Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The clock on the wall ticks with glacial precision as Bruce scrolls through an endless stream of unread emails. None urgent. All filtered through layers of middle management. Budget requests. Marketing reports. Each document vetted by at least six pairs of eyes before reaching his desk. He doesn't really need to be here today—the office is just an escape. Hal has returned from an off-world mission in the small hours, and re-entry is always an adjustment. For everyone.

The television mounted in the corner plays local news on mute. The weather forecast promises more misery: low temperatures, freezing rain stretching endlessly into the week. Bruce thinks that if winter insists on being this bad, it could at least have the decency to snow.

We could always winter in California, Hal had suggested once.

Damian needs consistency in school.

His phone vibrates against the desk, and Bruce feels tension coil in his shoulders before he even reaches for it. E-mail from Damian's school. Another detention. He sets the phone face-down without responding. There isn't anything left to say to Damian's teachers that hasn't been said and filed away a thousand times over. Any attempt to discuss it with Damian will spiral into the same argument they always have, voices rising until the walls shake.

Maybe he’ll ask Hal to speak with him instead. Hal has always been able to read Damian in ways Bruce never could. Most days, Bruce can almost pretend that doesn't sting.

The traffic report follows the weather's lead. Major pile-up on I-95. Nothing unusual there. Closed in both directions. Multiple injuries. Life flight dispatched.

Something cold settles in the pit of his stomach. He pushes it aside, buries it beneath spreadsheets and quarterly projections. The budgets aren't going to approve themselves.

The memories come in fragments. Heavy traffic. Headlights swallowed by fog. Black ice. There’s a reason Hal rarely ventures from the West Coast during his earthbound stretches, why he presses Bruce so hard to relocate. It’s a fantasy, and Hal knows it. Bruce has roots here. Family. A middle schooler who needs stability. You can't transplant a life built over generations on a whim.

A horn's blare. Tires screaming. The worst crunch-bang he's ever heard—and isn't that saying something, given his line of work?

Pain.

White-hot, all-consuming pain.

Most people never see past Bruce's carefully constructed facade. Cold. Serious. Untouchable. Hal can't pinpoint exactly when he'd decided to start chipping away at those walls. Maybe it’s his own damaged psyche searching for kindred spirits. Maybe he just wants to prove the perfect Bruce Wayne is just as gloriously flawed as the rest of them.

The glimpses of humanity are there, if you know where to look. The worry lines in his forehead. The way he vanishes at the first hint of trouble at home. The obsessive surveillance he maintains over everyone in his orbit.

They'd been assigned monitor duty together by some sick joke. These shifts are rare, and Hal doesn't mind that fact. Bruce approaches everything with gravity, while Hal treats life like a carnival ride. Except for this. Like hell will anything happen on his watch.

"You're unusually quiet," Bruce observes, eyes scanning multiple feeds.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hal's eyebrow arches, but he keeps his gaze locked on the screens. Barry is handling himself fine—always does—but Hal will never forgive himself if something happens in a moment of distraction.

"Merely an observation."

"Contrary to popular belief, I do know when to take my job seriously."

"I never suggested otherwise."

Hal swallows the bitter retort that rises in his throat: Yeah, but you think it loud enough.

Bruce's next question catches him completely off-guard.

"You have brothers, correct?"

"Two," Hal confirms, squinting at a shadow in an alley corner. Just a trick of the light, he decides.

"Older and younger?"

"Yep."

"Did you ever... fight?"

Hal actually laughs at that. "Did we fight? Did we fight?" Any other time, he might have questioned this sudden interest in his family dynamics. Bruce already knows the answer to any question he asks—his files on League members are thicker than War and Peace. "Christ, for someone with five billion kids, you really have no clue how siblings work, do you?"

"I'm trying," Bruce whispers, walls crumbling for a fraction of a second before snapping back into place.

Three missed calls from an unknown local number. Not entirely unusual—Bruce changes his number every few months when it inevitably leaks. He studies the number sequence. Not Gotham Academy. Not Bludhaven General. Not Gotham Mercy. Wait.

No.

Bruce knows that number.

His heart plummets as he answers. "Mr. Wayne?" a woman's voice inquires.

"This is he."

"This is Dianne Butler with University Hospital. I'm afraid there's been a terrible accident."

Lights. Helicopter blades thundering overhead. A hand gripping his. Something pressed against his face. Panic claws at his chest—who are these people? Where is he? What’s happening? He tries to draw deep breaths, but his lungs won't cooperate. Blood streams from his face. Head wounds always bleed hard, don't they?

Someone is speaking to him, but the words are lost in the pain.

That’s bad.

Definitely bad.

The ring feels like lead in his pocket. He'd managed to slip it off in that first surge of adrenaline. He feels naked without it. Exposed. Wrong.

A gentle squeeze of his hand.

Ringing drowning out everything else.

Then darkness.

"So here's the thing about teenage boys," Hal announces, dropping into the chair beside Bruce. Weeks have passed since their last shift together, but Bruce's questions about sibling relationships have eaten at him. "They're fundamentally stupid."

Bruce raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. "What are you talking about?"

"You," Hal replies without hesitation. "Well, your kids. Some of them, anyway."

"We are not having this conversation."

"See, but you started it when you asked about my brothers, so now we're seeing it through." Bruce shakes his head and turns back to his screens. Fine. He can ignore Hal—plenty of people do. "So, Damian's what, thirteen?" A slight nod confirms it. "That's the thing. Thirteen-year-olds are uniquely awful. Hormones. Zero impulse control. Everything is literally the end of the world."

"He's a good kid."

"Never said he wasn't," Hal holds up his hands. "He's testing you. Pushing boundaries. Trying to figure out where the lines are drawn."

"And you're suddenly an expert in child-rearing?"

"Nah. But someone had to keep Jim alive."

The waiting room at Gotham University Hospital is chaos. Bruce has never understood why the entire metropolitan area is served by just one level-one trauma center. He navigates past shell-shocked families and children with fractured limbs, focused on the check-in desk. He'd ended the call before Dianne could finish her explanation. Act first, questions later.

Now those questions burn in his chest.

Who?

How?

When?

He fires off a quick text to Hal while queuing behind other worried faces. Why do these lines move so damn slowly?

Family emergency. University. Call me.

No immediate response, but that isn't unusual. Probably still dead to the world, wrestling with jet lag. Regular time zones are bad enough—Bruce can't fathom adding interplanetary travel to the equation.

"Bruce Wayne," he announces when he finally reaches the desk, cutting off any pleasantries. "I received a call about an emergency."

The receptionist nods, fingers moving across her keyboard. Bruce forces himself to breathe. To center. To prepare. "He's in CT." He. Not one of the girls. Dick? Jason? No, Jason would have had them contact Roy first... "Who—" he starts to demand before catching himself. Public space. Too many eyes. Demands will only slow things down. "I apologize. I didn't catch who it was."

The receptionist looks up at him with practiced sympathy. "Your husband."

The admission paperwork seems endless. They've moved Bruce to a private waiting room, but the questions keep coming. He closes his eyes, reaching for information that should have been automatic.

Patient name? Harold Jordan. Preferred name Hal.

Date of birth? February 20, 1985.

Relation? Spouse.

Any allergy to latex? No.

Any allergy to medications? Sulfa.

Reaction? Rash.

He tries to find stability in the routine. They need complete information quickly.

Blood type? A positive.

Would he accept blood transfusions if needed? Yes.

Any past surgeries? Left ACL repair, circa 2014.

Any past hospitalizations? Yes. Landstuhl Regional Medical Center.

Religion?

Bruce exhales slowly. "It's complicated."

"Any clergy he'd like to speak with?"

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. Religion has always been a sore subject with Hal. Neither parent willing to compromise. "He'll want a rabbi. And a priest."

"Both?"

"Like I said. Complicated."

"Does he have a living will or advanced directive?"

Bruce shuts his eyes. "Yes."

"Power of attorney?"

"I need to make a call."

He steps outside to feel the cold, winter air on his face, to keep the walls of the waiting room from closing in.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​He was five. Davis-Monthon Air Force Base. Arizona summer, 115 in the shade. The air was hot and dry in a way that burned your lungs and cracked your lips. Martin loaded them into the Camry—faded blue with a mismatched door and a radio that only caught Spanish stations. The car always smelled like jet fuel no matter how many pine tree air fresheners Jessica hung from the mirror.

The base pool was their Saturday ritual. Jack, nine and fearless, would be halfway up the high dive before Martin even set down their towels. Hal remembered crying, watching his brother slice through the deep water while he was trapped behind the plastic chain marking the shallow end. Three feet felt like an insult.

His father never believed in long conversations. When Hal's crying reached that hiccupping stage, Martin scooped him up, walked to the deep end, and tossed him in. Six feet of chlorinated water closed over Hal's head.

"Sink or swim," he said with no hint of worry.

Jessica had been horrified. She screamed at Martin for a week. Called him reckless. Called him worse things after the boys went to bed.

Hal panicked at first. Water filled his nose and burned his sinuses. It flooded his ears and pressed against his lungs. Then something instinctive kicked in. His feet found rhythm. His arms carved through water. He floated. He lived.

He begged to go to the pool every day after that. Adrenaline addiction starts young.

This feels like floating now. Weightless. Limitless. No pain radiating from his skull. Nothing at all.

He could stay like this forever.

The hospital paperwork blurs before Bruce's eyes. The fluorescent lights are too harsh, making everything feel surreal. He's been on the phone for what feels like hours. His voice is hoarse from repeating the same information again and again and again.

Dick got the details first. Bruce needs someone to take Damian, to keep him away from this sterile nightmare. Dick is calm when Bruce can't be. They agree to shield Damian from the truth, at least for now. The boy has seen enough tragedy for a lifetime.

Barry arrives still in his work clothes. His Central City PD badge is clipped to his belt. Bruce checks the time—3:27. Half day at least. Barry must have called in favors. They divide responsibilities like they've done a hundred times before. Bruce handles the facts—medical terms, statistics, probabilities. Barry manages the rest—the worry, the fear, the emotions Bruce can't let himself process.

The paperwork sits half-finished on the table. Bruce stares at the questions he's already answered. Name. Date of birth. Blood type. Like Hal's entire existence can be reduced to checked boxes and scribbled notes. 

Their hands are tied until Dinah arrives.

Five steps to the window. Gotham spreads out grey and endless below. Turn. Six steps back. The coffee grows cold in his hand. He doesn't remember drinking any of it.

Dinah arrives just past three. She's the picture of professionalism: blonde hair pulled back, navy sweater without a wrinkle, sensible shoes that make no sound on the linoleum. Bruce wonders how many patients she had to cancel. It's easier to focus on details like that.

"Okay," she takes a deep breath, centering herself the way she teaches her clients. Bruce can see the cracks in her facade—red eyes, trembling hands. She isn't okay. None of them are. "Tell me what I need to know.”

Hal isn't sure when he stops hating Bruce. Isn't sure he ever really hated him at all. Because hating Bruce Wayne is easy: perfect body, perfect smile, more money than God. That's before you even get to whatever the hell he passes off as a personality. The cape and cowl just make it easier to despise him, all shadowy and cryptic like he invented the concept of brooding.

The little things are harder to spot. Harder to love. The way his jaw clenches whenever Guy enters a room, muscle twitching under skin. The slight shift in his eyes when Nightwing does something exceptional—pride disguised as analysis. The hollow silence that stretches like a chasm whenever Jason comes up. The way his fingers tap exactly three times against his thigh when he's trying not to say something he'll regret.

The Watchtower hums around them, constant white noise that fades into background after the first few hours. The lights are dimmed for the night cycle. Most of the team is gone or sleeping, leaving them alone with six screens and too much silence.

"You're watching me," Bruce says during hour three of monitor duty, not bothering to look up from the security feed. The coffee between them has gone cold. Neither reaches for it.

"Says the king of surveillance," Hal shoots back, rolling his shoulders against the stiffness. Another four hours to go. "Got files on my breakfast preferences too, or just my combat weaknesses?"

"Should I be concerned?" Bruce's voice is flat, but there's something else there. Something Hal can't quite place.

"Gee Spooky, I dunno." Hal leans back, balances on the rear legs of his chair. Playing with gravity. Always playing with gravity. The risk of falling keeps him sharp. "Been dealing in any weird space crap lately? Interplanetary mishaps? Do I need to sic Kyle on you? He's better with the weird shit than I am."

Bruce's eyes flick to him, then back to the screen. "You're not right."

"You're just now figuring that out?" Hal grins, all teeth. His ring pulses slightly on his finger, reacting to the spike in his heart rate. He wonders if Bruce notices. Of course Bruce notices.

Bruce almost smiles. Almost. The corner of his mouth twitches upward for a fraction of a second. Hal counts it as a win.

The doctor arrives minutes later—young, dark circles under her eyes, tablet gripped too tightly. For a moment, Bruce wonders if she’s old enough to be out of medical school at all. 

 Her scans show bright spots and shadows where they shouldn't be.

 More forms appear on more clipboards. Consent for procedures with names like "external ventricular drainage" and "transcranial Doppler monitoring." Acknowledgment of risks written in language crafted by lawyers to protect the hospital instead of doctors trying to protect the people inside.

 Significant chance of permanent disability.

Potential for adverse outcomes.

No guarantee of recovery.

Dinah signs the forms in a way that Bruce would describe as efficient. Cold. Blue ink, steady hand, no hesitation at all. In any other circumstances, with any other person, he would have admired it. 

He tries to keep the anger in check, feels it burning in his chest anyway. It's not her fault. This is what Hal wanted, back when he and Bruce discussed it all those months ago over a bottle of scotch on the penthouse balcony. Hal needed someone who could make decisions calmly, in his best interests. Someone who could make the tough decisions if needed. He said he was trying to protect Bruce from having to kill him. He was right. It still hurts like a knife between his ribs.

Dinah speaks to the doctor for what feels like hours, but in reality could only have taken minutes. Her voice never wavers, even when discussing "comfort measures" and "quality of life considerations." She keeps that practiced, neutral expression on her face as she sits across from Bruce, taking his hands into her own. Her fingers are cold against his skin.

The damned waiting room clock ticks at the volume of a sonic boom. 4:47. The second hand jerks forward, brutal and mechanical. Outside, the sky darkens with yet more sleet and freezing rain.

Bruce tries to focus, tries to think through the static in his head. Intracranial pressure: 32 millimeters of mercury when normal is below 15. 

They needed to remove part of his skull. 

Broken ribs: three on the left, two on the right. 

Broken radius. 

Dislocated jaw. 

More trauma from the spin when the car rolled down the embankment. Hypoxia from when his heart stopped for ninety-seven seconds in the ambulance. A chance he will never be the same. Memory loss. Motor function deficit. Personality changes. Trouble with speech, with recognition, with the fundamental things that make Hal who he is…

All of that if he even wakes up at all.

Bruce reaches the far end of the parking lot before he realizes he's stood up and left. Cold air slaps his face, smells like ozone and exhaust. His dress shoes slip on wet pavement. It’s too much. Too heavy. Too soon. 

It would be easier to accept if it had happened in the field. If Green Lantern had gone down in a blaze of glory fighting for other people’s lives. If it hadn't been Hal on a freeway in an accident that could have happened to anyone, in a car that folded like paper around him, on a cold Tuesday afternoon for no reason at all.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

Clark arrives at the hospital two hours into the surgery wearing khakis and a flannel, the picture of Midwest decency. The blue plaid is slightly rumpled, the khakis unpressed. Bruce isn't sure who called Clark. He isn't sure why he didn't call Clark himself. Maybe the explanation would make it too real.

"Bruce," he greets, starting to go in for a hug before deciding against it. "How are… No, don't answer that." Clark studies him for a long moment, reading him the way only Clark can. Bruce knows what he sees. The exhaustion in the set of his shoulders, the fear in the tension around his eyes, the helplessness in his carefully controlled breathing. Almost twenty years of friendship allows Clark to see what Bruce never needs to voice.

Bruce says nothing. What is there to say? That the best neurosurgeons in Gotham are currently removing a section of Hal's skull to relieve the building pressure that might kill him if left unchecked? That Hal's brain is swelling and bleeding in ways the human body was never designed to recover from? That Bruce has spent the last two hours reciting statistics on traumatic brain injuries in his head, each one worse than the last? That he's already calculated the exact percentage chance of Hal emerging from this with his mind intact and that the numbers didn't look good?

Clark seems to understand the silence. He takes the seat beside Bruce, the chair creaking slightly under his deceptive weight. He sits close enough to offer support, far enough to respect the wall Bruce has built around himself.

Barry paces by the window, too anxious to stay still, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum with each pivot. Bruce almost laughs. Hal hates those sneakers. Teased Barry for weeks about buying 'dad shoes.' Dinah is in the corner, on the phone with Oliver. Bruce wonders if he'll come. The room is otherwise empty, the rest of the League keeping their distance out of respect or uncertainty, the older and younger Jordans waiting to fly standby from God-only-knew where.

Hal slams the spreadsheet down on the console with more force than is probably, strictly speaking, necessary. He's been tracking the monitor duty assignments for three years. Seven times with Bruce. Seven. And suddenly they're on the same rotation for three weeks straight? No way that's coincidence.

"In three years we've had monitors together exactly seven times," he states, watching Bruce turn with that infuriating raised eyebrow. Not quite a question. Not quite dismissal. Just enough acknowledgment to be irritating. The monitor room is too cold—it's always too cold—and Bruce hasn't moved in nearly two hours. How does he do that? Just... sit there? "So why the hell have we suddenly been on the same rotation for three weeks?"

He watches Bruce start to open his mouth, probably to give some bullshit explanation about scheduling algorithms, and cuts him off before he can get a word out. "You trust me. Admit it."

Bruce taps his finger three times against his thigh—a tell Hal's been cataloging for months—and Hal can't help but grin. Gotcha. "There were scheduling conflicts with other members who…"

"Oh bullshit," Hal drops into the seat next to Bruce's just to see the barely-there twitch of annoyance. The chair rolls slightly, bumping against Bruce's. "Admit it, Spooky. 'Hal is a responsible adult who can do responsible adult things.'"

"You're immature." The words lack the bite they used to have. Progress.

"And you," Hal shifts, making sure Bruce meets his eyes, "Are in some serious denial."

Another hour passes. Then another. No updates for hours now. Bruce calculates possible explanations for the delay.

Complications. Unexpected bleeding. Another cardiac arrest.

His shirt collar feels too tight, though he loosened his tie hours ago. His eyes burn from lack of sleep, from staring at nothing, from the emotions he refuses to acknowledge.

Dinah places a hand on Bruce's shoulder. He turns to face her. Her touch is firm, grounding, professional in its steady confidence. "You need to eat." Bruce starts to protest, but she cuts him off, eyes telling him she wasn't asking. "You need to step away. Gather your thoughts. Clear your head. Barry and I will be here and will let you know the second we know anything."

Bruce hesitates. Leaving feels like a betrayal. If something happens and he's away… if Hal's condition changes while he's gone… if the worst occurs and Bruce isn't there—the thought is unbearable.

"Bruce," Barry cuts in from across the room, tired and dead in a way Bruce hadn't known Barry was capable of being. "We've got him."

Something flips and turns in the pit of Hal's stomach. Scared isn't the word but he figures it's close enough. The hotel bar is too warm, the scotch in his glass too expensive. He'd abandoned his tie hours ago, top buttons undone, jacket draped over the back of the barstool. The mission debrief was supposed to be quick—fly in, report, fly out—but then Bruce fucking Wayne had to complicate things by actually showing up in person.

Hal's felt this before. Twelve years old and Mandy Leide smiled at him across the cafeteria. Fifteen kissing Ben Vanbuskirk under the bleachers, praying no one would find them. Twenty-five asking Carol out for the trillionth time when she finally said yes.

Now 37 and he can't stop watching Bruce in that ridiculous suit that probably costs more than Hal's rent. Bruce nods at whatever Diana is saying, not drinking the mineral water in his hand because of course Bruce doesn't actually drink at these functions. Just holds the glass like a prop. The slight crinkle at the corner of his eyes when he almost smiles at Diana's comment makes Hal's heart speed up, a response he hasn't felt in years.

Shit. This is going to be complicated.

"More coffee?" Clark offers, already moving toward the counter. The cafeteria is nearly empty at this hour, just a few night shift nurses and a janitor pushing a mop across the tiled floor. Bruce doesn't remember the walk here.

"Black," Bruce confirms, claiming a table in the corner where he can watch both exits and keep his back to the wall. Old habits. The chair is cool metal against his back, a small shock after hours in the upholstered waiting room seats. He can picture how Hal would balance back in them. The pile of rolled up straw paper he'd leave behind.

Clark returns with two coffees and an impressive selection of pre-packaged sandwiches. "I didn't know what you wanted," he explains, even though Bruce always orders the same thing. Clark was offering him control. Choices. Bruce was almost grateful. "So I got options." His hands cradle his cup carefully, mindful of his strength even in moments of distraction.

A silence forms heavy between them, nowhere near as comfortable as the last.

"He's going to pull through this," Clark says after a while, his voice low but certain. "Hal's the most stubborn person I know. Next to you, of course."

Bruce looks up, meeting his friend's gaze. Part of him, a very small part of him, wants to believe. But the facts. The statistics. The figures. They all screamed. "The human body can only withstand so much trauma. His brain…"

"Bruce," Clark cuts him off gently. "You've seen the size of his head." The gentlest hint of a smile. The type of gallows humor only true friends could share.

Bruce actually laughs—a small, surprised sound that seems to startle them both. It feels wrong, finding anything humorous in this situation, and yet the brief release of tension is like coming up for air after being underwater for far too long. Clark's simple joke, perfectly calibrated to pierce Bruce's armor without trivializing the gravity of the situation, is exactly what he needs.

"Don't tell him I laughed at that," Bruce says, composing himself. "He'll never let me hear the end of it."

The walk back is silent. Bruce's pace quickens with each step, dress shoes clicking sharply against the linoleum. Clark keeps close behind.

When they return to the waiting area, the steel double doors remain firmly shut. Bruce checks his watch. Nearly five hours since Hal went in. There hasn't been an update in too long. Barry has moved from pacing to sitting, leg bouncing with anxiety, barely contained.

Bruce takes his position directly across from the doors, standing rather than sitting. Watching. Waiting. Hoping.

The doors finally swing open. Dinah emerges, work clothes covered in a yellow, gauzy gown.

"He's out of surgery," she says, skipping any preamble as she approaches them, untying the gown and folding it over her arm. "Vitals are stabilizing." Dark circles form bruises under her eyes. Her irises are rimmed red.

Bruce feels his chest loosen, just barely. The vise grip that's been crushing his lungs eases half a notch.

Dinah hesitates.

"They put him in a coma. Gives his brain the best chance to heal." She hesitates again. "He's on a vent."

The implications land immediately. Bruce's jaw tightens. He tries to remember how to breathe.

Hal's limits were clear. 72 hours. No more.

If he was gone, let him go.

Chapter Text

He was twenty-six. Lyraxia. An ice planet at the edge of sector 2814. Nothing like Earth cold—this was primordial cold, the kind that turns air to crystal and shatters your lungs. The kind that existed before the stars. 

He’d always hated the cold.

The ring sat heavy on his finger, weighing nothing and everything at once. The sky was black, stars impossibly bright without atmosphere to make them dull. 

The ring hummed against his skin. Constant. Insistent. He pushed further than protocol technically allowed.

He’s back there now. Cold seeping into every cell. Different this time. Not invasive. Peaceful. Almost.  No weight. No pain. Just the void and him and the sense of infinity.

The cold should be unbearable. Should make him fight against it like he always has before. Eielson Air Force Base winters that sent him fleeing to the simulator. The apartment the year of the historic blizzard when Jack forgot to pay the gas bill.

He doesn't want to fight it at all.

Strange how something he's fought his whole life finally makes him feel at home.​​​​​​​​​

Bruce navigates the maze of the ICU, Clark in tow. Blue scrubs. Quick movements. A resident in the corner running a code.

Time distorts, stretching and compressing, a surreal landscape of fluorescent lights and sterile walls. Bruce moves with single-minded focus, desperate to see Hal, dreading what he'll find. Clark's hand on his shoulder keeps him here.

Closed doors with numbers swimming past. 2214. 2216. 2218. Machines beeping in distant rhythms that almost form a song.

They stop outside room 2220. His breath catches in his throat. The glass window allows him to see. Jagged monitor lines. A tangle of leads. Hal’s face a violent painting of violets and blues. He stands frozen at the doorway, unable to command his legs to move.

A rhythmic hiss-click fills the otherwise silent room. 

He’s never seen Hal so fragile. So small.

Hal. Vibrant, reckless Hal, the man who pushes everything to the limit just to see if he can, the man who saves galaxies on sheer willpower and stubbornness alone, the man who fills every room he enters with life and light, looks small.

“You son of a bitch.” His voice is low, barely audible over the beep of the machines. He settles into the chair by the bed, taking Hal’s cold hand in his. “You couldn’t wait to surprise him at home like we planned? No. You had to go pick him up from school.”

The machines whirl and click. Hal’s chest rises and falls in perfect, artificial rhythm. Nothing like the chaotic, full-bodied way Hal breathes

“He got a detention again today. Corrected his Earth-Space teacher about the composition of exoplanets. Thank you for that.”

A nurse enters, adjusts something on one of the pumps. Bruce doesn’t look up at her. Doesn’t acknowledge her presence. Just keeps talking, his voice low.

“Clark’s here. Outside. He won’t say it, but I think he’s afraid. Dinah and Barry are in the waiting room. Jim’s flight’s delayed, but he’s coming. Jack too.”

The beep has become almost hypnotic, a metronome counting out seconds that stretch into eternity. His voice becomes a broken whisper. “God dammit, Hal. What the hell am I supposed to do?”

It happens on a League mission gone sideways. Costa Rica. Lots of guys with guns. Humidity and gunpowder and blood. Hal doesn't know what slipped—a guard, a sensor, whatever—but suddenly everything's bullets and shouting and oh shit, run. 

They make it out. Barely. Because of course they do. Like hell is Hal going to die on some random Tuesday afternoon.

The safehouse is remote. No electricity. No cell service. No help for miles around.

Bruce opens his mouth, and Hal can practically feel the lecture coming. That familiar holier-than-thou expression. That jaw doing that thing. That eyebrow about to make its grand appearance.

"Don't," Hal warns, jabbing a finger in Bruce's direction. "This could've happened to anybody. You don't get to get all high and mighty because it happened to happen to me." He sounds convincing. At least in his own head. Probably.

Bruce's gaze shifts to Hal's side, that annoying analytical thing he does. Like he's cataloging weaknesses. Like he's filing it all away.

"You're bleeding," he states calmly.

Oh. Well. That's inconvenient.

Bruce has Hal sitting on a rickety table before he can protest, a first aid kit materializing out of thin air. 

"This is excessive," Hal mutters as Bruce threads a needle. "You know that, right?"

Bruce doesn't answer. Just moves with methodical precision, alcohol pad cleaning the wound. His fingers are cold. 

"Jesus," Hal hisses. "You couldn’t have warmed them up first?"

Bruce remains silent. Three neat stitches. Fast and efficient, just like everything he does. 

His fingers linger on Hal's skin longer than they need to. Hal watches Bruce's face—the concentration, the control, the slight furrow between his eyebrows that never really goes away.

"You like playing doctor?" Hal asks, voice rougher than he thinks he means.

Bruce looks up, meets his eyes. That intensity that always makes Hal's pulse leap. 

Hal moves first. Always does. Fingers curling into Bruce's suit, pulling him closer. Bruce hesitates—fraction of a second, barely noticeable—before meeting him halfway.

The kiss is exactly like their arguments. Sharp edges. Competition. Neither of them willing to give any ground.

The ceiling tile above Hal’s bed has a crack that runs diagonally. Bruce has stared at it for twenty-three minutes, counting the seconds between breaths. Sixteen per minute. All perfectly timed.

Bruce traces the veins on the back of Hal’s hands, mapping tributaries that lead nowhere. The skin is cool. Wrong. Hal runs warm. Even in winter, he sleeps with the windows cracked.

A gentle knock breaks the silence. Clark stands there, hesitant, a paper cup of water in his hand. His eyes widen slightly. There is an almost imperceptible hitch in his breath. His casual confidence is gone. This isn’t a problem Superman can solve.

The silence stretches between them, punctuated by the ventilator’s mechanical hiss and clicks. 

“Bruce…”

“I’m fine.” He hears the lie in his own voice. Clark doesn’t reply.

Hours blur together. Nurses come and go, checking vital signs.

Visitors rotate through like shifts. Barry appears hollow-eyed and silent, squeezing Bruce’s shoulder before retreating without a word. 

Jack arrives in the small hours just before dawn, a storm of motion through the door. His suit is rumpled, tie loose, hair disheveled in a way that looks eerily like Hal. Bruce watches him through the glass before he even enters the room, studies the way exhaustion has carved deep lines in his face. The infamous Jordan smile is nowhere to be found.

“I tried to…” Jack starts, stops and starts again. “Deposition. I couldn’t have my phone. Jim’s on his way, but his flight’s delayed…” his voice trails off as he fully takes in the sight of his brother. His jaw tightens the same way Hal’s does when he’s trying to hold back. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers, voice quiet and controlled in a way that Hal’s never was. Bruce watches the eldest Jordan’s face cycle through emotions—shock, anger, fear—before settling into something carefully neutral. The same mask Bruce wears.

Bruce recites the facts with detached precision. Jack nods mechanically, processing each piece of information with the practiced stoicism of someone who’s heard bad news before.

This isn’t the Jack form Hal’s stories. Bruce has heard about him for years. Responsible. Straight laced. Followed Martin’s footsteps without following him into the sky. How was it Hal had put it? Jack’s got a stick so far up his ass that it comes back out his nose.

Jack paces the room like a man mapping a prison cell. His eyes never stay still, darting from monitor to vent to the bruised wreckage of his brother’s face. Bruce knows this pattern. It’s exactly how Hal moves when confined in a small space. ”I have to call Mom.” Bruce nods, understanding settling between them like a third person in the room. Jessica Jordan isn’t someone Bruce and Hal discuss.”She’s… Not well.”

Bruce nods, unsure of what to say. He was never any good at this part - the connection, the shared grief. “I can…”

“No,” Jack cuts him off. “No. It should come from me.” He runs a hand through his hair—another gesture so quintessentially Hal that Bruce has to look away. Jack moves to Hal’s bed side, hesitating before touching his brother’s hand. “You asshole,” Jack whispers, voice cracking. “What the actual fuck?”

Chapter Text

Morning dawns like an afterthought. Grey light seeps through blinds that no one bothered to close. The clock reads 6:17. He’s been here 14 hours. It feels like years. For a disorienting moment, he’s unsure what woke him. In a flash, it’s there.

“I don’t give a fuck about your visiting hours policy!” The voice cracks with exhaustion.

Jack shifts slightly in the opposite chair, shoulders slumped beneath his wrinkled suit jacket. He keeps his eyes shut and speaks in a voice heavy with sleep. “That would be Jim.”

The younger Jordan brother stands at the nurses’ station, fists clenched at his side, shoulders hunched forward like he’s bracing against a storm. Bruce can see the family resemblance in the set of his jaw, the angles of his face, the way his hands never quite stay still. He wears faded jeans and a university sweatshirt with frayed cuffs. His hair sticks up in three different directions, unwashed. Wild. He looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks.

Jack's up now, moving with a stiffness that betrays how long he's been hunched in that chair. Bruce watches him cross the room, shoulders squared like a man marching into war. Jim's voice grows louder, more desperate with each second that ticks past.

"That's my brother in there!" The words echo down the too-quiet. "My fucking brother!"

Jack pauses at the doorway, casting a glance back at Bruce. There's a moment of silent communication between them—two men who understand what it means to be the responsible one, the one who holds everything together while the world falls apart.

"I've got him," Jack says, voice rough with fatigue. "Stay with Hal."

 Bruce watches as Jack moves to intercept Jim at the nurse’s station. There is an ease to his movements despite the exhaustion-deliberate, economical, nothing wasted. Nothing like Hal.

The brothers embrace without hesitation. Jim’s fingers clutch at the back of Jack’s wrinkled shirt. There’s an ease between them that Bruce has never seen between Jack and Hal. No tension in their shoulders. No careful distance maintained.

Jack murmurs something Bruce can’t hear, his hand on the back of Jim’s neck, keeping him still. Jim nods, exhaustion evident in the heavy way his shoulders slump.

Jim’s entire body vibrates with a tension Bruce recognizes from Hal-that desperate energy that demands action when there’s none to take. His eyes dart around the ICU, taking in the equipment, the nurses, the sterile efficiency of it all. Bruce watches him steel himself before following Jack toward the room. 

“Oh fuck,” he whispers, freezing in the doorway, the color draining from his face. “Jack, you didn’t… Shit this is bad.”

The Watchtower observation deck is empty at this hour. Just the endless field of stars and Earth hanging suspended below, a perfect blue marble wrapped in swirls of white. Hal stands at the window, not quite touching the glass. He doesn't need to press his face against it like a kid at a candy store. Not when he's been out there, among those stars, felt the void against his skin with only willpower and the ring between death and him.

He hears Bruce before he sees him—the barely audible footsteps that most people would miss. Bruce moves like a shadow even without the cape and cowl. Deliberate. Controlled. Everything Hal isn't.

"Thought you'd gone back to Gotham," Hal says without turning.

"Monitor duty ran long," Bruce replies, coming to stand beside him. Not too close. They're still figuring this out, whatever this is between them. Three weeks of stolen moments. Heated encounters after missions. Professional distance maintained in front of everyone else.

"Trouble?" Hal asks, glancing over.

Bruce shakes his head. "Just thorough."

Hal smiles despite himself. "Of course you are."

They stand in silence, watching the slow rotation of Earth below. It should be awkward. They should be awkward—the controlled, methodical Bruce and the impulsive, fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants him. But somehow it isn't. Somehow, they fit.

