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-1-
Silence reigned in the study of Wayne Manor, broken only by the soft crackle of wood burning in the fireplace.
It was three in the morning, and the last of the police officers had already left. Only Hal Jordan remained, having stayed behind for an extra half-hour under the pretext of "ensuring the victim's mental state was stable."
He watched the young man sitting in the armchair. Bruce Wayne. Twenty-two years old, and one of the most powerful men in Gotham City. After three days of illegal captivity, he showed no sign of distress, save for the almost excessive pallor of his face.
He was dressed in a clean silk robe, an open book resting on his lap, looking as if he had just returned from a rather dull dinner party.
Such composure was unnatural for someone who had just endured a life-or-death ordeal. Hal had seen too many victims. They wept, they trembled, they raged. But Bruce Wayne… he was like a piece of exquisitely carved, fragile porcelain. Beautiful, expensive, and utterly cold.
“…Are you alright?” Hal finally broke the silence.
Bruce lifted his eyes from the pages, his blue eyes like the surface of a frozen lake. "I'm fine, Detective Jordan. Thank you and your colleagues." His voice was steady, polite, but distant.
Hal offered a small smile and walked over to the liquor cabinet, picking up the glass of water the butler had prepared for him. "No need for 'Detective,' it's after hours now. Just Hal is fine." He took a sip of water and leaned against the desk, watching the young man. "Honestly, you're calmer than anyone I've ever seen. I've handled men twice your age in cases just like this, and they end up crying like beaten dogs."
"Emotion is a luxury, Hal," Bruce's voice was soft. "And it doesn't help solve the problem."
"Maybe," Hal didn't argue. His mind went back to what he'd read in Bruce's file while hastily reviewing it during the rescue planning—the street shooting that had shaken Gotham to its core over a decade ago.
Perhaps it was that far deeper trauma that had forged in him a composure that didn't belong to someone his age.
Hal's gaze drifted back to the fireplace, the firelight dancing in his pupils. He was silent for a moment, then spoke suddenly, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper to himself:
"When I was eight years old, my dad had an accident. "
"He was a test pilot. That day, he was trying to break a new record, and everyone was excited. I remember standing by the runway... he even gave me a thumbs-up before he took off."
For the first time, Bruce's gaze lifted completely from his book and settled on Hal's profile.
"And then, I saw a fireball fall from the sky. Bang. The sound was deafening, but I couldn't hear a thing."
The corner of Hal's mouth twitched into something that might have been a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I remember I didn't cry. Not a single tear. Everyone even praised me for being so brave. But my mom... she was furious. She thought I was heartless."
"But it wasn't that I wasn't sad. I was just... stuck. Like a film reel burning through on a single frame. I didn't know how to feel, and I didn't know how to make anyone understand that, really, I was terrified."
He turned his head to look directly at Bruce. His brown eyes, usually so full of a careless nonchalance, were now clear and sincere.
"So, I think I get what you're going through. This isn't pity, Bruce. I just... I get it." He paused, his voice softening. "Setting aside your 'richer-than-God' part... maybe we're a lot alike, aren't we?"
It was the first time Hal had said his name.
-2-
Three months had passed since the kidnapping. Hal and Bruce had become friends—friends of a subtle, hard-to-define sort.
They didn't contact each other often, communicating mostly through text messages. Hal would occasionally send something unimportant, like, "Some idiot actually tried to steal my car today—a detective's car!" or, "The hot dog stand on the corner changed their hot sauce. Tastes awful."
And Bruce's replies were usually brief: "Be safe." "Noted."
But every week or two, when Hal had closed a difficult case or Bruce had disentangled himself from the exhaustion of a multinational conference, they would meet by tacit agreement at a dimly lit whiskey bar. It was a place Bruce frequented—quiet, private, and with no risk of landing him on the front page of the tabloids.
Tonight was no different.
Hal was complaining about how impossible the new coffee machine at the precinct was, gesticulating with his hands as he spoke, mimicking the strange noises the machine made. His storytelling was so vivid that it even drew a rare smile from the corner of Bruce's lips.
Bruce didn't say much; he just listened, and watched.
