A/N: Somehow I got an anon asking me for this AU without me ever letting anyone know I loved selkies. This felt inevitable.

The Seal Man of North Ronaldsay

One

When she was bequeathed the small fishing boat and seaside cottage in her boyfriend's will, it definitely came as a surprise. For a man with no family and little to speak of elsewise, he had a myriad of surprises that followed him and his memory, and the fact these things existed hadn't been known to her before the after-effects of the hit-and-run. The cottage had been left to him via a favorite uncle who died before he went into the children's home, and the boat he had bought himself hoping that he could use it while holidaying, yet now it all belonged to her.

What came as even more of a surprise to her loved ones was that she packed up and moved there. She knew it was running away—she wasn't stupid—but she politely told the headmaster that she couldn't teach at Coal Hill for a while due to the pain that came with passing by his old room every day. He understood, gave her a good reference in case she wanted to teach elsewhere, as well as a note to take her back if she came and he was not around, and then she was free. She packed up two suitcases worth of stuff, put the rest of her things in storage, and made the move to the cozy little cottage on North Ronaldsay, in the Orkneys.

She had been living up there for a bit over a year at that point, when the big storm happened. By now a respected and accepted member of the island, occasional teacher and sitter, she was alerted to the fact that something was wrong by the odd VWORP-VWORP-VWORP sound coming from the shore. It was something she had never heard before then, so she threw on her coat and boots, grabbed a torch, and braved the elements to make sure everything was alright.

Using a ladder, she climbed over the dry retention wall from her property to the beach. She shined the torch around; there was a huddle of sheep over in one recess in the wall, her boat securely attached to its dock, and… a person coming out from the water. Unable to move, she gaped at the man, who came up to her stark-naked, with a wild look on his face and looking like he was clutching a soaked woolen jacket in his hand.

"Are… are you alright…?!" she asked over the roar of the storm.

"Kidneys!" he shouted back. She stared at him, baffled.

"Did you say skerries? Did your boat hit a skerrie? Were there others onboard?"

He glanced around with a confused look on his face. "We're the only ones here!" A flash of lightning lit the sky and the sheep bleated in their makeshift shelter. "Except for you lot! Yeah, you! I see you! Don't think I don't know what's going on you kelp-hoovers!"

"Let's get you inside," she said. He was obviously confused, and there didn't seem to be anyone else around, so she took off her coat and draped it over his shoulders, leading him back over the wall and into her cottage.

Getting the man inside didn't seem to make him any less twitchy. She wrapped a blanket around him and sat him down on the couch before putting the kettle on for some tea. Going to her bedroom, she dug into the box of old clothes she hadn't yet found the heart to donate yet and pulled out a t-shirt and pajama bottoms—her boyfriend had been a bit broader in the shoulders and built stronger than the stranger, but it was going to have to do. She grabbed a towel on her way back, knowing it would help with at least his hair.

Except, to her surprise, when she returned to the sitting room, she found that the man's hair was now completely dry and fluffy, sticking up in a mane of grey that matched his eyes. She approached him cautiously, looking at his exposed upper half that was incredibly pale and thin and bare.

"You're not wet," she noted. "I just found you flopping out of the sea—you should be soaked to the bone."

"First off, I didn't just flop out of the sea," he corrected. "Secondly, I don't know why you brought me here. I was perfectly fine outside."

"There's a bad roost not too far offshore, so I highly doubt that," she replied. The man cocked an eyebrow and she groaned in exasperation. "Roost… you know? Undercurrent? Obviously with that accent you're not from here, but have you have to know about the currents."

"Of course I know about the currents; I've lived here all my life," he scoffed. He then blinked and glanced around the room, something in his head clicking. "This isn't your house."

"It's my house," she affirmed sourly. "Now why wouldn't it be my house?"

"I was here before, years ago," he said. "An old man lived here and we were mates. His nephew picked it up after he died, once he was old enough. Now what was his name…? His mam named him Rupert—sickly woman, real bonnie lass—but he went by some other name…"

"Danny; Danny Pink," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You knew Danny?"

"Not very well," the man replied. "Saw him every now and then. How is he?"

"Dead." She tossed the bundle of clothes into his lap and rushed back into the kitchen, where she switched off the boiling kettle and stared at the ceiling, biting her bottom lip. It had been so long, but it still hurt… hurt too much for a boyfriend. A steady boyfriend, yes, one that she wanted to marry and settle down with, but he had still been just a boyfriend. Shaking, she closed her eyes and counted backwards from ten, attempting to not cry.

"Are you alright?" the man asked once she reached three. She spun around and saw him standing there, clothed and looking very concerned.

"I loved Danny," she admitted. She then turned around and busied herself with putting together tea. "He and I worked together in London, which was how we met. We had been together almost three years when he was in a traffic accident and… and…"

"…and since there were no other Pinks to be had, this place passed on to you," he said. "There was an anniversary two days ago, yeah? You went to the shore and cried."

She stared at him, eyes large and welled with tears. "How did you…?"

"You cried and seven tears fell into the ocean, calling me," he explained quietly. Stepping forward, he held out the jacket she had found him with. "This is my skin, and you can do with it as you please."

"Your skin?" She took the jacket from his hand and marveled at the texture; it was slick and very much not like wool at all. "What is this?"

"Come now; the islanders haven't told you about the legends, have they?" he wondered. "A woman cries seven tears, no more and no less, into the sea if she wishes to make contact with a selkie. One comes ashore in the next storm and enters her life to end the dissatisfaction she has found, giving the gift of his skin as a token of their bond."

Confused, she looked down at the jacket in her hands. It still looked like black wool and red satin, but the feel of it was undeniable. She met his eyes and nodded cautiously. "My name is Clara Oswald. What shall I call you?"

"Ian, I guess. That's common enough to where they won't make a fuss."

"Okay, Ian. Would you like some tea?"

"I would. Thank you, Clara."

A/N: I am taking liberties with the concept of the selkie for storytelling purposes. In many tales, they are mainly about lady-selkies getting kidnapped by human men, and not much else. They are popular creatures in Scandinavian and Celtic tales, even moreso on islands, and are thought to be ways of explaining anything from a hereditary growth that made hands look like flippers to lost Inuit, Saami, and even Finnish people that wandered off their original course due to storms. Folklore sure is interesting!