"I have to go off-world tomorrow," Hal says finally. "Sector trouble. Might be gone for a while."

Bruce nods, absorbing this without visible reaction. "How long?"

"Don't know. Could be days. Could be weeks." Hal turns toward him fully now. "You gonna miss me, Spooky?"

The nickname still irks Bruce—Hal can tell by the almost imperceptible tightening around his eyes—but there's something else there too. Something that looks almost like affection.

"The Watchtower will certainly be quieter," Bruce says, eyes fixed on the stars beyond.

"That's not an answer," Hal points out, moving closer. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from Bruce's body, to smell the faint bergamot scent of his aftershave.

Bruce turns to face him, expression carefully neutral, but his eyes—those sharp, penetrating eyes that see everything—give him away. "Yes," he says simply. "I'll miss you."

The admission, small as it is, feels monumental coming from Bruce Wayne. From Batman. Hal's heart does something complicated in his chest, a feeling he hasn't experienced in years. Maybe ever.

"Good," Hal says, reaching out to touch Bruce's face. His fingers trace the strong jawline, the slight stubble beginning to form as the evening wears on. "Because I'm gonna miss you too, you emotionally constipated bastard."

Bruce's lips twitch, not quite a smile but close. "Such romance, Jordan."

"You want romance?" Hal challenges, stepping closer still. "I can do romance."

Bruce's eyebrow rises skeptically. "Can you?"

"Watch me." Hal gestures toward the observation window, toward the cosmos beyond. "See those stars? I've been to hundreds of them. Thousands. Seen things you can't imagine. Wonders that would break your mind wide open. Beauty that would make you weep."

Bruce watches him, expression softening almost imperceptibly.

"And none of it," Hal continues, voice dropping lower, "none of it compares to the way you look right now. With the stars reflecting in your eyes. With that tiny little almost-smile you get when you're trying not to let me know I've gotten to you."

Bruce's expression changes then—surprise, vulnerability, something deeper that makes Hal's breath catch.

"Told you I could do romance," Hal says, suddenly self-conscious under that intense gaze.

Bruce doesn't respond with words. Instead, he closes the remaining distance between them, one hand coming up to cup the back of Hal's neck, the other settling at his waist. The kiss is gentle at first, almost hesitant—so different from their usual heated encounters, the desperate coming together after missions, adrenaline still coursing through their veins.

This is something else. Something new.

Hal leans into it, his own hands finding purchase on Bruce's shoulders, solid and strong beneath the thin material of his t-shirt. The kiss deepens, slow and thorough, like they have all the time in the world. Like Hal isn't leaving tomorrow for God knows how long.

When they finally pull apart, Hal keeps his forehead pressed against Bruce's, unwilling to break the connection completely. "Come with me," he says impulsively. 

Bruce hesitates, and for a moment Hal thinks he's going to refuse, to retreat behind that wall of control and duty. But then he nods, a single decisive movement. "All right."

The walk to Hal's quarters is silent, the Watchtower corridors deserted this late. Hal is acutely aware of Bruce beside him, of the distance they maintain until the door slides shut behind them, sealing them into their own private world.

Then Bruce is kissing him again, more urgently now, backing him against the wall with a controlled intensity that makes Hal's knees weak. Hal gives as good as he gets, hands roaming beneath Bruce's shirt, tracing the landscape of scars that tell the story of his crusades. The hard planes of muscle. The pulse point at his throat.

They've done this before, but it feels different tonight. Less frantic. More deliberate. Like they're mapping each other, committing every detail to memory.

They make it to the bed eventually, a tangle of limbs and half-removed clothing. Bruce hovers above him, eyes dark and intent, studying Hal's face with the same focus he brings to everything.

"What?" Hal asks, suddenly self-conscious under that penetrating gaze.

Bruce's expression softens, something almost like wonder crossing his face. "You're beautiful," he says simply, the words so unexpected coming from him that Hal nearly laughs.

"Pretty sure that's my line," he says instead, reaching up to trace the curve of Bruce's cheek.

Bruce catches his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm with unexpected tenderness. "I want to remember you like this," he says quietly. "While you're gone."

The simple statement hits Hal harder than any declaration of love could have. Because this is Bruce—guarded, controlled Bruce—offering something real. Something vulnerable.

"I'll come back," Hal promises, pulling Bruce down to him. "Always do."

Their bodies move together with practiced ease, finding a rhythm that builds slowly, steadily. Hal loses himself in the sensation—in Bruce's hands, his mouth, the weight of him. In the soft sounds Bruce makes when Hal touches him just right. In the way his control slips, just a little, just for him.

After, they lie tangled together, sweat cooling on their skin. Bruce's head rests on Hal's chest, ear pressed over his heart. One arm is thrown possessively across Hal's waist, anchoring him.

"I never pegged you for a cuddler," Hal says, fingers tracing lazy patterns on Bruce's back.

"I'm full of surprises," Bruce murmurs, voice thick with approaching sleep.

Hal watches him, memorizing the way he looks in this moment—relaxed, unguarded, almost peaceful. So different from the grim vigilante who strikes fear into Gotham's criminals. So different from the controlled billionaire who keeps the world at arm's length.

This—this version of Bruce—is his alone. The thought fills Hal with a fierce possessiveness, a protectiveness he's never felt for anyone else.

"What are we doing, Bruce?" he asks softly.

Bruce is quiet for so long that Hal thinks he might have fallen asleep. But then he shifts, propping himself up on one elbow to meet Hal's gaze directly.

"I don't know," he admits, the rare uncertainty making him seem younger somehow. More human. "But I want to find out."

The simple honesty of the statement, the vulnerability it represents coming from a man who plans for every contingency, steals Hal's breath. He pulls Bruce down for another kiss, gentle this time, a promise without words.

"Me too," he says against Bruce's lips. "When I get back."

Bruce settles beside him again, arm tightening around Hal's waist. "I'll be here," he says.

And somehow, lying in the narrow bed of his Watchtower quarters, Earth spinning slowly beneath them, stars stretching out endlessly beyond, Hal knows with absolute certainty that this—whatever this becomes—is going to change it all.

Chapter Text

The drive to Wayne Manor passes in a blur. Bruce is vaguely aware of the Bentley responding to his commands, of the falling temperature outside, of the freezing rain that has finally, mercifully ceased. The roads still glisten treacherously under streetlights, wet asphalt reflecting the night sky like splintered glass.

Jack's words echo in his head. "This isn't about you being tough. This is about your kid."

The oldest Jordan brother had caught him off guard. Not with the demand that he go home—Bruce had been expecting that from someone eventually. No, it was the way Jack had looked at him in those final moments before he left the hospital room. Father to father. A look that cut through Bruce's carefully constructed act like it was made of glass.

The conversation replays in his mind as he navigates the treacherous roads. Jack's quiet confession about his ex-wife's cancer, about his daughter's fear, about the wall he'd built between them with his silence. The bitter recognition in Jack's eyes—a man who'd learned his lesson too late, offering Bruce the chance to avoid the same mistake.

Now, pulling into the familiar drive of Wayne Manor, Bruce prepares himself for the conversation ahead. Jack was right. Damian deserves the truth, however painful. And Bruce needs to be the one to deliver it.

Alfred meets him at the door, relief evident in the subtle straightening of his posture as he takes Bruce's coat, in the momentary softening around his eyes. The butler directs him toward the cave with minimal words exchanged.

The shower is brief but necessary. Clean clothes feel like armor going into battle, providing a sense of control that he desperately needs.

He finds Dick and Damian in the simulation room beneath the manor. The space is configured for hand-to-hand combat training, holographic opponents flickering in and out of existence as Damian dispatches them with precision born of years of training. At sixteen, he moves with the efficiency of someone twice his age. Each strike calculated, no movement wasted. So much like Bruce himself at that age.

From the control panel, Dick spots Bruce, shoulders immediately slumping in release. A silent exchange passes between them before Dick slips away, leaving father and son alone.

Damian notices Bruce immediately—he always does. His body goes still in that particular way that Bruce recognizes in himself, in Talia, in Damian: the predator's pause before deciding whether to attack or retreat. His eyes narrow, cataloging Bruce's appearance. The slight shadows beneath his eyes. The tension around his mouth that even the shower couldn't erase. The way he stands, balanced on the balls of his feet as if bracing for impact.

When Bruce explains about the accident, Damian goes completely still. Not the calculated stillness of before, but something deeper. Something primal. Even his breathing seems to pause. Only his eyes move, searching Bruce's face for the truth behind the words.

The boy's hand drifts unconsciously to the watch on his wrist—the vintage Omega Speedmaster that Hal had given him on his fifteenth birthday. Bruce remembers finding them in the hangar that day, Hal showing Damian how to set the chronograph functions, explaining how astronauts had used that exact model on the moon. Damian had worn it every day since, though he'd casually dismissed it as "merely practical" whenever anyone commented on it.

Now his fingers trace the circumference of the watch face, a nervous gesture Bruce has never seen from him before. His eyes remain fixed on Bruce's, demanding the complete truth without speaking a word.

As Bruce details Hal's injuries, Damian's hands clench at his sides—once, twice—before deliberately relaxing. His chin lifts a fraction of an inch. His shoulders square. So much like Talia in that moment, preparing to face an enemy's blow without a flinch.

The anger comes next, as Jack predicted. Not in raised voices or dramatic gestures, but in the cold precision of Damian's movements as he turns away. In the careful control of his breathing. In the almost imperceptible tremor in his hands before he clasps them behind his back.

When Damian turns back, his face is a perfect mask of composure. But his eyes—those eyes that have always been too old for his face—betray him. The fear lurks there, raw and visceral beneath the carefully constructed calm.

In the set of Damian's jaw, in the slight forward tilt of his posture, Bruce reads the demand as clearly as if it had been spoken aloud: I'm going to the hospital. Tonight.

Bruce shakes his head once, the movement small but firm. 

Damian's nostrils flare slightly, jaw tightening further. His right index finger taps against his thigh twice—a tell he shares with Bruce, a sign of anger barely contained.

Bruce steps closer, close enough to place a hand on his son's shoulder. Damian allows the contact, which tells Bruce more about his emotional state than any words could. 

No more words are needed between them. The arrangement is clear: tonight they will eat whatever Alfred has prepared, Bruce will provide Damian with every detail of Hal's condition, and tomorrow they will go to the hospital. Not as Batman and Robin, not as Bruce Wayne and his son, but as two people united in their concern for a man who had somehow become essential to both their lives.

Bruce studies Damian's reflection in the polished elevator doors. His son stands perfectly still beside him, hands clasped behind his back, chin slightly elevated—the posture Talia drilled into him since childhood. But the tells are there for those who know where to look: the rapid flutter of his pulse visible at his throat, the white-knuckled grip of one hand around the opposite wrist behind his back.

They reach room 2220. Through the glass, they can see Hal's still form surrounded by the machines. Jack and Dinah look up as they enter, exhaustion evident in their faces. Jack slips out with a brief nod, but Dinah remains in her chair beside the bed, her presence both professional and deeply personal.

Damian remains frozen near the doorway. His eyes dart from bandages to monitors to vent, cataloging each horror with increasing panic disguised as clinical assessment. When Bruce moves to offer wordless comfort, Damian flinches away, his brittle "I'm fine" contradicted by every line of his face.

He forces himself forward, each step carefully controlled, as if traversing a minefield. Three feet from the bed, he stops. Swallows hard. The tendons in his neck stand out like cords. His trembling hand rises toward Hal, then drops back to his side, curling into a white-knuckled fist.

The ventilator hisses and clicks with mechanical precision. Damian's breathing grows more erratic, almost matching its beat. His careful composure fractures visibly now—hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, shoulders rising with each too-fast breath, the slight sheen of moisture in eyes filled with tears he refuses to release.

The breaking point comes without warning—a raw, jagged accusation about Bruce's lies of hope, about the wrongness of Hal's stillness, about the inevitability of death. The words burst from him like physical things, tearing themselves free as his body betrays every emotion his training has taught him to hide.

He stumbles toward the door, movements lacking their usual grace. Bruce reaches for him but misses as Damian's knees begin to buckle in the hall. His face has gone from pale to ashen, eyes wild and unfocused, breathing shallow and quick.

Dinah emerges from the room, taking in the situation with a single glance. She exchanges a brief look with Bruce—acknowledgment, understanding, permission—before guiding Damian to a nearby waiting area with the gentleness of someone who has talked countless people through their worst days.

For once, Damian doesn't resist. He folds forward in the chair, fingers gripping the edge so hard the plastic creaks. His entire body shakes with fine tremors, breath coming in shallow gasps. Dinah crouches before him, one hand on his knee, the other taking his pulse at the wrist—a gesture both medical and grounding, professional care disguised as simple human contact.

She doesn't speak, doesn't rush him with platitudes or demands. Just remains present as Damian struggles through each ragged breath. Her calm is infectious, her steady presence exactly what his body needs to find its own rhythm again.

Between rasping breaths, fragments of raw truth escape—that this still form isn't Jordan, that Jordan is never quiet, never still, that this is all wrong. Most revealing is the barely audible admission: "He promised he'd always come back."

The simple statement betrays everything. Damian, who trusts so few people, who lets even fewer matter to him, had believed in Hal's promise. Had counted on it. Had allowed himself to depend on someone else's word.

Dinah's hand remains steady on his wrist, her eyes never leaving his face. She knows better than most what it means to lose someone who was supposed to come back, knows the particular grief that comes with loving people who court danger as a matter of course. Her silence acknowledges his fear without dismissing it or trying to erase it.

When Damian's breathing finally steadies, when the tremors begin to subside, she produces a bottle of water from nowhere, uncaps it, and places it silently in his hand. The simple practical action serves as both kindness and distraction, giving him something concrete to focus on as he rebuilds his composure.

She doesn't comment on the tears he wipes quickly from his eyes, doesn't draw attention to the vulnerability he's shown. Instead, she speaks of Hal in present tense, of his stubbornness, of his track record of beating impossible odds—not false reassurances, but reminders of hard-won truth. She knows better than to lie to someone whose entire life has been constructed around detecting deception.

When Damian finally stands, there's new resolve in his posture. Dinah rises with him, her hand briefly touching his shoulder—professional again, but with the underlying connection of someone who understands.

The walk back to Hal's room is measured, deliberate. Bruce waits at the doorway, giving Damian space to approach on his own terms. The panic has receded, leaving behind a fragile composure waiting to shatter again.

Chapter Text

Something shifts. Not consciousness. Not yet. Just...less nothing.

Pain signals fire distantly. Muffled. Like they belong to someone else.

Sounds filter through. Mechanical. Rhythmic. A voice. Too far away to understand.

Hal tries to surface. Can't. Too deep.

The nothing pulls him back.

Beeping penetrates the darkness. Steady. Insistent. Annoying as fuck.

Pressure in his throat. Wrong. Fight or retreat.

No strength to fight. Retreats.

"...fluctuation in..." Voice fades in and out. "...might be..."

Hal tries to open his eyes. Nothing happens.

Darkness claims him again.

Voices. Clearer this time.

"...no change in..." Male. Professional. Not talking to him.

"How much longer?" Different voice. Familiar. Tense.

Hal struggles toward it. Something important about that voice.

Pain increases with awareness. Throat. Chest. Head pounding.

Tries to move. Can't.

Tries to speak. Something blocks his throat. Panic flares.

The beeping speeds up.

"His heart rate—" The clinical voice.

"Hal?" The familiar one. Closer now.

Hal fights to open his eyes. Heavy. So heavy.

A crack of light. Blinding. Closes immediately.

Slips away again.

Throat burning. Something forced down it. In it.

Light behind his eyelids. Trying to reach him.

Hal battles to open his eyes. Nothing. Again. Slight flutter.

Third try. Eyelids part a fraction. White blur. Too bright. Shut again.

Exhausted from the effort. Drifts.

The tube. It's a tube. In his throat. Breathing for him.

Understanding brings panic. Need it out. Need to—

Machines beeping faster. Footsteps rushing.

"He's fighting the vent—"

Hal's eyes fly open. Unfocused. Everything too bright, too sharp.

A shape above him. Person. Can't make out details.

His arm jerks upward. Weak. Uncoordinated. Trying to reach the tube.

Someone catches his wrist. Firm grip.

"Hal, don't. You need that."

The voice penetrates the fog. Deep. Commanding.

Hal turns toward it. Vision swimming. A man. Dark hair. Concerned eyes.

Not familiar. Should be, but isn't.

Hal tries to pull away. Pain explodes through his body.

"It's Bruce. You're in the hospital."

Bruce? The name means nothing to him.

The tube is choking him. Has to get it out. His free hand claws weakly at his face.

More people in the room. Voices overlapping.

"Need to sedate him—"

"BP elevated—"

"He's going to damage—"

The stranger—Bruce?—keeps hold of his wrist. Doesn't break eye contact.

"Hal. Stop fighting. The tube is helping you breathe."

Something about the tone cuts through. Authority. Used to being obeyed.

Hal stops struggling. Not surrender. Strategic retreat. Gather intelligence first.

The man's face becomes clearer. Sharp jawline. Intense eyes. Exhausted. Days without sleep.

Something slides into his IV. Cool sensation up his arm.

"Just to help you relax," a woman in scrubs explains.

The stranger—Bruce—says something Hal can't process. Too many words.

”Stand down, Jordan.” Military command. Familiar. “Let the medicine work.”

Hal's eyelids grow heavy again. The struggle to keep them open is too much.

Darkness again.

The medication wears off too quickly. Hal surfaces from a fitful sleep to a fire blazing beneath his skin. Every nerve ending screams. 

Forms materialize through the haze of pain. Two men. Familiar. Safe

Tries to shift position, hoping to relieve some of the pressure. Wrong move. Agony tears through.

A sound escapes his throat—animal, primal. Not like him.

"Hal?" A voice breaks through. "What's wrong?"

Can't answer. Can't think. Just pain.

"Hurts," he manages.

Someone's hand finds his. Warm, solid. An anchor in the storm.

"I'll get the nurse."

The standing figure moves closer. "His color's bad. Really bad."

Another wave crashes over him. His back arches. A strangled sound tears free. Can't control it. Can't stop it. 

"Breathe through it, little brother. Just breathe."

Little brother. The words echo from somewhere distant. A broken leg. A car ride. The same voice, younger but just as steady. Jack.

Jack's here. And the other one—Jim. .

But why? Where is he? Why can't he remember?

More pain. White-hot. All-consuming. The ceiling spins above him. Voices blur.

"...need help..."

"...going to..."

"...something for..."

Something cool enters his veins. Blessed relief spreads through him, dulling the edges of the pain. Not gone, but distant now, as if it belongs to someone else.

His eyelids grow heavy. The room shifts and tilts.

Everything feels wrong.

Jack's face hovers above him. His lips are moving. Words Hal can't quite catch.

Jim appears at the foot of the bed. Hal tries to reassure him—always his job to reassure Jim—but his tongue has turned to lead.

The pain still pulses beneath the blanket of medication. He floats. Detached. Drifting. Not quite here.​​​​​​​

Carol.

Where’s Carol?

Why isn’t she here?

Chapter Text

Bruce tracks the precise moment Hal's mind resets—the subtle shift in his eyes, the brief flutter of confusion, the quick scan of the room as he reorients himself. The pattern is painfully familiar now.

Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

"Where's Carol?" Hal asks, right on cue.

The words land with practiced accuracy, finding the exact same spot they've struck a hundred times before. Bruce keeps his expression carefully neutral, though the effort costs him more each time. Beside him, Jack's patience visibly frays, jaw clenching so hard Bruce can hear the grinding of his teeth.

Bruce provides the standard response, an answer Hal finds as unsatisfying now as the previous dozen times. Hal's frown deepens, frustration mounting in his expression.

Jack exhales sharply, fingers gripping the armrest with sudden tension. His clipped dismissal carries the raw edge of someone whose control has frayed beyond maintenance.

Confusion and indignation battle across Hal's features as he insists something must be wrong with their explanation. He searches visibly for memories just beyond reach, words trailing into unfinished thoughts.

Jack's composure wavers. Years of complicated history emerge in careful phrases about relationships long ended, paths that diverged naturally, lives that moved in different directions. Each statement emerges with the particular tension of someone trying to explain change to someone who doesn't remember it happening.

Bruce observes the subtle warning signs—Hal's increased heart rate on the monitor, the flush creeping up his neck, the tension radiating through his body. This deviation from script always ends the same way, yet Jack's momentum carries him past caution.

The explanation continues—time passed, careers developed, choices made by both of them. Jack's gaze flicks toward Bruce, then away, the unfinished implication hanging unspoken between them.

Not like Bruce has. Not like the man silently enduring the endless cycle of non-recognition, of watching the man he loves lost in memories of someone else.

Bruce acknowledges Jack's apologetic glance with a slight nod. No offense taken. Jack's frustration isn't with him but with the situation—Hal fixating on a relationship that ended naturally years ago while unable to recognize the life he’s built since.

Hal's confusion mounts visibly, monitors registering his physical response to emotional distress. His defense emerges predictably—shared history, remembered connection, explanations that sound reasonable to him despite the years he can't recall.

The reset begins without warning—Hal's expression blanking mid-sentence, momentary disorientation washing across his face. His gaze sweeps the room as if seeing it for the first time.

Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

"Where's Carol?" Hal asks, voice clear, earnest, as though the question hasn't just been discussed moments earlier.

Jack's reaction emerges as something between groan and resigned sigh. He turns toward the window, shoulders rigid with frustration barely contained. Bruce maintains his position, answering with careful neutrality, watching Jack's control deteriorate with each repetition.

This loop repeats four more times before Jack finally excuses himself, muttering inaudibly as he strides from the room. The sheer relentlessness of Hal's condition wears down even the strongest resolve.

When they're alone, the questions continue. Carol's absence. Carol's silence. Plans that now exist only in Hal's damaged memory. Bruce responds with practiced care, neither confirming nor denying the relationship Hal believes still exists.

A sudden deviation from pattern—Hal's question about their relationship emerging without precedent, breaking the established loop. Bruce looks up, careful hope stirring despite himself.

Their exchange unfolds differently—Hal's penetrating assessment cataloging details with test pilot precision, Bruce's measured responses offering truth without overwhelming. For a moment, connection forms across the divide of damaged memory.

Then Hal's attention shifts to the window, and Carol's name emerges again. The non-sequitur dissolves their momentary connection like mist in the sun. Bruce exhales slowly, centering himself once more. These brief sparks of recognition punctuate hours of confusion, flaring briefly before fading without trace.

Jack returns eventually, composure restored, apology evident in his careful movements and the coffee placed beside him. Their quiet exchange while Hal sleeps acknowledges shared strain without diminishing commitment.

Jack's unexpected vote of confidence in Hal's eventual recovery carries weight Bruce hadn't anticipated. The oldest brother's certainty based not on medical prognosis but lifelong knowledge of the fundamental way Hal is.

Hal stirs, eyelids fluttering toward consciousness. Bruce watches the familiar sequence begin—the initial confusion, the orientation, the quick assessment of surroundings.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The accident report sits on the desk, a thin folder containing the moment that fractured Bruce's life into before and after. Barry’s face reflects the same grave concern he's shown since arriving in Gotham shortly after Bruce called.

Using his CSI connections and pulling multiple strings, Barry accessed the traffic investigation files and analyzed them to an unsettling degree—examining every measurement and photograph with the thoroughness of both professional training and personal investment.

Bruce focuses on the narrative. Heavy rain. Near-freezing temperatures. Black ice.

A semi-truck jackknifed across three lanes. Chain reaction—five vehicles involved. Hal's sedan struck from behind, sent careening through the guardrail and down the embankment. The car rolled at least three times before coming to rest, driver's side crushed against rocky ground.

The responding officer's report is methodical. Multiple vehicles. Injuries ranging from minor to fatal. Life flight dispatched for critical survivors—including the driver extracted from a sedan at the bottom of the ravine.

Bruce turns to the accident reconstruction diagram. The semi sideways across the highway, multiple vehicles entangled, broken guardrail marked where Hal's car went over. The path down the embankment traced with debris lines. Physics rendered in measurements. Force, mass, velocity, impact.

The fatality count jumps out. Three confirmed at scene. It could have been four. Should have been, according to paramedics' initial assessment of Hal's injuries.

Despite Barry's warning gesture, Bruce feels his breath catch at the first photograph. The highway scene from above—sprawling aftermath of jackknifed truck, damaged vehicles, broken guardrail. Body bags at the frame's periphery, stark white against wet asphalt.

Next, closer images. The trail of destruction down the embankment—torn earth, scattered parts. Then Hal's sedan, barely recognizable. Compressed to half its normal length, roof caved in, driver's side bearing the brunt of final impact. Windshield gone, interior exposed and slick with rain and blood.

Bruce studies each image with forced detachment, cataloging details analytically while walling off emotional response. This broken metal contained Hal. This was the moment everything changed.

The final photographs document the extraction. Emergency responders rappelling down with equipment. The car being stabilized. The roof cut away. Finally, Hal lifted on a backboard, secured for the journey back up to the waiting helicopter, face barely recognizable beneath blood and oxygen mask.

Barry remains silent, giving Bruce space. His own grief evident in the shadows beneath his eyes, in his unusually still hands. Hal isn't just Bruce's husband—he's Barry's best friend.

The truck driver walked away with minor injuries. The SUV driver—a widowed mother of three—suffered a broken arm and concussion but has been released. She has been on her way to pick up the oldest from school. Just like Hal was on his way to pick up Damian. The parallel sits uncomfortably alongside the knowledge that three others weren't as fortunate.

Barry slides across a handwritten note—Annie Davis, the SUV driver who hit Hal, has been asking about him daily despite her own injuries and responsibilities. Survivor's guilt, though the investigation cleared her of all fault.

As Bruce stands, he finds himself acutely aware of his own intact body, the arbitrary nature of survival. How easily the car could have continued rolling. How easily Hal could have been beyond saving.

For the first time in days, he acknowledges the emotion beneath the surface. Not just fear or grief, but anger at the randomness. At a universe that would preserve Hal through intergalactic battles only to strike him down on a mundane stretch of highway.

Freak accident.

No justice to seek.

No villain to blame.​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

Bruce finds Clark in the hospital courtyard, an unlikely haven of carefully maintained greenery between hospital wings. Six days since the accident. One day since Hal first began cycling through the same questions about Carol. Twenty-four hours of introducing himself to the man who once knew him completely.

Clark looks up as Bruce approaches, the subtle tension in his shoulders betraying what his calm expression attempts to conceal. Something in Bruce's stride, the controlled rigidity of his movements, alerts Clark to the storm building beneath his composed exterior. Clark recognizes the particular quality of Bruce's restraint—not discipline but containment, not control but suppression of what threatens to erupt.

The courtyard stands empty at this hour, the early morning chill discouraging casual visitors. Bruce doesn't sit, doesn't claim the bench opposite Clark. Instead, he carefully paces a tight perimeter, despite the barely leashed energy radiating from him. 

Clark waits, allowing Bruce to arrange his thoughts without pressure or expectation. The particular patience of someone who understands that some explosions require space to detonate safely, who recognizes when silence serves better than speech.

When Bruce finally speaks, his voice emerges with a rawness that scrapes against twenty years of carefully constructed composure.

"It would have been easier if he died."

The words escape like projectiles, sharp-edged and dangerous. Bruce doesn't elaborate, doesn't need to. The confession carries its own devastating weight.

"At least then I'd know what to do," he continues, the dam finally breaking after days of forced control. "At least then there would be clarity. Finality. A path forward through grief instead of this endless limbo of maybe and what-if and temporary and permanent."

His voice rises with each word, control fracturing visibly now. Clark remains perfectly still, understanding that movement might disrupt what needs to emerge, that intervention would only redirect rather than relieve the pressure building since the accident.

"Instead, I sit there," Bruce continues, gestures sharpening with suppressed violence, "watching him ask for her. Over and over and over again. Watching him look through me like I'm nothing. Like these years never happened. Like I'm a stranger while he fixates on someone who hasn't been in his life for almost a decade."

The particular bitterness in his tone reveals what he's kept carefully hidden from others—not just grief but anger, not just pain but rage. Clark absorbs this without judgment, without attempt to calm or redirect, offering only the space for Bruce to release what he's held for too long.

"Do you know what that's like?" Bruce demands, the question clearly rhetorical, fueled by frustration rather than genuine inquiry. "To introduce yourself a hundred and forty-six times to the man who knew you better than anyone? To watch his face for any flicker of recognition and see nothing? To answer the same questions every fifteen minutes while he asks about someone else?"

His movements grow more agitated, pacing tightening into something almost predatory. Energy with nowhere productive to go, no villain to fight, no problem to solve through force or strategy or wealth or intimidation. Just helpless rage against circumstances beyond anyone's control.

"And everyone keeps saying 'be patient' and 'give it time' and 'the brain heals at its own pace,'" Bruce continues, voice rising further, hands gesturing with uncharacteristic sharpness. "As if I haven't calculated the statistical probabilities. As if I don't know exactly how unlikely full recovery is. As if I haven't read every medical journal article on traumatic brain injuries published in the last decade."

Clark remains silent, understanding that what Bruce needs isn't response but release, isn't comfort but witness to the anger he can't express to others—not to Jack with his own grief, not to Jim with his fragile hope, not to Damian with his desperate need for stability.

"And the worst part?" Bruce stops abruptly, turning to face Clark directly for the first time. "The absolute worst part is that I can't even be angry at him. I can't resent him for not remembering. I can't hold him responsible for asking about her constantly. Because none of this is his fault. It's just random, meaningless bad luck. Ice happens. Physics happens. And everything we built disappears in an instant while he gets trapped in some half-life where I don't exist anymore.”

The rage burns white-hot now, finding voice after days of suppression. Bruce's control breaks completely, fist slamming into the courtyard wall with enough force to split skin across knuckles. The physical pain barely registers, lost beneath the emotional storm finally breaking free.

"I would know how to grieve him," Bruce says, voice dropping suddenly, the shift from shouting to near-whisper somehow more revealing than the previous explosion. "I know how to honor the dead. I've had practice. But this? Watching him there but not there? Having him physically present but mentally absent? Having to pretend this limbo might end when the doctors' faces tell me otherwise? I don't know how to do this."

His voice cracks on the final words, raw honesty breaking through decades of restraint. He turns away sharply, unwilling to be witnessed in this moment of vulnerability, hands pressed flat against the courtyard wall as though physically holding himself upright.

Clark finally rises, approaching with the particular caution he reserves for these rare moments when Bruce's control fails completely—not fear of physical danger but respect for the privacy Bruce maintains. He doesn't touch, doesn't attempt comfort through contact. Just stands close enough to offer presence without intruding.

"I know," he says simply. The words carry no judgment, no attempt to diminish the legitimacy of Bruce's anger. Just acknowledgment, understanding, the recognition that such emotions don't diminish his love for Hal but arise from it.

Bruce exhales slowly, the explosive energy gradually receding, leaving behind the particular exhaustion that follows emotional release. He presses his forehead against the wall, eyes closed against the morning light that suddenly seems too bright.

"I can't do this,," he whispers, the admission barely audible. "I can't keep watching him look through me. I can't keep hearing him ask for her. I can't keep pretending there's hope when each day proves otherwise."

"You can," Clark counters quietly. "Not because it's fair or right. But because the alternative is worse."

The simple truth lands with unexpected impact—not comfort but clarity, not reassurance but recognition of the stark choice Bruce faces. Presence despite pain, or absence despite love. No third option exists, no clever strategy circumvents the fundamental reality of their situation.

"I hate this," Bruce says finally, the admission emerging with quiet intensity rather than explosive force. "I hate every second of it."

"I know," Clark acknowledges, no attempt to minimize or redirect Bruce's emotion. "You should."

The permission to feel exactly what he feels—anger, resentment, rage against circumstances beyond control—offers its own kind of relief. Not solution but validation, not comfort but understanding. The particular support that comes from someone who doesn't require performance of appropriate grief, who accepts emotional reality without judgment.

As the rage recedes, leaving behind hollow exhaustion in its wake, Bruce becomes aware of his bloodied knuckles, of the physical evidence of his momentary loss of control. Clark notices his assessment but doesn't comment, doesn't draw unnecessary attention to what Bruce will undoubtedly process privately.

Through the courtyard windows, a glimpse of the main building where Hal remains, caught in his endless loop of confusion and questions. The physical distance between them in this moment mirrors the psychological chasm Bruce navigates each time he enters that room—the space between who they were and what they've become, between shared history and one-sided memory, between connection and its lack.

"I should get back," Bruce says finally, the words emerging with the particular resignation of someone who understands duty regardless of personal cost. "Before he wakes up again."

Clark nods, respect evident in his restraint, in his willingness to allow Bruce this return to control without comment on the emotional storm witnessed moments before. The particular friendship that permits temporary vulnerability without requiring ongoing acknowledgment of it.

As Bruce turns to leave, to return to the endless cycle of introduction and non-recognition, Clark speaks one final time.

"It's okay to be angry," he says quietly. "It's okay to hate this. It's okay to wish things were different." His eyes meet Bruce's directly. "Just don't hate yourself for feeling what anyone would feel."

The words follow Bruce across the courtyard, accompany him through sterile corridors, walk beside him in the elevator ascending to Hal's floor. Through the glass, he can see Hal still sleeping, monitors beeping in steady rhythm, the temporary peace before another cycle begins. No recognition will spark when he wakes. No memory will form of this conversation or the ones before it.

Bruce pauses outside the door, drawing a deep breath before entering. Bloodied knuckles hidden in his pocket, rage temporarily expended, control reconstructed around the hollow ache that remains constant despite emotional fluctuation.

Preparing to introduce himself to Hal Jordan for the hundred and forty-seventh time.

Five. Four. Three. Two. One.​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The drive from the hospital feels like betrayal. 

Bruce idles the Bentley at the Gotham Academy curb, ignoring curious glances from passing students. The school's Gothic architecture looms against grey afternoon sky, bell tower chiming the end of the day. His split knuckles throb as he grips the steering wheel, physical reminder of the morning's loss of control.

