Chapter Text
A week passes.
Zatanna aids Bruce in his quest to find that magic item for Jason. Once they acquire it, Jason gives Bruce a short thanks—and by short, it is exceedingly, terribly curt like they aren’t father and son. But it’s something for Bruce to hold onto. He tried, he could say, and this time he showed it. The interaction went as so: Thanks, Bruce. You’re welcome, Jason. Okay, I’m off then. Stay safe (he speaks too late and the boy is already gone).
Zatanna leaves with a pitying look on her face. She’s not unfamiliar with family tension, but there’s nothing she could say forward or backward to fix this. Bruce knows this because, of course, he notices everything. Yet, with every piece of knowledge he has, he doesn’t know what to do next besides holding onto that tiny exchange with Jason. He grasps onto it, digging and looking back for memories of when the boy still loved him. If this is not a metaphor and it is not describing how he merely felt, the effort it takes would be equivalent to the painful unburial of Jason Todd. His hands would be bleeding with every drop of desperation inside his heart.
He’s forty-one now, getting older. Getting sadder.
It’s not until another week passes that he tracks John Constantine down—just to give him a piece of his mind.
The two are at a cafe in London, who would have guessed, and John Constantine lets out the most defeated, annoyed sigh he’s ever released in his life the moment he sees Bruce Wayne place a comically large newspaper down. Goddamn it, he just had to come back for seconds, did he? The world’s greatest detective just had to bring his vigilante shit everywhere he went.
“Listen, Bat—Bruce, I don’t want any more trouble, you know?” Constantine says with his hands up in mock defeat.
“Do you?” He leans forward at the little table he’s sitting at and smiles.
It’s fucking scary.
“Have a good day, mate—”
“Sit, John. It’s been a while. We should catch up.” Bruce crosses his legs as he pulls out an amulet from his breast pocket. It’s not the artifact that Jason needs, obviously, but a little something from Zatanna to get John’s attention. A little memento from John’s ex.
“You piece of shit,” he grumbles as he sits across the man. “What is it? What do I need to find?”
“No, I don’t need that anymore, John.” Bruce rests his head on both hands, drawn like a bridge and intertwined. His posture is relaxed, well aware of the power he holds. His jaw clenches.
“You owe me.”
“I don’t owe you jackshit, Bruce,” John spits back.
His eyes narrow and his face turns dark. “You turned me fifteen years younger.”
“That wasn’t all that bad, was it?” He has a weak smile on his face. For such a charming man, he was not recovering from this. “Loads of guys would like to go to their youth.”
“You shouldn’t have messed with me.” Bruce leans back and crosses his arms. The amulet tucks away into his coat’s sleeve as he moves. It’s quick and hardly noticeable, but it’s the regular person’s sort of magic. Nothing like what John and Zatanna do.
“To be fair, you were stalking me—”
“That doesn’t give you the right to abuse your magic on people,” Bruce huffs as he speaks. “Because of you, Green Lantern messed with my head.”
John’s eyebrows shot up.
“Then go to Green Lantern, why are you bothering me?” He’s intrigued. Oh, that little slip-up will cost Bruce everything, he decides.
Bruce doesn’t respond.
“Hey, we can cash in that favor now. Which Lantern was it? John? No, no, John’s smarter than that. Kyle? Ah, but he’s not on Earth now, is he? Or, perhaps, you meant Jessica?” He teases, pretending not to know. He has an evil glint in his eye and Bruce has never been more convinced in his life that John Constantine joining the Justice League was a mistake. Is a mistake.
“Who was it? The one you’re always roughing up in the conference room. Guy? His name eludes me.”
Bruce’s hand clenches into a fist. There’s a sharp inhale from him.
John snaps like a lightbulb went off in his head though he knew the answer already.
“Hal Jordan.”
Bruce’s jaw is tense. His whole being radiates an unchecked rage worthy of a Red Lantern ring. A finger taps on the table as his body begs for a good fight.
“Watch your mouth, Constantine.”
The man smirks. “Oh, I will. C’mon.”
And with a snap of his fingers the two land across the world into the most depressing, dreary apartment in the entire sunny West Coast. Day drips into night as they land on hardwood floors. Splayed out on a ratty couch, Hal Jordan (age thirty-seven) snores as a glass beer bottle barely stays upright in his hand draped over the edge. There are empty bags of chips, save for the crumbs, and cans both upright and knocked over on almost every surface. The TV is still on with a baseball game entering its next inning.
Bruce’s nose crinkles in disgust. Really, of all people, it has to be Hal Jordan.
“Right then, let’s get this over with. Ekat mih kcab ot eht trats.” A flash of light springs from his hand and Hal turns over on the couch, dropping the bottle as he does.
“What—John, you shouldn’t have—” Bruce stutters as he belatedly realizes John’s returned “favor.” It’s more than a little childish.
“Have fun, Batman. That’s twelve to twenty-four hours of Green Lantern aged whenever he started space cop duty.” He dusts his hands off before holding one out. “The amulet, if you would.”
Bruce begrudgingly drops it in his hand.
“What does a spell like this cost for you?” Bruce asks as John turns away.
He shrugs back. “It’s a low-level thing. Part glamour, part transmutation. The memory thing is just for fun, a side effect of being ass at Zatanna’s type of magic. But I am extremely hungry now. A shame we had to leave the best croissants in London for this.”
Bruce exhales through his nose. This did not feel like an equal exchange at all—if anything, the opportunity cost was not worth it and he should have just beat the man instead. It would have been more satisfying and a lot less trouble than…
“Lesson learned, yeah?” John smiles and in a blink, he’s gone.
