Chapter Text
“Three, two, one!” Ferris Aircraft Incorporated shared a loud cheer in O’Malleys. It was a little bar in New Jersey that placed Hal Jordan about twenty minutes away from the largest building in Gotham City, the overseer of the Gothamites, welcomed as it was: Wayne Tower. Great landmark, really, except he wasn’t inclined to run into his bat-themed friend. The hope for the night was to celebrate and then dip back to Coast City where guys like Bruce Wayne did not exist.
Carol made her little speech talking about collaborations (East to West Coast) and the success of the flight tests and the work done. It was all very beautiful. She was too, obviously. She melded her hip to Hal’s side for a short while before excusing herself and leaving. And perhaps it was too obvious that he was disappointed because his peers—mind you, about ten or twenty years younger—teased him relentlessly. Especially since he seemed to be the only person ignoring the fact she had a fiance. He was a great sport about all of that.
“‘Highball,’ you really should get fixed,” one of the pilots snarked, putting up air quotes around his call sign. “You’re gonna get reported to HR if you keep it up.”
“And then maybe lose your job—again!” Another laughed.
“Haha, very funny. You know, back in…” His voice trailed off. There was no way to make this sound good without dating himself. He bit his cheek (a habit he stole from Carol) and chuckled. “I’m gonna get another drink, anyone else want anything?”
One of the younger ones piped up. She must have been about twenty-four or something like that.
“Is that where you get your name? Drinking?”
“Uh, huh.” He snorted before walking off with a wave. The resounding answer to his question was no. Why come to a bar and then not drink? You know, he never chose his call sign—that’s just something assigned at birth. Or more accurately when a pilot did something stupid which was about all the time for Hal.
He leaned on the bar counter, hands bracing against the platform. Two of his fingers came up and waved a bartender over—an old fashioned, please and thank you. The drink felt on the nose he realized as he looked back to the group of drone pilots laughing loudly. There were others in the bar from Ferris Incorporated, but no one he knew well. There wasn’t anyone he knew well other than Carol.
At the very least, he did not order a highball. That could be his saving grace. Probably.
The bartender placed the glass down before him and a Manhattan to his right which allowed him to look at someone other than his drowning reflection. At long last, he noticed (and this was not to his favor at all) a famous face.
“Bruce.” Hal had a wonderful grin on his lips. He noticed the older man’s eye look him up and down and, per usual, he was not impressed.
“Hal.” Bruce Wayne’s voice was curt. Outside of that quick glance, he seemed revolted at even a glimpse of Hal—a smart move considering that a nobody like Hal Jordan probably wouldn’t know such a renowned and respected person from the Wayne family. Yeah, right. Seemed like a load of bull.
Hal drank his whiskey leisurely before clinking their glasses (to which Bruce moved his further away). “Didn’t think that O’Malley’s would be where you explored your vices.”
“It’s not.” Bruce still looked away from him, even going so far as to rest on his left arm and build a wall between them. That gravelly tone permeated his timbre. This wasn’t a Wayne—this was Batman. “I didn’t think Gotham was a place you could show your face in—”
“Isn't the metahuman rule fake? Not that I am one,” Hal said with a stupid grin. He tilted his head too. By now, he faced Bruce fully and his body looked crooked as he leaned his whole weight against the counter. That uncanny amount of confidence and swagger in his gait unnerved Bruce.
Some people looked dumb and drunk when they did that, but not when they looked like Hal Jordan.
“And yet, you cause just as much destruction.” Bruce’s volume was low—he wouldn’t risk revealing his identity even in a bar so crowded that any conversation became private.
“Ouch, Bruce.” Hal pretended to fall into himself. “I guess you would care about property damage more than anything else.”
The wealthiest man in Gotham placed down his drink with a loud clank.
The space between them filled itself with heat. A burning sensation pricked at their skin as their gazes lingered long, trying to read into what the other thought. They were intimately familiar with it. A lifetime of communication happened between heroes in battle and out and unsurprisingly, there were worlds lost between that and comprehension. For Hal and Bruce, it was during downtime that Hal got an earful of every little mistake he made.
It got tiring after the first three times.
“You need to stop acting like you’re in your twenties.” His eyes darted back to the table Hal was just at. “Though, I suppose you’re just trying to fit in with your cohort.”
Hal knew how to take a punch. He knew how to roll with it and when he didn’t, he knew how the impact would feel. That amount of pain was easy to stomach—hell, sometimes he chased it. Tonight, however, was not the night to pick on Green Lantern because he was already getting picked on as Hal Jordan.
“Bruce.” It was a warning.
Bruce glared at Hal. “Don’t you think they’re a little too young for you? You’re, what, in your late thirties?”
Go away.
“You know what? Suck my dick.” Hal laughed as his fingers drummed against the bar and he sauntered off. Though his tone was almost lighthearted, they both knew better. This was just their dynamic. Always has been and always will be. Batman tells Green Lantern he’s not up to par and Green Lantern says, “Why are we listening to the guy with no powers?” Bruce Wayne tells Hal Jordan it’s been pleasant catching up (he’s lying) and Hal Jordan responds with something along the lines of “Fuck you.”
All he wanted was a drink.
When he returned to the table, there were small comments and jeers. Something along the lines of “Did you find a new girl?” or something about him being old and losing his way back. He smiled and grinned, taking their teasing with grace and jabbing back. He knew how to read a room and it showed. Everyone liked Hal Jordan even when they didn’t. He had charisma practically oozing out of his body everywhere he went despite, according to Bruce, having none of the qualifications to back it up.
