Chapter Text
Six days after Dick left and eight days after arriving at Wayne Manor, Garth gathered English-speakers and mer-speakers together and asked what phrases or words they wanted translated, so that they could communicate when he left.
Bruce had tried to think of practical things:
Are you hungry?
You’re safe here.
I’m confused.
Help me understand what you want.
With Alfred’s help, they included words like, medicine, hot, cold, good, bad, stop, help, please and thank you.
When Garth asked Jason what phrases he wanted translated, the mer hunched down in the water and blew furious bubbles before huffing, “No.”
Garth frowned. You already know how to say that. What other things do you need to be able to say to Bruce and Alfred?
Of the speech, Bruce recognized his name and maybe Alfred’s. It made it feel like something was clawing inside his chest, knowing that he couldn’t communicate properly with this child living in his pool.
Jason curled his lip back. I know human words.
Garth shook his head, mouth quirking with a smile. Bruce hoped it was because Jason had asked him to provide a translation for something the Atlantean deemed rude. In the last week while they had settled Jason in the pool where he’d stay while healing, there had been sudden, random sparks of a fierce and funny personality. Bruce was waiting to see when those sparks would catch into a full flame.
You really don’t.
Frustrated with whatever Garth was saying, Jason grabbed the bottom fin of his tail, curled up like an adorable shrimp, although Bruce kept the comparison to himself. He wasn’t sure if it was like comparing a human child to a kitten or if it was offensive to compare water-people with water-creatures.
“No,” Jason repeated, loudly. His eyes snapped to Bruce, and he flicked himself over to the edge of the pool. Hooking his elbows over the side and doing his best to raise himself up on his still-weak arms, he shouted, “No!”
He wasn’t sure what sort of reaction the boy was looking for. Garth looked embarrassed. “He…he’s not overly interested in learning English at this time.”
Bruce blinked slowly. “Okay.”
“No!” Jason repeated, like a toddler who has just learned the word. “No, Asshole! No.”
Jason! Be nice!
“No!”
Bruce raised both hands in a passive sign. “Alright, Jason,” he said calmly. “No.”
Jason glared, apparently unsure if Bruce repeating the word meant he was agreeing or disagreeing with him. “No,” he repeated, but at least his voice scraped less.
No. Good.
Bruce had a good ear for languages, so he knew his pronunciation was fine. Nevertheless, Jason’s expression told him the boy felt both offended hearing how easily Bruce spoke and smug that he had gotten Bruce to be the one to make the effort. Good, the mer-boy agreed. Snapping to Garth, he announced in words lost on Bruce, You can just teach them, since I already know human words.
“No” and “asshole” are only going to get you so far, Jason. What if you get hungry?
Jason had watched intently while Garth gave Bruce and Alfred their lessons earlier; he used his tail to push his entire upper body up out of the water, scanning until he found Alfred before shouting, Food!
Garth looked appalled, but before he could get words out of his dropped mouth, Alfred interrupted with a sniffed, “I think not. You may inform the young sir, Master Garth, that manners will be needed in this house.”
They decided to table the discussion on communication and plan out physical therapy instead.
Two mornings after Garth left, Bruce felt the cool of Alfred’s shadow cut off early morning sun from his chair by the pool, but didn’t glance up.
“From what I’ve been able to find, it seems it’s typical for freshwater mers to bury themselves in mud at the bottom of whatever body of water they happen to be inhabiting. It not only anchors them but also keeps them warm and seems to provide comfort.”
Alfred frowned. “How fascinating. I assume your next sentence will successfully link this enlightening bit of knowledge with an explanation for why twenty-seven of my best blankets are missing from the manor?”
Neither spoke, simply watching billows of white and red and brown and purple blossom and settle at random in the mess that the pool had become. Every now and then, one of the blooms would tent with an indistinct, almost human shape before deflating as its occupant dashed to another corner.