There’s nothing left but the city lights peering through an open window. Despite the time of year, the coldest it seems to ever get in Coast City is fifty degrees Fahrenheit. Bruce shuffles over to the window, careful to not make a noise, and shuts it. Hal Jordan does not have the self-preservation of the cultural lemming. Which is to say, he is worse.
There are goosebumps dotting his arms. His leg jerks randomly, startling Bruce, as he sleeps.
Unlike the uncourteous Green Lantern, Bruce decides to leave without causing a fuss. If anything, he could continue to avoid any Justice League work when it includes Green Lanterns. Those moments were few and far between anyway as their duties lay with Oa first and foremost.
But isn’t he just a little bit curious?
About what, he thinks back, humoring a conversation in his head. He sneaks toward the door without looking at young Hal. In his head, the past two weeks have been nothing but a mess. He’s not inclined to continue deliberating what his younger, spelled self did for any longer. How could he? How could Bruce Wayne, Batman at that, think he is dating Green Lantern Hal Jordan?
It’s so embarrassing to remember. The way being twenty-six again reverted his memories to when he spent days, weeks, and months in seclusion. Training, and then training, and then training. By the time he reentered Gotham, he had to remember how it felt to be gazed upon.
Sure, he was never truly alone. He had a little camaraderie to help him through it, but that younger Bruce was on fire after Hal touched him once.
One brief touch. Sultry is what he thought when it happened. He had considered he wasn’t on a mission but instead looking for his next hook-up. And that’s when a bright brown-eyed man touched him while grinning at him like a fool. That warm hand that met his thigh before telling him to step outside. And he continued to touch him as he explained everything. Hal’s eyes followed him around with a lust that oozed out of him—or at least, that was young Bruce’s impression.
Bruce rubbed his temples and frowned.
At twenty-six, he should have been a lot more cautious. How could he just do… that? Not to mention that Hal never corrected him on the partners thing. What was he thinking? Hal doesn’t notice when his body is being ogled. The man is dense. Bruce should have known better.
A loud snore echoes through the apartment as well as rustling when Bruce reaches the door. Annoyingly, the apartment has three locks on it (first making it redundant) and a large box that happens to be blocking the door from swinging out (secondly increasing the likelihood of getting caught). Maybe the window would be a better option.
Bruce judges the distance from the door to the window. He could escape in two or three steps and be on the ground in seconds. Normally, he made plans for optimal battle procedures, but he couldn’t make a plan when John Constantine dumped him in Hal’s living quarters.
Click.
Wonderful. A light turns on and the sound of clinking bottles enters Bruce’s ears. There are thick and heavy steps on the floor as Hal enters the kitchen and stares directly at Bruce. He blinks a few times, perhaps not believing his eyes, and then makes a mad dash to tackle him.
Bruce steps to the side, barely getting grazed in the shoulder, and Hal slams against his front door. He wheezes as he stands up.
“Who the fuck are you?” He doesn’t give Bruce time to respond as he swings a fist at his face.
Bruce’s eyes are wide at the whole debacle, but he stays grounded and most definitely on guard as he dodges Hal’s impeding fists.
“Hal, listen—”
He is never good at that.
“How do you know my—” Hal retches and throws his body over the sink. He vomits as his weekend catches up to him. The poor boy’s body trembles with every gag. There’s a bit of sweat on his brow.
He doesn’t hesitate afterward as he grabs a knife off the block on the counter. He’s hunched over, steadying himself against granite, as he tries to threaten Bruce.
“Where am I?” His brown eyes are serious and tensed, though not afraid. Never afraid. “Why can’t I remember anything?”
“Hal, calm down—”
“Did you roofie me? Shit.” Hal stands up properly and one hand comes up to his head. He must be reeling. His outfit is not unlike the one Bruce saw him in last. The man never seems to dress any differently in his private or work life. This outfit, though, is marginally more revealing. He wears a ribbed tank top and (probably) the same blue jeans. The “LUCKY YOU” embroidered on the denim flashes in Bruce’s head.
Bruce takes the moment to observe him head to toe (or in common man terms, check him out).
His head of hair is messy and tussled as though he just came back from space—minus the glee that seemed to make his brown hair bounce after soaring into the Watchtower bay. His muscles are still there, probably from his time in the Air Force, but he’s untouched by scars or wounds. It’s all too familiar. This Hal Jordan, the way he acted and moved, is still exactly like the one Bruce knows now. Fiery, impulsive, unyielding. Brave.
“Hal, I’m sure this is confusing but if you listen it’ll make sense.” Bruce talks with a gentle tone, the velvety one that always works when he’s delivering a speech or buttering up investors.
Hal doesn’t give in. His defense is still up as he considers the other’s words.
“You were…” Bruce tries to figure out how to say it. How did Hal get him on track when he was transformed? “John Constantine cast a spell—”
Hal looks at him in disbelief. Bruce already knows what he’s thinking. Yeah, right. Magic.
“—and you lost about ten years of memories with me.” He cringes knowing how that sounds.
“What?” Hal searches for gaps in his current memories. There’s no room for the raven-haired man before him. “Who are you?”
“Bruce—Batman.”
Bruce watches Hal’s eyes widen before his confusion carries on.
“Batman’s not fucking real.” Hal rolls his eyes. His hand becomes steadier as he points the knife.
“Hal—”
“How do you know me?”
“We work together.”
“Nah,” Hal says, “I need proof.”
Okay.
Bruce raises his hands up, ever the elegant man, and slowly pulls out his phone. He types his passcode and finds the calendar. His feet stride over to Hal, wary of the knife, but unafraid, as he shows Hal the date.