Fuck him. Hal was doing a great job of socializing and he knew that Bruce knew that he was doing it. He glanced back toward the bar and found John Constantine by Bruce’s side. Hal huffed. So that’s why Bruce was out here. How unlucky it was that Hal happened to be in Gotham for once and Bruce decided to leave his adult-sized treehouse on this particular blue moon.
Across the room, unbeknownst to Hal, Bruce was engaged in the worst sort of diplomatic exchange (a conversation with the magic sort of people) and losing. Which is to say, Bruce Wayne hardly ever lost anything. He had plans, he had contingencies, he had tact. Constantine was simply, eternally an asshole who was not playing any sort of game. A talented, wounded sort of man whom heroes always needed during their darkest hours.
“‘M out. Out of all of it,” John said to Bruce’s proposal.
Bruce furrowed his eyebrows. He wouldn’t ask for help like this if it weren’t dire. As always, he stated the facts as they were. He was clear and succinct. “Zatanna is off-world, we need—”
“You need—” he took a swig of beer and patted Bruce’s back “—to get off my back, okay, Bats?”
“How long are you going to drink yourself to death?” Bruce crossed his arms. He had only been nursing a single drink for the night. The thick glass was less than half full.
“It’s your mess, not mine.”
John turned away when Bruce grabbed his wrist.
“John, listen, the fate—”
“The fate of the world? The universe? Just wait for some other sad bloke to fix it for you,” John sneered. He was tired and by God, he had every right to be. “Ya don’t need me.”
Bruce was miffed. “So it’s self-hatred that stops you from helping people?”
“It’s selfish” is what he wanted to say. But he held his tongue, knowing he had his own selfish reasons for stalking John’s whereabouts for the past three weeks to “coincidentally” run into him. Maybe the fate of the world wasn’t at stake, but it was certainly his world at stake.
“Well, Batman, when you put it like that—Not. My. Problem.” John yanked his arm back and dusted his coat after. Prick.
“Can you stop being immature—” Bruce felt like the number of manchildren he ran into in one hour was getting obscene “—locating it wouldn’t take much of your time!”
Exasperated, Bruce ran a hand through his hair. It wasn’t often that Batman was desperate but he never needed to rely on magic unless it was truly something out of his control. God knew that he had no talent for magic. This interaction—this was under his control. He would make sure of it.
Life never worked that way though. Once his hands landed on something worth holding onto, there were forces already set on separating it from him forever. Perhaps that force wasn’t as malicious as he imagined it to be, but life conjoined the concepts of together and apart. In a great oxymoron, the word apart combined itself into one.
So if an artifact could reunite Bruce with his son, sure, he’d engage with magic. This could be his last chance. It wasn’t often Jason asked for his help and by Athena, by Hera, by whatever other divine power there was, he was going to get that for him.
He knew in his heart that it might have been a ploy. A trick.
And still.
“Immature?” John scoffed. “You’re not that much older than me, Bruce. Try this on for size. Ekat mih kcab ot eht trats.”
“John—” Bruce couldn’t speak. His face became blank.
“Yeah, I bet you wish you asked Zatanna now, huh?” John said as he snapped and disappeared, appearing halfway across the world in an instant. He would probably regret it later but later was later. It would take a while for him to realize he was wrong.
Bruce frowned. He couldn’t remember why he was there. He awkwardly stumbled back into his seat, his hands landing on the countertop in a folded embrace. The bartender turned around, did a double take, and continued serving other patrons. Think, Bruce. What was the last thing he remembered?
He scratched his head in a scruffy way. His combed-back, slick hair fell out of its style as both hands came up to ruffle it. A young lady walked by, her hand grazing his bicep and tracing his shoulders, before lingering at his side. His eyes found hers but he was quick to look away and brush her off. She was too young.
Too young? How old was he again?
His mind raced through his memories. All he knew was years of training, coming back to Gotham last year, fights on the street. With quick math, he knew he was twenty-five or twenty-six. That was certain. But every thought he flashed through was hidden behind a thick, hazy fog. He was missing something. He drank what was presumably his drink until it was empty. Clink.
Bruce squeezed his eyes shut.
He heard laughter and a wave of deja vu flowed over him. His head whipped around and his bright eyes found the source of it: a brunette man. Around six foot, he noted. Hints of a Californian accent. Aviator jacket. Smile lines at his eyes. A streak or two of grey hair along the sides of his head. Very athletic. Very.
Bruce figured he was in his forties. He looked back to the wall of alcohol before him, turning away from the mystery man as he did. He recollected the stranger’s face easily despite seeing him only once—that had to be a sign. Was he a criminal? An ally? Why couldn’t he remember?
He began to meditate, breathing slowly as traces of their last interaction echoed in his head. And though it was only a feeling, it was all he had.
Bruce stood up.
“Yeah, well, you know me,” Hal said as he shrugged. The table roared with laughter as he took a sip of his drink. He smirked. He had an arm draped over his seat and enough inconsideration that he was manspreading. Hal was exactly the type of guy who was aware of how he affected the people around him and though he had grown older, he’d retained every ounce of charm. He’d even argue he had a little bit of that silver fox allure—even if he didn’t have that much greying hair.
His eyes scanned the room when a brooding, dark figure caught his eye. It came closer. And closer. Until Bruce was standing at the table.
But it wasn’t Bruce.
His cohort quieted down.
