Chapter Text
The ring sings in his blood, brighter than adrenaline, sharper than caffeine.
Hal Jordan banks hard left, his construct jet peeling into a perfect arc, emerald light streaking across the Watchtower’s training bay.
He doesn’t even need the HUD anymore, his eyes track faster than the program can spit out targets. Two drones swing out of the shadows, cannons sparking—and Hal’s already got a shield in place.
The blasts skate harmlessly off and he grins, pulling the construct into a roll that throws him upside down, sliding the nose of the jet directly into firing range.
“Bang,” he mutters under his breath, and the cannons flare. The drones shatter into sparks, tumbling away into the void of the chamber.
He pushes harder, pulling more from the ring, feeling the hum in his bones as another wave of drones flood the air.
He splits the jet into four, constructs peeling off like mirror images, weaving between enemy fire in perfect formation. His breath catches on the rush—the old rush, the one that made him fall in love with flying in the first place. Not just speed, not just control, but creation. Willpower sculpted into perfection.
He dives, pulls up just in time to skim the floor, flips the construct midair into something sleeker, tighter, a fighter that doesn’t even exist yet outside of his imagination. The drones scramble to track it, and he laughs, loud and sharp, because they’ll never keep up.
Hal Jordan, greatest damn pilot in the galaxy. No contest.
The last drone explodes in a shower of pixels, the chamber lights flicker back to white, and Hal lets the jet dissolve around him, landing easy on the mat. Sweat beads his brow, but his grin is pure cocky satisfaction.
And that’s when the voice cuts through, low and sharp as a blade:
“Your form slipped.”
Hal flinches, whipping around—only to find the goddamn Bat standing half in shadow like he owns the place…which he does..technically.
God, he’s hot.
Cowl shadowing sharp cheekbones, jaw cut like it was forged out of granite, the cape spilling in clean lines that shouldn’t look good but somehow do. Bats is built like he was made to wear body armor—broad in the chest, narrow at the waist.
Hal knows what’s under it, too. He’s seen the suit peeled back, seen the bruises mapping Bruce’s ribs, seen the muscle carved lean and hard from years of grinding discipline. No wasted bulk. Just power wrapped tight around control, the kind that makes Hal’s fingers twitch with the urge to test it, push against it, see how far Bruce Wayne would bend before he broke.
It’s not fair. Nobody in a Kevlar bat costume should be this goddamn attractive. But here Hal is, staring, brain helpfully reminding him that he’s slept with this man—slept with both of them—and somehow let himself believe it was just fun.
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s it, Dracula's less fun cousin, I’m putting a bell on you. ”
Bruce doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just watches him with that unreadable stare. “Your left flank was wide open. If that had been real combat—”
“Yeah, yeah, I’d be toast. Got it.” Hal waves a dismissive hand, letting the emerald sparks fizzle between his fingers. “But it wasn’t real combat, so relax. Besides—” His grin turns wicked, cocky enough to light the whole damn room. “Don’t tell me you came all the way down here just to nitpick.”
Bruce’s silence is deliberate.
The sound of boots on the grating above pulls Hal’s gaze up. Clark appears framed in the light, cape trailing red like a banner, suit gleaming over every ridiculous line of him.
“We were running a systems check on the gravity regulators,” Clark says, voice calm, almost sheepish. “Thought we’d stop in.”
Hal huffs a laugh, flicking sweat-damp hair out of his face. “Of course you were. Figures I’d put on my best show the one time the regulators need checking.”
Clark’s smile widens. “Looked pretty good from up top.”
Hal smirks, cocky armor snapping right back into place. Compliment or not, he’ll take it. “It’s rare I don’t look good on top Big Blue"
Clark only tilts his head, eyes warm enough to burn, while Bruce’s silence stays heavy and unreadable at Hal’s back.
Hal grins sharper, trying to ignore the way his chest tightens. Friends, colleagues, teammates. People who had slept together twice and never talked about it again. That’s all this is. Always has been. If he flirts—it’s just him being him. If they linger—it’s because they’re professionals. Nothing else.
At least, that’s what he tells himself.
Bruce finally steps closer, boots whispering over the mat, "Your response time was efficient ” he says, flat as a fact. “But you waste too much fuel showing off.”
Hal blinks. That’s—okay. On paper? A critique. Classic Bat. But the way Bruce’s eyes linger..that means something else. All of this means something else when you consider the fact that a few months ago the only thing he and Bats could do was get under each other's skin.
But does it mean what he thinks? No..no it cant right? But maybe?
Gaslighting himself is practically a sport by now. Bruce doesn’t mean it like that. He’s Batman. He doesn’t mean anything like that. But hell if it doesn’t sound like flirting, the kind only Batman could pull off—hidden behind the guise of professional disapproval, daring Hal to read between the lines.
His grin tilts slow, reckless. “Showing off’s half the fun, Spooky. You should try it sometime.”
Clark chuckles from the sidelines, warm as sunlight. “Pretty sure Gotham would faint if he did.”
Hal’s chest goes tight again. Two of the most powerful men on Earth—one shadow, one sun—and for a beat, both of them are looking at him.
And Hals not sure if he’s imagining it, or if he’s finally being invited to chase something real.
They had slept together twice now since the moment Hal was lovingly dubbing the incident.
Poison Ivy had joined the Light and the group of criminals had been testing different strands of her toxins on different planets. Hal, being a lantern and having the most knowledge on anything to do outside of earth's orbit had taken on the mission, Batman joined because he had the most experience with Ivys toxins and well..where the Bat when the Kryptonian followed, especially when it came to deep space.
They had stopped the toxins, but managed to get exposed to a rather..uh..interesting variation of it.
And yeah sex under the threat of fucking or dying because of some toxin —didn't count. But the time after that? When it was just the three of them alone again? What about that?
What about the way things had shifted since then?
He clears his throat, forces a grin, lets sarcasm cover the crack in his armor. “Well. Don’t let me hog the place. I can get out of your hair so you two can run your proper systems check.”
“You’re not in the way,” Clark says, easy as sunlight. “Honestly? Watching you run circles around the sim is more useful than any diagnostics.”
His brain spins like a jet caught in a tailwind. Friends. Teammates. This is just Bats being Bats, Clark being Clark. They’re nice, they’re observant, they don’t mean that.
…Except maybe they do.
So he does what he always does when his heart’s running too hot. He opens his mouth.
“Well,” Hal drawls, green light flickering lazy at his fingertips, “if you two are this obsessed with watching me sweat, you could always just skip the training sim and drag me back to your quarters. Save everybody some time.”
It’s bold. Too bold. He knows it the second the words leave his mouth—knows this is where Bruce shuts him down flat and Clark gives one of those polite, too-bright laughs to smooth it over.
But neither of them move. Not right away. Bruce’s silence stretches, unreadable as ever, while Clark’s smile lingers—soft, tilted, like he’s actually considering it.
Heat crawls up Hal’s neck. Cool it, Jordan. They’re together. You’re just the fun on the side. Don’t start spinning fairy tales.
He forces a cocky grin, covering the panic bubbling in his chest. “Kidding. Mostly. I know how sacred the system checks are.”
Clark chuckles again, stepping in closer now, folding his arms like he’s in on the game. “Maybe when we’ve finished up the systems check we can grab a coffee” Clark says it so smoothly, so casually that it has Hal questioning how he means it.
Did Superman just ask him out on a date?
Were they asking him out on a date?
“I don’t normally accept that form of payment” he says, one eyebrow raised “but for you supes, I’ll make an acception”
Is the way he bumps Clark’s shoulder with his first awkward? Yes, probably. But the mortification of it is lost to him, the scene blurs. The laugh, the heat, the press of their gazes fades into static, bleeding into dark.
He should leave before he combusts or something worse..but he just cant help himself.
He flicks his fingers, and the ring hums to life. A bright green bell, dangling on a chain. With a smug flourish, he floats it over and onto Bruces neck “There. Now I’ll hear you coming next time, Dracula.”
Clark chuckles, Bruce doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as blink. Just stands there, silent as ever, while Hal’s heart hammers against his ribs, caught between you idiot, they’re just humoring you and holy shit, maybe they’re not.
Then Bruce finally speaks, “You’d still miss me.”
His mouth goes dry. His face heats. He’s Hal Jordan, king of cocky grins, and somehow he’s the one blushing like a rookie caught sneaking out after curfew.
“Yeah?” He tries for a smirk, but it wavers. “Don’t tempt me to test the theory, Bats.”
Clark’s laugh hums low in his chest, a sound Hal feels more than hears, and Bruce just watches him, silent again, like he’s waiting for Hal to make the next move.
And Hal—damn it—Hal suddenly isn’t sure if he wants to run his mouth more, or shut it with another kiss.
The dream starts to dissolve, the high he’s riding on in the moment, fades out to nothing.