He checks his watch—3:22. Damian will emerge from the east entrance in approximately seven minutes, fresh from practice. Bruce hadn't planned to pick him up personally, but after this morning's conversation with Clark, being alone seemed unbearable.

Outside the car window, Gotham's young elite pass in uniform clusters of navy blazers and pressed khakis. Bruce studies their carefree movements with detached curiosity. Their world remains intact, undisturbed by the random cruelty of black ice and guardrails. He can't remember the last time Damian moved that way—with the particular lightness of someone who believes in permanence.

Student athletes filter from the athletic complex in groups of twos and threes. Bruce spots Damian immediately—walking slightly apart from teammates, equipment bag slung over one shoulder, lacrosse stick gripped in his right hand. His expression remains neutral until he notices the Bentley, surprise briefly displacing his composed mask.

The coach calls something after him. Damian turns, offering a curt nod without verbal response. The distance he maintains from his peers has always been deliberate, but today it seems more pronounced. Another wall between himself and potential loss.

The car door opens and closes. Damian settles into the passenger seat, grass stains visible on his uniform knees, hair still damp from a hurried shower. The faint smell of sweat and fresh-cut grass fills the confined space.

"Father." The formal greeting emerges with more distance than it usually holds. "I wasn't expecting you.”

Bruce pulls away from the curb without immediate comment, allowing silence to fill the space between them. Damian's gaze shifts to Bruce's knuckles on the steering wheel, lingering on split skin before sliding away without remark. His own hands tighten around the lacrosse stick braced against his leg.

Traffic flows with unusual cooperation, the universe granting small mercy in an otherwise merciless week. Bruce navigates through Gotham's concrete canyons with mechanical precision, the route to the hospital now embedded in muscle memory.

At the first red light, Damian's chin lifts a fraction—a gesture so reminiscent of Hal that Bruce's chest tightens. Their eyes meet briefly, unspoken question hanging between them. Bruce nods once, understanding without words. The hospital. Now. Together.

Damian's shoulders relax marginally, the stick's position shifting in his grip. He stares through the windshield at Gotham's sprawl, the tension in his jaw betraying emotions his posture refuses to acknowledge.

"How was practice?" Bruce asks, the question offering safe territory for conversation.

"Adequate." Damian's response emerges clipped, precise. "Coach Bennett continues to insist I play midfield despite my superior defensive capabilities."

Bruce recognizes the complaint from countless dinner conversations—most involving Hal's animated defense of Bennett's decision while Damian argued his case with increasing intensity. Those debates always ended the same way: Damian storming from the table, Hal winking at Bruce over his coffee cup, the inevitable reconciliation an hour later over strategy diagrams drawn on notebook paper.

"Hal always said you were too aggressive for defense," Bruce observes, the memory slipping out before he can contain it.

Damian's posture stiffens slightly, fingers tightening around the stick. "Jordan knows nothing about lacrosse," he mutters, present tense a deliberate choice. "He played football."

The correction hangs between them—unacknowledged evidence of Damian's refusal to adjust his language to current reality. Bruce doesn't correct him, doesn't force him to confront the particular cruelty of past tense.

Rain begins halfway to the hospital, fat drops striking the windshield with increasing urgency. Bruce adjusts the wipers, their rhythmic sweep marking seconds with each pass. Damian shifts in his seat, the lacrosse stick moving to rest between his knees, both hands gripping it as if seeking stability.

"Drake called this morning," Damian says suddenly, breaking the hypnotic silence. "He offered to return from San Francisco." His tone remains carefully neutral, though the slight tension in his jaw betrays complicated emotions beneath the surface.

Bruce processes this information, considering implications. Tim offering to leave his West Coast case. Tim recognizing the severity without being told directly. Tim reaching out to Damian rather than Bruce himself.

"What did you tell him?" Bruce asks, eyes remaining on the road.

"That his presence was unnecessary," Damian replies, gaze fixed on the rain-slick streets beyond the windshield. "The situation is adequately managed."

The formal phrasing reveals more than intended—Damian's desperate attempt to maintain control, to assert order over chaos, to define boundaries around grief neither of them knows how to navigate. Bruce recognizes the defense mechanism because it mirrors his own.

"You could have told him to come," Bruce says quietly.

Damian's shoulders lift in minimal shrug. "To what end? Jordan wouldn't recognize him either."

The simple truth lands with particular weight. No recognition. No memory. No meaningful connection with any of them, regardless of history or relationship or blood.

They park in the hospital's visitor garage, familiar territory after repeated visits. Damian exits the car, lacrosse stick and equipment bag still gripped in his hands.

Between floors one and two, he speaks without looking at Bruce. "What if he doesn't remember us properly? Ever?"

The question emerges stripped of pretense, raw in its simplicity. Bruce feels his chest tighten at the vulnerability Damian rarely displays, at the child momentarily visible beneath the young man.

"Then we adjust," Bruce answers, honesty the only gift he can offer. "We adapt to whatever comes next."

Damian nods once, sharp and decisive. When the elevator doors open, his walls have returned. Back straight. Chin elevated. Eyes forward. The particular posture of someone facing fear.

Damian's fingers tighten around his bag as they approach room 2220. A nurse exits, clipboard in hand, offering Bruce a sympathetic nod. She's worked every day this week, witnessed each painful iteration of introduction and non-recognition. Her eyes move to Damian, softening slightly at his rigid posture.

Inside, Hal sits propped against pillows, eyes tracking their entrance with mild curiosity rather than recognition. The bandages around his head have been reduced, revealing more of the dark hair now growing back in patches. The bruising has faded from violent purple to sickly yellow-green. Progress in some clinical measurement, though not the progress that matters.

The blank assessment in his gaze—nothing like the warmth that once greeted Damian—lands like a blow. Bruce watches his son absorb it, the subtle flinch quickly suppressed, the fractional straightening of shoulders already too straight.

Bruce's hand settles briefly on Damian's shoulder before withdrawing. The introduction follows its now-familiar pattern, each word another stone in the wall between before and after.

"Hal, this is Damian," Bruce begins, voice carefully modulated to hide the exhaustion beneath. "My son."

Damian steps forward, shoulders squared with military precision. "Jordan," he acknowledges, the formal address at odds with their complicated history.

Hal studies him with furrowed brow, the particular concentration of someone trying to access memories just beyond reach. His gaze settles on the lacrosse stick, lingering there with unexpected focus.

Something shifts in Hal's expression—a subtle change, a momentary clarity breaking through fog. His nose wrinkles slightly, a gesture Damian recognizes from countless breakfast arguments and weekend carpools.

"Lacrosse, huh?" Hal asks, voice stronger than yesterday, more present somehow.

Damian's breath catches, hope flaring briefly in his eyes. He steps closer to the bed, the stick now gripped so tightly his knuckles whiten. "Yes," he confirms, the word emerging with unusual hesitance. "I had practice today."

Hal's head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing in concentration. "You hate defense," he says, the words emerging slow, deliberate, as if dredged from somewhere deep. "Always trying to score instead of protecting the goal."

The moment stretches between them, fragile as frost. Damian moves closer still, close enough that his leg brushes against the hospital bed. His free hand rises, then falters, hovering in the space between them.

"You remember?" The question escapes as barely more than whisper.

Then Hal blinks, confusion returning like shadow across sun. "Remember what?" His gaze shifts between Damian and Bruce, the momentary connection dissolving. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

Damian's posture stiffens, the disappointment visible only in the slight tremor of his hands before they curl into fists at his sides. Bruce watches his son retreat behind familiar walls, the careful distance reestablished near instantaneously.

"We've met," Damian replies, the neutrality in his voice betrayed by a slight shake.

Through the window, afternoon light paints the hospital walls amber. In that glow, Bruce catches the glint of moisture in Damian's eyes, quickly blinked away before anyone can witness it.

The monitors beep their steady rhythm, counting heartbeats in a broken timeline—before, after, and the now endless between.

Chapter Text

Hal doesn't remember the accident.

The doctors say that's normal—that the mind protects itself from trauma. For Hal, everything simply stops somewhere in 2008 and then restarts in this hospital bed, with gaps between that shift and blur like a bad transmission. One minute he's perfectly fine (except for the splitting headache and the fact that his entire body feels like it's been run through a meat grinder), and the next he's struggling to remember who exactly is sitting at his bedside.

He knows Jack, of course. How could he forget Jack? Four years older and perpetually disappointed in him since approximately... the year escapes him. The thought slips away before he can grasp it. The military posture, the permanently furrowed brow, the way he sighs like he's carrying the collective weight of the Jordan family's bad decisions. 

And Jim—no longer Jimmy, a correction delivered with eye-rolling exasperation the first time Hal used the childhood nickname—slouches in the corner chair, leg bouncing with that nervous energy he's had since childhood. Nine years younger and looking at Hal like he's supposed to have all the answers, even now, even broken. The beard is new. The exhaustion in his eyes isn't.

The pain comes in waves, washing over him without warning. Sometimes it's a dull throb at the base of his skull; other times it's a white-hot spike driven between his eyes. The doctors have him on something for it, something that makes the edges of the world go soft and blurry, that makes time skip like a scratched record. One moment his brothers are talking about Henderson from three doors down, and the next they're discussing the Murphys' fountain, with no transition between. Hal nods like he's following, like the conversation makes sense, but the pieces don't quite fit.

They've been talking about the old neighborhood. Safe territory. Nothing that requires Hal to remember the last decade and a half of his life. Henderson from three doors down finally got caught with his secretary and his wife hired a singing Santa to deliver divorce papers at the country club Christmas party. The Murphys installed a fountain that plays "God Bless America" every hour, flooding the sidewalk and driving the entire block insane. The Baptist and Catholic churches are waging passive-aggressive warfare over parking spaces.

Jack actually laughs when Jim describes Mrs. Henderson spray-painting "cheater" across Henderson's precious BMW. The sound is startling—sharp and unexpected in the hospital room. Hal can't remember the last time he heard his older brother laugh. Before the accident, obviously, but even in the fragmented memories that remain intact, Jack's laughter is rare.

"You'd think he would've been smarter about it," Jack says, shaking his head. "Man makes it through Yale Law and still uses his work email to sext his assistant."

"Genius has its limits," Hal replies, the words feeling right in his mouth even as pain pulses behind his eyes. 

Something shifts in Jack's expression—relief, maybe, or recognition. Hal's been getting these looks for days. Every coherent sentence, every retrieved memory, every moment of clarity is treated like some miraculous gift rather than the basic function of a brain that mostly works.

The sunlight stretches golden across the room as afternoon bleeds into evening. Jim's head nods forward, jerks back up. He's fighting sleep the same way he did as a kid, stubborn despite his body's demands. Jack's posture has softened slightly, shoulders curving inward with exhaustion. They look like shit, both of them. Hal wonders how long they've been here. How many days they've spent in these uncomfortable chairs watching him drift in and out of reality.

"Go home," Hal says suddenly, the command stronger than he feels. "Both of you."

Jim straightens immediately, guilty at being caught dozing. "We're fine."

"You look like roadkill," Hal counters. "And you smell worse."

"Charming as ever," Jack mutters, but there's no heat in it.

"Seriously. Get some actual sleep. In actual beds. I'm not going anywhere." Hal gestures vaguely at the bed rails locked in their upright position and the bright yellow fall risk bracelet encircling his wrist, a neon advertisement of his weakness. "Literally cannot escape if I tried."

The brothers exchange one of those looks that still makes Hal want to throw something at them, but finally Jack nods, rising with the careful movements of someone whose back has been protesting for hours.

"Three hours," he says, the words more promise than statement. "Call if—"

"If I suddenly remember the nuclear launch codes, yeah, you'll be my first call," Hal interrupts, rolling his eyes despite the pain it causes. "Go."

After they've gone, the room seems too quiet, the beeping monitors too loud. Hal shifts carefully against the pillows, trying to find a position that doesn't hurt. The pain medication is wearing off, but he doesn't call the nurse yet. The clarity is worth the discomfort, at least for a little bit.

His gaze drifts to the window, to the slice of sky visible beyond the hospital buildings. The ache in his chest has nothing to do with broken ribs or bruised lungs. Flying feels like a distant memory, a dream half-remembered upon waking. He flexes his right hand restlessly, feeling like something's missing though he can't quite place what it is. Maybe just the freedom to get up and go where he wished.

He wonders absently where Carol is, what she's doing, why she hasn't come to see him. The thought passes through his mind and then, strangely, fades without the urgent need to know that has apparently been plaguing him in his confused states. Something about that question makes everyone tense, makes Jack's jaw tighten and Jim's eyes dart away. Whatever happened there, whatever history Hal can't access, it's complicated.

Instead, his thoughts turn to the dark-haired man who keeps visiting, to the strange intensity in his eyes, to the way everyone seems to dance around explaining exactly who he is. There's something there, something important, hovering just beyond the reach of Hal's damaged memory. The man watches him like he's something precious and lost, like he's searching for recognition in Hal's eyes and finding none.

The soft knock at the door interrupts his thoughts. Three quick taps, pause, two more. That distinctive pattern that's become familiar over days of... has it been days? Could be hours. Could be weeks. Time loses meaning when you're measuring it in pain spikes and medication cycles and middle of the night temperature checks.

In the doorway stands the dark-haired man, silhouetted against the harsh hallway light. The brightness sends needles of pain lancing through Hal's skull, forcing him to squint, to turn his head slightly despite the protest from his neck. When he looks back, the figure has shifted, doubled, then merged again. Wrinkled shirt with rolled-up sleeves. Expensive khakis. Hair... something about the hair. The thought dissolves before it fully forms.

Hal watches as the man takes in the empty room, the absence of Jack and Jim registering in the... what was he watching for? The man moves toward the chair. Silent. Why is he silent? There's something about the way he claims the space, the unspoken assumption that he belongs here, that sends a flicker of irritation through the fog in Hal's brain. He should know this man. The fact that he doesn't makes his stomach clench with anxiety he'd never admit to.

Up close, the man's face comes into sharper focus, then blurs again as Hal's vision refuses to cooperate. He blinks hard, trying to force his eyes to work properly. Fine lines around eyes. Stubble on jaw. Hand reaching for... water. The water cup. Hal hadn't realized how desperately thirsty he was until this moment.

He tries to reach for the glass but misjudges the distance. His hand passes through empty air, the movement sending a jolt of pain down his spine that steals his breath. The man catches Hal's wrist with gentle grace, guiding his hand to the cup, making sure his fingers close around it before letting go. The contact feels invasive. It also feels necessary. Hal hates both facts equally.

The water is cold against his lips. Some spills down his chin because his coordination is shot to hell. The man doesn't comment, doesn't try to help. Hal is grateful for that.

The man is watching him. Studying. Cataloging. The intensity makes Hal's head throb harder. He should say something. What should he say? The words form and dissolve before reaching his tongue.

"Bruce," Hal says finally, the name surfacing from nowhere and everywhere at once. It feels right in his mouth. It also feels wrong. Was that this man's name? The uncertainty makes his heart rate spike. The monitors register the change with an increased tempo of beeps that feel like accusations.

A flicker of something crosses the man's face before disappearing behind careful neutrality. "Bruce... Wayne?" Hal adds, less certain now.

The man—Bruce?—nods once. Something in his expression shifts, settles. 

Hal tries to focus, to force his scrambled brain to make connections. Bruce Wayne. The name triggers fragmented images. News. Money. Gotham. Nothing substantial enough to explain why this man sits at his bedside looking at him with that careful, measured gaze. Nothing to explain why Wayne's presence both irritates and comforts him, why it feels simultaneously foreign and right.

The effort of concentration sends another wave of pain crashing through Hal's skull. He closes his eyes against it, against the too-bright lights, against Wayne's too-intense stare. The darkness behind his eyelids swirls and pulses with phantom colors. When he opens them again, the room tilts sickeningly before righting itself.

Wayne is still there, still watching. Has he spoken? Has Hal? The gap in time is disorienting, terrifying in a way Hal would never admit aloud. How long have they been sitting in silence? Seconds? Minutes? Days?

Wayne reaches toward the call button, but Hal manages to shake his head. No more meds. They make everything worse—fuzzy and distant and disconnected. The clarity is worth the pain. Mostly. He thinks.

Fatigue crashes over him like a physical weight. His eyelids feel impossibly heavy. He fights it, suddenly afraid that if he sleeps, he'll wake up and remember even less. But his body betrays him, dragging him down into darkness despite his tries to resist.

Chapter Text

Bruce wakes with a start, sweat cold on his skin, heart hammering against his ribs. The nightmare dissolves into fragments—Hal falling, Bruce's hands grasping empty air, the sickening crunch of impact—leaving behind only the hollow ache of terror. For a disorienting moment, he doesn't recognize his surroundings—the king-sized bed too soft after days of hospital chairs, the darkness too complete without the glow of monitors, the silence too absolute without the steady rhythm of machines tracking Hal's vital signs.

The clock reads 6:14 AM. Alfred had insisted—not asked, not suggested, but insisted with the particular tone that brooked no argument—that Bruce spend at least one night at home. "You cannot help Master Jordan if you collapse from exhaustion yourself," he'd said, the concern beneath his formal phrasing unmistakable.

Bruce had acquiesced only after extracting promises from both Jack and Dinah that they would contact him immediately if anything changed. Each had agreed with the slightly exasperated indulgence of people humoring what they considered irrational fear.

His phone sits on the nightstand, face down where he placed it last night. Bruce deliberately doesn't look at it yet. Six hours of uninterrupted rest, the most he's had since the accident eight days ago. He should feel restored, rejuvenated. Instead, guilt gnaws at him. Six hours away from Hal's bedside. Six hours of not being there.

Now, fully awake despite his body's lingering heaviness, Bruce finds himself reaching automatically for the space beside him. His hand meets cold sheets, the emptiness a physical ache that catches in his throat, makes his chest tighten. The bed still feels wrong without him there.

Too still. Too ordered. The covers remain exactly where Bruce had placed them before falling asleep—an unnatural state in a bed normally shared with Hal. Even in sleep, Hal moves constantly—shifting, turning, sprawling across Bruce's side, stealing covers only to kick them off minutes later. Bruce had adapted over time, learning to sleep through Hal's perpetual motion, eventually finding it more difficult to rest in absolute stillness than amid Hal's restless energy.

"I literally cannot understand how you sleep like a dead body," Hal had commented once, watching Bruce wake in exactly the same position he'd fallen asleep in. "It's seriously weird."

Dawn light filters through the blinds, casting pale stripes across the undisturbed sheets. The king-sized bed had been Bruce's concession to Hal's nocturnal movements, a compromise that now leaves too much empty space surrounding him. Bruce runs his hand over the untouched pillow, a lump forming in his throat that he can't swallow down. He allows his fingers to linger there, a pathetic approximation of contact.

He sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, feet touching the polished hardwood that Hal insists on keeping free of clutter. The bedroom remains in perfect order despite Bruce's solitary occupation—clothes hung perfectly straight in the closet, shoes aligned at exact intervals along the rack, surfaces devoid of the usual detritus that accumulates in lived-in spaces. Bruce hasn't disturbed Hal's system, hasn't left a single item out of place, as if maintaining this order might somehow hasten his return. The thought is irrational, childish even, but Bruce can't bring himself to disrupt the careful arrangement.

The contrast between Hal's militant neatness in their private space and his chaotic approach to nearly everything else in life had initially struck Bruce as contradictory. Only later did he understand it as compensation, as the one area where Hal could exert complete control in a life defined by unpredictability. 

"Bed made every morning, no exceptions," Hal had explained once, straightening the already-perfect duvet. "Dad's first rule. The one that stuck." The casual statement had revealed more about Martin Jordan's parenting than a dozen psychological profiles could have captured.

Bruce pads silently to the en-suite bathroom, passing the dresser where a single framed photo sits—Hal, head thrown back in unrestrained laughter, eyes crinkled at the corners, completely unaware of the camera. The sight of it hits Bruce with unexpected force, a physical pain beneath his sternum. He picks up the frame, thumb tracing the edge of the glass. 

Bruce had proposed only moments before this was taken, and Hal's immediate response had been to laugh. Not a polite chuckle or a nervous titter, but full-bodied, tear-inducing laughter that had left him gasping for breath. It had taken Hal several more seconds to realize Bruce was serious, that the proposal wasn't some elaborate setup for a completely different conversation. The color had drained from Hal's face as dawning horror replaced amusement.

Bruce had watched the progression of emotions across Hal's face—shock giving way to panic, panic to disbelief, disbelief to a complex mess of feelings Bruce couldn't fully interpret. For a moment, he'd been certain Hal was going to refuse outright. Instead, Hal had stared at him for what felt like an eternity, equal parts incredulity and terror in his eyes, as if Bruce had suggested they jump from a plane without parachutes.

The memory sends a surge of grief so strong it nearly doubles Bruce over. His fingers tighten around the frame, knuckles white. That Hal—the one who found the concept of Bruce Wayne wanting to marry him so absurd that he'd laughed until he cried—is gone. Or trapped somewhere beneath damaged neural pathways, inaccessible to both of them. Bruce's vision blurs, the photograph becoming a smear of colors. He blinks rapidly, refusing to surrender to the burning behind his eyes.

In the bathroom mirror, his reflection is almost unrecognizable—stubble darkening his jaw into shadow, circles beneath his eyes like bruises, skin sallow from too many days under hospital fluorescents. Bruce splashes cold water on his face, avoiding his own gaze. He doesn't want to see the fear lurking there, the uncertainty, the grief that threatens to crack through.

He moves through his morning routine, the behaviors so deeply ingrained they require no conscious thought. Shower. Shave. Dress. Each action performed exactly as it would be on any other day, as if adhering to normal patterns might somehow restore normalcy to a world turned sideways.

The drive to Gotham University Hospital passes in a blur of muscle memory and automatic responses. Bruce's mind is already in room 2220, calculating the probability that Hal will be awake, that he might remember something, anything, from the day before. He's stopped allowing himself to hope for more than incremental improvements. Hope is a luxury he can't afford right now.

The hospital's security has grown accustomed to his irregular arrivals. The guard at the main entrance—Martinez, former GCPD, father of three—nods as Bruce passes, not bothering to check the visitor badge that perpetually hangs around his neck now. The nurses at the main station don't look up as he passes. His presence at all hours has become routine.

He pauses outside room 2220, taking a moment to compose himself before entering. Through the glass, he can see Jack has adjusted his position, now stretched across two chairs in a way that looks only marginally more comfortable than his previous arrangement. Hal remains motionless except for the steady rise and fall of his chest, the various monitors tracking his vital signs in glowing electronic ink.

Bruce enters silently, careful not to wake either Jordan. Jack stirs slightly as the door closes, military reflexes still sharp despite exhaustion, but doesn't fully wake. Bruce takes the chair opposite, settling in with the thermos of coffee Alfred pressed into his hands before he left, and begins his vigil anew.

In the relative privacy that follows, Bruce allows himself to study Hal's sleeping face without the careful mask he maintains during waking hours. The bruising has faded from violent purple to sickly yellow-green. The laceration at his temple, now held together with steri-strips rather than full sutures, will leave a scar that bisects his eyebrow. His hair is growing back in patches around the surgical sites, a dishevelment that would drive Hal to distraction if he could see it. For all his devil-may-care attitude about rules and authority, Hal has always been fastidious about his appearance—clothes precisely pressed, hair meticulously styled, everything in its proper place. The current disorder feels like another small violation on top of so many others.

Even in sleep, Hal doesn't look peaceful. His brow furrows slightly, lips occasionally twitching as if trying to form words. The doctors say this is normal, that the brain continues processing trauma even in unconsciousness. Bruce wonders what Hal dreams about. What year his mind believes it is. Who he thinks he is.

Who he thinks Bruce is.

Six hours earlier, Hal had called him by name for the first time without prompting. "Bruce." Just that single syllable, tentative and uncertain, but undeniably recognition. Bruce had maintained his carefully neutral expression, years of training preventing the surge of hope from showing on his face. Then the inevitable second question—"Bruce... Wayne?"—followed by the vacant stare of someone connecting a name to headlines rather than personal history.

One step forward, two steps back. The neurology team calls this progress. Bruce isn't certain he agrees.

The morning shift brings its own challenges. Soon the room will fill with medical staff—doctors conducting evaluations, physical therapists working exercises, nurses checking vitals. The routine provides structure but no comfort, each interaction a clinical reminder of how much recovery still lies ahead. During these hours, Jack and Jim typically step out for coffee or breakfast, leaving Bruce alone to navigate the complex dance of explaining his presence to the man who once found the concept of Bruce Wayne wanting to marry him so absurdly funny that he'd been unable to speak for nearly a full minute.

Bruce shifts in the chair, joints protesting the movement after hours of stillness. Morning light now filters through the blinds, casting soft patterns across the hospital floor. Hal used to rise with the sun regardless of when he'd fallen asleep—a military habit he never shook despite years of civilian life. "Sleep is for the weak," he'd declare, already halfway through his first cup of coffee while Bruce was still opening his eyes.

Jack stirs, eyes opening to register Bruce's presence with a small nod of acknowledgment. It's become their routine—the silent changing of the guard, one man keeping watch while the other attempts to rest. The Jordan brothers have adapted to this new reality, creating schedules and rotations, sharing the burden of Hal's care while allowing Bruce the space he needs.

A slight hitch in Hal's breathing draws Bruce's attention immediately. He shifts, leaning forward to study Hal's face. The monitors show no cause for concern—steady heart rate, stable oxygen levels, normal blood pressure. Just a dream, perhaps, or the subtle recalibration of damaged neural pathways that occurs during sleep.

Bruce reaches out, then stops, hand hovering inches from Hal's. Touch had always been their language—Hal initiating, Bruce allowing, both of them communicating through physical connection what neither could fully articulate with words. Now touch feels like trespass, an intimacy Hal hasn't granted because he doesn't remember giving permission in the first place.

He withdraws his hand, curling his fingers into a loose fist before returning it to his lap.

At 7:17 AM, Hal's eyes open. Bruce recognizes the pattern by now—the brief disorientation, the quick scan of surroundings, the momentary panic before basic awareness returns. He keeps his expression carefully neutral, his posture non-threatening, his hands visible and still. The doctors have explained that each awakening is an opportunity for new connections, for damaged neural pathways to find alternate routes. 

Bruce watches as Hal's gaze finds him in the morning light. Watches for any flicker of recognition, any hint of familiarity beyond the basic acknowledgment of presence. Watches as confusion clouds those eyes, as Hal's brow furrows in concentration.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

"Where’s Carol?" Hal asks, voice rough with sleep and disuse.

Bruce swallows the pain, forces his face to remain composed, and prepares to explain the situation to Hal all over again.

The door swings open without warning. Outside in the corridor, voices overlap as the morning rounds begin. A stream of white coats flows past the room, medical students trailing behind attending physicians like ducklings after their mother. The daily procession of knowledge and hierarchy, of questions and evaluations that will determine the next incremental steps in Hal's recovery.

Bruce can identify them by type without needing names—the senior resident, clipboard in hand, already rehearsing the case presentation in her mind; the junior residents, sleep-deprived and anxious, carrying too many pagers; the medical students, bright-eyed and terrified, pressed uniforms betraying their novelty. The neurology team will be by soon, then trauma, then physical therapy. The daily parade of specialists, each focused on their own particular aspect of Hal's broken body, none seeing the whole man who exists beneath the diagnosis codes and treatment protocols.

Hal's attention shifts immediately to the new stimuli, the confusion about Carol’s absence already forgotten in the face of fresh distraction. Bruce exchanges a glance with Jack, who has fully awakened now and sits straighter in his chair, preparing for the morning's medical discussions. 

The day begins, the cycle repeats, and Bruce steels himself for another twenty-four hours of being a stranger to the man who knows him best.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

Bruce records the time precisely: 2:17 PM, day eight since the accident. The rain strikes the window in irregular patterns, creating a hypnotic backdrop to his vigil. Dinah sits across the room, her composure betraying none of the exhaustion he knows she must feel. They've established an unspoken rhythm over these past days—trading shifts, sharing silence, maintaining a constant presence at Hal's side.

Hal stirs, a slight change in breathing that draws Bruce's attention immediately. The wince that follows—subtle but unmistakable—sends a familiar tightening through Bruce's chest. This is the part he hates most: watching Hal in pain, powerless to alleviate it. Every grimace is a reminder of how drastically their lives changed with a patch of black ice and a broken guardrail.

Bruce reaches for the water cup before Hal can attempt the movement himself. "Water?"

Hal starts to nod but stops abruptly, pain flashing across his features. "Yeah," he manages, voice rough from disuse.

The cup trembles slightly in Hal's grip as Bruce helps steady it without taking over completely. It's a careful balance—providing support without undermining independence—one Bruce has learned through years of navigating Hal's particular form of stubborn self-reliance. Now, of course, Hal remembers none of this history, none of the countless small negotiations that formed the framework of their relationship.

When the nurse enters with the pain medication, Bruce observes the complex emotions that cross Hal's face—relief warring with reluctance, the universal bargain of trading clarity for comfort. Bruce understands this calculus intimately. Has performed it himself more times than he cares to remember. Somehow, watching Hal make the same calculation is worse than experiencing it himself.

Eight days of this pattern. Eight days of searching for any flash of recognition in eyes that once knew him completely. Eight days of measured responses to the same questions, patient despite the knife-twist of repetition.

The nurse completes her task efficiently and leaves. Soon the medication will take effect, and Bruce has prepared himself for the usual progression—the initial resistance followed by surrender, the loosening of Hal's carefully maintained barriers, the inevitable questions about Carol.

Dinah glances at her phone, then meets Bruce's gaze. "He's on his way," she says quietly.

Bruce acknowledges this with the slightest nod. Queen's arrival was inevitable, delayed only by Roy’s crisis—a situation serious enough that even Bruce had agreed Hal's stable condition could wait. 

Voices rise in the corridor, one particularly distinctive with the unmistakable cadence of someone accustomed to commanding attention. Bruce centers himself, preparing for the complicated dynamics Queen's presence will introduce.

The door opens with unnecessary force. Oliver Queen stands framed in the doorway, travel-worn and disheveled, designer clothes wrinkled from hours of hasty travel. Bruce catalogs the exhaustion evident in Queen's posture, the strain even his considerable bravado can't entirely mask.

"Jesus, Hal," Queen says bluntly. "You look like shit."

Bruce watches Hal's reaction with careful attention, noting the immediate recognition that flashes across his features—the first genuine familiarity he's displayed since regaining consciousness. It stings, this immediate connection that Queen achieves without effort, when Bruce has spent days failing to spark even a flicker of remembered history.

"Fuck you," Hal responds, his lips curving into the first authentic smile Bruce has seen since the accident.

Queen grins, dropping a weathered duffel by the door. "There he is."

The change in Hal is unmistakable—animation returning to his features, energy coursing through him despite his injuries. Queen has always had this effect, a fact Bruce has alternately resented and appreciated throughout their complicated history.

Queen crosses to Dinah first, dropping a kiss on her temple. She leans into him slightly, their comfortable intimacy a testament to the stability they've found together. Bruce acknowledges the slight tightening in his chest as envy rather than judgment—their relationship has proven more enduring than many had predicted.

Bruce notices Hal watching this exchange with increasing interest, confusion evident in his expression. The medication is beginning to take effect—pupils dilating slightly, muscle tension easing, the line of pain between his brows softening. Bruce prepares himself for what comes next, for the familiar cycle of confusion and questions.

Instead, Hal's focus narrows with unusual intensity, gaze fixed directly on Bruce's face. The medication appears to be affecting him differently today—perhaps due to Queen's arrival, or some shift in Hal's neurological state.

"Has anyone ever told you," Hal says, words beginning to slur slightly, "that you're ridiculously good-looking? Like, unfairly so."

The unexpected comment catches Bruce completely off-guard. Eight days of careful preparation for every possible scenario, and he finds himself momentarily speechless. Dinah's eyebrows rise in surprise. Queen makes no attempt to disguise his amusement, a short bark of laughter cutting through the sudden tension.

Bruce maintains his neutral expression through years of practiced discipline, though he feels unwelcome heat rising along his jawline. This unfiltered attraction is achingly familiar—reminiscent of their early relationship, before complications and history created the layers of context that now lie between them, layers Hal can no longer access.

"Bet you've got a great smile," Hal continues, clearly unable to stop the flow of words. "Hiding it though." His hand moves against the blanket in what Bruce recognizes as an attempt to reach toward him. "S'a crime to hide a smile like that."

Bruce remains perfectly still, uncertain how to respond. The irony isn't lost on him—after days of painful non-recognition, Hal's pharmaceutical honesty now reveals attraction without the emotional context or shared history that would make it meaningful. A hollow echo of what they once had.

Dinah covers her mouth with her hand, exchanging a quick glance with Queen. The silent communication between them speaks volumes—concern, surprise, perhaps a touch of relief that Hal's mind isn't as damaged as they'd feared. Queen's expression settles into undisguised amusement, apparently finding the situation entertaining rather than troubling.

The medication is clearly taking full effect now. Hal's eyelids grow heavy, his focus visibly becoming more difficult to maintain. Bruce recognizes the signs of imminent unconsciousness but remains unprepared for Hal's final comment before surrendering to the medication.

"Are we..." Hal struggles to form the question, determination evident despite his rapidly fading consciousness. "If we're not sleeping together, we should be."

Bruce feels something constrict in his chest—a physical reaction he can't entirely control. Beneath the professional exterior he maintains for the benefit of Dinah and Queen, something threatens to crack. The simple directness of the proposition, devoid of their complicated history, strikes with unexpected force.

There's a beat of absolute silence, then Queen makes a noise that might be a suppressed laugh or some sort of medical emergency.

Hal's eyes widen slightly, a flash of horrified clarity cutting through the medication fog. "Sorry," he manages, words slurring heavily now. "Brain injury... talking. Ignore me." His eyelids flutter as he fights to stay conscious just long enough to offer this explanation, as if the medical excuse might somehow mitigate the embarrassment.

