Chapter Text
The flight back to Earth is quieter than the one out. Hal keeps the Batplane steady, gliding smooth through the black.
For a while, Hal tries to lose himself in the hum of the engines, the familiar give of the stick under his hands. It almost works—until he catches the shift in his periphery. Clark leaning in, one broad hand coming to rest on the back of Bruce’s neck. Just a simple touch, grounding, steady. A wordless gesture that says I’m here.
Hal’s throat goes tight. He forces his eyes forward, forces the grin to stay plastered, forces his breathing not to hitch.
It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t still matter. But it does. He aches for it, for the weight of Clark’s palm against his nape, for the rare times Bruce let him touch without flinching. He misses it so much it feels like a hole punched through his chest.
The rest of the trip passes like that, Hal doing his damndest not to think about how alone he feels between them.
By the time they break into Gotham airspace and slide back into the cave, Hal is bone-deep tired. His hands ache, his chest aches, every stitch feels like it’s been tugged loose.
He doesn’t want to go upstairs. Doesn’t want Alfred’s fussing, or to sit at the dinner table with Bruce and Clark at either end like nothing’s broken. He needs air. He needs his own space. His own clothes.
He glances down at himself and huffs a humorless laugh. Clark’s sweatshirt hangs loose on his frame. Bruce’s sweats sag against his hips. He likes them, more than he should, but they only remind him of everything that isn’t his anymore.
So instead of heading for the stairs, he heads for the Zeta tube. His stride isn’t perfect, still a half-stumble, his heart skipping a beat every few steps.
He punches in the code for Coast City, fingers quick over the console. The machine hums to life, white light flooding the alcove.
“Hal” Clark’s voice cuts across the space, sharp with alarm. His boots hit the stone fast, closing the gap. “What are you doing?”
Hal flashes him a grin over his shoulder, “What’s it look like, Smallville? Thought I’d catch a late movie. Maybe grab a slice on the way. Don’t worry, I’ll bring you back a souvenir.”
“You promised,” Clark says, stepping into the light, voice heavy but not with the kind of weight Hal wants.
Hal rolls his eyes. “Yeah. I promised I’d stay until I was stable. Guess what? Stable.” He thumps his chest, crooked smile sharp as glass.
Bruce’s voice cuts in from behind. “You’re not stable. Oa didn’t fully heal your heart. You’re oxygen-dependent. You shouldn’t even be standing.”
Hal groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus, Bats. I’ve told you this a thousand times, I’m fine. Anyways, I’m not running away. Just going to grab some clothes, a toothbrush, maybe some decent coffee. Then I’ll be back. You can all unclench.”
Neither of them look convinced. Their silence is louder than words.
And honestly, neither is he. If he leaves now he doesn’t think he’ll come back.
But he doesn’t exactly want to end up with a disappointed SuperBat on his door step, and he knows the fight that would come from that would probably kill him.
And well he promised Damian he’d stop fighting with them.
But he really does just need a minute away from them.
Hal pinches the bridge of his nose, exhales sharp. Then he curls his fingers to his lips and lets out a sharp whistle that echoes through the cave. “Oi! Backup!”
A second later, a flash of red and blue cuts down from the cave’s mouth. Jon, carrying Damian like it’s nothing. Jon lands grinning, eyes wide. “You’re back!”
Damian straightens, “How is your condition? What did they do to you?”
Hal grins, reaching out to ruffle his hair until Damian swats his hand away. “Relax, kiddo. They stuck me in a big glowing green spa bath, glued me back together. No warranty, but good as new.”
Jon gasps, eyes huge. “That’s so cool.”
He’ll make lanterns out of them yet. Maybe it was due time to take the boys to Oa.
“Damn right it is,” Hal says, dropping into a crouch so he’s level with them, the oxygen tube tugging loose from his nose. “Listen, I need a field trip. Gotta grab some stuff from my place. You two up for helping me haul some bags?”
Jon’s bouncing on his heels. “Yes! Can we see your apartment? Is it on the beach? I’ve wanted to go there forever but Dad wouldn’t let me—”
The words land like a punch straight to Hal’s chest.
Dad wouldn’t let me.
Damian cuts in quick, like he can shut it down before Jon can dig deeper. “We’ll help.”
Hal’s smile doesn’t falter. Can’t falter—not for them. But his heart drops.
Dad wouldn’t let me.
Of course.
So much for still family huh?
He straightens, ruffles Jon’s hair, and turns back to the console, punches in the coordinates again. The Zeta tube hums, brighter, louder.
“Alright,” he says, voice easy, breezy, not betraying a damn thing. “Field trip it is. Don’t wait up, we’ll be back in a bit.”
And before either Bruce or Clark can stop him, the light swallows Hal and the kids whole.
The world rights itself in a flash of static, and they’re in Coast City. Hal’s apartment.
The key’s already in his pocket. He digs it out, stares at the door a second longer than he should. The familiar weight of dread drags in his gut. He didn’t get a chance to clean before Oa. Hell, he hasn’t had the strength to clean in weeks. Piles of laundry shoved into corners. Dishes stacked in the sink. The mattress on the floor.
Not exactly the kind of place you bring kids back to, especially kids used to polished mahogany and Alfred’s spotless kitchens.
Jon shifts at his side, craning to look up and down the hallway. “It’s so loud here,” he blurts when a plane roars overhead. The glass rattles faintly in the frame. “Does that really not bug you?”
Hal slides the key in, forcing a grin. “Nah. White noise. You live near the runway long enough, it’s like a lullaby.” The door clicks open, swings wide. “Alright, troops. Make yourselves comfortable. Fridge is fair game eat what you can before it mutates. I’ll start packing.”
Jon perks up immediately. “You need help?”
Hal waves him off. “Not yet. Just clothes. But I’ll need someone to haul the bag think you’re up for that?”
“Yeah!” Jon puffs his chest. “I got it.”
“Good man,” Hal says.
Jon bounces once, then blurts, “Hey, are you gonna bring your old Nintendo system? You showed me that once—it’s awesome.”
Hal huffs, shoving down the ache that hits him at how long it’s been since that once. “If you want it, kiddo, I’ll haul it back. Can’t promise it still works, though.”
He disappears into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. The air is stale. His stomach twists when his eyes land on the mattress—just a lump on the floor with tangled sheets, no frame, no headboard. No warmth. No signs of a life lived here, not really. Just survival.
Compared to the manor’s guest room it looks pathetic.