He watched Hal. Watched this man, more than a decade his senior, dressed in a well-worn leather jacket with a slightly frayed collar. There was a light in his eyes when he spoke, his honey-colored irises seeming impossibly bright against the amber of the whiskey. He raised his glass, and as he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbed gently. A sharp jawline extended down to the side of his neck, tracing a clean, distinct line.
Bruce suddenly felt his mouth go dry.
He lifted his own glass and took a sip. The liquor was sharp, sliding down his throat and igniting a warm fire in his chest.
Hal was still talking, but Bruce found he could no longer quite hear the words. His attention was entirely captivated by Hal's profile. His hyper-intelligent brain felt like a supercomputer that had just crashed, all its processing power suddenly focused on a single, strange detail—
He noticed the fine lines that crinkled at the corners of Hal's eyes when he smiled, like the spread of a bird's wings. He noticed that Hal's fingers were long and articulated, and the way he held his glass was inexplicably beautiful. He noticed his own heart beginning to beat uncontrollably faster.
This wasn't as simple as "finding a friend interesting."
It was a strange, sudden emotion that had caught him completely off guard.
"...Bruce? Hey, Bruce? Are you listening?" Hal waved a hand in front of his face.
Bruce snapped back to reality, lifting his glass in a defensive gesture to avoid Hal's questioning gaze. "Listening. You were talking about the coffee machine."
"Right, that thing is an anti-human design!" Hal immediately picked up the thread, his tone as enthusiastic as ever.
Bruce just hummed in response, but his gaze, once again beyond his control, drifted back to the profile that made his heart race.
-3-
They were back at the familiar whiskey bar.
The bartender behind the counter simply gave them a knowing nod upon seeing them and began to prepare 'the usual' for them both. They had a regular booth tucked away in a corner—the darkest and quietest spot in the place, as if it were a safe zone tailor-made for them.
Hal looked a little more tired than usual tonight. His tie was hanging loosely around his neck, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows. He was complaining in a low voice about how tricky a recently closed case had been, while Bruce, as usual, listened in silence.
When Hal's complaints finally subsided, Bruce swirled the ice in his glass and started a new topic of conversation, feigning casualness. "You're always so busy, Hal. After handling all these dangerous cases, do you just go back to your apartment and stay by yourself?"
Hal took a large gulp of his drink and let out a contented sigh. "Pretty much. It's peaceful being alone. I'm actually planning to take apart and rebuild the carburetor on my old Mustang this weekend. Just thinking about it gets me excited."
Bruce deadpanned.
The first branch of the conversation had quickly hit a dead end.
He switched to a more direct approach. "Based on my impression from when we first met, you must be quite popular at the precinct," he stated. "I imagine... you don't lack for people asking you out for a drink outside of work."
"Of course!" Hal laughed instantly, a hint of pride on his face. "I'm on great terms with everyone! Men, women, it doesn't matter—we're all comrades who would trust each other with our lives. At our team's celebration party last time, Debby even insisted on buying me a drink."
Bruce seized upon the female name, asking nonchalantly, "Debby?"
"Yeah, she's a nice girl from our IT department," Hal began to share, completely unsuspecting. "Last week, she said her drain was clogged and she couldn't fix it herself, so I went over and spent half the day clearing it for her without a second thought. See? The team spirit at our precinct is just fantastic. We all help each other out."
Bruce lifted his glass, using the motion of drinking to hide the smile that was spreading across his face. He could almost imagine Miss Debby's despair at that moment.
He decided to probe a little deeper, employing the same persuasive techniques he used at the negotiating table. "'Just 'helping each other out'?' Hal, you're a charming man. Has no one... ever expressed feelings for you that go beyond friendship?"
Hal fell unusually silent at the question. He furrowed his brow, thinking hard for a moment, looking as if he were trying to recall a complex case detail.
Then, he looked at Bruce and sighed with complete sincerity. "Honestly, Bruce, I... I don't get that stuff."
Bruce held his breath, waiting for what came next, trying to extract any valuable information.
"I can't tell if someone is smiling at me out of politeness or for some other reason," Hal scratched his head, looking troubled. "Besides, all that... dating? Dinners? Movies? You have to keep talking, keep trying to guess what the other person is thinking... It's more exhausting than interrogating the most cunning criminal."