“If your memories line up with mine, around age twenty-six or seven you were bestowed a Green Lantern ring during your time as a pilot.”
Hal nods with a frown. Bruce can tell he doesn’t want to give in to whatever Bruce says.
He steps closer and Hal’s hand on the counter grips it tighter. “That was about nine years ago. Your recent memories and current state of being are side effects of a spell.”
“Okay,” Hal drawls. “So where are we and who are you again? No fake, bullshit answer.”
“I’m Bruce Wayne.”
He waits for the grand reveal. The surprise. The tension.
Hal’s face contorts as he tries to recall the name. “Who?”
Fine. Bruce knows better than to try it again, hell, he knows Hal has a higher chance of recognizing Clark Kent for some ungodly reason. He bites back a smile.
“We’re in your apartment.” His deep timbre finally gets to Hal as Hal scans the room and finds his own belongings settled into a larger apartment than he is used to. There are pictures on the fridge, of his family, of newspaper clippings featuring himself—kind of conceited, Bruce thinks—and silly magnets from Central City to Metropolis.
None from Gotham.
“We’re colleagues, how?” he asks.
“You’re Green Lantern. I’m Batman. Put down the knife.”
“Wait, so you’re telling me that Batman fucking exists?” Hal still distrusts him. His arm is slow and reluctant to listen to Bruce, but what else is new? He puts the knife down on the counter. “So what, you’re a crime-fighting vampire?”
“I’m human,” Bruce grunts. His voice is so deep it closely resembles the way he talks as Batman. And before Hal can get on with a repeat their first interaction, beat by beat, Bruce interrupts him to disclose the details of the current world. Hal drops his guard and his emotions come to the forefront of his face. Bruce thinks that he knows him too well now, because every thought that passes through Hal’s head is one he anticipates. He answers questions as they come and even prior to Hal asking.
He realizes then that Hal probably felt the same when Bruce was under the spell.
How could they ever be just work associates, colleagues, coworkers after a decade spent together?
Hal puts his head in one of his hands.
“So, you’re here—why?” He looks tired and probably is.
“I—” Bruce pauses. He doesn’t disclose the full nature of his presence there. He can’t if he wants to be seen as a good man. “Constantine put the spell on you and I suppose I felt bad.”
“Wow.” Hal puts his hands on his hips as he deliberates the information he received. “That doesn’t add up.”
A flash of green light bursts from his hand and slams Bruce into the wall.
“If you were here to check in, why were you sneaking out then?” He steps closer to the pinned man. “And why would Constantine—whoever that is—put a spell on me when he already did it to you?”
Bruce is not unimpressed. A younger Hal is more cautious than younger Bruce, which is nice to know. He supposes he’s always known given that even with his boisterous personality, Hal thinks about the bigger picture (sometimes). His charisma based around his frankly overdone American persona is in part a facade. There are real thoughts under there somewhere.
“I assure you, it’s true. Though the reason why he put a spell on you is my fault.” Bruce doesn’t fight back. It wouldn’t do him good.
“Your fault? Oh, I’d like to hear the reason, Bat.” He’s missing the S and yet Bruce hears Hal in, well, Hal’s voice. A glimpse of the older version.
“You may have… messed with me when I was under the spell.” Bruce’s lips are carved into a fine line. He doesn’t really want to explain the whole situation. It just gets worse after that.
“Oh.” The green dissipates and Hal steps back. “Like a fight?”
His eyes narrow. He rolls his shoulders back. He’s preparing to punch (again).
“So you came back for more?”
Bruce’s mouth is dry. “Yes—I mean no. I—”
He swings. Bruce weaves out of the way, pushing Hal off-balance as he does. Hal stumbles before turning back.
“We don’t need to fight, Hal.” Another.
The boy doesn’t respond, only continues to fight his shadow. He’s much more clumsy than Bruce remembers. But a fist connects with his face anyway as he watches Hal. He let him have it (he’s lying). Maybe his gaze is too focused on watching Hal’s muscles contract as he moves around. He’s a heavy hitter.
Bruce tumbles into the counter before quickly moving out of the way. It would be only a matter of time before that green ring begins to destroy everything in his way. And if that happened, it would be unfortunate since this apartment, though messy and unkempt, is quite modern and well-furnished.
The only way to stop Hal is to go on the offensive. It’s a thought Batman has had many times whenever Green Lantern doesn’t follow orders. He never does.
Bruce’s hands wrap around Hal’s wrist as it swooshes by his head, and he pulls the boy forward into his own momentum as he steps out of the way. He stumbles forward and into the next room with a crash. Didn’t he train in the Air Force? Scratch that, Oa?
Hal crumples into himself, half on the floor and half propped up by an armchair. He sheepishly looks up before his face falls back into concentration. The ring glows.
Absolutely not.
Bruce dives forward, slamming Hal’s chest onto the ground and pinning his hands down. He snarls as he speaks, “Green Lantern, stand down.”
It’s a habit he has—that the both of them share. Though their names aren’t unfamiliar, they tend to refer to one another in their hero identities. They’re not so close they’d prefer first names unless absolutely necessary.
But they are close. Extremely, undeniably, physically close. Bruce straddles Hal as the man looks up at him. The sound of hard breathing fills the quiet room.
There’s a redness decorating Hal’s face.
Bruce isn’t even in costume. He’s just a guy wearing a thick winter coat, a dress shirt, and slacks pinning a boy no older than thirty. He’s a Gothamite stuck in Coast City because of a magician who frankly does not care, and he’s stuck with, of all people, the person who lunged across the Watchtower conference room begging for a fight.
