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Chapter Text

The invitation came printed on thick cream cardstock, embossed with gold foil and pretentious flourish — which was exactly how Hal Jordan knew he was going to hate this party.

“Wayne Enterprises Charity Gala. Black tie. Gotham City. RSVP: Alfred Pennyworth.”

“Gotham,” Hal muttered, tossing the invite onto the counter of the Justice League watchtower’s commissary. “I hate Gotham. It smells like wet fear and old money.”

Across the table, Barry Allen grinned, halfway through a sandwich the size of a small building. “You just hate anywhere you can’t wear sunglasses indoors without looking like a jerk.”

“I look great everywhere,” Hal said automatically.

“Sure,” Barry said, licking peanut butter off his finger. “But you only got that invite ‘cause you were flirting with that Wayne Enterprises PR lady at the Metropolis benefit. You’re gonna show up, drink, hit on Gotham debutantes, and get kicked out before dessert.”

Hal leaned back in his chair. “Incorrect. I am going to show up, make a charitable appearance, and maybe — maybe — network.”

That’s when Oliver Queen sat down beside him, smirking. “Oh, this I gotta see.”

Hal groaned. “No, no, whatever you’re thinking, don’t say it.”

“Oh, I’m saying it.” Ollie folded his arms, bow on his back, beard smug.

“Bet you can’t make Brucie Wayne fall for you.”

Barry choked on his drink. “Oh my god.”
Hal blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. The great Hal Jordan — ladies’ man of the League, self-proclaimed heartbreaker — can’t possibly resist a challenge. You think you’re irresistible? Make Bruce Wayne fall in love with you.”

“Bruce Wayne?” Hal said, incredulous. “The billionaire himbo with the tragic eyes and the yachts?”

 

“That’s the one,” Ollie said. “Ten days. You make him fall for you. Otherwise, you admit I’m the more charming billionaire.”

Barry raised his hand. “Hold up — does Bruce even like guys?”

Ollie smirked. “He’s Gotham’s biggest mystery. He might. That’s half the fun.”

Hal scoffed, but his pride itched in exactly the way Ollie knew it would. “You’re on, Queen. I can make anyone fall for me in ten days.”

“Uh-huh,” Barry said. “Just don’t get your heart broken, Casanova.”

Hal flashed a cocky grin. “Please. I don’t do heartbreak.”

The Wayne Manor ballroom glittered like money and secrets. Chandeliers, champagne, string quartets — it screamed old Gotham elegance and new Gotham guilt.

Bruce Wayne, however, looked bored out of his mind.
He stood by the balcony, drink in hand, smile practiced.

He’d already fielded four conversations about mergers, three about WayneTech’s new green initiative, and two marriage proposals disguised as “networking opportunities.”

Across the room, Alfred gave him a discreet nod: “Behave, sir.”

Bruce took a sip of champagne. “Define ‘behave.’”
Then he saw him.

Tall, confident, smile like he knew it — the man striding through the crowd in a tailored suit that probably cost less than Bruce’s cufflinks but fit like it was sculpted. Hal Jordan.

Bruce recognized him from somewhere — Wayne Enterprises had sponsored a Ferris Air event last year, hadn’t they? And of course, he’d read the file. Hal Jordan, test pilot, hotshot, rule-breaker.

Impulsive. Arrogant. Brave.

Bruce had no idea why his pulse picked up a notch.

“Mr. Wayne!” Hal said, approaching with the kind of grin that could get someone arrested for charm. “Thanks for the invite.”

Bruce smiled his Brucie Wayne smile — the one that looked genuine but was exactly 73% performance.

“Of course. You’re… Harold, right? You fly things.”

Hal laughed. “Hal. And yeah, I fly things. You… own things.”

Bruce chuckled like someone who’d never heard sarcasm before. “I do, don’t I?”

Play the idiot, Wayne. Always safer that way.

“So,” Hal said, leaning in slightly, “what’s a guy gotta do to get some time with Gotham’s most eligible bachelor?”

Bruce blinked. That was new. Most people didn’t flirt with Brucie Wayne — they propositioned him. But this was… playful.

“Oh, I’m terribly dull,” Bruce said airily. “You’d be bored in five minutes.”

“Try me,” Hal said.

Bruce tilted his head, intrigued despite himself. “Careful what you wish for, pilot.”

The next day, Hal strutted into the Watchtower like a man with a plan. “Day one, and he already gave me his number.”
“Did you give him yours?” Barry asked.

Hal paused. “…No, he gave me Alfred’s. But still counts.”
Ollie cackled. “You’re going down, flyboy.”

But Hal was determined. He spent the next few days “casually” bumping into Bruce Wayne — lunches in Metropolis, a charity dinner in Coast City, an art exhibit in Gotham. Always smooth, always confident.

