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Bruce’s problems are not normal.
Bruce’s problems range from universe-shattering, fabric-of-reality-tearing crises to issues regarding the emotional volatility of trained operative vigilantes who are also your children. His problems often involved quantum physics, ancient debates on ethics, and an empty blood bag in his bathroom sink that wasn’t there when he brushed his teeth the night before.
So yes, Bruce’s problems are not normal.
Part of him prefers it that way.
Because his body and mind don’t know what to do with normal problems that normal people have.
Take, for instance, Hal Jordan.
No, Hal is not the normal problem that troubles Bruce so.
But he is the normal problem.
Hal and Bruce have been colleagues for the better part of 2 decades, operating as among Earth’s finest.
They were a curious pair of rivals who existed at opposite ends of the strategic spectrum and on the polar sides of a house regarding just about anything under the damn sun. It was not uncommon to see them arguing.
About Hal’s callous behavior in the field as both a teammate and an individual. About Bruce’s propensity to be critical of anything beyond his control. About Bruce’s coffee being a dogshit imitation of poison (Hal’s words) and Hal’s league reports being a “crime against the English lexicon” (Bruce’s words).
The tumultuous nature of their “friendship” is normal.
Bruce, truly, doesn’t even consider it a nuisance – not Hal, not their choice of communication.
He finds it refreshing, and maybe a dependable source of amusement, that someone in the League would neither patronize him for being human nor put him on a pedestal due to his feats in the caped community.
To Hal, Bruce was just Bruce – another figure of authority he enjoyed annoying just because he wanted to and because he could, and sometimes, because he felt like he must and so he would.
The issue wasn’t the fact that Hal existed in the same sphere as him, and Bruce is aware of it.
No.
The issue was that Hal existed close to Bruce, and Bruce rather preferred it that way.
Not for any psychotic surveillance purposes, at least not this time.
It was because Hal liked kissing Bruce, and Hal happened to be a very good kisser.
As observed now.
It was always somewhere obscure, always, like one of the vacated hangar observation decks that they were in right now, with the noise compressors and tinted dynamic glass.
Hal and Bruce would linger as everyone filed out, and people would think it had something to do with the fact that they were the League’s top brass or the fact that they had recently spat about something menial to the rest of them; some of them think it’s both.
Then Hal would lock the door, then march back to where Bruce stood, only to press him against the table and start devouring him.
Hal kissed like how a wave crashed against the shore – ardent and reaching, encompassing, heavy. His hands would caress him with the wildness of a fire spreading across dry fodder; with hunger and urgency, as if he would die if he could not touch every inch there was to touch.
The nearest flat surface was the stacked shelf, and Bruce soon found himself shoved against the rough, cold metal, sending him reeling with the way Hal’s hot tongue countered the chill on his still clothed neck.
“Fuck, you’re too easy to get riled up,” Hal chuckled breathily against his lips, letting his corps uniform dissolve around them with a gentle glow, “Maybe I should chase the League ship around more often, so you’d be more damn agreeable.”
“You better not,” Bruce snapped, because if he didn’t, he might say something that would cut this moment short.
These moments, you see, are important to Bruce to a worrying degree.
Hal chucked his leather jacket off, the one with his military dad’s name on it. Bruce briefly wondered if it was some sort of subconscious disassociation ritual, as he always does.
But that thought flies away when Hal harshly tugged the cowl off, pulling his hair a bit in a way that made him whimper, and swallowing his lips in a filthy open-mouth kiss.
It felt degrading. But it felt like something.
Something older than the mission. Something that has always existed in both of them, as it does in every creature capable of complexity and poetry and meaning.
Bruce won’t name it.
Because if he did, this moment would be cut short.
Hal pulled away from their kiss, and Bruce unconsciously followed his lips with a gasp. To that, Hal laughed, because of course he would; Bruce was being pathetic and oh so very pliant.
Bruce, Batman, authority figure, and someone comparably better off than Hal, was weakened by his dominant kisses and manhandling.
It made Hal feel like a man.
“Now, the next meeting won’t be in at least an hour, and I know for a fact you can do plenty with that,” Hal said with a wicked smile, cupping Bruce’s chin and touching his kiss-swollen lips with his thumb.
Bruce grimaced at how intimate this was. He hated how important this was, how precious these moments were.
Even if he knew they would only ever exist in obscure places as such.
Even if he knew they would only ever happen when Hal wanted to feel like a man.
So despite his better judgment, when Hal pushed at his shoulder, Bruce let himself sink to his knees, watching as he unbuckled his belt with his other free hand quite masterfully.
Bruce doesn’t look at Hal because Hal doesn’t like it.
The moment will be cut short.
Hal will cut it short because it won’t make him feel like a man.
The Hall of Justice was more of a ceremonial base than a functional one; something to tether the gods and monsters who masquerade as heroes to the human race they claim to be of service to.
Bruce didn’t need to tether. He was as human as they come.
But it did help to take part in the reminding of all that was important.