He tries to bury the years of annoyance and irritation as he huffs, “You always fly off the handle, Lantern.”
It doesn’t work.
Hal tries to sit up and Bruce pushes him back down. His head and back hits the floor, and he gasps. Hal and Bruce are both strong men, but in this case, Hal isn’t trained the way the Bat is. He’s struggling to get up and, if he stops using his ring, they could keep damage to a minimum.
“I’m not your enemy.” Bruce bites his lip. He knows he shouldn’t say more but it happens anyway. “To be clear, I was happy when you showed up on Earth again.”
Hal’s not listening. Instead, he’s trying to wrest his arm from Bruce’s grasp and he does so for just a moment. The ring emanates a glow and the beginnings of a construct spills out from his hand. But Bruce doesn’t give him a chance to get further as he grasps onto Hal’s right hand and it bangs onto the floor above his head.
“Lantern,” his voice is a warning. It’s gritty and low, “stand down.”
Hal’s breathless as he responds, “Okay.”
They lock eyes. The night sky spills into the room and illuminates Hal’s face, even beneath Bruce’s imposing figure. There’s a yellow glow from the kitchen behind them, but it's faint. They’re so close he can feel Hal’s breath.
“You’re—”
Bruce’s eyes dart to Hal’s lips.
“Let’s get you water,” Bruce says, trying not to look disgusted. The man just vomited. He doesn’t smell pleasant. He eases back onto his heels, stands, and holds out his hand. It’s all one quick movement. Young Hal looks at his hand before scanning his face.
He’s hesitant (Bruce can tell by the way his shoulders are tense and he seems to be chewing on his words) but he takes it anyway.
They wander to the kitchen where Bruce finds expired milk, spoiled food, and two cases of beer. Wow. The only real ingredient that’s edible is a bar of butter. Hal grabs a glass after looking through different cabinets and drinks tap water.
“Your cheek is bruised,” Hal says after minutes of silence. He’s standing in the kitchen with one arm propping his body up against the sink. A healthy distance away, Bruce stands by the fridge.
Bruce scoffs. “Whose fault is that, again?”
He speaks with a smile settling on his face. It’s laughable, really, the conditions that bring the two of them together. Odd team-ups over the years with their underlying, begrudging distaste for one another. That flavor has shifted and Bruce doesn’t want to admit it.
“Yeah, my bad.” And that’s the closest anyone gets as far as apologies go from Hal Jordan.
Hal explores the cabinets. His hands somehow find what he wants intuitively. The ghost of older Hal follows him as he moves, seemingly guiding his thoughts with a heavy sense of deja vu. After all these years, he never quite beat the drinking habit (or would it be more accurate to say he’s just begun his drinking habit?) and he lucks out. A pack of gum and mouthwash is in the cabinet to the right of the sink. Not his first rodeo.
The mouthwash is quick and Hal slouches over the sink with twenty-thousand-eight-hundred-fourteen thoughts racing through his head. Bruce is patient as he watches the young man deliberate what to do. It’s almost as though he could see the gears turning in the pilot’s head.
“If you’re not here to fight, then what did you mean?” Hal speaks slowly, every ounce of thought overflowing his voice as dread reaches Bruce. “How did I mess with you?”
“To be frank, you’re impulsive. You rush into battle with half-cocked plans and when I was under the spell, you let that impulsivity win,” Bruce sighs. “It was unprofessional.”
“Unprofessional,” he repeats. He’s heard that word enough times to know what it could mean. And since one option is already ruled out…
“It’s not your fault,” Bruce says. “Not entirely.”
He looks askance as Hal leans back. It’s a good time to leave, he thinks. He already explained everything and now it’s just a matter of avoiding Green Lanterns for the next six months. Honestly, the magic endeavor was not worth it.
“That’s nice of you to say,” Hal says. “Sounds like I was a real dick, huh.”
Bruce laughs at that. It’s a rich, genuine laugh and there’s a short exhale at that end that makes Hal catch his breath. Bruce smiles to himself before looking into those auburn eyes.
“I’ll leave you be. There’s probably lots you want to do now that you’re young,” Bruce says as his fingers tap on the counter. The motion makes him pause. He’s not the type of guy to make noise and draw attention—well, at least that’s what he thinks of himself since he’s Batman first and Bruce Wayne second. He steps toward to door.
Young Hal blocks his way.
“Listen,” he says, stepping closer as his hand hovers over Bruce’s chest, “I might be reading this wrong—I mean, I definitely did earlier—but I think I got it now.”
The antecedent is missing.
“What’s ‘it’?” Bruce responds.
Hal sucks in a breath.
Fear is not something that comes to Hal easily. In fact, he doesn’t have any. So Hal can’t understand the feeling rising in Bruce’s throat. Bruce is driven by his fear and an unrelenting moral code; that ride never stops regardless of any numbness towards it he carries now. He’s been more than intimate with his fears. All of this to say, the answer to the question is one he doesn’t want to listen to.
Hal’s mouth opens, but no words come out.
Bruce reads body language easily, yet a haze in his head fogs his thoughts. He’s not focused. His eyes are trained on Hal’s lips.
And even as he watches them, he does nothing when Hal’s mouth collides with his. His eyes don’t flutter shut the way it did two weeks ago. He stands, stunned at the touch.
