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To say Hal was pissed was an understatement. He’d barely broken through Earth’s atmosphere when Batman’s gruff voice had assaulted his senses, demanding he head to Gotham right this second. No please. No explanation. Just “Lantern, meet me at these coordinates, now.”
How the fuck the Bat even managed to contact him was one thing, and he’d look into it later when he was less exhausted because the last thing he needed was that asshole’s voice randomly popping into his ear.
For a few seconds, Hal considered outright ignoring the man, but then the thought of Diana’s wrath if she found out Hal had ignored a comrade during a genuine emergency was enough to have him change course.
It’s raining, because of course the weather in this miserable city had to be awful as well. “The world better be ending, Spooky, cause otherwise you and I—”
“Oh great, there’s another one of you douchebags.” Hal blinks, turning to the side stiffly at the sound of a feminine voice, only to find a young teen scowling up at him. From his left, Hal swears he hears the Bat exhale a little more loudly than normal, amusedly, but that would be impossible because that meant Batman had experienced an emotion that wasn’t annoyance at Hal’s existence.
He doesn’t linger long on that thought, because the kid is glowing, a familiar ring adorning one of your fingers.
“Ah.” Is his eloquent response, and because Batman’s not the only asshole here. “I can see why you called me now. Well, kid, it’s your lucky day; you get a free trip to space.”
“Excuse me? I’m not going anywhere with you. You glow.” You spit the word like it’s a curse, and Hal, paragon of maturity that he is, scowls back.
“Well, so do you now, kid.”
The burning hole Batman’s glare is boring into the side of his head lets Hal know exactly what the vigilante thinks of his childishness right now, but Hal refuses to be cowed.
Not even when you turn to Batman instead of him, and Hal’s forced to follow along as you’re ushered into the Batmobile.
Hal is not jealous. Of the sexy car or Batman’s mysterious methods that have children tripping over themselves to trust him.
He's not!
Watching you take in the architecture of the Batcave with wide, awe-filled eyes was admittedly a little cute.
“It’s late; you can stay here tonight, and then we’ll figure out a plan in the morning.” Of course Hal wasn’t consulted; Batman took it upon himself to decide what was best for everyone, as usual.
“Hold on—” Before Hal can argue, a low grumbling that couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than a stomach cuts him off.
There’s an embarrassed glare on your face, arms curled around your tummy protectively. It’s then that Hal really looks at you: the gauntness of your cheeks, greasy hair and dirty clothes.
“Are you hungry?” It’s like you’ve suddenly triggered some protective paternal instinct in the Bat, and Hal’s not sure he isn’t hallucinating.
“I’m always hungry.” You shrug, but your jaw is tense, eyes shifting around like you’re mapping an escape route, and despite the cowl, Hal can see the Batman melt a little.
A gloved hand rests on your shoulder gently, and Hal feels something in his stomach swoop when the usually growly voice softens into something tender. “Let’s get you something to eat then.”
Wait what? Hal freezes. Frowning to himself. What the fuck was that? Hal knows his own body, knows that’s the kind of reaction he normally has when a pretty girl sidles up to him at a bar and latches onto his arm.
Lost in his rampant denial and something acidic he can’t quite recognise burning in his chest, Hal doesn’t notice the second child scramble down into the cave.
“Bruce! You’re back early, you’re—”
Your head whips around, staring at the boy with black hair who’s probably a few years younger than you, then back to the Batman—Bruce.
Suddenly the pieces fall into place as you stare slack-jawed. You might not be the most up-to-date with Gotham’s current events, but you’d have to have been living under a rock not to know who Dick Grayson is, which means that Batman is Bruce Wayne.
It makes an absurd amount of sense.
Dick looks horrified, and you actually feel a little bad. Behind you, Green Lantern’s a little late to the party: “Wait, your name is Bruce?”
Batman sighs, and you’re not sure who’s more surprised, you or Green Lantern, when he suddenly slips the cowl off.
Except you swear you hear a small gasp, and instead of studying Bruce Wayne—and wow, that’s still a mindfuck—you’re studying Green Lantern. The man’s stunned, frozen, and—oh.
You supposed that reaction was only normal. Bruce Wayne was a very beautiful man; it didn’t make it any less funny.