The Hall of Justice’s public viewing areas have been turned into an open art exhibit, from art students funded by Wayne Enterprises, a principal sponsor of the Justice League.
Art depicting heroism, in general – not the Justice League – and in every medium and style one could muster, scattered along the public park in front of the Hall leading into the viewing court inside.
And Bruce was in the middle of it all.
Finally, after exhausting the paparazzi and the investigative press about the sincerity of Wayne Enterprises’ involvement with the League, Bruce finally became one with the people.
Kids gravitated to him, like tides to the moon. They know him from TV, like a prince, like a superstar, and Bruce indulges their desire for candy and conversation and piggyback rides because it’s the entire point of it all, and they all need remembering of it.
He saw, from the corner of his eye, someone who was doing a great deal of remembering.
Hal was off uniform, naturally, walking around inconspicuously. Some children seemed taken by him, specifically by his military jacket and way too nice shoes (the ones that light up – Barry and Oliver have matching kinds).
He indulged them too, talking about some of the heroes, particularly those who fly, because apparently those are the best heroes.
“Whose your favorite superhero?” Hal asked, mocking a microphone with a random pinecone he found.
He pointed it at one of the kids who crowded around his radiant energy. He giggled and leaned into the microphone. “Green Lantern!”
Hal lit up, “Which one?”
“All of them!”
“Nu-uh, cop out answer. You need to name one!”
“But they all are called Green Lantern!” one of the other kids cried out. Everyone roared in agreement.
Hal hummed thoughtfully and turned back to the boy, a grin splitting on his face. “Hey, tell you what? How about you describe the Green Lantern you’re talking about to me? I’m a big Green Lantern guy myself; it’s why I have green shoes! I’ll know who you’re talking about. And everyone will judge who it is based on my expression, yeah?”
The boy squealed and nodded, leaning into Hal’s ear.
Bruce watched from a distance as Hal’s face contorted into exaggerated points of intrigue and confusion, making the kids laugh. It made his heart burst in his chest.
“You’re right… that is a really good answer!” Hal goaded, “You wanna tell everyone the rest?”
“They’ll know,” the boy said confidently, “It’s the handsome one.”
When the crowd of children dispersed from the handsome pilot’s mock interview, Hal disappeared from everyone and wandered into the actual Hall of Justice, with the more fragile pieces of art. Bruce followed, because he always will.
The Hall of Justice was a little more sparse because most of the interactive and extravagant installations were outside. The inside was mostly comprised of paintings and photography.
Hal meandered around, stopping at a particular piece. It was a painting of the Watchtower orbiting Earth, but there was an emphasis on the Earth’s mighty size compared to that of their base. Deep blues and greens were used to create the glow of Earth and the shimmer of the planet’s light on the Watchtower. Bruce was a little more focused on the technique.
He slowly made his way next to Hal, staring at the same piece as him, existing in the same moment.
“It’s not me.”
Bruce hummed, “What?”
“The kid earlier, his favorite lantern? Not me,” Hal laughed.
“Oh… I know,” Bruce answered like fact, because it was, “And I know who it is too.”
“Bullshit,” Hal snorted, glancing at him teasingly.
Bruce narrowed his eyes at him, “While I know you were exaggerating your expression, the first show of emotion, furrowed brows, expressed disdain. There was also a tinge of embarrassment, like you would’ve been fine if you weren't considered the handsome Lantern, except for that choice. Their favorite Lantern is Guy.”
Hal grimaced, taking out his balled fists into his jacket, “Please do not tell him.”
“You have my word,” Bruce chuckled.
Silence settled on them again.
“I forget, sometimes, how small I actually am compared to all of this."
“Is that why you found yourself here? That kid saying you’re not his favorite lantern got to you?”
“I don’t mean that, I mean….” Hal swallowed thickly. Bruce can feel his hand twitching next to his own, betraying much of his feelings. “I mean… as I figured, well I’ve always known, and well, you know it is with things as they go but…”
He faltered, taking one breath after the other in slow dregs. Bruce would make fun of this if it weren’t so intimate.
He could feel their forearms brushing now. He doesn’t remember reaching out. He can’t move his head, afraid of seeing Hal’s expression and falling in love for a thousandth time that day.
“These kids don’t know half of what we go through, so they make art trying to understand, in their own way, what they understand about us. What we are. What we’ve seen. Where we’ve gone. The choices we’ve all made to see another day. And here we are, mesmerized by imitations of what are, honestly, some of the worst days of our lives. Because we’re trying to understand ourselves, what we’ve done, what we’ve seen, where we’ve been.”
Bruce hummed thoughtfully, careful not to be hyperaware of the warm skin slowly inching closer to his.
“This painting… I think… it’s saying that there are worse things than being who we are,” Bruce said, “But there are also better things than being who we are.”
“Is it from the perspective of everyone below the Watchtower? Or everyone in it?”
Their pinkies touch. Bruce’s heart stuttered in his chest.
“Who knows? Maybe it’s just for those who actually understand what it was like to be in both places.”