“Uh, who are you?” One of the pilots asked.
“... Bruce.” He was wary of revealing his identity. It was odd that no one recognized him because he knew they were in O’Malley’s and that was in Gotham and Gotham was not shy about violating his privacy. Maybe this would make the news by tomorrow morning.
Hal’s jaw dropped.
“Friend of Hal’s?” Another laughed. And with that, their volume resumed to the loud group they were, even as they observed this new figure.
Bruce nodded before coming closer to Hal’s side. Hal’s eyes grew wide as Bruce scooted into the chair next to him and their shoulders brushed. His face was still drawn in amazement as he watched this… younger Bruce Wayne observe in silence. One of the pilots asked him a question that Hal didn’t listen to because he was too engrossed in the shock of seeing a Bruce doppelganger. He watched Bruce’s mouth as he spoke but heard none of it. Coincidences like that aren’t coincidences, he remembered.
Hal laughed. There was no way, right?
Bruce flushed a little bit red as someone else said something. Hal could not pay attention. The man before him was exactly what he had imagined Bruce Wayne to be like: charismatic with a wolfish grin. He watched the young man deliberate how to act. Every single movement made was calculated and thought through. Bruce blinked and Hal watched his long lashes move with it. There was another question, this time asking about his relationship with Hal, and he decided to end it there.
“C’mon, guys, leave him be,” Hal drawled in a teasing way before turning to Bruce. “Let’s talk. You and I.”
He gently pushed Bruce’s leg with his hand to make room in order to leave. Hal missed Bruce holding his breath as his eyes focused on the hand pressing against his thigh. He was busy praying to whatever god there was, the Guardians, the universe, anyone out there, that his blood pressure rising wasn’t noticeable. Hal heard snickering as he gripped young Bruce by his shoulder and led him out. He ignored it as his face hit the cold of New Jersey and his breath showed in the air.
No amount of cold was going to turn his red face back to what it was.
Young Bruce was incredibly polite, Hal noticed, as he dropped his hand from the young man’s shoulder. They were just outside the bar, which meant they were still in sight. The glass was a thin barrier that hid absolutely nothing. Hal knew better than to just run off. Or maybe he didn’t.
“Who are you?” Hal fought himself to stop his voice from rising. Fluttering, bright blue eyes stared back. The man was rich and handsome from birth. The world was unfair.
“Bruce.” Young Bruce’s eyes narrowed. It was very Batman of him.
Right.
“No, you’re not. You’re some… younger doppel.” Hal wracked his brain for any sort of explanation as to why Bruce Wayne, age twenty-something, was before him instead of the forty-one-year-old he knew.
“I assure you I know who I am. Who are you, Hal?” He tilted his head as he spoke. His hair was almost refined and neat, but it was clearly longer now. Messier. He had a faint blush on his face. Bruce added, “I don’t remember a ‘Hal’ of note in Gotham.”
“I’m not from Gotham—”
“Clearly, your accent is Californian. You’re in your, what, mid-forties?” That was Bruce, alright. He interjected and commented about how much shit he knew without anyone asking. Hal rolled his eyes with his hands on his hips.
Now he felt old.
“I’m not in my forties. Why don’t you tell me how you got here?”
Bruce looked down at their surroundings before locking eyes with Hal again.
“I don’t remember.”
“C’mon, detective, you can do better than that.”
Bruce’s eyes grew wide. Honestly, it was almost cute the way they shone in the dim lighting.
“How do you know that?”
Hal raised an eyebrow before breaking out in a grin. “Oh, I know a lot of things, Batman.”
The young man looked at him with sharp eyes. His gaze moved from Hal’s frame to his chest to his legs and back again. It was clear he was sizing him up. It was kind of fun to mess with him, Hal decided. It was like seeing what their relationship could be rather than the constant bickering and fighting that went on now.
“So, we know each other… well,” Bruce said slowly. One hand came up to his chin as he thought hard. Just how well?
“Wait,” Hal spoke as he belatedly connected some dots, “if you don’t remember anything, how did you know to go to me?”
Bruce shrugged, an oddly human movement that looked awkward on his broad and imposing posture.
“I couldn’t remember anything outside of my training and returning to Gotham last year, but I recognized your laugh. We spoke before I lost my memories—I’m certain of it.”
Huh.
Hal’s heart did something he didn’t recognize.
“Yeah,” he paused, “we did. You, uh, remember any of it?”
“No, but it was,” Bruce frowned as he deliberated on his diction, “pleasant, I think.”
Hal raised his eyebrows before attempting to have a poker face. It did not work. The night air felt as though it were cutting through his skin and it made his expressions more difficult to hide.
“I had to trust my gut and when I tried to recall my memories, it was good. I’m certain of that, Hal.” He fiddled with his coat before continuing. “Can I trust you?”
Could he? Hal was more concerned about whether or not he could trust this young Bruce. He watched the young man tuck his hands in his pockets and exhale. A little cloud of water vapor came out from between his lips and Hal noticed that he really was just missing the weary lines that used to decorate Bruce’s face. The appearance was unmistakable though. This was Batman. He’d recognize him anywhere.
Hal glanced down at his ring. Maybe it could tell him something without being too obvious. The ring responded to his will. Species: Human. Age: 26. Yeah, well, that was sort of useless. But he supposed there’s not any other information that could have helped. At the very least, Hal knew this wasn’t a shapeshifting threat.