Is that why? The thought needles in, sharp and bitter. Is this why Bruce and Clark didn’t want the boys over? Didn’t trust them here? But they had never seen his place. They never saw what he became after them.
He swallows hard, shakes it off, and pulls a duffel out of the closet. Clothes. Simple, thoughtless motions. Shirt. Pants. A jacket. Another shirt. He sets a clean change aside, peeling off the sweatshirt he’s still wearing. Clark’s. It still smells like him. He tosses it onto the mattress and drags in a breath.
A clatter from the kitchen makes him jerk his head up. “You two alright?” he calls,
“Fine,” Damian answers, clipped.
Hal sticks his head out, bare-chested, scanning for trouble. It’s nothing, just the fridge door open, the boys digging through it. Jon’s crouched with half a carton of milk, wrinkling his nose. Damian has already stacked perishables onto the counter like he’s conducting a field op.
Damian glances at Hal, eyes flicking once over the scar that cleaves down his chest before returning to the task. “If you’re remaining with us, it’s better to get rid of anything perishable now,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Yeah. Thanks, kid.”
He ducks back into the bedroom, throws the packed bag by the door, and grabs the fresh clothes. When he bends to pull on a clean shirt, something slips from his pocket and hits the floor with a soft clink.
Hal freezes.
The chain glints dully on the wood. His wedding band.
For a second, he just stares. His heart clenches like a fist around the metal. His eyes sting, hot and sharp. He’d forgotten it was still in his pocket, tucked away like always. His one last tether. His one last scrap.
He hasn’t taken it off since the divorce. Not once. He couldn’t bring himself to. Not when it felt like the only thing he had left.
But after today? After Jon’s words—Dad wouldn’t let me, after Clark’s hand on Bruce’s neck, after realizing it wasn’t them who ran to him when he fell?
It’s time.
There’s nothing left.
Still…his hand shakes as he threads the chain back over his head, tucks it under the clean shirt. The thought of not having it there makes his stomach lurch. He can get rid of it later. In Gotham. In the harbor. Or maybe give it back to Bruce, let him melt it into a batarang. Something final.
Just…not now.
By the time he walks back into the kitchen, the smile’s back on his lips.
“You two done wrecking my fridge yet?”
Jon beams, holding up a bulging trash bag like a trophy. “I’m taking this down! Which chute is it?”
Hal chuckles, nodding toward the corner. “End of the hall, kiddo. Go left, can’t miss it.”
Jon salutes with a grin, the bag bouncing at his side as he trots off. Hal watches him go, warmth and ache tangling in his chest. Too good, too sweet. Just like his dad. He can’t imagine his life without these kids—doesn’t even want to try.
Dad wouldn't let me.
Did he even have a choice if the kids were in his life after this? If there was an after this?
With Jon gone, Hal heads back into the bedroom, pulling out his laptop and charger, a few battered notebooks stuffed with old blueprints and sketches for plane models he’s never gotten around to building. They go into the duffel on top of his clothes.
Then he kneels by the TV stand, starts untangling the cords from his old Nintendo system, winding them carefully. The plastic casing is scuffed, the controllers ancient, but Jon’s face when he asked—yeah, this thing’s coming with.
Damian drifts over, silent as always, and crouches down next to him. Without asking, he takes one end of the cord and starts wrapping it neatly. “Your apartment is…quaint,” Damian says finally, his tone neutral, but his eyes scan the walls, the bare shelves, the mattress visible through the bedroom doorway.
Hal chuckles under his breath. “Thanks, kid. That’s one way to put it.”
Damian’s silence stretches. “Did Father not offer you better accommodations?”
The question is so blunt Hal freezes, cord slipping through his fingers. He swallows, “He did,” he admits, “But I didn’t want it.”
Damian’s dark eyes narrow, sharp as a blade. “Because it would have felt like a handout. Collateral. Evidence for the critics who call you reckless and a gold digger. You didn’t want to prove them right.”
Damian’s dark eyes narrow, sharp as a blade. “Because it would have felt like a handout. Collateral. Evidence for the critics who call you reckless and a gold digger. You didn’t want to prove them right.”
The cord slips through Hal’s fingers. Damians always see too much, always understood more than so many gave him credit for. Damian knew what Hal had been made out to be—Gold digger. Plaything. Sugar baby test pilot.
He’d worn the words like armor for years.
Damian had arrived like a grenade dropped on the front steps. Nine. Trained to kill. No one even knew he existed. And suddenly Bruce Wayne had a son. The media would’ve torn that apart. Who’s the mother? When did this happen? Was this an affair? Was this a scandal?
So Bruce did what Bruce always does. He made a plan, made a bigger headline.
Bruce Wayne marries Clark Kent and Hal Jordan.
It was Strategic.Two birds One stone. Bring Damian into the light. Give him the chance at a normal life, to not be hidden in the shadows like he had been for so many years. And, while they were at it, make it clear what Hal was.
Not the “close friend.” Not the pilot constantly photographed on Bruce’s arm.Not the rumor. Permanent.
Take the heat off of the scandal that was Damain and put it on their marriage.
And yeah…when Bruce first brought it up the plan didn't sit right at first. He was all for keeping Damian safe, all for protecting the kid but getting married just because of some elaborate plan? .
He’d lived in that house. Shared their bed. Built routines and inside jokes and Sunday mornings. He knew they loved him.Marriage had always been something they talked about in the dark, half-joking, half-serious.
Someday.
When it makes sense.
When it’s right.
When Damian came, it suddenly made sense. Just not in the way he’d imagined.
It hadn’t been a proposal on one knee.It had been Bruce in the study, outlining optics and legal protection and stability for the kids.
Clark had thought it was a good plan.
Hal had said yes anyway.
Because permanence mattered more than poetry. Eight years together and they had still never quite made things official. Never confirmed what they were. Hal had just moved in, just become a permanent part of life that never needed a label.
And the plan worked.The heat shifted off of Damian and onto them, onto the scandal that was Hal. Everyone knew Bruce and Clark were dating, shit Bruce and Clark were one of the most beloved couples in the media..but Hal? Adding Hal into the mix, confirming the speculations? The media had a field day.
He’d smiled through every headline. Every late-night punchline. Every article dissecting his bank account and his motives.He told himself it didn’t matter.
Damian went to school without cameras waiting outside the gates.That was enough.
And when the divorce hit—
The same outlets that mocked him for marrying in now mocked him for being cut loose.
Phase over.
Sugar baby cashes out.
Plaything discarded.
They tried to shield the kids from it.
Tried.