Bruce remains motionless, but something must shift in his expression because Dinah's gaze sharpens, her assessment taking in details he thought he'd successfully concealed.

Bruce watches as Hal's consciousness fades, his features relaxing into the artificial peace of medicated sleep. The room feels suddenly too small, too close, but he remains in his chair, unwilling to surrender his position even for a moment.

"Has he been doing this the whole time?" Queen asks, amusement evident despite the genuine concern beneath the question.

"No," Bruce replies, the single syllable containing more than he intends to reveal. "This is new."

As Hal's breathing settles into the regular rhythm of drug-induced sleep, Bruce continues his vigil, adding this new development to the careful catalog of observations that constitute his only constructive action in a situation beyond his control.

Eight days since the accident. He continues to wait.

Chapter Text

The hospital room feels almost normal this morning. Hal sits propped against pillows, the bed cranked up to something approaching a respectable angle. For the first time in days, his head doesn't feel like it's being crushed in a vice. The constant nausea has receded to manageable levels. Even the lights aren't stabbing into his retinas with their usual enthusiasm.

"Coast City U has absolutely zero chance at making the Final Four this season," Oliver insists from his position in the chair by the window, feet propped on the radiator. "Their backcourt is held together with duct tape and wishful thinking."

Barry shakes his head, perched on the edge of the visitor chair closer to Hal's bed. "No way. Mitchell's three-point percentage has been over 43% since December, and Wilson's finally healthy again."

"Mitchell's going to collapse by tournament time with the way Coach Davis is using him," Oliver counters. "Forty minutes a game for three straight weeks? The kid's not a machine."

Hal feels a laugh building, the first genuine one since the accident. It feels good, like waking up a part of himself that's been dormant. The conversation flows around him—nothing serious, nothing demanding, just friends arguing college basketball like they've done a thousand times before.

It's a strange comfort, having them here. Oliver with his too-loud voice and excessive gestures. Barry with his quick smiles and statistical rebuttals. Something about them feels right, like cornerstones of his life that the accident couldn't dislodge.

"Thompson's shooting percentage in the paint is 68 percent this season," Barry is saying, pulling up stats on his phone. "You can't tell me—"

The world... stops.

Not completely. Colors still exist. Shapes remain. But Hal is suddenly watching everything through thick glass, disconnected from the scene. Oliver's mouth moves. Barry's hands gesture. Sound continues without meaning.

Then reality snaps back like a rubber band.

Barry's stopped mid-sentence, his eyes fixed intently on Hal's face. His gaze shifts briefly to the cardiac monitor, where Hal's heart rate has spiked without warning. The statistics-quoting basketball analyst is gone, replaced by someone with the focused intensity of a scientist assessing critical data.

Oliver hasn't noticed yet, still arguing about Coast City's rotation problems.

Barry reaches for his phone, activating the stopwatch function. His eyes dart between Hal's face and the monitors, cataloging changes in vital signs that the machines can detect but not interpret.

"Hal?" he asks quietly.

"Sorry," Hal manages, disoriented. "What about Thompson's stats?"

Before Barry can respond, the world dissolves again.

This time, the disconnection is deeper. Longer. When awareness returns, the monitor beside him is emitting a steady, high-pitched alarm. Oliver stands poised at the door, his body half-turned toward the hallway. The clock on the wall shows four minutes have passed.

Four minutes. Gone.

The room's already filling with medical staff, drawn by the monitor alarms. A nurse silences the warning sounds while checking Hal's vitals.

"Absence seizure," Barry is explaining to a doctor who's just arrived. "First lasted approximately seven seconds, second just over four minutes. Heart rate elevated between episodes. Blood pressure spiking now."

The monitor beside Hal's bed confirms Barry's assessment, digital readouts flashing as they exceed normal parameters. The nurse adjusts something on one of the IV pumps while another checks Hal's pupillary response with a penlight.

Hal tries to speak, to ask what's happening, but his tongue feels thick, uncooperative. A cold sweat breaks out across his forehead. The room tilts sideways, then rights itself with nauseating slowness.

The doctor's mouth is set in a grim line. Whatever she's seeing in Hal's readings confirms something she was hoping against.

"Get him to CT," she orders, already reaching for the bed controls to lay Hal flat. "And page neurosurgery."

The third one takes Hal without warning. This time, coming back is like swimming up from the bottom of a murky lake. His lungs burn though he hasn't been holding his breath. The lights above him blur and multiply. 

More medical personnel have joined the first responders. Oliver has been pushed to the corner, his face ashen. Barry speaks rapidly to the neurologist who's just arrived, his words flowing with the precision of someone who understands exactly what's happening.

Hal catches fragments: "...progressive absence seizures... intracranial pressure..."

A spike of pain drives through Hal's skull like a hot nail. His vision fractures – not the temporary blindness of the seizures but something worse, a kaleidoscopic distortion where nothing holds its proper shape or color.

Something is very wrong.

The thought forms with perfect clarity just before darkness sweeps in again. This seizure doesn't end with a return to awareness. Instead, the disconnection deepens, pulling Hal further away from the hospital room, from Oliver's worried face, from Barry's assessment.

When a sliver of consciousness returns, he's moving. The ceiling slides past overhead. Urgent voices create a cacophony around him. The gurney rattles beneath him as they take a corner too quickly.

A familiar figure appears in his narrowing field of vision, keeping pace alongside. Dark hair. Jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. Eyes that Hal would know anywhere.

Bruce.

Not Wayne. Not Batman. Just Bruce, essential and true.

Hal tries to reach for him, but his body no longer takes commands from his fractured consciousness. The attempt exists only as intention, never translating to movement.

Bruce's voice cuts through the chaos surrounding them: "Hal." Just his name, carrying the weight of something vast and unspoken. His face remains locked in that stoic mask, but his eyes—those eyes contain everything.

A memory surfaces through the neurological storm—Bruce laughing, head thrown back, unrestrained in a way almost no one ever witnessed. The image feels precious, salvaged from whatever catastrophic malfunction is occurring inside Hal's brain.

The double doors to the surgical suite loom ahead. Medical personnel bark orders, preparations already underway. Somebody mentions "pressure building" and "must move quickly." The urgency in their voices penetrates even Hal's fractured awareness.

At the threshold, a nurse stops Bruce with a firm hand and immovable expression. No exceptions, not even for him.

The last thing Hal sees is Bruce standing at those doors, perfectly still yet somehow radiating the potential energy of a man who could tear through walls if necessary. The last thing Hal feels is absolute certainty that Bruce belongs with him, has always belonged with him, even if he can't remember why.

Then darkness.

In the void, Hal dreams of flying—not in a fighter jet, but with arms outstretched, soaring over Gotham's jagged skyline. Below him, a figure in black keeps pace, moving from rooftop to rooftop with impossible grace. In the dream, Hal knows those arms will catch him if he falls.

Bruce Wayne doesn't panic. Not in public, at least. But as he stands outside the surgical suite, perfectly still save for the slight twitch of his right index finger against his thigh, his body is betraying him in ways invisible to anyone who doesn't know where to look.

Three minutes and forty-two seconds have passed since they wheeled Hal through those doors. Three minutes and forty-three seconds since he'd been directed to this private waiting area by a surgical resident who'd promised updates as soon as they were available. 

The resident had been efficient, respectful—recognizing both Bruce's status as Hal's spouse and his need for privacy. Bruce had nodded, his face a mask of stoic control while his lungs began their silent rebellion.

Now his chest constricts with each breath, oxygen refusing to fill his lungs properly. His heart pounds against his ribs in a rhythm that would alarm medical professionals, though his expression betrays nothing. Behind his eyes, pressure builds as if his skull is collapsing inward, black spots dancing at the edges of his vision.

Bruce catalogs these symptoms with detachment even as they intensify. Tachycardia. Dyspnea. Parasympathetic nervous system in overdrive. He knows exactly what's happening. Knows the precise neurochemical cascade triggering this response. Knowing doesn't stop it.

His fingertips have gone numb. The sensation spreads slowly up his hands, racing along nerve pathways like frost on glass. He focuses on the double doors, willing them to open with news—any news—while his body silently screams in rebellion against the helplessness.

Barry appears at the end of the hallway, moving with uncharacteristic slowness. His face is drawn, exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders. Oliver trails behind him, still ashen from what they witnessed in Hal's room.

They join Bruce in silent solidarity, forming an uneven triangle, each positioned as if bracing against a coming storm. Bruce acknowledges them with the slightest nod, his gaze never leaving the double doors separating him from Hal. Neither man comments on the fine sheen of sweat visible at Bruce's temples or the unnatural pallor beneath his skin.

Four minutes and twenty-six seconds since the doors closed. Bruce's mouth has gone desert-dry, his vision tunneling until the surgical doors are the only clear point in his field of view. The hallway stretches and contracts in nauseating waves. His stomach turns violently.

Yet outwardly, he remains perfectly composed. Back straight. Shoulders square. Face impassive. Only the rapid pulse visibly throbbing at his throat betrays the internal storm.

Bruce's thoughts circle back to Hal's face as they wheeled him away—eyes unfocused but somehow finding Bruce's, recognition flickering like a candle in a storm. Something had been there, some fragment of awareness that had been missing for days.

The memory sends another surge of adrenaline through his system, heart rate spiking higher. His knees feel unnaturally weak, tendons and muscles refusing to function properly. Still, he remains standing, locked in position by sheer force of will.

Inside his pocket, his hand closes around something small and cold. Hal's power ring. Bruce had claimed it from the hospital safe along with Hal's other personal effects, unwilling to leave something so potentially dangerous in institutional custody. The metal—if it could even be called that—feels wrong against his skin. Alien in the truest sense of the word. 

Yet its continued presence is the one certainty Bruce clings to. The ring hasn't left to seek a new bearer. It hasn't flown off to space to report to the Guardians that its wielder is compromised. It remains—inert but present—as if waiting. As if recognizing something in Hal that medical scans cannot detect.

Bruce has carried it since day three, a paradoxical source of comfort despite its unsettling nature. The fact that this piece of alien technology with a will of its own has chosen to stay speaks to a truth that Bruce desperately needs to believe: Hal Jordan is still Hal Jordan, damaged but not gone. Not replaceable.

Oliver gestures toward the chairs, a silent suggestion that Bruce should sit. Bruce remains standing, though the room has begun to tilt at odd angles around him. Sitting feels like surrender. Like acceptance. The edges of his vision darken further, blackness encroaching with each labored heartbeat.

Five minutes and eighteen seconds. The average emergency craniotomy takes hours, depending on complexity. Assuming optimum conditions, which these are not. Bruce forces his breathing to remain even while his lungs scream for more oxygen, forces his mind to focus on statistics and probabilities rather than the image of Hal's skull being opened, the damaged vessels being located, the blood being drained.

He begins the mental exercise of calculating compression forces in roll cage designs, methodically working through the equations that might have made Hal's car safer, stronger. The numbers blur and slide away from him, refusing to hold their shape. Still, he persists, desperate for any anchor against the rising tide of panic.

It's futile, he knows. The physics are immutable. The car performed exactly as designed under catastrophic conditions. The black ice, the angle of impact, the speed of the other vehicle—a perfect convergence of factors that no engineering could have fully mitigated.

Five minutes and forty-two seconds.

Five minutes and forty-three.

Chapter Text

A muted beeping punctuates the silence, steady and insistent. Hal surfaces slowly through layers of consciousness, each one thicker than the last. His mouth tastes like something died in it. His skull feels hollowed out and refilled with concrete.

Awareness comes in fragments. The scratch of hospital sheets against his skin. The pinch of an IV in his hand. The weight of bandages wrapped too tight around his head. The peculiar lightness on one side of his skull.

Opening his eyes requires monumental effort. The room swims before resolving into fuzzy shapes. A figure sits in the chair beside his bed—dark-haired, broad-shouldered, slumped forward in a position that can't possibly be comfortable. The man's head rests at an awkward angle, chin tucked against his chest, one hand extended to rest on the edge of the mattress, inches from Hal's own.

Bruce.

The name comes without effort this time. Not a question. Not a glimmer of recognition quickly submerged. Just certainty.

Bruce Wayne. They’re married.

The memory slots into place like it was never missing, though Hal knows—in a distant, academic sort of way—that it has been. The events leading to this moment remain fragmented, a shattered mosaic with pieces missing. But Bruce's identity, their relationship—these feel solid, immutable.

Hal tries to speak, but his throat rasps painfully, the words dying before they can form. He settles for moving his hand the few inches needed to touch Bruce's fingers.

The effect is immediate. Bruce's head snaps up, years of vigilante training rendering him instantly alert despite what must have been hours of uncomfortable sleep. His eyes fix on Hal's face with laser intensity, cataloging and assessing every detail.

"Hal." Just his name, uttered with such restrained emotion that it makes Hal's chest tighten.

For a moment, they simply look at each other. Bruce's face is haggard, the stubble on his jaw well past the artfully disheveled stage and firmly into neglect territory. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and a muscle in his jaw twitches with tension.

He’s beautiful.

Hal gestures weakly toward the water cup on the side table. Bruce moves with precise efficiency, supporting Hal's neck with one hand while bringing the straw to his lips. The cool liquid is bliss against Hal's parched throat.

Bruce sets the cup aside when Hal's had enough, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he's working hard to maintain control. His eyes ask the questions his lips don't form: How much do you remember? Do you know me? Are you really back?

Hal's face must answer at least some of these, because something in Bruce's posture relaxes fractionally. He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped to prevent them from reaching out. Always so controlled, even now.

Hal takes stock of the mental landscape. There are holes—canyons, really—where memories should be. Blank spaces that feel wrong, like phantom limbs. Some areas clear, others just white, like flying through clouds. He tries to communicate this through fragmented gestures, his coordination still shot to hell.

Bruce's eyes never leave his face. His expression communicates what words don't—the doctors' warnings about inconsistent recovery, neural pathways reforming at different rates, the scientific realities beneath their current moment.

Something in Bruce's careful stillness makes Hal want to reach for him, to offer reassurance. But his body feels like it's made of lead. The attempt results in nothing more than a twitch of his fingers.

Bruce notices—of course he does—and after a moment's hesitation, takes Hal's hand in his. The contact is careful, Bruce's fingers avoiding the IV while providing just enough pressure to be felt. This small vulnerability seems to cost him enormous effort.

A shadow crosses Bruce's face, something deep and raw showing through the cracks in his composure. His eyes carry the weight of near-loss, of catastrophic odds, of pressure building in Hal's brain until something had to give.

Hal feels a strange disconnect between Bruce's obvious distress and his own foggy understanding of events. He knows, intellectually, how serious this must have been. But the emotional impact feels muffled, like explosions heard from underwater.

His lips quirk in a ghost of his usual cocky smile. “Can't get rid of me that easy.” The familiar bravado both comfort and shield.

Bruce doesn't smile. His thumb traces a pattern on Hal's knuckles, the only outward indication of his turbulent thoughts. His eyes communicate what his voice doesn't—that there was a moment before surgery, a flicker of recognition amid the emergency, a connection briefly re-established before darkness fell.

The memory flickers at the edges of Hal's consciousness—a gurney moving, faces blurring past, Bruce keeping pace alongside. Eyes meeting across chaos.

Hal manages a slight nod, immediately regretting it as pain spikes through his skull. Bruce's hand hovers near the call button, but Hal's minute head shake stops him.

Something complex crosses Bruce's features—relief tangled with fear, hope with caution. Seeing this usually stoic man so clearly affected makes Hal's chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with the actual pain.

Other fragments surface—Bruce constantly at his bedside, a steady presence even when Hal couldn't place him. The revelation of such unwavering loyalty, such patience beyond measure, staggers Hal even in his current state. Something shifts in his chest, an emotion too big to name pushing against his broken ribs.

Bruce's eyes flicker toward the door, toward the nurses' station beyond. His professional responsibility warring with his need to maintain this fragile connection.

Hal's fingers tighten weakly around Bruce's. A wave of exhaustion crashes over him, his brief lucidity already beginning to fade. He fights it, desperate to hold onto this clarity, to Bruce, for just a moment longer. His eyes communicate what his failing voice cannot: Stay.

Bruce settles back into the chair, his hand still entwined with Hal's. 

The last thing Hal sees before sleep reclaims him is Bruce's face, the rigid control finally cracking to reveal the depth of emotion beneath. It follows him into dreams—not of flying this time, but of coming home.

Bruce watches Hal slip back into sleep, the rhythm of his breathing changing subtly. Even now, he can't quite believe what just happened—the recognition in Hal's eyes, the obvious awareness of their relationship. After days of being a stranger, of carefully explaining his presence each time Hal awoke, the relief is so acute it borders on pain.

Yet Bruce doesn't allow himself to fully embrace it. Brain injuries are unpredictable. Today's clarity could be gone tomorrow, replaced by confusion or another blank slate. The doctors had been clear about setting realistic expectations during recovery.

Still, he permits himself this small moment of hope, this fragile bubble of possibility that perhaps the worst is behind them.

His fingers hover over the call button. The medical team should be alerted to Hal's temporary lucidity, the apparent recovery of significant memories. The data would be valuable for their treatment plan. But he remains seated, unwilling to break this connection, to shatter the delicate peace of Hal breathing steadily beside him, knowing who Bruce is, remembering what they are to each other.

Five more minutes, he tells himself. Five more minutes of this moment before reality intrudes again.

The lighting in the hospital room has changed, the harsh fluorescents replaced by softer illumination during evening hours. Bruce realizes he's lost track of time—an unusual occurrence for a man who typically knows the hour down to the minute without checking a watch.

A soft knock at the door announces the evening nurse, here for vitals and medication. Bruce reluctantly releases Hal's hand and stands, his body protesting hours of stillness with a chorus of complaints from stiff muscles and cramped joints.

His eyes communicate the news as the nurse checks Hal's monitors. Fully lucid. Recognition. Remembered relationship. The nurse—Matthews, according to her badge, evening shift for the past three days—offers him a genuine smile, nodding her understanding. Her expression shifts to gentle concern as she notes Bruce's exhaustion.

A slight head shake is all he offers in response to her unspoken suggestion of rest. He steps back to allow her to work, using the moment to stretch discreetly, rolling tension from his shoulders. Since Hal's surgery, he's left the hospital only a few times, and only after extracting a promise that others  would remain at Hal's bedside until he returned.

The nurse doesn't push the issue, having learned over the past days that Bruce Wayne is immovable when it comes to leaving Hal's side.

When she's gone, Bruce resettles in the chair, his hand hovering near Hal's before retreating to his own lap. The brief moment of connection had been Hal's initiative. Bruce won't presume its continuation, won't take advantage of Hal's compromised state, even for something as simple as holding his hand while he sleeps.

Instead, Bruce leans back, allowing himself the small luxury of watching Hal breathe. The steady rise and fall of his chest. The occasionally twitching finger. The slight furrow between his brows that suggests even in sleep, Hal Jordan is fighting something.

In his pocket, the ring remains cold and alien, but somehow less wrong than before. Almost expectant. Bruce wonders if it somehow senses the change in Hal, if its strange consciousness is as attuned to Hal's recovery as Bruce himself.

The night stretches before him, another vigil in a string of many. But this one feels different. For the first time since the accident, Bruce allows himself to truly believe that Hal might come back to him—not in pieces, not in fragments, but whole.

He settles into the familiar discomfort of the hospital chair, preparing for another night of watching and waiting. But now, at last, with something very much like hope.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight filtering through the blinds paints stripes across the hospital sheets, warm gold against sterile white. Hal blinks slowly, consciousness returning in gentle waves rather than the jarring disorientation of previous days. The pain remains—a dull throb behind his eyes, heaviness in his limbs, the peculiar sensation of a partially-missing skull—but something has changed in the landscape of his mind.

Things are... clearer. Not complete, not by a long shot, but the fog has receded enough for him to map the contours of what remains. Memories arranged like puzzle pieces dumped from the box—some connected, others scattered, a few missing entirely—but enough of the picture visible to recognize the whole.

Bruce. Damian. The League. Fragments of a life he knows is his, though parts still feel like stories told about someone else.

The room comes into focus as Hal turns his head. Bruce dozes in the chair beside him, head tilted at an angle that will punish him when he wakes. His usually immaculate appearance has surrendered to days of hospital vigilance—stubble darkening his jaw, hair unkempt, shirt wrinkled beyond salvation. There's something achingly vulnerable about seeing Bruce Wayne so disheveled, so human.

Hal studies him with the particular intensity of someone trying to commit a scene to memory, afraid it might slip away again. The strong line of his jaw. The slight furrow between his brows that persists even in sleep. The barely-visible scar at his temple, legacy of some long-ago battle.

Bruce stirs, eyes opening to meet Hal's. The careful neutrality he's maintained for days slips just slightly, revealing the storm beneath—hope warring with caution, relief with fear. His gaze tracks over Hal's face, cataloging details with the precision of a man who trusts nothing without verification.

The unasked question hangs between them. Hal attempts a smile that pulls uncomfortably at healing cuts. His mind offers fragments—recognizing Bruce yesterday, the overwhelming relief of connection reestablished, puzzle pieces clicking into place. Not everything has returned, but enough.

The slight release of tension in Bruce's shoulders speaks volumes about the strain he's been under. He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, studying Hal with the focused intensity that few ever witness without the cowl. His hand hovers near Hal's for a moment before retreating, the hesitation betraying uncertainty.

Hal catches his wrist, his coordination still clumsy but improving. A ghost of his usual cockiness surfaces in his expression despite the circumstances. Bruce's eyes flicker with the briefest suggestion of a smile, there and gone in an instant. Under normal circumstances, Hal would count this as a victory. Now, it feels like salvation.

Bruce's fingers turn to grasp Hal's properly, the touch cautious but deliberate. Physical connection remains difficult for him, a vulnerability he permits with very few people. That he offers it now, despite his obvious concerns about Hal's condition, speaks to depths of emotion Bruce will never articulate aloud.

The silence stretches comfortably between them, neither rushing to fill it with words. There would be time for Jack and Jim to know, for questions about Jim's beard that had apparently existed for three years though Hal could swear he'd seen him clean-shaven just weeks ago.

Hal shifts slightly, wincing as the movement sends a spike of pain through his skull. The question forms in his eyes, and Bruce hesitates, weighing truth against protection in a calculation Hal recognizes from years of partnership.

Hal's expression hardens slightly, demanding the unvarnished reality. Bruce meets his gaze directly, acknowledging this right. His assessment doesn't soften the reality—traumatic brain injury, two surgeries, seizures, cautious optimism about physical recovery but cognitive function remaining unpredictable at best.

The explanation clarifies the careful way everyone has been treating him, as if he might shatter at any second. Hal finds an odd comfort in understanding the parameters of his damage, in having concrete facts rather than hovering uncertainty laced with dread.

Bruce's hand remains clasped around his, a tether to reality when memories become confusing. The weight of it grounds him, a physical connection more eloquent than any words Bruce might offer. Hal's attention drifts to the hospital ceiling, tracing the patterns of shadows cast by the blinds. The lines blur and shift when he focuses too hard, his brain refusing to cooperate with even this simple task. He lets his eyes unfocus instead, finding more comfort in the abstract shapes than in the frustration of attempting precision.

Somewhere distant, a monitor beeps steadily. The sound anchors him to the present as his thoughts threaten to scatter again. Through the window, Gotham continues its endless movement—traffic flowing, people living ordinary lives beneath gray skies. 

He envies them.

Bruce counts seconds between Hal's breaths: inhale, hold, exhale, pause. Sixteen respirations per minute. Acceptable. Stable. His thumb traces the ridge of Hal's knuckles absently, monitoring microtremors invisible to anyone without his training. The habit of vigilance, impossible to abandon even here.

Facts provide structure where emotion threatens chaos. Intracranial pressure: normalized. Heart rate: 68 beats per minute. Temperature: 99.1, slightly elevated but within acceptable parameters given post-surgical inflammation. Pupillary response: sluggish but improved. 

Bruce categorizes each microexpression that crosses Hal's face with methodical calculation. The slight confusion when he looks at the window too long. The momentary blankness when reaching for a word. The flutter of frustration when his thoughts scatter mid-formation. Each observation files itself away, evidence to be analyzed, measured against yesterday's baseline, compared to tomorrow's progress.

The analytical approach is his only defense against the maelstrom threatening to overwhelm him. He's become adept at compartmentalizing—grief in one box, fear in another, hope locked away where it can't cloud judgment. These past days have tested even his formidable control, boxes leaking into one another, emotions spilling where they shouldn't.

Medical professionals speak of neuroplasticity as if it offers certainty. The brain's remarkable ability to forge new pathways around damaged areas. A clinical description that fails to capture the terrible randomness Bruce witnesses every time Hal loses his train of thought mid-sentence, or stares at familiar objects as if seeing them for the first time. The progress should reassure him. 

It doesn't.

Bruce understands at a fundamental level that this is beyond his control. No amount of money or technology can accelerate healing, guarantee recovery, ensure the Hal who recognized him today will still recognize him tomorrow. The helplessness is anathema to everything he is.

Hal's eyelids grow heavy, the brief period of lucidity taxing his injured brain. Sleep will help healing, the doctors insist, though they can't specify how much or how long. Bruce doesn't release Hal's hand as consciousness fades, permitting himself this small intimacy that he would typically deny. He tells himself it's for Hal's benefit—a constant through the disorientation. The lie is transparent even to himself.

The Hal before the accident would have noticed the rare physical contact, would have marked it with a knowing smirk or gentle tease. This Hal accepts the connection without comment, perhaps because he needs it as much as Bruce does.

Bruce's phone vibrates silently in his pocket—Alfred, with an update about Damian. He doesn't move to check it, unwilling to disturb the tenuous peace of this moment. Damian will understand; the boy's attachment to Hal had crystallized into something deep and profound that not even Damian's careful emotional distancing could hide. 

The neurologist had mentioned potential seizure activity during REM sleep, warning signs to watch for, protocols to follow if the worst should happen again. Bruce has memorized every parameter, prepared for every contingency. He's drafted plans for every possible outcome along the spectrum from worst to best.

None of it alleviates the fundamental ache of seeing Hal this way—struggling to hold onto the most basic elements of himself. The man beside him contains all the essential pieces of Hal Jordan—stubborn determination, reflexive bravery, steel beneath charm—but the connections falter, systems rebooting in unpredictable sequences.

Hal stirs in his sleep, brow furrowing slightly before relaxing again. Bruce remains motionless, the steady pressure of his hand the only intervention he allows himself. His control reasserts itself, emotions locked away behind a wall of discipline forged through decades of practice.

The physicians can't say when, or if, Hal will ever fully return to himself. Brain injuries exist in a realm of uncertainty that medical science acknowledges but cannot resolve. Bruce, who has built his life around absolutes—justice, protection, control—finds this ambiguity nearly crushes him flat.

And yet, he must bear it.

The alternative is unbearable.

Chapter Text

The first time Hal tries to stand, the world betrays him. The ground that has always been steady beneath his feet now tilts and sways like he's caught in turbulence without controls. His legs—the same legs that have carried him into cockpits, across tarmacs, through the sky and back—fold beneath him like paper. Bruce catches him before he falls, but nothing can catch the pride that plummets through the floor.

Tyler offers another of his practiced platitudes, the kind that makes Hal want to punch him. His eyes hold no pity, only that professional patience that feels like condescension. Another reminder that Hal is now a problem to be solved, a body to be fixed, a chart full of progress notes and checkboxes.

Hal's jaw clenches so hard his teeth might crack. Three weeks since the accident. Two days since he consistently remembered Bruce without prompting. Progress, they call it, though it feels like crawling when he should be flying.

"Again," Hal demands, already pushing up from the chair they've lowered him into. His arms shake with the effort, muscles gone soft from disuse.

Tyler exchanges a glance with Bruce, who stands just within arm's reach. The therapist suggests a break with that practiced smile that makes Hal want to scream.

"No." The word emerges sharper than Hal intends, serrated with frustration.

Bruce doesn't contradict him, doesn't suggest caution like every other person in this hospital would. Instead, he nods once, positioning himself to provide support without taking over. "Your call," he says simply.

Tyler sighs that little clinical sigh that makes Hal fantasize about shoving the man's clipboard down his throat. But he positions himself on Hal's other side, professional obligation overriding obvious disapproval.

The second attempt goes marginally better—Hal manages to lock his knees, to stand upright for nearly thirty seconds before vertigo sends the room spinning. His fingers dig into Bruce's forearm, leaving marks that will bruise by evening. Bruce doesn't flinch.

"I can't—" The admission sticks in Hal's throat. Can't stand. Can't walk. Can't control his own body. The implications cascade through his mind with ruthless clarity.

Can't fly.

The third attempt ends before it begins, Hal's left leg refusing to bear weight at all. Pain lances up from knee to hip, white-hot and immediate. Tyler makes a notation on his tablet, that little furrow between his brows that screams I told you so without him having to say a word. Bruce's expression reveals nothing.

"Give yourself time," Tyler says with that voice specially reserved for difficult patients, the tone that's somehow both patronizing and saccharine.

Hal barely nods, not because he believes it but because arguing takes more energy than he has. He's heard variations of the same empty reassurance from countless professionals. Time. Patience. Small victories. Words that mean nothing when your entire identity is slipping through your trembling fingers.

When the therapist has gone, Hal sits by the window, staring unseeingly at Gotham's rare winter sunshine. Bruce rearranges the room with quiet efficiency, each movement precise and deliberate, making the space more accessible without drawing attention to it.

Hal finally breaks the silence, a raw confession about his body's betrayal—how his limbs remain full of sensation yet refuse to obey him. Bruce pauses in his methodical organization, absorbing this information with the same careful attention he gives everything Hal says now.

After a moment, Bruce mentions options being developed at Ferris Aircraft—specialized systems that could eventually help pilots with physical limitations. The careful phrasing avoids promises but offers possibilities.

Something in Hal fractures. He can't fly like this, can't even hold a spoon. The unspoken question hangs in the air—what good is a pilot who can't fly? Who is Hal Jordan without the one thing that has defined him since he was a kid?

Bruce doesn't offer empty reassurances or meaningless comfort. The silence between them carries the weight of all that remains uncertain. When Bruce finally mentions Carol's work with adaptive technology, Hal's bitter response reveals how deeply he resents the very idea of accommodation, of being the "broken" version of himself.

Bruce interrupts only once, his voice steady despite the visible tension in his shoulders. Not offering false hope, just quiet insistence that they're discussing future possibilities, not immediate demands.

Hal wants to argue but can't bring himself to voice the lie that he'll soon be back to normal. Instead, he turns away, staring out at the sky that's never felt more distant, the tremor in his hands intensifying with each passing moment.

The Manor's kitchen at three in the morning carries a particular quality of stillness—not the oppressive silence of empty rooms, but the suspended animation of a space waiting to be reactivated with daylight. Bruce stares into his untouched cup of tea, watching ripples form on the surface with each tremor of his hands.

Clark arrives without announcement, the soft displacement of air the only indication of his presence before he steps into Bruce's peripheral vision. He's dressed in civilian clothes—jeans, flannel shirt, the costume of normalcy he wears as comfortably as the cape.

"Alfred called," Clark says by way of explanation, settling into the chair opposite. His eyes track from Bruce's face to his untouched tea and back again. "He's worried."

Bruce doesn't bother asking how Alfred knew he'd fled the hospital after Hal finally fell asleep, or why he'd call Clark rather than addressing the matter himself. Some dynamics transcend explanation.

"He shouldn't be." Bruce's voice emerges rougher than intended, raw from hours of carefully modulated conversations with doctors, therapists, and Hal himself. "Everything's fine."

Clark's expression suggests he finds this statement approximately as convincing as Bruce does.

"Hal's making progress," Bruce continues, the words mechanical, rehearsed. "He remembers more each day. He's more himself when he speaks. But his hands—" Bruce's voice catches almost imperceptibly, "—they won't stop shaking, and his frustration is—"

"Bruce." Clark's interruption is gentle but firm. "I'm not asking for his medical chart."

Bruce's hands flatten against the cool marble countertop, seeking stability. "Then what are you asking?"

"I'm not asking anything." Clark's gaze remains steady, infuriatingly compassionate. "I'm here because you need to say things you can't say to him."

The statement hangs between them, too accurate to deny but too exposing to acknowledge. Bruce's jaw tightens, muscles locking against words that press against the back of his teeth, demanding release.

"He can't hold a spoon," he says finally, the confession barely audible. "His hands shake so badly he can't feed himself without spilling everything. And when he looks at them..." Bruce swallows hard. "It's like he's watching something precious die in front of him. Something essential to who he is."

Clark doesn't interrupt, doesn't offer platitudes. Just waits, allowing Bruce the space to continue.

"He asked me yesterday if I'd still..." Bruce's voice catches, the vulnerability in the question still raw. "If I'd still want him if he never flies again. If he needs assistance for basic tasks indefinitely. If this is..." He gestures vaguely, encompassing Hal's current limitations. "Permanent."

The silence stretches between them, broken only by the soft tick of the ancient kitchen clock.

"What did you tell him?" Clark asks finally.

"The truth." Bruce looks down at his own steady hands, the irony not lost on him. "That it doesn't matter. That I—" He stops, the direct admission still difficult even with Clark, who knows him better than almost anyone. "That we'll adapt to whatever comes."

Clark nods, understanding what Bruce doesn't explicitly state. "But?"

The single word cracks something in Bruce's carefully maintained composure. "But I don't know if I can watch him lose this," he admits, the words emerging in a rush. "Flying isn't just what he does, Clark. It's who he is. The way he's always processed the world, moved through it. To see him trapped in a body that won't obey him..."

Bruce stands abruptly, moving to the window where the grounds stretch dark and silent beyond. His hands grip the edge of the sink hard enough that his knuckles whiten.

"I can rebuild the entire Manor to accommodate whatever physical limitations he has," he continues, voice tight with restrained emotion. "I can hire the best therapists, import experimental treatments, adapt every aspect of our lives to whatever reality we're facing. But I can't—" His voice breaks, the crack audible in the silent kitchen. "I can't fix this for him."