“Yeah, you can.” Superhero stuff always swooped in at the perfect time to ruin a night, didn’t it? Bruce’s shoulders sagged in relief. The motion made Hal’s heart pang. Of course, who wouldn’t feel on edge after losing memories and, well, reverting to when they first started vigilante work? Even the magic people would feel that way after a lifetime of study.
Magic.
John Constantine, you dick.
Hal’s tongue poked at his cheek. He had some choice words for a certain London-bound man, even if they hardly interacted. Bruce’s eyes were trained on him as he spoke, “You know what, Bruce, I think I just busted this case wide open. Why don’t you wait here and I’ll say goodbye to my friends—and don’t do the disappearing act. Please.”
He held up two hands as if to steady Bruce the way a cowboy would calm a horse, and he walked backward into the bar again.
The group of pilots waved him over with shouts and smiles. Hal looked sheepish as he approached them and he really wished he didn’t. He wished his face wasn’t so fucking red as a few of them clapped his arm and congratulated him. Now that was embarrassing.
“Real sorry, guys—” laughter erupted as side glances were exchanged “—I gotta… take care of my, uh, nephew.”
That twenty-four-year-old scoffed. “Sure, nephew.”
Another woman giggled with her. Their eyebrows were raised as the straws of their cocktails skimmed their lips. One of the male pilots avoided Hal’s gaze. Whatever.
“There’s no fucking way that beauty is related to you, Highball.”
Hal laughed awkwardly. “Alright, I don’t need you kids jumping into my business. Believe what you want. See you Monday.”
There were a few whoops from the table but more than that, he could tell they judged him for taking such a young man home. But what did they know? He swore he heard a few asking questions about bisexuality and having a type and—wait, rewind that, how did Bruce fit in his type? What, like a dark-haired beauty wasn’t everyone’s type?
Who cared?
He met with young Bruce outside the bar, half-relieved that he didn’t do that stupid disappearing thing he always did. Maybe this Bruce was more inclined to listen to what Green Lantern had to say. That would be nice.
“So, you don’t remember John?” Hal asked as he led Bruce to the hotel that Ferris Incorporated was residing in for the weekend. They walked with their coats zipped up to their chins and their hands in their pockets.
“John?” Bruce’s eyes met Hal's from the side. The boy had long lashes.
“Constantine. John Constantine. I’m half convinced he put some sort of spell on you to make you… this.”
“What was I like before?”
“Uh, dark. Broody. Forty-one,” Hal responded as he held the door open for Bruce. Whenever they were face to face, Hal seemed to forget they were the same height. Even now, he attempted to gaze past the boy’s head of hair.
Bruce’s eyes grew wide and his step stuttered. “Forty-one?”
“Yeah, don’t worry, you age like fine wine.” Hal noted that young Bruce's shock lingered longer than it should have. Maybe he never thought he'd live past his twenties. He went on to explain the Justice League and he sort of found it amusing (and nothing more) whenever that pink hue fit on young Bruce’s face. A weird sort of pride and astonishment mixed into one.
“So, what do you do? I’m assuming something technological?” Bruce asked as Hal pushed the button to the elevator. The doors graciously opened and they stepped in.
Hal hit the third floor.
“Sort of. The space kind, I suppose.” Hal held up his hand with the Green Lantern ring. The young Bruce grasped onto it with both hands, pulling it toward him and observing the green. His grip tightened as the ring hummed out an emerald glow at its emblem. The light illuminated the back of Hal’s hand and Bruce’s face at once.
“How does it work?”
The elevator chimed and the doors opened. Light poured onto them as the hotel’s hallway Christmas decor stared back. There was a family of four waiting on the other side. Two loud kids and two lovely parents.
Hal tugged his arm back down hastily, but Bruce’s hands and body followed him. Bruce’s chest bumped into his shoulder as they exited the enclosed space. Those unscarred hands of his (well, there were scars just not the same degree) held onto Hal’s hand and wrist as they trailed out. Hal’s eyes glanced down for multiple seconds. He wondered whether or not he should say something, but the young Bruce Wayne seemed keen on continuing his study of the power ring.
They reached Hal’s room when he heard a voice from his childhood.
There was an open door at the end of the hallway.
“Yeah, sorry, I’m gonna get some ice now. Yeah, uh huh, I miss you too. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Carol.
Shit.
Hal fumbled through his jacket for the keycard with one hand, obviously, since his other hand was under scrutiny by Bruce. He felt the plastic card’s edge and traced it with his thumb before trying to pull it out. It was trapped inside his wallet. He was no member of Bruce’s vigilante gang. And he knew they were extremely dexterous with just about anything. And yet, despite knowing that, he didn’t bother pulling his arm away from young Bruce to pull it out properly.
Bruce asked, “Is it intelligent?”
The wallet and card clattered to the floor. Hal’s head snapped up as the sound reverberated in the hall.
“Hal?” Carol called out, a mere four rooms away. She was closing the door to her room.
Fuck. Fuck.
“Yeah,” he said, and without knowing it, he answered both of them perfectly. Bruce’s hand slinked away from Hal’s.
“Huh.” Carol looked between Hal and Bruce. Back and forth. “I expected… what am I saying? Have fun, Highball.”
She began walking toward wherever the presumed ice machine was.
“Carol, it’s not—”
“It’s fine, Hal,” she said as she passed him, “I’m getting married. You’re… doing what you always do.”
He read between the lines.
“Wait, I swear—”
“Mhm, heard, Captain Jordan.” And with that, she left only the fading sound of her heels against the tile floor.
