Archive of Our Own

Tim settles down at the edge of an old cliff, pulling his supplies from his bag. There's his camera, of course, which he sets delicately down at his side, but there's also a small foldable tripod, a small kit with some spare lenses and other equipment and, of course, a few snacks.

He grabs the edge of a bag of chips, popping it open and throwing one into his mouth. He should probably save most of the snacks for later in the day, because he knows he's going to be ravenous from being stuck out here all that time, but his stomach is flipping around. The chip soothes it a bit, and he snatches another one.

He's so excited. He's so genuinely excited that he struggles to sit still while he sets up his camera. He aims it over at a nearby lake, just over the edge of the cliff, flicking idly though the shutter speed and f-stops. He wants his photographs to be perfect today.

He's finally done it. He finally has a proper gig with an actual, real-life magazine that wants his photos. It's not just some small time commission. He's not taking photos of someone's dog, or their cat—which, frankly, he's been absolutely sick of doing. He loves taking wildlife photos—deer or coyote or bears or snakes, but that just isn't very realistic.

Tim knows he doesn't need the money. He's plenty well off when it comes to money. He can do photography as a hobby and it'd be fine. But there's just something about being approached by National Geographic that makes him feel giddy inside. Something about making a name for himself and not just allowing himself to be just another Drake, just part of his parents' empire. His own legacy, his own money, without the attachments.

Not to mention how often he used to read the National Geographic magazines when he was a kid… they were truly some of his favorites.

He peers down at the lake with a careful eye. So, finally—finally—its time. It feels rather fitting, but the magazine had wanted him to take some photos of the local bald eagles. He knows why. His online portfolio is absolutely riddled with birds of all kinds. He even has one snapshot of Bird Colossimo's falcon. He's especially proud of that one, considering he has taken it all the way back when he was a little kid watching Batman beat up criminals. The photo has held up rather well, all things considering.

Tim settles himself and pops another chip in his mouth. They're salt and vinegar flavored, and the vinegar makes his tongue twinge.

A inconspicuous crow flies over head, a dark smear against the sky. He doesn't pay mind to it.

Today, he's here to focus on the eagles.

"Oh," Tim breathes, peering through the lens of his camera, voice caught in his throat.

In the distance, just above the lake, a bald eagle swoops past. Its wings are are silhouetted darkly against the vibrant blue sky, so graceful that Tim is almost jealous. Then, the bird's feet splay out and dip beneath the surface of the water—and when they emerge again, the eagle flapping its wings vigorously, there is a fish clenched between the claws.

Tim barely has time to blink before he's snapping the shot, pressing the shutter button, not daring to exhale. There's a rapid succession of clicks as several photos are taken one right after another.

His legs are both asleep from where they are folded beneath him, his hands tremble from the weight of his camera. There is a crick in his neck for sitting in the same position for so long. But Tim feels a little too distracted to pay attention to his discomfort.

"You are beautiful," he says under his breath, eye still trained on the majestic bird.

He's in the middle of snapping a few more shots—this time of the eagle soaring off the fish still tucked in its feet—when his attention is finally pulled away by the presence of a different bird—a small, fluttering black one darting directly in front of his camera. Tim blinks, startled, pulling his face away from the camera and staring dumbly at the culprit. Sitting on the grassy ground in front of him is a crow, peering up at him with wide, curious eyes. It cocks its head to one side.

When Tim glances back up, the eagle is gone. He groans and looks back down at the crow, still nestled at his feet. The creature is preening itself, one wing pulled to the side so it could pick at the feathers with the edge of its beak.

"You distracted me," Tim whines, rather petulantly. He fights the urge to laugh. He's joking, mostly, but the crow suddenly feels incredibly funny. It cocks its head to the side, dark feathers rustling.

"Oh, I suppose you're beautiful too," Tim laughs, and he raises his camera again to snap a shot of it. It almost seems to beam under the attention. If birds could smile, he was sure that it would be grinning widely at him. It has interesting eyes, he notices, an odd color somewhere between blue and green.