Bruce, for his part, played the game. The “Brucie” persona was perfect cover — vapid enough to let people underestimate him, charming enough to draw them close.
But Hal Jordan wasn’t like anyone else.

He was too bold. Too curious. Too sincere in the moments between jokes.

Bruce had expected to be irritated. Instead, he found himself amused.

And then, just a little, interested.

By Day Five, Hal was getting desperate. Bruce Wayne was infuriating. He laughed at all the wrong moments, dodged personal questions, and had this habit of looking through people like he was reading a report on them.

So Hal did what any self-respecting man in a rom-com bet would do — he invited Bruce to dinner at his Coast City apartment.

“Homemade pasta,” Hal said, serving two plates. “Try not to be too impressed.”

Bruce smiled politely, twirling his fork. “Did you make the noodles yourself?”
“…No."

“Then I’m moderately impressed.”

They ate. They talked. Hal was charming, Bruce was evasive. It was fine.

Until Hal’s cat — a scruffy orange menace named Maverick — jumped onto Bruce’s lap and knocked a full glass of wine into his shirt.

Bruce froze. “Ah.”

“Oh no,” Hal said, leaping up. “I’ll grab—”

But Bruce had already taken off the shirt, revealing a torso that absolutely did not belong to a pampered billionaire playboy.

Hal stopped mid-step. “…You, uh, work out.”

Bruce smiled thinly. “Just a little.”

Oh no, Hal thought. He’s hot-hot.

Oh no, Bruce thought. He’s actually sincere.

They started seeing each other more — a lunch in Metropolis, a late-night drive through Gotham’s skyline, a helicopter ride where Hal insisted on flying them over the bay “because romance.”

Bruce let it happen. He told himself it was research — understanding Hal Jordan, the man who’d appeared on League radars as a fearless pilot. But when Hal made him laugh — genuinely laugh — for the first time in months, Bruce started to lose his footing.

Hal, meanwhile, was having a crisis. He was supposed to make Bruce Wayne fall for him. But somewhere around Day Seven, he realized he liked Bruce — not the billionaire image, not the challenge — but the strange, guarded man beneath the charm.

The bet started to feel like a noose.

One night, Bruce had to cut their date short — “business emergency,” he said. Hal didn’t question it, but later, when Green Lantern was responding to a Justice League alert, he saw Batman — Batman — fighting the same fire at the Gotham docks.

Hal didn’t think anything of it. Coincidence.

Except later, Bruce showed up to breakfast with a bruised jaw in the exact same spot where Batman had taken a hit.
Weird.

Weird weird weird.

They were on the balcony of Wayne Tower, the city lights glittering below, champagne untouched.

Hal leaned in, that grin softening into something real. “You know, I think I’m actually starting to like you, Wayne.”
Bruce smiled faintly. “That’s dangerous, Mr. Jordan.”
“Why’s that?”

“Because people who like me tend to regret it.”
Hal’s hand brushed his. “Maybe I’ll take my chances.”
And then — the phone rang.

Bruce answered it, murmured a quick excuse, and vanished into the night.

Hal watched him go, heart twisting with something he couldn’t name.

Back at the Watchtower, Ollie was waiting. “Well? How’s the Brucie seduction plan going?”

Hal didn’t answer.

“Don’t tell me you actually like the guy,” Ollie teased.
Hal’s jaw tightened. “It’s not like that.”

Barry looked up from a data pad. “It sounds exactly like that.”

Hal sighed. “He’s not what I expected, okay? He’s… smart. And sad. And weirdly funny. I don’t want to hurt him.”
“Then call it off,” Barry said gently.
Hal nodded. “Yeah. I will. Tomorrow.”

That night, Bruce was out on patrol as Batman, tailing a weapons shipment when a streak of green light flashed above the docks.

Green Lantern.

Batman crouched in the shadows, watching the pilot land, ring glowing. The way he moved — the confidence, the cocky posture, the grin when he disarmed a thug — it was unmistakable.

Bruce froze.

Hal.

It was Hal.

And suddenly, everything clicked. The recklessness, the charm, the bruises that matched League activity reports.
Bruce sat back against the wall, whispering to himself. “Of course it’s him.”

He should’ve felt angry. Betrayed. But instead, all he could think was — of course I fell for the damn pilot.

Chapter Text

Gotham, 3 a.m.

Bruce Wayne—Batman—was not supposed to be having an emotional crisis in an abandoned clock tower while still in the suit.

But here he was, mask half-off, staring at a photo of Hal Jordan on his phone.

Of course it’s him, he muttered. Of course the reckless, impossible idiot I almost kissed is also the reckless, impossible idiot from the League.

He ran a hand over his face, sighing.

Now he had a problem.