He wakes to the sound of the heart monitor ticking and something tightening around his arm. The hiss of oxygen at his nose. The weight of exhaustion pulling at every bone.
Cold. God, he’s freezing.
The cave ceiling swims into focus above him, and then Bruce. Standing beside the bed, arms crossed, eyes locked on him.
Hal groans, voice muffled under the mask. “Thought I put a bell on you.” His eyes slip shut again, clinging to the warmth of the memory he just lost.
“How are you feeling?” Clark’s voice this time.
Hal’s lashes lift, sluggish, and he rasps, “Freezing.”
There’s movement, the faint rustle of fabric, and then weight settles over him—another blanket. He doesn’t remember the first one being there, but he can picture Dick or Jason sneaking it on while he was out.
“Better?” Clark asks softly.
Hal manages the ghost of a grin under the mask. “Getting spoiled here.”
But Bruce’s voice cuts in, “What happened?”
Hal’s throat works, and he shuts his eyes again, not ready for the interrogation. “Breathing… was a little rough. Dick and Jay helped me. Fine now.”
“You’re not fine,” Bruce says, blunt. “Your oxygen levels are still concerning.”
Hal cracks one eye open, grin tugging sharp despite the ache in his chest. “That worry I hear in your voice, B? Careful. People might think you actually care.”
Bruce doesn’t flinch. “Focus on breathing” But his hand lingers a beat too long on the monitor, adjusting the line, checking the readout again.
Hal huffs, fogging the mask, a laugh that dies in his chest. “Sure,” he mutters, shifting under the blankets like they’re not enough. He makes a move to sit up. “I’m just gonna—crash in an actual bed. This slab’s not cutting it.”
He tries to swing his legs off the side, but every inch of him feels like it’s moving through gravity tenfold, His arms shake with the effort, the monitor ticking higher in warning.
“Easy.” Bruce’s voice sharpens, but he’s already there, steady hands bracing Hal’s shoulders, guiding him upright.
Hal leans in without meaning to, breath catching at the cologne that’s so distinctly him.
And all at once Hal wants. Wants the impossible—wants to crawl into the big bed upstairs, the one he used to share, with Clark’s arms tangled around him, Bruce’s weight pressed solid at his back. Wants to sink into the safety of it, the warmth of it.
Still, Bruce doesn’t push him off. Doesn’t shift away. Just steadies him, silent, a pillar at his side.
Hal closes his eyes, leans in a fraction more, and lets himself have this moment. Just this.
The soft sound of boots on stone pulls him back. Clark’s voice fills the cave. “I’ll bring the portable tank upstairs. He’ll rest easier in his room.”
“No. The cave’s systems are stronger. More efficient. He’ll stay down here where we can monitor him properly.”
That cuts right through Hal’s haze. He groans, muffled by the mask, and drags one heavy hand across his face. “The cave? Hell no, B. Too cold, too quiet. You try sleeping with stalactites for company.”
Bruce doesn’t flinch. “It’s safer.”
“Safer, my ass,” Hal mutters, already fumbling to swing his legs off the bed. His body protests every inch, muscles trembling, chest straining, but stubbornness drags him through it. “I’m not camping out in your bat-basement. I’ll make a damn railcar up the stairs with my ring if I have to. Or better yet—I’ll just rope Jason into dragging me.”
That gets Bruce’s attention fast. His hand lands firm against Hal’s shoulder, pressing him gently but unyieldingly back against the cot. “You’re not in any condition to climb stairs. Or argue.”
Hal tips his head back, smirks weakly up at him through the fog of exhaustion. “Funny thing, B—I don’t remember you being in charge of me.”
The effort it takes just to stay upright is enormous, his lungs scraping for air, vision pulsing dark at the edges.
Bruce’s jaw flexes, but before he can answer, Clark steps closer, warmth cutting through the chill. “He doesn’t want to be here, Bruce. Let me bring the tank upstairs. He’ll rest better ”
Bruce doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer. Just steadies Hal a little firmer, eyes sharp with thought.
Hal sags against the contact, too tired to fight harder, but the words are still there, bitter and stubborn. “Try and keep me down here, B. I swear, I’ll make that railcar. I feel fine anyways… all better now.”
Clark exhales, quiet but firm. “He’s not staying in the cave. I’ll move the tank upstairs.” His gaze flicks to Bruce, waiting.
For a long moment, Bruce is stone. Then, finally, he gives the smallest nod.
Clark steps closer, eyes softening on Hal. “You’ve got him?”
Bruce’s hand doesn’t falter. “I’ve got him.”
In a blink, Clark’s gone, a rush of displaced air the only sign as he speeds off to prep the room above.
And Hal? He leans in, lets his eyes slip shut for half a breath, drinking in the warmth and weight of Bruce against him.
“You shouldn’t have pushed it past Mach 1,” Bruce says.
Hal huffs, doesn’t even bother denying it. “Wanted to make it memorable for them.”
He tries to push himself up again, muscles trembling, the room tilting hard. Bruce’s grip tightens, voice cutting sharp. “Stop being stupid.”
“I feel fine,” Hal shoots back, though his chest rattles with every breath.
Bruce’s mouth hardens. “If you feel fine after straining your heart like that, it’s a miracle.”
Hal grins, sharp even through the mask. “Guess that makes me a miracle worker.”
The words barely leave his lips before he makes the mistake of trying to stand. The floor tilts out from under him, black spots crowding his vision—then suddenly he’s airborne, swept up fast, solid arms bracing him bridal-style.
“Whoa—” Hal groans, pressing his face into Bruce’s chest as the world spins. Too fast. Too sudden. His stomach lurches, but the sound of Bruce’s heartbeat steadies the freefall.
“You’re reckless,” Bruce mutters, voice a low growl above him. “And you’re acting like you’re dying.”
Hal huffs against his chest, the words muffled. “Bruce, you saw the files. At the rate I’m going, not exactly far-fetched.”
The silence that follows is heavier than stone.
“We’ll find a cure.”
Hal tilts his head, eyes slipping half-shut, voice rough but softening. “I don’t doubt it. But just in case… I wanted the boys to have a memory. Flying with me.”
Bruce doesn’t answer. Doesn’t scold. Doesn’t argue. His arms just tighten, bracing Hal closer against the solid wall of his chest. For a heartbeat, Hal lets himself believe it—lets himself think it means something. Then he shakes it off, chalks it up to exhaustion, to wishful thinking.
He drifts as they climb the stairs, the sway of Bruce’s steady stride rocking him like turbulence smoothed out mid-flight. His head lolls against Bruce’s shoulder, Home, a voice whispers in the back of his mind. It feels like home.
The next thing he knows, he’s sinking into a mattress. Softer than the med cot, softer even than his own lumpy excuse back in Coast City. But the warmth is gone. Cold rushes in instead, gnawing through blankets and sheets, dragging a shiver out of him even as his body aches for rest.
His hand shoots out before he can stop it, clutching hard at the nearest solid thing—Bruce, still standing beside the bed. His voice is a rasp, ragged and desperate in a way he’ll regret come morning.
“Don’t go.”
He knows what the answer will be. Knows Bruce will pull back, leave him. Still, the words slip free, pleading. “Just until I fall asleep. Bed’s too cold still.”
There’s movement—weight of blankets tucked closer around him. He feels Bruce pull back, hears the quiet murmur of machines being readied. Another cuff tightening around his arm. The steady tick of a monitor syncing to his pulse. He drifts in and out, too heavy to fight it, too tired to argue.
And then just before sleep swallows him whole, he feels the mattress dip. A new weight, warm and steady, pressing in at his side. And another, behind him, just as solid, just as grounding. Heat surrounds him, front and back, steady as a heartbeat.
Bruce. Clark. Both of them.
Hal doesn’t let himself believe it. Doesn’t let himself open his eyes. He tells himself it’s a dream, another trick of his desperate mind, conjuring what he wants most. Because if it isn’t—if it’s real—then he’s not sure how his heart will survive it.
-
“Hal”
The other side of the bed is cold when Hal starts to stir.
“Hal.” Theres a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him.
He shifts, groaning, eyes squeezed shut against the dim light. Another voice cuts in, sharper. “Leave him, Richard. He needs rest.”
“Yeah, but he wouldn’t want to miss this,” the first voice says, softer this time, still tugging him toward the surface. The hand shakes him again.
Hal blinks his eyes open, vision blurry, mind foggy. Blue eyes come into focus first. “Hey, Sleeping beauty,” Dick grins down at him.
Hal groans again. “You’re lucky I don’t deck you, kid.”
“You couldn’t if you tried,” Dick shoots back, though the joke is gentle.
Damian’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, his frown carved sharp. “How do you feel?”
Hal swallows, chest tight, throat dry. “…Tired,” he admits, voice rough. The fog is already trying to claim him again. He feels like he’s sleep talking.
