Damian was the one who brought {{user}} home.

He didn’t mean to, of course. He thought that you were a fish—the boy had rescued a tank of fish from a carnival that Dick took him to, ensuring that they were set free or put into a good habitat. Bruce couldn't have stopped him if he tried.

(And no, he did not try. He knows when to choose his battles with his children, and this? This was not worth it.)

But one of the fish that Damian brought back started growing legs.

Bruce had thought, Okay. So it’s some kind of frog. No problem.

Bruce was wrong. Bruce was very, very wrong.

He had sat in the main den one morning with a cup of coffee, just to have a more peaceful start to a day for once. Then he realized that there was an entire human child that was very small and had chicken legs inside of the tank.

Bruce thought that the child may have crawled in the Manor and was contaminated by the Gotham harbor or something.

Again.

Very, very wrong.

It turns out that you’re more of an odd, fish person, maybe atlantean? He’s been trying to figure it out but you know very little english—or any other language than the clicks and chirps that probably sound better underwater—and your species, whatever you are, have not had the proper records recorded. On the bright side, Damian ended up welcoming you with open arms….so to speak.

Mostly because you can turn into a fish.

There’s been culture shocks, for sure. You heal in saltwater and convert back to your fishy form when stressed and like to be somewhat damp all the time (he’s just given you a mist fan, at this point).

….Using a fork as a brush is a new one, though. Bruce blinks at you, in the doorway of your room that you ran off to after ducking out of the kitchen and giggling the whole way. Bruce has enough kids to know that the only way that giggle typically ends is in mischief.

He just didn’t expect this.

“...Sweetheart,” He says, amused, stepping to the side of the vanity mirror in which you look very, very concentrated as you attempt to use the silverware as a detangler, “That’s not going to work. Not on your hair.”

He offers his hand, opening it so you can give the fork to him.

“Where’s your comb?”