But Damian has always seen too much. Shit he was pretty sure all the kids knew what the general public thought of him.
Hal drags a hand through his hair, forcing a grin back onto his face.
“Damn, kid. You don’t miss, do you?”
He nudges Damian lightly with his elbow, because that’s easier than unpacking all of it.
“Yeah, you’re right. That’s part of it. But—” he flicks Damian’s ear with the cord, grinning when the boy scowls—“between you and me, all the places Bruce offered? Way too far from work. And don’t even get me started on the taxes.”
A ghost of a smile tugs at Damian’s mouth.
Hal pretends that’s enough.
Pretends the past is just headlines and not something that still presses heavy against his ribs when the room goes quiet.
Hal leans back against the wall, lets the duffel rest at his feet. “Truth is, I like it here. Close to Ferris. Close to the beach. Not a lot of eyes around if I need to jet off into space. But…” He hesitates, gaze flicking toward the doorway Jon disappeared through. “I’ve been thinking. When all this is over, maybe I’ll trade up. Something with a couple extra bedrooms. So if you or Jon ever wanted to crash…”
Damian tilts his head, considering. “That would be…suitable. Jon will adapt to the planes overhead.”
Hal smiles, heart tightening. He reaches out, pulls Damian into a quick hug and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Love you, kid.”
For once, Damian doesn’t pull away immediately. His small frame stays tucked against Hal’s side, still as stone, before his voice comes quiet, serious: “Why didn’t you tell us you were sick?”
The question lodges in Hal’s chest “Because I didn’t want to worry you—”
“Not us.” Damian pulls back enough to look him dead in the eye. “Not me. Not Jon. Father. Kent. Do you not still…care for them?”
Hal’s throat works, searching for words. Finally, he shakes his head, “No, Dami. It’s not that. I love them. Always will. They’ll always be family to me. But when we divorced…” He swallows hard. “That meant giving them space. Respecting their boundaries. Not barging into their lives when they didn’t ask me to. They had the right to move on without me.”
Damian studies him, searching, too perceptive for his own good.
Hal forces a smile, brushing the boy’s hair back from his forehead. “It wasn’t about not loving them. It was about letting them breathe. Letting them live the way they wanted.”
Damian is quiet for a long time. Then, slowly, he nods, leaning back against Hal again, this time willingly.
And Hal just holds him there, one arm curled protectively around the kid, wishing the words felt more like comfort and less like a goodbye.
The front door bangs open a second later, and Jon comes bounding in, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. “Dad! Dad! Dad! You won’t believe it—I just saw a plane do the coolest trick!” He waves his arms to demonstrate, nearly smacking the doorframe. “It went straight up, then rolled sideways and nosedived like—like whoosh!—and then pulled back up! I didn’t even know planes could do that!”
Hal laughs, startled but warmed, holding onto Damian as Jon practically vibrates with excitement. “That’d be a hammerhead stall,” he says, grinning. “Pretty slick move, huh?”
Jon’s eyes go wide. “You know it?!”
“Kiddo,” Hal smirks, tapping his own chest, “who do you think taught half the guys around here how to pull it off?”
Jon gasps, awe written all over him. “Can you teach me?”
Damian snorts, sitting up straighter. “If you’re asking him to teach you maybe start with something more impressive, How complicated can a hammerhead stall really be?”
Hal raises both brows, eyes sparkling with mischief. He can feel the ache in his ribs, the low thrum in his chest, but none of it stops the swell of pride at having their attention like this. “Eh. For me? Not complicated at all.” He spreads his arms, theatrically smug. “I am one of the best pilots in the galaxy. Bar none.”
Damian narrows his eyes. “That’s debatable.”
Hal gasps in mock offense. “Debatable? From you? Okay, boys. Field trip just got a hell of a lot more exciting. Come on—let me show you what real flying looks like.”
Jon practically cheers, Damian only raising a skeptical brow, but both of them follow Hal as he pushes himself to his feet.
They end up on the tarmac fifteen minutes later, climbing into the cockpit of one of Ferris’s training planes that Hal still technically has access to. He slides into the pilot’s seat with a sigh of relief, like every ache in his chest eases just being back where he belongs.
Damian and Jon strap into the back seats, the canopy closing above them with a hiss. Jon is practically bouncing, his eyes wide as he leans forward against the harness. Damian sits rigid, hands folded in his lap, the very image of skeptical disapproval.
Hal flips the first switch and the console lights up. He glances back over his shoulder, “Alright, gentlemen, first things first—pre-flight checks. You don’t just hop in and go, not unless you wanna end up a crater.”
Jon leans closer, wide-eyed. “What’s that do?” He points at the glowing dials as Hal moves across them.
“This one checks hydraulics. That one’s fuel mix. This one makes sure the flaps won’t decide to fall off midair.” Hal flicks each switch with the practiced ease of muscle memory. “Always, always trust your pre-flight. This baby will tell you if she’s sick before she shows it in the air.”
Damian raises a brow, “I don’t think Father would approve of this. And more importantly, from my own medical experience, this isn’t wise. You were just released from a healing chamber. Stress on your heart so soon—”
Hal waves him off with a crooked grin. “Oh, your father would absolutely not approve.”
Understatement of the damn year the second Jon tells them what they did he knows Bruce and Clark are gonna have his balls for it. But this is so so worth it.
His hand lingers on the throttle, “But you said you wanted to see something cooler, didn’t you? Best way to learn is hands-on.”
Damian frowns. “Reckless.”
“Maybe,” Hal admits. “But worth it.” His eyes flick briefly to both boys. He's taken the both flying before, done some baby tricks with them but neither had really taken much of an interest in it..which made sense Jon could literally fly and Damain didn’t see the point in it. But now they were asking him to show them. How could he say no? How could he say no when he doesn’t know how much time he has left with them?
He swallows, hides it with bravado. “So, ground rules.”
He turns back to them fully, his voice firmer. “Harnesses stay tight. No unbuckling until I say. If either of you feels queasy, bucket’s under the seat. Don’t touch the stick unless I put your hands on it. Got it?”
“Yes, sir!” Jon chirps, practically vibrating.
Damian exhales, crisp and reluctant. “Understood.”
“Good.” Hal powers up the engine, the plane rumbling to life beneath them. His heart thrums with it, a steadying rhythm he hasn’t felt in too long. “Now let’s get her in the air.”
The wheels leave the ground smooth, steady—Hal keeping it even, conservative at first. He doesn’t want to spook Jon, and truth be told, he needs to feel out his own body, too. The plane responds beautifully, every touch of his hands translating into sleek, sharp obedience.