Dick’s smile softens. “Sorry for waking you. But—everyone’s already here. And I figured you wouldn’t want to miss it.”
“Miss what?” Hal croaks, blinking.
“Family dinner,” Dick says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
That cuts through the haze faster than any caffeine IV. Hal blinks again, brain racing. Family dinner. He slept that long? The whole damn day? He swore he’d just closed his eyes—
Damian clears his throat, efficient as ever. “He should remain asleep. Rest is imperative to his recovery.”
But Hal’s already shaking his head, pushing himself up against the pillows. “No. No, I’m good. I wanna see everyone.” It’s half a lie, he’s still aching, heavy, but compared to yesterday, it’s almost true.
He swings a leg off the bed, ignoring the spin in his head, every movement feels like it takes hours.
Dick is already rolling the wheelchair closer. “Humor me, yeah? Easier this way. Oxygen comes too.”
Hal scowls. “I can walk.”
“Sure you can,” Dick says mildly, sliding an arm under Hal’s to steady him anyway. “You can also sit, and make it easy for both of us.”
Damian steps forward, hands practiced and precise. He unhooks the blood pressure cuff from Hal’s arm, detaches the heart monitor, then tucks a blanket across his lap once Dick settles him in the chair.
Damian moves to the oxygen tank next, setting the tubing right, “While I maintain you should still be resting, I concede food is required. You’ve eaten next to nothing these past forty-eight hours.”
Hal huffs out something that might be a laugh. Food. Right. His stomach twists at the thought—yesterday he barely managed a handful of fries at the boardwalk, and before that? He can’t even remember. He forces a smile anyway. “I’ll try. Promise.”
The wheels squeak softly as Dick starts pushing him toward the hall.
Hal’s voice comes out scratchy, but curious. “When you say everyone—you mean Kate and Harper, too?”
“No Kate or Harper tonight,” Dick answers. “But Steph, Babs, Cass, Duke, Tim, Jason, Conner. All of ’em.”
Hal exhales slowly, the ache in his chest shifting into something else entirely. Excitement. Relief. He hasn’t seen them all together in… God, too long. “Damn. Whole crowd.”
“Exactly,” Dick says, pushing them forward with a grin in his voice. “Wouldn’t be family dinner without you there.”
Except it has been. He doubts dinners have stopped just because he stopped showing up.
They didn't before.
He coughs, wet, hard, enough that it has the blankets almost falling off of him. And that only makes him feel worse because first family dinner he’s been to in—hell, he doesn’t even know how long. And he’s showing up like this? Strapped into a chair, oxygen tank rattling along beside him like deadweight baggage.
And worse, part of him feels like he’s intruding. Like he’s crashing something that isn’t his anymore. He still sees all of them as his—Damian, Jon, Dick, Jason, Tim, Kon. Cass. Sons and daughters he’d bled for, raised, loved like his own.
Bruce and Clark—God, even now, even after everything, still feel like his partners in his bones. But he knows. He knows he stopped being family to them the day the papers were signed. Probably long before that actually.
What did he expect? The last couple years of the marriage, he’d missed more dinners than he’d made. League missions. Lantern duties. Excuses stacked so high they crushed the invitations flat.
No wonder he stopped getting called. No wonder this feels borrowed.
The noise hits him before the doorway does—rowdy voices, laughter. When they wheel him in, it’s like stepping into a storm of warmth.
The whole crowd’s gathered around the game table, Monopoly board spread out like a battlefield. Jason’s halfway out of his chair, finger in Tim’s face; Tim’s smirking, eyes bright, cool as ever; Cass is silently sliding hotels across her properties while Steph cheers like she just won the Superbowl. Clark is laughing, deep and rich, and Bruce—Bruce is sitting back, arms folded, gaze sharp but amused as he watches the chaos unravel.
It’s loud. Messy. Alive. It’s everything Hal loves and everything that breaks him in the same breath.
He tries to paste on a grin, but his chest aches. He must look like hell, because the first to spot him is Kon—and Kon’s smile falters instantly. Concern flashes across his face, clear and sharp as daylight.
Hal’s gut twists. Shit. He really must look like crap. Should’ve checked a mirror before letting Dick wheel him in.
But Kon’s already on his feet, crossing the room in long strides. “Hal.”
Before Hal can get a word out, Kon crouches down and pulls him into a hug. It knocks the wind out of him—but in the best way. Hal exhales against his shoulder, lets himself hold on for a beat too long.
And then, because it’s him, because he doesn’t know how else to handle the lump in his throat, he cracks a smile against the kid’s ear. “Careful, kid—you’ll crush my ribs. Again.”
Kon huffs a laugh but doesn’t let go right away. “You look like crap,” he mutters.
Hal squeezes him tighter, lets the kid feel the strength he still has left. “Thanks, Champ. Really needed that confidence boost.”
Kon leans back, one brow arched, that smirk so damn familiar—equal parts teenager and man now, but still Hal’s kid. “Seriously, though. What the hell’d you do to end up like this?”
Hal lets his grin tilt cocky, even if his chest still aches. “Remember that trip you and Kara begged me to take you on? That planet with the red sun?”
Kon blinks, then groans. “yeah?”
Hal chuckles, “Yeah. You partied too hard, nearly drank that whole city dry, and I spent two days dragging your Kryptonian ass back to the transport. Well picture that. But me. Only I looked cool as shit doing it.”
Kon snorts, shaking his head. “Old man stunt.”
“Old?” Hal scoffs, hand pressing mock-offended to his chest. “Kid, I could still run circles around you in the sky. Don’t test me.”
“You’re in a wheelchair.”
Hal’s about to fire back when another pair of arms circle him. Smaller, tighter. Tim.
“Don’t listen to him,” Tim murmurs against his shoulder. “You’re looking better.”
Hal exhales, warmth filling his ribs where air still fights to stay. He hugs Tim back, kisses the top of his head before he can stop himself. “Thanks, slugger.”
Tim chuckles at the nickname—Hal’s always had one for each of them—and steps back, but the fond look doesn’t fade.
And then there’s Jon.
He barrels into him like a comet, arms locking so tight around Hal’s middle that Hal has to bite back a grunt. Oxygen hisses harder at his nose. Doesn’t matter. He hugs Jon back, every ounce of him, squeezing through the pain.
“Hey, kiddo,” he murmurs.”how was moms?”
Jon doesn’t let go. He climbs half into Hal’s lap instead, still hanging on like he’s afraid Hal will vanish if he doesn’t. He must know what happened, must know that the little tricks they had done were too much for Hal.
He hates that. Hates what he's putting on all of them.
He holds Jon tighter against him.
Jon leans close, eyes big, “Mom was good, took me to the Planet and Jimmy got me a new game,” he says in a rush, already pointing toward the board. “But Dad—everyone’s cheating. Thank Rao you’re here. I need backup.”
Hal laughs,“Well, good thing you brought in the big guns. Let’s see what kind of trouble we can stir up.”
Dick steers the wheelchair right up to the chaos of the board. The table’s a mess, fake money everywhere, houses and hotels scattered, piles of cards tipped over.
Monopoly, in the hands of this family, looks less like a game and more like an international conflict waiting to boil over. It's why they haven't played it in years.
Hal leans forward, oxygen hissing soft as he takes in the board. “Alright, somebody give me the play-by-play. Who’s bleeding, who’s winning, and who should I sell my soul to?”
Barbara grins wide, smug as hell. “Depends what you call winning. I’ve got Park Place, Broadway, and your will to live.”
“Correction,” Cass chimes in, perfectly straight-faced, “we’ve got them. Don’t forget the alliance.”
Hal whistles low, leaning back. “Of course. Barbie and Cass, monopolizing the world again. Should’ve known.” His grin tilts sharp. “Remind me, next time I start my evil dictator phase, that I want Babs on my side.”
Barbara, cool and collected, doesn’t even look up from neatly stacking her money. “Only if you promise not to bankrupt me in the first three turns like last time.”
That sets off a wave of bickering
Jason slams a handful of bills onto the board. “I’m telling you—Steph bribed me. Straight-up handed me a donut and told me utilities were a good deal.”
Stephanie gasps, clutching her chest. “Slander. Absolute slander. I don’t bribe with donuts, I bribe with lattes.”
“Correction,” Cass says evenly, tucking a hotel on Boardwalk. “She bribes with both. And it worked.”
Duke throws up his hands. “Okay, no way I traded Baltic because I wanted to. Cass threatened me. She gives me that look, I black out, suddenly my property’s gone. Not my fault.”
Cass tilts her head, serene. “You’re welcome.”
Tim, cool and smug behind his neat stacks of money, cuts in. “None of you are making valid complaints. The bank is running legally. I keep the rules. It’s not my fault you all make terrible investments.”
Hal can’t help it—he laughs, low and rough, chest aching with the sound. God, he’s missed this. Missed them.
