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It's a quiet night, the sharp moon blunted by clouds and the crisp scent of ozone heralding incoming rain.
Hal exhales slowly just to watch his breath condense and then dissipate like smoke, absently kicking his feet where they dangle into open air. Gotham sprawls below, grimly beautiful in the way battle-worn things are, twisted and scarred by time and challenges but still standing, much like her beloved Knight. Hal idly wonders how long he has before he's found.
Probably not very. The Bat's freaky like that.
Hal doesn't really care. After over two Earth weeks of a space war, he's tired. Shit, he can't even remember the last time he slept. But to give himself some credit, even messed up like he is, Hal knows something's wrong.
He just needs to figure out what it is. And apparently Hal's moronic hindbrain had decided trespassing in Batman's off-limits city was the first step.
Oddly enough, just being in Gotham seems to be helping. It may just be the anticipation of resolution, though.
Worse case scenario, he'll—
“You dare bring magic into Gotham.”
Hal twists to look around the gargoyle at his back, both startled and impressed, as usual, by the way someone in a weight class higher than his own manages to move silently in heavy armour and a literal cape.
Except it's not Batman standing on the roof behind Hal.
Although the man definitely shares the same build as Batman, his armour is slate grey instead of midnight, broad shoulders shrouded in brown leather instead of a cape. His voice is heavily distorted, presumably by a voice modifier in his blood red helmet, but his tone is exactly like Batman's when he growls, “Jordan.”
“...You know me?”
The man's silence is distinctly judgemental.
Hal frowns. Is he being pranked? Are all Gotham people like this?
Red Helmet tilts his head to the side. “You look like shit.”
Hal opens his mouth. Closes it. Finally clocks the guns holstered at the man's thighs, a knife handle glinting from inside the leather jacket. Hal would bet his ring that those aren't the only weapons Red has on his person right now, except he isn't in the right headspace and shouldn't be betting anything, even in his mind.
“You,” his mouth says without permission, “look like trouble.”
There's no response, not even any sort of reaction. Hal's brain chooses that exact moment to register the fact that Red is carrying guns in Batman's city.
The expressionless helmet is starting to be more menacing than weird.
Red chuckles in the face of Hal's growing apprehension. “Yeah, okay,” he says, almost approving, like Hal's passed a test he never knew he was taking.
Scratch being pranked. Is he hallucinating?
A gloved hand appears in front of Hal's face, a small square of yellow paper tucked between two fingers.
Hal's heart trips.
What the fuck. He didn't even see Red move.
He takes the paper, faintly surprised when it's solid.
“Tear in half when you see him.”
Hal blinks. “Who,” he reflexively asks, looking up from the weird scrawl inked at the paper's center.
The roof is empty.
And here Hal thought Batman was one of a kind with his disappearing act.
He doesn't spare a thought to ponder the ways it could go wrong, obediently ripping the paper cleanly in half when he sees the darkest shadows on the roof move. It disintegrates between his fingers.
Huh.
“Jordan,” Batman growls as he stalks closer, his cape rippling in the wind.
But Hal is so tired. “Spooky,” he manages to slur before he blinks too long and is out like a light.
It's the best sleep he's had in at least a year.
Somewhat disoriented by how well he'd slept in an unfamiliar bed and the deep darkness of the room, Hal sluggishly knuckles the sleep from his eyes.
He should probably get up; who knows how much time has passed.
The decision is taken out of his hands by a prim knock at the door.
Hal wills his ring to himself as he sits up. It zips over from what is most likely a nightstand, settling onto his finger a split second before the door opens.
An older gentleman enters the room, bearing a silver tray with a glass of water and a full pitcher. He must be a butler: perfect posture, crisp white gloves, pristine black suit complete with a vest, tie, and coattails. He also doesn't seem the least bit surprised by Hal's wary gaze, setting down the tray to open the floor-to-ceiling blackout curtains with brisk, practiced movements.
“Good afternoon, Mister Jordan.”
Hal wrinkles his nose at both the formality and abrupt sunlight. “Please,” he rasps, “just Hal.”
He must sound as bad as he thinks, because the butler turns from the windows to offer him the glass of water.
“Oh.” Hal reaches for the glass with both hands, then only extends his right when something tugs at his left, glancing down as he accepts the water. “Thanks.” He blinks and momentarily forgets about the needle in his hand. “...Afternoon?”
