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crow-aeris · 6 months ago

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The continuation/prequel to my not-quite mermay/mermay submission thing!

first part

———

Tim drifts in the tank, flicking his tail as he swam through the water. A hazy cloud stuffed his brain as he slowly regained consciousness.

He vaguely remembers the feeling of warm water flowing against the surface of his egg, the sensation of water rushing through his gills. He only had one day with his sire, enough to be named Tim, before the water suddenly shifted, and he was pulled from his hatching ground and thrown into something with colder water.

He had then been sent off... somewhere, crying and chirping for a pod, his dam, and his sire.

There was... a smell?

Tim slowly lifted his hand to his face, blinking laboriously as his awareness returned in bits and pieces.

The feeling of a syringe being shoved down his throat to force artificial-tasting milk into his mouth, the feeling of rough hands pinning his arms and delicate fins against his sides as fingers rubbed his throat and forced him to swallow the strange mixture.

That was how he spent his time as a pup, but the moment his fangs grew in, the humans abruptly took away the not-milk and forced him to eat chunks of cold fish.

Tim jerked at the sound of obnoxious laughter filling the air, and he lifted his head to stare through the glass and into the crowd of humans. Eyes- there were so. Many. EYES.

He flinched back, his dorsal fins bumping into the smooth wall, a panicked trill falling from his lips as he whipped around. The humans were saying something, laughing and pointing.

Tim rears back, flaring his pectoral and cranial fins, hissing and snarling at them to LEAVE.

But, like humans tend to do, they didn't listen.

Panic begins to build at the back of his mind. When he locks eyes with Janet and Jack- the humans who bought him- the fear drains away, only to be replaced by a sudden and overwhelming fury.

Tim forces himself to settle, eyes flicking to the latches barely visible toward the edge of the tank. He relaxes, resuming the appearance of a still and docile mer, entertaining the cooing humans as he hovers near the tank lid. He watched with smooth satisfaction as Janet noticed what he was doing.

"I'm sorry," Janet smiles with sharpened edges and furious eyes, "but it has been a long night, and I am sure Timothy must be exhausted."

Just as she got the words out, Tim managed to snap open the lock. With a victorious grin, the mer shoved open the lid, ignoring the shouts of alarm before swimming toward the bottom. He sucked in a breath before hurtling up-up-up and out of the tank.

Tim grunts as he slams against the floor, water dripping off his skin and scales as he hissed at the humans screaming and rushing around in alarm.

"GUARDS!" Janet shouts, calling and sneering at Tim with narrowed eyes.

He snarled, raising and flaring his fins. He- he needed to get out somehow. But- but how? He didn't think this through. Curse the stars- why was he acting like a stupid pup?

Tim felt his venom fangs lengthen from the roof of his mouth, and when one of the guards approached, the mer lunged forward with a vicious snarl.

His hands hooked into the man's clothes, slamming his body into his chest before biting.

The man screams before kicking Tim off of him. The mer was too hungry, and his venom was lacking, even within his species.

But before he could lash out, footsteps rushed over, and he whirled around to snarl at the approaching... selkie?

Tim falters, the muscles extending his fangs relaxed as he frowns at the creature in confusion. What was a selkie doing?

And then, a whistling sound filled the air, and a sharp sensation stabbed Tim's arm.

He screams, writhing on the ground in pain as a hazy panic crept through his body.

"PLEASE!" he screams, his arm giving out from under him as he latches desperately onto the selkie's leg, staring at his horrified expression, "I- I DON'T- DON'T MAKE ME GO BACK! PLEASE!"

A pathetic whine tears from his throat, the sedatives taking hold, and everything goes dark.

#tim drake #batman #batfam #dick grayson #bruce wayne #fanfic #merman tim drake #selkie dick grayson #janet drake #jack drake #tw drugs #mermay 2024 #mermay

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saveugoodmadam · 10 months ago

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lost & found

🦭this is my personal take on @chimeofthecomet's selkie au, all credit for creating the au goes to pip! :3 word count is around 2.5k 🦭

"Got your pelt?” Davey asks as he and his brother walk back to their house, their path illuminated by softly glowing streetlamps. Les nods, patting his selling bag, then opens it to show a pelt of soft, thick fur with a few patches beginning to develop on the jet-black fluff. His name is inked on the skin, written in their mother's loopy handwriting.