Jon’s already leaning forward, shouting over the headset. “What trick are you gonna show us?”
Hal runs through the possibilities in his head. Barrel roll’s too simple. Inverted dive might push his stitches too far. Loop’s safe enough, but boring. He wants something that’ll make their jaws drop, something that’ll stick with them forever—but nothing that’ll risk losing them if he blacks out.
His chest twinges at the thought, but he shakes it off. They’re superheroes, for God’s sake. Damian’s probably done scarier with a grappling hook. Jon can break Mach speeds before breakfast. But still—he wants them to remember him as the pilot.
He grins into the comm, voice teasing. “What do you boys think—go big right away, or start you off with training wheels?”
Jon whoops, “Big!”
Damian mutters, “Small,” at the exact same time.
Hal laughs, heart aching in the best and worst way. “Guess we’ll split the difference, then. Hold tight, kiddos. Let’s see if I’ve still got it.”
He eases the throttle forward, steady hands coaxing the plane higher into the open blue. The world tilts, horizon sliding down the canopy, and Hal feels it—that familiar thrill rushing through his veins, the air pressing back against the wings, the hum of the engine responding like a living thing. At the peak, he twists the stick with the kind of finesse that only comes from years of instinct and muscle memory, rolling them in a graceful arc that snaps back into level flight smooth as glass.
Elegant. Controlled. And still with his own flourish, a little extra kick of rudder that makes the maneuver sing.
Jon’s shout bursts through the comms. “That was awesome! Do it again, do it again!”
Even Damian, arms crossed in the back, can’t keep the awe completely out of his voice. “Technically…impressive. How did you maintain lift while rolling at that angle?”
Hal smirks, ignoring the sharp twinge that knifes through his chest. Not now. Not when the kids are watching. He forces a casual tone. “Trade secret, kid. Nah—I’m kidding. It’s all about energy management. You feel the air under you, keep the throttle sweet, don’t fight the roll. Took me years to get that kind of control.”
Damian leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Then let me try.”
Hal barks out a laugh. “Cool your jets, Robin. You don’t just hop in and pull a hammerhead with your first set of wings. You start small. Earn the big ones.”
“Small tricks are pointless,” Damian says flatly.
“Not as cool!” Jon chimes in, already grinning again.
Hal grins back, refusing to let his breath hitch show. “Tell you what—I’ll prove you both wrong. Little tricks can be just as fun as the big ones. Watch this.”
He pulls them into a shallow dive, then snaps them into a quick aileron roll, not flashy but crisp, and finishes with a banking turn that feels like gliding on silk. Nothing complicated, but it’s clean.
Jon’s delighted laugh crackles over the headset. Even Damian’s eyes widen, grudging admiration slipping through.
Hal smiles, but it falters when another sharp pain rakes across his chest. He draws in a shaky breath, sucking hard at the oxygen mask, trying to make it look like nothing more than habit. His ribs ache, his lungs burn, but he keeps the grin plastered on anyway.
“See?” he rasps, steadier by the time he speaks. “Doesn’t have to be a loop to be fun.”
The boys are too busy chattering in the back to notice the way his fingers tremble on the stick, or the way he closes his eyes for a beat too long, trying to steady himself.
“This is so cool!” Jon blurts, leaning forward in his harness. “But—can it go faster?”
Damian’s voice cuts in, cool and cutting. “The top speed of this model is hardly impressive. I expected more from the so-called greatest pilot in the galaxy. I’ve already seen aircraft in Gotham execute maneuvers like these.”
Hal huffs, “Oh, so that’s how it is? Baiting me?” He flicks the comm switch with two fingers, voice turning all business for the span of a second. “Ferris Tower, this is Jordan, taking out two junior copilots for a demonstration run. Heading off-grid for a bit.”
The crackle of a reply barely gets through before Hal shuts the comm back off with a flick. He grins over his shoulder at them, the challenge lighting in his veins despite the warning throb in his chest. “Alright, then. You want impressive?”
He glances at Jon. “What’s the fastest you’ve ever flown, kid?”
Jon perks up immediately. “Uh—Mach two? Maybe? It’s hard to keep track sometimes.”
Hal’s grin sharpens. “Well, we’re about to bump that number up. But let’s make it interesting.”
He rolls his shoulders, easing into lecture mode like the flight instructor he used to be. “High G’s aren’t a joke. You feel heavy, like someone dropped a building on you. You’ve gotta breathe deep, keep your muscles tight. If it gets too much—say the word. I’ll back off. Got it?”
Jon nods furiously. “Got it!”
Damian’s brow furrows, but he inclines his head. “Understood.”
“Good boys.” Hal’s grin widens, crooked and proud. “Now let me show you what the top pilot in the galaxy can do.”
He slams the throttle forward, the engine roaring as the plane surges. The nose lifts, pressure pinning them back in their seats. The familiar weight of acceleration hugs his body, G-forces pressing down heavy but thrilling, and for the first time in too long Hal feels alive.
Jon whoops behind him, voice bubbling with awe. “We’re really going this fast?!”
“Mach point nine,” Hal calls out, voice tight but playful. He flicks them into a banking turn, pulling them through another trick, the wings slicing the air with precision. The boys’ laughter crackles in his headset, feeding his pride.
“Mach one-point-two.” The gauges climb, needle creeping higher. The familiar press of Gs builds across his chest, ribs aching, lungs burning. He bites down on it, forces a grin. “Not bad for an old bird, huh?”
“Faster!” Jon yells.
Damian’s voice follows, cool but—Hal thinks—impressed despite himself. “Sustain it, then. Prove it isn’t just theatrics.”
Hal’s heart clenches, harder this time. His breathing stutters, shallow and ragged under the oxygen mask. Lightheadedness creeps in at the edges, a haze he hasn’t felt in decades of flying. The world tilts for a heartbeat, the controls slick under his trembling fingers.
But Jon’s laughter fills his ears, and Damian’s challenge sits sharp in his chest, and Hal can’t stop now. Not when he promised.
“Mach one-point-six,” he grits out, voice strained. “Told you—record’s going down today.”
He pushes through another maneuver, the horizon flipping as he threads the plane into an elegant arc. His vision pulses black at the edges, his chest screaming at him to stop. But his jaw sets, stubborn, reckless, desperate to prove himself.
One more push, he thinks. Just one more. For them.