The butler tips his head amicably, lifting one gloved hand. “Indeed. May I?”
“Sure.” Hal watches as the butler sets about removing the needle. “...Um.”
“Merely some nutrients and fluids for dehydration,” the butler says as he gathers the IV stand, “rest assured.”
Hal looks at the small piece of gauze taped to his skin. “Thank you.”
There's a vaguely amused tilt to the man's lips. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Alone again, Hal takes a sip from the glass. The water is blessedly cool. He drains half in one long swallow and nearly chokes when he catches sight of Bruce Wayne in an armchair in the shadowed sitting area.
“Jordan.” His voice isn't as low or growly, but his brooding glower is all Batman even without the cape.
“Jesus—” Hal coughs, wincing.
An extra wrinkle appears between Wayne's eyebrows. “Not quite,” he says.
Hal hastily holds the glass away from himself, doubling over as he coughs louder. “Oh my God. You're killing me,” he gasps, breathless. “Spooky, you're killing me.”
Wayne frowns in distaste and Hal can't stop the laughter that bubbles up.
It's a vicious cycle. The more Hal laughs, the more Wayne looks like he thinks Hal's losing his mind.
So Hal laughs. Nothing hurts. He feels light. He laughs and laughs— and remembers the tens of thousands of lives lost in the space war.
Hal stops laughing. Maybe he is losing his mind.
“Hey, Spooky.”
Silence. Maybe he expects Hal to continue without waiting for a response. Hal picks at the tape on his hand.
“What,” Wayne rumbles.
“Big guy with the red helmet,” Hal says, remembering silent movements and visible guns, “he one of yours?”
Wayne hesitates. Only for a second, but it's enough. “...Yes.”
A corner of the tape lifts, snagged by Hal's fingernail. He presses it back down. “Enemy?”
“No,” Wayne immediately replies. Then, “You met him.” It's not a question, merely a statement of fact. Earth's sky is blue, Bruce Wayne is Batman, and Hal has met what he still kind of believes to be a red helmeted ghost. “What happened?”
It's like pressing on a bad bruise, the ache blade sharp and bone deep. He won't bleed, might even forget it's there, until something digs cruel pressure where it hurts. He's buried in them.
“Space war,” Hal mutters. “Something was wrong— We lost so many, it wasn't—” Hal inhales. Closes his fist to feel the edges of the ring press against his fingers. “I didn't know who was on-world. Came here.”
Ring didn't have enough for much else, Hal doesn't say. Because Hal Jordan always gave his all and then some. And then some more. But sometimes, even that isn't enough.
“He found me first.”
“And?” Wayne prompts, and it isn't Batman's drive to know everything in his voice.
It's different. Aching.
Oh, Hal realizes, it's not that Bruce doesn't have emotions. He just spirits them away into the little cave behind the bars of his ribs.
Like hiding weakness,
a secret,
(something precious.)
Hal blinks, remembers: You dare bring magic into Gotham.
Magic. Was he cursed or something?
“And he helped me,” Hal says.
Something softens in Bruce's eyes, quietly proud and endlessly sad. “Hn.”
Red definitely means something to him. Whatever happened to the viciously territorial Bat that guarded his city against both threats and other heroes?
“So,” Hal drawls, unable to resist his curiosity, “who—”
Bruce grunts in a tone that distinctly sounds like none of your business and rises to his feet. “Get up, then find me.”
There's no cape to swish behind him, but even in perfectly tailored slacks and a black turtleneck, Bruce manages to make his exit no less dramatic. He doesn't shut the door behind him.
Hal gawks at the empty doorway for a moment, then laughs softly and drains the glass of water he's still holding.
That's the Spooky he knows.
After a heavenly shower in the ridiculously spacious black-and-white tiled bathroom, Hal puts on the clothes folded in a neat pile between the double sink countertop. They feel too nice against his skin not to be pricey, despite how deceptively simple the white t-shirt and dark wash blue jeans appear, but he really can't afford to be picky.
Hal willfully doesn't think about how well they fit, running a hand through his damp hair before folding his favourite jacket over his arm and leaving the room. He wanders down the hall, eyes roaming over massive chandeliers and priceless vases and intricate wainscoting. Yes, he does know what that word means, Hal isn't as dumb as the glowing neon green suit makes him seem, okay?