To you, the hero’s dumbfounded reaction was only natural.
To Hal? It was the end of the world, because there was no way, no way. He refused to find the Batman attractive.
Despite your determination to hate Hal Jordan—he was a cocky asshole who glowed, and you were a proud Gothamite—and, by extension, the Green Lantern Corps on principle, they worm their way into your heart absurdly quickly.
Kilowog and John are your favourites nearly from the moment you first meet, even if neither of them seems overly thrilled with handing a 15-year-old one of the greatest weapons in the galaxy. They’re both overprotective, but no less willing to help train or praise you for a job well done.
In the short weeks you spend on Oa, you find your reticence quickly vanishing, because though Hal Jordan’s still kind of an asshole, you can’t accuse him of not caring. He easily could have dumped you on Kilowog, or worse, Guy Gardner, and walked away, but Hal had stuck around.
He hides it well, but it’s during these weeks in space you realise that you and Hal are the same—lonely.
Hal’s a whole lot less obvious about it than you are, but the Corps quickly become the closest thing you’ve had to family since your parents died, and it’s clear Hal feels somewhat the same.
You think it’s probably this newly discovered sympathy that has you tagging along with him back to Earth even though there’s nothing there for you anymore, because apparently, Hal actually has a job.
Per the agreement he’d worked out with Bruce Wayne—and if that isn’t still a trip—Hal drops you off at the manor, your new home, not that you’d really gotten a say in the matter. Old enough to wield a power ring, not old enough to live alone. Given that Hal was barely in a state to provide for himself, Batman’s home it was.
It’s the butler who greets you, and with the help of your puppy dog eyes, browbeats Hal into staying for the just-prepared dinner.
You’re beyond thankful, because it ensures you’re not the only one wildly out of your depth. The sheer opulence of Wayne Manor makes you feel like more of a dirty little street rat than you ever have.
But it’s not all bad, because watching Hal flounder under Bruce’s attention is the most entertainment you’ve ever had in your life.
“You’re good with her.” Bruce’s voice is sudden, nearly startling Hal enough to jump, probably more so that it’s a compliment that’s broken the silence more than anything else.
Robin—Dick—who Hal’s learned is just two years younger than you, had eagerly taken you by the hand, off to show you your new room with more energy than Hal remembered ever having at that age, which was a stunningly hard bar to clear, leaving him and Bruce alone.
“She’s a good kid, if a bit prickly.” Hal shrugged, unsure what to make of this tentative new dynamic between them. Dinner alone had been the longest they’d ever gone without it devolving into petty snipes or an argument since the inception of the League.
Not to mention that awful fluttering in his stomach Hal refused to call it butterflies- which was proving to be a more-than-one-time-off phenomenon, every time those intense blue eyes settled on him for longer than a few seconds.
It’s almost enough to make him lash out, just so Bruce will stop looking at him so softly, and they’ll go back to hating each other like normal.
(Hal stalwartly ignores that annoying little voice in the back of his head that whispers that he’s never hated Batman.)
Bruce hums, and the sound hits Hal in the chest. Would he sound similar during—what the fuck?
He wants to throw up. Why the fuck did his brain try to go there?
“—Hal?” There’s a hand on his shoulder, and Hal does startle a little this time when he looks up to find Bruce has moved, is touching him, is glancing down at him with palpable concern in his gaze.
Bruce searches his face for what, Hal’s uncertain, but then he’s making that humming sound again, voice unfairly deep. “I’m sorry.”
For what? Hal’s certain he’s entered some sort of alternate reality now, because Batman—apologising—to him.
“You must be exhausted; you can stay in one of the guest rooms tonight.”
It’slike his mouth’s checked out and gone on vacation for the first time in his life, and somehow, Hal finds himself ushered into one of the countless rooms that’s likely never even seen an occupant for the night.
Despite Bruce’s correct assumption that he was indeed exhausted, Hal sleeps like shit, too strung up and pondering his body’s traitorous reactions to Batman’s close proximity.
Unbeknownst to Hal, Bruce is suffering the same fate, pacing the length of what Dick had dubbed the ‘batcave’s’ floor.