Clark, ever the Boy Scout, raises his hands like he’s calling for peace in an intergalactic summit. “I thought we agreed—house rules meant no alliances?”
Damian whips his head toward him, scowl sharp enough to cut glass. “We agreed nothing.”
That sets the whole table off—shouting, laughing, arguing over properties and side deals, half accusations, half jokes.
Hal just sits back in the chair, grin tugging wide despite the oxygen mask tugging at his nose. The noise wraps around him like a blanket. This—this ridiculous chaos—is home.
And under the table, his ring glows faint green. A sticky emerald hand snakes across the board, snatching a neat pile of bills from Tim’s elbow. Hal slips it into Jon’s waiting hands without missing a beat.
Jon beams like he’s just won the Super Bowl. Hal chuckles—then looks up.
Bruce is watching. He doesn’t say a word about the theft. Just lets the corner of his mouth twitch, before turning back to the board.
Hal’s heart kicks hard against his ribs. He doesn't let himself read into it. He didn't almost smile because of Hal. He almost smiled because this—the family getting along, the family gathered together like this, everyone safe and happy under one roof—this is when Bruce is the most relaxed. The most himself.
It has nothing to do with Hal. If anything him being here, invading Bruces space, invading this moment, is probably why it wasn't a full smile.
He focuses his attention back on Jon. “Alright, kiddo. Operation Monopoly Victory, phase one: hoard cash. Don’t spend a single dollar unless I tell you. Sit on it. Guard it with your life. You’re a dragon now. That pile of money? That’s your hoard.”
Jon’s eyes go wide, shining with excitement. “Dragon. Got it.”
“Phase two,” Hal goes on, deadly serious. “We invest only when it’ll hurt the others. You see Cass building hotels? You snap up the cheap blocks. Force her into bankruptcy. Ruthless, merciless. She’ll never see it coming.”
Jon bites his lip to hide his grin, nodding furiously. “Okay, okay. What’s phase three?”
“Phase three,” Hal whispers, lowering his voice so much Jon leans in close, “is alliances. But not the official kind. Secret ones. Silent. Watch Bruce’s eyes, watch Tim’s hands. They know I cheat. They know I bend rules. Sometimes they help me, sometimes they don’t. Tonight? Feels like they’re on our side. So when Tim ‘accidentally’ counts the bank wrong in our favor? You don’t question it. You thank him with your most innocent smile.”
Across the table, Tim’s lips twitch,just barely, and he adjusts the stack of bills in front of him.
“Phase four,” he murmurs, “is scorched earth. If—if—we go down, we don’t go quiet. We don’t roll over. Jordan’s don’t bow out easy. We take as many of them with us as possible. Fire, destruction, the works. We’re going down in history, not in shame.”
Jon’s practically vibrating with excitement, clutching the bills tight. “Scorched earth,” he repeats like it’s gospel.
And Hal, God help him, feels lighter than he has in weeks.
“Next time you two conspire,” a Clarks voice rumbles, “make sure nobody at the table has super-hearing.”
Hal flicks his gaze up to find Clark leaning one hand on the table, eyes bright, mouth curved in that infuriatingly gentle smile. He nods toward Kon, who’s glaring daggers at them from across the board.
“Lesson one, kiddo,” Hal says in a mock-serious whisper to Jon, “that right there is extortion. Big Boy Blue is trying to spook us. Which means we fold him in,Most of the time he plays fair, but he can be bribed if the greater good’s involved. Such as helping his youngest son and his dying husban—” The word trips, jagged and too raw. He swallows, forces the grin back. “—uh, us help us win”
The glance he throws around the table tells him everyone heard the slip. Damian’s eyes narrow, Cass tilts her head, Jason’s already smirking like he’s loading the ammo. Clark just holds Hal’s gaze for one long beat, then zips his fingers across his lips and tosses the key. No comment. No judgment.
Hal breathes again. “Anyway. Whose turn is it, and what the hell are we playing for? Don’t tell me it’s just bragging rights.”
Jon shoots his hand up like they’re in school. “If I win, I get to go Mach 3. I wanna break my record- but but in the plane again.”
Kon snorts. “What plane even goes Mach 3?”
“Not a plane,” Hal says, cocky grin flashing despite the tightness in his chest. “A jet. Mine.”
“I want that too,” Damian cuts in,“But I also want you to teach me the hammerhead.”
Jason groans so loud half the pieces wobble. “No way. I can’t believe you guys actually like that crap. Last time he did a barrel roll with me, I puked all over the console.”
Dick leans forward, laughing hard enough he almost tips his chair. “Oh, I remember that. I was sitting right next to you. Didn’t even make it to the barf bag.”
Jason glares. “Shut it, Goldie.”
“Worth it,” Hal says, chuckling, though his ribs protest.
“Loop,” Cass adds simply, her voice soft but sure.
Tim straightens out his stack of bills . “You think the hammerheads cool? He taught me how to do the inverted dive. Still not sure how we didn’t black out, but it was impressive.”
“Scared the hell out of me,” Duke mutters, but he’s grinning. “Still the best thrill ride I’ve had.”
Kon rolls his eyes, but his mouth quirks. “Nah, nah. He saved his best stuff for me. Remember Thanagar? Those canyon runs? Nobody else got to see that.”
Tim immediately bristles. “Please. He pulled a double roll over Metropolis airspace with me. That trumps canyons any day.”
“Not even close,” Jason cuts in, jabbing a thumb at himself. “He let me handle the stick. You nerds ever get that? Didn’t think so.”
“You puked on it,” Dick reminds him, grinning so wide his face might split.
“Still counts!” Jason fires back.
Damian sniffs. “All of you sound ridiculous. I’ll master every maneuver eventually. Father’s right—you waste too much time bragging.”
“Kid,” Hal drawls, “half of flying is bragging.” He winks at him, and Damian’s ears go just a little pink.
Jon bounces, tugging at Clark’s sleeve. “ Pa—what’s your favorite trick he did? I bet it’s cooler than theirs.”
And the room stills.
Hal knows before Clark even opens his mouth. The answer isn’t there. Because Clark’s only been up with him twice, and both times, it was mission parameters, not joyrides. No lazy spirals, no loops just for the hell of it. Nothing like what he’s given the kids.
That old ache digs deeper, sharp and bitter. He swallows it down, flashes his grin, and cuts in before the silence can grow teeth.
“Oh, I know this one.” He tips his head, casual as anything. “Clark’s a sucker for the lazy eight. Smooth, steady, makes him feel like he’s the one in control when really, I’m pulling all the strings.”
The table erupts—Kon groaning, Tim muttering about control variables, Jon demanding a demonstration. Clark laughs too, warm and soft, but his eyes linger too long on Hal’s face. Sharp enough to see right through the cover.
Hal doesn’t meet it. He just nudges Jon’s elbow, shows him another pile of cash he snatched in the chaos, and lowers his voice again. “Alright, dragon. Bank robbery round two. Let’s make ’em bleed.”
And for a while, they do. Jon listens eyes huge as Hal coaches him through careful trades, petty little stings against his siblings, and the occasional outright theft. The kid’s a natural—sharp, fearless, willing to play dirty so long as Hal’s hand is steady over his.
Then Babs slides another property onto the board. Upgraded. Perfectly placed.
Hal stares. “No way. Absolutely not. You are cheating.” His hand slaps the table, his grin wide and dangerous. “How the hell do you even have that much cash, Gordon? Show me the books. Recount.”
“I’m not cheating,” Babs says, calm as a saint, which makes it worse. “You just don’t pay attention.”
Tim—smug, annoyingly composed Tim, lifts the ledger they had to start using because of moments like these, with a flourish. “It’s all right here. Transparent, balanced, legal.”
Hal leans forward, His pulse kicks faster, faster. “Corrupt,” he declares, jabbing a finger at Tim. “That’s what that necklace means, huh? Corrupt banker. Hey—” His grin twists sharper, eyes narrowing at the B pendants hanging around Tim's neck. “Where’d you get that, anyway?”
Tim freezes. Color creeps up his neck. “It was a gift,” he says after a beat.
“Gift,” Hal repeats, dragging the word out. “From who?”
“Bernard,” Tim mutters. “He gave it to me.”
Hal stiffens slightly. He remembered hearing something about a Bernard. “ Huh, Bernard…right. How’s he doing? Because if he—”
“I know,” Tim cuts in quickly, sharper than usual. “If he hurts me, you’ll launch him into deep space. Heard it before. Don’t worry about it.We’re good. Actually” He glances around the table, then says it like a confession “Really good. We just moved into a houseboat together.”
The words stop Hal cold.
For a beat, Hal just blinks at him. Like he didn’t hear it right.
“A houseboat?” The laugh bursts out too fast, too loud. Because he can't believe it “Since when did you move out of the manor and get a houseboat?” He’s grinning, but it feels sharp and wrong in his chest. “Wait, didn’t you and Bernard just start dating like… what, two months ago?”