“Can you even find him in that chaos?” Alfred questioned.
“No, but I think that’s part of the appeal.”
They watched together as Jason darted in and out of the mess of wet fabric that now filled the pool, singing snatches of some song he had apparently made up, based on the mix of mer and human words. Bruce couldn’t begin to guess what it was about, but he caught the word “please” several times, so it seemed harmless at least.
With a thoughtful hum, Alfred set a plate down with slightly less judgement than Bruce had expected before leaving the other at the edge of the pool. “Sandwiches, Master Jason.”
That reminded him. Bruce pulled out his phone, pretending not to care when there were no missed calls or texts, and began researching.
It took Bruce nearly four trips to bring all the crates to the back patio, since he didn’t feel like explaining to nosy delivery drivers why socialite Bruce Wayne was keeping a whole mer child trapped in his family pool. He didn’t see even a glimpse of Jason until he had dismantled the crates; they were large enough to hold something uncomfortably mer-child-sized, which he suspected was at the root of the lack of curiosity. Eventually, when Bruce was surrounded by baggies of water and floppy future pool inmates, the top of Jason’s head appeared at the far end of the pool before flickering away and reappearing closer for examination.
Jason’s eyes went wide when he realized what was in the bags grouped at the edge of the pool. “Yes,” he said emphatically. “Yes, Bruce! Yes!”
Despite himself, Bruce felt a smile prodding at the corner of his mouth. “Good?” he asked, teasing. He was holding a bag with two perches and another with a handful of more exuberant minnows.
The question conjured more serious contemplation from Jason than he was expecting. The mer steered himself into the side of the pool and hefted his upper body up on the concrete enough to tug at the corner of one of the bags, which held a bewildered looking pumpkinseed. “Yes, Bruce,” he said, yanking just enough to indicate that the fish should move towards him, then pointing to the pool. “Yes.” I’m confused. Help me! Good. Medicine.
Bruce chuckled. “If you want me to know you’re trying to communicate with me, you’re going to have to do better than just spouting random phrases you know I understand. You’re a smart kid—I know you can pick up English if you actually try.”
Jason frowned, laying his hand on the side of the plastic bag that held the hovering pumpkinseed trapped inside. Put the fish in the water. Please. I…I won’t ask for anything else, I promise. Just…do it, okay? Just put the fish in the water.
“Fish.” Leaning over to lift the bag from Jason’s grasp, Bruce held it aloft. “Fish, Jason. Fish.”
Please.
“Fish.”
“Fitch,” Jason parroted dutifully. “Fitch, Bruce. Yes. Fitch.”
“Close enough.” Bruce switched hands so he could pull out his penknife.
Wait, I’m sorry! Don’t…don’t be a…a “asshole.”
Bruce shook his head. “Okay, I understood that. Hold on. I should have asked Aqualad how to say ‘patience’ but I didn’t realize I’d need it to so often.” He pushed his penknife into the tense plastic and peeled it down while simultaneously lowering the fish over the edge of the pool. As the water began to spill forth, dragging the pumpkinseed with it, it slipped seamlessly under the surface and, with a single flicker, vanished into the maze of blankets Jason had created.
Jason stared after it for a full three seconds, mouth agape, then whipped back to Bruce so suddenly the man got a mouthful of pool water. “Yes, Bruce! Yes!” Good job! Now the rest. He clawed desperately for the next bag. “Bruce! Yes, Bruce!”
“Okay, okay! Stay in the pool, you’ll tear yourself up on the concrete.” Bruce pushed Jason back until the mer was safely back in the confines of the pool, already starting on the next bag before Jason could get antsy—or bite-y.
Each new fish released brought a delighted cry from Jason. Most of them flashed down to the safety of the blankets, but some hovered at the surface, trusting in the sheen from the sun to camouflage their scales. Jason swirled around them with unconcealed delight, giggling as they flittered close and skittered away.