Hal spoke breathlessly as theirs finger curl into each other.
And it would be so easy, Bruce thought, to kiss Hal here right now, to tell him everything he’s been meaning to show through his lenience, his actions, his patience – how he sees him for what he truly is, and he shouldn’t be afraid of it because-
The children start screaming. Hal and Bruce flinched, and their closeness began to burn, so they parted. Gods, the moment is over.
The Justice League’s doors open. Some members, uniform and all, arrive.
Of course, Superman and Wonder Woman were there, because why wouldn’t they be. Bruce had told them that Mr. Wayne was coming, and that necessitated a Justice League welcome. Though true to their character, they pay attention to the loving crowd before them.
“Well, trust the League to make an entrance-” Bruce chuckled and turned to the side.
Hal was already gone.
Minutes later, the Green Lantern appeared in a flash of green, animated cartoon constructs, outdoing Diana and Superman with their lame walk-in.
Bruce tries not to feel his heart ache too deeply.
Hal was not a misogynist, that is to be clear.
He was raised by a single mother, his boss and best friend was a woman, and there were definitely several women in the League and Corps who are definitely smarter and more experienced than he is and will ever be. Hal was the person he was because of their influences.
He may make comments that seemed tone-deaf on occasion, given his traditional upbringing, but the apologies that follow were sincere, and the lesson learned was maintained, because despite the implications of his flyboy charm, Hal was a good man.
Emphasis on the man.
As observed.
They were in a League meeting. Bruce and Hal were sitting across from each other at the head of the table, as most founding members do for such occasions.
Hal was respectfully (or as far as “respectful” goes for his way of communicating) responding to the discussion led by Kendra and J’onn. The rest of the League, mostly those with some jurisdiction, association, or another, to allied planets or extraterrestrial legions, were also discussing.
Bruce was happy to just keep an open ear.
Because Hal was sitting across from him, in all his Californian charm. He’s gotten tanner, probably from whatever planet he’s been sent to this time. It made his freckles appear even in the cold of space; the faint ones littered on his neck that Bruce loved dragging his teeth on.
In contrast with the white and blue of the Watchtower architecture, he can better see the mole on the corner of Hal’s strong chin; superstition has it that it means Hal was a talker, and it was the closest Bruce could get to believing in fate and intelligent design. Because it was apparent to Bruce that Hal was created with deliberation and passion, like a crazed artist given marble, wine, and time.
Now, if only Clark and Diana would just mind their damn businesses.
They also sat across from Bruce, with Clark directly across him and Diana between the big blue and the blissfully oblivious Hal.
They were both staring inquisitively at Bruce.
Bruce knew why – it was because Clark was a nosy little bitch who knew how to tell Bruce’s status just from his heartbeat, and Diana had superhuman senses and a liberal understanding of sex, and so could smell it on him.
That and Hal was very much sporting a hickey on the collar of his uniform.
An oversight on Bruce’s part, surely.
The meeting came and went, but the trinity decided to make no moves to leave. Hal also left without much fanfare, largely because he had just returned to orbit and was definitely looking forward to sleeping on a bed made by and for humans.
“See ya~” Hal chirped as he left last out of everyone. He had looked over his shoulder to glance at Bruce specifically, of course.
Never mind the fact that Bruce’s insane, overprotective friends were also staring him on his way out, and it was not for the view.
The door closed like a coffin behind the rest of the league. Bruce released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“Mint?” Diana slid the container across the table.
Bruce snatched it off her hand with a groan. Thank God he wore his white lens cowl. He can roll his eyes as much as he wants.
“You know, I remember the days when you made it your whole personality to say that the no-canoodling clause to the Watchtower utility rules weren’t a suggestion,” Clark grinned.
Bruce rolled his eyes again, “I’m sure you have a point somewhere.”
“Our point is where it was the last time we had this conversation, too,” Diana said, leaning on the table with her hands folded in front of her, “You, my friend, deserve much better than this lackluster, temporary… releases that Hal offers you.”
Clark narrowed his eyes at him, “You’re letting yourself be used as a sex sleeve by a man who you want to be treated as more than that.”
“You kiss Lois with that mouth?”
“Yep! Ever since you stopped being thick about the no-canoodling rule, I’ve been very loose with the way I use my mouth,” Clark shot back, crossing his arms ever so righteously, “And so are you, except I have a ring on my finger to give it some meaning.”
Bruce snorted, turning back to Diana, “Surely you have something to say about how this is a very backward way to view the role of sex in relationships, Madame Feminism.”
She shook her head, “No, he’s right. You’re not being fair to Hal and yourself by depriving both of yourselves any chance to develop your romance into something that can exist in the soft light rather than the lustful darkness that you seem to prefer. You both deserve much better than that.”
“Says who?”
“I am an adult, if you both forget.”
“All the more reason to be worried, no?” Clark shot back.
Diana gave a lopsided smile, “Donna just explained to me what a situationship was, and my dear, good friend, you are far too old and smart to still be nurturing one.”