“D’you have yours?” he asks Davey.

Davey opens his bag, expecting to see his familiar spotted pelt inside, but is met with just empty air instead. He stops dead in his tracks. His breathing is rapid, his hands clutching tight to the strap across his chest.

“Is it back at the lodge house?” Les asks, hoping that the effort of finding an answer will stop his big brother from panicking.His plan works. Davey’s hands slowly unclasp and his breathing regulates as he combs through the evening they've just spent with the newsies in his head. He remembers lounging on an old, saggy, threadbare sofa and listening to Jack talking about his newest backdrop. He remembers a short nap he'd taken, lulled to sleep by Jack's smooth voice before he'd been woken up by Race and Albert’s loud bickering. Only now does he remember how his bag was lighter when he'd stood up to confront them.

“Y- yeah, I think so. Somewhere on the couch. I- I-" No. He can't go back and get it now. They're too far away from the lodging house at this point, and they need to be back home for dinner.

“I’ll get it back next morning. I'll be fine without it for a night.”

But he knows he's lying. All through dinner there's a pull in his chest that he knows will only quiet itself once his pelt is back beside him.

“Are you alright, my little leanabh ròin?” Esther asks as he picks silently at his meal. “Is the food too much for your tongue today?”

He shakes his head. “No, Mama. It's very nice, thank you.”

“Whatever the matter is, bubbeleh,” Mayer reassures him with the sort of smile that Davey thinks only fathers can have, “you can always talk to us. We're your parents, are we not? We want to make sure you’re alright.”

“Yes, Papa. It's nothing really. I'll always seek your help if I need it, I promise,” he tells his father, making extra sure to eat everything on his plate.

His sleep is fraught that night and whenever he does drift off for a small burst of unconsciousness, the sea fills his dreams. Guilt seeps into his body, saturating him with the shame of losing the one thing a selkie must never lose. In an act of desperation he knocks on Sarah's door, weeping in relief when she lets him in and wraps the both of them in her own pelt. Perhaps because they are twins and therefore their sealskins are almost identical, the presence of her pelt against his body means the pulling feeling is calmed enough to let him finally drift off.

As early as he can the next morning, he brings Les down to the lodging house to retrieve his pelt and soothe the tugging in his bosom. It's Crutchie who opens the door when he knocks, the older boy's face souring at the sight of him.

“Hey, Les!” Crutchie says, then adds curtly, “Mornin’, David. Jack ain't here.”

“Oh, I'm not here for Jack today. I, uh, I left something here last night,” Davey explains. From the way Crutchie's acting, he's hit by the not unfamiliar feeling that he's really badly messed up but doesn't know how.

“You sure did. And I'll tell you what, we all know what you left.”

Davey freezes up, his hand clasping Les’ tighter. “You do?”

Crutchie nods, his mouth a thin line. “Mm-hmm. There's a seal Jack talked with, down by the harbour. He loved that animal. Wouldn't stop talkin’ about it every time he went down ‘n’ talked at it ‘n’ slipped it bits’a fish. An’ now suddenly you leave its skin behind in the lodge house.”

Suddenly, Davey feels sick to his stomach. Of course the newsies don't believe in selkies. They believe in poachers.

“Listen, I can explain. I promise, this is all a big misunderstanding!” he stammers. Crutchie's harsh eyes soften just a little.

“I sure hope it is, and I sure hope you can explain. But not to me. I don't need explanations. Jack's down at the harbour, with whatever the hell remains of that poor animal.” Crutchie looks like he's done speaking, then adds- “You broke my little brother's goddamn heart, David, and you're damn well gonna fix it up again.”

Davey nods meekly. “I will. I swear.”

He leaves Les at the lodge house and runs.

There are three things that Davey can trust his instincts to lead him to- the ocean, his pelt and Jack. There's a perfect harmony thrumming in his bones as his legs lead him to all three at once. He reaches the harbour as soon as he can- feet hammering against the ground, heart hammering against his chest. Jack is easily spotted from here; his crimson shirt sticks out like a sore thumb against the grey-blue of the water. Davey's heart sinks at the sight of the hunched-over figure at the end of the pier.

“Jack?” he questions softly, approaching the boy.

Jack turns around, his eyes wet and narrowed in outrage. Tear-tracks bleed through the dirt on his cheeks.