When the last bag had been emptied, Bruce cracked his back and sighed at the pile of garbage he’d have to deal with before Alfred thought it was his job. He checked his phone to see if Dick had called or texted. He had forced himself out of the habit of checking awhile ago, but he thought maybe Dick would inquire about Jason.
He hadn’t.
Sighing, Bruce began his mission of gathering discarded plastic, when he was caught by a tug at his pant hem. Turning, he saw Jason at the edge of the pool. The mer child held up a hand in what might have been a sign of approval, something that involved three fingers and an exuberant grin. “Yes, Bruce!” he cried jubilantly. This is…you… Jason fumbled for words, looking frustrated with their communication barrier for the first time. You are a good…good thing! he finally announced, proudly, before flickering away into the pool to chase his new pool-mates.
Bruce didn’t know any of the words that had been said, but he felt that he understood them nonetheless.
Three days after they had stocked the pool, Bruce grew concerned that Jason didn’t appear to be eating any of the fish. There had been no signs of bones, nor did the numbers appear to be dwindling. Alfred agreed to forgo bringing the boy food for one day, while Bruce knelt at the edge of the pool and tried to draw the connection for Jason between “fitches” and “food.”
“Hun-gree,” Jason whined, wrapping two pathetic little arms around his stomach.
“Good,” Bruce said. “Fish. Food.” He mimicked putting something in his mouth. “Eat. Eat fish.”
“No,” Making a sort of clenching gesture with his hand—possibly pantomiming something being handed to him?—Jason tried on a hopeful expression and asked, “San wishes, Bruce?”
When Bruce shook his head, Jason collapsed under the water with an exaggerated moan. It was eleven o’clock in the morning. He had eaten dinner the night before.
“Fish. Food,” Bruce reiterated firmly.
Jason blew furious bubbles to the surface and backflipped into his blanket pile.
“And how goes your latest foray into cross-cultural communication?” Alfred queried, when he came to bring Bruce his own lunch and check up on their watery ward.
Rough calluses grounded him in the present as Bruce scraped them over his face. Dropping the plate Alfred provided unceremoniously, he split his fingers over his eyes and looked up at Alfred. “He needs to know how to feed himself, Alfred. I can’t place him away from us until I know he’s not going to starve.”
“I don’t recall arguing that point.”
“I don’t suppose you have any suggestions towards the point, either?”
“I imagine so, yes,” Alfred replied cooly, turning back to the kitchen. “For instance: not leaving your sandwich within reach of the pool water.”
Bruce whirled, nabbing a slippery grasp on Jason’s wrist at the same moment the boy snapped his tail in retreat. Both ended up banging into each other at the edge of the pool—but Jason had the advantage. Sandwich in his free hand, he dropped below the water while keeping his treasure raised high, ducked out of Bruce’s grasp, and burst up on the other side of the pool, cackling with delight.
“Jason!”
“San wishes!” Jason announced proudly, sinking his teeth into Bruce’s roast beef.
Bruce shoved his hair back from his face. “No. No sandwiches. You—” He paused. There, in the water where Jason had retreated: a thin, reedy trail of green. Green like mer blood.
“Jason. Come here.” Bruce pointed to the ground in front of him.
The mer scowled warily. It’s my “san wishes” now. You said you’d feed me. You promised.
“Forget the sandwich.” They could revisit the topic of Jason’s nutrition later—and Bruce would stop taking his meals by the pool. Instead, he gestured to the water beside Jason, where the cloudiness was thicker. Hurt. Help. Medicine.
The moment Jason glanced down, his face turned as green as the water. I—I didn’t mean…I’m sorry. The little mer swallowed hard. I’m sorry, Bruce. Hesitantly, he scooted backwards to the opposite edge of the pool and slid the sandwich onto the concrete. “Bad. Stop.”
“It’s not about the sandwich anymore, Jason. You got injured when I grabbed you. Let me look at it.”