It isn't hard to find the majestic staircase leading to the ground floor. Or what is presumably a dining room for a small army, where the butler from earlier is arranging several plates around one chair.
“Mister Jordan,” he greets. “You must be hungry. Please, have a seat.”
Hal discovers he's absolutely starving as he clears all the delectable dishes with ease. Not that he was intending to leave any food behind. He does have manners.
Hal's rewarded with a small smile from the butler as he leads the way to Batman's base of operations. It's an actual cave right beneath Wayne manor, imagine that.
Bruce sits in front of the massive computer, fingers flying over the keyboard as he types and splits his attention between the half dozen monitors. Contrary to Hal's expectations, he isn't all decked out in the armour and cape, but then again, it isn't dark outside yet.
“Wow,” Hal hums, walking over to lean his hip against the computer. “Nice place, Spooky.”
Almost immediately, an alarm beeps. Hal yelps, raising his hands and backing away.
“I didn't do anything, swear!”
Bruce grunts, swivelling his chair around as a black car with dark tinted windows screeches to a stop in the cave.
The car door is kicked open after a tense minute.
A large man with stark white hair and an eyepatch exits the vehicle. In his arms is a body.
Bruce's fingers twitch. For Batman, who controlled his body's movements and reactions with an iron will, it might as well be a flinch.
The man meets Bruce's gaze and says, “Help.”
“Wilson,” Bruce growls, deep and furious. His hands curl into fists, knuckles bone white. “What have you done.”
“Wayne,” Wilson replies, absurdly calm even when faced with Batman's ire. “Help him.”
If Hal was bad, intruding in Batman's city without permission, this Wilson guy breaking into Batman's cave is way worse. Although being able to do so is unbelievably impressive in itself. Hal eyes him warily.
“Help Jason,” Wilson says, not taking his eye off Bruce. His confidence doesn't waver. “Please.”
Bruce stands abruptly enough to send his chair rolling back against the computer. He doesn't say a word, stalking towards a different area of the cave without a backward glance.
Wilson silently follows.
“Huh?” Hal whispers to himself, then cautiously tiptoes after them.
By the time Hal catches up, the body is laid out on a bed in what appears to be the medical area of the cave.
No, not a body. Jason.
“—ly magic,” Wilson is saying, his voice an angry rumble.
Bruce has a hand on one of Jason's wrists, fingers resting on his pulse. His eyes roam over the man's young, handsome face and the weird streak of white in his dark hair.
“Look.” Wilson gently lifts one of Jason's eyelids. The eye is solid gold, no pupil in sight.
Bruce's eyes widen. Hal winces.
Glowing eyes are rarely a good sign.
“I will contact Zatanna,” Bruce informs them in Batman's bass before heading back to the computer.
And then there were two. Well, technically three, but only two are currently capable of conversation.
Hal glances at Wilson's eyepatch, then the man's bulging biceps, and decides to be quiet.
He lasts all of two minutes, fidgeting, before clearing his throat. “So...”
Wilson's eye is startlingly blue, his gaze a near physical weight. “Harold Jordan.”
Hal's jaw drops a little. Seriously? “I go by Hal, actually. Why does everyone know me,” he grumbles. Gotham is so weird. “I don't suppose you'll be introducing yourself either?”
The man regards him in silence for a moment, then makes a low sound in his throat that may be amusement. Hal is hit with the strangest feeling of déjà vu.
“Slade Wilson.” His eye narrows. “What are you doing here?”
“Ah, y'know— just dropping by.”
Slade's blank stare is scathing.
Hal is saved by the click of heels announcing Zatanna Zatara's arrival. She's dressed flawlessly as always, her eyes soft and sleepy like she had just woken up.
“Hal,” Zatanna says with a little nod in his direction, greeting Slade with a polite hi before turning her attention to Jason. “Oh.”
“What do you see,” Bruce asks, uncharacteristically impatient.
Zatanna gently touches a gloved fingertip to Jason's cheek. “Darling boy, you are a mess.” She looks down, staring at something at his chest. “How are you alive,” she murmurs, awed.
“Zatanna—”
“He has magic.”
“Yes,” Slade confirms.
Bruce freezes, his startled eyes darting from Jason to Slade. Hal watches with an unsettled sort of fascination, unable to look away.
Zatanna acknowledges the answer with a distracted hum. “Nasty work,” she mutters. “Warped after meeting his magic.” She clicks her tongue. “It's out of control.”