“How could you?” he splutters, the bite in his voice softened by grief.

The pelt is clutched to his chest, the fur wet in patches from being wept into. Davey's instincts are hot behind his ribs, urging him to snatch back his pelt and reclaim his second nature. Despite this, some other feeling that always swells in his chest when he's near Jack is weirdly comfortable seeing Jack's fingers against the sealskin, hugging such a crucial part of Davey so close to him.

“Jack, it's not- not what it looks like. I promise, I really-”

Davey starts to speak after a few moments of silence, but Jack quickly interrupts.

“Yknow, I'd never’a pinned you down as one to go around slaughterin’ innocent creatures. That seal hadn't done nothin’ wrong to you! He was… he was my friend…”

“I know. He's not gone. He's still your friend,” Davey tries to explain. Sitting cross-legged next to Jack, he takes back his pelt, feeling a blanket of relief settle over him as he cards his fingers through the fur, gently untangling small knots.

“How?” Jack asks. His tone begs for an answer more than it demands one. “You think I don't recognise the little fella’s skin when I see it? And out of all’a the seals in New York you could’a done this to, it had to be the one who meant the most to me? I'm so used to losing people, Davey. I'm so tired of it. You know that. I thought I could at least trust you not to be the reason I lost anyone else!”

It breaks Davey's heart to see Jack look so horribly betrayed. He’s never realised how much Jack trusts him until now, not really.

“Jack… the answer is- it's easiest to show you. You won't believe me if I use words.”

“Sure,” Jack hisses, his voice hollow and defensive.

In a single practised move, Davey wraps the pelt tight around himself and draws his head under the hood with his eyes shut tight. When he looks back up at Jack it is with the same big wet eyes he first looked at him with when he poked his head above the water on that rainy afternoon in late May.

“Dave?” Jack breathes, using the nickname he reserves only for special situations like this. It's a world away from the Jack who was there just a moment ago. His face is a mask of utter shock. “You was... that seal was... it's you."

Davey barks an affirmative. Jack's face buries in his hands, his shoulders heaving.

“Are you okay?” Davey asks, unwrapping himself from his pinniped form and rushing to console Jack. His answer is a nod as Jack lifts his head, his mouth open in silent laughter, tears of mirth forming in the corners of his eyes. Awkward as ever, Davey just sits there, unsure what to say but happy at least that Jack isn’t upset or angry.

“Oh my god!” Jack says once he's finally calmed down enough to speak. “That little honky bark…sorry, I shouldn't'a laughed, but it was so hilariously adorable.”

“It was?” Davey asks, confused.

“Yeah!” Jack chuckles, then groans slightly in embarrassment. “Oh god, I said so many things I regret now!”

“It's okay. You didn't know the seal was also me.”

“Fair, but, I mean- I did say some kinda embarrassing things in hindsight.”

Davey flashes a wicked grin. “What, like ‘hey there, water doggy’?’ ‘Want some fish, cutie patootie’? ‘Awww, stop lookin’ at me with those big ol’ wet eyes’?”

“Alright, okay!” Jack laughs. “Point well made, Mr Jacobs.”

Then he turns his puppy eyes on Davey, the ones that Davey hasn't learnt to say no to yet.

“Can we pleeeeaaaseee forget that ever happened now, Davey?”

“Fine,” Davey concedes. He doesn't add “you can still call me cutie patootie though”, but he wants to.

Instead, he adds, “If you're wondering, and I don't blame you, I'm a selkie. So long as I have my pelt with me, I can be a human or a seal depending on which is most appropriate at the time. Without my pelt, I'm just plain old David.”

“Hey, you ain't plain!” Jack interjects kindly.

He pauses.

“Sorry I- well, actually that me ‘n’ all the fellas jumped to conclusions.”

“Its fine.” Davey murmurs as he nuzzles the pelt against his cheek, inhaling the familiar scent. His chest-feeling thrills a little at the fact he can smell Jack on it too. “Not the most logical of conclusions, is it?”

Jack shakes his head and offers out his hand as a silent peace offering, which Davey gladly accepts. Their hands pull away slowly when it is over, fingers lingering for want of touch.

“What's the writin’ on it mean, then? The, uh, the word on the skin bit.”

Davey's gaze breaks away from the point in the middle of the sea he's been staring out at.

