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Hal was not a woman.
He just had long hair.
There aren't many barbers across the galaxy, nor the concept of hair, and even less that know what 'male' haircuts are and how human hair works
And he doesn't have time! The galactic nomads' ship that he had to stop from crashing on Earth was approaching at the speed of a comet. It took all the strength of the active space-capable members of the Justice League to push it back onto the moon to park without eviscerating any more celestial bodies.
Hal doesn't even realize he had that long hair until the Justice League descended to the Hall of Justice to answer the press and greet their adoring fans.
Hal was watching the commotion from within the Hall of Justice, and Diana, seemingly satisfied with her press work, left the rest of it to Batman and Superman before walking back to join him.
"Nice hair," Diana pointed out, an intrigued smile playing at her lips.
Hal blushed and flipped a bit of his hair. It had grown shaggy and had begun to touch his shoulders.
"Barbers were closed across the galaxy," he dryly responded.
"My, what humor. Batman must be rubbing on you badly," Diana chuckled, patting him on the back, which for him felt like an open-palmed execution method.
Now that it had been pointed out, it was all Hal could think about. Bless Diana, it's not as though she knows.
How Hal's kept hair was part-discipline only, maybe not even that. How his classic haircut was to keep his hair from growing out, from letting it touch his skin more than it already does, from making Hal feel like…
"Hey, Jessica! Nice haircut!"
Hal's heart dropped. His lungs seized up. He felt his body go rigid as his soul left it.
He can hear Kyle, sweet and unaware Kyle, continue to converse with Diana from the outside, but his eyes have since gone hazy.
Kyle laughed.
Why was he laughing?
Was he laughing at Hal?
Then Kyle patted a hand on Hal's shoulder. His blood ran cold all of a sudden.
It wasn't until his gaze focused on Kyle and Diana's startled expressions that he realized why his surroundings got unsettlingly quiet.
"What?"
"You said 'stop it' and then kinda… shrugged my hand off," Kyle said, frowning.
Diana pressed her hand on his head, "Hal, are you alright? The space lag must be hitting now. How long have you been gone again? Two weeks? Three?"
Her touch was so devastatingly tender that Hal almost wants to shrug it off, too, but he endures it anyway. Kyle looked horrified enough.
As though summoned, Bruce finally entered the Hall after his PR work, because Bruce had a strange instinct to know where and when he was most needed. Hal gave him one look, and it seemed all was understood.
"Kal will establish first contact with the space nomads on behalf of Earth. Rayner, I suggest you go up there," Bruce said, with a tone of finality.
While the conversation of the ways forward proceeded around them, Bruce's hand found his, weaving his fingers with his own.
Hal took in a shuddering breath and squeezed his partner's hand.
Don't let me go.
Hal was not a woman.
He was Jessica Jordan's son, after all.
By now, the anecdote of Kyle's little gender bender earlier today had reached the group chat of the Earth Lanterns.
Hal's phone has not stopped vibrating on the coffee table. He's sure that half of it is Jessica Cruz, the other Green Lantern with sun-kissed skin and brunette hair, laughing and meme-ing things out, encouraged terribly by Jo and Guy.
And there Hal sat in one of Wayne Manor's living rooms, trying not to stare at the mirror across him too hard.
It wasn't new for him to be compared to his late mother. Of all his brothers, only Hal got her Grecian nose and plump lips, and the distinct shape of her eyes that belonged to a maternal history she never spoke of beyond a few homemade meals.
It was especially evident when his hair grew out a little bit.
The first time it happened was a little after his father's death. Jessica Jordan was a grieving wife, and the household fell into a level of disrepair that not even the modest village of military wives could help them through.
Hal had not been to a barber in quite some time, and Jack, his bastard brother who found it easier to be angry than to be mourning, had hissed at him: "You look like a girl"
And since Martin Jordan's ghost was still tangible, all Hal ever heard was: "You're ridiculous, and you should be ashamed"
Jessica once loved Hal's special features, saying that if he smiled enough, he looked like he was all her own. That Jack was Martin's son, Jim's was both of theirs, but Hal's was hers.
But since that awful day, she couldn't look at him anymore.
Which was fair, because Hal couldn't look at himself either.
The door opened and closed, drawing Hal out of his thoughts. He had expected Alfred, but instead, Damian had come in.
"Mum, you're home!" the boy greeted, immediately launching himself onto Hal from where he sat.