Clark crosses the space between them, placing a steady hand on Bruce's shoulder. "No," he agrees simply. "You can't."

The admission—so plain, so final—triggers something Bruce has been suppressing since the moment University Hospital's number appeared on his phone. The careful compartmentalization fails, emotions spilling over constructed barriers, the fear he's refused to acknowledge surging to the surface.

"What if he never—" Bruce can't finish the sentence, the possibility too devastating to voice aloud. What if he never flies again? What if he never fully recovers? What if this is their new reality—Hal trapped within the prison of a body that betrays him daily, Bruce powerless to do anything but witness his struggle?

"I don't know," Clark answers honestly. "But I do know this." His hand tightens slightly on Bruce's shoulder, the pressure grounding. "Whatever comes, you won't face it alone. Neither will he."

Bruce doesn't respond, his breathing deliberately controlled as he fights to reestablish the composure that's served him for decades. Clark doesn't push, doesn't demand acknowledgment of the moment of vulnerability. Just stands beside him, a silent presence as Bruce rebuilds his walls brick by brick.

Outside, dawn begins to lighten the eastern sky, the first tentative suggestion of a new day. Bruce straightens, shoulders squaring, expression settling into lines of determination.

"I should get back to the hospital," he says finally. "He'll be awake soon."

Clark nods, understanding that the moment of open vulnerability has passed. "I'll drive you."

Bruce doesn't argue, though both of them know Clark has other, faster ways of transportation. The offer isn't about efficiency but companionship, extended without expectation of acknowledgment.

As they move toward the door, Clark pauses. "Bruce." He waits until Bruce meets his eyes. "He's not the only one who needs to heal."

Bruce's answer is almost imperceptible—the slightest dip of his chin, neither acceptance nor rejection, just recognition. Then he's moving again, steps measured and purposeful, every motion calculated to project the control he feels slipping through his fingers.

Behind him, Clark follows, silent witness to the burden Bruce carries—the weight of loving someone whose future remains utterly, terrifyingly uncertain.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

Bruce arrives at the hospital earlier than usual, coffee untouched in his hand as he navigates the now-familiar corridors. Sleep had eluded him for the third night in a row, leaving him to the empty spaces of the Manor and the calculations that wouldn't stop cycling through his mind. The doctors' latest assessments. Probability curves of various recovery outcomes. The ever-shifting timeline of Hal's healing.

He hears the laughter before he reaches the room—a sound Bruce hasn't heard in weeks: Hal's genuine laugh, unrestrained despite its roughness. He slows his approach, pausing just outside the doorway.

"—so then I told the professor that technically the answer was right, just in a completely different numbering system," Jim is saying, youthful energy in every animated gesture. "He made me prove it in front of the entire class."

Hal's responding laugh dissolves into a coughing fit, but there's no mistaking the amusement in his eyes, the momentary lightness in his expression that's been absent for so long. Jim pats Hal's back through the coughing spell, the casual contact continuing even after it subsides - his hand lingering on Hal's shoulder, the younger brother's touchiness something Bruce has observed throughout their visits.

Jack sits in the chair by the window, feet propped on the radiator, coffee balanced precariously on his knee. His usual military stiffness has softened during these morning visits, when the hospital is quiet and privacy feels more assured.

"Not exactly living up to the family reputation for academic excellence," Jack comments, a glint of humor softening his typically stern features. "Which reminds me of your high school physics project, Harold."

"Don't," Hal manages, the word emerging slurred but emphatic. His hand waves in warning, though the effect is undermined by the persistent tremor and the smile he can't quite suppress.

Jack ignores the protest, leaning forward to cuff Hal lightly on the shoulder - a rare gesture of affection from the eldest Jordan brother. "Jim, you should have seen it. The principal actually called the fire department."

Jim laughs delightedly, his arm thrown casually across Hal's shoulders in a way he never would have attempted before the accident. "You never told me that one!"

Bruce remains in the doorway, unnoticed by the three men inside. Something cold and unfamiliar settles in his chest as he watches their easy camaraderie, the unforced interaction that flows between them without effort or calculation. Jim's position on the edge of Hal's bed—a proximity Bruce has been careful to maintain only with explicit permission—and Jack's relaxed posture signal a comfort level that Bruce hasn't permitted himself to display in this clinical setting.

The Jordan brothers have shifted their approach since Hal's condition stabilized. They don't flinch at his slurred speech, don't maintain careful eye contact to avoid looking at his trembling hands, don't measure every word for its potential to trigger confusion or distress. They simply exist in his space, treating him not as a patient but as their brother who happens to be injured.

Jim casually readjusts Hal's pillows mid-sentence, the thoughtless intimacy of the gesture striking Bruce like a physical blow. Jack reaches across to steal the untouched pudding cup from Hal's lunch tray, his hand brushing Hal's arm with the casual confidence that marks their family dynamic. Their constant touches - a squeeze of the shoulder here, a bump of the knee there - are as natural to them as breathing, a language of affection that runs through the Jordan family lineage.

Jack launches into another story, something about Hal's first flight test that Jim has clearly never heard before. Hal's responding laugh is deeper this time, genuine and unrestrained in a way Bruce hasn't heard since before the accident. The sound fills the room, momentarily erasing the clinical atmosphere with its brightness.

Bruce notes the way Hal's expression shifts suddenly, the color draining from his face, the hand that rises to press against his abdomen.

"Hal?" Both brothers react simultaneously, humor evaporating instantly.

Bruce is already moving from the doorway, reading the subtle signs others might miss—the rapid pallor spreading across Hal's face, the slight blue tinge appearing at his lips, the way his body curves protectively inward.

Hal tries to speak, but only manages a pained grunt. His eyes find Bruce's across the room, confusion and fear replacing the easy humor of moments before.

"Something's wrong," Jim says unnecessarily, his hand now gripping Hal's shoulder rather than casually draped across it.

Bruce reaches the bedside just as the monitors begin their frantic alert—Hal's heart rate spiking while his blood pressure plummets. The combination is unmistakable to anyone with medical training. Internal bleeding.

Hal suddenly doubles over, a strangled cry escaping him as his face contorts with pain. His body goes rigid, hands clutching desperately at his abdomen. The monitor alarms shriek as his blood pressure plummets dangerously, the digital readout flashing red warnings.

"Jesus,” Jack's exclamation cuts through the sudden cacophony. His instinct kicks in immediately, moving to Hal's side with efficiency.

Jim's face has gone almost as pale as Hal's, his hand frozen on his brother's shoulder. "What's happening? What's wrong with him?"

Bruce's mind shifts instantly to crisis management, years of learning battlefield and emergency medicine allowing him to catalog symptoms with detachment while his body responds on autopilot. "Internal bleeding," he says, the diagnosis emerging with absolute certainty. "Likely splenic rupture from the original trauma."

Bruce positions himself at Hal's side, helping him lie back as Hal's strength visibly falters. His skin has taken on a sickly gray pallor, cold sweat beading across his forehead.

"Pressure's crashing," Bruce notes, eyes on the monitor. "62 over 38."

Jim looks up, face pale with shock. "What does that mean? What's happening to him?"

"Delayed splenic rupture," Bruce answers, the clinical term emerging with detached calm that belies the fear coursing through him. "The original accident damaged his spleen. Sometimes it holds for weeks before giving way."

Jack's eyes narrow with immediate understanding. "The laughing?"

Bruce nods sharply. "Likely triggered the final tear."

The door flies open as medical staff respond to the alarms. They flood into the room with controlled urgency, equipment and orders creating an organized chaos around Hal's bed. Bruce steps back only enough to allow them access, positioning himself where Hal can still see him through the growing crowd of medical personnel.

The lead physician—Santos, trauma medicine—takes immediate control, her hands already moving to examine Hal's abdomen. She presses firmly on his left side, drawing another cry of pain from Hal.

"Get four units of A neg," she orders without looking up. "Wide-bore IV access, both arms. Push fluids and prep for transfusion. Call surgery and tell them we're coming now."

The medical team moves with practiced efficiency, each person knowing their role in this well-rehearsed emergency. One nurse attaches pressure bags to the IV fluids, another prepares injection ports for blood products. A third calls down to surgery, conveying the urgency without creating panic.

Jack and Jim have been pushed to the periphery of the room, their earlier easy confidence replaced by stunned helplessness. Jack's military brat background gives him a framework for understanding the severity, while Jim looks increasingly lost, his youth suddenly apparent in the face of crisis.

"Should we..." Jim gestures vaguely, clearly unsure if they should stay or go.

Bruce doesn't take his eyes off Hal. "Stay if you want. This isn't your fault."

Jack's face has gone taut with tension. "The laughing—I pushed him—"

"This would have happened eventually," Bruce interrupts, voice flat with certainty. "The damage was already there from the accident. It was just waiting for a trigger."

Santos looks up from her examination, addressing Bruce directly with professional courtesy. "We need to get him to surgery immediately. The bleeding's significant." Her eyes flick to the monitors where Hal's pressure continues to fall despite the rapid infusion of fluids. "Are you coming?"

Bruce nods once, sharp and decisive. "Yes."

He moves to Hal's side as the team prepares the bed for transport, leaning close enough to be heard over the controlled chaos surrounding them.

"I'm here," he says, voice pitched for Hal's ears alone. "I'm not going anywhere."

Hal's eyes find his, pain and fear evident but also an unmistakable trust. His hand reaches out, trembling worse than usual, and Bruce catches it immediately. Their fingers intertwine with practiced familiarity, anchoring Hal to something solid amid the swirling emergency.

Jack steps forward, military bearing in full evidence now that the initial shock has passed. "We'll be right behind you," he promises, voice clipped and controlled. "Whatever you need."

Jim nods silently beside his eldest brother, one hand unconsciously clutching at his shirt, his youthful face pale with shock.

The medical team begins moving the bed toward the door, monitors and IV poles attached and rolling alongside. Bruce moves with them, never breaking contact with Hal's hand. Santos briefs him as they go, outlining the emergency splenectomy Hal will need, the risks and recovery time. Bruce absorbs this information, compartmentalizing it for later when Hal is stable and he can process the implications properly.

As they pass through the doorway, Bruce catches a final glimpse of Jack and Jim standing side by side in the suddenly empty room, surrounded by the aftermath of crisis—scattered medical packaging, equipment moved hastily aside, the pudding cup Jack never finished. Their easy physical affection and casual confidence have vanished, replaced by the stunned stillness of people confronting how quickly everything can change.

In the hallway, medical staff clear a path as they rush Hal toward the surgical suite. Two more nurses join them at the elevator, bringing blood products that will buy precious time until surgery. The doors close on the Jordan brothers' worried faces, shutting Bruce and Hal into this new crisis together.

Hal's eyes flutter, consciousness fading as blood loss takes its toll. His grip on Bruce's hand weakens but doesn't break.

"Stay with me," Bruce says, the command gentle but firm. "Just a little longer."

Hal's focus returns briefly, eyes finding Bruce's with effort. "Not... your fault either," he manages, the words slurred but unmistakable.

Bruce understands immediately—Hal had heard his reassurance to Jack. Even now, in crisis and pain, Hal is thinking of others, trying to ease Bruce's burden.

"I know," Bruce responds, though the guilt weighs on him nonetheless. Should he have noticed earlier signs? Could he have prevented this?

The elevator reaches the surgical floor, doors opening to reveal another waiting team. Everything moves with practiced urgency now—the transfer to a surgical gurney, the rapid-fire questions from the anesthesiologist, the final preparations before they take Hal through doors Bruce cannot follow past.

Hal's eyes find Bruce's, a moment of perfect clarity breaking through the pain and confusion. His lips part as if to speak, but no sound emerges. Bruce watches, helpless, as awareness drains from Hal's expression—consciousness slipping away like water through cupped hands. One moment he's there, struggling to stay present, fighting to maintain that connection between them, and the next he's gone—eyes rolling back, body going completely limp on the gurney.

What tears at Bruce isn't the medical crisis—he's seen worse, managed worse on battlefields and in back alleys. It's the sudden absence of Hal, the light extinguishing in eyes that hold his entire world. In that moment, Bruce understands with devastating clarity that all his preparations, all his contingency plans, all his meticulous organizing of their life together can't protect against this—the terrifying fragility of what they've built, how quickly it can slip away.

The monitors scream with new urgency as Hal's vitals destabilize further.

"BP 40 over palp, heart rate 140 and climbing," a nurse calls out, voice tight with controlled urgency.

"Push another bolus and get him into the OR now," Santos orders, her calm voice belying the grave situation. "We're out of time."

At the threshold to the surgical suite, Bruce must finally release Hal's hand. He leans close one last time, pressing his forehead briefly against Hal's in a rare display of public vulnerability.

"I'll be here," he promises, the words simple but profound in their absolute certainty. "Every minute."

Left alone in the surgical waiting area, Bruce finally allows himself a moment of unguarded emotion. His hands—steady throughout the crisis—now tremble slightly as he runs them over his face. The adrenaline that carried him through the emergency begins to ebb, leaving behind the hollow awareness of how quickly everything can unravel, how tenuous recovery truly is.

He paces the small room, the emotional weight of watching Hal slip away overwhelming any medical thoughts or statistics. What sustains him isn't knowledge or precedent but the memory of all they've built together—the arguments and reconciliations, the quiet mornings and chaotic evenings, the life they've woven from such different threads. A strange comfort emerges from an unexpected source—Tim's medical history. His son had his spleen removed years ago and had recovered fully. That thought anchors Bruce, not for the medical parallel but for the reminder that the people he loves are resilient, that they come back to him even from the edge.

Tim had not only survived but thrived. The thought anchors Bruce, providing structure amid chaos, a precedent for recovery that feels tangible and real rather than statistical.

The elevator doors open, revealing Jack and Jim. They approach cautiously, uncertainty in their expressions—unsure of their welcome, their place in this moment. Jim's face is still pale with shock, his youthful features drawn with worry. Jack maintains his military bearing, but exhaustion shows in the slight slump of his shoulders.

"Any news?" Jack asks, voice tight with controlled emotion.

Bruce shakes his head. "Surgery just started. Likely to take at least two hours."

Jack remains standing while Jim claims one of the uncomfortable waiting room chairs. The youngest Jordan's face is pale, shock still evident in his fixed stare and trembling hands.

"You said it would have happened anyway," Jack finally speaks, the statement half-question.

"Yes." Bruce's answer is immediate, certain. "The damage was there from the initial trauma. It could have been triggered by anything—physical therapy, a coughing fit, even turning wrong in bed."

Jack looks up. "But it was the laughing." His voice hardens with self-recrimination.

"It was the splenic damage from the car accident," Bruce corrects, precision important now. "Not the laughter."

The distinction matters, though he can't quite articulate why. Perhaps because in the calculus of blame and causation, he cannot bear for anything that brought Hal genuine joy—however briefly—to be labeled the villain.

They settle into uncomfortable silence, three men united by concern for a fourth, divided by their differing relationships to him. Bruce continues his pacing, unable to remain still while Hal is under the knife. Jack eventually sinks into a chair, his military posture collapsing under the weight of worry. Jim sits with his head in his hands, occasionally reaching up to touch his shirt as if to reassure himself that this is real.

Time stretches, elastic and oppressive. One hour becomes two. Coffee appears and goes cold, untouched. Jack makes one call—to their mother, his voice low and tight as he explains what's happened. Jim texts someone, presumably a friend, with updates. Bruce does neither, unwilling to disturb Damian's school day with news that would only create helpless worry.

When the surgical doors finally open again, all three men rise simultaneously. Dr. Santos approaches, surgical cap still in place, expression carefully neutral in the way that speaks of professional distance rather than bad news.

"The surgery was successful," she informs them without preamble. "We removed the spleen and controlled all bleeding sources. He's stable and being moved to recovery."

The relief is immediate and palpable—Jack's rigid posture finally giving way as his shoulders slump forward, Jim exhaling a shuddering breath that's half-sob, Bruce's hands unclenching from fists he hadn't realized he'd formed.

"When can we see him?" Jim asks, youthful impatience breaking through the shock.

"About an hour," Santos replies. "He'll be groggy from anesthesia, and we need to monitor him closely initially. The first twenty-four hours are critical to ensure there's no further bleeding."

"And long-term?" Bruce asks.

Santos seems to appreciate his directness. "Most people live completely normal lives after splenectomy," she says simply. Then, her expression softening slightly, "He'll be fine, Mr. Wayne. Everything went smoothly."

Understanding passes between them – Santos recognizing that Bruce needs reassurance that goes beyond medical facts, that reaches the fear he keeps carefully contained.

Bruce nods, accepting this timeline without argument. An hour is nothing compared to the weeks of uncertainty they've already navigated. He can wait another sixty minutes. The knowledge that Tim has navigated this same terrain provides a strange comfort, but what sustains him most is the memory of Hal's eyes finding his in that last moment of consciousness—the trust there, the connection that persists despite everything.

"You should get some rest," Santos adds, the suggestion clearly directed at all three men though her eyes remain on Bruce. "This will be another marathon, not a sprint."

The advice is professional, reasonable, and destined to be ignored. Bruce's response is a slight shake of his head—polite acknowledgment without acceptance. Santos seems unsurprised, offering a tired smile before returning through the surgical doors.

Jack breaks the silence that follows. "We'll stick around," he says, the statement not quite a question. "If that's okay."

Bruce considers this briefly before nodding. Despite everything—the jealousy he'd felt watching their easy interactions with Hal, the complicated emotions their presence stirred—he recognizes the value they bring. Hal needs them all, each relationship offering something the others cannot.

"He'll want to see you," Bruce confirms, offering this small concession. "When he's more stable."

Jack exchanges a look with Jim, some silent communication passing between them. "We'll wait," he decides, settling back into his chair. "For as long as it takes."

The phrase echoes Bruce's own thoughts from earlier—the unspoken promise to remain present through whatever comes next. Different relationships, different roles, but the same fundamental commitment.

Bruce resumes his pacing, each step a countdown to reunion with Hal. Another crisis weathered, another hurdle crossed, another reminder of how fragile recovery truly is. Yet beneath the anxiety and exhaustion, a certainty remains, unshaken despite everything:

Whatever comes next, Hal will not face it alone.

None of them will.

Chapter Text

Four days since the emergency splenectomy and Hal still can't sit up without feeling like his insides might spill out. Another setback in a recovery that already feels like climbing a mountain in roller skates. The irony isn't lost on him—just when he'd started to make progress, just when walking to the bathroom solo had seemed like a real possibility, his body had found yet another way to betray him.

His fingers drum against the blanket, tremors making the rhythm uneven, broken. Even this small movement—this basic fucking human function—refuses to cooperate. Everything about his body feels like a betrayal.

The clock on the wall reads 3:17. Bruce had mentioned something—someone—stopping by after school hours. The details swim just beyond his reach, another frustrating blank space where solid information should be.

The door opens with deliberate quietness. A boy enters—dark hair, serious eyes, school uniform pressed to military precision. Something tugs at Hal's consciousness. Familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

The boy hesitates just inside the doorway. His fingers grip the strap of his backpack so tightly the knuckles show white. His face betrays nothing, but the rigid set of his shoulders screams tension. Dark shadows line his eyes, testament to sleepless nights. The boy has perfected the art of appearing composed while falling apart.

"Jordan." The greeting emerges clipped, formal.

Hal stares at him, fragments of memory colliding without connecting. He's seen this boy before—in this room, by this bed—but there's something more, something deeper that exists beyond the hospital. A connection he can't quite grasp.

The silence stretches. The boy shifts his weight slightly.

"Damian," the boy supplies after too long, neutrality not quite masking something raw beneath. "Damian Wayne."

Something clicks into place. "Bruce's son," Hal says, relief momentarily cutting through the frustration. "You play that rich kid sport."

Damian's head snaps up, hope flashing across his features before being ruthlessly suppressed. His hand moves to his wrist, unconsciously touching an Omega Speedmaster watch—the gesture of someone seeking an anchor in rough seas.

The fragmented recognition isn't nearly enough. Hal searches for more details, encountering maddening blankness where information should be. His fingers curl into a fist against the blanket, tremor intensifying with his anger.

Damian perches on the edge of the visitor's chair, spine straight, shoulders squared. Military posture. Too controlled for a teenager. His eyes constantly scan Hal's face, cataloging responses, measuring awareness. Looking for something—someone—who might no longer exist.

There's a precision to his movements that reminds Hal of something. Someone. A vigilante in the night. But also something else—stubborn determination, uncompromising standards. The boy is Bruce's son, but there's something in his expression that echoes Hal's own ghosts.

The silence between them pulses with awkward awareness. Damian's composure slips momentarily—a slight tremor in his hand quickly hidden, a blink that lasts too long. The kid is exhausted, wrung out, holding himself together through sheer force of will.

Hal struggles for words, for connections, for anything to bridge the gap between them. He knows, somehow, that this is important—that Damian matters to him in ways he can't currently access. The knowledge sits like a weight in his chest, another loss to add to an already staggering collection.

Damian stands abruptly, movements precise despite the tension radiating from him. His eyes dart to the window, to the door, anywhere but Hal's face. Fighting for control.

The watch on his wrist catches the light as he turns. Another memory fragment surfaces—Damian's fifteenth birthday, explaining how astronauts used that exact model on the moon. The boy's rare, genuine smile. The memory dissolves before it fully forms, leaving Hal clutching at smoke.

"So," Hal says suddenly, the word emerging before he's even thought it through. "School still awful?"

Damian blinks, clearly thrown by the abrupt shift. "I... what?"

"School," Hal repeats, leaning into the sudden impulse. "Still full of idiots who don't appreciate your superior intellect? What was that one teacher's name... the physics guy?"

"Reynolds," Damian supplies automatically, then looks immediately annoyed with himself for responding.

"Reynolds," Hal echoes, the name triggering nothing but sounding right. "Still on your case?"

Damian's posture shifts subtly—surprise breaking through the careful composure. "He remains... inadequately informed on certain theoretical principles."

Something about the formal phrasing tugs at Hal's memory. This feels right—the exasperated teenager beneath the formal language, the eye roll Damian is clearly suppressing.

"Translation: still an ass," Hal offers with a slight grin.

Damian's expression flickers—irritation battling with something that might almost be amusement. "Your terminology lacks precision, but is not entirely inaccurate."

"Some things never change," Hal says with mock solemnity. "The sun rises, the tide goes out, and Reynolds is still an ass."

A muscle in Damian's jaw twitches—fighting a smile he refuses to show. "Your eloquence remains... consistent."

The interaction feels strangely normal amid all the abnormality—like they've had this exact exchange before, possibly many times. Hal can't remember the specifics, but the rhythm feels familiar, comfortable.

Damian shifts his weight, clearly conflicted between staying and going. His eyes keep returning to Hal's trembling hands, to the IV line, to the monitors—assessing, calculating, worrying despite his attempt at detachment.

"I should..." he gestures vaguely toward the door, the uncharacteristic imprecision revealing his uncertainty.

"Yeah," Hal nods, suddenly exhausted by the effort of reaching for memories that refuse to solidify. "But hey—come back tomorrow? Tell me more about how Reynolds is ruining your life?"

Damian's expression cycles through several emotions too quickly to catalog—surprise, hesitation, something almost like hope. He straightens, composure sliding back into place like armor.

"If you wish," he says with studied neutrality, but something in his eyes has lightened, just slightly. "Though I would hardly characterize Reynolds as 'ruining my life.' Merely an irritation to be managed."

"Sure, sure," Hal agrees, the response feeling automatic, well-worn. "Way too cool to let a teacher bother you. Got it."

Damian's eyes narrow, but there's no real heat behind it. "Your attempts at understanding adolescent social dynamics remain embarrassingly outdated, Jordan."

The retort emerges with such natural exasperation that it catches them both off guard. For a brief moment, the awkwardness dissolves, replaced by something like their normal dynamic—whatever that might be.

Damian seems about to say something more, then thinks better of it. With a slight nod that somehow contains less formality than before, he slips from the room.

Hal stares at the closed door, not quite a failure this time. The kid is still not okay—not even close—but for a moment, they'd found some small connection. A fragment, but a real one.

The next morning brings Ollie, travel bag slung over one shoulder, grin firmly in place as he strides into Hal's hospital room without knocking. No cautious entry, no careful assessment, no clinic-approved greeting. Just Ollie being Ollie, treating the hospital room like he would Hal's apartment, like nothing has changed.

"Heard you decided to add another surgery to your collection," he announces, dropping his bag by the door with casual disregard for hospital protocol. "Overachiever as always."

The familiar irreverence hits Hal like a shot of something strong and necessary. Everyone else approaches him with careful steps and measured voices—even Bruce, especially Bruce. But not Ollie. Never Ollie.

Hal doesn't bother with pleasantries. "Why are you here?"

Ollie claims the visitor's chair with the comfort of someone who knows he's welcome regardless of formalities. He kicks his feet up on the edge of Hal's bed—a violation that would send the nurses into fits but feels like the most normal thing that's happened in weeks.

The dam breaks without warning. All the frustration, the rage, the helplessness Hal's been tamping down for weeks erupts like a volcano. His voice rises, words pouring out in a torrent of unfiltered fury. He can't fly. Can't hold a spoon. Can't remember. Can't piss without supervision.

Ollie doesn't flinch, doesn't try to calm him, doesn't glance nervously at the monitors recording Hal's spiking heart rate. He just sits there, feet still propped on the bed, absorbing every bitter word like it's a perfectly reasonable conversation to be having.

Hal's trembling hands curl into fists as the words keep coming, momentum building. The doctors and their clipboards. The nurses and their patronizing smiles. The therapists and their carefully measured expectations.

And Bruce—God, Bruce—with his contingency plans and silent assessments. Planning for every scenario except recovery. Treating Hal like glass while simultaneously preparing for him to be permanently broken.

Even Barry—fucking Barry—who's supposedly his best friend, looks at him like he might shatter at any moment. His visits are all carefully timed, methodically planned to avoid fatigue. He measures his words like medicines, delivers each sentence with practiced cheerfulness that never quite reaches his eyes. The way he catalogues every tremor, every fumbled memory, every hesitation—his scientist's mind weighing and measuring Hal's deficiencies in real time. Keeping detailed mental spreadsheets of "progress" that are really just documenting decline.

Ollie doesn't move through any of it, doesn't share uncomfortable glances with invisible third parties like the nurses do, doesn't check his watch like the doctors, doesn't make notes like the therapists. Just watches Hal with unusual focus, letting him purge weeks of suppressed rage.

When Hal finally runs out of steam, chest heaving, throat raw, Ollie simply asks, "Feel better?"

The unexpected response throws Hal off-balance.

"Maybe. A little." The admission surprises him.

Ollie nods, satisfaction evident in his expression. No platitudes, no reassurances, just acknowledgment. "Good. That's the most you've sounded like yourself since this whole thing started."

What hits Hal hardest isn't the words but the way Ollie says them—like he's been waiting for this version of Hal to surface again. Like he never doubted it would.

"I'm serious," Hal insists, unwilling to let his anger be dismissed.

"I know," Ollie replies simply. "And you're right."

The validation lands like a physical thing. Ollie doesn't try to soften the reality, doesn't attempt to find silver linings or bright sides. Just confirms what Hal already knows—that this situation is bullshit, that the way people are treating him is bullshit, that Bruce's silent preparations for permanent disability without discussing them is bullshit.

It's exactly what Hal needs—not sympathy or encouragement or clinical assessment, but straightforward acknowledgment of reality without filters or agenda.

Ollie would be the first to coddle Hal in any other circumstance—making excuses for him, defending his worst decisions, indulging his every reckless impulse. Their friendship has always thrived on mutual enablement. But in this, when Hal needs someone to validate his anger rather than soothe it away, Ollie delivers exactly what's needed.

For the first time in weeks, Hal feels his shoulders relax slightly. His breathing steadies, the burning in his chest receding to manageable levels. Not because his situation has changed, but because someone—finally—has acknowledged the reality of it without trying to soften the edges.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The rehab facility feels wrong. Everything about it—the too-bright colors, the motivational posters with their saccharine platitudes, the constant hum of therapeutic equipment—grates against Bruce's carefully calibrated senses. Wayne Medical Rehabilitation Center, despite being his own company's flagship facility, feels foreign in a way Gotham University Hospital never did.

Bruce waits in the private sitting area near the therapy wing, reviewing files on his tablet. The hushed conversations of passing staff and the occasional mechanized whir of equipment are the only sounds that penetrate the quiet space.

The tablet in Bruce's hand contains Hal's latest assessment reports. His index finger taps the edge of the device—three times, pause, three times—a rhythm that betrays his tension. He's memorized every word of every report, analyzed the data from every possible angle. The conclusions remain frustratingly vague. "Continued improvement." "Encouraging progress." "Monitoring closely." Words designed to offer hope without commitment, to acknowledge improvement without promising recovery.

Words that mean nothing.

Three physical therapy sessions daily. Two hours of occupational therapy. One hour of speech therapy, though Hal's verbal skills have improved dramatically. One hour of cognitive rehabilitation. Evaluations with neurologists, trauma specialists, rehabilitation experts. Bruce has arranged the best care money can buy, assembled a team of the foremost experts in traumatic brain injury.

It's still not enough.

The truck jackknifed on that icy stretch of I-95. The call that divided Bruce's life into before and after with the surgical exactness of a scalpel. The accident itself consumes six seconds of objective time—physics and impact and silence. The aftermath stretches endlessly, measured now in increments of therapy sessions and medication adjustments and nights spent memorizing the ceiling of their bedroom while Hal's side of the bed remains empty.

Bruce's gaze drifts to the window, to the manicured grounds beyond. The rehab center sits on twelve acres of landscaped property, designed to create an illusion of freedom within confinement. Walkways that curve gently between copses of trees, benches positioned at calculated intervals, gardens arranged in configurations meant to soothe the wounded psyche. Everything carefully engineered to hide its clinical purpose.

Artificial. Like so much of their lives now.

Some nights, after Hal has drifted into the pharmaceutical haze of induced sleep, Bruce prowls those grounds. His footsteps trace and retrace the paths, muscle memory replacing conscious thought as he catalogs the facility's weaknesses. Seven blind spots in the security camera coverage. Three access points with substandard locks. A maintenance shed where the alarm system is bypassed during daytime hours. The assessment is automatic, ingrained, utterly useless in their current circumstances.

Yet he performs it anyway, night after night. Control in the absence of control.

A notification lights up Bruce's phone—Alfred, with an update about Damian. The boy's grades have slipped in three subjects. His field reports show increasingly volatile behavior: three disregarded direct orders in as many nights, excessive force against common criminals, unnecessary risks during routine operations. The surveillance footage Alfred included shows Damian diving off a five-story building without deploying his grapple until the last possible second—a move designed to terrify both perpetrator and mentor.

The pattern is too familiar. The recklessness. The rage barely contained beneath the surface. The same spiral that took Jason further and further from them until that final, fatal encounter. Bruce has seen this before, has lived this nightmare already, has buried one son. The possibility of history repeating itself sits like lead in his stomach.

Bruce absorbs this information with the same detached analysis he applies to everything now, cataloging it alongside the hundreds of other details that require his attention. Damian needs him. Wayne Enterprises needs him. Gotham needs him.

But Hal needs him more.

A text from Clark follows Alfred's: Just checking in. Need anything? The implication hangs unspoken between the brief words. Need backup? Need a break? Need to talk? Bruce doesn't respond. Will respond later, perhaps, when the crushing weight of obligations feels marginally more manageable. Or perhaps not. Clark understands silences better than most.

During their initial tour, Tyler had described his approach in the therapy gym: parallel bars where Hal would relearn to walk, weights calibrated to rebuild strength without overtaxing damaged neural pathways, equipment designed to retrain balance and coordination. Bruce can picture it all with unfailing clarity—can visualize Hal's determined expression, the frustration that would flash across his face with each setback, the stubborn refusal to accept limitation.

The door to the therapy wing swings open. Tyler emerges first, followed by Hal in the wheelchair he still requires for longer distances. The flash of frustration on Hal's face tells its own story—another small indignity in an endless series, another reminder of how far the journey remains. But there's something different in his posture today, a subtle confidence that wasn't present yesterday.

Bruce carefully arranges his expression into something approximating neutral optimism—not too hopeful, which Hal would resent, but not too clinical, which would trigger another argument about being treated like a science experiment. The balance is almost impossible to maintain, yet one more calculation in a day filled with them.

"Hey," Hal says, eyes meeting Bruce's with greater clarity than they held weeks ago. Despite everything, despite the wheelchair and the tremors and the cognitive gaps that still yawn between them, the essential Hal Jordan stubbornness shines through. "Didn't expect you until later."

Bruce allows himself the slight curve of lips that passes for a smile these days. "Meeting finished early." The lie comes easily, practiced. The truth—that he's rescheduled three international calls and delegated a board meeting to attend every single therapy session—would only feed Hal's guilt. Another careful calculation: which truths to tell, which to withhold.

Tyler excuses himself with professional efficiency, his military bearing evident in his exact movements and economy of words. The rehab center staff have learned to give them space, to treat Bruce's presence as routine rather than remarkable. Only the occasional nervous glance betrays their awareness of exactly who is paying their salaries, who funded the wing where Hal receives treatment.

"Progress today," Bruce comments, falling into step beside the wheelchair. Not a question—Hal resents questions about his therapy, reads them as doubt rather than interest—but an observation.

"Some," Hal acknowledges, the single word containing volumes. More progress means higher expectations. Higher expectations mean greater opportunities for failure. Bruce understands this calculus intimately.

They navigate the halls in companionable silence, the tension that characterized their earliest days here somewhat eased. The arguments haven't disappeared—Hal's frustration still erupts periodically, aimed at Bruce as the safest target—but they've found a rhythm to this new reality. A pattern that, while not comfortable, is at least predictable.

In Hal's private room—more apartment than hospital accommodation, another privilege of Wayne ownership—Bruce waits while Hal transfers himself from wheelchair to armchair. The movement is practiced now, Hal's upper body strength compensating for the weakness in his legs. Bruce doesn't offer help. Has learned, painfully, when assistance is welcome and when it's an insult.