“Oh, you mean this?” he asks, pointing to his mother's writing.

“Yeah. That word. Dàibhidh,” Jack reads, lips forming around the word in the clunky way all non-speakers’ lips do. His brow furrows in concentration. He looks so desperate to get it right. Davey's lips quirk up in a small smile, finding the effort utterly charming.

“Dàibhidh,” Davey repeats, tracing a thumb over the letters. His tongue wraps around the word from his birthplace’s tongue like he's greeting a long-lost lover. “My name, in the language of where Mama and I were both born. So mine and Sarah's pelts don't get mixed up.”

“So it's a family kinda thing? Damn, I wonder if my folks used t’be selkies?” Jack muses, idly drawing swirls and stars on his arm with a piece of charcoal he's taken from his pocket.

“There's only one way to know that. Have you ever felt a longing for the sea so bad you couldn't do anything but follow your feet down to the beach and dive in?”

Davey trails his fingers wistfully in the water as he waits for Jack's reply. A warm laugh bubbles up from his best friend’s throat.

“Not for the sea, no. But I can tell what you mean.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. Santa Fe.”

“Nope.”

He tilts his head in confusion as he turns to look at Jack, who has an old paper set on the planks of the pier and is drawing on it. Curious, he scoots over to see what the picture is of. It's him, just a moment ago, laid flat on his stomach with his arm dangling downwards from the pier. It's in that moment he realises that Jack hasn't drawn Santa Fe in a long while, and that most of the drawings that decorate the Penthouse are of him. In that moment he also realises how tenderly Jack's looking at him, how soft his smile is (oh, those dimples will be the death of him) and how, if he ever did have to give up the sea forever, Jack is the one person he'd do it for. Maybe that's what love is, then. Maybe that's the name of the feeling in his chest. Maybe it's the name of the feeling in Jack's chest too. Now that it's been named, the feeling swells and swells until it bursts and Davey knows.

For just a second, Davey hesitates before he passes the sealskin to Jack. Something suddenly has made him braver than he's ever been in his life; braver than on the swim to America with his pod, braver than the day his dad got into the accident, braver than he was during the strike.

“You know,” he tells him, trying to keep his voice steady, “when a human gives a selkie back their skin, it counts as marriage in our culture. Well, not marriage exactly, more like eternal commitment, but it's got the same level of cultural importance. It means we trust that person enough to let them have control over our future, and they respect us enough to let us choose. The stories always say you know who you'll give your pelt to when you find them. And I know, I know, Jack, that it's you.”

Jack's mouth opens in an ‘O’ of surprise, his eyebrows raising as he realises what Davey just said, what Davey just did. His fingers trace lines between the spots on the pelt, feeling its warmth, Davey's warmth.

“An’... an’ you want me to…”

“If you don't want to, that's okay,” Davey clarifies, a horrible nausea settling in his stomach at the thought he's misread this situation. Jack probably doesn't want this. Maybe he’ll hate Davey now and never talk to him again. Or he'll take off running with the pelt and Davey won't ever see him again and won't ever be able to come back to the sea again, no matter how much the yearning in his chest hurts him.

“You can just put it down and I'll pick it up and we can forget this ever happened. That's probably what you want, isn’t it? I'm sorry, I'm a fool, I should have asked, shouldn't have assumed. I’ll just- just go, should be getting back to selling-”

He stops as he feels soft fur against his hands. Jack's callused fingers brush against his soft ones. A gasp escapes his throat as his sea-glass green eyes meet Jack's driftwood-brown ones. Then he's enveloped in a hug, strong arms closing around him and giving the exact amount of pressure that he likes. This feels right, feels comfortable. His instincts are gladly adapting to the change, labelling Jack as husband, dearest, darling, mine.

“How the hell are we gonna explain this?” Jack asks with a fond smile.

“I don't know. But I don't doubt we'll find a way. You're an extraordinary man, Jack Kelly, you know that?”

“No less than you are, Davey Jacobs.”

#newsies #newsies fanfic #selkie au #davey jacobs #jack kelly #crutchie morris #les jacobs #:3 👍 pip thank you for this wonderful au gdushsja i love selkies so much #my words

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ladylilithprime · 28 days ago

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Day 18: Family Business

(Set in the Faerie Court of Avalon, NJ series. Sam is a half-faerie prince, Cas and Jimmy Novak are his husbands, and Jack is their adopted selkie son.)