Hal draws back. There’s a hint of disappointment in his body, Bruce reads it quickly—his shoulders sag, there’s a redness to his face from embarrassment, a layer of dampness as he sweats. But Bruce is not willing to let it linger as he grasps onto Hal’s face and crashes into him. There’s a sweet little gasp from Hal, a moment of surprise as Bruce steps forward. A leg finds its way between Hal’s as he stumbles backward. Bruce bites down on Hal’s bottom lip and a yelp slips out of Hal.
“Sorry,” Bruce says as he continues his barrage, only allowing one or two words to be discernible between kisses. Hal’s lips are chapped but Bruce can’t care. “Sorry, we shouldn’t—you’re too—sorry.”
They bump into that box at the door, to which Hal kicks out of the way and a dent forms. The cardboard begins to shrink in on itself, the label illegible.
One of Bruce’s hands lands on Hal’s lower back as he pulls him closer. There’s a satisfying arch in Hal’s back that has him meeting Bruce halfway. The other hand moves from the younger’s face and presses against the door above his head. It’s almost as if he’s trying to push himself away when he can’t. He can’t focus.
“Hal, stop—” neither of them stop “—we shouldn’t—we really shouldn’t.”
They’re both breathing hard. Hal’s hands retreat from Bruce’s body and begin to fumble with his belt.
“Hal—”
“Bruce, right? Shut up for once,” Hal interrupts him with a slightly exasperated tone. Though he has no memories of their time spent together, he feels the familiarity of it all. The way the phrase dances on his tongue. A wicked sense of deja vu flows through him.
Bruce’s belt clinks as it becomes undone.
Hal looks up at Bruce with those brown eyes. Eyes that always reflect green once his ring turns on, eyes that capture the sun’s light and freckles itself with warmth, eyes that really need a good fuck. Bruce grabs Hal’s jaw and smashes their lips together again. Hal steps forward and they stumble through the kitchen, bumping into the counter as they messily trek to the bedroom.
Hal pushes Bruce down onto (presumably) his bed. He crawls on top and his thighs rest at either side of Bruce’s hips. He can’t stop kissing him. They can’t stop kissing. An intoxication fills his body, not unlike the alcohol he must have drank last night. He wants so much more and for some reason, completely unknown to him, his body is aching for it. He’s bleeding with desire.
“Hal, we’re—” It’s difficult to talk “—we’re not dating.”
Hal isn’t listening. He pulls off his shirt in one go and places Bruce’s hands on his hips. Hal’s body is so delicious. The way there are barely any traces of scars—no, that Oan technology kept him healing and perfect. The way Bruce can see every muscle move. The way he’s hot to the touch.
It’s a taste of the Californian sun (those burning winter days) pressing against New Jersey’s cold bite (a snowy sting against skin).
Then he grinds down. Bruce fights his body and loses as a whine scrambles out of his throat. In an attempt to stop himself, he bites his lip so hard it bleeds. Hal’s on his lap and his hands are on Hal. How could this happen again?
“Seriously, Hal—” Bruce brings one hand to Hal’s face and forces the two of them into an open-mouthed kiss. He knows he’s stupid for saying it but there’s no way to morally rationalize his actions. There’s no right way to go about it so maybe pointing it out makes him minimally better. It makes him feel better. Morally, of course, he fails to recognize that in reality it makes him worse. “—I can’t do this.”
“Yeah,” Hal responds, breathless, “we shouldn’t.”
His tongue meets Bruce’s again. As Bruce sits up properly, one of his hands slips beneath Hal’s waistband and grabs his ass. A groan stemming from Hal’s throat floods out as he gets groped. His eyes keep fluttering open and closed as he fails to decide what to focus on.
Bruce is unbearably aroused watching Hal. His pants are comfortable but won’t be for longer, he can tell based on the way he feels the need to bite onto Hal’s skin. A possessiveness he doesn’t recognize bubbles up inside him. He wants to leave a mark. Leave something. Primal want courses through his body and his limbs are so light with lust.
Hal gasps, “Why can’t we do this again?”
His voice is hushed and it’s scratchy. The sound is so familiar as it fills Bruce’s head. Bruce can list ten reasons off the top of his head why they shouldn’t. Things like power imbalances, lack of informed consent, the fact neither of them discussed anything beforehand, the fact their relationship seems to only exist in the margins of their superhero lives.
So many thoughts race through his head and all he can muster up is “I can’t remember.”
And Hal dives in for another kiss. His hands grasp at Bruce’s chest and shoulders, tugging and pulling his coat off. He throws it somewhere across the room and it lands unceremoniously. Without a second of delay, he tears the front of Bruce’s shirt open.
The buttons burst off one by one as he rips it off. The panels relax at Bruce’s sides and reveal a white ribbed tank top underneath.
Hal licks his lips. “You have a lot of layers.”
Bruce’s brain is frozen at the view. He doesn’t recognize this level of attraction from Hal—he can’t fathom it. Hal’s eyes soak in every body part on display as he pulls up the white undershirt. His gaze traces over all of the new scars he’s never seen. Scars built up after twenty years of crime fighting and disputes.
They speak at the same time.
“I was in the snow,” Bruce says.
“Did I give you any of these?” A quizzical look appears on Hal’s face.
A sorrow reflects back from Bruce’s face. Hal watches Bruce’s eyebrows form a gentle furrow. “No, never.”
“Oh,” Hal’s hands follow the lines of each muscle and scar, “I thought we were less friendly. Glad I’m not sleeping with my mortal enemy.”
Bruce blinks. What? The implication that Hal would still sleep with him regardless brings a heat to his abdomen he shouldn’t have. What a hypocrite, he knows. Bruce is hardly the best person to consult about affairs with his rogue’s gallery.
But it’s hot. He needs to hear it. Oh, God, he needs to hear it from Hal. He needs that stupid, annoying, insubordinate voice to say it for him.