It flaps its wings, once, twice, and then a third time before it takes back to the air. Tim watches it soar off, raising his camera up to take one last photograph. The little creature's dark feathers are outlined against the sky. It should not have been as regal as the eagle, and yet, somehow, it almost was.

As the bird disappears into the distance, Tim looks down and flicks through the past several photographs on his camera. He wishes he had gotten to take more photos of the eagle, but he couldn't help but think that he had done well anyway.

What a delightful little crow.

It's only a few days later the next time Tim sees a crow, and it is once again dive bombing another photo he's trying to take of an eagle.

It darts quickly in and out of the shot, little more than a dark smear in Tim's peripherals. He has to blink several times in quick succession in order to clear his vision. He has to groan down at the shot, which would have been a rather lovely one of an eagle spread out against the evening sky—if not for the crumpled little face mushed into the corner. He wondered if he could just crop it. The crow doesn't really block any of the eagle…

He gnaws on the edge of his camera strap, grinding the cloth down under the strength of his teeth. He feels a little frustrated. Maybe a little tired, too. Coming all the way out to this national park for the photos—nearly two thousand miles away from his home back in New Jersey—was an effort in of itself. If he goes back at the end of his time here without the intended pictures to show for it, he feels like he might just tear his hair out.

Tim sighs and looks around for he crow, but the thing is already gone. The only evidence left that it was there at all is on the screen of Tim's camera, that tiny little ball of black feathers. Tim lets a hissing breath out through the gap between his teeth. The least it could have done is stayed long enough to look at Tim with that proud face.

"What's up with the crows here," he huffs, resetting his camera so he can try and take some more photos.

He doesn't delete the photos of the crows, though.

A few more days past before a crow interrupts Tim's work for the third time.

It flutters right up to him, barely an arm's width away, directly in front of his camera. He stares at it, bemused, raising one eyebrow. It almost seems to smile at him before landing on the ground in front of him. He watches it with a tiny smile, lips tugged sharply to one side.

At this point, he is starting to think that it must be the same crow. It can't just be three separate crows that have done this to him.

It has to be the same one, hasn't it? He has seen many other birds out here while studying the eagles, but none like this crow. None of them have really approached humans, or liked darting about in front of his camera so much. None of them have had nearly as much charm or personality, either.

None of them, of course, but the crow. The crow that seems to have taken a liking to taunting him.

He looks at it with wide eyes, still resting silently on the ground. It's never stayed this long, usually flapping away quickly after him catching sight of it. But now, it just sits there, preening and grooming its feathers.

The crow cocks its head, tipping it hard to one side, feathers rustling. Tempted, Tim squats down so one hand is on his knees and reaches forward with the other to try and touch it—

The crow gives him a suspicious look, eyes squinted, all of its feathers puffed up. It closes one eye, peering up at him, and hops back several inches.

"No touching," Tim says, pulling his hand away, "Got it."

The crow only caws, flapping its wings several times before taking off to the sky again.

Tim muffles his smile and tries in vain to get back to work. He can probably deal with the crow…later.

Later sounds good.

Tim gently extends a hand and brushes his knuckles over the crow's tiny head. The feathers are softer than he thought they would be, downy soft despite their bristling, pointed edges.

The entire time he pets the animal, the crow watches him with careful eyes which seem almost distrustful. There's scorn there, although Tim has absolutely no idea how a literal animal might feel an emotion complex as scorn.

He wonder if he's imagining it.

Then, the bird's eyes fall shut, it leans into his hand like an embrace, and that emotion is gone altogether.

Tim sits cross legged on a picnic blanket in the middle of his camp, watching the sun rise over the distant horizon with half-open, squinted eyes. His stomach growls pitifully, and he groans.

It's far too early in the morning, but he had wanted to wake earlier than he normally did to try and get some better shots of the eagles. They tended to be up more around this time—early bird gets the worm, and all that. Tim feels like he can't agree with that. He feels utterly exhausted.