Hal gave a small grunt as he settled the boy on his lap. "Hey, Sugar! How have you been?"
The boy sat up, about to launch into another full-blown rant about whatever hilarity he's been through in the 2 weeks that Hal had been gone.
But the boy stopped at the sight of Hal's whole face. His face fell, and Hal's stomach tightened at the idea that Damian might say something that would set him off all over again.
He couldn't do that, not in this house, not in front of him, not when Hal was holding the boy in a way that one small jolt could throw him off, and he could get hurt, and it would all be his fault—
"Your hair looks nice, Mum," Damian remarked, smiling as he reached out to touch the ends that were brushing along Hal's shoulders.
Hal flushed, "Oh, I couldn't… cut it off before coming back to Earth."
Damian frowned, cocking his head to the side in that adorable, darling way that made him look so much like Hal. "Your hair still grows in space? Does the Lantern suit not regress your cells from dying?"
He asked it so seriously, and Hal would answer more in-depth if he weren't aware that Damian was determined to succeed him at some point as the Green Lantern of Sector 2814, if only for the hell of it.
"I cut it off with my powers," Hal supplied, tugging the boy's wrist away from his hair. He attempted to redirect, "Have you seen Alfred? I asked if he could cut my hair since, well, there really is a lot to go through."
"He'll be here shortly. Thomas intercepted him earlier regarding some menial task or another," Damian answered, getting back on the same track, "Your hair looks nice this way. Would you not consider keeping it at this length?"
Hal's throat closes up.
"I… No, I don't think I should," he answered, sounding more strangled than sure.
Hal hated this.
It was such a simple question, an earnest one, from someone he loved and could trust to have good intentions.
Damian didn't even bring up anything remotely reminiscent of… all that business.
And yet, the idea of even abiding by anything that wasn't close to the image that had been stapled to his personhood in the last 50 years he'd been alive remained sickening.
"Ah, I understand. Even I had the same hesitation. I also thought about growing my hair out with Tim, but I could never get over the sensory issues of having things touching my neck so much. Tim and Dick seem fine with it, but, ah, I have this odd feeling that I inherited this particular sensory tick from Father. Tim has suggested wigs, but the idea of anything made of plastic anywhere near my head for prolonged periods of time seems horrible to even conceive."
Damian continued to ramble, blissfully unaware, only ever recognizant of the fact that someone was holding him, someone was listening to him speak about all of that, someone loved him.
Hal took a deep breath with his nose pressed on the boy's hair — kept short for practicality, not out of shame.
It doesn't heal him, not really, but it's a necessary band-aid over the reopened wound bleeding from within.
Hal was not a woman.
He didn't think it made someone lesser to be one.
He had been raised by a single mother. He's worked for a great deal of female bosses. The best Lanterns across the Color Spectrum, he knew and trained, were women or the species equivalent thereof. The League's leadership was dominantly female, with a ratio of 3:1 across all the JL branches. And Helen Jordan, defiant little thing that she is, can solve a Rubik's cube faster than he can.
But there was something about the idea of Hal being a woman that was inconsistently disturbing.
Some days, like yesterday, it's the most horrible thought to cross his mind, and if he should keep the thought for longer than 5 minutes, Hal would seriously consider skinning himself alive.
Some days, like today, it was… manageable.
"SHH! Be quiet! Hal's taking a Mum Nap."
The squeak of the master bedroom doors slowed down when Duke's hissed command concluded.
Hal should look over the covers to mitigate the situation seemingly developing on his behalf, but honestly, the room was chilly, the room was dark, and the scented candles were making him too hazy-minded to even form a full sentence.
"I was looking for Bruce," Jason's voice came at a whisper.
Duke responded, "Still at the Watchtower, wrapping up that crazy space nomad business. I'm reading the report right now for giggles."
"Oh. Hal didn't go?"
"Space lag. B said he'd been jumpy all of yesterday when he landed."
"Not laggy enough to wait for the haircut another day? Damian mentioned it on patrol last night."
The conversation seemed to end there as Hal felt a flop sound from the space on the bed next to him.
"Dude, be careful! If Hal wakes up before he's ready, I will gut you."
"Hush, Mama's boy. I just want cuddles, alright?"
"No, you don't! You want to take out some higher-grade weapons from the arsenal, you homicidal little freak- MPH!"
"Duke, shh. Be quiet. Hal's having a Mum Nap."
There it was again. Mum. Mama. Mother being used to refer to Hal.