Bruce tries to not smile, but one side of his mouth quirks up anyway. “Would that have stopped you?”
A beat. Hal has a lazy grin on his face and his hands unzip Bruce’s pants clumsily. It gets caught halfway through but his brute strength forces it open.
“Fuck no.”
Hal plants a kiss on Bruce’s toned abs. One of Bruce’s hands lands in Hal’s messy head of hair. So soft.
“That’s concerning, Hal,” Bruce says, his fingers weaving through strands of brown. “That would indicate a risk of infiltration for the Justice—”
A hand wraps around his dick.
Hal laughs as he comes up to Bruce’s face—another kiss. “You’re into this too, buddy.”
Hal spits in his hand and jerks him off hard and fast. It’s too much. He has a dick, he should know better than to be so rough. It’s also so crude and gross and Bruce is painfully hard. He shuts his eyes. It shouldn’t feel so good.
Hal scrambles lower, down his body, until his face is next to Bruce’s dick. His tongue comes out to give a lick. Bruce’s fist clenches as he watches Hal begin to kiss and lick him. This is unreal. Their eyes meet for just a moment before Hal puts Bruce in his mouth fully.
Bruce winces.
Bruce’s hand yanks Hal’s head back and a trail of saliva follows. A moan is strangled out of Hal’s throat, the hair-pulling doing more than enough to send icy hot sparks through his body. The boy’s mouth is still open as Bruce pulls him off his dick by his hair. A pinkish hue colors his cheeks.
With narrowed eyes, Bruce is commanding and his voice gravelly as he speaks. “No teeth.”
“Sorry,” there’s an almost apologetic smile on his face—he’s amused, “I’ve never done this before.”
That’s… something.
Hal’s not young by any standards. Sure, he’s younger now than he was an hour or so ago, but he’s not wet behind the ears—immature sometimes, yes, but he’s sexually experienced. A bitter thought flashes through Bruce’s mind. He knows Hal has had a neverending on-and-off relationship with Carol Ferris. Something so long-standing that she’s an integral part of Hal’s life. Perhaps there since the beginning and will be to the end.
He feels bitter for a split second before the sweetness sinks in. Sickly sweet.
“I’m great at learning—I,” Hal looks up through falling brown hair, desperate, “prefer hands-on instructions.”
Bruce holds his breath.
“Tell me what to do.”
His dick twitches which earns him a grin from Hal.
Bruce doesn’t hesitate as his hand cards through Hal’s hair and firmly holds him in place.
He tells Hal to use his hands first if the size is too much. He tells him to open his mouth more. And bob his head more. Keep going, just like that. More. Please. Bruce’s eyes shutter closed as Hal obeys. He can’t figure out if the pleasurable feeling comes from getting head or the submission of Hal Jordan. Hal continually peeks up at him, searching and scanning for signs of approval. It’s cute.
If only his older counterpart did the same.
Both of Bruce’s scarred hands find their way to Hal’s head and keeps him still. He starts thrusting into that wet mouth unashamed. The movements are mild still, though he wants to go harder, move faster. He’s kind enough for Hal’s first time doing this.
Hal pushes forward, his nose coming into close contact with Bruce’s navel. The length is far more than Bruce has been guiding Hal with and his hubris gets the best of him. He gags. He’s too hungry for what he can give.
Hal backs up, coughing as he fights watery eyes.
“Shit, sorry.” He’s still coughing.
Bruce strokes his head, feeling every strand on his fingertips. There were white hairs, though sparse, in the past. Hal’s shoulders shudder as he leans into the touch. Sort of like a cat pushing against a hand for more pets. More affection.
“It’s okay. Breathe, Hal.” Bruce stares at Hal with a warmth that feels foreign to the blues in his gaze. It’s new to Hal, in both his younger and older form, but in this moment, it is the only thing he’s thinking of. It’d be nice to keep it.
“Let’s try something else,” Bruce murmurs. He’s all soft and gentle with Hal. He wonders where it comes from. It’s surprising he has a single bone in him that wants to keep him so badly—well, in some ways, it is a bone.
Hal scoots up on the bed and meets him face to face. They’re side by side now. Bruce’s hand is on Hal’s cheek and he pulls him closer to kiss. It’s a nice change for Hal, calming down as his tongue meets Bruce’s and their hands wander aimlessly.
There’s a smirk on his lips as bites down on Bruce’s lip. Payback. He chuckles as Bruce grunts.
Bruce pushes Hal onto his back and pins him down by his shoulders. His hair droops down partially covering the gap between them. He doesn’t remember when his hair got so long but he’s grateful for it when one of Hal’s hands brushes it back.
Bruce’s eyes close. It’s sweet. It’s too sweet. God, he doesn’t deserve it.
When he sits up, his hands undo Hal’s jeans painfully slow. One hand holds the younger’s stomach and body down.
“Hurry up. I’m falling asleep here,” Hal laughs.
Bruce’s face remains serious.
“Are you sure you want this?” He’s weary.
The younger man pulls down his pants for him. He kicks them off like it’s obvious.
“Please.” Hal has a cocky smile on his face. He’s so arrogant. He doesn’t even know if his ego will bite him back. One of his hands tugs down the waistband of his briefs and stops just below his hip. A trail of brown hair follows the pull of the briefs, an invitation to go lower.
Bruce stutters.
“C’mon, I—” Hal bites his lip as he thinks, “—I want it, sir. Please.”
Okay.
