There’s a groan from behind the fingers, but Clark doesn’t lift his head.
“I think he looks good,” she says, decisively, “It’s very…‘tasteful,’ I think is the word?”
Diana brandishes the open magazine in front of Clark’s face, disregarding the way he shifts in his seat and continues to glance towards the door.
“Please, stop,” he begs.
The Watchtower’s cafeteria is louder than usual. At nearly every table there’s a copy of The Magazine, as it's been dubbed. Even those unaware of Batman’s identity know enough of Bruce Wayne, and his exploits, to take an interest in his most recent escapade.
Though, was ‘escapade’ really the right word for taking one’s clothes off for a spread in a high fashion magazine? Swimming in fountains, wrecking one-of-a-kind cars, getting righteously slapped in public…all escapades. A black and white boudoir style photoshoot? That was just…
“Hot,” Oliver says, “It’s okay, you can admit it, Hal. We won’t even make fun of you for your outrageous crush on the B-man.”
“I might,” says Barry, still peering over the open magazine, “He does look good, though.”
“I hate you both,” Hal moans, resting his forehead against the tabletop, “And I hate Bruce Wayne. And his stupid face, and his stupid hair, and his stupid abs, and his stupid - “
Oliver snorts, pulling the magazine out of Barry’s reach, “Adults only, Bar.”
“Ha ha, very funny.”
“Seriously, though!” Hal says, sitting up, “Who does this?”
Barry frowns in sympathy, and rubs his best friend’s back.
“Athletes? Celebrities?”
“Billionaires?” Oliver adds, with a wink.
Hal looks at both of them, unimpressed, “My life is ruined.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little dramatic?”
“No, Barry, I don’t think it’s a ‘little dramatic’! My life is ruined! Before, I just imagined what he might look like naked, now I know!”
“And?”
“And he looks fucking better than I thought!! I’ve been ruined for all future lovers! I will die alone!”
“Yeah,” Oliver says, rolling his eyes, “Not dramatic at all.”
“You could talk to him, y’know.”
Hal blinks, “What.”
Barry motions with his hands, though what exactly he’s trying to convey is entirely lost on the other men, “Y’know, words? Out of your mouth? That tell him how you feel?”
“Do you want me to die? Is that what this is? You want me to be all, ‘Hey, Bats, nice Vanity Fair spread. Care to bust a nut in my ass?’ How well do you think that’s going to go over?”
Barry grimaces, “You could use different words.”
Oliver is laughing too hard to respond.
Hal puts his head back on the table. He hates his friends.
The subsequent league meeting is excruciating. Unless you’re Diana, who still doesn’t think it’s a big deal and is, frankly, exasperated by everyone’s over the top reactions. Or, unless you’re Oliver who’s too busy enjoying the awkward tension to feel any of it himself. It isn’t often that they get to see Superman beet red and avoiding eye contact, and he plans on enjoying every minute of it.
“Let’s address the elephant in the room,” Oliver cuts in, grin spreading across his face, only marred slightly when Hal kicks him, hard, under the table.
It’s Barry’s turn to bury his face in his hands, regretting ever associating with the Green Arrow. He blames Hal. It isn’t his fault that Hal has terrible taste. He shouldn't be judged for trying to be a good friend.
Clark attempts to persevere, continuing to discuss the upcoming changes to the Watchtower, but Oliver is undeterred, “What do you say, Bats? Care to comment on your recent venture into modelling?”
The room goes silent. Even Hal stops attempting to decapitate Oliver’s leg at the calf.
All eyes turn towards Bruce who's been sitting silently with no visible reaction to the tangible tension in the room.
“It’s better than your Playgirl shoot.”
There’s another moment of silence before laughter fills the room, Hal and Barry positively howling.
Oliver crosses his arms. This is not how he thought this meeting was going to go.
“They said I made bear rugs hot again!”
Hal calls Barry. It’s one in the morning, and he knows it’s stupid but he can’t help himself.
He doesn’t bother waiting for a greeting, “Is it weird-slash-wrong to jerk off to your sort-of-friend’s nude photoshoot?”
There’s a painful pause.
“Hal, it’s Iris.”
“Oh. Shit.”
Hal is ready to die now, he’s ready to die and stay dead, because what was already a mortifying phone call has gotten a thousand times worse and wow, does he need to stop using the phone after midnight.
“Calm down.”
He’s thirty seconds away from banging his forehead against his bedroom wall, so it’s nice to hear Iris’s matter-of-fact command.
“Um.”
“I say, go for it. It’s a nude photoshoot. They’re pretty commonly accepted as spank bank material. Not saying you need to advertise it…but it’s not like you aren’t jerking off while thinking about Bruce, anyways.”
Hal splutters, but doesn’t deny it.
“You’re welcome, by the way. And stop calling Barry to talk about the photos…he keeps having nightmares that Batman is yelling at him in only the cowl.”
That earns a chuckle from Hal, “Tell him to have sex dreams like the rest of us.”
He can practically hear the eye roll through the phone.
“Good night, Hal.”
It's just Hal's luck that Bruce needs his help the next day. It's a simple diplomatic mission, the ride in the javelin takes longer than it does to resolve the situation. Bruce probably would've been able to handle it himself, but having a Green Lantern around to lend his authority never hurts. Hal considers making a comment about Bruce finally acknowledging said authority, but isn't able to manage it.
He's too afraid that he'll say something stupid like, 'I came harder than I thought possible while looking at your nude photoshoot and imagining your hands on me.'