He stood dumbly. There wasn’t a thought behind his eyes, just pure bafflement. Of all people, Carol could and probably would understand the unfortunate circumstances he partook in. But only if, and only if, she stayed to listen. Behind Hal, the room’s door clicked open. Bruce was on the other side already.
Hal sighed and kicked his wallet in. His shoulders sagged as he accepted defeat.
Bruce scanned the city through the thick glass window. Observant as ever. It seemed as though old (or perhaps more accurately, new?) habits never died and Hal figured it was around this age that Bruce had become so vigilant. He gazed out at a foreign Gotham before whipping around.
Back to business. Hal leaned against the wall as Bruce paced around. He asked Hal for more details about the current state of the world, his ring (which Hal tossed for him to inspect), what superheroes there were, if there were any hints about the mission he was on, the welfare and status of Selina Kyle for investigative purposes only.
Hal laughed at that last one.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Hal smiled. This young Bruce was clever and still very serious, but he couldn’t hide his feelings as well as the older version did. There were small inflections in his voice, pauses in odd places as he thought, and a twitch of his hand. Or maybe Hal finally knew the man well enough to peer beyond the facade.
“I care about my city.” His voice was rough and terribly deep. His hulking figure stepped toward Hal, ready for a fight.
“Catwoman is not the entirety of Gotham.”
Bruce opened his mouth to speak, but Hal was quicker to the draw.
“Besides, Bruce, you manage to find love in other people even while you pine after her.” He chuckled as he pulled off his jacket. He spoke the truth: Bruce’s dark hair and demeanor were a magnet for heroes and villains alike. Rogueishly handsome with an unbreakable conviction—the sort of stuff expected from a real knight, chivalry and all, but with the aesthetics of a bad boy.
Bruce didn’t react the way Hal expected. Which is to say, the man coughed and cleared his throat. His eyes flashed to a blank wall for mere seconds, yet Hal noticed. He noticed a lot of things about Batman after anticipating every single critique from the man. Maybe the poor boy couldn’t handle the idea of any woman other than the ravaging and salacious Selina Kyle.
The (currently) older man stepped forward and placed a warm hand on Bruce’s shoulder. He tried to be comforting.
“I’ll call one of the Leaguers and we’ll see if we can fix this. Just make yourself at home, Bats.”
With a quick conversation, he learned Zatanna was in another dimension doing real magical things and the only solution proposed was to wait it out. Other magic users didn’t want to get involved once they heard Constantine’s name. They were assured she’d be back soon enough to reverse it. All that was left to do was wait.
Young Bruce kept looking out the window, gazing at a skyline once so familiar. There was a somberness to it. Hal had always assumed Bruce’s glumness was natural to his personality, like a vampire except he sucked the cheerfulness and color out of life, but he saw then an affinity for Gotham’s polluted hellscape that was more than vengeance. More than his mission. The man loved his city, and, though that fact was obvious, Hal’s heart melted when he saw his reflection in Bruce’s. More often than not, Coast City was entirely new in his absence. The people he pledged to protect and the horizon he once was familiar with constantly changed.
“Was Wayne Tower always this tall?” A voice piped up from the curtain. Bruce’s hands fiddled with it as he turned back.
“I don’t know. Uh, probably?” Hal half-smiled. “I told you, Lanterns spend more of our time protecting Sector 2814 on the galaxy level. I’m sure you—the older you—upgraded everything. Always the planner.”
“Your knowledge is… concerning. You have gaps in odd places.”
Quiet filled the room. Once more, the younger man observed Hal’s body, gaze darting from his chest and arms to his legs. His eyes were narrowed as he began to glower. One foot shifted and Hal recognized a combat-ready Batman.
Really?
“Hey, I’m just not Gotham’s biggest fan, alright?” He put his hands up. “But I promise, we’ll get your condition fixed—you don’t have to tussle with me. I don’t think I can win against a twenty-year-old Batman.”
Actually, he thought, that was probably untrue. This one didn’t have the history they shared so… he could probably catch him off guard. But as satisfying as the thought was, Hal was a gentleman. He wouldn’t pounce on Bruce just to feed his ego.
The man’s jaw was clenched.
“Bruce, stop that. I can read you like a fucking book.” He rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to fight. You can trust me, remember? Besides, I think bringing you here just ruined my career. Or at least what my peers think of me.”
Bruce’s posture relaxed, only marginally. Hal stood next to him and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Gotham is so different.” There was a tiny tremor in his voice as he spoke. “I suppose I can thank heroes like you for helping out too.”
Hal laughed at the irony. Young Bruce had missed their conversation at O’Malley’s. He’d take it though. Even when glimpses of his Bruce showed up through this younger one, he could not help but feel a little affectionate. Like there was some innocence or naivety left in such a jaded man. Maybe the tiny successes in Gotham’s bustling population shining through the architecture were doing a number on the younger Bruce. A Bruce who felt alone for his first year of crime fighting.
He ruffled the young man’s hair.
“Bruce, you’re so adorable like this. Don’t age.”
Hal’s hand returned to his side while one of Bruce’s came up to fix his hair. Or whatever he was doing with his hands.
“You don’t like forty-year-old me?” He looked at Hal who stared at something beyond the horizon line. Maybe tracing the sky for a hint of space.
“You were a pain in my ass.” His arms crossed.
“How so?”
Hal smiled like he was recalling an old friend. “You’ll remember eventually.”
It was melancholic.