He’d been entranced—there’s no other word for it—watching Hal interact with both you and Dick. Despite Dick’s never-ending stream of questions, Hal never seemed to tire, answering them all good-naturedly. He’d been animated, beautiful, when he’d stared at you with nothing but fondness as you laughed at some stupid joke he’d made.
Part of him wants to rally violently against his brain’s sudden decision that Hal Jordan of all people is now attractive to him. Still, Bruce does actually know himself well enough to admit that Hal is his type to a T, infuriating as that is.
Bruce hadn’t even realised what he’d done when he’d asked Hal to stay the night; it had been an almost entirely unconscious effort, but then he’d rounded a corner to find you staring at the two of them intensely before a beaming grin overtook your face and you’d shot him a double thumbs-up with a wink.
He’d heard that the children were always the hardest to win over in circumstances like these, but before he’d even decided how he felt about Hal, you’d apparently already decided.
It would be monumentally stupid to try to win Hal’s affection when the circumstances are so new. Not only do he and Bruce work together on the League, but now a child is involved—one whose life they will both have to remain a part of, even should things blow up between the two adults.
Bruce has no doubt Hal will be spending increasing amounts of time in Gotham, helping train you. There are so many things that could make this whole thing end catastrophically, and that’s outside of who Bruce and Hal are.
Batman and Green Lantern. Coworkers who on multiple occasions ended up having to be separated by Diana like misbehaving toddlers. He’d never hated Hal, and though he’s sure that at least is mutual, the two tended to set each other off—a match to a fuse.
Even if, and that’s a big if, Hal was attracted to men, there was a 99% chance the whole thing would explode in Bruce’s face.
His plan to remain professional, if not more cordial, with Hal lasts until the next morning, when he runs into Hal wearing what can only be one of Bruce’s shirts, voice still hoarse with sleep, “Morning, Spooky.”
That stupid nickname. Where once it had nearly infuriated Bruce, now, in that voice, with Hal in his clothes and hair still dishevelled from sleep, Bruce thinks it might be the best thing he’s ever heard.
Batman is the devil.
Not only is he a rigid taskmaster when it comes to teaching you hand-to-hand because “what if the ring’s not available?” It’s humiliating, painful and arduous because even the thirteen-year-old is beating you into the mattress regularly until you figure out how to use your superior strength and size against the little freak. An advantage you won’t always have, Bruce likes to remind you.
He also enrols you back into high school.
It’s a hellhole. Before the end of your first day, the rumours have already made the rounds, and everybody knows you’re the latest Wayne charity case. The preppy rich kids who’ve never faced a consequence in their lives take it upon themselves to remind you how much you don’t belong in their elite circles, as if you cared.
The other half of the kids with at least some sense in their heads try to ingratiate themselves into your good books, urged by their parents, no doubt.
Both crowds promptly learn to leave you alone when you break the nose of a senior who wouldn’t take no for an answer and knee him so hard in the balls you’ll be surprised if he ever manages to have kids.
His mother is a shrill, inconsolable mess, demanding the principal expel “the little beast who did this to my baby’s face!”
Even Bruce’s impeccable ‘Brucie’ mask is starting to slip. While this is all nice and lovely, you’d rather skip ahead to the part where Bruce admonishes you in the privacy of the manor, so you pull out your ace—the video Dick had taken of the boy harassing you.
The principal and the boy’s mother turn ashen, because Bruce is very suddenly not playing ball anymore.
Instead of a scolding, Bruce treats you and Dick to Batburger, ruffling the boy’s hair as he lets both of you know in no uncertain terms that he’ll never chide either of you for defending yourselves in situations like that.
Hal is still your favourite, but it’s then that you decide Bruce isn’t all that bad, even if he eats his burgers with a knife and fork.
(The photo you send to Hal gets saved, though he’ll deny it.)
You’re not the only new addition to the manor. True to Bruce’s predictions, Hal’s spending an ever-increasing amount of time in Gotham, wanting to be involved with your training.
Which, up until now, had mostly consisted of Hal heckling you from the sidelines as you and Dick gained bruise after bruise from Bruce’s very light redirecting strikes.
“You try then!” You challenged, a sweaty puddle lying on the padded mat of the sparring ring.