All he really wants to do is go back to sleep. Or maybe chug an emergency drink. He can literally feel the bags under his eyes.

He's raising a protein bar to his mouth to take a large bite when quite suddenly, it is snatched directly from his hand. He chomps down, but his teeth meet nothing, simply clacking painfully back together. He stalls for a beat, eyes half open and tongue darting out to moisten his lower lip.

Finally, he startles, blinking dumbly down at his now empty hand. His protein bar is just…gone. He wipes furtively at his bleary eyes. He's way too tired for this. He had trouble falling asleep last night, and he hadn't had anything to eat yet this morning. That protein bar was his breakfast. Or, that protein bar was supposed to be his breakfast.

He lifts his head at the sight of dark feathers ruffling idly in the corners of his peripheral vision. And there, on a nearby rock, is a crow, with the protein bar clutched in its claws. Its pecking at it, its little beak digging vigorously into the food. It looks so incredibly pleased with itself, which Tim thinks would be funny if he were even slightly more coherent.

Tim stares at it.

"What the fuck," he mutters. He squints at it, still trying vainly to get rid of all the sleep in his eyes. He blinks. "Are you the same crow? The one I've been seeing all this week?"

The crow just continues to eat the protein bar, that smug look still on its face.

"I'm sure you are," Tim groans, throwing himself back. When his back hits the fabric of his picnic blanket, he lets out a quiet oof. He stays there for a long moment, listening to the bird peck at the protein bar with closed eyes. Then, abruptly, he snaps back up, eyes opening back up wide.

"Wait a second," he says, the words escaping such a fast rush that they nearly merge into one. The crow shoots him a wayward glance.

"That bar has chocolate," he continues, jumping to his feet. He stumbles over the crow as quickly as he can, tiredness still clouding his brain. "And I'm pretty sure crows can't have that!"

He lunges for the bar, and the crow squawks indignantly, fluttering back a step.

"You don't get it," Tim whines, very glad that no one else is around to hear him whining like a petulant child at a literal bird. "That's poisonous. It can hurt you."

The crow only glares, ruffling one of its wings.

"Ugh," Tim mutters under his breath.

The next fifteen minutes of his life are spent chasing a certain crow up and down his camp, the stupid thing almost always fluttering just barely out of his reach. He wants to swear, and does, several times. He's too tired for this. It's not his fault if an idiotic crow dies because it decided to eat something it shouldn't. Something it stole from him, in fact.

Still, he doesn't stop chasing it until the protein bar is securely back in one of his clenched fists. He sighs under his breath.

What a dumb crow. A stupid, dumb, terrible, terrible crow—

Well, at least he got to touch it that time.

The crow hops up and peers curiously at the handful of peanuts Tim had tossed out on the ground by his camp.

"Go on," Tim urges, in a low, soft voice, "It's for you."

He feels a bit silly in retrospect, but he had spent…way too much time researching what kinds of food crows were able to eat last night. They could eat all sorts of things apparently, from unsalted peanuts to hard boiled eggs to blueberries to mealworms. Luckily, he had a bag of peanuts on hand, and he didn't mind giving up his snack for the crow.

Which is perhaps even more silly, but he doesn't mind.

The bird looks up at him, and then down back at the food. Tim takes a slow, shuffling step backwards in case he's a little too close. He doesn't want to startle the thing. As if appeased by the motion, the crow leans down to peck cautiously at the peanuts. It makes an odd little sound, this little clicking trill that's so quiet that Tim nearly doesn't hear it. It sounds happy.

He presses his hands to his mouth, stifling a loud laugh.

The crow glances away from the peanuts and looks up at him with intrigue. Its eyes seem so wise. He had also read that crows were supposed to be incredibly smart. This one sure seems so. Something about it…it felt like it was able to understand him, almost. He wonders if it could, at least in the same manner a dog or cat might understand commands.

"See?" Tim asks rhetorically, lowering his hands, "Isn't that much better than my protein bar?"