"Damian's coming later," Bruce says, settling into the chair opposite. "He has a physics test tomorrow. Thought you might help him review."

The strategy is deliberate—giving Hal purpose, reinforcing his value beyond physical capability, maintaining the connections that tether him to their shared life. Bruce has become adept at these small maneuvers, these careful reinforcements of normalcy amid the clinical reality of rehabilitation.

Hal's expression softens at the mention of Damian. The relationship between them has been the one unqualified success in this entire ordeal. Whatever fragments of memory Hal lost, whatever gaps remain in his recollection, his bond with Damian has somehow strengthened through the recovery. Perhaps because Damian, unlike Bruce, doesn't constantly measure Hal against what he was before.

"Reynolds still on his case?" Hal asks, the tremor in his hand intensifying as he reaches for the water glass on the side table. Bruce resists the urge to help, to steady the glass before it spills. Instead, he watches as Hal maneuvers it with determined concentration, water sloshing against the sides but not quite breaching the rim.

A victory, small but significant.

"Reynolds has been...accommodating," Bruce says carefully. Damian's physics teacher has indeed adjusted his expectations, though not without resistance. The boy's grades reflect the upheaval in their home life more than any deficiency in understanding. "But the material is challenging."

Hal nods, setting the glass down with deliberate care. "He's got this. Kid's brilliant when he's not overthinking everything." The assessment is so quintessentially Hal—simple, direct, utterly confident—that for a moment Bruce can almost forget where they are, what's happened.

Almost.

The moment passes, reality reasserting itself in the mechanical beep of a distant monitor, in the antiseptic smell that permeates even this upscale facility, in the visible tremors that course through Hal's body as fatigue from the therapy session catches up with him.

A slight frown creases Hal's forehead. "What's wrong with Damian?"

The question catches Bruce off-guard—an increasingly rare occurrence. "What do you mean?"

"You've got that look," Hal gestures vaguely toward Bruce's face. "The one you get when something's wrong with the kid but you're trying to handle it yourself."

Even with brain damage, with memory gaps, with physical limitations, Hal still reads him with unsettling accuracy. Still notices what others miss. Still sees through the layers of control and calculation to the concerns beneath.

"His grades have slipped," Bruce admits, offering this small truth as diversion from larger concerns. "Nothing serious."

Hal studies him, clearly unconvinced. "And?"

Bruce weighs how much to share. Damian's unnecessary risk-taking in the field. His increasingly confrontational attitude with criminals. The brutality Alfred reports, the techniques the boy refuses to justify. The drawing Alfred found in the trash—stark black lines depicting the accident scene with photographic fidelity despite Damian never having seen it.

The parallels to Jason that keep Bruce awake at night. The same reckless disregard for safety. The same escalating aggression. The same burning need to prove something—to himself, to Bruce, to the world. History threatening to repeat itself with ruthless efficiency.

"And nothing," Bruce says finally. "It's being handled."

Hal's gaze lingers on Bruce's face, assessing with that unnerving clarity that even brain damage hasn't dimmed. For a moment, Bruce is certain Hal will push—will demand the truth, will tear down the careful fortifications Bruce has built around this particular concern.

Then something shifts in Hal's expression. His shoulders slump slightly—not in defeat, but in deliberate retreat. A tactical decision, as clear to Bruce as if Hal had announced it aloud: Not today. Not when therapy has already drained them both. Not when there are more immediate battles to fight.

"Fine," Hal says, redirecting his attention to the television remote on the side table. "What time is the kid getting here?"

Bruce recognizes the reprieve for what it is—temporary, conditional, a deliberate choice to postpone rather than abandon the confrontation. The wall between them remains intact, but its foundations have been examined, its weaknesses noted. Hal will return to dismantle it another day, when he has more strength, when the ground is more favorable for the battle ahead.

For now, they will maintain the fragile peace they've established. Will continue this dance of truths told and truths withheld. Will sustain the illusion of normalcy neither of them truly believes in.

It's not a victory. But it's a respite. And in these endless days of rehabilitation and recovery, of measured progress and calculated responses, Bruce has learned to accept whatever small mercies he can get.​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

Hal wakes before the alarm. He always does now. Pain is a more effective timekeeper than any clock—insistent, methodical, impossible to ignore. The medical literature calls it "chronic pain syndrome secondary to traumatic injury." Hal calls it his new permanent roommate.

Five seconds of blissful nothing between consciousness and awareness. He's learned to savor them. Five. Four. Three. Two...

There it is.

The dagger between his shoulder blades. The vise grip at the base of his skull. The hot coal lodged in his lower back. All present and accounted for. The trio of sensations that greet him every morning with ruthless consistency.

Hal opens his eyes to pre-dawn darkness, the rehab center room taking shape in shadows and outlines. 5:17 AM according to the digital clock. Right on schedule.

He begins the inventory, methodically cataloging pain from head to toe. It's become ritual, this daily assessment—breaking the overwhelming whole into manageable pieces. Headache: 6/10, concentrated behind the right eye. Neck: 5/10, worse when he turns left. Shoulders: 7/10, the left a grinding 8/10 from the driver's side impact. Back: hovering at 8/10 this morning, a bad sign for the day ahead. And so on, down to the burning ache in his feet that never fully subsides.

The splenectomy incision has mostly healed, but still twinges when he moves wrong. A minor annoyance compared to the rest.

Hal's pain map shifts and evolves daily, but the overall geography remains constant. His body transformed into a landscape of hurt, a terrain he must navigate without compass or guide.

He exhales carefully, measuring his breath. Too deep and his ribs protest. Too shallow and the anxiety kicks in. Another balancing act in a life now defined by them.

Next comes the decision: Medication now or push through until after therapy? The pain management doctor had been clear—"Stay ahead of the pain, don't chase it"—but every pill feels like admission of weakness. Every dose another small surrender.

Hal turns his head cautiously toward the nightstand. The orange prescription bottle sits within reach, deliberately placed there by the night nurse. Beside it, a glass of water and the ridiculous pill organizer Bruce had special-ordered, with compartments large enough to accommodate Hal's trembling fingers.

Pragmatism wins. Again.

With careful movements, Hal shifts to reach the remote control. The TV springs to life, volume automatically set to the barely-audible level he prefers these mornings. The local morning news is already running, chipper anchors discussing the day's weather forecast with manufactured enthusiasm.

Hal flips past it, landing on an old sitcom rerun instead. Canned laughter. People with problems that resolve in twenty-two minutes. The irony isn't lost on him.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand. Bruce, of course. The 5:30 AM check-in text that never fails to arrive regardless of circumstance. The clockwork predictability of it sets Hal's teeth on edge.

Still coming at 7. Bringing the protein shake you mentioned liking yesterday.

Hal stares at the message, irritation flaring hot and immediate. The shake had been fine. Just fine. A passing comment, not a goddamn request. And now Bruce would arrive with it, watching with that carefully neutral expression while Hal struggled to hold the cup steady, those calculating eyes tracking every tremor, every spill, every minor failure.

He doesn't respond to the text.

Bruce's constant, smothering presence is becoming its own form of pain. Every perfectly timed visit. Every meticulously researched supplement. Every precisely calibrated interaction—all of it feeling less like support and more like surveillance.

The worst part is the silence. The things Bruce doesn't say linger between them, growing larger and more monstrous with each passing day. He doesn't mention the tremors that worsen when Hal's tired. Doesn't reference the memory gaps that still yawn without warning. Doesn't acknowledge the fact that Hal hasn't asked about the ring in weeks.

Just watches. Catalogs. Assesses. That perfect Bruce Wayne mask never slipping, never showing disappointment or frustration or anger. Just endless, maddening patience.

Hal would kill for an honest fight. For Bruce to snap, to show something—anything—other than this practiced calm. To stop treating Hal like he might shatter at the slightest provocation.

The phone buzzes again.

Need anything else?

Yes. Stop typing every sentence like it's been filtered through six layers of consideration. Stop measuring every word. Stop pretending this isn't killing you too.

Hal puts the phone down without answering.

By 6:45, Hal is dressed and sitting in the chair by the window, jaw clenched in anticipation of Bruce's arrival. The medication has dulled the worst of the pain to a persistent throb rather than a scream. Manageable. Barely.

Exactly on schedule, three measured knocks announce Bruce's arrival. Not too loud, not too soft. Even his fucking knocking is calibrated.

"Come in," Hal calls, intentionally not turning toward the door.

Bruce enters with that particular grace that never falters—controlled movements that somehow manage to be both efficient and elegant. Today he's dressed in what Hal mentally categorizes as "Casual Billionaire"—dark jeans that probably cost more than some cars, a sweater in that exact shade of blue that brings out his eyes, loafers hand-crafted by artisans who've been making shoes since the Middle Ages.

"Good morning," Bruce says, voice pitched in that carefully modulated tone he's adopted since the accident. Not too cheerful, not too serious. Balanced, like everything about him.

Bruce sets the protein shake on the side table, already in the special cup with the ergonomic handle that allows Hal to grip it despite the tremors. Another thoughtful gesture that feels like a slap.

"The board meeting was moved to noon," Bruce comments, settling into the visitor's chair. "I can stay for your morning session if you'd like."

"Whatever," Hal says, reaching for the shake with deliberate casualness. His hand trembles, sloshing liquid dangerously close to the rim. Bruce pretends not to notice, his gaze fixed on the window as if Gotham's smoggy skyline holds some fascinating secret.

The silence stretches between them, Bruce seemingly content to wait Hal out. Another strategy that sets Hal's teeth on edge—this infinite patience, this willingness to sit through any silence rather than push or demand.

"Damian's coming this afternoon?" Hal finally asks, if only to break the quiet.

Bruce nods. "After debate practice. He's preparing for the regional competition next week."

"Good," Hal says, meaning it. His time with Damian has become the brightest spot in these endless days of rehab. The kid doesn't tiptoe around him, doesn't measure his words or actions for potentially upsetting content. Just barges in with teenage self-absorption and academic complaints and occasional grudging requests for advice.

More silence. Bruce studies him with that penetrating gaze that seems to catalog every wince, every tremor, every subtle sign of pain Hal tries to hide.

"Stop," Hal snaps, the word escaping before he can contain it.

Bruce's eyebrow rises slightly—the most expression he's shown since arriving. "Stop what?"

"That thing you're doing. The..." Hal gestures vaguely, frustration mounting as words fail him. "The analyzing. The assessing. Like I'm one of your goddamn case files."

Bruce's face smooths into perfect neutrality, which only infuriates Hal further. "I'm not assessing you."

"Bullshit." The word emerges sharper than intended. "You're tracking every tremor, every wince, every time I shift position. Cataloging my pain levels like you're gathering evidence."

"I'm concerned," Bruce says, voice still maddenly even. "That's different from assessment."

"Is it?" Hal's anger rises, hot and welcome after weeks of careful restraint. "Because from where I'm sitting, it feels pretty fucking similar."

Bruce doesn't rise to the bait. Just sits there, composure intact, watching with those intense eyes that give away nothing.

"What do you want from me, Hal?" he asks finally, the question so reasonable it makes Hal want to scream.

What does he want? He wants Bruce to stop being so goddamn perfect. To yell back. To show frustration or impatience or disappointment—anything but this endless, suffocating patience. He wants acknowledgment that this situation is terrible, that it isn't going to magically improve, that some losses are permanent.

Most of all, he wants to stop being treated like a tragic accident victim and start being treated like Hal Jordan again.

"I want you to stop looking at me like that," he says instead.

"Like what?"

"Like you're tallying everything I can't do anymore."

Something flickers in Bruce's eyes—too brief to identify before it's gone. "That's not what I'm doing."

"Isn't it?" Hal challenges. "The way you watch when I try to hold something. The way you note every tremor, every fumble. The way you've got contingency plans for every possible scenario except the one where I actually get better."

Bruce's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "I'm preparing for all possibilities."

"Except recovery," Hal interrupts. "You've written that off entirely."

"That's not true." Bruce's denial comes quickly—too quickly. Practiced.

Hal laughs, a harsh sound without humor. "You can't even lie convincingly anymore. What does that say about us?"

The question hangs between them, unanswerable and damning. Hal waits for Bruce to defend himself, to argue, to engage in any way that breaks through the careful distance he's maintained for weeks.

Instead, Bruce glances at his watch—a subtle movement, but one Hal catches immediately.

"Worried about being late for the board meeting?" Hal asks, bitterness coloring each word. "Don't let me keep you."

"We should head to therapy," Bruce says, ignoring the jab with practiced ease.

The change of subject is so smooth, so typically Bruce, that Hal almost admires it. Almost.

"No," Hal says, the word like a gunshot in the quiet room. "We're not doing that."

Bruce looks up, something like surprise flickering across his features. "Doing what?"

"That thing where you change the subject and we both pretend everything's fine." Hal's voice rises, anger burning through the careful restraint he's maintained for weeks. "That bullshit dance where you avoid anything real and I play along because it's easier than fighting."

"Hal—"

"Do you have any idea what it's like?" The words pour out now, unstoppable. "To be trapped in this body that betrays me every fucking day? To wake up in pain and go to sleep in pain and know that this is just how it is now?" His fist slams against the arm of the chair, the impact sending fresh waves of agony up his arm. He welcomes it, uses it as fuel. "And through all of it, you're just... watching. Studying. Like I'm some goddamn science experiment instead of your husband."

Bruce remains perfectly still, his face that infuriating mask of calm. "That's not fair."

"Fair?" Hal laughs, bitter and harsh. "You want to talk about fair? Is it fair that you've already written off any chance of me recovering? That you've got contingency plans for every possible level of disability but can't even pretend to believe I might get better?"

"I'm being realistic—"

"You're being a coward," Hal cuts him off. "Because if you admit there's hope, you might have to feel something. Might have to deal with disappointment if it doesn't happen. Easier to just expect the worst, right? Classic Bruce Wayne."

Bruce's jaw tightens, the first real crack in his composure. "You think this is easy for me?"

"I think you're hiding." Hal pushes himself to standing despite the pain that shoots through him. He needs to be on his feet for this, needs whatever illusion of equality he can manage. "Behind your research and your specialists and your perfectly calculated support. You're so busy managing everything that you haven't actually been here."

"I haven't left your side since the accident," Bruce says, voice dangerously quiet.

"Physically, sure." Hal takes a step closer, ignoring the protest from his battered body. "But the rest of you? The real you? That part's been locked away since the moment you got that phone call. You think I can't tell the difference between Bruce Wayne and whatever... performance you've been giving these past weeks?"

Bruce stands too, the movement sharp, controlled fury evident in every line of his body. "What exactly do you want from me, Hal? To fall apart? To rage against something neither of us can control? To pretend this isn't killing me every single day?"

"Yes!" Hal shouts, the word tearing from his throat. "Any of that! All of that! Something real instead of this perfect caretaker routine you've been performing. I don't need a nurse or a therapist or a goddamn case manager. I need my husband."

They stand facing each other, both breathing hard, the air between them electric with long-suppressed emotion.

"You think I don't feel?" Bruce's voice drops lower, intensity replacing volume. "That I'm just... going through the motions? Do you have any idea what it was like to get that call? To see you on that gurney? To watch you forget me over and over and over again?"

"Then tell me," Hal demands. "Stop protecting me from your feelings like I'm made of glass. Stop measuring every word, every touch, every look. Just be fucking honest for once."

"Fine." Something breaks in Bruce's careful control. "You want honesty? I'm terrified. Every minute of every day. Terrified you'll never fly again. Terrified this pain will never let up. Terrified that one day you'll decide it's all too much and I'll lose you for good."

The raw confession hangs between them. Bruce's hands are trembling now, the perfect composure shattered.

"I watch you struggle to hold a glass and it breaks me," he continues, words rushing out now that the dam has broken. "I see you wince when you think I'm not looking and I want to tear the world apart. Every time you push through pain to do the simplest tasks, I feel it like a knife in my chest because there is nothing—nothing—I can do to fix this for you."

Hal stares at him, momentarily stunned by the outburst. This—this is the Bruce he's been trying to reach for weeks. Not the calm, controlled caretaker but the man beneath, the one who feels too deeply, who carries impossible burdens, who breaks and mends and breaks again.

"I don't need you to fix it," Hal says, voice softer now. "I need you to stop pretending you can."

Bruce's eyes meet his, intense and unguarded for the first time in weeks. "I can't bear seeing you like this."

"Then see me as I am," Hal challenges. "Not as who I was or who you want me to be. Just... me. Now. With all of this." He gestures vaguely at his broken body, at the pain that has become his constant companion.

Bruce moves then, closing the distance between them in two swift strides. His hands come up to frame Hal's face, the touch neither clinical nor calculated but desperate, almost rough. "I see you," he says fiercely. "I have always seen you. Even when you couldn't remember who I was, I saw you."

The intensity in his gaze is almost too much to bear—no mask, no filter, nothing but raw emotion after weeks of careful restraint. Hal reaches up, his trembling hand covering Bruce's.

"Then stop treating me like I might break," Hal says. "I'm already broken. Have been since the moment we met. It's just more visible now."

Something shifts in Bruce's expression—pain and recognition and a complicated tenderness. "I'm sorry," he says simply.

"Don't be sorry," Hal replies. "Just be here. Really here."

Bruce's forehead drops to rest against Hal's, the closest they've been in weeks. "I'm afraid," he admits, the words barely audible.

The confession hangs between them, more significant than any of the careful reassurances or measured encouragements that have filled their conversations for weeks. Bruce Wayne, admitting fear—not calculating it, not controlling it, but acknowledging it directly.

"Join the club," Hal replies, but there's no bite to the words. Just shared recognition of the truth they've both been avoiding.

Something shifts between them—not repair, not yet, but the first acknowledgment that repair might be possible. Not a return to what they were, but perhaps the beginning of what they might become.

Chapter Text

Gravel crunches beneath the Bentley's tires as Bruce pulls into the Manor's circular drive at 10:42 PM. The imposing structure looms dark against the night sky, only Alfred's quarters and the kitchen showing signs of life through softly lit windows.

His hands remain on the steering wheel long after cutting the engine. Hal's words from earlier still echo in his mind, the raw emotion behind them lingering.

I need you to stop pretending you can fix it.

A layer of dust has settled on his car's dashboard—a silent testament to how rarely the vehicle has been parked here overnight. Three weeks since Hal's transfer to rehab, and Bruce's presence in this house has been measured in hours, not days.

The heavy front door opens to hushed stillness. Bruce's footsteps echo against marble, the sound alien after weeks of hospital corridors and rehab facility carpeting.

Alfred materializes from the shadows, his pressed shirt a stark contrast to the late hour. Only the slight widening of his eyes betrays his surprise.

"Master Bruce."

Two words containing volumes. Alfred doesn't say the rest: I didn't expect you tonight. Or any night. Not anymore.

"Master Damian is still out," Alfred notes, his gaze flickering briefly to the grandfather clock. "With Master Richard. The Narrows." 

Bruce's watch reads 10:42. A school night.

"Master Tim is monitoring from the Cave," Alfred adds, unnecessary information revealing deeper concern. "There's a matter requiring your attention in the study."

The study stands frozen in time. The manila folder centered on the desk shatters this illusion. Bruce's fingers trace its edges before opening to find Damian's academic record. The decline is immediate and stark—A's dissolving into C's, even failing a class.

Beneath lie discipline reports. Fighting in the cafeteria. Disrespect toward faculty. Skipping study hall.

The third section contains field reports in Dick's neat handwriting. The progression over three weeks tells its own story—increasingly aggressive tactics, unnecessary risks, blatant disobedience.

Last night's report sits on top, the ink still fresh. Dick's normally neat handwriting shows signs of frustration—harder presses, sharper angles.

Robin engaged three armed suspects without backup despite direct instructions to wait. Employed excessive force resulting in compound fractures to the first perpetrator's arm and dislocated shoulder of the second.

The garage door's mechanical hum interrupts Bruce's thoughts. Voices drift upward—Dick's measured tones and Damian's sharper responses.

Dick appears first, still in the Batsuit with the cowl pushed back. Exhaustion lines his face, the costume hanging on him like an unwelcome burden. Behind him, Damian freezes mid-step. Surprise flickers across his features before being ruthlessly suppressed. His Robin uniform bears the marks of a challenging night—dirt on the knees, knuckles raw beneath the gauntlets.

Damian's posture shifts immediately—spine straightening, shoulders squaring, chin lifting. His "Father" emerges clipped and formal, erecting a wall between them more effective than physical distance.

Dick's explanation about the arms deal in the Narrows merely confirms what Bruce already sees—his ward's bone-deep exhaustion, the costume that hangs on him like punishment rather than purpose. The cowl has never suited Dick. Now it's crushing him by inches.

Damian's interruptions grow increasingly defiant with each word. Dick's patience visibly frays, the argument between them clearly well-worn territory.

When Bruce finally dismisses Dick, the relief in his expression speaks volumes. Their eyes meet briefly—tomorrow, Bruce's gaze promises. We'll address this tomorrow. Dick's slight nod acknowledges this unspoken agreement before he withdraws.

Alone with Damian, Bruce properly studies his son. Dark circles shadow his eyes, evidence of sleepless nights. His fingernails are bitten to the quick, cuticles raw and bleeding in places. The slight tremor in his clenched fists betrays constant tension.

"Your grades," Bruce begins, pushing the school reports across the desk. "Explain."

Damian's gaze falls on them without interest. "The teachers are incompetent," he says dismissively. "The curriculum is remedial at best."

"You've never found Gotham Academy challenging," Bruce counters. "What's changed?"

"Nothing has changed. I simply no longer see the point in pretending their arbitrary standards matter."

"And the fighting? The disrespect toward faculty?"

"They provoked me," Damian says, the excuse hollow even to his own ears, judging by the slight flush on his cheeks.

"You didn't think academic standards were arbitrary three weeks ago," Bruce observes. "You were preparing for debate regionals. Hal mentioned you were lead speaker."

The mention of Hal's name lands like a physical blow. Damian flinches visibly. "That was before—" He stops abruptly, pressing his lips together.

"Before the accident?" Bruce supplies.

Damian's gaze drops to his hands, still clenched in his lap. The anger that propelled him through the argument with Dick drains away, leaving something raw in its wake.

"In the field," Bruce continues, shifting his attention to the patrol reports. "Dick notes increased aggression. Unnecessary risks. Disobeying direct orders."

A harsh laugh escapes Damian. "You've clearly reviewed the files thoroughly," he says, bitterness soaking each word. "Very efficient."

Bruce recognizes the evasion tactic—Hal would have cut through it immediately, would have known exactly what to say, how to breach the walls Damian constructs around his vulnerability. Bruce fumbles where Hal navigates with ease.

Damian's watch—the Omega Speedmaster Hal gave him—catches the lamplight as he shifts position. His fingers brush over it unconsciously, a gesture Bruce has noted repeatedly since the accident.

"The debate team practices Thursday afternoons," Bruce says.

Damian's jaw tightens. "Irrelevant activities must be prioritized accordingly. The mission takes precedence."

"The mission," Bruce repeats. "Is that what these are about? Punching Andrews in the cafeteria? Telling Ms. Johnson she's a 'disgrace to academia'?"

A muscle twitches in Damian's cheek. His eyes refuse to meet Bruce's, fixed instead on some distant point beyond the window.

"And last night? The arms dealer with the compound fracture?"

Damian's expression hardens. "He was reaching for his weapon. I neutralized the threat."

"With unnecessary force." Bruce's voice remains calm, though frustration builds beneath. Hal would know how to reach the boy, how to navigate the minefield of his defenses.

"I used appropriate force for the situation," Damian insists, but his eyes betray him—sliding away, unable to maintain contact during the lie.

"Dick says otherwise."

"Grayson is..." Damian's words trail off, the accusation dying. His shoulders slump fractionally. "He tries. But he's not you."

The simple statement lands with unexpected weight.

"And I haven't been here," Bruce acknowledges.

"You've been with Jordan. Where you should be." Damian's voice carries no accusation, only forced maturity.

"That doesn't excuse my absence here," Bruce counters. "With you."

Something flashes across Damian's face—hope, quickly suppressed beneath practiced indifference. He's become too adept at hiding vulnerability, at burying need beneath carefully constructed walls. Bruce recognizes the technique all too well. He taught it, after all, if not in words then in example.

"Is he going to die?" The question emerges barely above a whisper.

The stark simplicity catches Bruce off-guard. Not because he hasn't considered it—God knows he has, in the darkest hours when pain medication fails and Hal's breathing grows labored—but because Damian has voiced the fear that's driven his spiral.

"No," Bruce says firmly. "Hal's recovery is difficult, but he's improving."

Damian's eyes meet his directly for the first time. "Then why haven't you been here? If he's not dying, why have you been living at the rehab center?"

The question cuts to what Bruce has been avoiding. Not just his fear for Hal, but his inability to be split between two urgent needs—his husband's recovery and his son's stability.

"Because I've been afraid," Bruce admits. "Afraid that if I'm not there constantly, something will happen. That I'll miss some crucial change in his condition. That he'll need me and I won't be there."

He doesn't add: Because Hal would know what to do here. Would know how to reach you when you're spiraling. Would cut through your defenses with precisely the right words, while I fumble in the dark.

Damian's gaze falls to the watch on his wrist. His fingers trace its circumference.

"He promised he'd always come back," Damian says, so quietly Bruce almost misses it. "When he gave me this, he promised."

The memory surfaces—Hal presenting Damian with the vintage Omega Speedmaster on his fifteenth birthday. Explaining how astronauts had used that exact model on the moon. The casual way Hal had squeezed his shoulder afterward, promising he'd return from his next Lantern mission in time for Damian's debate competition.

A promise that had evolved into something more encompassing—I always come back. A constant in Damian's life that has now been thrown into question.

"He's fighting to keep that promise," Bruce says. "Every day."

Damian's fingers still on the watch face. "What if he can't?"

The question contains layers—not just about Hal's recovery, but about the uncertainty that now defines their lives. About promises that can't be kept, no matter how sincere the intention.

"Then we adjust," Bruce answers honestly. "Together."

Damian's head jerks up, surprise evident in his expression. Not at the content of Bruce's answer, but at the second word. Together. A promise of presence after weeks of absence.

"You're staying," Damian says, the statement half-question.

"Yes," Bruce confirms. "I'm staying."

Damian nods once, sharp and decisive, as if completing a transaction. But the slight release of tension in his shoulders speaks volumes.

"Reynolds is still wrong about quantum mechanics," Damian says finally, a hint of his usual arrogance resurfacing.

Bruce allows a slight curve of his lips—not quite a smile, but close. "Punching him won't improve his understanding."

"It might," Damian mutters, but the response lacks its earlier bite.

Bruce glances at the clock—nearly midnight. "School tomorrow. We'll continue this conversation after."

At the doorway, Damian pauses, his back to Bruce.

"Jordan asked about you," he says, apparently addressing the hallway. "Yesterday, during my visit. He wanted to know why you weren't taking care of yourself." A slight hesitation. "He said your stubborn self-neglect was setting a bad example."

The observation, so quintessentially Hal, lands with unexpected force. Even now, even through his own recovery, Hal sees what Bruce tries so hard to conceal.

"Hal tends to notice what others miss," Bruce acknowledges.

Damian's shoulders straighten. "Yes," he agrees, then adds more quietly, "It's annoying."

The slight fondness in his voice contradicts his words. Without turning, Damian continues toward his room, footsteps fading down the hallway.

Bruce remains in the study, reports spread before him. Tomorrow, he'll address Dick's exhaustion, the burden of the cowl he never wanted. He'll check Tim's patrol logs, reconnect with the son who's been managing in silence. He'll call the school, begin repairing Damian's academic standing.

But tonight, he'll simply be home. Present in the way he hasn't been since University Hospital called with news that fractured their lives into before and after.

It's not a solution. Not a fix. Just a beginning.

Chapter Text

Hal hears Bruce hesitating outside the door. The slight pause in footsteps, the almost imperceptible shift of weight—hallmarks of uncertainty that would be undetectable to anyone who hadn't spent years mapping Bruce Wayne's microscopic tells. Before the accident, Bruce never hesitated. Now, everything between them carries the weight of deliberation.

Three days since their confrontation. Three days since Hal finally shattered the carefully constructed wall of clinical distance between them. Three days of cautious steps toward something resembling honesty.

The door opens without the customary three knocks. Progress.

"You're early," Hal says without turning from the window, allowing himself a small smile as Bruce enters balancing two coffees.

"Or you're running late," Bruce counters, setting one cup on the table beside Hal. “You used to be up before dawn.”

"I still am," Hal says, finally turning to face him. "Just takes longer to get the rest of me moving."

The words emerge without the bitter edge that has characterized similar admissions for weeks. Acknowledging limitations without surrendering to them feels like reclaiming a piece of himself—not the self before the accident, but someone new who can face reality without being crushed by it.

Hal watches Bruce catalog changes with that penetrating gaze—analyzing, assessing, recording. Once, that scrutiny had felt like judgment. Today, Hal recognizes it as one of Bruce's love languages: attention as affection, observation as care.

"Jack stopped by," Hal explains, nodding toward the civilian clothes he's wearing instead of rehab-issued sweats. "Brought contraband clothing and a razor. Said I was starting to look like I'd been stranded on a deserted island."

"He's not wrong."

The deadpan delivery startles a laugh from Hal—a real one, not the careful, measured chuckles he's been doling out to ease others' discomfort. Pain flares across his ribs with the sudden movement, but it's worth it for the momentary flash of surprise in Bruce's eyes. Making the imperturbable Batman react still feels like victory.

"How's the kid?" Hal asks, reaching for the coffee. The cup feels impossibly heavy today, his trembling hands making even this simple task a precarious operation. The liquid sloshes dangerously close to the rim, but he manages not to spill it—another small victory in a life now measured by them.

Bruce claims the chair opposite, fully settling into it rather than perching on the edge as he has for weeks. "Better. He's agreed to rejoin the debate team, though not without delivering a fifteen-minute lecture on its inherent inadequacies."

"Can't imagine where he gets the speech-making tendencies from," Hal says, arching an eyebrow in what he knows is a perfect imitation of Bruce's own expression. The familiar pattern of their banter feels like slipping into comfortable clothes after weeks of hospital gowns.

"Clearly your influence."

Hal laughs again, easier this time. The coffee tastes like jet fuel cut with battery acid—exactly how he likes it. The nurse had tried to switch him to decaf last week. He'd threatened to check himself out against medical advice. Some standards couldn't be compromised, brain damage or not.

Through the window, rehab center grounds stretch like a movie set version of recovery—too perfect, too deliberate, every bench and winding path positioned with therapeutic intent. Hal has memorized each square foot of the visible area during his long hours by this window. He knows precisely which oak tree houses the cardinal that sings at 6:15 every morning, which path floods first after rain, which security camera has the blind spot that would make escape feasible if he could just manage more than fifty consecutive steps.

The thought crystallizes suddenly, with the clarity that occasionally cuts through his mental fog.

"I want to go home," he says, the words emerging before he's fully processed the decision.

Bruce looks up sharply. "The doctors think—"

"I know what the doctors think," Hal interrupts, keeping his tone even despite the immediate flare of frustration. Always the doctors. Always the recommendations. Always the carefully managed expectations. "I've heard the speech. Multiple times. Daily therapy. Professional supervision. Controlled environment." He sets his coffee down, concentrating on keeping his hands steady through sheer force of will. "But I need to go home, Bruce. I need to sleep in our bed. Need to be somewhere that doesn't smell like cavicide and sound like medical equipment all night."

He watches the conflict play across Bruce's face—subtle shifts that most would miss but that Hal has learned to read like weather patterns. Caution battling with understanding. The desire to protect warring with recognition of what Hal truly needs. The strategist calculating odds while the husband processes emotion.

"Dr. Santos recommended at least two more weeks of inpatient rehab," Bruce says carefully.

"Dr. Santos is covering her ass," Hal replies, the bluntness feeling good after weeks of measured responses. "And I don't blame her. Safest recommendation. Lowest liability."

"Your recovery—"

"Will continue," Hal cuts in, unwilling to surrender this point. "I'm not suggesting abandoning therapy. Just... relocating it." He holds Bruce's gaze, refusing to look away despite the energy it costs him. "You own this place, Bruce. You can hire the same therapists to come to the Manor. Set up whatever equipment they say I need. Turn the east wing into a full rehab center if it makes you feel better."

He watches Bruce mentally calculating logistics—the slight narrowing of eyes, the microscopic movement of lips as he runs numbers and scenarios. Hal would bet his non-existent pension that within thirty seconds, Bruce has already designed a complete home rehabilitation setup, scheduled staff rotations, and calculated cost differentials.

But beneath the logistics, Hal sees deeper concerns—fear disguised as caution, trauma masquerading as pragmatism. Bruce has been haunted by those initial days when Hal couldn't remember him, when every awakening was another introduction to a stranger who should have been familiar.

"I've missed over a month of Damian's life," Hal continues, pressing his advantage. "Haven't been home since the accident. Haven't slept next to you in our bed." He allows his voice to drop, letting Bruce hear what this costs him. "I need to start living again, not just recovering."

Bruce's expression shifts subtly—recognition flickering across his features. The distinction matters. Recovery versus living. Treatment versus existence. Medicine versus humanity.

"It would require significant adjustments," Bruce says, his voice taking on that slightly stiff quality it gets when he's retreating to logistics to avoid emotion. "The stairs—"

"I can handle stairs," Hal interrupts. "Slowly, yeah, and not twenty times a day. But I can do them." The claim is perhaps optimistic—his last attempt at stairs had involved more upper body strength than leg coordination—but he'll crawl up them on hands and knees before admitting that to Bruce.

"The therapy schedule—"

"Can be maintained with private sessions," Hal counters, recognizing Bruce's surrender in the weakening objections. "You've already thought of how to arrange it. I can see it on your face."

The slight twitch at the corner of Bruce's mouth confirms it. Even after everything, Hal can still read him with gratifying accuracy.