Bruce isn’t sure whether to thank or curse you for that, because Hal inevitably falls for the taunt. Hal’s a talented hero, but without the ring, Bruce has the clear edge. The edge that lets him pin a panting Hal face down with his bulk, arm twisted behind his back, as he growls into Hal’s ear to yield.
Hal stills, breath hitching a little, and Bruce is suddenly very aware of Hal’s ass pressed against him as the man starts to squirm beneath him. He all but launches himself away before it can become a problem, but it’s too late; the feeling of Hal beneath him is ingrained into his mind, and when he suddenly remembers their audience, there’s a phone suspiciously in your hand.
“Oh! What was that? Mr I could do better.” You taunt, gently kicking the concerningly quiet Hal in the ribs.
“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, brat.” Hal grumbled, voice a little tense, even as his hand locked around your ankle, sending you tumbling to the floor.
“I should probably get going; got an early morning.” He stood, and Bruce couldn’t help but feel fond when you curled around Hal’s leg in protest, even if it was clear he’d made Hal a little uncomfortable.
“Noooo. Stay for dinner!”
“Yeah!” Hal nearly stumbles when Dick launches himself onto Hal’s back, locking skinny arms around his neck. “You’ve already got a room here; just stay the night like normal.”
“I shouldn’t. I don’t want to impose—” It’s the weakest argument he could have given, because they’re nearly a year into this arrangement and Hal’s started to stay over more often than not.
“You’re never an imposition, Hal.” Surprise colours Hal’s face at the borderline intense sincerity in Bruce’s tone.
Bruce’s not sure how he could have possibly been so remiss as to allow Hal to think he’d ever be unwelcome in his home at this point in their relationship, but he won’t allow that thought to fester any further.
Hal stays the night, and many more after that.
“I don’t understand why you haven’t just moved into the manor yet; it's practically your home already.” You do; Hal’s notoriously stubborn about maintaining his independence, and despite the fact that your 17th birthday has already come and gone, Hal and Bruce are still not dating!
You’re seriously starting to lose your patience with Hal, because it’s clear as day to you and Dick that Bruce is not the problem for once.
Gotham’s infamous playboy hasn’t so much as looked at another person since you and Hal had burst onto the scene, much to the city inhabitants’ utter bafflement.
People assume it’s Bruce settling into fatherhood, but you and Dick know the truth—he’s fallen so head over heels for Hal Jordan it’s nearly painful to watch.
Hal loves Bruce too. Even if you’re sure Hal’s still not willing to admit it to himself, desperately clinging to the conservative and heteronormative views he’d grown up with.
You’d lost count of how many times you’d found them huddled together in the cave, or on some Gotham rooftop, or enjoying a quiet, solitary moment somewhere in the manor, knees touching and voices soft as Bruce stares at Hal like he’s hung the fucking stars you spend half your time amongst.
“Is now really the time to discuss this?” Hal grunts, construct shield cracking a little as his concentration wobbles.
“Why not? You losing your touch, old man?”
“Less yapping, more fighting.” A dismissal if you’ve ever heard one, but Hal is delusional if he thinks you’re about to let this go.
Your chance to pester him later, however, is quickly waylaid when the princess of the planet you’d just saved decided she liked you enough to spend the evening flirting, rewarding you with a kiss at the end of the celebratory banquet the royal family had thrown in your honour.
Guy simply laughed, clapping you on the back with the assertion that “you're definitely Hal’s kid.”
You laughed along with him. “I take after both my dads; it’s that Wayne-Jordan charm, the ladies just can’t resist.”
Guy blinks a little at the dad’s comment but otherwise says nothing. Your grin, however, drops when you turn to face Hal, expecting that same semi-flustered haze that always seems to settle over him whenever someone mentions Bruce and instead see a complicated flash of discomforted expressions cross Hal’s face, your heart dropping with hurt even as he cracks a grin, rolling his eyes at Guy.
It’s not until after your report to the Guardians and checking in with Salaak and John that Hal pulls you aside, a discomfort in his gaze that has you wanting to barge past him, trying not to cry. “Kid, I’m sorry. I don’t—it doesn’t matter to me—”
“If I like girls?” You cut in, your grace for this conversation non-existent because you know how he feels about Bruce. He’s spent years being exposed to people of all sorts of genders, sexualities and cultures and has never seemed to have a problem with it. Hell, you’ve seen him smack some of the new recruits for their bigotry.