Bruce groaned in that intonation that was less Batman and more like an annoyed little brother who wants this conversation to end.
Diana and Clark are far too invested in what they insist is a budding “romance” between the League’s infamous pair of frenemies.
And even though he knew, deep down, that this was nothing more than wistful thinking, they’d insist otherwise.
“Bruce, we are worried but only because we care about both of you,” Diana interjected into his heavy thoughts, “You both clearly feel something for each other, and the world of man has become wiser and more accepting, so this dancing around feels needless and satisfies no one and nothing but each of your own needless pride.”
Bruce averted his gaze before he met their dissecting gaze and found himself saying things in a harsher tone than his well-meaning friends deserved.
They were wrong, and Bruce knew this.
He did feel something for Hal. He was aware that meanings and norms have changed since they were children. He knew that the kisses they shared didn’t have to only happen in places and desires of obscurity.
It was Hal.
It was Hal who didn’t feel the same way, and Hal who can’t process reality, and Hal who keeps the kisses in secret and in vain.
But Bruce would never say that out loud because he shouldn’t have to; but the thing is, Clark and Diana would need to hear it to even fathom understanding
Beings of infinite power, borderline untouchable. Clark was straight; he’s done his experimentation, and it is to say, he was straight and happy with that. Diana has a preference for women, but this didn’t matter because the women she liked were from races and species that didn’t struggle with the same fights as people like Bruce and Hal do.
“Whatever you think is there, whatever you think you see,” Bruce said carefully, deliberately, “It means nothing. It’s sex and a handful of kisses, shared between two people with a lot of tension. That’s all it is.”
“Yeah? How about you hold Diana’s lasso and try to say that again?” Clark challenged, quirking a brow at him, “With your whole chest this time.”
Bruce huffed, “I need not prove anything to either of you, actually.”
“Because there’s nothing to prove,” Diana said, with that tone of finality that made it ever apparent to Bruce that she sees through his shit and is not impressed, or at least not satisfied with the half-answer she thinks he’s giving.
“You’re right, Princess, there’s nothing to prove,” Bruce attempted to counter, getting up from his chair like a living amalgamation of shadows and denial, a storm about to leave after one last clap of thunder, “Because Hal Jordan doesn’t love me, and it doesn’t bother me one bit.”
“Be bloody fucking honest, but are you two banging?” Guy snapped, “You fight like a couple, might as well thrust it up like one.”
“Can’t you find better responses?” Kyle snapped back playfully, kicking at the back of Guy’s legs.
Bruce hated being in the hangar, if only to avoid the comings and goings of Earth’s Green Lanterns.
But Hal was here, and he was leaning close. He has his head on Bruce’s shoulder, muttering arguments in his ear while swaying side to side from behind him, hands clasped on his back.
This too was a threshold, a hard-fought one, a consequence of a moment that ended too early hanging above them, because someone banged the wall too hard and so they had to pretend they were fighting (well, they pretty much were already) so that they weren’t caught.
Though truthfully, was being caught such a bad thing?
“You guys hover together a lot, it’s almost like you have a thing for each other,” Guy pointed out, knocking a bit on Hal’s shoulders, “You into fruitbats now, flyboy? Get it? Because you’re fruity?”
Bruce felt Hal go rigid behind him almost immediately.
The warmth left his shoulder.
Hal was laughing and kicking at Guy’s legs with Kyle’s effort, saying something about how “-the only flying creature with diseases here is you, you fucking germ.”
It doesn’t miss Bruce’s notice that Hal starts ignoring his existence altogether.
It does bother him one bit.
It bothers him several bits.
Because Hal was a normal problem.
What he felt for Hal and what Hal didn’t feel for him were normal problems for normal men, which neither of them was.
And Bruce is at a collective loss as to what to do with it.
He knows what the phenomenon is. Because, despite being unlabeled, Bruce Wayne was known to like both men and women. And Bruce has 2 bisexual children (Tim and Jason), 2 queer children (Cass and Dick), and a younger son who was only beginning to experiment with that side of himself (Damian).
Bruce researched enough to understand himself first, then went deeper when he had children who decided on labels to their human experiences that made them vulnerable.
And he also knew about Hal.
Not just from his records in the Justice League archives.
Bruce knew about Hal because Hal was a talker.
And sometimes, just sometimes, under the covers and with kiss swollen lips, maybe with a sip of wine or beer or whatever poison they took to get tangled up as they did… there, Hal would tell Bruce things.
Things that had no words to describe their importance in shaping who Hal Jordan was.
Things that were understandably kept off any record referring to Hal’s existence as a person and a Lantern.
Things that were so vulnerable that they came in slow drips, careful words, and deliberate gestures, from a man so otherwise spontaneous and boisterous.
Stories about a house with military history and legacy plastered in every corner of the house, where there were boy things from girl things – about the military during the days of “don’t ask, don’t tell” and what that does to a person who doesn’t understand what exactly there is to tell – about a harsh, corrective hand shoving his face in water to rid it of make up or hit his rear end while dressed in a skirt; all while promising it was all out of love – about a corps full of aliens who had no such social constructs, of friends who had better families than he did, and how he felt incredibly unseen around them.