He’d been pretending to be “Brucie Wayne,” Gotham’s premier moron, to keep Hal at arm’s length. But now that he knew Hal was Green Lantern—one of the few people who could actually handle Batman—he couldn’t stop thinking about the way Hal looked at him when he thought Bruce wasn’t paying attention.

He should pull back. End it before it got messy.

Instead, he texted Hal.

Bruce: Can’t sleep. Coffee?
Hal: It’s 3:07 a.m.
Bruce: Gotham never sleeps.
Hal: You flirting or issuing a challenge?
Bruce: Both.

Bruce groaned. Fantastic. Even my texts are compromising my secret identity.

Hal arrived in Gotham by jet at 8 a.m. and swaggered into the café like a man who definitely wasn’t in emotional turmoil.

“Brucie Wayne,” he said, sliding into the seat opposite Bruce. “You look like sin and insomnia.”

“Thank you,” Bruce said dryly. “Both are family traits.”
Hal grinned. “You call, I show. What’s up?”

Bruce looked at him for a long moment. He wanted to say, I know you’re Green Lantern. Instead, he said, “You keep showing up. Aren’t you busy flying planes and breaking hearts?”

Hal shrugged. “I like Gotham. You make it less gloomy.”
Bruce smiled faintly. “That’s impossible.”

“Watch me,” Hal said.
Bruce tried not to. He failed.

 

By Day Eight, Hal was spiraling. The “make him fall for me” bet had turned into a slow-burn emotional car crash. He couldn’t tell Bruce about the bet, couldn’t tell him about being Green Lantern, couldn’t stop thinking about him either.

So he decided to tank the bet.

If Bruce fell for him now, it had to be for real, right?

“Let’s do something fun,” Hal announced, calling Bruce that afternoon. “I’m taking you out.”
Bruce—halfway through a board meeting—sighed. “Define ‘fun.’”

“Surprise.”

Two hours later, Bruce was standing in front of a mini-golf course.

“Seriously?” he asked.
“Come on,” Hal said, handing him a bright green club.

“You’re never too rich for bad decisions.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You know I own a golf resort, right?”

“Yeah, but can your golf resort play ‘Eye of the Tiger’ over cheap speakers and sell you nachos shaped like bats?”

“…No.”
“Then it’s an upgrade,” Hal said.

It should’ve been ridiculous. It was ridiculous. Hal cheated constantly; Bruce pretended to care about the score; they ended up throwing popcorn at each other in the snack area like teenagers.

Somewhere between holes seven and eight, Bruce caught himself laughing—really laughing—and it startled him.

He hadn’t done that since Dick was twelve.

Hal saw it too, that flicker of real happiness, and something in his chest cracked open.

Later that night, Hal followed Bruce up to the penthouse roof of Wayne Tower.

“Okay,” Hal said, wind whipping through his hair. “You’re brooding again. That’s my job tonight.”

“I don’t brood,” Bruce said.
“You’re literally staring dramatically at the skyline.”

Bruce smirked. “Fine. I brood a little.”
Hal stepped closer. “You can tell me what’s eating you, y’know. I can handle it.”

Bruce looked at him—really looked—and for one terrifying second, he wanted to. He wanted to tell Hal about the suit, the city, the mission. About the scars under the tuxedo.

Instead, he deflected. “You wouldn’t believe me.”
“Try me,” Hal said, voice soft.

Bruce’s throat tightened. “You wouldn’t like me if you knew the real me.”

Hal blinked. “What, you secretly hate brunch?”
Bruce smiled faintly, stepping back. “Something like that.”

They stood there in silence, both wanting to say a hundred things they couldn’t.

Then Hal’s phone buzzed.
“Emergency in Coast City,” he said, wincing. “I gotta—”

“Go,” Bruce said quickly. “Don’t worry about me.”
Hal hesitated. “You sure?”

“Absolutely,” Bruce lied.

Hal took off into the night in a streak of emerald light.
Bruce watched him go, the wind cold against his face.
Stay safe, Lantern.

Two nights later, Batman was investigating the aftermath of that same Coast City emergency: a stolen alien energy core, retrieved by the Justice League.

He hadn’t planned to see Hal there—but there he was, mask on, bantering with Flash.

Batman kept his distance, staying in the shadows.
Hal cracked a joke. Flash laughed. Bruce felt that stupid, irrational spike of jealousy.

He doesn’t know it’s you, Wayne. Focus.
But then Hal turned, as if sensing eyes on him, and for a
second Batman froze under that sharp pilot gaze.

“Bats?” Hal said. “You there?”
Batman stepped forward. “Lantern.”

Hal grinned. “Didn’t know Gotham let you out after dark.”
“I travel,” Batman said flatly.

“Wow, two whole words. You really do know how to make a guy feel special.”
Bruce exhaled through his nose. “Focus, Lantern.”