So was it just you? Did Hal’s apparent crippling fear of his own supposed “less-than-socially-acceptable feelings” mean his tolerance only extended so far?
“Girls, boys, whatever. I don’t care.”
“Seemed like you cared to me.” Your arms are crossed protectively against your midsection, and Hal’s face crumples. This isn’t something you can afford to budge on, but suddenly Hal’s arms are wrapped around you, pulling you into a crushing hug.
“There is nothing you could do that would make me love you any less.” Conviction saturates his tone, and this time you can’t prevent the swell of tears.
You need to say something, anything, but Guy’s right in that you take after Hal, and what comes out is: “Even if I went full Darth Vader and murdered a bunch of kids?”
“They probably deserved it, the hypothetical little shits.” You can’t help it; what comes out is some bastard combination of a laugh and a sob as you let yourself melt into Hal’s arms.
“I love you, kid, and I’m sorry I ever did anything to make you doubt that.” The tears flow freely now as you bury your face into Hal’s chest. Not even for yourself, but for Hal, who can’t seem to extend to himself any of that same grace, no matter how much he’s come to care for Bruce.
Things reach a boiling point just after you turn 19.
It’s been four fucking years, and Hal has not yet pulled his shit together.
Four fucking years in which Hal has found you in bed with Kara (even though he’s still clinging to the apartment Bruce pays for when he’s off-world so Hal doesn’t lose it), and then, months after you decided you were better off as friends with the Kryptonian, Roy Harper.
Both of which he accepted without blinking.
Bruce had also publicly come out as bisexual, but has no less remained perennially single, even with Catwoman occasionally trying to stick her nose where it’s unwanted.
(You like Selina, but you are not about to let her or anyone else come between Bruce and Hal.)
Dick had confided that he thought there was something deeply wrong with him when he never seemed to experience sexual attraction the way his friends and peers talked about it.
Oliver had acquiesced to the bisexual rumours when he’d very drunkenly detailed his and Bruce’s time in boarding school together and the threesome that had unfolded when Dinah wanted to watch them together—words which you can never unhear.
Diana’s also settled down with Zatanna, and Ted Kord and Booster had finally started dating.
There are more queer people in Hal’s proximity living free, fulfilled lives than he probably ever would have imagined, and still—he resists his own feelings.
It’s hurting him, you can tell, but worse, it’s hurting Bruce. Who, for all his faults, doesn’t deserve to spend his life waiting for Hal. Who deserves the romance he longs for, even if he’d confided after days of your pestering that he’d happily take whatever Hal deigned to give him. No matter if things never changed between them.
Bruce has resigned himself to waiting forever for Hal.
It’s this knowledge that has you seeing red when, in a moment reminiscent of Princess El’eia granting you a kiss years ago, a thankful woman tries the same with Hal during a drunken banquet, and he doesn’t pull away.
The woman is flung somewhere to the side in a green bubble; you don’t care to see where, before Hal is getting the same treatment, you flying him up and out of the atmosphere so you can argue without prying eyes.
Maybe it’s the alcohol (it’s certainly a major contributing factor), or maybe it’s just you being fed up with Bruce’s contentment to hold onto a few stolen moments, because both men are seemingly allergic to the concept of happiness.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Your voice is shrill, cheeks warm with anger. “How could you do that to Bruce?”
“Do what? Kid, what the hell?” Hal’s incredulity only makes your anger so much worse, and your tongue locks up, too furious to even articulate what you want to.
“You were about to kiss her!” The tears aren’t sliding down your cheeks yet, but you can feel them building.
“What does that have to do with Bruce?” He’s still playing the confused card, but even in your tipsy haze, you can see the way his shoulders tense, the clench of his jaw as he tries to play it off.
“What does—” you scream in frustration. “Bruce has everything to do with this, even if you're insistent on pretending you don’t love him!”