“No.” A whisper, so soft if Jason hadn’t been in the water the sound wouldn’t have carried far enough to reach Bruce. He chewed on his lip, then sank lower into the water, cowering as he whispered, “P-Please.”
It was the first time Bruce had ever heard Jason use the word “please,” hammering home the reality that any injury on his tail was going to be tricky to navigate. But the cloudy spot of water was getting opaquer the longer he waited, and Bruce was concerned that, in its current state, a tail injury wouldn’t clot or heal properly. The last thing he wanted was for Jason to pass out in the water—or even for the injury to heal badly, leaving him more reminders of everything that had happened.
Firmly, he pointed to the water in front of him. “Jason. Come here.”
He heard the soft stir of water as the mer reluctantly dragged himself forward, while Bruce fetched the first aid box from under the table. On the edge of his sight, he watched Jason warily follow his hands removing disinfectant and waterproof bandage from the box. Twice, he watched Jason start to open his mouth, as if to say something, before screwing it closed.
Setting out everything he needed in easily accessible reach, Bruce steeled himself for the most unpleasant part of this task. Turning to Jason, he said, Medicine. Good. Help.
Jason looked sick and didn’t reply.
Bruce leaned over, hooked his arms under Jason’s, and lifted him out of the pool.
Jason screamed. Bruce remained calm. Good, Jason, he reassured, loudly and firmly over the boy’s panic. Good. Help. Safe. Medicine.
“No! No—stop! No, no, no! Asshole!”
You’re safe, Jason. Medicine.
No medicine! No—let me go! Please, please let me go! I’m sorry! I won’t steal food. I won’t say—I won’t—I—Bruce, please, please, no!
Bruce wrestled Jason sideways, so he could see the source of the blood. Sure enough, there was a long scratch along the midpoint of Jason’s tail. Without the protection of scales that were still growing back, it went deeper than it should have, Bruce’s hand stained green the instant he laid it against the spot.
Jason shrieked the moment Bruce touched his tail, sobbing and clawing at Bruce’s shirt. He could already feel gauges in his arm, but kept his voice calm and level. Jason. You are safe. Medicine. Good.
No! No, please, I’m sorry—I’m so, so sorry! I’m sorry! I swear, I’ll—please I’ll do anything. D-don’t…please, Bruce. Please. Please.
It took everything in him to ignore the frantic pleas, but Bruce had made a career out of compartmentalization. Disinfectant spilled over the wound before Bruce successfully applied the majority of the bandage to over the affected area.
As soon as it was done, he sank Jason back into the pool, snapping his hands away, raised and over his head.
Jason curled into a tiny ball and sobbed, brokenly sinking to the bottom of the pool where fish scattered from him. The sight of him lying on the blue floor, tiny streams of bubbles leaking up to the surface, made Bruce feel even worse than looking up to find an accusatory Alfred.
“In the future,” Alfred informed him stiffly, “you will find a better way of handling that.”
The ability to muster words was always the first bit of Bruce to be sapped of energy. He grunted, staring morosely down at the tiny child who was already rolling himself into a blanket.
Blankets. Bruce winced.
“Yes?” It hadn’t escaped Alfred’s notice; nothing ever did.
“He might hide any other injuries.”
“Who could blame him.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I wonder…if we should remove the blankets. Until we know it’s healed. I don’t want…” Bruce ran a hand over his face. This time, the calluses did nothing to help. They only scratched. “I don’t want to take his blankets—his privacy. But I can’t have him hide in blankets while his wound gets infected—or the next time he gets injured.”
The sound of clouds drifting overhead filled the silence with nothingness. Bruce’s hands felt heavy at the end of his arms.
Finally, Alfred said, “Perhaps a regular cleaning of the blankets is in order. I will set a schedule over the next few days to ensure the boy’s home for recovery is well maintained—and perhaps you will be able to assess his health while the blankets are being laundered.”
“Hn.”