Then Hal would end it all by laughing and saying something about getting food or taking a shower.
Something, anything, to distance himself from what is already inside of him.
And if Bruce were a lesser man, he’d turn every revelation into an argument about the inherent irrational nature of homophobia and how Hal, as a man with supposedly no fear, should know better.
But Bruce was a better man because he was in love with Hal Jordan – Hal Jordan who challenged him and frustrated him and made him so aware and in awe of the vulnerabilities of a man.
And also, it was because it was different for them. Hal wasn’t just some guy. He was a man who had gone lengths to achieve some impossible standard of masculinity and took every failure as a bruise to that worthless pride.
So while Bruce doesn’t know what to do about his normal problem, he does know what not to do.
So while he figures that out, he does things like keep the door to his penthouse balcony open.
Then he waits.
Tonight, he chose to wait while watching a rerun of some show or another. B99, one of the better shows that the kids like to have when they were in the penthouse. He was wearing just a black sweater and plaid pajamas, because suits of any kind past 10 PM were a crime.
The balcony door opens and closes around 1 AM, and Bruce didn’t do much to acknowledge the flash of green light because he knew who it belonged to.
Arms wound over his shoulders from behind the couch he sat on, and kisses peppered into the side of his head.
“You know if you wanted to watch a cop crack bad jokes, you could’ve called me sooner.”
Bruce grunted, cradling his head, “Well, I would prefer the bad jokes made me laugh. And don’t you prefer space diplomats?”
“That’s a mouthful that I’m not willing to chew on every fucking time I have to explain what the Corps are to recently touched civilizations,” Hal grumbled into his hair, “And some of them don’t have the term diplomacy in their vocabularies. Hell, I’ve seen entire civilizations with no word for peace or agreement. Anyways, what’s for dinner?”
Hal reached to kiss that sensitive spot, behind his ear, and a little higher.
That got Bruce to squeak a bit, like an actual bat, as Hal once said.
They turned to look at each other.
Hal’s freckles have faded, the ones on his face, but his mole was still there, so kissable and present. He was wearing a black fitted shirt this time and a new pair of jeans. Straight out from work, no doubt. His hair was a mess, from both the wind and the stress, likely.
Hal had never looked more human, more perfect.
Instead of proposing a life of marriage and childbearing like he wanted, Bruce instead answered with “Whatever you want.”
“Yeah?” Hal’s expression softened.
“Yeah,” Bruce repeats, like a promise.
“What if I wanted a cooked meal, hmm?”
“I can cook; I tell you this.”
“Nope. Not with the way you make rice.”
“And how do I make rice, exactly?”
“Like you’re trying to make soup. Every time I come here, and you make me food, I expect rice with a saucy food to go. Instead, I get soup and more soup and like, you guessed it, more soup!”
Bruce laughed, because it was easy when they had little spats like this. It ends with Hal climbing onto the couch and lying on top of Bruce, giving him heady kisses with a smile stretched lips.
And in the end, they’d be looking at each other. Bruce would be recommitting the exact shade of green that Hal’s eyes were, treasuring the lost time between them after missions and cases and whatever crisis occurred between.
Despite himself, Bruce would always break the gaze first, only because the longer it went, the turmoil in Hal’s eyes grew even more.
He pressed a kiss on his lips, “If you have a problem with my rice, then let’s order something.”
That made Hal ease, and the moment was prolonged.
He lifted out from lying on him, “I’m not going downstairs to get it.”
“Naturally.”
“Chinese, and I want those little sesame balls with it.”
“Of course.”
“And I want your shower, and clothes, and you better have a fucking loofah here this time! Neanderthal.”
You can have whatever you want, Bruce thought. He must’ve said something else, because Hal is walking away, still ranting, and giving him playful, judgmental stares.
Bruce sighed. He could live in this moment forever.
“Father, what is Jordan to you?” Damian asked after a car ride spent in silence.
Bruce hummed, trying his best to not make it obvious that he hiccupped into his coffee thermos because of that damn question.
“Hal Jordan?”
“Do we know any other Jordans who are important enough for me to care about?” Damian snapped, raising a brow at his father from across him in the backseat.
From the rearview mirror, Bruce can see the amused squint of Alfred’s eyes. The fucking traitor.
“Hal Jordan is a friend and a colleague,” Bruce answered succinctly.
“Does he know that?”
“Pardon?”
Damian groaned, which Damian never does, unless he feels as though he must talk to a level of obviousness that one needs only a spoon to dig down to reach.
“Does the man, whom you bought a custom interior penthouse with anxiety-reducing technology for, know that he’s just a friend and a colleague?” Damian asked, not moving his glare from his father. It wasn’t a harsh, judgmental glare; more like a glare that said do not lie to me, you lying liar.