“In love with—That’s not a funny joke, kiddo. I mean, where did you even get the idea—”
“Don’t! You can lie to yourself all you want, but you can’t lie to me, not about this. I’m so sick of pretending you and Bruce aren’t miserable over your inability to admit to yourself that you’ve fallen in love with a man!” Your chest is heaving, narrowed eyes boring angry holes into Hal’s deathly still form as you try to recover from your impromptu screaming.
It’s indelicate. Probably a little cruel, but you’ve never claimed to be a saint, and you are so, so angry at him.
“I’m not you, kid.” It’s a slap in the face, and though you can see Hal’s instant regret, he too has become nothing more than an animal, lashing out in self-defence. “I don’t know where this little fantasy of yours has sprung from, whether it’s your desire for a family that’ll never be or not, but Bruce and I will never be together like—like that.”
His voice wavers, cracking a little toward the end of his tirade, but you can’t even bring yourself to look at him anymore to see whatever expression’s on his face. The anger has abruptly cooled, replaced by startling numbness.
You refuse to let him see you cry, and you’re done engaging. Not even bothering to try and get the last word, you turn and head for Earth, party and protocols be damned.
“Where are you going?” Hal yells at your retreating back.
You don’t even bother to look over your shoulder as you scream at him. “Home, where you’re not allowed until you pull your head out of your ass!”
“Dad?”
Hal’s life has been plagued by a multitude of regrets: his brothers, his mother, Carol, Sinestro, you, Bruce. Following the explosive argument that saw Hal stubbornly refusing to return to Earth for a solid three months, Hal had thought he’d reached a new low, that he couldn’t possibly swallow any greater regrets than the hurt he’d caused two of the people he’s come to love even more than flying.
But then comes the message, panicked and shrill, as you tried to reach him from half a galaxy away because he’d been too cowardly to face you. The message he’d only received 9 hours after the fact, because he’d been sleeping off a drunken binge.
“Dad, please, I’m sorry, come home. Bruce—I need—he’s hurt—please, I don’t know what to do.”
Hal’s sure the words will haunt him until he dies, the message playing on a sickening repeat in his head, Dick’s indecipherable screams echoing in the background.
It’s nearing 2 am when he reaches Gotham, the glow of his ring illuminating the way as it directs him toward you, Dick and Bruce like a beacon.
He spots Bruce first; how couldn’t he, lying in bed more bandages than man, attached to various cables and monitors. Even though Bruce’s pulse is displayed, strong and steady, Hal’s not satisfied until he checks for himself, using the ring to scan Bruce’s vitals, stumbling closer even as his knees threaten to give way.
Dick’s curled up by his feet, face puffy and swollen from tears, still in his bloodied Nightwing costume, which only lends to Hal’s terror.
You, though, shatter the remnants of Hal’s destroyed heart because you’re still awake, deep circles beneath your eyes, face littered with superficial cuts and eyes haunted as you clutch Bruce’s hand like a lifeline.
Hal croaks your name, unsure what he can possibly say, if he even has the right to comfort you anymore, but then you’re flinging yourself into his arms with a sob. Your legs give way beneath you as you collide with his chest, the two of you falling to the floor in an ungraceful heap of trembling limbs and breaths as Hal clutches you tightly to him.
“Dad—Bruce is—” You choke on your cries as Hal starts to rock you back and forth.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Should have been here, fuck—should’ve—” His own voice shudders, the sight of Bruce looking so small and lifeless seared onto the back of his eyelids. “He’ll be fine. Bruce is strong; he’ll pull through and be back on his feet in no time.”
Hal’s not entirely certain who he’s trying to reassure more, you or himself.
Eventually, your shuddering breaths come to a halt, and Hal only realises minutes later that you’ve cried yourself to sleep in his arms, the exhaustion finally getting the best of you.
Slowly, carefully, Hal extracts you to one of the beds Alfred had very begrudgingly allowed in the cave, before returning to Bruce’s side, sinking into the seat you’d vacated.
His eyes sting, and it’s only when Hal lifts a hand to rub at them that he realises he’s been crying too.
For a long while, Hal simply stares at Bruce, nausea rolling in his gut, the insides of his stomach threatening to end up on the floor with each new injury he finds.
How could this have happened? Would this have happened if Hal had been here?