It was all Bruce could muster.
The next morning, Bruce visited the pool to find sludgy piles of blankets lining the concrete around the pool. Alfred seemed as surprised as he was, confirming that even if he had the inclination to drag the heavy things from their home by himself, he had no intention of doing so for at least a few days, considering Jason’s reaction to the events of the previous day.
Bruce stood by the edge of the pool, staring at the tiny child curled at its base.
For once he was glad Dick hadn’t called or texted. He didn’t know what he would say.
They had decided to launder the blankets before returning them, folded, to the edge of the pool within easy reach from the water. It was still unclear why Jason had removed them and Bruce didn’t want to return them if the boy was making his feelings about the clutter in his current home known. He had extended one blanket to Jason, which the mer had taken warily before bundling in it and sinking, once again, to the bottom of the pool. Jason hadn’t made an appearance in the two days since. Nor had he touched the sandwiches Alfred left by the pool steps.
Now Bruce sat at the patio table, something painful and sharp sparking in his chest. How many more times were they going to have to have these conversations? Jason had been doing well, but he’d known that for all its appearances, trust couldn’t be formed that quickly. Bruce needed the Atlanteans right now, more importantly Jason needed the Atlanteans, and if he didn’t believe them then communication would only continue to deteriorate.
“Jason,” he called. “Aqualad? Garth?”
It was the best he could do. Since the incident, Jason hadn’t been seen, but sometimes he shouted responses to Alfred or Bruce through his lone blanket and water that were almost entirely in mer and so muffled as to be intelligible.
Silence. Bruce sighed. He could call Arthur—it was a toss-up if having to explain to the King of Atlantis why he had a malnourished, injured mer child trapped in his pool was an easier conversation than calling Dick and asking him to bring Garth back.
From the pool came a faint, I hate that purple-eyed jerk. He said…he said it wasn’t a bad word and I wouldn’t get in trouble for saying it. He’s a liar and you’re a liar. You’re both liars.
He wasn’t sure if he didn’t understand the words or they were just so distorted by the time they reached him that he didn’t recognize them. Help me understand how to help you.
“Asshole.”
Well, at least that one was clear.
“Please, Jason.”
The pool exploded as Jason rocketed to the surface, red face scrunched in fury. Stop! I’m sorry, okay? I won’t say it again—I learned my lesson, I’ll be good. Just…just stop. Please.
Bruce stared, frozen by the sheen in Jason’s eyes.
Please, Bruce repeated, an echo, as something clicked in his head.
“Jason.” His voice sounded hoarse, even to him. “Please.”
Jason’s expression broke. Mustering up as much anger as he could scrape from the edges of his wounded heart, he hissed and scrambled back underwater.
An image flashed across the back of his eyelids: of a tiny, bound mer scowling up from a bathtub he didn’t really fit in, covered in so many bruises and scrapes his top half looked almost as colorful as his mottled tail. A tiny mer so terrified and angry and hurt—
There was no way Bruce was letting the little they had already built crash back into that.
His eyes lashed around until they found Alfred approaching from the kitchen, platter in one hand. “Alfred!” he called sharply. “Food!”
The man stopped as surely as if Bruce had sworn at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Food,” Bruce snapped again, pointing at the table in front of him. “Is it sandwiches? Bring it here.”
Alfred’s face might as well have been chiseled from stone. It should have been impossible to communicate both scathing inditement and the promise of future discipline to come through a lack of movement, but there it was.
Unfortunately, there was also trust. Which meant while every part of his being objected, he approached the table and moved to set the platter down. “Alfred,” Bruce snapped, trying his best to communicate through his eyes as well as Alfred could. “Sandwiches.”
He could see the confusion behind Alfred’s eyes—the man didn’t know what was expected of him. But that was alright, because his default programming kicked in and he snapped without thinking, “Manners, Master Bruce. You will at least say ‘please.’”