"Alfred would need to—"

"Alfred has been texting me daily asking when I'm coming home," Hal reveals, not bothering to hide his satisfaction. "Pretty sure he's already redecorating the bedroom to be more 'accessible' while still looking exactly the same."

Bruce doesn't dispute this. They both know Alfred's anticipation of needs borders on precognition.

"The doctors won't support discharging you this early," Bruce says, offering this last, weak resistance.

"Probably not," Hal agrees easily. "But since when have either of us cared what doctors think?" He lets his smile turn challenging, channeling the reckless test pilot who still exists somewhere beneath the tremors and pain. "Besides, I'm pretty sure the guy who owns the hospital and the rehab center gets some say in the matter."

Bruce studies him with that penetrating gaze, seeing past the bravado to the need beneath. Hal forces himself to remain still under that scrutiny, to let Bruce see not just the determination but the fear beneath it. The vulnerability that costs him more than any physical display of strength.

"You're sure about this?" Bruce asks finally.

The question deserves honesty. "No," Hal admits, the word surprisingly difficult to voice. "I'm terrified, actually. What if I can't handle it? What if I need more help than I think? What if the pain gets worse instead of better?" The tremor in his hands intensifies, betraying his anxiety before he deliberately presses them against his legs to steady them. "But I need to try. Need to find out who I am in this body, in this brain, in our home. Not just who I am in hospitals and rehab facilities."

The words hang between them, raw and unvarnished. No strategic persuasion, no careful manipulation, just truth—the currency they've struggled most to exchange since the accident.

"Okay," Bruce says simply.

Hal blinks, caught off-guard by the easy surrender. "Okay?"

"We'll arrange it," Bruce confirms. "It will take a few days to set everything up properly. But if that's what you need, we'll make it happen."

Relief floods through Hal with almost physical force, tension draining from muscles he hadn't realized were braced for battle. "Just like that?"

"Just like that."

Their eyes meet, something shifting between them. A recalibration. A redefinition of terms. Not patient and caretaker but partners navigating difficult terrain together. The change is subtle but profound, like tectonic plates aligning after long disruption.

"I thought I'd have to argue more," Hal admits, feeling a hint of his old self surface. "Had a whole speech prepared. Points and counterpoints. Very organized. You would have been impressed. Ollie offered to make slides.”

"I'm allowing myself to be persuaded by your initial argument," Bruce replies, formal words belied by warmth in his eyes. "Don't push your luck."

Hal laughs—genuine, unreserved, despite the fire it ignites in his still-healing ribs. The pain is worth it for this moment of normalcy, this glimpse of their old dynamic breaking through the clinical fog that has surrounded them for weeks.

"When can I tell Damian?" he asks, unable to contain his eagerness at the prospect of the kid's reaction.

Bruce considers this. "Let me handle the arrangements first. Make sure everything is in place. Then we can tell him together."

Hal nods, accepting the reasonable delay. A month ago, he might have pushed—might have insisted on calling Damian immediately just to assert independence. Today, he recognizes the value in Bruce's methodical approach. Another change to catalog: learning to choose his battles rather than fighting on principle alone.

"Can I request one thing?" he asks, suddenly serious again.

"Of course."

"No hospital beds," Hal says firmly. "I don't care what the physical therapists recommend. I want our bed. Our actual bed."

The request encompasses more than furniture—it's about reclaiming identity, about being husband rather than patient, about the space they created together rather than one designed for medical convenience.

Bruce's expression softens with immediate understanding. "Our bed," he agrees. "Although we may need to adjust the—"

"Bruce," Hal interrupts, exasperation and affection mingling in his voice. "For once in your life, just say yes without thinking about it."

Bruce studies him, something complex passing through his eyes—pride, perhaps, or relief at seeing glimpses of the Hal he knows emerging from beneath weeks of trauma.

"Yes," he says simply.

The victory of that unqualified agreement feels sweeter than any physical milestone Hal has achieved in weeks of rehab. Not because he's won the argument, but because Bruce is treating him as a partner again, not a patient to be managed or a problem to be solved.

Through the window, morning sun transforms the rehab center grounds into something almost natural. Patients navigate the paths with the determined focus that has become familiar to Hal—each step a battle, each completed circuit a triumph against odds. Families walk alongside, offering steady hands and watchful eyes, their presence as crucial as any medical intervention.

Inside, Bruce sits across from him, the silence between them comfortable for the first time since the accident. Hal's coffee has gone cold, but he doesn't mind. The warmth in his chest has nothing to do with caffeine and everything to do with the journey ahead.

Their path forward remains uncertain, marked with obstacles neither can fully anticipate. Pain that may never fully subside. Abilities that may never fully return. A life that will never quite resemble what they had before.

But for the first time since the accident, Hal faces these possibilities not as defeats to be mourned but as a landscape to be navigated. Not alone, but as they've always faced their most impossible challenges:

Together.

Chapter Text

Bruce watches the Manor materialize through the Bentley's windshield, Gothic architecture stark against the autumn sky. Beside him, Hal sits unnaturally still—conserving energy, a habit he's developed since the accident. Only his right index finger taps against his thigh, betraying nervous energy beneath the composed exterior.

"They'll be waiting," Bruce says, breaking the silence that has stretched since they left the rehab center. "Alfred's prepared lunch. Nothing elaborate."

Hal nods, eyes fixed on the approaching Manor. The slight tension in his jaw speaks volumes—apprehension mingling with determination, the particular expression Bruce has come to recognize as Hal steeling himself for another battle in the endless war recovery has become.

Bruce's phone vibrates with an incoming message. Dr. Santos again, her third attempt since they left. Her warnings had been explicit during Hal's self-discharge process—a litany of potential complications and setbacks articulated with clinical precision. Her concern was genuine, her cautions valid. Hal had nodded through her recitation of risks while signing the Against Medical Advice forms himself, hands trembling but signature unmistakable. Bruce had stood witness, supporting the decision while silently calculating contingency plans for each scenario Santos described.

Some battles aren't fought with logic.

The gravel drive crunches beneath the Bentley's tires, the sound triggering an unwelcome memory—the hospital parking garage, that first terrible night, not knowing if Hal would survive until morning. Bruce pushes the thought away, focusing instead on the logistics ahead. Steps from car to door: fourteen. Threshold height: three inches. Distance to east wing: one hundred and twenty feet.

These parameters, at least, he can track if not control.

The Manor's front door opens as they approach, Alfred appearing with practiced timing. His expression reveals nothing, but the slight stiffness in his posture betrays concern carefully mastered. Behind him, Damian hovers in the entryway, uncharacteristically hesitant.

Bruce exits first, circling to Hal's door with deliberate casualness. He opens it without ceremony, without flourish, without any gesture that might suggest assistance rather than courtesy. The distinction matters.

Hal emerges slowly, movements careful but determined. Standing requires visible effort, but he manages it without support, shoulders square despite the pain Bruce knows courses through him with each movement. A brief pause, a centering breath, then Hal steps forward.

Four steps from car to the first flagstone of the main walkway. Each one measured, deliberate, a victory claimed through sheer force of will.

Bruce matches his pace precisely, close enough to intervene if needed, far enough to allow dignity. The balancing act they've been perfecting for days.

Alfred descends the steps to meet them, formal greeting containing more emotion than any embrace. "Master Hal. Welcome home."

Something in Hal's expression shifts—the slightest softening around his eyes, a release of tension Bruce hadn't realized he was carrying. "Somehow I'd convinced myself you'd have the place decorated with balloons and a 'Welcome Home From Brain Damage' banner."

Alfred's expression remains perfectly neutral. "I considered it, sir, but found the selection of appropriate greeting cards woefully inadequate." 

Hal's surprised laugh—genuine, unrestrained—breaks the tension like ice cracking in spring. Bruce feels his own shoulders relax fractionally, the sound more reassuring than any medical assessment or formal evaluation.

Damian finally emerges from the doorway, descending with precise movements that betray his own nervousness. His posture mirrors Bruce's own—calculated casualness concealing hypervigilance, eyes tracking Hal's every movement while pretending to do nothing of the sort.

"Jordan," he greets, formal as always, though his voice carries less sharpness than usual. "I see you've finally escaped medical incarceration."

"Missed you too, kid," Hal replies without missing a beat. "How's Reynolds? Still pretending he understands quantum physics?"

The familiar exchange seems to center Damian, his posture shifting subtly from artificial stillness to something more natural. "He has scheduled a test for Friday that demonstrates his continued ignorance of basic principles."

"Guess we've got work to do then," Hal says, the casual commitment to normalcy clearly registering in Damian's slight relaxation.

The remaining steps to the door pass with excruciating slowness. Bruce counts each one silently, tracking Hal's breathing, the subtle changes in his gait that signal increasing fatigue. By the time they reach the entrance, Hal's complexion has taken on a gray undertone, sweat beading at his temples despite the cool autumn air.

The threshold looms—three inches of stone that suddenly appear mountainous. Hal stares at it for a moment, jaw tightening with determination. Then, with deliberate casualness, he reaches out to grip Bruce's shoulder, using the support to navigate the step.

The gesture strikes Bruce with unexpected force—not because Hal needs the assistance, but because he's chosen to ask for it. Directly, openly, without pretense or shame. A small act that feels monumental in its significance.

Inside, the Manor's familiar grandeur spreads before them, unchanged yet irrevocably different. Everything exactly as it was before the accident, yet nothing the same. Bruce observes Hal taking it in—eyes tracking from the grandfather clock to the portrait gallery to the grand staircase, cataloging the familiar with the wariness of someone who doesn't quite trust his own memory.

Hal's hand remains on Bruce's shoulder, grip tightening as his gaze finds the sweeping staircase. Thirty-four steps to the upper level. Fifteen minutes of physical therapy exercises this morning. Simple mathematics making a compelling case against immediate ascent.

"Master Hal," Alfred interjects smoothly, "I've taken the liberty of preparing the east wing study for your convenience. Perhaps a brief rest before lunch?"

The suggestion, delivered with Alfred's impeccable blend of deference and command, offers the perfect solution. The east wing study—converted now to a temporary bedroom, accessible without stairs, offering privacy without isolation. 

Hal hesitates, clearly torn between pragmatism and pride. Bruce feels the internal battle through the slight tremble in the hand still gripping his shoulder. A month ago, Hal would have tackled those stairs on principle alone, would have pushed beyond reasonable limits just to prove he could.

Today, he nods. "Sounds good, Alfred."

Another small victory. Another adjustment to new realities.

The walk to the east wing follows the same careful choreography—Bruce matching Hal's pace exactly, Damian and Alfred trailing behind at precisely the distance that suggests respect rather than hovering. Each step measured, each breath counted, each subtle wince cataloged and stored for later assessment.

The study's transformation is a testament to Alfred's efficiency. The space has been rearranged to accommodate Hal's needs without screaming medical facility. The hospital bed Bruce had initially ordered is nowhere to be seen—Alfred clearly received Hal's message about that particular line in the sand. Instead, their actual bedroom furniture has been relocated here, familiar pieces arranged to maximize accessibility while maintaining normalcy.

Hal's expression as he takes in the space confirms the right call was made in allowing Alfred to manage the preparations. Relief and gratitude visible in the slight release of tension around his eyes, in the way his shoulders lower fractionally from their defensive height.

"Didn't expect the whole bedroom to relocate," he comments, moving carefully toward the familiar sight of their bed.

"Master Damian assisted with the arrangements," Alfred notes, the slight emphasis communicating volumes.

Bruce glances at his son, noting the flush of pride immediately suppressed beneath practiced indifference. "It was logical," Damian says with forced casualness. "Familiar surroundings have been proven to aid cognitive recovery."

Hal's expression softens as he turns to Damian. "Good thinking, kid."

The praise lands exactly as intended, Damian's posture straightening almost imperceptibly. Bruce catalogs this exchange, adding it to the growing evidence of the unique relationship that has developed between his son and husband—Hal navigating Damian's defenses with an ease Bruce still struggles to achieve.

"Lunch will be served in thirty minutes, sirs," Alfred announces. "I believe Master Hal might appreciate some time to settle in."

The statement serves multiple purposes—giving Hal necessary space after the exhausting journey, allowing Alfred to complete final preparations, providing Bruce and Damian structured guidance for their next actions. All delivered with the perfect balance of suggestion and instruction that has defined Alfred's service for decades.

"I've got homework," Damian announces, already backing toward the door. "Debate preparation. Reynolds assigned an incomprehensibly simplified version of quantum entanglement theory." His eyes find Hal's. "Your assistance would be... acceptable. Later."

The request, disguised as statement, carries its own significance—Damian rarely seeks help, particularly with academics. The fact that he's asking Hal, today of all days, speaks to needs deeper than homework assistance.

"Count on it," Hal confirms, the slight nod that accompanies his words causing him to wince—another reminder of the injury still healing beneath surgical scars.

After Damian and Alfred withdraw, silence settles between Bruce and Hal—not the strained quiet of recent weeks but something closer to their familiar comfort, words unnecessary after years of learning each other's language.

Hal moves toward the bed with careful steps, lowering himself to sit on its edge with poorly disguised relief. The journey from rehab has clearly taxed him more than he'd admit, exhaustion evident in the shadows beneath his eyes, in the slight tremor that has intensified in his hands, in the careful way he holds himself to minimize pain.

"You can say it," Hal says, breaking the silence.

Bruce raises an eyebrow. "Say what?"

"That Santos was right. That this was too much, too soon." Hal's gaze is direct, challenging despite his obvious fatigue. "That I should have stayed in rehab another week like she recommended."

Bruce considers his response carefully. The data supports Dr. Santos's assessment—Hal's current vital signs, the increased tremor, the pallor of his skin all suggest overexertion. The logical conclusion aligns with her medical opinion.

But logic has never been the sole determinant in their relationship.

"You needed to come home," Bruce says finally, the simple truth cutting through statistics and medical recommendations. "The physical strain is within acceptable parameters."

Hal studies him, searching for any hint of patronization or false reassurance. Finding none, he allows himself a small smile. "Acceptable parameters? Romantic as always, Bruce."

Bruce moves to sit beside him, careful to maintain enough distance that the mattress doesn't dip and disturb Hal's careful positioning. "Would you prefer poetic declarations about your strength and determination?"

"God, no," Hal responds with a soft laugh. "I get enough of that from the therapists. 'You're so brave, Hal. You're such an inspiration, Hal.'" His impression of Tyler's earnest encouragement is surprisingly accurate. "Like surviving a car accident is some kind of noble achievement instead of dumb luck."

Bruce understands this sentiment more than most would. The random cruelty of fate—a patch of ice, a jackknifed truck, a moment's distraction—holds no meaning, no purpose, no lesson to extract. Only consequences to endure.

"There's nothing inspiring about pain," Bruce agrees, voice low. "Or about doing what's necessary to survive it."

Hal's expression shifts, something in Bruce's words clearly resonating deeper than expected. They sit in silence for a moment, the truth of shared understanding more valuable than any motivation poster platitude.

"Think I'll lie down for a minute," Hal says finally, fatigue evident in his voice despite his clear attempt to disguise it. "Just until lunch."

Bruce rises immediately, recognizing the statement for what it is—not a dismissal, but a rare acknowledgment of limitation. He watches as Hal maneuvers himself carefully onto the bed, the process clearly requiring more effort than it should. Offers no assistance unless asked. Maintains the careful balance between support and hovering that they're still perfecting.

When Hal is settled, Bruce moves toward the door, understanding the need for space after the morning's exertions. Some recoveries happen best in private.

"Bruce," Hal calls, stopping him at the threshold. His voice carries an uncharacteristic hesitance.

Bruce turns, waiting.

"Thanks," Hal says simply. "For backing me on this. For..." he gestures vaguely around the room, encompassing everything—the decision to leave rehab against medical advice, the preparations at the Manor, the careful negotiation of assistance without pity. "For letting me make this call."

The gratitude strikes Bruce as fundamentally wrong—that Hal should feel thankful for basic agency, for the right to determine his own course of recovery. It speaks to how institutional care, however well-intentioned, strips away the most essential elements of self.

"It was your decision to make," Bruce replies, the words emerging more intensely than intended. 

Hal holds his gaze for a long moment, something passing between them that requires no verbalization. Understanding. Recognition. Partnership rather than hierarchy.

"See you at lunch," Hal says finally, fatigue pulling at his words.

Bruce nods once, decisive, before stepping out and closing the door behind him. In the hallway, he allows himself a moment of stillness, processing the morning's events with scientific precision.

Hal's vitals: suboptimal but within safety parameters.

Pain levels: elevated but managed.

Cognitive function: sharp, focused, present.

Most crucially: visible relief at being home, at reclaiming some measure of control, at sleeping in his own bed rather than another institutional setting.

Bruce weighs medical recommendations against quality of life, statistics against personal agency, probability curves against the psychological benefit of familiar surroundings. The calculation isn't simple, isn't reducible to clinical assessment or risk analysis. It encompasses variables no medical study can quantify.

When Alfred appears at the end of the hallway, a question in his expression, Bruce offers the slightest nod—confirmation that yes, this decision was right, despite the medical risks. Despite Dr. Santos's warnings. Despite the complications that will inevitably arise.

Hal Jordan is home. Not just in the Manor, but in himself—making decisions, taking risks, claiming agency rather than surrendering to external management of his recovery. The statistical probability of setbacks is high, the journey ahead marked with obstacles neither can fully anticipate.

Yet as Bruce heads toward his study, steps measured and deliberate, he feels something he hasn't experienced since University Hospital's number flashed across his screen all those weeks ago.

Not comfort, exactly. Not certainty.

Just the quiet knowledge that they are navigating this changed landscape not as caretaker and patient, but as they have faced every impossible challenge before and since:

Together. On their own terms. Against all reasonable advice.

Exactly as it should be.

Chapter Text

Bruce wakes before dawn, the transition from sleep to consciousness immediate and complete as always. No gradual surfacing, no lingering disorientation—just the clean divide between states of awareness that's been his pattern since childhood. The room materializes around him in the pre-dawn darkness, familiar yet strange. Not their bedroom upstairs but the converted study in the east wing, the space Alfred has transformed with his usual efficiency.

For a moment, Bruce remains perfectly still, cataloging sensations with methodical precision. The weight of the duvet. The faint scent of Alfred's preferred linen detergent. The distant call of birds beginning their morning rituals beyond the window.

And beside him, the sound of Hal's breathing—even, measured, the rhythm of sleep.

Bruce turns his head carefully, movements calculated to minimize disturbance. Hal lies facing away from him, body curled slightly inward, protective. Even in sleep, he maintains a careful distance, the space between them on the mattress precisely measured—close enough to register presence, far enough to prevent accidental contact. Not the sprawling, invasive occupation of space that characterized Hal's sleeping habits before the accident, when he'd migrate across the bed with relentless determination, tangling limbs and stealing blankets with unconscious entitlement.

This careful containment is new. Deliberate. A defensive posture Bruce recognizes with painful clarity.

He feels the absence of Hal's arms around him like a physical ache. Before the accident, he would often wake to find himself effectively pinned—Hal's arm thrown possessively across his chest, legs entangled, breath warm against his neck. He'd feign annoyance at this invasion of personal space, but the truth—which Hal had always seen through anyway—was that he'd grown to need that contact. The weight and warmth of another person who wasn't afraid to hold on to him, even in sleep. Especially in sleep, when Bruce's defenses were at their lowest.

The gray light of approaching dawn offers just enough illumination to make out the details of Hal's sleeping form. The curve of his shoulder rising and falling with each breath. The outline of his profile against the pillow. The slight tension evident even in sleep—muscles that don't fully release, a body braced against pain that never truly subsides.

Bruce counts the seconds between breaths—seventeen, perfectly regular. Catalogs the subtle signs of discomfort—the slight furrow between Hal's brows, the way his right hand curls against his chest, the careful positioning to minimize pressure on still-healing injuries. Observes without intervention, respecting the boundaries that have been silently established between them.

Physical intimacy has been the casualty of medical necessity. Weeks of hospital beds and rehab facilities, of monitors and IVs and clinical supervision, have created distance more profound than mere physical separation. The casual touches that punctuated their relationship—Hal's hand at the small of Bruce's back, Bruce's fingers brushing Hal's wrist as they passed in the hallway—have been replaced by the careful choreography of assistance. Calculated support rather than instinctive connection.

This was their first night sharing a bed since the accident, a milestone marked by its own hesitant negotiation. Bruce had offered to sleep elsewhere—the armchair perhaps, or a guest room upstairs—only to be met with Hal's stubborn insistence. "It's our bed," he'd said, the emphasis carrying meaning beyond the words themselves. "We sleep in it together."

But this careful distance, this defensive posture—it speaks to concerns Hal hadn't voiced aloud.

Outside, the sky lightens incrementally, darkness giving way to the muted grays of early morning. Bruce remains motionless, allowing Hal these final moments of uninterrupted rest. The day ahead will bring challenges enough—Alfred's carefully planned schedule of home therapy sessions, the visiting nurse's assessment, Damian's after-school visit for promised homework help. The structured routine they've created to replace institutional care while maintaining recovery progress.

Hal stirs slowly, his body gradually unwinding from its protective curl. Bruce watches as awareness returns in gentle waves rather than the harsh crash of their recent mornings. For a brief, precious moment before pain fully registers, Hal's face carries a peaceful softness that Bruce has missed desperately.

When Hal finally opens his eyes, they find Bruce's immediately, as if drawn by invisible threads connecting them even through sleep. There's a moment of clear surprise at finding Bruce so close, watching him with such intensity. Hal blinks, taking in Bruce's position—propped slightly on one elbow, completely still, gaze unwavering. A slow, genuine smile spreads across his face—not the careful, measured expressions of recent weeks, but something unguarded. Warm.

His hand lifts to brush sleep-mussed hair from his forehead, the tremor barely visible in the soft morning light. The gesture is so achingly familiar that Bruce feels something tighten in his chest. 

"Morning," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep but lacking the usual tension. "Enjoying the view?" The familiar teasing carries no defensive edge, just a quiet intimacy that feels like coming home. His hand moves across the sheets, not quite touching Bruce but bridging some of the careful distance between them.

"Always," Bruce replies softly, the admission slipping out before his usual filters can engage. The early morning honesty surprises them both, hanging in the air between them - simple, unadorned truth without calculation or restraint.

"Pain?" Bruce asks, keeping his tone neutral, neither assessment nor hovering concern.

"Six," Hal answers after brief consideration. "Maybe seven." The honesty itself marks progress—weeks of recovery teaching him the futility of false stoicism, the practical value of accurate reporting. "Back's not happy about the mattress change."

Bruce nods, accepting this information without immediately offering solutions or suggestions. Another lesson learned through difficult repetition—Hal doesn't want problems solved before he's fully acknowledged them himself. Doesn't want pain immediately medicalized, transformed from personal experience to clinical concern.

They lie in silence for ninety-three seconds, the space between them unchanged, the air heavy with adjustments still being navigated.

"I didn't think it would be this weird," Hal says finally, gaze fixed on the ceiling. "Sleeping together again."

Bruce waits, recognizing the statement as prelude rather than complete thought.

"I kept waking up," Hal continues after a moment. "Checking where I was. Making sure I wasn't..." He pauses, searching for words. "Taking up too much space."

The admission carries layers of meaning—not just physical consideration but deeper concerns about dependence, about burden, about the asymmetry recovery has imposed on their relationship. About the fundamental shift from partnership to something more complicated, more fragile.

"You've never worried about taking up space before," Bruce observes, deliberate lightness offering Hal the choice of depth or deflection.

A ghost of Hal's familiar smile appears, there and gone in an instant. "First time for everything." The attempted humor falls short, unable to fully mask the uncertainty beneath. His fingers trace abstract patterns on the duvet, tremors making the movement uneven, disjointed. "It's different now."

Bruce understands the distinction with painful clarity. Before the accident, their physical relationship existed in perfect equilibrium—Hal's casual tactility balanced against Bruce's more measured approach, an unspoken negotiation of boundaries neither needed to articulate aloud. Now every interaction carries weight, every touch requires conscious navigation of new limitations, new sensitivities, new uncertainties.

"Different doesn't mean worse," Bruce says carefully. "Just different."

Hal turns his head then, meeting Bruce's gaze directly. The morning light catches in his eyes, illuminating flecks of amber among the brown. His expression carries the particular intensity that has always characterized his approach to impossible situations—determination edged with the recklessness that defined him long before the accident.

They lie in comfortable silence, the space between them on the mattress unchanged but somehow less significant, less defining. Outside, daylight strengthens by increments, the Manor grounds emerging from shadow into clarity beyond the window.

"Am I pushing too hard?" Hal asks abruptly, the question emerging without preamble. "Being here instead of there. They all had that look when I signed the forms."

Bruce considers his response with the attention it deserves. Not just the medical assessment—pain levels higher, recovery potentially delayed, complications more difficult to manage outside institutional setting—but the deeper concerns of identity and agency. Of the spirit that animates the body being healed.

"Medically?" he says finally. "Probably." Truth matters more than comfort between them. "But..."

"But?" Hal prompts when Bruce doesn't immediately continue.

"But there are factors beyond medical measurement," Bruce acknowledges. "Being here, being home—it matters. For recovery that charts can't quantify."

The admission costs him more than might be apparent. Bruce, who trusts data and evidence above intuition, who builds decisions on facts rather than feelings, recognizing the limitations of his preferred approach. Acknowledging the reality that exists beyond statistical analysis and probability curves.

Hal's expression shifts, surprise yielding to something deeper. "Look at you," he says, voice rough with more than just sleep. "Admitting that science might not have all the answers. You feeling okay?"

The deflection doesn't mask the impact of Bruce's words—the way Hal's body subtly relaxes, tension easing from shoulders too long braced against judgment that hasn't come. Relief at validation from the person whose opinion has always mattered, even when Hal would never admit it aloud.

"Temporary insanity," Bruce deadpans. "Don't get used to it."

Hal's smile emerges more naturally this time, lingering at the corners of his mouth. "Wouldn't dream of it."

From somewhere in the depths of the Manor, a door slams with impressive force. Distant footsteps pound down a hallway, followed by Damian's voice raised in sharp protest about something. Tim's response floats up from the kitchen, too faint to make out the words but clear in its tone. The clash of a dropped pan echoes next, followed by Alfred's muffled, dignified curse.

Dick's laugh rings out from the direction of the gymnasium, accompanied by the distinctive thud of someone hitting a training mat. Cass moves silently through the hallway outside their door—her presence detectable only by the slight creak of a specific floorboard that even she can't avoid. The century-old heating system groans to life with its familiar series of knocks and wheezes, a counterpoint to Stephanie's off-key humming drifting up from the cave entrance.

"God, I've missed this," Hal says softly, eyes closing briefly as he absorbs the cacophony.

Bruce understands immediately—the Manor's perpetual symphony of sounds representing life and home in all its imperfect glory. The contrast to institutional silence where even normal human noise feels medicalized, monitored, measured for its potential to disturb recovery.

"Too loud?" he asks, suddenly concerned that what feels like normalcy to them might overwhelm Hal's still-healing brain.

Hal shakes his head, smile widening slightly. "Perfect," he says simply. "Absolutely perfect."

Bruce watches him, wanting to engrave every moment into memory. The peace. The normalcy. The feeling that perhaps everything could be okay.

"I should get up," Hal says softly, though he makes no immediate move to do so. "Got a full day of people poking and prodding me."

Bruce hears the unspoken question beneath the statement. For all Hal's insistence on coming home, on reclaiming some measure of normalcy, uncertainty still lingers. The carefully structured routine of rehabilitation has become its own form of security—predictable, defined, external validation of progress measured in checkboxes and forms.

"Your first session isn't until nine," Bruce says, the casual certainty in his voice offering reassurance without drawing attention to the need for it. "Coffee might be acceptable in the meantime."

The suggestion carries its own significance—morning rituals reclaimed, daily patterns reasserted, normal life resumed in measured increments. Not the full, immediate return to what was before, but the beginning of something new that honors what remains possible.

Hal studies him for a long moment, something complex passing through his expression—gratitude and frustration and determination all tangled together, the particular emotional landscape of recovery that defies simple categorization.

"Coffee sounds good," he agrees. Then, with a spark of his old challenging grin, "Race you to the kitchen?"

The joke itself represents progress—ability to reference limitations with humor rather than bitterness, to acknowledge reality without surrendering to it. Bruce allows his lips to curve in response, not quite a smile but close.

"Unfair advantage," he counters dryly. "I've had more practice with the course."

Hal's laugh emerges more freely this time, the sound filling the space between them more effectively than physical proximity ever could. Not the same as before—nothing will ever be exactly as it was—but genuine nonetheless. Different but not lesser.

As sunrise bathes the room in strengthening light, Bruce finds himself recalibrating internal assessments. Measuring progress not in medical checkpoints or recovery statistics but in moments like this—Hal's laughter, real and unforced. The easing of tension between them. The careful reconstruction of intimacy beyond physical dimensions.

The challenges ahead remain substantial. Pain that may never fully subside. Abilities that may never fully return. A life fundamentally altered by random chance. But within these new parameters, within this changed landscape, something essential persists.

Not the relationship they had before, but something equally valid. Equally true. Equally theirs.

Different, but not lesser.

Bruce files this understanding away, adding it to the evolving framework through which he navigates their new reality. Not a conclusion but a beginning. Not an answer but a direction.

The first morning of what comes next.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

Hal wakes to sunlight and silence.

The absence of sound registers first—no beeping monitors, no squeaking shoes, no institutional hum of ventilation systems cycling endlessly. Just the distant calls of birds outside the window and the faint, familiar creak of Wayne Manor settling into another day.

He keeps his eyes closed, allowing awareness to return in careful increments. The mattress beneath him—their mattress—cradles his body with remembered contours. The sheets carry the scent of home rather than industrial detergent.

Four days since his return to the Manor. Four nights in a proper bed. Four mornings waking up beside Bruce instead of alone in a sterile room with motivational posters featuring eagles and rock climbers.

Today feels different.

Yesterday had been a bad day—one of those days where everything hurt more than it should, where each movement felt like waging war against his own body, where Bruce's careful neutrality couldn't quite mask the concern in his eyes. One of those days where the distance between who he was and who he is now felt unbridgeable.

But today... today the pain has receded to background noise rather than screaming foreground. Today his thoughts feel clearer, sharper, more his own. Today feels like what the therapists keep promising—progress—though Hal has learned to be cautious with that particular hope.

The clock on the nightstand reads 5:20 AM. His internal clock still functions at least. Before, he'd already have been up for twenty minutes, maybe starting his first coffee or preparing for a morning run.

Bruce's presence registers next—the solid warmth beside him where his husband remains in rare, deep sleep. Unusual but not surprising. Bruce had been up past three dealing with some crisis in the financial markets across the Pacific, his voice a low murmur beside him as Hal drifted off to sleep.

Hal studies Bruce's sleeping form with careful attention. He rarely gets this opportunity—to observe Bruce unguarded, features softened by unconsciousness, the perpetual vigilance temporarily suspended. The faint lines around his eyes remain, testament to worries that never fully recede, but his jaw has released its usual tension. He looks younger in sleep. More vulnerable. More human.

For the past four nights, Hal has maintained a careful distance in bed—staying firmly on his side, avoiding unexpected contact, creating a demilitarized zone of empty sheets between them. The space has felt necessary, protective—shielding Bruce from his restlessness, from the hard angles of a body that feels like it belongs to someone else.

This morning, something shifts.

The good days are precious, rare gifts not to be wasted. And this—this nearness that he's denied himself, denied them both—suddenly seems like the most important thing in the world.

Before he can overthink it, Hal moves. The familiar ache protests but doesn't scream, doesn't stop him, doesn't win. He reclaims territory on the mattress inch by careful inch.

Bruce doesn't stir—testament to his exhaustion from the night before—as Hal gradually bridges the gap between them. The journey feels monumental despite covering mere inches, each movement a negotiation between desire and caution. His breathing quickens with effort, with anticipation, with the unfamiliar vulnerability of reaching out rather than holding back.

When Hal finally settles against Bruce's side, the contact sends contradictory signals cascading through his system. The familiar lines of Bruce's body, solid and unchanging when everything else has shifted beneath him. Fear of rejection, of causing discomfort, of crossing boundaries established through weeks of careful distance. Hope that something remains possible between them despite everything that's changed.

Hal holds his position, barely breathing, waiting for Bruce to wake and pull away. Instead, Bruce's arm moves in sleep, draping across Hal's waist with unconscious familiarity, the weight both grounding and liberating.

The simple contact breaks something open inside Hal's chest. The careful wall between what he needs and what he allows himself to want. The protective barrier between the person he was and the person he fears he's becoming.

He presses his face against Bruce's shoulder, inhaling the scent that sterile environments had nearly erased from memory. The particular combination of expensive soap, faint aftershave, and something uniquely Bruce that no analysis could identify. The smell of safety. Of home.

Bruce stirs gradually, awareness returning with unusual slowness. His arm tightens fractionally around Hal's waist, an unconscious adjustment before consciousness fully engages. Then Hal feels the exact moment Bruce realizes their position—the subtle tension that enters muscles, the momentary pause in breathing, the careful assessment without movement.

"Morning," Hal murmurs against Bruce's shoulder, voice rough with more than just sleep. His hand rests on Bruce's chest, a slight tremor running through it. "Sorry if I woke you up.”

Bruce's arm remains draped across Hal's waist, neither withdrawing nor adjusting, simply present in a way that feels more significant than any verbal response could be. "You didn't," he says after a moment, voice quiet in the morning stillness. His other hand moves to cover Hal's, steadying it without calling attention to it. "How long have you been awake?"

"Long enough to watch you drool on the pillow," Hal replies, humor emerging as reflexive defense against the raw vulnerability of the moment. "Keeping receipts for future blackmail opportunities."

Bruce makes a sound that might almost be a laugh, the vibration traveling through his chest beneath Hal's palm. "Prudent planning," he says dryly. Then, after a brief pause: "Good day or bad day?"