Alfred chuckled. Chuckled. He was being ganged up on at a 7 AM drive to school by his son, who is 3 apples tall, and his pseudo-father, who wants him to get married. Horrible.
“You need to stop hanging out with Dick so much,” Bruce said out loud, to get it across that he meant this for both of them.
“I didn’t need Grayson’s lackluster relationship radar to figure something is coming about you and the Green Lantern,” Damian huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Your relationship radar is wrong.”
“You bought a penthouse you don’t need.”
“I do need it when I need a base in the middle of the city proper.”
“You have a clear book full of takeout menus there.”
“I’m a big man who eats a lot.”
“A big man who happens to hate Chinese cuisine?” Alfred interjected, giving him a look in the rearview mirror that said do not lie to me, you lying liar.
Bruce cannot ignore the growing blush on his cheek. He grimaced and looked out the window, “Can you both be quiet?”
Damian and Alfred shared a knowing look. He knows they did. They did because he is a lying liar who lies a lot.
The silence persisted, not for long, because Damian was a romantic by virtue of being Arab and also the son of Talia al Ghul, and Alfred was growing old and would like to see his pseudo-son married before he kicks the bucket.
“I would not mind if it were Jordan,” Damian said, “You’ve had worse tastes in partners than a space diplomat. Besides, he is most… entertaining to be around.”
Bruce sighed, already surrendering to the curse of being loved and known because of it.
“Thank you, Damian. I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied.
Damian was taken to school and waved farewell. Alfred and Bruce made way for Wayne Enterprises, the weight of the previous line of questioning still there.
“Yes, Alfred?” Bruce called out.
“Well, I concur with the boy,” Alfred finally answered, not sparing him a glance.
Because Alfred Pennyworth would not spare an inch of movement over something as needless as a fact. The sky was blue. The sun sets in the east. And Alfred would like to see Bruce married within the next decade.
“Thank you, Alfred.”
“So, why haven’t you?”
Bruce blinked, “Why haven’t I what?”
“This is not the romance you had with Miss Selina, Mister Dent, or Miss al-Ghul, riddled with moral dilemmas and all. This is a romance with a fellow caped; I would imagine it’d be easier.”
To that, Bruce scoffed a laugh, “Maybe it would be easier if the reason were about some philosophical disagreement.”
“So what is it then? The reason?”
He sighed, shaking his head, “Hal just sees things differently.”
Alfred doesn’t say anything immediately, then, after a pregnant pause, draws out an “I see.”
It seemed sure, Bruce was almost startled, “Do you?”
“My boy, I was a military man in years less wise than yours,” Alfred chuckled, “Hal Jordan, it seems, struggles with the same realization that all men of a specific cloth come to make.”
“And that is?”
Alfred shrugged, in that way that carried so much knowing and assurance and specificity that everything he’d say after would turn out to be gospel; and it was.
“There are worse things a man can do than love another man, but there are also better things a man can do than love another man.”
When the moment ends, it ends as quickly as it began.
They were in the living room.
Hal was sitting on a bean bag, levelling him a foot below the couch’s sitting height, devouring his Chinese takeout while giggling at the show. Sometimes he’d pause it just to comment on the show on the TV wildly.
Bruce would point something out, about his commentary or the fact that he can’t shut up. Hal would snap back. Then Bruce would pull his hair, because he was drying his ridiculously thick hair, and it’s all about sit still, damn you with him since Hal’s shower.
Then they settled. Bruce took away the remote at some point. He was still absent-mindedly petting and combing Hal’s hair with his fingers.
Hal’s breathing evened out, and the commentary turned to sighs, which turned to snores. He lay his head on Bruce’s knee, limp and awkward from where he was.
Bruce took care to turn off the TV and to gently cradle Hal off the floor. When he twitched, he stilled himself for a moment before proceeding to carry him to the bedroom.
The bedroom, as was the rest of the penthouse, was more for Hal’s comfort than Bruce’s. Although it helped that they needed the same things after their day and night jobs. Blackout curtains, satin-cased pillows, heavy blankets, and a perfectly chilly room but with a heated mattress, because why else would you need a heater. A sanctuary from the light that shone down on men burdened with greatness. A darkness that was theirs and theirs only.
He pushed aside the blankets and lay Hal down on his preferred side of the bed.
Hal stirred awake, grasping at his bearings again.
He found Bruce in the dark with him, illuminated by the warm mood light and apparent by the natural hotness of his body.
“Bruce,” he said softly. It sounded like a plea, almost.
Bruce dutifully answered.
It was different when Bruce led the kisses. It was always slow, deliberate. When he trailed kisses away from his lips, burying his mouth all over his freckled neck and chest, it was with the devastating desperation of someone who knows this moment will not last.
His hands were careful as they were heavy, the pressure of his fingers just right as they ran across Hal’s body and caressed his more sensitive curves.
And Hal reacted beautifully. He twitched and arched into the touch, whining and keening, panting out incoherent nonsense.
More.
There.
Fuck.
Bruce.