Bruce only grunted back. They stood looking out the window in silence. It was funny, Hal thought, the entire lifetime they shared even when their lives only met the way sine and cosine functions intersected. Their lives were never far from one another—that was the superhero gig—but they never followed each other more than they needed.
“I’m gonna get a drink,” Hal said as he walked to the minibar. He pulled out a beer bottle. Bruce followed him as he kicked the bar shut. His ring snapped the cap off in an instant and he sat on the bed. He gulped a fourth of it down before holding it out for young Bruce.
The young man apprehensively took it in his hands. He stared at the rim of the bottle, eyebrow twitching as he thought deeply about something Hal wasn’t paying attention to, and drank.
Who’d have thought it could be? Batman and Green Lantern sharing a drink without being at each other’s throats.
Bruce sat down and the bed creaked with his added weight. That was the only sound in the room for a while.
Hal's head tilted as he leaned on his right arm, coming closer to Bruce. He had one leg perched on the bed and his left arm lazed over it. The alcohol made him warm. He shifted on the mattress as he thought about what to talk about. Despite all their differences, the Bruce he knew was never boring and they always had something to talk about. Or, more accurately, fight about.
He looked at Bruce.
Their faces, he realized, were suddenly not far. Bruce’s eyes flitted to the different features on Hal’s face. He sat extremely properly, not a single slouch or uncouth nerve in his body, but that all stopped when he crashed his lips against Hal’s.
Hal froze.
“Bruce, what are you doing?” He pushed him back by his shoulders, keeping him at arm’s length.
The man stuttered an incoherent response. His eyes darted around the room and he had a sort of apologetic look about him. This was new to Hal. He had never seen Bruce act like this—not with him. His hair fell into his face to which he brushed back nervously.
Batman. Nervous.
“I assumed we were… partners,” Bruce said. His eyes tracked onto Hal’s Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “You leaned in.”
“What?” Hal wasn’t aware Batman could be bisexual. He wasn’t aware of most things since saving the world came first in every relationship. More than that, he was baffled at the thought that Bruce would be attracted to him of all people. They had been at each other’s throats for over a decade, even if they were playing nice now.
Young Bruce did not know that though.
His face was drawn in a frown. “You touch me freely and you know what I’m thinking without me saying it.”
“But you’re…” Hal couldn’t find the words. How could he?
He tried putting the pieces together. The train of thought Bruce had. The spelled Bruce found Hal in a bar, already with the preconceived notion they were friends, then what? The jokes from the other pilots couldn’t have been it. Hal was no detective but he knew he was not purposefully trying to court a Bruce Wayne from twenty years ago. If he remembered right, it would be only about a year until they actually met and their heads clashed just as much as their fists.
“Younger? That doesn’t change our relationship, does it?”
Yes, it fucking does.
(Mostly because they didn’t have one.)
At best, he figured the bat-people of Gotham had a different culture than he, from sunny California, did. Maybe advances were more obvious on the West Coast to match the perfect weather they could never escape. Batman was the type of guy who would focus on the minutiae of things. Bruce was fluent in body language so Hal must have given the wrong impression without realizing it. Perhaps, sharing a drink wasn’t the move of camaraderie he thought it was.
“And I’m older than you normally, so why would it be different now?” Bruce’s gravelly voice somehow went through Hal’s ears and landed in his dick. Not helping.
“Uh…”
Bruce leaned closer. Hal scooted back, falling onto his hands for support.
“Still, this doesn’t seem right to do, Bats.”
Bruce didn’t do anything but smirk at that. There was a quick exhale from his nose as he inched closer. He was smug like he somehow knew something Hal didn’t (which made no sense seeing that he was currently under a spell). Hal was slightly miffed. Batman would be Batman no matter the age, he reasoned.
Those blue eyes flashed down toward Hal’s crotch before peering back up at his reddening face. A hand hovered over the waistband of his jeans and he held his breath.
The button came undone. Hal crawled back so quickly that he fell off the bed. He stumbled to his feet and his back hit the wall with a loud thump.
“Batman, you really…” The pilot couldn’t continue talking. One of his hands came up to cover his flushed face and hide his shame. Why was he getting hard looking at Batman of all people? Why did the idea of messing with Bruce arouse him like no tomorrow? It was as if ten years of disagreements could be dissolved with a little friction.
Hal cleared his throat. “You’re too young right now.”
“That doesn’t seem like a problem down there.”
Confident. Too confident, dare Hal say, overconfident. But this mortal man before him had always been like that in the face of gods among men. Batman never seemed to mind the power gap. Hal watched Bruce step up from the edge of the bed and approach him.
The rumors of a spectacularly scandalous Bruce Wayne echoed in Hal’s mind. He must have been a monster in his youth—sometime around now. Hal wondered back then how to negotiate the chasm between Bruce Wayne and Batman. That fantastic PR wreck Bruce Wayne and the notorious PR wreck Batman. Back then, he figured making headlines was the only common denominator.
Zip.
Bruce looked down and found the words “LUCKY YOU” and a four-leaf clover on the excess denim behind the zipper. He fought a smile. Black briefs beneath peeked out.
“What’s our relationship then, Highball?” Crystalline eyes bore into him. “If we’re not lovers, then what are we?”
One of Bruce’s hands grabbed Hal’s wrist. His fingers dug into the flesh by the carpal bones. Hal felt sweat drip down his back, fuck, he was so sweaty. He had no idea what to say or do.