He downed the rest of his drink in one go, then leaned back into the soft booth, completely relaxed. "So, yeah, I think this is for the best. Work hard on the job, and when I'm off, I just have a drink and a chat with a friend. Just like this, with us now. It's easy, it's comfortable."
Hal looked at Bruce with sincerity, his brown eyes like two warm pools in the dim light of the bar. He had just laid bare his truest thoughts, without reservation, to the one person he considered his only real friend.
And Bruce almost laughed out loud at the conclusion he had reached—Hal wasn't a fortress that was difficult to conquer; he was a house with no locks, perhaps even no door, and he simply had no idea.
-4-
The restaurant Bruce had chosen was on the top floor of Gotham's tallest building. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the entire city's river of lights snaked below. Soft jazz music drifted through the air, and on the table sat a candlestick and a single, perfect white rose—every detail silently proclaiming the theme of "romance."
Bruce believed that even the most oblivious person would understand what this occasion was for.
Hal, it seemed, was the exception to that rule.
Dressed in his best jacket, he let out an appreciative whistle as he sat down. "Wow, Bruce, this place is something else! What's the occasion? Did Wayne Enterprises acquire this restaurant too? Are you holding a board meeting here?"
Bruce elegantly pulled out the chair for him, his expression unchanging as he replied, "I just thought the view was nice."
"It is nice," Hal agreed sincerely, pointing out the window. "From this angle, the layout of the city's main roads is really interesting. You know, in a case we handled last week, the suspect used a blind spot in the traffic surveillance on Fifth Avenue to get away..."
Bruce: "..."
Plan A, insinuation through atmosphere, was confirmed as a failure.
Bruce decided to initiate Plan B: a personal compliment. "You look... sharp today," he chose one of the safest words.
"You think?" Hal grinned. "I made sure to wash my hair before I left! Speaking of which, the new intern in our department, Kyle, actually showed up to a crime scene with a total mess on his head the other day. The chief chewed him out for 'damaging the public image of the police'..."
The topic had once again strayed into the trivialities of the precinct.
Bruce waited patiently for him to finish before taking a deep breath and deciding to activate Plan C: emotional guidance.
He set down his fork and knife, leaned forward slightly, and looked at Hal with his deep blue eyes. "Hal, are you happy with your life right now? Or rather, do you ever feel like... something is missing?"
It was the perfect question, designed to open up any deep conversation.
Hal considered it seriously for a moment, then gave Bruce a smile that was incredibly sincere and even a little comforting.
"Missing? Not at all!" he raised his glass towards Bruce. "Look, I've got a job I love, I've got my cool old Mustang—even if it's always breaking down—and... I've got a good friend who takes me to fancy places like this for dinner."
He added cheerfully, "To our friendship, Bruce!"
In that instant, Bruce Wayne heard a string inside his head—one labeled "Reason" and "Patience"—snap with a loud twang.
All of his plans, his groundwork, and his hints had completely disintegrated in the face of this man's impenetrable thought process (or rather, his black-hole-level perception).
He looked at Hal's face, beaming because of their "friendship," and for the first time, he abandoned all subtlety and calculation.
Bruce slowly, deliberately, set down his glass. The soft clink of glass against the tabletop sounded unnaturally loud against the backdrop of the mellow music.
"Hal." His voice was quiet, but it successfully stopped Hal in his tracks.
"Huh?" Hal blinked, looking baffled.
Bruce leaned forward slightly, his blue eyes locking onto Hal's, his voice low and firm. "This is not a regular dinner between friends."
Hal's expression grew even more confused. "It's not? The steak is pretty good."
Bruce closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if mustering all the courage he'd accumulated in his twenty-two years. When he opened them again, his gaze was filled with the resolve of someone who had burned all his bridges.
"No."
He declared, each word clear and deliberate:
"This—is a DATE."
The world fell silent in that instant.
The smile on Hal's face, along with the fork he was just about to lift to his steak, froze in place.
His brown eyes, usually so full of a gentle warmth, were now, for the first time, filled with one singular, overwhelming emotion—utter shock.