Slade growls. “Can you destroy it?”
“It devoured the caster's life to tether itself in his soul. Destroying it will cause irreparable damage.”
“And if you leave it?”
“It will consume him,” Zatanna says, quiet. “Slowly.”
Bruce doesn't look up, as if his stare alone could wake Jason. Or maybe as if determination could let him see what Zatanna does. His voice is a low rumble when he suggests, “Separation?”
“His magic— Ancient magics are fickle,” Zatanna warns. “There's a chance it may not work.” But she obliges all the same, stepping back to raise her hands.
Her next words are indiscernible syllables resonating with power.
The air is briefly heavier with something other, gradually fading like smoke. Disappointment settles in its place.
Then Jason starts screaming.
Hal's heard his fair share of screams, from all kinds of lifeforms and existences. Happiness, relief, fear, grief. Right now it's only agony ringing in his ears, the sort with nightmare inducing causes and effects.
Every muscle rigid, Jason curls in on himself, fingernails digging into his arms. He screams again, a wordless wail of pain that stretches and cracks as his throat gives in, his eyes flickering gold and fading green between his lashes.
“Jason,” someone gasps, panicked—
And Jason goes still.
The abrupt silence is so absolute, even the bats have stopped chittering and squeaking above their heads.
Slade is the first to react, moving faster than Hal can track to close his fingers around Zatanna's neck. “You.”
Zatanna gasps, scrabbling at Slade's forearm.
“Hey,” Hal blurts, glancing at Bruce for backup, “don't—” He falters, mouth open, because Bruce isn't even paying attention.
Bruce, chest heaving, is still staring at Jason. The raw devastation etched clearly and openly on his face has Hal following his gaze.
Jason's too still.
Something is very, very wrong.
Hal faintly wonders if he's breathing. And apparently things could get worse, because a billowing mass of sickly green shot through with jagged streaks of gold, vaguely quadrupedal, appears.
“Uh,” Hal yelps, “what is that!”
The creature? Manifested magic? Apparition? It turns golden eyes on Hal, then seems to dismiss him in favour of Slade and Zatanna, completely ignoring Bruce.
Faced with an unknown threat, Slade drops Zatanna. She coughs, and to her credit, immediately starts rasping a spell.
A flaming sword skewers the thing before Zatanna has a chance to utter more than two syllables. It crumbles into dust and disappears.
Unsettled by how anticlimactic it was, Hal can't help but flinch a little when Slade moves to brush past him. He hopes the man isn't about to grab someone else by the throat.
“Jason.”
Not the slightest bit concerned with Slade's looming, Jason grins. “Hi.” His canines are too sharp but the effect is softened by the way he's blinking slowly. “‘m fine,” he murmurs, heavy with exhaustion, “just...”
As if there aren't multiple pairs of eyes looking on with varying degrees of bewilderment, Slade rests a gentle hand on Jason's hair. “Rest,” he rumbles.
Eyes closed, Jason leans into the touch. “Mm.”
Zatanna clears her throat. “If that's all, I have a date with my bed to get back to.” Her voice is still hoarse and she makes sure to keep Slade in sight.
Fair. Hal had been wary of him from the very beginning. The man seems to radiate danger, the kind that could put you six feet under without any real effort.
“Yes,” Bruce says with all the grim gravitas of Batman, “thank you for your assistance, Zatanna.”
“Wait,” Hal blurts. “Z— Can I get a, uh, ride?”
Zatanna arches a brow. For a moment, she looks like she might ask, but she only shrugs and says, “Sure.”
“Thanks.”
Hal blinks and opens his eyes to his apartment in Coast City. Magic sure is convenient. He charges his ring, then flops onto the couch with a beer.
After replying to the few texts he had received while off-planet, Hal types in a search query.
> Bruce Wayne, Gotham
He lets the cursor blink. Adds a name.
> Bruce Wayne, Gotham, Jason
All the top news articles are several years old. Every single one of them declare little Jason Todd-Wayne a tragedy, dead and buried on the Wayne manor property.
Hal cracks open his beer, brings it to his lips. He doesn't stop until it's empty.
That night, he dreams of distorted laughter, small hands clawing out of the muddy ground, and sharp smiles with sharper teeth.
Hal isn't scared. He isn't. But he's going to stay away from Gotham for a long, long time.