The gauges climb, the needle vibrating as it hits the redline. His voice crackles through the comm, rough but determined: “Mach one-point-eight. Almost there, kiddo—hang on!”
The pressure crushes him into the seat, heavy as lead. His lungs seize under the mask, his ribs feel like they’re splintering apart, but Jon’s laughter rings through the headset and Damian’s sharp intake of breath sounds almost like awe.
“Mach two-point-one—” His voice breaks, caught between triumph and pain. He grits his teeth, forces his vision clear enough to see the horizon. “And there—Mach two point five. Congratulations, Jonny-boy. New record.”
Jon cheers so loud it distorts the comm. “We did it! We broke it! That was amazing!”
Hal lets the throttle ease back, sweat slicking his palms, his heart hammering like it wants out of his chest. “Yeah,” he rasps, forcing a grin. “Not bad for an old man.”
But he can’t help himself. Pride and adrenaline burn too hot in his veins. He pulls them into one more maneuver—an elegant stall turn, flipping the nose down into a steep arc.
That’s when the black creeps back in. His hands slacken on the controls, his chest locks tight, and the world falls away.
For a terrible, weightless second, everything is gone.
When his eyes snap open again, the cockpit is tilting, instruments screaming, the plane caught in a dangerous spin. Training takes over—hands jerking the stick, feet slamming rudder pedals, steady pressure, coaxing the bird back into balance.
The plane rights itself with a roar of engines, smooth as if it were all part of the show.
“WHOA!” Jon’s voice explodes over the comm, giddy and breathless. “That was the best one yet! Do it again, do it again!”
Even Damian, eyes wide despite his seatbelt-straight posture, mutters, “Admittedly…that was impressive.”
Hal swallows hard, chest still spasming, his breaths ragged beneath the mask. His whole body is trembling, not from the spin but from how close he came—how badly that could’ve ended. His mind screams never again, but his mouth moves without thinking, keeping the mask of bravado in place.
“Couple more tricks,” he manages, the words scraping his throat. “Then we ground it.”
“Please, Dad,” Jon begs. “Just one more! Go that fast again—please? Just once more?”
Damian adds, quieter but insistent, “Yes. Do it again.”
The plea twists in his chest harder than the pain ever could. God, he wants to give it to them. He wants to give them everything. But he won’t risk their lives—not for his pride, not for his need to be the hero in their eyes.
Instead, he grins, hiding the way his hands shake on the controls. “How about we do something even cooler? But you two gotta pick a number. Together. Agree on it.”
The boys glance at each other in the backseat. Jon’s bouncing in place, whispering numbers like he’s rattling off lottery picks, while Damian evaluates each with the severity of a judge. Finally, they land on one together.
“Thirty-five,” Jon declares triumphantly.
Hal barks out a laugh, even as his chest gives a warning throb. “Thirty-five, huh? Guess it’s a record-breaking day.” He flexes his fingers around the stick, jaw tight. Thirty five spins in this thing? He doesn’t know if it’s possible but damn it he’s going to try.
Alright, Jordan. Keep it together. It’s just spins. Just a few barrel rolls. You can do this in your sleep. He tells himself.
“Last trick,” he says aloud, grinning back at them. “After this, we ground it. Agreed?”
The boys pout, but nod and something about it makes Hal’s heart clench in a different way.
“Good. Then let’s make it count.”
He exhales once, sharp and steady, then throws the plane into the spin.
The world tilts, then blurs, horizon vanishing into a cyclone of sky and earth. The fuselage shudders, G-forces slam heavy into his chest, but Hal holds the line.
“One!” Jon yells, exhilaration bubbling in his voice.
“Two!”
“Three!”
The numbers stack, each one battering against the pounding in Hal’s ribs. His vision threatens to tunnel, his lungs burning even with the oxygen mask feeding him. He grits his teeth, knuckles white, a grin plastered to his face that feels half defiance, half desperation.
“Thirty!” Jon’s voice is hoarse now, Damian’s count steadier beside him.
“Thirty-one!”
“Thirty-two!”
Hal’s heart hammers, every beat sharp as broken glass. Come on, Jordan. Just three more. Don’t you dare black out now.
“Thirty-three!”
“Thirty-four!”
“Thirty-five!”
“Thirty-six!”
With a grunt that tears through his chest, Hal pulls them out of the spin, leveling the wings with practiced precision. The horizon steadies, the plane coasts, smooth and clean as if it had never been in a spiral at all.
Hal swallows, every muscle shaking, his chest screaming, but he forces a grin into his voice. “Told you. Greatest pilot in the galaxy.” he circles back towards the tarmac, knowing he needs to ground this before he blacks out again.
Jon’s whoop ricochets off the hangar walls like a chorus of fireworks. “That was insane! I wanna do it again tomorrow!”
Damian is already standing, cool and composed, though Hal can see the way his jaw works. “Technically, you exceeded safe operational parameters.”
“Noted,” Hal says, and helps both boys unbuckle. His hands are clumsy, fingers trembling where they should be steady. Every small motion sends knives of pain across his ribs. He keeps his face loose, easy. Keeps the laugh ready, keeps the dad-jokes in the holster. He won’t let them see him wobble. Not here. Not now.
They climb out Jon’s prattling on about the spin—how loud it felt, how his stomach did funny flips—and Damian is already disassembling the headset asking technical questions that Hal answers in short, proud bursts.
Hal helps them down the ladder, one arm under Jon’s knees, another steady on Damian’s shoulder. The ground under his boots tilts, a little too sharp, and for half a beat he feels the world lift in the wrong direction. He clamps his jaw and keeps moving, guiding them toward the flight line like the captain he still is.
“Do you remember which hanger we borrowed the helmets from?” he asks, voice light. “Run ’em back and drop them in the box, then meet me by the plane. I’m gonna swing the keys back to Ferris and show you the best spot for after-flight food.”
“Yeah!” Jon answers, sprinting off before Hal can blink. Damian gives a small nod and follows, already barking orders about where to put the chutes and how to angle the straps.
As the boys go, Hal bends and fishes in the cockpit for the portable oxygen mask. He had—stupidly left the small compression O₂ unit at his apartment. He slaps the plane’s mask over his face and draws in a long, greedy breath of air. It’s better than nothing. It steadies him enough to stand.
“Fucking brilliant, Jordan,” he mutters to himself, breath fogging the plastic. He should have brought the portable unit. Should have listened to Bruce. He clamps it down with another inhale and tells himself Pull it together. They don’t need you to collapse in front of them. Not today.