THE END OF school and the start of summer was greeted with mixed reactions from the students at Middle Township High School. The final days of school were often shortened to half-days that were more shindig than scholastic, and many of the students in the freshman class just didn't bother going. In the higher grades it was a more mixed bag, some kids choosing to skip out so they could get a head start on summer job applications, while others stuck to the school schedule to avoid having to job hunt or, in the case of the graduating seniors, get any last minute help on college applications.

Newly-sixteen-year-old Jack Kline and his best friends, Matt Pike and Kaia Nieves, were a very mixed bag in that respect. All three of them had made it clear to their fellow classmates that they intended to spend the summer working, but the where and when they started was still a bit up in the air.

"Would've thought that was already settled," Krissy Chambers said where she sat straddling the bench at the lunch table.

"Why would you think that?" Matt asked, exchanging a confused glance with Jack. "I mean, it's a summer job, not a career. There's plenty of options, but not all the options are gonna be good fits for padding our respective college applications in two years...."

"Move, bitches," Kaia interrupted, sliding in between Matt and Krissy with an armful of sodas and snack bags. "We're in the final days so the pickings are a bit slim. What's your poison?"

"Cocaine," Jack deadpanned, laughing when Kaia flipped him off and slid a can of Cherry Coke across the table to him.

"I don't understand," Krissy said, absentmindedly grabbing a can of Sprite as she looked around the group. "I mean, I'm going to be working at the marina with my dad, Jack's obviously going to go work at that cafe his dads own--"

"No I'm not," Jack broke in, surprised. "I mean, yeah, Dad would hire me on for the summer if that's what I wanted, but I've actually got a lifeguard gig lined up at the beach."

"What?" Krissy's exclamation was echoed by two other kids, Jason Pond and Ben Braeden, who'd obviously been eavesdropping. Seeing that they were being acknowledged, Jason coughed and added, "Most of us kinda figured your dads would have you joining the family business right out of school, what with all three of them working there."

"And your mom, too," Ben added, which... what?

"My mom is dead, guys," Jack reminded them, getting a wince from Jason and Krissy and an eyeroll from Ben.

"Stepmom, then," Ben corrected himself. "Or whatever it is you call Miss Charlie."

"I call her Charlie," Jack said, sharing a bewildered look with Matt and Kaia. "Maybe Aunt Charlie if I wanna tease her for getting old or something, but she's not one of my parents." Frankly, Charlie was way more influential over Kaia than him, the way his best female friend had taken to emulating her whenever appropriate.

"Dude, did you just assume every fulltime employee at Lighthouse CommodiTeas was part of the polycule?" Kaia snorted, unintentionally reinforcing Jack's mental point, and full on laughing when Ben blushed. "Yeah, no. Charlie met Sam because her former girlfriend pointed her in his direction when she wanted to get her jackass corporate boss arrested for crimes against humanity or something. Cas and Jimmy came around for their own reasons and stayed because they fell for Sam and Sam fell right back."

"And all three of my dads also went to college before deciding to work in a cafe," Jack pointed out, bringing the conversation back around to the previous topic. "Multiple times in Dad's case since, y'know, fuctionally immortal half-faerie; I think he's got a couple of doctorates and a handful of masters degrees at this point. But Papa J and Papa C both went to college and got degrees in Communications and Technical Writing respectively, and when they first started talking about getting married Dad sat down with them to figure out ways they could put those degrees to proper use since they wouldn't have to worry about money anymore. And since they're all three functionally immortal, in a few decades they'll have probably found people they like and trust to take over the cafe or buy it and they'll go on to do something else."

"Really?" came from Ben, Jason, Krissy and, surprisingly, Matt.

"I kinda thought the cafe was your dads' passion project or something," Matt admitted to Jack's raised eyebrow, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Eh, for now, maybe?" Jack shrugged. "Dad opened the place originally when we moved here to give us both a touchstone with the broader community, but he only really considered expanding or building up the place a little after Papa C started baking there. So, like, it's a business that's run by my family, but it's not a family business, y'know? Not like the Three Black Cats diner run by the Banes family, or Krissy's dad's place at the marina."