Tim looks away from him for a small moment “It’s been a year,” he says. “Our anniversary was a few months ago.”
A year.
Hal feels his stomach drop straight through the floor. A year. Tims been with Bernard for a year. How the hell did he not know this? His Tim. The kid who used to sneak out on space joy rides with him just so they could get a few cool pictures in before Bruce or Clark got home, Tim. His Tim, was in a relationship for someone for a year and and it was serious.
Serious enough for a house boat.
And he wasn't there. He didn’t know. He doesn’t even remember when Tim stopped living in the manor, when Bernard became more than a name, when his kid—because in his heart Tim will always be his kid—took this massive, terrifying, monumental step into adulthood.
And Hal wasn’t there to help pick out the damn boat. Wasn’t there to check the hull, to grumble about wiring, to make sure the kid had life jackets and an emergency beacon. Wasn’t there to tease him about moving in too fast or to quietly slip cash into his hand just in case Bernard turned out to be less than perfect.
He wasn’t there.
And the thought cracks something open inside him. Because maybe that’s the truth, isn’t it? He’s not really there anymore. Not legally, not biologically, not on the paperwork or the bloodlines. He’s just… someone who used to belong.
He covers the hollow in his chest with a grin. “Well damn, slugger. Guess I’m slipping. Didn’t even get to give you my lecture about seawall maintenance.” His voice catches, but he barrels forward anyway. “Better hope Bernard looked into storm insurance, because if I catch you sinking out there—”
The cough hits mid-sentence, sharp and raw. He doubles over doing his best not to jostle Jon too much.
“Hal—” Steph starts, voice sharp with concern, but he waves her off, coughing again, forcing a grin even as his chest burns.
“—because if I catch you sinking out there,” he croaks, wheezing through the rasp, “I’m not bailing you out.” He tries to laugh, but it shreds into another cough. His eyes water, his ribs ache, and still he grins at Tim. “Really, though. I’m happy for you. Houseboat’s… hell, that’s big. Proud of you, slugger.”
Tim shifts, uncertain. “Thanks,” he says, softer than usual. “It’s good. It feels right.”
Hal coughs again, harder this time. Pain flares sharp behind his sternum, and black spots spark at the edges of his vision. He clenches his jaw, refuses to let it show. Not here. Not in front of them.
“Houseboat,” he repeats, rasping now, humor paper-thin. “Next thing I know, you’ll be buying stock in nautical charts. Don’t forget the Coast Guard, huh? Maybe I’ll start calling you Captain Drake.” He forces out another laugh, his chest hitching, burning. “Better put that on your insurance papers, too.”
Tim doesn’t even blink. “Already covered. B had it all set up for me. Insurance, registration, emergency kits. Everything.”
Something in Hal’s chest twists. Of course Bruce did.
“And Clark—” Tim clears his throat, almost sheepish. “He’s actually the one who found the dock. Knew a guy, put us in touch. Perfect spot.”
Hal nods or well tries to but the coughing still overwhelms him. Jons holding onto him tighter now. He tries his best to bite them back, to swallow it.He doesn't want to ruin this moment anymore than he already is.
He’s happy for Tim. He is. Proud, even. But god—god, the hurt runs hot. Hurt at himself for not checking in, for not being there, for not hauling boxes and bitching about wiring. Hurt at Bruce and Clark for not telling him, not thinking he needed to know.
Hurt that Tim..Tim didn't tell him. Tim either didn't feel the need to, or didn't want to.
He coughs again but this time when he pulls his hand away and there’s red at the edge of his palm.
Jon notices first—his whole body goes still, eyes sharp.
Hal shoves his hand down, smears it against his jeans. “think we’re running low on chips.” His voice breaks in the middle of it, but he pushes through. “I’ll go grab some more. Anyone need another beer while I’m up?” He looks to Jason, to Dick, coughing again between the words.
“Hal—” Jason starts, half rising, but Hal’s already moving Jon onto Clark’s lap, covering the motion with a laugh. “Keep him on task, Big Blue. Strategy doesn’t run itself. And you—” he ruffles Jon’s hair, voice hoarse but steady, “better still be winning by the time I get back.”
Clark starts to protest,“Hal, you really shouldn’t—”
“I’m fine.” Hal cuts him off, sharp, already pushing himself up. He doesn’t give them room to argue. “Not gonna pass out in the hall, Big blue,” he tosses over his shoulder at Bruce, who’s standing now, watching him like he can already see the cracks. “I’ll be right back.”
But the O₂ tubing tugs, catches—he’s forgotten he’s tethered. The machine topples with a clatter, and Hal curses under his breath, stooping fast to grab it. The motion sends his head spinning, black spots flaring at the edges of his sight.
And then Clarks there steadying him. “Hal,” concern laces his words “maybe you should sit back down.”
Hal forces a grin, pats Clarks back with a shaky hand. “I’m good, Really. Just chips.”
He straightens, chest still burning, and pulls away before Clark can argue. Before anyone else can stop him.
And then he’s gone, slipping out into the hall, the weight of it all pressing down—every moment he’s missed, every thread cut loose, every heartbeat that reminds him he doesn’t belong at this table anymore.
The coughs follow him down the corridor, raw and tearing, but he doesn’t stop. Won’t. Not when the alternative is letting them see him break.
The laughter and shouting from the game room peel away behind him, becoming oceanic and distant.
He missed out on Tim moving into a houseboat. A whole goddamn houseboat. He searches his memory for the last time Tim told him anything real—an anniversary, a photo, a joke—and his chest tightens until it’s a cage.
Why didn’t they tell him? Why didn’t Tim call? Why didn't he call more? He’s a mess of questions that all lead to the same bad place: maybe they didn’t think he deserved to know. Maybe the divorce had been a clean, surgical cut for a reason. Maybe, in their new normal, he’d been edited out like he was never there. Like he didn't spend years with them. Like he didn't sleep on the kids bedroom floor when the nightmares got too loud.
Like he wasn't there for every up and down.
The corridor is too quiet. Hal’s hand goes by habit to the necklace under his shirt, to the cold loop he never let go of.Shame tastes like copper in his mouth.
He needs to stop. He needs to get rid of it. It's just a symbol of everything he isn't anymore.
Being here..being in the manor, being surrounded by all of them like this is too much right now.
He hated the distance, hated being cut out and now he knows its what needed to happen and what needs to happen again. Because this..all these moments he's having they're all temporary, and that hurts more than anything.
So he does what he does best when he's hurting, he builds.
The construct ends up being a Motorcycle of all things, one that looks like the old one he crashed and never repaired years ago, a quick and easy escape. The construct forms obediently at first, solid and glossy as a dream.
He sits and takes off fast down the halls. For a second the world rights itself. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
Then his chest rips like a rubber band being snapped. The ring flickers. The bikes edge blurs and spiders of light crawl across the metel—then the whole thing collapses like a balloon losing breath.
He goes down with a sound that is too adult to be called a sob and not a cry. He crash lands against the side table, palms braced on old wood, his knees giving out. The hallway tilts.
The cough comes like someone pulling a thick curtain over his lungs. It claws his throat, sharp and hot. Blood sips into his mouth and tastes metallic and raw. For a beat he thinks of the boys laughing around the Monopoly table, of Jon’s grin when Hal stole a bill from the bank, and something inside him fractures.
“Master Jordan?”
Alfred’s slippers pad into view, The old man’s face is a map of worry that Hal has seen too many times in the past few weeks. Alfred’s hands are on him before Hal can try to steady himself.
“You shouldn’t be in the corridor, sir. Come — sit. You’re damp.”
Alfred’s hand is warm and steady under Hal’s elbow. Hal lets himself be hauled upright, feels the too-familiar shame of needing it.
“I—” He tries to laugh it off. “Snack run. Figured I’d top up the chips.”
Alfred’s mouth tightens. He doesn’t laugh. “We’ll fetch you some tea, sir. Something stronger, perhaps. Sit there.”
Hal folds into a kitchen chair. Alfred produces a mug without Hal seeing how he reached for it, places it in Hal’s hands “What happened?”
Hal wants to fling the question back—What do you think happened? I fell apart in the hallway? But he won't do that, he won't take out his pain on any of them, not when they don't deserve it, not when he did this to himself.
“Needed to get away from the noise.” He can feel the thread of a lie tightening. He hates himself for it.
“Your pulse is high,” Alfred says, looking at him like one of the manor’s many, many clocks. “You should not be out of bed.”
“Al, please,” Hal starts, then the cough forces itself forward again. He clamps his hand over his mouth.
Alfred moves, he retrieves a cloth, dampens it, presses it to Hal’s mouth.