He tells himself he’ll get it together before they come back. He’ll pick up the bags, toss the duffel in the trunk, and they’ll be off to the diner. He sets the mask down on the plane’s console for a second while he fumbles the keys out of his pocket.
He starts toward the little lockbox where he’s supposed to drop off the keys, Black dots bloom at the edge of his vision, The blood in his ears throbs louder than the engines had. For a second everything is distant, like he’s watching himself walk from inside a dream.
Panic stabs at him. He will not, cannot, faceplant on the pavement and have Jon and Damian find him like that. He will not make them save him.
Adrenaline does what muscle memory can’t: it pushes him forward. He lurches, grips a nearby folding chair with white-knuckled hands, and drags himself into it.
He folds down, the world tilting, and lets himself sink until the chair takes his weight. He forces himself to take in as much air as he can, slow and desperate breathes. He counts each one —one, two, three—until the black spots begin to pull back like tide.
His breath tastes metallic. His chest feels hollow and screaming. He closes his eyes and lets the chair hold him. For a bottomless moment there is only ringing in his ears and the distant noise of the two boys’ laughter fading and coming back from where they’ve gone.
Clark could be here in thirty seconds if Hal called. He pictures the way Clark can fold space with those long blue streaks and be there in half a blink. He thinks about calling, he should call, should admit he’s busted himself.
but then he imagines the boys watching Clark scoop him up and the questions that would follow, the way Jon’s bright trust would tilt into frightened curiosity, and the sharpness in Damian’s eyes. He will not make their night into an emergency. Not if he can help it.
He breathes again, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his temples, and repeats the old, useless litany: Not here. Not now. Just a little rest. Just the keys. Just the food.
A distant shadow crosses the doorway as Jon and Damian run back. Hal straightens a fraction, forcing a grin he barely feels. He wipes his palms on his jeans, stands, and meets them at the ramp, voice bright and easy.
“Bring the bags, boys. Dinner’s on me.”
He keeps walking because that’s what he does, he keeps going.
They manage the diner. They manage greasy burgers and Jon getting ketchup on his chin, and Damian side-eyeing the fries like they’re beneath him before eating half the basket anyway.
They even manage a slow walk down the boardwalk, Jon dragging them toward the arcade lights, Damian begrudgingly indulging him. Somehow Hal keeps pace, one step after another, each one feeling like wading through lead, like the G’s never left him.
He’s careful not to let the boys notice how shallow his breaths are, how often he has to pause and pretend to look at something.
Back through the zeta tubes, back into the cave’s cool dark. Jon bounces on his heels, eyes lighting up. “Can we set up the Nintendo now?”
“I’m going to rest before patrol,” Damian says flatly, already tugging off his jacket.
Hal forces a grin, though his chest feels like it’s collapsing with every inhale. He wants to say yes. He wants to sit with Jon and blow on old cartridges until they work. But the truth is he won’t make it, his body’s screaming for oxygen and the med bay. “Maybe not tonight, kiddo,” he says gently. “We’ll do it in the morning.”
Jon frowns. “But I’m going to Mom’s in the morning.” Puppy eyes, wide and hopeful. Hal feels the automatic yes ready on his tongue—he’ll push through, he’ll find a way—but before he can speak, another voice cuts in.
“Don’t you have a summer reading assignment?”
Hal turns, startled, to see Dick leaning against the wall in sparring gear, Jason beside him shaking out his hands.
Dick smiles, but his tone is all older-brother. “Didn’t Lois say you need to have that finished before tomorrow? You’ve still got a few hundred pages to go, right?”
Jon blanches. “Shoot!”
Hal chuckles, ruffling Jon’s hair. “Guess you better get started, kid. Homework before Nintendo. That’s the rule.”
Jon sighs dramatically, but he hugs Hal tight “Promise you’ll wait for me to set it up!”
“Promise.” Hal manages to get it out past the ache in his chest, his breath wheezing just faint enough that Jon doesn’t notice. The kid squeezes him hard, all warmth and light, then bolts up the stairs toward the manor.
Hal turns, already steadying himself on the railing, “Hey,” Hal breathes, the word coming out too soft, too underwater. His voice doesn’t sound like his own—it’s muffled, hollow, like it has to fight through cotton before it reaches his lips.
Dick doesn’t hesitate. He crosses the space and pulls Hal into a hug. Hal stiffens for a moment, lungs clenching with the pressure, but then he melts, clinging to the warmth, His chest screams with it, black spots overwhelming his vision.
“Missed you, kid,” Hal rasps into his shoulder. He doesn’t care if his voice shakes. He doesn’t care if it sounds weak.
Jason is there next, his grin sharp and soft all at once. He pulls Hal in with a clap to the back, careful but firm. “Missed you too, old man.”
Hal lets out something like a laugh, though it tears his throat on the way up. His knees buckle a little, Jason’s arm the only thing keeping him upright. “Old man? Ouch I’m only 35”
Jason leans back, eyes sweeping over him, worry written in every sharp line of his face. “Yeah, well—you don’t look so hot.”
Hal smirks automatically, but it’s thin, shaky, His chest feels like it’s caving in, like the air refuses to stay in his lungs.
“thanks Jace,” Hal mutters. Even to his own ears it sounds warped, like he’s talking through water. He presses a trembling hand over his sternum, the gesture meant to be joking, but it’s more for balance than anything.
Dick’s watching him too closely. Blue eyes narrow, scanning, cataloguing the sweat beading at Hal’s temple, the way his chest heaves for each ragged inhale. “No. Really. You don’t look good at all.”
Hal tries for another grin, his fallback shield, but it cracks halfway. “Relax. I’m fine. Just—” He has to pause, pull in air that doesn’t want to come. The black spots pulse, then fade, then pulse again. He forces the rest of it out. “Just might need you to hook me up to something to help me breathe.”
Jason doesn’t wait for permission. His arm snakes tight around Hal’s waist, hauling most of his weight without a word. “C’mon.” His tone leaves no room for argument.
Hal lets himself sag into the hold, grateful and ashamed all at once. His legs feel like wet sand, every step heavier than the last. The cave tilts, the floor stretching and collapsing in his vision, but Jason’s grip is steady.
Dick is already ahead of them, moving fast, grabbing the pulse ox, the stethoscope, prepping the monitors in the med bay with the efficiency of someone who’s been here before, too many times.
“What happened?” Dick asks as Jason lowers Hal onto the cot.
Hal sinks into it, his body trembling from the effort of simply standing. He tries to push the words past the fog in his head, past the way every breath rasps, shallow and thin. He lifts his head just enough to flash them both a weak grin.