"It honestly never occurred to me to make that distinction," Krissy admitted sheepishly. "I mean, it always seemed like a given that I'd go to school until I graduate and then come work with Dad. I mean, isn't that what most parents expect of their kids?"

Several loaded looks were shared around the table for a moment. Eventually, Matt sighed and set down his grape Fanta. "Look, my foster mom is a selkie sheriff and her girlfriend is a veterinarian, and they both encouraged me to decide for myself what I want to do. Meanwhile, my bio dad tried to sacrifice me to a pagan god to lift an ancient curse on tribal land his company was trying to commercialize, so I figure he doesn't get a vote anymore."

"I don't know who my bio parents were or what they did," Kaia said with a shrug. "And my foster parents were unenthused when my powers manifested, so I don't really care what they think, either."

"My mom works in a morgue," Jason added with a dry look. "With the Revelation and recent protections for folks like us, she doesn't have to, and she says I don't either if I want to do something else."

"Mom's a yoga instructor," Ben offered without elaborating.

"And we just went over what my dads do and why," Jack piped up, covering his cousin's reticence. "My mom was a selkie like me and worked as an underwater environmental lobbyist until my sperm donor stole her coat. She gave me to Dad in exchange for vengeance on the asshole as a way to protect me from being trapped and abused like she was, and Dad's done his best to fulfill that wish. So we all figure what I do is my choice, and being a lifeguard will look good for applying to Annapolis or getting into another college on a ROTC scholarship, get a degree that'll give me a flipper up with the Navy."

"Huh," Krissy sat back, looking a little troubled. "Am I being boring for just going to work for my Dad?"

"Nah," Matt shook his head.

"Kinda," Ben said, holding up his hands when Kaia glared at him, "but if it's what you really want to do, as a long term thing or even if you just want to do it while you look for something else to call to your passion, then our opinions don't mean shit."

"Choice matters," Jack added earnestly. "At the end of the day, no one can make your choices for you. Even if they think they can, you still have to agree to go along with it," he added with a flicker of a glance towards Ben, who ducked his head in a way that could've been a nod.

"Okay," Krissy nodded, looking a bit happier.

For a few minutes all of them just drank their sodas or munched on the chips, pretzels, and funions, each with their own set of thoughts. Eventually, Ben cleared his throat and glanced up at Jack.

"So, since you won't be going to work at the cafe," he said slowly, one finger tapping a finger against the near empty can, "you think your dad might be willing to hire me for the summer?"

"Only one way to find out," Jack said with a smirk. "Just don't call Charlie my mom again, for your own protection. You will get way too much information about her and Miss Dorothy."

"Dorothy Baum?"

"The school librarian?!"

Jack sat back and let his friends have their mental meltdowns over finding out about their librarian's lesbian love affair with his favorite aunt. It was times like this when he definitely understood Uncle Dean's propensity for mischief. Making a mental note to let his Dad know that Cousin Ben might be around looking for a summer job regardless of his mom's wishes to keep him away from their "bad influence", he settled in with his soda to enjoy the show.

#rk writes #supernatural fic #suptober24 #jack kline #matthew pike #kaia nieves #background sastimmy #background donnamelia #krissy chambers #jacob pond #ben braeden #selkie jack kline #natural witch kaia nieves #kitsune jacob pond #quarter faerie ben braeden #nontraditional families #mentions of past abuse

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calicohyde · 2 years ago

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See the uncensored version on Patreon.

#jack facts #my art #traditional art #indie artist #selkie #selkies #marker art #nude art #seal #seals #postcard

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singswan-springswan · 2 years ago

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selkie!JackThompson came @ me like a bad case of shingles so here’s a drabble to feed the hungry gremlin

He happened to be stationed on a carrier: a real privilege, he's told. But after a few weeks it gets normal, he's accustomed to the swell and sighing drone of planes in the air, and the salt tastes the same from the deck as it would on a battleship, or cruiser. It's nothing special, really. Jack's never been much interested in planes. He's a seaman, not an aviator, and he doesn't think twice about what it is they do. Sure, lots of people appreciate their skill, fawn over it even, only Jack can't find it in himself to care. He's not too predisposed to those pilots either. Most of them are arrogant. nervous. cocky. a few of them are young. A little too young.

But it's not Jack's job to worry so he doesn't. The hum of planes in his face makes no difference as long as he can still hear the water over them—and he always can; it's in his blood anyway.