He wants to tell Alfred the truth, that he came out to escape watching the people he loves live without him. That Tim had moved into a houseboat and his chest was a fist of neglected moments. That he’d tried to run and the ring and his own stupid, stubborn arrogance had failed him. He wants to tell Alfred that he’s sick of being the emergency in everyone else’s lives, the momentary crisis that drags out compassion. That he shouldn't be here.
That he should be back in his shit apartment in coast and not here. He doesn't deserve to be here. He's been in and out of these kids lives for years now..he couldn't blame them for choosing to keep him out.
He doesn’t. He sips the tea because Alfred put it there and it makes him less shaky. “Thanks, Alf,” he says. “Just…chips and that something stronger please. I’ll be fine in a minute.”
Alfred’s mouth thins, and for the first time since the corridor, Hal thinks he sees something like pity move across the man’s face.
“As you wish sir” Alfred says, “Though I do not recommend drinking in your condition I’ll allow it this once, Bourbon or whisky”
Heat flares in Hal’s ears. “Whisky”
He thinks about bolting. He thinks about leaping up into space and letting the cold vastness swallow him whole because he can’t face being the person they invited to family dinners only when the stitches haven’t yet knotted.
But Alfred is looking at him, steady as a lighthouse and sliding a glass of whisky his way “Sir?”
Hal swallows. The whisky burns.
“Thanks Alf,” he says finally, and the simplicity of the word is almost a confession.
Alfred’s eyebrows lift. He nods once and goes to the pantry, returning with a small plate of dry crackers and a glass of water. He sets them in front of Hal.
Hal eats a cracker because he should. He drinks water because Alfred placed it there and because the kitchen collapsed into a place where he could breathe again, if only for a little while. He lets the quiet find him. He lets himself be small.
His chest burns, his throat raw, and the shame hangs heavier than the oxygen tube he left behind.
His voice comes out ragged, quieter than he means. “What the hell am I doing here, Alf?”
Alfred doesn’t flinch at the question. He folds his hands behind his back, tone mild. “At present? drinking the last of a twelve-year Highland. Broader picture? Sitting where you belong.”
Hal huffs, coughs again, drags a hand down his face. “Doesn’t feel like it. Feels like the only reason I’m back under this roof is because I’m a wreck. Because it’s easier for everyone if they keep the dying guy in sight.”
“Mm.” Alfred tilts his head, not disagreeing, not confirming. “Families are rarely tidy, Mr. Jordan. They bicker, they forget, they vanish, and they reappear. They also sit through dinners, squabble over board games, and hover far more than you notice.”
Hal gives a brittle laugh. “Hovering, yeah. More like babysitting. I’m pathetic, Alf..I’m Crashing in their house like a damn charity case.” His voice breaks into another coughing fit, napkin pressed hard to his mouth.
Alfred steps forward, sets another napkin down by his hand, voice dry as ever. “Pathetic men do not fly jets past Mach 2 with their sons in the back seats. Nor do they fill my pantry with the sound of life again after months of silence.”
Hal stares at him, eyes red, chest heaving. He swallows, mutters, “I’ve screwed up so much. Missed so much. And now what? I go out like this? Sick, sorry, and in the god damn guest room?”
Alfred pours another half inch of whisky, sets it down like punctuation. “You go out, Mr. Jordan, the same way you’ve always lived. Stubbornly. Loudly. And quite possibly in need of a mop.”
That drags a real laugh out of Hal—hoarse, cut through with coughing, but real. He shakes his head, wipes his mouth. “You always know how to twist the knife just right.”
Alfred inclines his head. “One of my many questionable talents.”
Hal leans back, clutching the glass to his chest like it’s a shield. He drains the rest of the whisky, lets it burn down the sore edge of his throat, and sets the glass aside.
“Alright.” He braces a hand on the counter, starts pushing himself up. His legs feel heavier than they should, but he ignores it. “I should get back before Jon lets it slip I stole one of Cassie’s properties.”
“Will you be needing assistance, Mr. Jordan?” Alfred asks, voice mild but watching him like a hawk.
Hal opens his mouth, ready to crack a joke, but another voice cuts in—low, rough, unmistakable.
“I’ll make sure he makes it back.”
Hal stiffens, then turns his head. Bruce is there, silent as ever with Hals wheelchair beside him.
Hal groans under his breath. “A bell, Alfred. A goddamn bell.”
Alfred, unbothered, only hums. “I recall a time you attempted precisely that, Mr. Jordan. If memory serves, it’s still sitting in the manor’s junk drawer.” He hands Hal another bowl of chips, and three beers balanced easily in his other hand. “For you. Master Richard and Master Jason as well. Chin up.”
Hal takes them automatically, even as another cough rattles out of him, bending him forward. Before he can wave it off, Bruce is already there—two strides across the kitchen, a hand catching his wrist, the other pressing firm and steady to his pulse.
The proximity steals the breath from him more than the coughing does. Close enough for Hal to catch the faint trace of cedar and smoke in Bruce’s cologne, close enough that he can feel the warmth of Bruce’s breath fan across his cheek. He stares hard at the counter instead, refusing to look up at those icy eyes, because he knows what he’ll see there.
“Sit down,” Bruce says, voice clipped, iron pressed into two words.
Hal swallows, forces a grin that doesn’t land. “I’m fine, Bruce.”
The hand on his wrist tightens, steady but unyielding, and Bruce doesn’t so much as blink. He takes the bowl and bottles out of Hal’s hands with quiet precision, sets them aside, and repeats, quieter but sharper “Sit.”
Hal doesn’t miss the way the command leaves no room for argument. Doesn’t miss the fact Bruce is still there, close enough that if Hal leaned just a fraction, he’d fall into the heat of him.
But he doesn’t. He lets himself sink into the chair instead, the wheels creaking under him.
Bruce turns them toward the hall, the air between them hums with things unsaid. Every cough Hal smothers feels like a confession, every breath a reminder of how far he’s fallen. And still—still—his chest aches with the memory of Bruce’s hand against his skin, the way it felt like being tethered again, like being wanted.
Hal’s voice breaks the silence, rough. “You ever going to tell me? About Jon being in little league? About Tim moving out?”
Bruce doesn’t slow, doesn’t glance down. His jaw is sharp in profile, blue eyes fixed ahead. For a long beat, nothing. Then, finally "if they wanted you to know, they would’ve told you themselves.”
Hal huffs something between a cough and a laugh, bitter at the edges. “Yeah. Themselves. I know.” His hands knot in the blanket across his lap. “But still. They’re my kids. Been in their lives since they were small. If I’d known signing those damn papers meant this, I’d—”
The words catch, choke. He coughs again, chest tearing.
Bruce glances down this time, sharp as a knife. “You’d what?”
Hal shakes his head, smile cracked and hollow. “Never mind.”
And the silence folds back in, heavier than before.
For a long moment, there’s only the faint squeak of the wheelchair wheels over stone. Then, Bruce’s voice—low, even, unflinching.
“You didn’t stop being their father when you signed those papers.”
Hal’s breath catches, he stares hard at the floor, blinking fast, because if he lets himself look up—if he lets himself believe that—he’ll break. And he can’t. Not here, not in front of Bruce.
Because it feels like he did. It feels like he stopped being their father. Stopped being there for the little moments like a big important part of his life was signed away.
He wants to laugh it off, turn it into a joke, but the ache in his chest twists sharper, crueler. He’s going to die, and he’ll die knowing he missed birthdays, moves, teams, milestones.
That he missed it even before he was sick.
More coughs leave him, all coated with blood. It's only when they die down a bit that he notices hes not being wheeled back towards the game room, but down towards the cave entrance.
“No” Hal rasps, fumbling for the wheel, trying to turn it himself. “No—don’t take me down there, B. I’m fine. Just—just give me a minute.” He coughs again, body jerking with it. “I don’t need the cave”
“You’re coughing up blood.” Bruces hand tightens on the chair’s handle, immovable. “You need treatment.”
Hal swears under his breath, He’s trying to hold it together, but it’s cracking—God, it’s all cracking.
He squeezes his eyes shut, every muscle trembling. “Don’t drag me down there, B. Not tonight. Please.” His voice cracks on the word. “Not when I already feel like I’m halfway gone.”
The chair keeps rolling. Unstoppable. Batman doesn’t answer pleas.
Hal uses his ring, laying a slick green barrier across the floor. The wheels bump to a halt. And before Bruce can shove them over it, Hal pushes himself to his feet, swaying. “I’m fine.”
“Coughing up blood isn’t ‘fine,’” Bruce says, low, sharp. His hand hovers near Hal’s elbow like he’s already anticipating the fall. “You know what that can mean.”
Hal barks out a bitter laugh, “You’ve scanned me a hundred times already. Run every test in the goddamn cave. Still haven’t found a damn thing. Doubt you’ll find it this time.”