“Your heart rate is fast,” Bruce said after Hal couldn’t muster a response, “your pupils are dilated, as they have been for the whole night, and your face is red—though that could be the alcohol you’ve been drinking. Even if we’re not lovers, you’re still attracted to me.”
He spoke with the same level of succinctness he always did when he was chastising Hal. It threw Hal for a loop as his body reacted with a feverish heat. And he couldn’t determine what that heat indicated more: attraction to Bruce Wayne or the return of the many angry fights they shared in the Justice League. Shit. That was going to confuse him for the rest of his life. All those fiery interactions ended with their faces a little too close for comfort. Or could it be that the discomfort was indicative of something greater?
“Not to mention,” Bruce sucked in a breath as he spoke, “you’re hard.”
“I,” Hal’s mouth started without him really thinking (as it somehow always did), “you’re messing with me, right?”
“Not yet I’m not.” A smile. A coyness to his hands and touch. His fingertips drifted away from Hal’s hands and jeans and trailed up his shirt. Hal felt fucking breathless. Whose Bruce was this?
“Why are you doing this?” Hal asked, catching Bruce’s hand. He couldn’t glean a motive. Young Bruce seemed unphased.
“Why’d you bring me to your hotel room?”
Hal’s mouth shut. He didn’t have an answer and he couldn’t think of one although they were strictly there for superhero business. At the same time, Bruce was right. They could have gone to Wayne Manor and, well, talked to the other bats. Instead, he brought Bruce Wayne to his (temporary) place of rest to keep to himself.
Bruce pushed forward and their lips collided again. The hand Hal was holding slithered out of his grip and yanked him closer by the collar of his shirt. The brown-haired man couldn’t help but think he was falling for some power play in the grand scheme of things like a pawn hopping over that first square and landing in the next. Something about controlling the center of the board.
Batman would be more than naive if he thought Green Lantern would let that happen.
Hal’s hand came up to the back of young Bruce’s head and he tugged that dark hair back as he returned the kiss. Fuck, he shouldn’t. Bruce gasped for air as Hal’s mouth aggressively met him. His back left the surface of the wall as he gave Bruce the same fervor. He forced the younger back. Bruce had always been a big guy. Even now, in this spelled version, he was 6’2” and had muscle packed on every part of his body. But Hal was years above Bruce in this form.
“You’re not usually this impulsive, Bruce,” Hal spoke as his thumb traced the man’s jaw. They kissed again. Bruce shoved him back as he clashed their mouths together. Hal’s head made a thunk as it hit the wall.
“I always am with my lovers.” He spoke quickly between kisses. Like he didn’t want to waste his time.
Hal felt Bruce’s tongue against his and didn’t bother hiding a groan. It resonated in both of their mouths and resembled a growl more than anything else. This wasn’t smart, Hal thought as a hand began palming his crotch beneath the denim.
“Ah, fuck.” There was a whine in his voice. He couldn’t fight it. That hand was touching him rough and, fuck, if he didn’t love friction like that.
Young Bruce looked at him with expectant eyes. They were admiring Hal.
He admired Hal.
The older man watched as Bruce’s eyes traced over his body in a desperate act of memorization. His keen eyes focused on Hal, but were different from when he would judge his combat form. No, he was studying him. He caught when Hal’s breath hitched, when his hips bucked up to meet him, and when his jaw clenched. Even now, about fifteen years younger, Bruce analyzed everything.
Hal’s waistband dropped and a warm hand met his bare skin.
A pathetic noise not meant for men his age spilled out of his lips.
Hal had one hand covering his face as he rubbed his temples. What the hell was he supposed to do? “Jesus, Bruce, I’m not—”
The man lowered to his knees.
Holy fuck.
Hal couldn’t talk—by God, how in the world was he supposed to form a coherent thought? Those brooding, indigo eyes glanced up through long dark lashes as he tugged Hal’s pants down. Hal’s mouth went dry, but that wasn’t true for his entire body. No, his body was more than reactive to Bruce’s touch. He opened his mouth and closed it three times before opting to watch Bruce below him.
The younger man pulled Hal’s dick out and licked from the base to the tip. His lips pressed against the head as he searched Hal’s face for approval. Sparks surged through the entirety of Hal’s body and shivered their way down his spine. A hand came to Hal’s hip while the other squeezed his hand gently before accessorizing Bruce’s hair with it. His fingers got lost and tangled in the waves of thick, black hair. As his hand moved, the man’s head tilted to meet him. He followed so obediently.
That alone could make Hal swoon.
He took Hal into his mouth with a confidence only gifted to those familiar with the act. The wet warmth sent Hal’s brain crashing into an overwhelming tide of pleasure. And then Bruce’s tongue—
A strangled moan escaped Hal.
Hal bit down on his lip, fighting his body to not instantly come. He was not as young anymore—a ripe thirty-seven—he wouldn’t be able to match a young, fiery Batman’s pace. And if he came now, well, that would be another embarrassing moment to add to Batman’s catalogue of Green Lantern fuck ups.
With a face like that—lips wrapped around his dick, red dusted cheeks and ears—and with that disheveled head of hair Hal was culprit of, he figured he wasn’t going to last long. If he kept watching, their interaction would end sooner. Men should not be allowed to be pretty.
Hal wondered what life Bruce had lived—as both the year one Batman and the one he knew prior. What sort of man made Bruce come undone in his youth? Who had the fortune of being his first? A pang of jealousy filled Hal’s chest as he, for some unknown reason to him, wished they had done this sooner. He combed through Bruce’s hair gently, almost massaging him as his mouth took Hal’s dick further in.