Jack spends his lazy hours topside. His bunkmates wonder if he likes to watch the birds drill, if he's fascinated by mundane launch and land procedure or watching them soar sputtering through the misty haze. A few of them are themselves fascinated, and Jack doesn't bother to correct them. What would he say? no excuse for needing fresh air would ever fly; he's the most relaxed member of the crew of this ship, even more at home than men who've been sailing since adolescence. but he's not going to talk about how the spray feels on his face either, how it feels like something private and sacred: a caress from the ocean, where his soul belongs. No, he's not talking about that. And he's never going to mention how standing on the open sea makes the skin in his trouser pocket itch, now a silky bandana sort of piece instead of a jacket (for convenience more than anything), how many times he's almost slipped it on and jumped the rail. It's easier to stay quiet, and snark when he doesn't want to. it's kept them off his back so far. no one's asked yet if he knows how to swim. That's the beauty of enlisting in a ready fire aim type of war: they ship you out before they have time to wonder.

Jack can live with the temptation looming over him. He has in the past; this is nothing new. there are simply more eyes and higher standards now. Besides, at least he's here. He could be much worse off, as far as stationing's concerned; he could be in the army, miles inland away from even the nearest whiff of coastline. And Jack is used to not swimming. And not being able to swim. It's fine. Being here is enough.

(it might be hella risky but he can handle it). As it turns out, Jack cannot be trusted with the risk. He'd only been ship-side for a rough month when one idiot aviator almost blows his life's secret. and okay. It isn't really the kid's fault. It’s jump in after him or let him die, and... Jack does have a heart. whether or not he has a brain is an arbitrary thing. The plane comes in too low on approach, and Jack's not flight crew but he's up on the deck every spare minute so he's seen plenty of good and bad landings. This one is shaping up to be the latter. He doesn't know who's flying. He knows half the pilots are baby-faced—though how or why he couldn't fathom—and he could guess just by the loose momentum that this one is inexperienced.

No one panics. Obviously this guy could feasibly land the bird or he'd never have been shipped out. But it's windy, pulling a brisk breeze in the overcast dawn hours, which might have something to do with the wobble in his wings. Jack doesn't know. He doesn't care either. He isn't worried. He just sits to watch from the middle deck railing with a coffee in his hands and a jacket for the wind. Even in his human form, he doesn't chill easily, but it's cold enough that he'd get odd looks if he went without. He bites down a yawn and pulls on the caf, watching the plane come in just for something to do.

Then the yelling starts. There's a squad on the main deck: not in full gear but alert nonetheless, tracking the patrol's approach with growing alarm. Four pilots. They must have figured something wrong with their wingman, though Jack finds it hard to give a crap this early, before he's even finished his caf. They yell at the wind and take staggered steps out of line. Someone on the intercom calls for crash and burn teams. Jack's ears perk. Was it really that bad?

It is. It was going to be close either way. Something goes wrong right at the end, and a near scare becomes a disaster. Jack feels the impact crunch through the ship, feels it in his feet and his elbows on the rail. He swears and lurches back, coffee lapping from the cup to spill on his hands, but he's sprinting for the stairs before he can think to be bothered.

That was just a kid. He's sure.

The squad is gathered at the butt of the runway by the time Jack comes skidding to a stop. they're gaping with sick expressions. The plane is there. it's right there flat on its back. The nose is crumpled awkwardly and the landing gear points skyward, but it's right there. The cabin couldn't be too badly off, and the pilot is trapped inside. that kid is going to drown.

"Help him!" someone shouts, maybe Jack. "get him out of there!"

But even without turning he knows they're shaking their heads. "It's too dark." The sun's not up yet. "It's too cold. you'll freeze in seconds!" They're chattering about mobility, hysterical and shocked. The plane is still there—it's just sitting there—not quite floating but too wide to sink too fast. The ship moves away from it slowly; soon the wake will disrupt the craft's precarious slant on the surface, and it'll go like a stone. Jack doesn't put much thought to diving overboard. there's a rail, a net, but he clears it no problem. They don't realize until he's halfway gone. They shout. They curse his idiocy. But that's fine; it's better they don't know.