The question emerges simply, without clinical assessment tone. Just Bruce, asking how Hal is really doing in the private language they've developed since the accident.

"Good," Hal says, a note of surprise in his voice at being able to say it truthfully. "Better than yesterday."

Bruce's hand tightens fractionally over Hal's, acknowledgment without commentary. His thumb traces small circles against Hal's skin, the gesture so achingly familiar that Hal feels something tighten in his chest.

"Those happen sometimes," Bruce observes with characteristic understatement. "Good days."

Hal nods against Bruce's shoulder. "Been a while." The admission feels like releasing a breath he's been holding too long. "Wasn't sure they still existed."

The easy exchange feels precious in its normalcy—the casual banter that has always characterized their relationship, momentarily untouched by everything that's changed between them. A glimpse of what they were, what they might be again in some altered form.

They lie together in the quiet morning light, the familiar sounds of the Manor waking around them. Distant footsteps in hallways. Water running through ancient pipes. The faint clatter of Alfred beginning breakfast preparations in the kitchen below. The ordinary sounds of home.

Hal allows himself to sink further into the contact, into the moment, into the simple reality of being held rather than examined. Today the good outweighs the bad, clarity outweighs fog, connection outweighs isolation. Not every day feels this way—he's learned that lesson through bitter repetition—but today does.

And that feels like its own kind of victory.

The Manor continues waking around them. More footsteps echo from distant hallways, doors opening and closing as the household stirs to life. Alfred's measured tread moves from pantry to stove and back again, breakfast preparations underway. Somewhere upstairs, Tim's alarm blares for the third time, the snooze button clearly getting a workout this morning.

"Should get up," Hal says eventually, though he makes no immediate move to do so. The warm cocoon of their position feels like sanctuary—temporary respite from everything waiting beyond this room. "Make coffee before the hordes descend and drain the pot."

"Tactical error," Bruce observes, the faint curve of his lips evident in his voice even though Hal can't see his face from this angle. "Alfred's already making coffee. I can hear him in the kitchen."

"Poor planning on my part," Hal responds with a hint of his old playfulness. "I've lost my strategic advantage in the morning coffee wars."

"Tactical retreat," Bruce suggests. "Regroup. Reassess."

"Since when do I retreat from anything?" Hal counters, shifting to look up at Bruce's face. The movement sends a twinge through his neck, but today it's manageable, a whisper rather than a shout.

Bruce meets his gaze, something warm and private passing between them. "First time for everything," he says quietly.

The words hang between them, carrying more weight than their simple meaning suggests. First time for everything. First morning curled together since the accident. First genuine good day after weeks of struggling. First moment when the future seems to contain possibilities beyond limitation and loss.

Hal holds Bruce's gaze, surprised by the surge of emotion that rises in his chest. "I've missed this," he admits, the words emerging rough and unplanned. "You. Us. This."

Bruce's hand moves to trace the edge of Hal's jaw, touch gentle but steady. "It's still here," he says simply.

The three words contain volumes—acknowledgment of change alongside affirmation of what remains constant between them. Different, altered, adapted, but not gone. Not lost. Not beyond reach.

From the hallway comes the distinctive sound of Damian's footsteps—always slightly too forceful, always broadcasting his presence despite years of stealth training. His voice rises in some complaint about school or training or Tim's existence in general, the specific words muffled by distance but the tone unmistakable.

"The circus is waking up," Hal observes, lips curving into a smile that feels more natural than any in recent memory.

Bruce makes a sound that might almost be a sigh. "Approximately three minutes until the first crisis of the day arrives at this door."

"Better make them count, then," Hal says, shifting to press closer against Bruce's side, reclaiming territory that had felt impossible just days before.

Bruce's arm tightens around him, silent promise in the gesture. They lie together, not speaking but not needing to, the connection between them transcending words or physical limitations or uncertain futures.

Good days and bad days. They'll have both, Hal knows with certainty. Days when everything hurts too much, when the distance between who he was and who he is now feels unbridgeable. Days when Bruce carries too much alone, when the mission or the company or the family demands more than any one person should bear.

But also days like this—when the weight lifts just enough to remember what matters most. When connection outweighs isolation. When the space between them closes, inch by careful inch, until nothing remains but shared warmth and silent understanding.

Not recovery, not yet. But perhaps the beginning of something equally important: reconciliation with a life irreversibly changed but not irretrievably lost. A future different from what he'd planned but containing possibilities he's only beginning to imagine.

Chapter Text

Hal shifts his bad leg onto the ottoman, hiding a wince as pain flares up his side. Six days home, and the pattern has become clearer with each passing hour. The tremor in Damian's hands during breakfast. The protective way he holds his right side. The shadows beneath his eyes deepening daily. The carefully concealed split lip that Hal had first noticed weeks ago during a rehab center visit.

This isn't new. Not a temporary response to stress. This is a sustained downward spiral that began during Hal's hospitalization and has only accelerated since.

Bruce enters with two mugs of coffee, offering one to Hal without comment. His movements are careful, measured, eyes deliberately avoiding Hal's scrutinizing gaze. The same evasion tactics he's been employing for weeks whenever Hal tries to broach the subject of Damian's behavior.

Hal accepts the mug, noting the modified handle that accommodates his persistent tremor. Across the room, Dick's laughter echoes from the kitchen where he's supposedly helping Alfred prepare dinner. Another piece of the puzzle—Dick's sudden availability for extended Manor stays, his too-casual mentions of patrol adjustments, the significant glances exchanged with Bruce when they think Hal isn't looking.

The picture has been assembling itself since those first disjointed days in rehab, when Hal had caught fragments of hushed conversations outside his door. Bruce and Dick discussing "increased aggressive tendencies." Alfred mentioning "academic concerns" in that carefully measured tone that signaled deeper worry. Tim's unguarded comment about Damian "going full Jason mode" before Bruce silenced him with a look.

For a moment, they sit in deceptive calm, the ordinary sounds of the Manor flowing around them. Bruce has his tablet balanced on one knee, pretending to review Wayne Enterprises reports while his gaze drifts repeatedly toward the hallway leading to Damian's room.

It's the third time in ten minutes Bruce has checked that empty corridor.

Damian had stalked past the doorway earlier, shoulders hunched, movements stiff in a way that screamed hidden injury. The carefully blank expression he'd worn when declining dinner. The sharp retort to Tim's casual question about his physics test. The way he'd flinched when Dick had clapped him on the shoulder at breakfast, a reaction quickly masked but not quickly enough.

Hal sets his coffee down with careful deliberation. The clink of ceramic against wood draws Bruce's attention back, his expression shifting to the carefully constructed neutrality that signals his retreat behind emotional walls.

"What's going on with Damian?"

Bruce's expression shifts, surprise briefly overtaking the carefully maintained control. His gaze drops to Hal's hands, noting the stillness with which Hal holds his mug despite the tremor that never fully subsides. For a moment, Bruce remains silent, weighing options, calculating risks the same way he handles field operations.

Then, with deliberate movements, he reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws a folded piece of paper. He hands it to Hal without explanation, without preamble, without the careful framing Hal has grown accustomed to since the accident.

Hal unfolds it slowly, navigating the task despite fingers that still don’t fully listen to him. The image rendered in stark black ink hits him with physical force—a mangled car at the bottom of an embankment. Glass scattered across wet pavement. A broken guardrail. The accident scene, captured with haunting accuracy despite Damian never having witnessed it firsthand.

"Alfred found this in his trash," Bruce says quietly. "Three similar ones in the past week."

Hal studies the drawing, understanding washing over him in cold waves. The obsessive attention to detail, the perfect recreation—a desperate attempt to control on paper what couldn't be controlled in reality. 

Bruce watches him process the information, eyes sharp despite his outward calm. When he speaks again, his voice carries a rawness he rarely allows himself to display.

"It started during the coma. Small things at first—disobeying minor protocols, taking unnecessary risks on patrols. His teachers called about declining performance, increased aggression in the classroom." His fingers tap a measured rhythm against his knee. "By the time you transferred to rehab, he'd escalated to excessive force with suspects. Disregarding direct orders from Dick. Deliberately removing safety features from his equipment."

The tremor in Hal's hand intensifies, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the mug. Bruce notices but doesn't move to help—a deliberate restraint that speaks to how far they've come since those first days of recovery.

"The split lip?" Hal asks, already knowing the answer.

"Refused to wear his reinforced gauntlets on patrol. Said Tim's modifications made them 'unbalanced.' When Dick ordered him to return to the Cave, he deliberately engaged three armed suspects alone." Bruce's voice remains even, but his shoulders tighten with each word. "The knife would have hit his throat if Dick hadn't arrived in time."

Hal pushes himself to standing, ignoring the flare of pain that shoots through his hip. Bruce looks up, alarm flickering across his face.

"What are you doing?"

"Going to talk to him," Hal says, reaching for the cane propped against the side table.

"Hal—" Bruce begins, rising to his feet in one fluid motion.

"I know what he's doing," Hal interrupts, adjusting his grip on the cane. "What he's feeling." 

He doesn't add what he's really thinking: that after three years of stumbling through this pseudo-parenting role with Damian, this might be the first time he truly understands what the kid needs.

Bruce studies him for a long moment, weighing concerns against possibilities. The internal struggle plays out in minute shifts of his expression—fear battling against trust, protection against necessity.

"Okay," he says finally, the single word carrying layers of meaning. Permission. Acknowledgment. Trust.

Hal navigates the hallway with careful movements, each step an earned victory. The journey to Damian's room takes three times longer than it would have before the accident, but he makes it, only pausing four times for rest. 

Outside Damian's door, he hears the rhythmic thud of fists against a punching bag—the sound of someone working through emotions the only way they know how. Hal knocks firmly, three sharp raps against the wood. A parental announcement rather than a request for entry.

The sounds inside stop abruptly. Silence stretches for several seconds before Damian's voice filters through the door, carefully controlled.

"I am busy."

"Not too busy for this conversation," Hal replies, then opens the door without waiting for permission. Respect for privacy balanced against parental authority—a line he's learned to navigate over three years of helping raise a teenager whose childhood gave him no concept of normal boundaries.

Damian stands frozen mid-strike, fury radiating from every line of his body. His knuckles are wrapped improperly, blood seeping through in places. Sweat darkens his t-shirt despite the room's cool temperature. The shadows beneath his eyes look like bruises in the dim light.

"Jordan," he acknowledges, voice shifting to that formal cadence he adopts when feeling exposed. His stance adjusts subtly—weight redistributed to hide the favoring of his right side, shoulders squaring despite what must be significant pain.

"Your father showed me the drawing," Hal says, closing the door behind him.

The reaction is immediate—Damian's spine stiffening, color draining from his face before anger floods back. "He had no right—"

"I know about the detention," Hal interrupts quietly. "That day of the accident." Damian's hands curl into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening beneath bloodied wraps. "I was on my way to pick you up when it happened."

The pieces click into place with stunning clarity. Not just guilt about being absent—direct responsibility in Damian's mind for the very circumstances that led to the accident.

"You think you put me on that road," Hal continues. "That if you control all your actions perfectly, you can control the outcomes."

"It was causality," Damian states, the words emerging with terrible certainty. "If I had not earned a detention, you would not have been on that stretch of road at that time."

Hal lowers himself carefully onto the bench at the foot of the bed, disguising the relief of taking pressure off his aching legs. Three years of navigating the minefield of Damian's guarded emotions, and he's never felt more out of his depth than now—facing a sixteen-year-old carrying the weight of responsibility for something he couldn't possibly have controlled.

"The drawings," Hal says, watching Damian's reaction carefully. "You're trying to map it all out, aren't you? Find the variable you could have changed. The one point where you could have controlled what happened."

Damian's head jerks up, surprise flashing across his features before disappearing behind careful neutrality. The accuracy of Hal's assessment has clearly caught him off-guard.

"If I can understand all the factors..." Damian begins, then stops, seeming to realize how irrational it sounds when spoken aloud.

"You think if you're perfect enough now, you can somehow balance the scales," Hal continues. "That's why you're pushing on patrol. Why you're removing safety equipment. Trying to control the uncontrollable through sheer force of will."

"You do not understand," Damian says, voice hardening though his eyes betray him. "Father needs me to be exceptional. Especially now, with you..." He stops abruptly, looking away.

"With me broken?" Hal completes the thought. "Is that what you think? That if you maintain perfection, you can compensate for me?"

Damian's silence is answer enough.

"I see the pattern, kid," Hal says. "The drawings. The risks. The way you've been trying to regulate every aspect of your life." He gestures toward the bloodied punching bag. "But some things can't be controlled, no matter how hard you try to force them."

"I should have..." Damian begins, then stops, frustration evident in the tight line of his shoulders.

"Should have what? Predicted bad weather? Calculated traffic patterns? Somehow known I'd decide to surprise you by picking you up myself?" Hal shakes his head. "That's not how the world works, kid. No matter how much we all wish it did."

Something in Damian's expression shifts—a slight crack in the careful mask he's constructed. "I can't fix it," he admits, the words barely audible. "Any of it."

The admission carries such raw pain that Hal feels it like a physical blow. This isn't just self-punishment or guilt—it's a fundamental crisis for a teenager whose entire identity has been built around mastery and control.

"You know what I see in those drawings?" Hal asks, holding Damian's gaze. "I see someone trying to make sense of randomness. Trying to impose order on chaos. Trying to find the thread that, if pulled just right, would unravel what happened and knit it back together differently."

Damian's shoulders tense, then drop fractionally. "Is that wrong?"

"It's human," Hal says quietly. "But it's also impossible. Some things—most things—exist outside our control."

He holds up his trembling hand, evidence of all he's lost. "You want to know the hardest part of this whole mess for me? It's not the pain or the limitations. It's accepting that I can't fix it. That some things just happen, and all we can do is deal with the aftermath."

Something shifts in Damian's posture—a fractional lowering of defenses as recognition dawns across his face.

"The world doesn't reward perfection, Damian," Hal continues. "It doesn't care how accurate your drawings are or how perfectly you follow protocols. Random chance exists. Wrong place, wrong time happens. And no amount of control or punishment changes that."

Damian turns away sharply, moving to the window with deliberate steps that reveal his attempt to disguise pain. The careful way he holds his right side speaks to injuries more serious than Bruce likely knows about.

"I do not know another way," he admits finally, voice stripped of its usual confidence.

The vulnerability in his admission strikes Hal with unexpected force. For all his stumbling attempts at being a parental figure these past three years, he's never felt more like a father than in this moment—witnessing Damian's struggle and knowing there's no simple solution, no perfect words that will make everything better, make everything go back to the way it used to be.

"You start by accepting what you can and can't control," Hal says. "And by understanding that Bruce and I aren't keeping score. We don't need you to be perfect. We just need you to be safe."

In the silence that follows, Damian turns back to the punching bag, but his posture has shifted—the blind fury replaced by something more measured. Not resolution or healing—those will take far more than one conversation—but a step toward something better.​​​​​​

Chapter Text

Bruce wakes to early summer sunlight streaming through half-drawn curtains. The clock reads 7:15 AM—late by most standards but early for him, especially these past months when sleep has been a luxury claimed in fragmented hours. Six months since the accident, and routines are slowly reforming into something that resembles normalcy, if viewed from the right angle.

He turns, careful not to disturb the warm weight pressed against his side. Hal sleeps with one arm thrown across Bruce's chest, face half-buried in the pillow, breath even and deep. The familiar posture feels like a miracle after months when Hal couldn't bear to be touched, when pain transformed even gentle contact into agony.

Progress measured in inches, in moments, in the slow reclaiming of ordinary patterns.

Bruce studies Hal's sleeping form with the careful attention he brings to everything that matters. The surgical scars have faded to silvery lines across his scalp, now nearly invisible beneath the precision haircut he'd insisted on the moment he could tolerate the barber's chair. The tremor in his hands has diminished to almost nothing in sleep, though it returns with exhaustion or stress. The perpetual furrow between his brows has softened, pain no longer his constant companion.

The July sunlight traces patterns across the bedroom floor. Outside, summer has arrived in full force—the gardens in vibrant bloom, the estate grounds lush with a greenness that only appears during these brief, precious Gotham months. Bruce finds himself noticing these seasonal changes with an attention he never spared before the accident. Time moves differently now—no longer a resource to be managed with ruthless efficiency, but the medium through which healing happens, stubborn and unpredictable.

Six months of adjustments. Six months of rebuilding what was broken, not into its original form but into something new. Different but not lesser—the mantra they've adopted through necessity, through the relentless reality of recovery that refuses to follow desired timelines.

Bruce allows himself these quiet moments of observation each morning—cataloging changes, tracking progress, noting patterns that doctors and therapists might miss. It's the one arena where his obsessive attention to detail serves recovery rather than hindering it. Hal had called him on this tendency during their third month home, during one of those arguments that cleared air rather than creating distance.

"You're not my doctor," he'd said, frustration evident in every line of his body. "Not my therapist. Not my nurse. You need to decide if you're going to be my husband or my case manager, because I can't handle both."

The confrontation had been necessary, had forced Bruce to recognize how his instinct to control, to manage, to anticipate every possibility had transformed their relationship into something clinical rather than intimate. That night had marked a turning point—not an immediate solution, but the beginning of recalibration. A reassessment of boundaries, of roles, of how to support without smothering.

Six months in, they've found balance more often than not. Bruce still tracks patterns, still maintains meticulous records of medications and symptoms, still researches experimental treatments when insomnia strikes. But he's learned to compartmentalize these activities, to separate the analytical observer from the partner who simply needs to be present in the moment.

Hal's eyes open, finding Bruce's immediately as if drawn by invisible threads that connect them even through sleep. A smile forms, not the carefully measured expression of early recovery but something genuine—a little crooked, a little tired, but real. Bruce feels an answering warmth spread through him, a reminder that beneath all the adaptations and adjustments, something essential remains intact.

Words aren't necessary in these first moments of wakefulness. They've developed a language of presence that transcends verbal communication—a language built from necessity during those terrible early days when speech was unreliable, when memory fluctuated like tides, when words couldn't bridge the gaps created by trauma.

Hal shifts, wincing slightly as he adjusts position. The morning stiffness hasn't fully receded, may never fully disappear according to Dr. Santos' carefully hedged prognosis. Bruce registers this with the part of his mind that always catalogs data, but doesn't allow it to overshadow the moment.

The internal assessment has become routine for Hal over months of careful cataloging. Bruce watches him take inventory of pain levels and mobility, the process now so familiar it's almost unnoticeable. A good day, Bruce can tell—one of those days when the pain recedes to background noise, when movement comes more easily, when cognitive fog lifts completely.

These good days come more frequently now than they did in early recovery, but their unpredictability remains a challenge to navigate. Plans must remain flexible, expectations adjustable, disappointment anticipated as a possibility rather than a defeat. Adaptation extends beyond physical therapy and medication schedules to a fundamental recalibration of how they measure success, how they define progress, how they inhabit the uncertainty that has become their constant companion.

Bruce has learned, with difficulty, to treasure these good days without clinging to them, without expecting their continuation. Has learned that recovery isn't linear, that progress comes in waves rather than steady increments. That acceptance doesn't mean surrender, and hope doesn't require denial.

The Manor has adjusted alongside them. What began as temporary accommodations during acute recovery have evolved into more permanent adaptations. The east wing study converted to their ground-floor bedroom during those first weeks home has gradually transformed into a space that feels like theirs—not a medical necessity but a chosen refuge. The specialized equipment once confined to designated therapy areas has integrated into daily life, modified to serve both recovery and routine.

Alfred maintains his careful balance of assistance without hovering, having perfected the art of appearing precisely when needed and vanishing when space is required. The butler's initial tendency toward excessive caution has eased into perceptive assessment, recognizing that independence remains as essential to Hal's wellbeing as any therapy regimen.

Damian has perhaps adapted most significantly of all. The initial terror that manifested as aggression has gradually transformed into something Bruce recognizes as profound emotional growth. The careful walls the boy constructed around his vulnerability have not disappeared, but they've developed doors where once they had only battlements. His relationship with Hal has deepened in ways Bruce could never have predicted, built on shared understanding of limitation without defeat, of pain without surrender, of adaptation without loss of self.

The family has reconfigured itself around their new reality, drawn together by crisis rather than fractured by it. Dick visits more frequently, his natural physical grace never more evident than in how effortlessly he adjusts to Hal's changing capabilities without calling attention to them. Tim's analytical mind has found purpose in researching treatments and designing adaptive technologies, channeling anxiety into problem-solving. Even Jason's rare appearances carry less tension, as if the family's collective vulnerability has somehow made space for his own.

Bruce has changed too, in ways both subtle and profound. The hard edges of his control have softened, necessity forcing him to recognize which battles can be fought and which must simply be weathered. The rigid compartmentalization that once defined his approach to emotional management has yielded to more permeable boundaries. Not demolition but renovation—the framework remains intact while the structure itself becomes more adaptable.

The morning routine will soon begin—the careful choreography of rising, of navigating bathroom and medications and breakfast, of therapists arriving and departing, of family members orbiting through their shared space with varying degrees of purpose and concern. The carefully structured schedule that provides stability without imprisonment, routine without stagnation.

But for now, in these quiet moments between sleep and activity, Bruce allows himself to simply be present. To feel gratitude without qualification, to acknowledge progress without measurement, to experience connection without analysis. 

Different, but not lesser.

Changed, but not diminished.

Recalibrated, but still unmistakably them.

Chapter Text

There are good days and bad days.

Hal wakes to the sound of rain against the window, a steady rhythm that matches the throbbing behind his eyes. Morning inventory: left side at a 7, right side slightly better at 5, head somewhere in the nebulous territory between "functioning" and "not worth the effort." The tremor in his hands is worse than yesterday, each finger conducting its own erratic symphony against the sheets.

One year, seven months, and twenty-three days since the patch of black ice. Not that he's keeping count.

Bruce's side of the bed is empty, sheets cold. Another night in the Cave, then. GCPD had called after midnight—something about Poison Ivy and the botanical gardens. Typical Tuesday in Gotham.

Hal leverages himself to sitting, each movement a negotiation between will and pain. The walking cane leans against the nightstand where he left it yesterday—a good day, when standing upright had seemed like a reasonable goal rather than a distant fantasy. Today, the wheelchair waits in the corner of the room, a silent acknowledgment of reality rather than surrender.

He hates how much he needs it. Hates more that he's come to be grateful for it.

The Manor has been modified in ways both obvious and subtle—wider doorways, ramps disguised as architectural features, grab bars that somehow look like they've always been part of the gothic aesthetic. Bruce had employed the same obsessive attention to detail here that he brings to mission planning, to crime scene analysis, to everything that matters.

And Hal matters. The knowledge still catches him off guard sometimes.

He navigates the hallway toward the kitchen, wheelchair moving silently across polished floors. Alfred appears as if summoned by some sixth sense, coffee already prepared exactly as Hal prefers on mornings like this—stronger, with the particular bitter edge that helps cut through the fog of pain medication.

"Master Bruce called to inform me he'll be returning by noon," Alfred says, the formality of his address unchanged despite everything that has shifted beneath them. "Master Damian has already departed for school." A slight pause. "He mentioned something about a robotics demonstration this afternoon that he hopes you'll attend."

Another request. Another expectation. Another carefully orchestrated opportunity for Hal to feel useful, to feel necessary, to feel something other than broken.

"What time?" Hal asks, accepting the coffee with his less tremulous hand.

"Three sharp. Transportation has been arranged." Alfred's expression reveals nothing, but Hal catches the slight release of tension in his shoulders. Another small victory in the endless campaign to maintain normalcy, or what passes for it now.

The kitchen window offers a view of the gardens, rain transforming the landscape into blurred shapes and muted colors. Once, Hal would have looked at the sky beyond, assessing cloud formations and wind patterns with the automatic calculations of someone who navigated them daily. Now, he looks at ground level—at the wheelchair-accessible paths Bruce had installed without discussion, at the raised beds that allow Hal to garden on his better days without needing to kneel or bend.

Adaptations. Accommodations. Alternatives.

"I'll be in the workshop," Hal says, finishing his coffee with a deliberate swallow.

The workshop had once been a rarely-used sunroom, transformed over the past year into something between therapy space and actual workshop. Hand tools modified for tremor compensation. Workbenches at wheelchair height. Projects carefully selected to challenge without frustrating, to engage without overwhelming.

Bruce calls it occupational therapy. Hal calls it survival.

The current project sits half-completed on the main bench—a scale model of the Javelin, intricate in its detail despite being assembled by hands that sometimes refuse to cooperate. Each piece represents hours of work, of focus so intense it temporarily drowns out pain, of small victories against limitations that once seemed insurmountable.

Hal positions his wheelchair at the bench, forces his breathing to steady, and begins the delicate work of attaching miniature control surfaces to the wings. The tremor complicates everything, transforms simple tasks into complicated puzzles, but he's learned techniques to compensate. Bracing his wrist against the edge of the table. Using his right hand to steady his left. Breathing through the frustration when pieces slip or fall or refuse to align.

An hour passes, maybe two. Time moves differently here—measured not in minutes but in accomplishments, in progress visible and tangible. The miniature wing assembly takes shape under his hands, imperfect but recognizable. Real in a way that simulations and virtual realities can never be.

Pain intrudes eventually, as it always does. The white-hot spike behind his eyes that warns of boundaries exceeded, of limits approached too aggressively. The medication is in the drawer to his right, right where he left it yesterday and the day before. Another dose means dulled edges, means cognitive fog, means surrender to chemical management of what willpower cannot overcome.

He takes it anyway. Another tactical retreat in a war with no clear victory conditions.

Outside, the rain continues its steady assault, drumming against the glass like a metronome counting seconds that stretch into eternity. Hal watches droplets trace paths down the window, each following its own unpredictable trajectory despite being governed by the same basic forces.

Different paths. Same destination.

His phone vibrates with a text from Dick—a photo of last night's patrol route with no caption needed. Another piece of their evolving communication, these visual updates that keep Hal connected to the mission without highlighting his absence from it. Dick understands better than most what it means to be sidelined, to watch from a distance as life continues without you.

Bruce's text follows moments later: On my way home. Need anything?

The question carries layers of meaning beyond its simple words. Are you okay? Do you need help? Have I done enough? Can I do more? Their relationship has developed its own language around these moments—concern disguised as inquiry, care masked as casual check-in.

Hal responds with equal brevity: Just you.

The truth, though not the whole truth. What he needs is complicated, contradictory, impossible to articulate even nineteen months later. He needs Bruce, yes—needs his solid presence, his unwavering support, his stubborn refusal to accept defeat even when victory seems impossible. But he also needs what no one can give him—the body that worked without betrayal, the life that existed before black ice and broken guardrails, the sky that once belonged to him as surely as his own heartbeat.

The Manor comes alive around him as the day progresses. Tim appearing briefly between classes, tablet in hand, discussing some technical adjustment to the Batmobile with the particular intensity that defines everything he does. Cass moving silently through rooms, her presence announced only by the feeling of being observed, her understanding deeper than words could ever express. Alfred orchestrating it all, maintaining the delicate balance between assistance and independence.

Family, in all its complicated glory.

Bruce returns as promised, rain-damp and clearly exhausted despite his attempts to hide it. He finds Hal in the workshop without needing directions, as if pulled by some magnetic force that always leads him to where Hal is.

"Ivy's back in Arkham," he says by way of greeting. His eyes take in the partially completed model, the tremor in Hal's hands, the pain lines etched around his eyes. Observing without commenting, assessing without judging.

"Until next Tuesday," Hal replies, the familiar rhythm of their conversation a comfort in itself.

Bruce moves closer, pulling up a stool beside Hal's wheelchair. His presence creates its own gravity field, solid and steady when everything else feels uncertain. "The model's coming along."

"Slowly," Hal acknowledges, setting down the wing assembly carefully. "But it's coming."

Bruce's hand finds his, fingers intertwining with deliberate care. The contact grounds Hal in the present moment, in the reality they've built from the wreckage of what once existed. 

"Damian's demonstration," Bruce begins, then pauses, reading Hal's expression. "We can send a video message instead."

"I'll go," Hal says, the decision made despite the pain that will accompany it. Some battles are worth fighting, worth the cost they extract. Damian's hopeful expression when he mentioned the demonstration yesterday—trying so hard to appear casual while failing completely—is enough to make the effort necessary rather than optional.

Bruce nods, accepting without argument. He understands better than most—the careful weighing of pain against purpose, of physical cost against emotional necessity. "I'll drive."

Outside, the rain begins to ease, sunlight breaking through clouds in fractured patterns across the lawn. Hal watches the changing landscape, the gradual transformation from gray uniformity to contrasting light and shadow.

There are good days and bad days. Today contains elements of both, like most days in this new reality they inhabit. The morning's pain balanced against the afternoon's small accomplishments. The limitations of his body offset by the steady presence of those who refuse to let him face them alone.

Recovery isn't a destination but a direction. Not a fixed point to be reached but a path to be followed, with all its unexpected turns and occasional dead ends. Nineteen months have taught him that progress doesn't mean returning to what was, but finding value in what is—in modified tools and adapted spaces, in models meticulously assembled by hands that shake, in family that adapts to accommodate changing needs.

Different, but not lesser. On the good days, he almost believes it.

Bruce's hand remains entwined with his, steady against the tremor. "Ready?" he asks, the question encompassing more than just Damian's demonstration, more than just the journey from workshop to car.

Hal looks at their joined hands, at the contrast between Bruce's steadiness and his own perpetual motion. "As I'll ever be," he answers—the truth, the whole truth, nineteen months in the making.

There are good days and bad days. Tomorrow remains unwritten.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The February storm hits Gotham with unexpected force, wind driving snow against the Manor windows in harsh waves. Bruce stands at the east-facing window, watching darkness settle over the transformed landscape. Behind him, the study remains silent save for the occasional pop from the fireplace - a concession to the dropping temperature outside.

Two years.

The date requires no marking on any calendar. It has etched itself into Bruce's awareness with the permanence of trauma carved into memory.

He hears Hal's approach before the door opens - the subtle unevenness in his gait still detectable to trained ears despite the improvements of recent months. No knock this time, just the quiet click of the door opening and closing.

"Hiding in the dark?" Hal asks, his voice carrying the particular roughness it acquires on cold days.

Bruce doesn't turn immediately. "Watching the storm."

Hal moves to join him at the window, standing close enough that their shoulders touch. The tremor in his hand is more pronounced today - weather and anniversary combining to aggravate what nerve damage couldn't be repaired. The power ring adorns his middle finger, its presence a silent testament to stubborn refusal to surrender what remains.

"Gordon called," Hal says after a moment. "GCPD's shutting down the bridges ‘til morning. Even the crazies aren't venturing out in this."

Bruce nods, absorbing this information without comment. A quiet night, then, without the distraction of Gotham's endless need.

"Carol pushed the Tokyo meeting back a day," Hal continues, shifting his weight to ease pressure on his left side. "Turns out international aviation consultants get snow days too. Who knew?"

The consulting work with Ferris had evolved beyond what either of them anticipated - Hal's expertise finding new expression in safety protocols and evaluation systems, his experience valued despite the physical limitations that kept him permanently grounded. The position doesn't replace what was lost, but it offers something equally essential: purpose beyond recovery.

Bruce studies Hal's profile against the darkening window. The past two years have carved new lines around his eyes, around his mouth - evidence of pain endured, of battles fought without adrenaline's cushioning embrace. His hair has begun to gray at the temples, though whether from age or stress remains impossible to determine.

The ring catches light as Hal's hand moves, green power flickering briefly before subsiding. Not dead, not inactive, but diminished - like a radio picking up signals through increasing interference. It responds unpredictably now, sometimes flaring with momentary strength, sometimes dormant despite concentrated will. The Guardians had offered no explanation, no solution - just observation that neural damage creates barriers no power ring was designed to overcome.

Another limitation to navigate. Another loss to integrate.

"Tim called," Bruce says, changing the subject intentionally. "Flight’s delayed until tomorrow at the earliest."

"And Damian?"

"Still locked in his room with college paperwork. Claims he's revising his MIT essay, but Alfred caught him reinforcing his patrol gear." Bruce's voice carries no judgment, just quiet observation. "He thinks we don't know he's planning on going out tonight."

Hal nods, understanding what goes unspoken. The date affects all of them differently, ripples still spreading from the impact point two years distant.

"I'll talk to him," Hal says, the offer carrying weight beyond its simple words. His relationship with Damian has evolved beyond anything Bruce could have predicted - built on shared understanding of limitation without defeat, of adaptation without surrender.

The ring flickers again, responding to some emotion Hal doesn't bother to hide. Two years ago, such lack of control would have been unthinkable - the perfect willpower of a Green Lantern briefly faltering. Now, it's simply part of the new reality they navigate each day.

"What are you thinking?" Bruce asks, attention still fixed on the green light reflecting against the window.

Hal considers the question with uncharacteristic care. "How different everything is," he says finally. "How some things haven’t changed at all."

The simple observation encompasses volumes - the physical limitations that have become their new normal, the emotional landscape transformed by trauma and recovery, the core connections that survived despite everything that tried to break them.

"Clark asked if we needed anything," Bruce says after a moment. "I told him we were fine."

"Please tell me you didn’t lie to Superman," Hal turns to face him directly, expression serious despite the hint of humor in his voice.

The question deserves honest consideration. Bruce weighs truth against comfort, reality against reassurance.

"No," he says finally. "Not today."

Hal's hand finds his, tremors and all, fingers interlacing like they’ve always belonged there. 

They stand together at the window, watching nature transform the world beyond the glass. Two years ago, a different winter storm had changed everything with the arbitrary cruelty only random chance can deliver. The journey since has been neither simple nor predictable, marked by setbacks and adjustments, by recalibrated expectations and unexpected discoveries. Together.

This is not where they expected to be. Not where they planned. But together nonetheless, facing whatever comes next with the hard-won knowledge that some battles cannot be won through force of will alone - and that some victories look nothing like what is imagined.

There will be new challenges to face, new obstacles to overcome. They will face them the way they always have. Together. No retreat. No surrender.