The thoughts are an unrelenting spiral, making Hal’s hands twitch, longing to hold Bruce’s own or reach for a drink to drown it all out.
Hal’s mind is made up for him when thick, calloused fingers curl around his own, and he nearly jumps out of his chair when his head whips up to look at Bruce’s face once more, only to find slightly hazy eyes already looking at him.
Bruce calls his name, and in that moment Hal swears it’s the most perfect thing he’s ever heard.
“Bruce! How do you feel? Can I get you anything? What do you need?” He’s near frantic in his questions, leaning forward and cupping Bruce’s cheek with his free hand before he can even think about the action.
Before he can pull back, because Hal’s lost the right to touch Bruce, the man leans into his touch with a happy hum that makes Hal’s gut clench.
“Just—” Bruce blinks, struggling to get his mouth to work through the haze of painkillers. “Just stay.”
“M’not going anywhere ever again.” Hal nearly sobs, and before he can think better of it, leans down to press a kiss against Bruce’s forehead.
Bruce blinks lethargically, staring up at him with something like awe that makes Hal’s heart clench even harder at the thought of all the hurt he’s put Bruce through, and then he speaks, “Y’missed.”
“What?” It’s a strained laugh.
“You missed.” Bruce pouts—and that has to be illegal—his free hand swinging clumsily up to tap his lips as he stares pleadingly up at Hal.
The last of Hal’s walls come crashing down, years’ worth of pent-up longing and shame surging forward as he finally kisses Bruce.
It’s soft, even as Bruce chases after him, trying to lift a hand to pull him closer, because Hal still has the good sense not to push Bruce in his heavily injured and medicated state.
Still, the kiss is no less perfect, because it’s Bruce, and even if it’s not exactly the way he’d pictured in his head an embarrassing amount of times, it’s all he could want.
“I love you. Forgive me, please. I’m so sorry, for staying away, for everything. I’m sorry. I love you.” Hal’s words have devolved into a mess of repeated apologies and pleas.
But Bruce only seems to hear one part, letting out a happy little chuff, even though Hal’s tears are slipping down onto his cheeks.
“Mm. Love you.” He hums in agreement, eyelids flickering shut again even with a beaming grin on his face.
There’s a gasp from the foot of the bed, and Hal lurches back, only to find a suddenly awake Dick staring up at him with what can only be described as stars in his eyes. “Oh, she’s going to be so mad she missed this. Good thing I filmed it.”
Hal eyes the sharply grinning teen warily, something instinctual screaming at him to run when Dick’s hand grips his shoulder harshly and leans in, his gaze suddenly not so starry. “I’m not so forgiving. If you fuck up again, they’ll never find your body.”
He’s not scared of the teenager. It’s only natural that Dick would give him the third degree. For all that Hal’s been a massive part of his life, Dick is still Bruce’s kid. Even mid-fallout as they currently seem to be, Hal doesn’t think there’s a reality out there where Dick Grayson doesn’t stand by Bruce’s side when it comes down to it.
“Dick.” Hal straightens, meeting his stare head-on. “If I ever fuck up like that again, I’ll let you get away with it.”
“Glad we're on the same page.” Dick coughs, shuffling off toward the shower, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before he pauses, turning to glance at Hal with a small, hesitant smile. “Hal? Welcome home.”
Home.
Hal hums, glancing at his fingers interlocked with Bruce's, memories of listening to you and Dick bickering over breakfast and turning to him to be the tiebreaker flashing through his mind. He glances over to the corner where you lie still, only managing to find sleep with the knowledge that Hal's here and thinks back to the question you'd posed years ago.
“I don’t understand why you haven’t just moved into the manor yet; it's practically your home already.”
Hal loves Coast City. He always will, but despite his wishes, Gotham—here—with Dick, Alfred, you, and Bruce has been his home for longer than he's been willing to admit to himself.
He's not sure what will happen when Bruce opens his eyes again. If he'll even remember the kiss or want Hal to stick around. He's not sure how this will even work, him and Bruce, but Hal's tired of pretending he doesn't want to try.
Bringing their interlocked hands up to his lips, Hal presses a kiss to Bruce's bruised knuckles and decides none of that matters. Bruce has spent years waiting for him, and this time, Hal's going to be the one who stays.