“You’re—fuck—really…” Hal coughed. This dynamic was too foreign, too distant from what he knew, too intimate.
He looked down and met Bruce’s eyes. The younger man pushed his head forward and a few inches breached into his throat. Hal squeezed his eyes shut and leaned his head back as Bruce’s head and tongue sped up.
There was a glint of mischief, Hal thought, behind that blue.
“God, you’re so good, Bat—Bruce. Fuck, that’s—”
The hand gripping onto Hal’s hip turned painful.
He didn’t want to hurt Bruce. No, he never agreed with him and they clashed all the time, but he would never wish harm on the man. Except when he did.
Hal’s hand made a fist in Bruce’s hair and yanked him forward, satisfied when a choking noise came out. He felt Bruce’s breath on his pelvis and watched the man’s eyes glitter with faint tears. Even after all these years, Hal couldn’t connect Bruce’s uncannily beautiful face to the man donning that stupid cowl. For some reason, that only made him more excited. Oh, God, he was not going to be able to stop thinking about this if they went on a mission again.
He shut his eyes before his fantasies went too far.
His mouth started murmuring and mumbling broken words of praise for the man between his thighs. Something along the lines of bringing God into this, how pretty Bruce Wayne was—there was a low hum from the man in response, a vibration stemming from deep in his throat—and then Hal became completely incoherent.
He really couldn’t keep going like this.
Not when young Bruce attended to him so diligently. Such a good boy. Hal couldn’t tell if he thought that or spoke it. It didn’t matter. He began imagining his Bruce, the one about three to five years older than him, at his beck and call. On his knees. What made it worse was that Hal willingly imagined his Bruce sucking him off with that look of indignation on his face. With that subtle loathing they shared coating his tongue as he choked on Hal’s cock.
Shit.
“Hey, kid, I—” he sucked in a breath of air “—pull off, I’m gonna come.”
His hand had turned gentle at this point, no longer forcing Bruce’s face close. In fact, he sorta felt bad about doing that, even when it sent electricity through his veins. There was a wet, squelching sound as the younger slurped up his precum. Looking now, Hal could almost see a quiet bulge protruding in Bruce’s throat. Fuck, that did numbers on him.
Hal’s hand stroked through Bruce’s hair, tenderly pulling it in a futile attempt to move him away. The man on his knees ignored him.
“Bruce, hey, listen to me, I’m gonna—”
Bruce's mouth left his dick for a mere second before deepthroating Hal fully.
He came.
Hal’s head was swimming in a feeling akin to paradise. Still, he watched as Bruce swallowed as much as he could. A mix of saliva and semen dripped down his chin, which Hal felt bad about, sure, but he could not deny that it looked hot. What a mess.
Hal jerked Bruce’s head back hard with one hand.
“Hey, I told you to…”
There was a smug grin on Bruce’s face as a mix of pain and pleasure jolted through his body. Hal’s eyes trailed down to the man’s crotch and there was a growing wet spot. Damn. It made sense, he supposed, that Batman would get off on a little roughhousing.
Hal swiped the drool off Bruce’s face with his thumb and helped him up from the ground. Afterward, he fixed his clothes. Bruce dusted off his pants, stopping to inspect the unfortunate condition they were in, when Hal grabbed him by the face. He dabbed the young Bruce’s face with a crumpled napkin he found in his pockets.
“For all those years of you telling me to listen, you are terrible at it, Bruce,” Hal said as his eyes locked on Bruce’s lips.
He smiled back. One arm snaked around Hal’s waist and pulled him closer.
Bruce looked at Hal’s lips too as he began, “Should we have another g—”
A portal opened up in the middle of the hotel room. It wasn’t often that Bruce could be caught unaware by anyone and that was doubly true when it was Hal (he was not very inconspicuous). However, this time he was thinking with his dick rather than his brain and so, even with his superb reaction time, he was not prepared for the heavy shove Hal gave him. It sent him tumbling into a chair.
“Zatanna, you’re here,” Hal said, trying his best to sound completely normal. His attempt to sound normal was ineffective though as his voice raised in pitch and he sounded squeaky.
The magician stepped into the room with a smile. She was always the performer.
“Sorry for the wait, Green Lantern.” She scanned Hal in curiosity—because what was that? His suit belatedly formed over his body. And then she found Bruce stupefied in a chair. His mouth was slightly ajar.
Hal cleared his throat. “He’s all yours, Zatanna.”
She stared at him, trying to glean more information about his odd behavior. He turned away. Actually, he walked to the window, gave it a good thwack, and began to step out.
“I’ll be in Coast City,” he said, “if anyone needs me. Yup. Okay, good luck.”
And with that, he flew off.
“Huh,” Zatanna spoke as she watched him. She stepped closer to Bruce. “You guys have an awful relationship—stand up, please—even when you’re vulnerable he wants to get away from you the first chance he gets.”
“What,” Bruce choked out. His face was redder than ever before.
“John sucks at this type of spell,” she ignored him. “He was probably just using it to get at you—and me.”
Bruce bit his cheek as he scratched the base of his neck.
“What were you saying before that?”
“You and Hal? Isn’t it obvious? You two fight over everything—I’m surprised he didn’t just leave you on the curb.”
A magical glow pulsed through the room as she held her hands out. “Ready?”
Absolutely not.
Hal’s aviator jacket was still in the room.