested his head against the seat. He didn’t feel ready to leave the car, but he stepped out anyway. “How did the rest of the mission go? I hope I didn’t interfere.”
“It was fine, but that’s not important.” He looked at Tim, his eyes analyzing. “Are you alright after that?”
Tim bristled. “Of course it was important. I helped plan it.” Then, to answer Bruce’s question, “I’m fine. I’ve been through worse.”
Bruce rounded the front of the car to stand in front of Tim. Tim took an involuntary step back. “You’ve been trembling since you got your pelt back.”
Tim looked down at his hands that were clutching his pelt. Sure enough, they were shaking.
“I’m fine,” he said again. “It’s just a weird little response after I get my pelt back after getting orders.”
Bruce went still. “This has happened before?”
Tim shrugged. “Not much, but really, it’s fine .”
Bruce’s hand came close and Tim forced himself not to flinch. Bruce wasn’t taking his pelt. He wasn’t . He tilted Tim’s chin up and hummed. “She got a good hit in. Let’s get some ice on that.”
/-/-/
The ice helped. Tim hadn’t even realized how much his eye throbbed until the ache started to ease. The other bruises from his kidnappers hurt too, but not quite as much.
“Sorry you found out this way,” Tim said, laying on the cot, his pelt under him. Sorry you found out at all.
His pelt was balled up under him, and it would definitely leave his back sore if he slept on it, but it was better than leaving it out in the open. He wanted to keep it close… while he still could.
“Hn.”
That didn’t sound like a really negative “hn” but Tim couldn’t help but feel like his radar on Bruce was off.
“Are you mad?” he asked after a moment.
“No, Tim, I’m not mad.”
Tim half expected him to add “just disappointed.”
“I would’ve told you,” Tim said. “But my parents forbade it.” Tim himself wasn’t sure if that was even the truth. He might have kept it a secret from Bruce regardless of his parents’ orders.
“Of course,” Bruce said. “If the wrong people knew, it’d put you in danger… It did put you in danger.”
“Yeah, I know.”
He thought about Claire for a moment, betrayed by someone she’d once been close to. Even though Bruce had all but thrown his pelt back at him when he’d realized, even though Bruce had immediately apologized… Something in Tim just kept imagining if it had gone the other way.
If he didn’t actually know Bruce as well as he thought he did…
“Do you have a place to hide it now that your house is compromised?”
Right, that was the other thing that had been eating at Tim. He couldn’t keep his pelt anywhere in his house. People knew what he was now. Hell, all of Gotham’s upper class with ties to the criminal underworld would know by sunrise.
In theory, he could find a spot somewhere else on the estate, or even slightly further away. Even then, keeping a close eye on it would be difficult.
Not that any of that actually mattered in the long run.
No one could control him with the ashes of his pelt.
“No,” he said, sitting up. “I don’t, but it’s okay.” He pulled his pelt into his lap. “I won’t let it become a problem.”
It was as good a time as any, wasn’t it?
He could wait years and would still never feel ready to get it over with.
“You have a backup location?”
Tim shrugged. “Something like that.” He pushed himself off the bed, his pelt slung over his shoulder. He hardly noticed the chill of the cave.
He didn’t feel quite in his body. It was weird, like when he’d zoned out at the auction. He felt his legs moving, but wasn’t in control of them.
Tim walked away from Bruce, feeling his eyes on him. That was fine. Bruce could watch if he wanted; it was his cave after all.
He knew where they kept the lighters.
Using a flamethrower would have been faster, but that felt aggressive and unnecessarily cruel. Better to endure the pain of a slower burn than just incinerating it.
Despite the dangers of being a selkie, he’d never hated that part of his identity. It was inconvenient, yes. But it was him.
It had been him.
He let his pelt fall to the ground, the comforting weight leaving him. Somehow, he felt heavier without it.
It was fine.
He’d think of it like adding weight to the bar when he bench pressed. It was heavier. It made it harder, but he’d get used to it. Then, he’d get stronger and then, he’d add more weight.
Just like lifting, he thought.
Tim flicked on the lighter. He couldn’t remember grabbing one, but it was in his hands and he had a job to do.
His body felt hot. Made sense. The flame nearly reached the soft fur of the pelt. That burning sensation in his gut would get a hundred times worse when the fire spread.
“What the hell are you doing?” Bruce snapped, slamming into Tim.
It wasn’t enough to knock him to the ground, but he stumbled. Bruce took advantage of his confusion and pried the lighter from his hand.
“Burning my pelt,” Tim responded, blinking. “Can’t be a problem if it’s gone.”
Something clattered against the cave wall. The lighter lay in pieces on the ground. Tim hadn’t even seen Bruce throw it.