Without a sound, the crow moves back to eating the peanuts. It pecks them, looking rather satisfied and pleased with itself.

"Much better," Tim says again, rolling his eyes fondly. "And also not poisonous." Crows could eat so many things, apparently, but like most animals, they certainly couldn't have chocolate. Why the bird had a death wish by stealing his chocolate chip protein bar the other day, he'll never know.

Tim watches the crow eat its peanuts in comfortable silence. It's rather nice, he thinks, to watch the little bird eat. So much nicer than having to chase the thing around camp in an attempt to get contraband away from it.

So he sits and he watches the crow as the world shifts around them.

The crow flies past, and this time, it doesn't get in the way of any of Tim's shots.

No, this time, it flies pasts and drops something directly into Tim's waiting lap. He blinks down at it, curious.

It's a tiny button, made of marbled red and white plastic. He rolls it between his fingers. "Huh," he says. It's a rather plain, simple thing, but curious nonetheless.

He peers up at the sky after the bird, but the crow is already gone.

"Thanks," he still says, though the crow can't hear him—though it wouldn't be able to understand him even if it could.

Carefully, he slips the button into the front pocket of his jeans for safekeeping. It's a bit like a treasure, he thinks.

And who would he be to deny such an obvious gift?

The crow pecks slowly at a tiny blueberry, before reeling back and shooting Tim a betrayed look. Its eyes crease at the edges, its odd green-blue color shimmering in the light. It almost looks like there's tears in its eyes.

"Hmm," Tim says, "Maybe you just don't like blueberries?" He clutches the packet of freeze dried blueberries to his chest, the plastic crinkling under his fingers.

The crow lets out a caw that sounds utterly pathetic.

He sticks his tongue out. "Hey," he says, "You're lucky I sacrificed some of these for you. I don't get to restock my snacks very often, being all the way out here in the middle of nowhere and all, and these blueberries are so good. And one of the very few safe foods I have that you can eat!"

The crow's betrayed look doesn't change. Tim huffs, folding the top of the packet over, and tossing it onto the small foldable table next to him.

"Oh," he says, chuckling under his breath. "I'm sorry. I know you liked those nuts I threw you, so I'll try to get more of the those the next time I can, okay?"

The crow hops forward on careful, light feet and nudges Tim's shoe with the tip of its beak. Tim smiles and crouches down, squatting with his hands on his knees.

The crow jumps into just about half a dozen of Tim's photographs within the next several days, but he can't find it in himself to be mad.

He wants to say that the crow ruined his photos, but that's not really true, because he enjoys them anyway.

The crow seems to enjoy using Tim's hair as a nest.

It would be frustrating if not for the fact that the bird is actually rather cozy as a hat. It seems clean enough, and hasn't once caused any mess, so Tim supposed he can let it stay.

The second it tries to use the bathroom in his head, its getting thrown into the lake.

There's a metal bottle cap sitting on top of one of Tim's notebooks, right in the middle of his camp.

It is oddly pretty, made of slightly rusted but otherwise brilliant blue metal. There's a tiny white logo emblazoned across the top, although Tim thinks he would have been able to tell the brand from the iconic color alone. Zesti Cola. Tim picks it up between his forefinger and thumb, watching the edge of the metal glint in the light when he holds it to the sun.

"How'd you know this is my favorite soda?" he asks the air, feeling mirth well up inside of him. He looks around, peering up at the sky, but catches no sight of the culprit.

And suddenly, there's a rustling sound behind him. The crow swoops by his head, coming to land in the grass beside Tim. It puffs its chest as if to ask "How did you know it was me?"

"I always know it's you," Tim replies, though he knows the crow didn't actually ask any questions. He grins and crouches down, knees to his chest, tilting his head at he looks at the bird. He raises the bottle cap to one eye, spinning it idly between his fingers.