Which, no, thanks. He might not be afraid of much, but that doesn't mean he needs to open himself up to every possible humiliating moment that presents itself.
Besides, even with Iris's approval he still feels vaguely guilty about it. Like, Bruce somehow knows and is incredibly disappointed and judging him for it.
"Are you alright?"
Hal startles, Bruce's quiet interjection enough to pull himself from his thoughts. They hadn't spoken much on the ride there, or on the mission itself, but it seems the universe doesn't want to cut him any slack and give him a conversation-free ride home, too. He's screwed.
"Me? Oh, yeah. Never better."
He knows that Bruce is raising an eyebrow at him from under the cowl. He doesn't have proof, but he knows.
"You're quiet."
"I thought you like me better quiet," Hal counters, suddenly annoyed. What did Bruce want from him, anyways? He was already suffering under the weight of his increasingly-difficult-to-ignore, unrequited crush. He doesn't need Bruce needling him even when he wasn't trying to get a rise out of the man.
Bruce frowns, but doesn't say anything in reply.
Hal grips the controls tighter, his jaw tense.
Nice going, asshole, he thinks. Bruce actually extends some concern towards him, even if it's out of professional courtesy, and he has to be a huge bag of dicks about it because he's too afraid to talk to the man out of fear of blurting out his inconvenient feelings. Awesome.
The rest of the ride passes in silence.
Hal feels like complete shit by the end of it. He hates that he’s letting his feelings become this much of a problem. He wants Bruce to consider them friends. He wants them to continue to get closer, even if it’s not exactly in the manner he really wants. It’s still important. He doesn’t want to go back to disdainful, snide remarks with no give from either of them. That would hurt exponentially more.
So, there’s only one option. He needs to fix it, clarify that he’s the one with the problem right now.
He docks the javelin and trails after the other man through the Watchtower halls, both of them heading towards their quarters.
Hal bites his lip, and runs his thumb over his ring to remind himself to have courage, “Hey, Bruce.”
Bruce pauses, turning to look back at him.
“Yes?”
“Look, about what happened on the javelin...”
“Don’t.”
Hal looks up, surprised and hurt, “Don’t?”
Bruce’s face is unreadable, and Hal has a suspicion it would be even without the cowl on.
“Just...don’t. It’s obvious you don’t approve of my recent,” He pauses, as though searching for the correct word to use, “decisions.”
Hal’s brow furrows, unsure what Bruce means. They hadn’t argued in a league meeting in ages. In fact, it’d been pretty damn civil between them up until today, and even that was nothing compared to the knock-down drag-out fights they used to have.
“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Bruce shoots him a look like he’s the biggest idiot on the planet. It’s an easy one to recognize, though in this case it feels extremely unwarranted.
“You haven’t spoken to me since I appeared in Vanity Fair.”
Oh. Oh. Fuck.
“Bruce, no - it’s not like that,” Hal hurries to explain, still reeling from Bruce’s assumption that he would judge him like that, “I don’t disapprove, or whatever you think is going on. That’s not what it was, at all. Please, believe me.”
There had been a barely detectable undertone of hurt in Bruce’s voice that made Hal feel like his chest was being cracked open.
“I see.”
“No,” Hal shakes his head, “You really don’t. Fuck, you really have no idea?”
It’s Bruce’s turn to appear confused, though he manages it far more subtly than Hal assumes he did.
“God, it’s me, okay? That’s what I wanted to tell you. I’m the problem,” He runs a hand through his hair in frustration, “I was doing just fine, y’know. I had resigned myself to the fact that you would never see us as more than colleagues-and-sometimes-pals.”
He leveled an accusing finger at Bruce, “But then, you just had to pose for a fucking nude photo shoot! And so now, all I can think every time I see you is how I now know, in much more detail than ever before, exactly what the lines of your body look like and how it might fit against mine...”
“Hal...”
“No,” Hal shakes his head, “Just, shut up, okay? I’m a grown man and I don’t need you to tell me that we need to be professional, or it’s just a crush, or whatever, alright? I get it. I don’t need you to coddle me through it. I’ll be fine. I’m only telling you so you can stop with this whole, ‘I’m judging you,’ nonsense. Got it? So, just -”
“Hal.”
“What?”
“Be quiet.”
Hal glares, affronted, until the next thing he knows Bruce is pressing their mouths together and he’s got an armful of black tactical gear.
It takes a second or two before his brain comes back online enough for him to start kissing back properly, and even then he has to pull back enough to say, “Holy shit, yes.”
Bruce doesn’t answer, just crowds in even closer and then they’re full on making out in the middle of a Watchtower hallway.
If someone had told Hal that this was how his day was going to go, he would have laughed in their face. Or, punched them in the jaw. He’s still dazed that this is real.
He pulls back, “Really? Just...really?”
The corners of Bruce’s mouth turn up, and it’s the closest to a real smile that Hal has ever seen on the man. It’s amazing.
Hal grins back, running his hands along whatever parts of Bruce he can reach.
“So,” He begins, unable to stop a short laugh from escaping, “If I, hypothetically, had said ‘hey, nice Vanity Fair spread, care to bust a nut in my ass?’ Would that have gotten us here sooner or nah?”
Bruce drops his head to Hal’s shoulder and huffs a laugh, his arms tightening around Hal, “God.”
“That’s not an answer,” Hal persists, unable to stop smiling.
Bruce shakes his head before leaning in for another kiss.
“Shut up.”