Bruce bent down to retrieve Tim’s pelt.
For a moment, Tim thought that he’d reconsidered leaving Tim his freedom, but he thrust the pelt into Tim’s hands before that line of thought could go too far.
Tim looked down at it, tangled his fingers into the fur.
He felt a little more present. His body didn’t feel quite such a burden to move.
“It’s part of your soul,” Bruce said. “You can’t just burn it. Do you know what that could have done to you?”
Bruce’s hands were on Tim’s shoulders.
Tim’s legs trembled despite the weight lifted and he sank to his knees.
“It was always the plan,” he said quietly, looking up to see Bruce lower himself to Tim’s level. “My parents burned theirs; lots of selkies burn their pelts. Too much of a risk, having it around or even hidden.”
“That doesn’t mean you should do it. Especially not when you’re this young.”
Tim blinked. Technically, that was true. There had been studies conducted on the effects of pelt burning, but they weren’t well known. He wondered for a moment why Bruce even knew about that, but assumed it was a part of being Batman. Batman made it his business to know everything.
“It’s not like I have many options,” Tim said weakly. “People know now. Unless I want to hide from the public forever, I can’t keep the pelt.” He paused, realizing another thing. “Shit,” he muttered. “I’ll have to inform my extended family that I was exposed… Mom and Dad will be pissed.” He inhaled and his breath was shaky.
“Tim,” Bruce began, putting his hands on Tim’s shoulders. The contact caught him by surprise despite how slowly Bruce moved. He didn’t flinch, but almost. “Do you trust me?”
That was a bit of a loaded question. Tim had thought he trusted Bruce. Then, he didn’t for the duration of the car ride. Then, Bruce had practically thrown the pelt back at Tim once he realized. That was a reason to trust him.
That should have eased any doubts, but the feeling of the orders in his guts remained. It would probably go away eventually. For the moment, the feeling was a little too fresh.
So, now…
“I guess,” Tim said.
If Bruce didn’t like the uncertainty in his answer, he didn’t show it.
“Alright, I have a proposal for you.”
“Okay.”
“You stay here. We’ll sort this out, figure out everyone who knows and call in Martian Manhunter to wipe their memories. We’ll spread the rumor that the selkie was someone who looked like Tim Drake.”
Tim hugged his pelt closer and stared down at his pelt. The plan sounded half baked. His face must have shown that thought.
“We’ll figure it out,” Bruce said firmly, pulling Tim just a little closer.
Tim nodded, still looking down.
“In the mean time, you can keep your pelt close or hide it down here in the Batcave or the manor if you want.”
You’d find it, Tim thought, because of course Bruce would be able to find it.
“Alfred and I won’t look for it,” Bruce promised. “We’d tell you if I stumbled on it.”
Tim didn’t respond.
“Tim, can you look at me?” Bruce asked.
He did. Slowly.
If Bruce wanted him to move faster, he could have just snatched Tim’s pelt from his hands, but his hands didn’t move from Tim’s shoulders.
“I don’t want to use it against you, and I won’t. I promise.”
Do I have a choice? Tim wanted to ask.
It was probably as much of a choice he’d get. His only sure course of action was to burn his pelt, which Bruce had made his feelings on clear. He couldn’t hide it in his manor or any place his parents owned. The cave was the most secure place as long as Bruce kept his word.
“Would you be up to it?” Bruce asked.
“I guess,” Tim said again.
“And promise me you won’t burn it,” Bruce added.
“Fine.”
Maybe he could have been a little less terse, but between standing still while strangers planned to buy him, getting hit, having his pelt passed between so many hands, he was tired. So much so that he barely felt like he’d be able to stay on his feet if he tried.
Bruce frowned. “Do you really want to burn it?”
“Not really,” Tim said softly. Then something he’d never admit to his parents. “I like it… I liked using it to swim and gather information. I’m not supposed to, but it felt… natural.”
“Of course it did,” Bruce said quietly. “It’s a part of you.”
“Yeah, not exactly what my parents would say.” Tim looked down at his pelt again. “They call it an ‘unfortunate consequence of my genetics.’”
“I’m sorry they ever told you that. That’s not right.”
“Hm,” Tim hummed because he couldn’t quite figure out what to say to that.
He wasn’t sure if it was because Bruce hadn’t made any sort of grab for his pelt or the tone or his exhaustion, but he felt just a little bit better about the whole thing. Maybe it would be fine. He could keep his pelt intact and remain free.
“I won’t burn it,” he said eventually.
For now.
He still didn’t actually want to burn it, but if Bruce went back on his word or if this plan failed…
For now, he didn’t want to think about it anymore.
For now, it was a problem for a different day.