From somewhere on his left, out of his line of sight, there was a distinct lack of gasping, the kind that indicated something had been very carefully caught.
Bruce smiled, knowing Jason couldn’t see it. “No, Alfred,” he said loudly, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. “Just give me the sandwiches. Now.”
He watched Alfred recognize what he was doing, immediately condemn the method, but follow suit anyway. “Say please, Master Bruce,” he repeated firmly.
And Bruce said: “Please.”
The platter of sandwiches was set on the table decisively. Bruce said, “Thank you, Alfred.”
“In the future,” Alfred said, the same words and condemnation as he had deployed earlier that same week, “you will find a better way of handling that.”
Bruce smiled softly. “Thank you, Alfred.”
He watched the man retreat back into the kitchen, envious of how even his back managed to convey a wealth of communication (even if it was, in this case, almost entirely scathing), before turning his attention to the pool.
Jason hovered with just his eyes above the water. The darkness in them was both hurt and angry, betrayed and furious.
“Please,” Bruce said gently. Please.
He lifted a sandwich and knelt at the edge of the pool, holding it out. “Please,” he repeated.
Jason’s eyes didn’t leave his face. He looked like he might cry. He looked like he might bite.
Jason whispered, “Please.”
“It means” please. “It’s polite. But…” Bruce licked his lips. “I think perhaps you’ve not heard it that way.”
Jason’s tiny hands quivered where they were clenched around his only blanket. The water rippled with his shaking. Bruce pulled the sandwich back, just enough that he could lay it on the concrete and step back, in case—understandably—Jason was wary of getting within arm’s reach.
Suddenly, Jason lashed at his blanket, teeth ripping at alpaca wool again and again and again, until shreds filled the water like fish. He screamed, trying to rend the pieces with his hands, still too weak to do any damage. He flailed at them nonetheless, tiny, claw-like nails desperately trying to tear and hurt the only thing he could.
Just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. Uneven strips of wool drifted anticlimactically towards the filter. At least the water seemed upset, sloshing sloppily at the banks.
Jason looked up at Bruce, fury trapped behind a frame of tears.
Bruce rose. Silently, he grabbed the top blanket from the pile behind him. He laid it, still folded, on the water and pushed. It eased towards Jason as it began to saturate and sink.
Jason snapped on the blanket with the same sudden, sharp fury, slashing, tearing, ripping, brutalizing until it, too, was in scraps in the water.
Bruce held out another.
It took twelve blankets before Jason’s body gave out. He desperately pulled and tugged and yanked with teeth and claws and tail, but the blanket was too dense in the water for his shaking fingers to gain enough purchase to effectively tear it anymore. He kicked his tail against it and screamed.
Bruce, still crouched, legs tingling sharply, waited until the watery eyes made contact with his. He said:
“Mad.”
Jason’s chest heaved, breath and tears both threatening to betray him.
“Mad,” Bruce repeated. “You’re mad. You’re mad because it isn’t fair. You’re mad because they ruined your body, your ability to communicate, and your trust. You’re mad. Good. You should be mad.”
Tears spilled down Jason’s cheeks. He screamed again, less strong this time.
“Good, Jason,” Bruce whispered. “Mad.”
“M-mad.”
“Yes. Good.” Bruce held out one more blanket, a thin, gentle thing with tassels. “Mad.”
They stayed there, both curled into themselves, Jason floating like a tiny, broken otter in his blanket, Bruce shifting so his legs dangling in the pool, soaking his sweatpants with a weight that couldn’t begin to approach the heaviness in the air.
“It’s good to be mad,” Bruce whispered, finally, extending the sandwich again. “It reminds us that the world is broken. But we aren’t.”
The fingers of his opposite hand trailed over the cellphone in his pocket, thinking of unmade calls and unsent texts.
“Mad is how we grow,” he told Jason. He told himself. “One day, you’ll stop being mad. And I’ll be here when you are.”