Another cough racks through him, makes the construct flicker. Not because he can’t will it—it’s never willpower with him—but because his body’s buckling, his knees locking then giving out. He stumbles forward, trying to push past Bruce, toward the muffled noise of the family room. “Now let me—”
His knee gives. The barrier shatters.
And Bruce is there, moving with that impossible precision, catching him before he hits the ground. One arm locks around his waist, the other bracing his back, pulling him against Kashmir and warmth.
Hal clutches at Bruce’s sweater, knuckles white, trying not to cough directly into him. He can feel Bruce’s breath near his temple, steady, controlled, even as Hal’s own stutters ragged. His body’s screaming, but all he can think is God, don’t let me sink into this. Don’t let me want it.
Bruce holds him, until the worst of the fit passes. Only then does he speak, voice pitched quiet, too close. “One check. Twenty minutes, max. Then we go back. I won’t run another tonight.”
Hal drags in a shaky breath, his head still bowed against Bruce’s shoulder. “Bullshit. Won’t do a damn thing.”
“Fifteen,” Bruce counters, flat as stone.
Hal huffs, sagging in his arms. Bruce could carry him down there whether he liked it or not, and he would. “Ten minutes. Max.”
Bruce doesn’t answer—just steadies him tighter, as if the agreement is already binding.
And for one dangerous second, Hal lets himself lean into the heat of him, lets himself pretend it’s not guilt or pity in Bruce’s hold, but something else. Something he’s been aching for.
Then Bruce shifts. His hand leaves his waist, rises slow, deliberately.
His fingers curl under Hal’s chin, tilting his face up with careful pressure, like he’s handling glass instead of a man. Hal’s first instinct is to look away, to joke, to bite—but the grip is gentle steel, steadying him into stillness.
Bruce pulls a folded handkerchief from some hidden pocket and wipes the blood at the corner of Hal’s mouth.
Hal’s heart stutters, traitorous. The air between them hums. Too close. Too much. Bruce’s eyes stay fixed, cataloging, but there’s something else underneath—something intent, as if he’s trying to memorize him, every line, every crack, like this might be the last chance.
Hal swallows hard, forces a crooked grin. “Clock starts now, by the way. At this rate we won’t even make it to the cave in time for the scan and Alfred’s lasagna.”
The faintest flicker of something shifts in Bruce’s eyes. “Gnocchi soup,” he corrects, voice low.
Hal huffs a laugh, but it shakes on the way out. “Of course you’d know.”
Bruce doesn’t respond, just eases him back into the chair. The handkerchief, though, he leaves pressed into Hal’s palm.
Hal looks down at it, stained and white, then back up. “A handkerchief, B? Really?” He forces lightness into the words. “What’re you, eighty? Who even carries these anymore?”
Bruce’s gaze flickers over him again “Prepared people.”
Hal snorts, trying to ignore the way his chest aches for reasons that have nothing to do with blood or breath. He twirls the handkerchief in his fingers like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t feel like everything.
“What’s the deal with Brenard huh? Bernard wearing a ‘T’ necklace too, or is it just Tim walking around branded?”
“Bernard is good to him,” Bruce answers, voice clipped, as if daring Hal to argue. “ He doesn’t treat Tim like he’s a weapon or a project. He treats him like—” Bruce pauses, just long enough for the words to sharpen. “—someone he loves.”
Hal raises a brow, still spinning the cloth between his fingers. “Yeah? Well, if the kid hurts him, you want in on launching him into space, or am I keeping that solo?”
Bruce grunts, “We’ll discuss jurisdiction later.”
“Good answer,” Hal mutters, letting himself sag back as Bruce helps him onto the med bay table. He watches Bruce adjust the scanners, the hum and glow washing over him like déjà vu. The bat’s hands are steady, methodical, but Hal knows the look in his eyes. Knows it because he’s seen it pointed at a thousand cases and corpses.
“There’s tearing,” Bruce says finally, voice low, but the edge in it cuts straight through. “Again.”
Hal forces a grin, even as his stomach drops. “What do you want me to say? I’ve always been a tear-away kind of guy.”
Bruce ignores the deflection, already pulling a vial from the cabinet, loading it into the auto-injector. “This will slow the bleeding. And this” he picks up another, hands sure, voice clinical “will reduce the coughing, for now.”
“Waste of supplies,” Hal mutters as the hiss of the injector hits his arm. He tilts his head back, staring at the cave ceiling. “A couple meds aren’t gonna fix it. You and I both know that.”
Bruce doesn’t look up from the monitors. “The notes from Oa were informative, but without the poison itself, or the blade” his jaw tightens, that fury leaking through the cracks “I can’t treat it. None of the tox screens come back with anything. From a medical standpoint, you should be perfectly healthy.”
“Yeah,” Hal rasps, “Should. But I’m not.” He coughs into the handkerchief, swears when the stain blooms darker. “So maybe it’s pointless, huh? Trying to treat me, trying to cure me. Maybe there isn’t one.”
The machines hum around them. Bruce’s silence is louder than all of it.
Hal sighs, letting his head loll toward him, words sharp but tired. “Don’t look at me like that, B. You can’t fix everything. Especially not me.”
And that—more than the blood or the poison—is what makes Bruce’s jaw clench. His hand stays steady on the monitor’s edge, but his voice comes out hard “I’m not giving up on this.”
Hal huffs a laugh that scrapes like glass. “What do you want, huh? To go back there yourself? Tear the place apart brick by brick? The Guardians already searched that site up and down. Found nothing.”
“I know,” Bruce says. “I had Clark do a scan.”
That jolts Hal upright, coughing into the handkerchief before he can stop it. He chokes down the burn, wipes at his mouth, eyes narrowing. “When?”
“While you were in the reconstruction chamber.”
Hal stares. For a beat he doesn’t know whether to laugh or curse. “And? What’d he find?”
“Nothing.”
“Bruce—” he rasps between coughs, eyes watering. “We gotta face it. There might not be a damn cure. There—”
“I will not,” Bruce cuts in, voice like a blade, “leave it to the Guardians when your condition is deteriorating this fast. Nor will I accept that there isn’t a cure.”
Hal’s chest seizes, he drags in air, ragged, and whispers, “You might have to. I’m—” he swallows, bitter rising with bile. “I’m coming to terms with it. That these moments could be the last, that—”
“Stop.” Bruce’s tone sharpens, firm enough to cut through the spiral. He doesn’t move his hand from Hal’s back, doesn’t loosen his grip. Silence hangs, heavy as lead, before he finally adds—quieter, but just as brutal—“You may have given up. But I haven’t. I won’t. I’m not going to sit back and watch you wither away.”
The words hit harder than any blow Hal’s ever taken. Bruce Wayne, staking a claim against the inevitable for him.
And God help him, Hal almost believes him.
He swallows, hard, and lets out a shaky laugh that cracks in the middle. “I know, B. I know you won’t.” He wipes at his mouth with the handkerchief, eyes refusing to meet Bruce’s. “I just—don’t want you tearing yourself apart when it doesn’t work. That’s why I didn’t tell anyone. ‘Cause I knew you’d do this. Both of you. And odds are…” His throat tightens around the words. “Odds are it’s pointless. And I can’t stand the thought of you beating yourself up when it doesn’t work.”
Bruce’s silence is sharp enough to flay.“What happened to Lanterns having endless hope?”
“Not how the ring works,” Hal mutters, sliding off the med bay table. His knees wobble and Bruce steadies him instantly, a hand at his waist that burns like a brand. “It’s literally in the name, B. Green Lantern. Not blue.” He forces a grin, tries to shake Bruce’s hand off. “Times up, by the way. Told you, ten minutes.”
But Bruce doesn’t let go. His grip tightens,unyielding at Hal’s hip, pulling him just enough to make Hal’s breath catch. Bruce’s eyes hold his, unreadable, something fierce and dangerous flickering just beneath
“Hope doesn’t belong to Blue Lanterns alone,” he says, quiet but steady. “You’ve carried it longer than most. Don’t tell me now that you’ve run out.”
Hal’s chest hollows, aching. For one dizzy second, he almost lets himself believe Bruce means more than just the words. That he still—
But no. No, he knows better. He has to.
“Still got me confused with Big Blue, Bats,” Hal rasps, tugging the corner of his mouth into something that could almost pass for a grin. “Now come on, let’s get back upstairs. There’s soup with my name on it for me to puke back up later, and I need to see if any other kids have long-term relationships I should be threatening.”
Bruce exhales through his nose, the faintest flicker of something that almost passes for amusement. “Flatline.”
Hal blinks. “Flatline?”
“Damian’s girlfriend,” Bruce says, tone clipped, as if it’s just another fact on a casefile.
Hal stares at him like he’s grown a second cowl. “Girlfriend? You’re telling me my demon-spawn kid has a girlfriend, and her name is Flatline? Are you screwing with me right now?”