Bruce bends down and bites Hal’s neck. His canines sink into flesh first and there’s a piercing whine ripping from Hal’s windpipe. One hand presses down on his crotch rough and once more, there’s a moan. He’s fully erect. At that discovery, venom drips through Bruce’s veins; there’s an unattractive possessiveness taking over his body. He needs it now. He’s a formidable sight like this, eyes glowering and scars basking in the moonlight.
Bruce yanks Hal’s underwear off.
“Do you have lube?” Bruce asks.
“What? No, I mean, I don’t know. Uh, check the nightstand?”
A few rustling noises later and Bruce emerges with a tiny bottle in hand—it’s comedically small in his hand. There’s a condom too somewhere on the bed.
“Shit, what’s that? A free sample?” Hal jokes with a snort.
“You’re gonna need it, Lantern.” The bottle opens and its slimy liquid spills out onto Bruce’s fingers. One of Hal’s legs is lifted up and lands on the older man’s shoulder. He lets out a coughing noise.
Bruce looks up, then down, and up again.
Hal is red in the face. He hides it behind his forearm.
“Can you get on with it?” Hal asks, voice warbling and nervous though he tries to laugh it off.
Bruce scoffs. He murmurs under his breath, “You’re always so impatient.”
A finger pokes at Hal and he squirms. Or, at least, he tries to until Bruce holds him down by his navel with one hand.
“You still want this?” Bruce says as his finger enters Hal. The brunette gulps as he nods. He’s still hidden behind his hands, surprisingly embarrassed for a man with no fear (and, arguably, no shame according to Bruce). His discomfort shows as he gnaws on the inside of his cheek. He’s breathing heavily through his nose.
His fingers slide in and out easily, more and more so as Hal relaxes, but it isn’t long before his leg seizes as his prostate is pushed and pressed into. There’s a wicked smirk on Bruce’s face. He’s enjoying every second of it. The way Hal starts panting and whining. The way he arches his back. The way he looks at Bruce with teary eyes through his hands. Such an amber color.
Bruce continues to press and prod, and even if he’s a little mean about it, he doesn’t want to hurt him. At this point he has three fingers working Hal open—maybe it won’t be enough, he thinks. Hal is so tense and so lewd all at once. It’s as though his body wants it but his brain can’t fathom the feeling. He’s twitching and he can barely focus. He’s overloaded.
Bruce snaps out of his thoughts when Hal grabs onto the wrist pinning him down.
“Batman—Bruce, fuck, just put it in. I don’t think I can—ngh,” he gasps out as his eyebrows furrow and he huffs. His grip leaves discolored imprints of his fingers on Bruce’s wrist.
The expression Bruce has is scarily unreadable. Only a few strands of hair flow into his perfect face and if not for the fact that Hal ripped his shirt open, he would look totally pristine. All Hal can tell is that the older man is in control, complete and absolute control of his body. It’s so arousing, so hot. Hal doesn’t remember the last time he was led in bed. Well, he doesn’t remember much, period.
He knows he’s gonna remember this for the rest of his life, that’s for sure.
Hal laughs as he feels the intrusion of Bruce’s dick. It sends crackles of fire through Bruce’s body. He’s so warm. Like a bonfire at a beach. Like a spark drifting up into an endless night. He knows he can’t hold it for too long. Probably.
“Shit, yeah, okay. Slower,” Hal says. “It’s way harder being on this side—oh, fuck.”
He stops speaking once Bruce kisses his neck. Any words become intelligible and messy. And as he tries to speak, Bruce sucks a hickey onto his skin. A compliment slips out of Bruce’s mouth.
“You’re doing so well.”
And then he bites down. Hal’s hands come up to push him away, but those teeth stay on his skin and Bruce pins his arms above his head. Bruce bottoms out and the noise Hal releases is shameful. So disgustingly full of want. Neither of them can tell what does it more for Hal: the praise or the feeling of getting fucked.
Bruce continues moving, his mouth never leaving Hal’s body as he does. The boy barely has any time to breathe. Even when Bruce stops pinning him down, he leaves his body in that pose—just presenting himself for the man. It’s so exposed, Bruce thinks. And greedily, he doesn’t want anyone else to see the view.
He thrusts in and out with feverish speed, chasing his arousal until he begins to feel the oncoming edge of an orgasm appear. Hal looks up at him with tears. It makes Bruce’s hips stutter for fear of hurting him. He slows down and caresses the other’s face. Once more, Hal leans into his touch. Bruce is much better at listening to fear than Hal is.
Bruce’s thumb brushes against Hal’s bottom lip.
“Are you okay?”
Hal nods back. For someone so chatty, he’s so quiet during intimacy. They both are panting in the quiet break.
“Mm, feels good. I think,” Hal murmurs. He looks spent. “Do you—can you keep going?”
Bruce huffs, but he smiles immediately afterwards. “I’m not that old yet.”
“Yet,” Hal repeats with a grin. He looks down at his crotch and then back at Bruce. “Could I…?”
If only, Bruce thinks, Green Lantern could be so considerate.
“Sure,” he says as he kisses Hal’s palm. That same hand is quick to dive down to Hal’s dick and begin jerking off. He’s eager to touch himself.
The view is intoxicating. He doesn’t stop to watch. Once again, Bruce begins to move. His hips snap against Hal’s toned thighs and when he looks up, Hal’s face is lost in bliss. His eyebrows are furrowed, but there’s an inkling of a smile dancing on his expression and heavy breaths escaping his lips. He’s not paying attention to anything anymore. As he jerks himself off, his pelvis and hips move to fuck into his own hand, which in turn drives Bruce crazy. He’s so warm and wet and he shouldn’t keep going.