The crow cocks its head sharply to one side, almost mocking his movements. It blinks up at him with eyes that seem, as always, strangely intelligent. Tim is becoming increasingly more intrigued with those eyes. They always seem just so… human. The crow ruffles its feathers, flaring its wings to the side. And the color…

"Always," Tim says again, flipping the bottle cap up into the air. It flips like a coin, and lands face down in his palm. He tucks it into one of his pockets.

He'd add it to his collection later, which has been slowly growing ever since that very first shiny button the bird brought.

Tim's collection has grown rather magnificent.

There's bottle caps and buttons and paper clips. Shiny rocks and skipping stones. An old broken earring, which once must have had gem stone set into it, but had since fallen out. A singular old key that Tim can't help but wonder what it originally opened. A particularly glimmery sea shell.

A very lovely collection, he likes to think.

Tim catches sight of a dark blur out of the corner of his eye, swooping past him, before the crow settles serenely right in his lap.

He has to push down a laugh. "Well," he says to the familiar bird, sitting his camera on the ground beside him. "Hello, there. I haven't seen you in a bit." He strokes a hand over the downy soft feathers on the top of the bird's head, and the creature returns the affection by a nuzzling its face against his knuckles. It looks up at him with shiny eyes, and spies a small and shiny clasped within the tip of the crow's beak.

"Oh," he says, "Is that another gift?"

The crow gives him a scathing look in return, as if to say well, what else would it be?

Tim has to push a smile down, biting the inside of his cheek, wondering what the item might be this time—another bottle cap? A soda tab? A paperclip? A screw? He has them all by now, handfuls of little treasures tucked neatly into a cardboard box beside his bed.

He opens his palm and holds it beneath the crow's mouth. Dutifully, the bird releases the object, and it lands in Tim's palm with a nearly silent pat. Then, Tim pauses for a long silent moment as he stares down at it. He can feel the crow crow staring at him in turn, its eyes unmoving. It's not a stupid little piece of useless trash in Tim's hand, no, it's… a ring.

A glittering golden ring, with an elegant floral design carved into its edges. It holds a single stone within its pronged grip, an odd little gem that seems to just…change color when he shifts it against the light. One second it's shining green, the next turquoise, and the next blue, wobbling between the hues.

"What—" he says, and then snaps his mouth shut. The crow, for its efforts, looks smug, as if it knows that this is the best gift its managed to find yet. "Where on Earth did you find this one?" he asks, holding the ring up to get a closer look. One side of his mouth slants up when he realizes what he initially thought was an engraving of some type of flower petals are actually feathers—wrapping neatly around the band to cradle the gem.

"How fitting," he snorts. "Did you really manage to steal a bird themed ring?"

The crow cocks its head.

Tim glances away from the ring, locking eyes with the crow still settled in his lap. "You definitely stole this. Look how shiny this thing is—" he holds the ring up to the sun to prove his point, where it glitters under the light, "—this is not some old, abandoned thing no one is going to miss! If it was lost, it was probably lost very recently! I bet someone is panicking about this right now—"

But the crow only looks smug, and Tim can do little to stop his laughter.

He slips the ring on his finger—surprised to find that it fits on his ring finger perfectly.

The next time Tim sees the crow, it is almost scary.

The bird blinks at him, and its eyes flicker ominously between blue and green. Almost like the gemstone, in fact, glimmering with an almost identical shade.

Tim blinks. Light swims slowly up the bird, feather by feather, encasing it in a thin venner of glitter. The light grows until the bird looks more like a statue of stars than an actual, living thing. It gets brighter and brighter until Tim closes his eyes again and—

Tim opens his eyes again, and instead of a crow, he meets eyes with a human. Its around Tim's own age, who sits across from him with its legs crossed and hands under its chin.

The human is mostly unclothed, wearing nothing but a fine meshy skirt tied off around their waist. Its mostly exposed skin is pale, but Tim can barely see it—because neck down, the person is covered in spiraling tattoos. They creep down its arms and legs, and some even sprawl across its chest.

It also has short black hair which flutters in the wind. When he looks closer, Tim sees that it almost appears to be be made up entirely of dark feathers. It's odd, the way they move, rustling with each slight movement.

