Chapter Text
It started with a week’s worth of empty fishing hooks.
George had no idea what was causing it, but it was driving him crazy. For the past week, every time he went fishing, he’d come back empty-handed. He wouldn’t have minded (after all, sometimes the fish just don’t bite), had it not been for the fact that it was obvious something had stolen his bait. Not only that, but the same something seemed to strike only after a fish was on the line. He’d feel a tug--a very distinctive pull that told him a fish was on his hook--but the moment he’d start to reel it in, the pressure would leave and he’d be left with only scraps of bait, if he was lucky. He guessed it was some sort of clever (or maybe just lucky) predator who’d figured out how to get past fishing hooks, so it’s not like it was the poor animal’s fault, but that didn’t stop him from being pissed as all hell.
It wasn’t even just about the fish. This was his only time to relax after feeling suffocated in a job that forced him to talk and shove his anger down all day; most of the time he just threw the fish back. It wasn’t about keeping them, it was about the peace and quiet of sitting in his boat and the sense of fulfillment when he managed to catch something. Now that sense of peace was taken from him and as a week wore on into two weeks, his patience was gone. Perhaps it was the pent-up stress that made him so irrationally angry at an unwitting sea creature, but eventually he decided he was going to catch that little fish-thieving motherfucker and maybe scare it into hunting elsewhere.
Fast-forward to the day of the plan.
It was perfect.
…ish.
George took his boat out to the offending (previously favorite) area and set the trap. It consisted of a fake fish covered in a bunch of hidden hooks, a net (in case the fish didn't work), and…well, strength. He threw the fake fish into the water and waited…and soon, he felt a tug. A strong tug. Way too strong to be the size of fish George had in mind. Still, short of letting his entire fishing rod drop into the water, he didn't have many options except to pull as hard as he could.
Fast-forward past ten minutes of struggling and almost capsizing, and here he was, with the bloodied, exhausted culprit in his boat.
It was human.
…ish.
He knew there was a word for what was right in front of him, but at the moment he was too shocked to remember.
“Aaaaah oh god!” George scrambled backwards as far as he could in his tiny boat and stared, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, at the creature before him with hooks in its hands and lips. He knew there was a word for what—who?—was right in front of him, but his mind was completely blank.
At the end of its—his?—torso was a long, brown tail with freckled stripes. Said tail was flailing wildly and on the verge of tipping the boat, so naturally George tried to pin it down. He was promptly slapped in the face by a powerful, soaking wet tail.
“Ow! Hey!” George struggled to the man-fish’s end of the boat and straddled him, holding his terrified face in his hands. “Hey,” he repeated, but more gently this time. “It’s okay, you're all right, I’m gonna help you. Okay? But you gotta stop freakin’ out on me.”
The fish-man seemed to understand—if not the words, then the tone of his voice—and calmed down, still staring at George with fearful eyes. Quickly, George took a set of pliers from his tackle box and removed the hooks, starting with the one on the creature-person’s mouth. They weren’t too badly embedded, so it was as easy as grabbing the hook from the bend, pressing down on the eye, and twisting his wrist in its direction. He did the same for the rest, carefully putting the bloody fish back in the tackle box.
“I’m sorry,” George murmured, looking guiltily into the fish-person’s eyes. “I’m real sorry, buddy, I swear…”
The person-creature stared at George for a couple of moments, then down at his hands, then back at George again. He made a few clicking noises that George didn’t understand. He looked…confused. When it was clear that George wasn’t going to understand his question, he wiggled away, using his arms to catapult himself back into the water.
And that was that.
When George rested his shaky legs on his bed that night, he finally remembered the real word for “man-fish”.
Holy shit, George… he thought as he stared blankly at the ceiling.
You just caught yourself a fucking merman.