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The moment he leaves the Cafe, John felt something in his chest squeeze painfully.
Sure, he wanted a fucking apology from Hal fucking Jordan more than anything, some accountability for the shit the younger man had to go through, for what happened.
Still, despite that entire bitter, crawling mess that was inside him, which had lashed out at that table, punched Hal, John had hoped more than anything that they could make up.
That Hal would apologize like he was supposed to fucking do and John would reluctantly accept it if the older man showed true remorse.
But what could he expect from the former Lantern and his former mentor? He was still as cocky and aggravating as he was in 2016.
He walks the entire way to the rental he'd gotten for the short time he thought he'd be in Rushville, but as he's gearing up to twist the knob and deal with a tiring night of sleep that didn't sate him, his feet took a turn.
It was like they remember a road he'd once taken and before he knew, he was nearing the football stadium and the bleachers where he'd started his first mission — and last.
His memory, almost perfect, remembered the salt and pepper hair of his former mentor, the way he'd grin as he tried to rile up John and get him to snap, to do something.
At the time, it had been annoying. He had even hated Jordan, for being so stubborn. But time had a way of softening memories, of softening hatred until it bled into simple bitterness.
Even now, after the shitty interaction he had with this older Hal, he still couldn't find it in himself to truly hate the man again.
He walks into the stadium, where snow hadn't yet started to settle, the snowflakes still melting as they reached the ground.
He took the turn to the seats him and Jordan had taken and—
There he was.
Sitting right where he'd sat 10 years ago. In that same fucking jacket and with those same sad eyes John had once caught him with, when Jordan thought his trainee wasn't watching.
Only the eyebags were deeper, his stubble unshaved and his hair messy, as if he'd ran his hand through it multiple times.
They lock eyes and Hal just sighs exasperatedly.
The closer John gets, the more he sees that the man is shivering, his teeth lightly chattering — and they would chatter more if Jordan wasn't trying his hardest to keep composure.
"Whatahell... are ya doin' here?" Jordan asks, his words slurred and his teeth clacking painfully.
John just sighs. He really didn't want to be here anymore, but from the pale shade of Jordan's skin and the blue tinting his fingers, he was sure this man would get sick if he stayed here any longer.
"C'mon," John says lowly and goes to grab Hal's arm, but the man bats him away and goes to stand up. He stumbles and tries to catch himself on the other seats, but his grip fails and he falls straight on his ass with a pained oomph.
John sighs again, a crease already forming between his eyebrows.
This time, Hal allows him to help the older man up, even accepts the jacket John drapes over his shoulders — and they must paint a picture, a man with two jackets layered, out of it and a younger one leading him slowly but surely out of the stadium and into the empty streets.
They don't encounter anyone which John counts as a blessing until they get to Hal's home — it had taken John asking at least five times of repeating 'can you say that again' before he understood Hal's directions.
"Don'... the back. Through the back," Hal slurrs when they reach his home.
John nods curtly and helps his former mentor inside the house.
The place is colder than expected, but still John is determined.
He helps Hal get to his bedroom and onto his bed, murmuring soothing words to Earl whose chittering grow concerned.
Then he goes to the kitchen, avoiding like the plague the pictures he can spot with the corner of his eye on the fridge.
Instead, he makes Hal some warm tea — he had some herbal shit in the cupboards, something he would've never thought the man would drink — and adds plenty sugar, the way he vaguely remembers Hal taking it.
By the time he's returned to Hal's bedroom, the man has already fallen asleep, his shoes and jackets still on.
He paints such a painful picture, vulnerability John had never been allowed to see before. And age. Hal looks so much older and worn down.
John's bitterness cracks into worry.
He places the tea on the bedside table and shakes Hal awake, which takes a lot of effort — and even more to keep him upright long enough to get some thick pijamas from the wardrobe, a sweater and some pants.
"Can you manage to change?" John asks, handing Hal the clothes.
The man simply hums, but his eyes slide shut again and he looks just about ready to fall asleep again.
John's pretty sure, from his limited medical knowledge, that Hal's experiencing hypothermia. And that he cannot stay in those wet clothes any longer, else his condition will worsen.
So, he swallows his pride and starts helping the older man to change. There's murmured protests from Hal, but John can't understand very well and Hal doesn't really try to pull away.
He manages to get Hal to take a few sips of the tea, but then Hal lays back down, drowsy and on the verge of sleep.
"Stay," he whispers, the first clear-ish word from him.
John's heart skips a beat.
He sighs — probably for the millionth time this night — and manages to untangle the cover from underneath Hal. He strips down to just his pants and an undershirt and slides in, covering the both of them.
Hal gravitates closer, humming pleasantly when he drapes himself over a warm John.
He'll probably regret it when he gets better — hell, John probably will too. But for tonight he allows it.
"You still owe me an apology, motherfucker," John whispers into Hal's hair as the softness of sleep envelopes him too.