“Eh,” he croaks, his own voice foreign in his ears. “Just showing the kids a few tricks.”
The monitor clips onto his finger and immediately betrays him, beeping a warning tone, the numbers flashing lower than they should.
Dick frowns, already reaching for a mask. Jason steadies Hal by the shoulder.
Hal blinks up at them, his chest rattling with every inhale. “What’re you—what’re you doing here?” Each word scrapes, costs him more than it should. He tries for a grin, breath breaking halfway. “Nice haircut by the way, Jay. Real tough. What’d you do, tell the barber you wanted ‘menacing yet broody?’”
Jason huffs a laugh but his eyes are sharp. “Save your breath, old man.”
Hal obeys, but not before pushing out another question. “Where…Clark? Bruce?”
“They’re up on the Watchtower,” Dick says, pulling the oxygen mask over Hal’s mouth and nose, adjusting the strap. “Called us in to watch Gotham for the night.”
Hal’s brows pinch. The hiss of the mask fills his ears, but his mind spins louder. The Watchtower? What the hell’s happening up there that needs Bruce and Clark both? That needs Dick and Jason to fill in? And why didn’t he get the alert? He’s still Justice League—founding member, damn it.
The oxygen cools his throat, but each breath still scrapes. Dick’s moving, hooking up a second line for pain. The IV needle bites, tape pulling against his skin.
“You’re a good man, Dick,” Hal mumbles, letting his head fall back against the cot. His vision blurs, but he can still make out the shape of Dick’s face, older now, stronger.
He remembers a much younger version on the Watchtower, all wide-eyed focus and eager questions, long before Hal ever stumbled into anything serious with Bruce or Clark. Cute kid. Bright kid. Still is, though the man standing over him has shoulders like stone.
Jason adjusts the mask against Hal’s face when it slips, his expression torn between irritation and worry. Hal’s chest aches with affection. He and Jason always clicked more. Jason had been around for the awkward years—had sat in the manor kitchen eating cereal while Hal and Bruce exchanged loaded looks, while Clark fumbled over small talk. Jason had seen all of it and played matchmaker more than once, rolling his eyes but nudging them together all the same. And now here he was, taller, heavier, carrying Hal’s weight like it was nothing.
“Christ,” Hal mutters under the mask, voice muffled and wet. “You two make me feel old.”
Dick huffs a laugh, but his hands don’t still on the machines. “You’re making me feel like a med student again.” He glances at the readout, his frown deepening. “This isn’t enough. We should call Bruce. This is way out of my league.”
Hal shakes his head weakly, a cough rattling loose in his chest. “Don’t. Don’t call him. I’m fine.” He tries to sit up, but Jason’s hand presses him flat again, “If Bruce and Clark come rushing down here, the boys’ll know. They’ll know something’s wrong.”
Jason scoffs. “Pretty sure Jon and Damian already knew something was wrong when Bruce broke the whole ‘no contact’ rule and dragged you back into the manor after the divorce.” He hesitates, then asks, “So…how’s it been?”
Hal closes his eyes. What can he even say? His mouth moves anyway, words tumbling rough and half-formed. “No contact rule huh? He had that” he swallows another breath of air. “It’s been fine. Awkward, but fine. Hovering. Too much hovering.”
Dick’s laugh is sharp, disbelieving, as he adjusts the mask tighter. “Bullshit.”
Hal cracks a smile under the mask, faint and brittle. He wants to argue, wants to defend Bruce and Clark, but the words catch in his raw throat. He just lays there, caught between exhaustion and affection, thinking how lucky he is to still have these two here—his oldest boys, his family, even when everything else is cracked and breaking apart.
Dick leans closer, eyes flicking to the monitor, jaw set. “You’re still not getting enough oxygen.” He adjusts the mask tighter, frustration leaking into his voice. “The mask isn’t enough, not like this.”
Jason mutters something under his breath and stalks toward the console. He brings the Batcomputer online, his fingers flying over the keys. “Computer, run a diagnostic scan on Hal Jordan. Full vitals, respiratory, cardiovascular. Now.”
The hum of the system fills the cave, scanners sweeping a sterile green light across Hal’s body. The monitor beeps, the computer’s synthetic voice rattling off the results:
“Subject shows continued pulmonary compromise: oxygen saturation below safe threshold. Cardiac strain detected, irregularities consistent with prior myocardial event. Residual internal scarring present. Recommendation: supplemental oxygen, fluid IV, antiarrhythmic agents. If deterioration continues, initiate advanced intervention—possible intubation, surgical consult.”
Jason mutters, “Christ.” He glances back, jaw tight. “Okay. So fluids. Meds. Oxygen cranked higher. If you tank any more, we’re calling them.”
Hal hears the words but the edges blur like he’s listening through water, His body wants to let go, to fold into unconsciousness and let someone else deal with the rest.
But if he does—if he passes out—Bruce and Clark will be called, no question. And the boys will know.
“No,” he rasps, his voice cracked and raw as he claws for Jason’s arm. “Not—don’t—”
Jason curses, steadying him upright, an arm tight around his back. “Easy. You’re gonna rip something open.”
Hal forces himself up, the world spinning so violently he can barely see. “Okay. Okay—it’s been really fucking weird being back here again.”
Dick pauses mid-adjustment of the IV, his head snapping up. “Hal—”
“I thought I was in a coma dream when I woke up.” Hal’s words tumble out, ragged and uneven, like if he stops he’ll never start again. “Clark tried—tried to have a heart to heart about still being family—” He coughs, swallows, pushes harder. “Didn’t know Jon was in little league. It’s weird—so weird—we’re talking again.”
Jason’s brows knit, concern and exasperation in equal measure. “Hal”
“Oh—and I kissed Clark,” Hal blurts, voice rough and broken under the hiss of the mask.
Both of them snap at once
“What the fuck?” Jason barks.
“When?” Dick demands, sharper than he means.
Hal sucks in against the mask, desperate for air that feels too heavy, too thin. He shakes his head, wheezing, “Later—fuck—” His hand flails weakly toward the console. “Computer—steroids. Respiratory. Anything.”
The calm synthetic voice answers, unfeeling:
“Prednisone is available. Not recommended due to cardiac complications. May induce arrhythmia.”
Hal barks a laugh that breaks halfway through. “Fuck it. Give it. Dick, give it.”
Dick’s face goes pale. “Absolutely not. Your heart”
Hal cuts him off, eyes wild. “I won’t tell you why I kissed Clark if you don’t.”