It looks at him and cocks its head. Tim can't look away. Its face is mostly spared from the tattoos, staring out at Tim with such a pallid, ghostly look that it nearly seems dead. And those eyes…the green, and the blue, and the purple eyes, all spiraling as they gaze at what feels like Tim's soul.

For a moment, Tim wants to switch from saying it to saying he, because the figure in front of him is clearly masculine—with that short cropped hair, and a flat chest, and broad jaw, but that feels…wrong, somehow. This being is not a he, or a she, or even a they, for that matter.

It is a bird.

A crow.

"Hey," the crow says, because surely that is what it is—the crow, which Tim has been speaking to just a moment ago. It has a deep, low voice, which is soft and lovely and so, so different than the sound of a bird's echoing caw. And hey of all things, feels so incredibly mundane of a greeting to say. Not hello, or greetings, or welcome, or anything complicated at all—just hey.

Tim only stares. He clenches his fists as tight as he can manage. He's glad that he's sitting, because if he wasn't, he's sure he would have toppled over by now and landed right on his ass. He can feel his heartbeat thrumming against his skin, and he resists the urge to reach up clutch his chest.

The crow leans forward, resting its hands palm down against the dirt. A single feather falls across its brow, and it blows it out of the way. "Are you alright?" it asks.

"Yeah," Tim manages, "I'm—I'm alright." It feels like a lie, even as he says it. He knows it is.

A crow. A bird.

Perhaps Tim has been going insane these past few weeks, stuck out in the wilderness, with not much company but the animals.

The crow smiles and Tim sees that it has two rather sharp canines. Which—Tim has to fight down am incredulous giggle. Crows don't even have teeth, let alone sharp little canines.

"Good," the crow breathes. "I'm Danny. It's nice to say hello, finally."

"Say hello," Tim echoes, nearly blue screening. "But you're a bird."

"Was a bird," Danny corrects. It looks down at its hands, as if not expecting them to truly be hands—to have fingers, to not be wings.

"This isn't real," Tim says in turn.

"Haven't you heard of shifters?" Danny counters, "I know the world has gotten odd for humans—with the way you all stray from nature. But you still know of us."

"Those are myths," Tim says matter-of-factly, though obviously that is not true.

"Are they?" Danny ask. Its smiling again, with those sharp teeth. It's a crooked smile, more of a smirk than anything, tugged all to one side. Tim almost wants to say it's…handsome.

Tim moves uncomfortably in place.

"If this is real," he says, "And you're actually…you're actually the crow that's been following me around—"

"—I am," Danny cuts in, alsound half amused.

Tim lets out a huffing breatha and continues, "—if that's true, why haven't you transformed into a human before now?"

"Aw," Danny says—and its closer now, leaning forward on both hands to stare Tim directly in the eyes. "I wasn't able to. You know the myths, as you call them, don't you?"

Tim does.

"Shifters can only reveal themselves to humans that care about them," Danny says, eyes glimmering. "I know you care."

"About the crow," Tim rebuts.

Danny is even closer now. Their noses are almost touching.

It lifts a hand and places it on Tim's cheek. It's warm. Tim wants to pull away for half a second, but doesn't.

"The crow," Danny says, "Who is me."

Danny's other hands moves to one of Tim's own, clasping it between its fingers. Tim glances down and sees that its playing with the ring on his finger—the one the crow gave him, several days ago. Suddenly, Danny leans forward and presses—a rather chaste—kiss to the side of Tim's cheek.

Tim feels his face flame bright red.

It smiles even broader.

"See?" it says, "You like me."

It winks at him, and the next thing Tim knows, the human is gone—replaced with a crow, who flies off into the distance as if nothing odd had happened at all.

Tim releases a breath, thick and choked, sagging in his place.

What the actual hell.

The next time he sees the crow, he snaps a photo of it and wonders if it had been a dream.

The way the crow looks back, he is sure it wasn't.