Their words break off in a rush as the water crashes over him. It's almost a happy reunion. It's like coming home.

but Jack has to focus. He's always been able to when it counted. Now safe beneath the inky, choppy waves, he fishes his skin from the pocket of his pants and pulls it on properly; he needs to breathe, and he'll need his hands. The world shifts like it finally clicks into place. This is better. Jack can see much better now, can swim much better now. He finds the ruined plane and shoots for it. His jacket drag through the water. Maybe he should have taken it off. But he's not so worried about a windbreaker right now.

With his selkie eyes, Jack can see right away how bad the plane looks inverted. He reaches it, runs his hands across the splintered hood and searches for a point of restraint. The glass is totally compromised in more than one place. The pilot's still strapped in, helmet, mask, and all, unconscious or very close to it, which is convenient but also concerning. Jack's got a time crunch now. The water is too cold for a human; the pilot will lock up and lose circulation if he doesn't drown first. There's blood drifting around the cockpit.

It doesn't take long to find an emergency release for the hood. Jack shoves it in. The plane shifts. it's going to sink soon. He can taste blood on every inhale.

The straps are tricky to pop. they're designed to keep a man in place while he dogfights, and Jack doesn't really know what he's doing, but he finds out well enough after a few too many trials and errors. Time is not his friend. The pilot's still pinned somewhere: somewhere that's making him bleed. (it's his leg) at least he's unconscious. They might have to... Jack doesn't know if he's got the guts for spontaneous amputation. But he has to take his chances. Either way, this man could die. The odds sure as heck don't look good, even with a selkie doing the personal search and rescue. He's not sure how long it's been, or how long it'll take. The plane is starting to sink much faster. He can feel it. The surface, when he spares a glance up, is already far away. Jack swears.

It's a miracle he gets the man loose eventually. something shifts in the body of the crumpled plane, he finds the plate cutting into skin and manages to pry it loose. He forgot to hold his breath. He gags on the rush of blood.

But there's no more time to waste. Jack yanks the pilot from the ruin of the cockpit. He slings an arm beneath his shoulders, pulls him clear of the diving metal shell. The surface is very far away now. He makes it there in seconds.

The ship—the carrier—has inched away on its course, leaving the foamy churn of its wake to swat at Jack's head. Seems no one wanted to wait.

He rips the pilot's mask off. He can't tell how drowned the kid is already, but his head lolls and he's freezing to touch. Jack squeezes up with both arms. They can't wait for a solid surface to start doing compressions; if there's no coughing by the time they're onboard, this whole thing might be a lost cause.

But it's okay. There's some weak sputtering by the time Jack catches up to the carrier, and he's not wildly sentimental but he's shaking with relief. He shouts to the people on the rail, still up there staring like big dumb idiots. It's a bit lighter out; their eyes should be able to see him against the dark water. Someone's running for a floater to toss out. The pilot vomits, which is... a good sign, if not unwelcome. He's still limp but he's hanging on.

"Is that a motherkriffing tail?" he mumbles in a raw, weak voice.

Jack slips out of his skin as a raft lands beside them. The chill presses closer. The pilot is shaking.

"You're delusional." he tells him.

They rack up in the medbay to get thoroughly steamed. Ace won't lose his leg—the cut wasn't too deep—but it'll never look right and he'll walk with a limp. He'll undoubtedly get ill from the chill of the water and the damage to his lungs. Oh well. At least he'll live. Jack himself hardly has any problems. Cold doesn't bother him. He's a selkie after all.

"The hell are you?" The pilot asks when they're sitting in their cots alone and the room is empty otherwise.

Jack can't decide whether to raise a brow or frown so he does both. "A frigging seaman, Ace. The hell do I look like?"

The pilot doesn't answer out loud, probably because he wants to stay sane. Good for him.

"I should be dead." He pans out bluntly.

"You're welcome."

Jack likes to think he gaslit the guy into keeping his trap shut, but even if he's quiet out of gratitude it gets the job done. No one would believe him anyway. He was barely conscious when they dragged him aboard.

Speaking of which, Jack's a hero now. if he'd known he would like it this much, he'd have done crazy selkie crap ages ago. They're trying to promote him, or give him a medal or something, which is great. He just hopes they don't ask him to swim for an audience.

#jack thompson #selkie!jack #selkie #selkie AU #agent carter au #Agent Carter Series #SSR Agent Jack Thompson #jack thompson is a goofball #he a little confused but he got the spirit

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