“She’s… unconventional,” Bruce allows, already moving to steady Hal’s elbow as he sways.
“Unconventional?” Hal croaks, heat rising in his chest for an entirely different reason. “Unconventional is Jason bringing home an archer with a rap sheet longer than the Batmobile. Unconventional is Dick and Wally—don’t get me wrong, love him, but still. Flatline? What is she, an assassin? A necromancer? Please don’t tell me she’s—”
“She’s competent,” Bruce cuts in, voice clipped as always, the detective even here.
Hal lets out a strangled laugh, half cough, half disbelief. “I’m not ready for this. I am not ready for this.”
Bruce doesn’t dignify it with another word. Just steadies him into the wheelchair again before pushing him toward the dining room.
The hallway feels too long, every wheel creaking like a reminder. Hal hates it. Hates needing Bruce to steer him, hates the way the cold of the cave still lingers on his skin. And yet—God help him—the warmth at his back, the brush of Bruce’s shoulder near his own, it sets something aching loose inside him. He stares ahead, jaw tight, pretending not to notice how steady Bruce’s hand is on the chair. Pretending he doesn’t want to lean back into it.
Then the smell hits him, rich garlic and butter, gnocchi soup steaming through the air. Alfred’s cooking. Home. It drags at his chest harder than the sickness does.
the second the dining room doors open, every head turns. Every pair of eyes lock on him—scanning, checking, measuring if he’s okay.
Hal hates the heat that rises in his face, hates the way his hands twitch to tug the blanket higher over his lap. First family dinner he’s made it to in over a year, and he shows up like this.
Jason’s the first to break it “That was a rather long chip run.”
Hal musters a grin sharp enough to hide the rasp in his chest. “Cool it, kid. Unless you want me telling everyone about the time I caught you and Roy on your own ‘chip run.’”
Jason’s smirk falters immediately. Color rushes up his neck. “Yeah, no one wants to hear that story.” He pivots hard, grabbing the bread basket like it’s a lifeline. “So—uh—how about those Metropolis Knights, huh?”
Hal smirks, satisfied. “That’s what I thought.”
The tension eases a little, a ripple of chuckles slipping through the table. Clark clears his throat then, always the peacemaker, “Jon and I won the game.”
Hal tips his head, eyes cutting sharp with mischief. “Huh. Guess that means we’re breaking Mach 3 after all.”
Jon brightens instantly, bouncing in his seat. Clark only shakes his head, though, smiling as his gaze flicks toward their son. “Actually, we came to a different agreement. One that doesn’t involve shattering the speed barrier.”
Jon can’t hold it in, blurting before Clark can finish. “I want you and Dad to take me to the play off game! And I get unlimited pretzels!”
Hal blinks. The words hit harder than they should. He feels it right in his ribs. Clark’s olive branch—unspoken but clear. His way of saying sorry for not telling Hal about little league.
It’s sweet. It’s perfect. It makes Hal’s throat tighten, but he smiles anyway, wide and bright. “Well, a deal’s a deal. Unlimited pretzels it is.Who’s playing?” he asks, leaning forward, eager despite the burn in his chest.
“Gotham Knights and the Coast City Halos,” Tim supplies, matter-of-fact.
Hal nearly lights up, his grin flashing sharp and proud. “The Halos? Oh, come on, that’s practically a guaranteed win.”
Damian snorts immediately, tone full of scorn. “Guaranteed loss, you mean.”
Jason snorts louder, crossing his arms. “Knights’ll wipe the floor with ‘em.”
“Please,” Steph groans, flopping dramatically against the table. “The Knights haven’t had a decent pitcher since last season.”
“Exactly,” Kon says, leaning in. “Halos are a mess. Did you see their outfield lineup last month?”
“Running a fair and legal team,” Tim cuts in, straight-faced, “unlike certain people who think cheating is a strategy.”
“Degenerates ” Damian mutters darkly, stabbing at his soup.
Voices rise, overlap, trip over each other in heated arguments about stats and players, volume climbing until it’s pure chaos. Cass covers her mouth to hide a smile. Duke tries—and fails—to referee.
Clark just laughs, low and warm, and Bruce sits steady at the far end, watching the noise unfold like it’s proof the world hasn’t ended yet.
And Hal—Hal leans back, letting the storm of voices wash over him. His grin softens, chest burning with more than poison this time.
The room is dim when Clark wheels him in, only the lamp by the bed throwing a warm pool of light across the floor. The chair’s hum fades to silence as Clark brakes it, steadying Hal with one broad hand beneath his arm.
“Easy,” Clark murmurs.
Hal huffs, trying for flippant even as his body protests. “Don’t need to narrate it, big guy. I’ve been standing for forty-plus years.”
His legs tremble when he straightens, and Clark doesn’t let go until he’s sure Hal’s weight won’t pitch him forward. Even then, he lingers close—hovering like he always does. Like he can’t stop.
Hal presses a palm to the mattress, grounding himself before he lifts his head again. “Thanks. For tonight.”
Clark’s brow furrows. “You don’t need to thank me.”
“Sure I do,” Hal says, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter if it was for me or Jon—it was a good play. Pretzels, baseball? It worked.” He grins, though it’s cracked around the edges. “Kid almost forgot about begging for Mach 3.”
Clark’s gaze dips. Quiet shadows cross his face before he finally says, “Why’d you lie earlier?”
Hal stills. “…When?”
“When Jon asked me about your tricks.”
Ah. That. His gut twists like a knife. He’d almost managed to forget, in the chaos of Monopoly and soup. He drags a hand through his hair, forcing the words out. “Because I’m better at it than you. And I didn’t want to kill the moment.”
Clark shakes his head slowly. “You shouldn’t have lied.”
Hal lets out a laugh, brittle, tired. “Right. And let the kids tear you apart at family dinner? Great icebreaker.”
“No,” Clark says, firmer. “I mean—you shouldn’t have had to lie.”
The words hang there. Heavy. Hal swallows against the ache in his chest, eyes dropping to the chain at his neck where the ring glints faint in the lamplight.
“Clark,” he sighs, “what’s with you guilt-tripping yourself lately?”
He pushes himself upright again, Clark’s hand darting out instinctively when Hal sways. “Relax. I’m not about to eat floor.”
But he is sore, heavy in the bones, the ache in his chest a constant reminder. He gestures toward the bathroom. “Shower’ll help. Body feels like it went three rounds with Kilowog.”
Clark stays close as Hal makes his way across the room. The en-suite door is only a few steps away, but every one feels longer than it should. His knees shake, his lungs catch, and Clark’s right there hovering.
Inside, the bathroom Hal leans against the counter, breath rasping. “Look, I get it,” he says, voice low. “You’ve been flying since you were in diapers—supersonic, half the planet in ten minutes. Sitting in a jet probably doesn’t exactly stack up.”He gives a shrug, casual as he can make it. “Not exactly the same thrill.”
Clark steps past him, turns on the shower. Steam curls up, misting the glass. “That’s not the point.”
Hal arches a brow. “Then what’s the point?”
Clark’s voice drops, soft but cutting. “The point is—you love it. And you’re damn good at it. I should’ve known that. I should’ve experienced it with you.”
Hal barks a laugh that cracks into a cough, bracing a hand against the sink. “Careful, Kent. Lines like that in a bathroom? People might start thinking you’ve subscribed.” He yanks his shirt over his head, the motion pulling a wince out of him.
“Need help?” Clark asks, but there's a distance to his voice.
“I can shower by myself,” Hal mutters, though his knees quake as he toes off his sweats. “But hey—if it bothers you that much, I’ll take you up sometime. Do a couple loops. Dinner after. Whole Hal Jordan experience.”
Clark bends without asking, steadying him out of the sweats with hands careful as if Hal might break.
“It’s not the same, Hal,” Clark says quietly.
The words cut deeper than any blade. Because Hal knows exactly what he means. Not the same because they’re not married. Not the same because love’s gone sour, replaced by guilt and regret.
He swallows, forces a grin. “I can still pull all the tricks I used to.”
He leans back against the counter, another cough hitching in his chest. Clark doesn’t miss it, doesn’t miss the faint shine of the ring on its chain either.
“You sure you’ll be alright?” Clark asks again, voice low, warm.
Hal waves him off. “Fine, Big blue. Tell you what—on my next good day, just you and me. I’ll take you up, show you the works. Dinner after, too. The whole damn package.”
Clark doesn’t step back. He stays close, “Next good day,” he echoes.
And before Hal can joke again, Clark leans in—just enough for their foreheads to brush. A fleeting press, heavy with all the words they’ll never say.
Hal’s breath catches, shuddering in his chest. It feels like falling. Like flying.
Then Clark eases back, gentle, like nothing happened. “Call if you need me.”
And Hal—Hal just nods, eyes closing, pretending the heat flooding through him is from the steam, and not from Clark Kent.