Please.
The way words and his name fell from his mouth has him drunk. So much so that Bruce forgets himself because his mouth trailed lower and lower, past his navel, kissing down exposed skin as he pulled down his shorts –
“Wait!” Hal cried out, and he didn’t wait for Bruce to fully snap out of it. He just pushed him off, with his foot on his shoulder.
He jerked up, panting raggedly, as if he was in the middle of a fight rather than in a room that demanded nothing and no one of him.
Well, there was a fight, but Bruce knew that it was a battle that only Hal could take part in.
There was a war in Hal Jordan’s body, and it had been happening long before Parallax, or Specter, or everything else could possess his mortal vessel.
And Bruce, bitterly, knew that even if he did love him, which he did (more than it could be humanely expressed), that it would not win the battle nor the war for him.
His love was a refuge, a sanctuary, and only Hal could decide if he wanted it.
At the moment, it seemed, with the way Hal glared at him with bloody betrayal, he did not want it right now.
“Hal,” Bruce crooned, trying to reach out, “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you-”
“I know that, you bitch! Fuck! Just…” Hal croaked out, his glassy eyes shifting on the space in front of him.
Hal has a boner. Hal is wearing clothes that fit him. Hal is in a bed that isn’t his in a room that isn’t his, but is comfortable as though it was made specifically for him.
All because Hal is loved – by someone, by a man… a man who wanted to take care of him, a man who did not mind weakness and vulnerability, a man who did not need to be impressed to deserve his company or comfort.
And Hal found it unbearable.
He stuttered back to his feet, padding around with throaty gaps. He disappeared and reappeared from the bathroom in the pants he discarded from the bath, and even though he didn’t need it, he took off the shirt and wore the old one.
“Hal, you don’t have to-” Bruce tried again.
“DON’T!” Hal barked, pointing a finger at Bruce. Even with gritted teeth and a thunderous expression, Bruce knew that his rage was not owed to him.
They stood there, the moment that ended between them suspended in the few feet that set them apart.
Bruce looked at Hal, really looked at him.
His eyes were unfocused, full of decades-old unshed tears because men didn’t cry. His teeth were gritted tight like his fists were shut, much like a petulant child feeling too many things at once. His hair was a mess, of wandering hands and careful grooming, because Hal was loved, and that love isn’t enough to fix everything immediately, besides his hair.
He never looked more beautiful.
“This,” Hal sighed, “Won’t happen again. I’m sorry, Spook- Bruce. I- Fuck. This was wrong.”
Bruce, selfish man that he was, felt every fibre of his being go cold. Wrong. Someone had made Hal think that this was wrong. That gentle hands and caresses need to be earned by achieving some meaningless standard of something that went obsolete the day that Hal became his own man.
Instead of any other reaction, Bruce took a deep breath and answered with a curt, “Okay, Hal."
That made Hal’s eyes narrow, because Bruce wasn't meant to be this agreeable. Perhaps he anticipated the adrenaline of a fight, of someone who would demand that Hal exhibit some needless attribute that, in all honesty, has never mattered above all the virtues that made Hal... Hal.
“What do you mean, ‘okay, Hal’?”
“Is it meant to mean anything else?”
"You could've said literally anything else."
"Do you want me to say something else-?"
“Gods, why aren’t you angry?” Hal croaked out, breaking out into wet, distressed laughter that was so hauntingly him that Bruce almost took a step back, “COME ON! Of all the fuck darn things, this is one of the times where you should be angry! You waste money, you waste time… I treat you like a whore. But you look at me like that and for what!?”
“For what, indeed,” Bruce echoed back.
Hal groaned, pressing his palms into his eyes, “GOD DAMN IT, BRUCE! You think you’re just so put together and you’re so sure of everything that’s going on and everything that’s going on with me, you fucking smartass, all-knowing piece of shit!”
Hal punched Bruce’s chest, which he only does once, because Bruce seized his wrist before he could bang his fist on him a second time. Not because it hurt him, but because he minded the raw skin on his knuckles, still red from a hot shower.
He doesn’t meet his gaze; head tilted down in a penance that Bruce never asked for.
“Hal.”
“No.”
“Look at me.”
“Fuck you.”
“You’re mad, not at me.”
“Fuck you.”
“You asked me what I do all of this for,” Bruce interjected in a soft, stern voice, demanding the dignity of a glance, of a listening ear, of an open mind, “You know the answer.”
“Fuck you,” Hal growled.
“You do. You know why I do this. You know what you are, what you feel-”
“KILL YOURSELF, BRUCE! FUCK OFF, OKAY!?” Hal screamed, tugging his arm away harshly. Still breathing hard. Still crying. Men don’t cry. Men can control themselves.
Hal wasn’t a man. Or maybe he was, and men just can do all the things he was taught real men aren’t supposed to be capable of.
4 decades of endless questions that were never granted an answer.
4 decades of living in a body that didn’t feel whole, not dignified as it should be.
Hal’s knees gave out, and Bruce caught him, because of course he would.