Jason mutters, “That’s a cheap fucking trick,” even as he’s already yanking the drawer open and pulling a syringe free. His hands are steady, practiced, even if his jaw is tight with worry.
“Jason!” Dick snaps. “We don’t even know”
“One thing at a time, please,” Hal rasps, sagging against Jason’s side. “I kinda—can’t breathe.”
“Goddammit,” Dick mutters, but he doesn’t stop Jason when he slides the steroid into the IV port.
Jason presses the plunger, steady, grim. “Still gonna take a while to kick in. So, for now—you’re gonna box breathe.”
Hal blinks at him, confused. “The hell is that?”
“Four in, four hold, four out, four hold,” Jason says. He demonstrates with his own chest. “Like this.”
Hal barks another laugh, the sound broken and wet. “Jesus, Jay—breathing exercises? That’s rich.” The laugh turns into a cough, ripping through his chest, leaving him folded and trembling against Jason. His head lolls, his weight sagging too much, Jason the only thing holding him upright.
“Stay with me, old man,” Jason mutters, adjusting his grip.
Hal’s eyes flutter, but he forces them open, forces the words out between gasps. “Alright—alright. The kiss.”
Jason and Dick exchange a look but don’t interrupt.
“Nightmare. On Oa.” Hal’s words tumble ragged, broken by the wheeze of the mask. “Started good—beach trip. Then bad. Mission bad. Saw…not good things. Woke up. Lanterns—told me—Bruce and Clark were dead. Lost it. Woke up again. Took off. Wasn’t healed. Fell.” He chokes on a swallow of air, squeezes his eyes shut. “Clark caught me. Alive. Thank God. And—I kissed him.”
Dick’s stethoscope is pressed to his back, tracking every rattling breath, every catch in the rhythm. He can feel Hal shaking under his palm.
There’s a silence, taut, heavy. Then Dick asks, maybe to keep him talking, maybe because he can’t help it “Did he kiss back?”
Hal wheezes a laugh, shallow and sharp, almost bitter. “Nope.”
Jason winces. Dick exhales and shakes his head. “That sucks.”
Hal laughs again, broken, and nearly doubles over with the pain in his chest. Jason steadies him.
“Easy,” Dick says firmly, though his voice softens a beat later. “Don’t waste what air you’ve got.”
Hal blinks at them, eyes wet from the coughing fit, then forces the words through the oxygen hiss. “Alright, alright. Enough about me. How’ve you been? How’s the Titans? Wally? And” His lips twitch into something between a grin and a grimace. “Jason, you and Roy still on break or back together again?”
The air moves easier now. The steroid’s kicking in. Relief loosens his shoulders. He sags heavier into Jason, grateful beyond words that breathing doesn’t feel like drowning anymore.
But God, he’s tired. Even keeping his eyes open feels like dragging weights.
Dick, still listening to his lungs, answers him “Wally’s fine. We just moved, Got a bigger place, actually bought it this time. He’s excited to finally be out of an apartment. Bitewing loves the yard.”
Hal’s mouth tugs faintly upward. “Still haven’t met the pup yet.”
“You will,” Dick promises. “I’ll bring her by next time.”
Hal turns his head just enough to squint at Jason. “So, do I need to hunt down an archer, or what?”
Jason huffs, shaking his head. “No. We’re good. He and I are off break. Honestly, we needed it. Gave us both time to get our priorities straight.”
Hal wheezes something like a laugh. “Good. But just so you know, I’ll still launch Roy into deep space at a moment’s notice. You just say the word.”
Jason’s lips twitch, torn between amusement and worry. “You’re barely holding yourself up right now, old man. Maybe let me handle my own boyfriend, yeah?”
Hal only smirks, eyes slipping shut again, letting their voices wash over him like lifelines. He wants to stay here, in this moment, with them. But God, it’s so hard to keep his eyelids from dragging shut. His body is begging for rest, but his heart—his heart wants more time.
“I’ve missed you two,” he rasps, forcing the words out before the drowsiness swallows him whole.
Dick stills, “We missed you too.” The admission is quiet, guilty. His jaw works like there’s more he wants to say, and then it slips out: “I should’ve called. Checked in. A few months ago, I saw you, and I didn’t even realize anything was wrong.”
Jason snorts, shaking his head. “I did. Knew something was off when you didn’t finish your burger after we took down that trafficking ring.”
Dick’s head snaps toward him. “Then why the hell didn’t you say anything?”
Jason shrugs, eyes fixed on Hal instead of his brother. “Thought he was just depressed. After everything. Figured it’d pass.”
Hal weakly squeezes Dicks hand “Jay’s not wrong. Depression’ll kill an appetite faster than poison.” His chest rattles as he drags in a breath. “But nah, I didn’t tell anyone. Kept it close. Only Guy, Kyle, Carol knew. So it’s not your fault you didn’t.”
The words are heavy on his tongue, sleep pulls at him in every way. But he doesn’t want it. He wants to stay awake, wants to spend more time with Dick and Jason.
“Hey,” Dick murmurs, something soft and warm is draped ontop of him a second later. “Don’t fight it. Sleep’s probably the best thing for you.”
Hal tries to shake his head, he doesn’t know if he managed to or not “don’t wanna. Missed you. Want more time…before patrol. Don’t make me beg, kids.”
Jason’s grip on his shoulder tightens. “Don’t be a baby. We’ll be here when you wake up. Family dinner tomorrow anyway.”
Hal’s breath hitches. “Family dinner?” The words are soft, almost childlike. “Missed those.”
The ache spikes sharper when he realizes he can’t even remember the last one. The last time he’d sat at that table, laughing, eating Alfred’s food with all of them. After the divorce, the invites had stopped. He stopped being family at the table.
The thought shakes him so hard that a cough rips out of him, wet and sharp. A smear of red blooms against the inside of the mask.
“Shit,” Dick curses, fumbling for supplies.
Jason’s voice is sharp with fear. “That’s not fucking normal.”
Hal waves a trembling hand. “It is for me,” he rasps. “I’m fine. Don’t—don’t call Bruce or Clark. Please. I’m fine.”
Neither of them believe him. His head feels full of cotton, vision blurring at the edges. He can’t hold on much longer.
“Don’t call” he says again, not even sure if his voice is coming out. Sleep is winning and it’s taking over him fast. the dark tugs him under, the last thing he hears is Jason’s voice, raw with something too close to fear:
“You better not fucking die on us.”