He can’t at this rate.
Bruce kisses him and he can tell Hal is losing his mind. He’s hardly as responsive as before and drool dribbles down his chin. It makes his lips shine in the moonlight. Even as they kiss, mouths linked together in the softest of touches, Hal doesn’t hide any moans. He’s so loud despite saying absolutely nothing.
Bruce pulls out until only the tip of his dick is left in before thrusting in with frightening speed. It makes Hal’s eyes roll back and his hand falter at his dick. God, Bruce feels like he could come any second. How did he get here? How did he get from avoiding Green Lanterns like the plague and to bedding one (the same one again)?
The reminder of their last interaction drives him insane. It’s insanity, really, it has to be. Another check-in for Arkham Asylum, because he is even more aroused at the thought of it. It must be related to the fact that Hal is under him this time around. A proper role reversal that would probably send the older version of Hal Jordan reeling.
But fucking is so much better than fighting now, isn’t it?
Bruce grasps onto Hal’s waist as he rams in again and again. The leg on his shoulder shakes between movements. It’s too much, really. More than what he deserves but he can’t stop himself from taking what he wants—not this time. He watches every expression Hal has, every delicious gasp and blush. He’s so unlike the man Bruce knows and yet he acts exactly the way Bruce imagines him to. Could he admit then that this is not his first fantasy of Hal Jordan? It’s overwhelming.
The marks dotting his chest and neck are overwhelming.
Bruce feels cruel as he gazes upon them, like he’s soiled something he wasn’t supposed to. Even so, he can’t care. The color is pretty on Hal’s tan, Californian skin. With such rich undertones, the flyboy is all the more appetizing. Bruce is too busy feeling Hal clench and move and it’s all there for him. All for him. That possessiveness never fades, he realizes, as he can’t bear the thought of someone else seeing Hal like this. Hal whimpers under his touch.
He’s rougher than he intends to be, unrelenting and hardly listening—not that Hal is even saying anything understandable. He’s making pathetic noises that Bruce is sure he’ll be embarrassed about after this is all over. But Bruce wants more of it. He doesn’t want this to end. How rare is it that Bruce Wayne gets to keep anything?
His grip on Hal’s waist is strong and digs into Hal’s skin. He likes the way the flesh moves as he squeezes tighter. It’s not until Hal taps on his hand frantically that he realizes that Hal has been talking at him.
“Bruce, c’mon. Please, I gotta—I gotta come soon,” Hal begs. “Please, sir—Bruce. Ugh.”
He yelps as Bruce rams his dick in again. It devolves into whimpers and little cries of pleasure.
“Wait,” Bruce growls without intending to.
Without a beat, Hal comes onto his stomach. He’s panting as his dick pathetically spurts out ropes of semen over his hand and abs. It’s a pretty accessory that glistens. Hal’s mumbling apologies as he takes what’s given and Bruce follows him into an orgasm. Watching him was more than enough. His disobedience—it tastes nice. Years of disagreements unfold as Batman realizes that it is attractive when Green Lantern doesn’t listen. This time, at least, he did try.
And that was hot too.
“Uh.” Bruce pulls out and moves to the side. “Sorry about that—”
Hal sits up and crashes his lips against Bruce’s. They enter a messy and hazy kiss. Tongue presses against tongue and Bruce responds so tenderly. Like he wasn’t just fucking Hal in an unforgiving manner. Hal looks at him with hooded eyes. Bruce fights a smile.
“Shit, that was a hell of a ride, Bruce.” Hal had a charming grin on his face before he looked down at his abs. “Let’s clean up.”
The next ten minutes are filled with the two of them stumbling around thirty-seven-year-old Hal’s apartment. He luckily has two towels, but only two. They take turns showering. There’s body wash and shampoo—a horrendous three-in-one shampoo that has Bruce’s face aghast—along with a small heater that keeps them warm as they dress.
Hal offers Bruce a new shirt without knowing that the shirt he ripped open probably cost a month of work. The older man takes it anyway. It’s a long-sleeve shirt with the University of California San Francisco logo printed on it. Bruce knows Hal did not go there.
When he’s done cleaning himself up and wearing clothes that almost cling to him, Bruce finds Hal passed out in bed. He’s lying on his stomach in only his underwear, not a care in the world. Bruce has half a mind to join him. He knows better though.
He dries his hair with one hand, letting the towel drape over his shoulders. Cold beads of water drip down his black hair, weighing it down.
He thinks he doesn’t want to be there for the aftermath.
And at the same time, Bruce knows guilt is building up inside. He’s not committing a crime by leaving. No, he’s not. He—Hal left before. So why should he stay?
Bruce stands in the doorway to the room with the light illuminating his back. The night sky keeps the room dark and blue.
“Whatcha doing there? Brooding?” Hal speaks lazily and with a slur in his words. His cheek is smushed against a pillow with his arms folded under it. Bruce can’t tell if his eyes are open. “Come ‘ere.”
He pats the bed firmly and his head sinks back into it.
Hm.
Bruce treks over, light on his feet and without making a sound. The bed creaks as his body drops onto it. He lays on his side, facing Hal. Hal’s hand is out in the open and Bruce lets himself lay his hand on top of it. Hal is quick to snatch his hand and place a messy kiss on the knuckles.
Sweet.
Bruce’s eyes fight to stay open. There is probably a lot he was supposed to be doing today. Meetings, patrols, management. He forgot it all for just a moment. This feels too good, he thinks. Too good to be true.
“Night,” Hal grumbles into his pillow, already drifting away.
“Goodnight, Hal.”
And Bruce rests until the next day.