Hal held onto him for dear life. He felt exhausted, the shame and guilt and everything stuffed between all that finally crumpling him to the ground, defeated, humiliated.
Hal was gay. Hal loved a man. Hal liked being taken care of, being affectionate, and being soft.
He was a sissy, a faggot, a little bitch who needed his ass spanked raw, and his face rubbed red from make-up.
And Bruce loved him.
His love won’t fix him because there wasn’t anything wrong with him.
It won’t save him either because Hal was the Greatest Green Lantern to ever live, the best of them all; he can save himself.
But his love was solace from the turmoil of fighting the good fight, and the wars that were quieter, which occurred between them – if Hal wants it.
They both knew Hal wanted it.
Hal woke up on the bed, tucked on the left side – away from the window and near the bathroom, because when he came back in orbit, he needed to go more often.
He was in clothes, the pajama shorts and loose black shirt, not whatever he came to the penthouse with.
The space next to him was still warm, but empty. But from a distance, he can hear the telltale signs of a kitchen coming to life.
He tries, slowly, to come together with a coherent explanation for his state.
This is what he manifested in the span it took for him to check the brain cells and rub together his time:
My name is Hal Jordan.
I had Chinese takeout last night.
I had a mental breakdown last night in front of my uhh-year situationship about my gender and sexuality crisis.
The mental breakdown is very random because my mission went well and nothing went wrong, except for that part where John got a bitchass burn mark on his leg because he followed my orders, and it’s all my fault and-
...
Oh, okay, so the mental breakdown wasn’t random.
Hal noted that his face felt gross but clean, and so did most of his back and neck. The box of wipes on the bedside table was a tell-tale sign, next to the jug of waters (warm and with fresh ice) and a weird green frog glass.
It was overwhelming. All of it.
His entire understanding of being a man being overturned.
His body belonging to him after all these years because of a burning touch last night that shocked him to life.
His whole view of himself shattering when he realized he received comfort that he didn’t need to earn.
The fact that someone took the time to wipe his sweat and tears off him so he won’t wake up to sticky skin, and made sure there would be warm and cold water nearby when he woke up, and dressed him down in comfortable clothes, and tucked him in on the side of the bed that he liked.
And the fact that someone had been Bruce; a man so impressive that it was almost all most people talked about, a man he had spent the better part of nearly 2 decades annoying because he felt like humbling him, but all he did was get close enough to know him and know him well.
A man who only saw Hal for Hal – someone who tried his best and was terrified of not being good enough for some invisible prize (masculinity, penance, something) that only he can see but must believe exists because otherwise he feels lost without it.
Hal staggered to his feet; having a meltdown barely 24 hours since returning to orbit sure was an experience.
He slipped into a pair of fuzzy slippers and padded out of the bedroom.
Bruce was in the kitchen, nursing a cup of sewer water that he insists is coffee, while tending to some business on his work tablet.
He was on his feet, leaning on the kitchen bar, where a breakfast platter was waiting – it had sun-dried fish fried rice on it, with salted eggs and hashbrowns and peeled oranges with none of the white stuff on it.
It took a minute, or maybe it didn’t, but eventually Bruce glanced up from his work and met Hal’s gaze.
They weren’t judgmental; it never was. But it was inquisitive, asking every question that mattered.
Are you okay?
How are you feeling?
Do you need something?
“You better not have made me any of that thing you call coffee,” Hal said, his voice so shot that even he was surprised.
Bruce’s lips twitched. “I’ll get you cough syrup. Come. Eat.”
He moved to rummage through the cabinets as Hal slowly walked over to the kitchen to join him.
Hal knows he’s doing it to give him time to think, to decide what he wants to happen after what was a long overdue reckoning of a lifetime of trying to earn his body and identity back.
He knows this because Bruce loves him, and because of it, he is a lying liar who lies a lot.
Hal’s been living with these answers to questions he’s been terrified of for a very long time; it was only a matter of when he’d say it, not what.
So he does.
“I don’t want to be miserable in my own skin.”
Bruce stilled, turning around to face him. His eyes searched for any uncertainty in that vulnerability. There shouldn’t be, at least Hal hoped there wasn’t.
When it was clear, Bruce simply nodded. “Obviously.”
Hal bit his lip, “Yeah, obviously. Who would… Who’d want to live miserably for so long? Who’d do that to himself, right? Sounds- Sounds fucking stupid.”
He endured the silence between that moment and the one now, where Bruce crossed the kitchen and slowly held Hal in his arms.
Hal melted against his older judgment. He can’t stop the way he shivered with this knowing, undoing touch that Bruce had in moments like these. His mouth wobbled, and he almost gasped for air that he already was entitled to.
“Do as you will to accomplish that, Hal,” Bruce murmured into his hair, pressing kisses against his temple, “I’m not going anywhere. I’d kill myself first before I do that.”
Hal laughed despite himself, a garbled, startled laugh.
In his arms, he remained. Slowly, meekly, he returned the embrace.