Hal chuckled and turned back to the mission, but Bruce’s heart wouldn’t slow down. He can’t know. He can’t know.

Yet some tiny, reckless part of him wished Hal would figure it out—because then maybe he wouldn’t have to lie anymore.

 

The next day, Bruce texted Hal as “Brucie” again, pretending nothing had changed.

Bruce: Dinner tonight?
Hal: I thought you were working.
Bruce: I canceled it. Priorities.
Hal: You’re full of surprises, Wayne.
Bruce: You have no idea.

They met at a new rooftop restaurant overlooking the bay. Candlelight. Wine. A skyline of secrets.

Hal couldn’t stop staring at Bruce. “You’re different tonight.”

“Different how?”
“Less… masky.”

Bruce tensed. “Masky?”
“Yeah,” Hal said, shrugging. “Usually you act like everything’s a joke, but tonight it’s like you’re letting me see the guy underneath.”

Bruce tried to laugh it off. “Careful, I might ruin my reputation.”
Hal smiled. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

Bruce felt his pulse trip. He’s too close.
He reached for his wine glass—and froze when a League alert pinged in his earpiece.

Hal didn’t notice. Bruce checked the text under the table: Rogue drone attack—Downtown Gotham. Immediate response needed.

Bruce swallowed hard. “Excuse me a moment.”
He disappeared inside.

Five minutes later, Green Lantern was streaking over the same skyline.
Neither knew they’d both left the same table.

They fought back-to-back that night, Batman and Lantern, clearing the streets with brutal efficiency.

Hal shot him a grin mid-battle. “You know, for a guy who hates teamwork, you’re not bad.”

Batman glared. “Less talking.”
“You even sound like my boyfriend,” Hal teased.
Batman froze. “What?”

“Never mind,” Hal said quickly, blasting a drone to avoid eye contact. “Déjà vu.”
When it was over, Hal clapped him on the shoulder. “See you around, Bats.”

And then he was gone.
Bruce stood there, heart pounding. He almost recognized me.

Day Nine. Coast City.

Hal sat in his apartment, staring at his phone. The bet burned in his mind. You make Bruce Wayne fall for you in ten days.

Except Bruce already had.

And maybe—God help him—so had Hal.
Ollie called. “So? How’s my favorite con artist?”

Hal rubbed his face. “It’s not a con anymore, Ollie. He’s—he’s different.”
“Don’t tell me you caught feelings.”

Hal groaned. “Of course I did. He’s impossible, and frustrating, and gorgeous, and—”
Ollie snorted. “You’re in deep.”

Hal scowled. “I’m telling him tonight.”
“About the bet?”
“About everything.”
“Oh boy,” Ollie said. “Hope you like drama.”

Gotham, that night.

The sky split open with rain as Hal landed outside Wayne Manor, soaking wet and determined. He didn’t care about the thunder, or the paparazzi, or the fact that Bruce was probably going to murder him.

He cared about him.

Bruce opened the door, robe half-tied, looking tired and unfairly beautiful. “Hal? You’re drenched.”
Hal laughed breathlessly. “You always know what to say.”
Bruce frowned. “What’s going on?”

Hal stepped forward. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Now’s not—”
“No, Bruce, it is.”

The storm rumbled. Hal’s voice broke. “This started as a bet, okay? Ollie said I couldn’t make you fall for me in ten days. And I was an idiot and said yes. But then I met you, and it stopped being a game. You’re— you’re so much more than that. And I—” He stopped, rain running down his face. “I fell for you.”

Bruce stood frozen. Every muscle locked, every instinct screaming.

Finally, he said softly, “A bet.”

Hal flinched. “It wasn’t supposed to go this far.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Did you ever even like me? Or was I just the prize?”

Hal shook his head. “You don’t get it. I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t,” Bruce said sharply. “Don’t lie.”
“I’m not lying!” Hal’s voice cracked. “You think I’d chase you in the middle of a damn thunderstorm if I didn’t—”

Bruce’s eyes burned. “Do you really love me, or are you still playing the bet?”
Hal’s breath caught. “I love you, Bruce. God help me, I do.”

Silence.

Then Bruce said quietly, “You should go.”
Hal’s voice broke. “Please—”

“Go.”

Hal turned and left, green light flashing through the rain as Bruce shut the door behind him.

Hours later, Bruce stood in the darkened manor, soaked to the skin, staring at the city through rain-streaked glass.

He should’ve felt vindicated. Angry.
Instead, he just felt… empty.

Because Hal had looked at him with the same eyes as Lantern—the same raw honesty he’d seen on rooftops during missions, the same reckless warmth that made Gotham feel almost human.

And Bruce realized with dawning horror: he’d fallen for both of them.

He closed his eyes.
You should go.
He regretted it already.