Any other day, Hal might feign playful offense to mask his own discomfort and pray that someone caught on or at least found some other talking point to exploit.
But for some reason, when he woke up, the words didn't hurt as much.
Hal reached out from under the comforter and patted around until he felt a familiar warmth. He ruffled the hair he reached, and a large hand encapsulated his.
"Hi, Ma," Jason greeted, sitting up and looking over him with a smile.
It is not said with mockery. It is not said with a snarl. It is said by someone that he loved and trust to have good intentions.
Hal cannot help but smile back, "Hi, Pudding. Don't be too loud if you want to stay, yeah?"
"Yes, Mum."
"Hah!"
"Shut up, Duke."
Hal was not a woman.
Or maybe he is.
He'll insist that he simply cannot be assed to figure that out, that he's too old for it.
Hal is genuinely happy that conversations about all those labels and stuff are easier to have in a lot of places across the world, and he looks forward to some distant future where the conversation becomes socially unnecessary.
But it's too much to figure out for someone who is already too old and too battered.
It was already so much to take when Oliver advised him on how sexuality labels work, and Hal settled on "pansexual" because it's what made sense for his dating history.
Hal's heart had always been locked to him with a key that could be accessed at all times. His heart bled for a lot of people for a myriad of reasons.
Hal's body was an entirely different thing. It's been ripped apart, possessed, and burned a thousand times over. He's only begun really owning it again.
Bruce could handle both.
It's why, when Hal woke up to soft kisses along his shoulders and soothing hands caressing the frame of his waist, he did not react as terribly.
"Rest well, my love?" Bruce murmured against the skin of his nape.
"Mm, leaving for patrol?"
"Just got back, dearest.
"And… how long was I out?"
"Maybe 20 hours now," he answered, quietly adding, "The kids took turns looking after you. Earlier, Cass was here."
Hal smiled sleepily, rolling onto his back, "I woke up a bit this morning. Duke was there, then Jay."
"They sent pictures of you taking a Mum-nap."
"Stop calling it that."
Hal pulled Bruce down by the neck, making their lips crash together. Consciousness draped over him in waves. He could feel everything — their wedding rings clacking against each other from where their hands slowly wove together next to his head, the bitter taste of sleep spit mixing with Bruce's freshly brushed mouth, the way his skin was cold to the touch compared to Bruce's burning caresses.
It was human. It was lovely.
It was everything Hal fantasized about in those long weeks spent in space.
Bruce pulled away, assessing him with all the love in his eyes.
"You cut your hair already?" he asked.
Hal couldn't help but stop himself, "That a problem?"
Bruce hummed like that meant anything. "Was it a problem?"
Hal made a strangled sound from beneath him. He'd fallen for it, hook and sinker.
"Bruce-"
"Kyle said he'd like to apologize," his husband continued, "He was worried he offended you by calling you the wrong name that day because you haven't checked your phone at all."
"Did he?" Hal spat, "Or did you check the surveillance in the Hall of Justice to see what happened before you came in, instead of just asking me? Or did Damian tip you off that something is wrong?"
Bruce arched his brow, "You're space lagged and upset, not a very good combination for an adult conversation."
"Fuck off."
"Exactly."
Hal groaned. He would kick Bruce, but the man was a 6"2 wall of muscle and shadows; it was only slightly better than kicking a titanium door with socks on.
"Dearest, did it bother you that much?" Bruce asked.
Hal really wants to say it didn't, that this is one of a billion things that he can learn to live with.
But Bruce's hands have dipped into the fluff of his hair, and he can feel how itchy the new cut is when the scalp is startled, and how his husband's breath blowing over his neck felt like a dangerous ghost looming over living flesh.
"I don't like feeling like a girl," he mumbled, "I don't like feeling my hair grow out, and I don't like not being called Mum by the kids, and I don't like being told I look like my mom, and I don't know what this is and what it's called, and I don't…"
Hal choked up, a yawn and a sob threatening to come out at once.
Bruce sighed, not in defeat, but with the exasperated fondness that a patient man holds for a problem they're passionate in responding to.
If there was anything to say about it, then present company was not the appropriate voice for it.
So Bruce simply shuffled under the covers with Hal, wrapping his arms around him and continuing to kiss the sun-kissed skin that was uncovered by Hal's chosen attire — a shirt that was really too big for him.
"Don't let me go," Hal said.
Bruce squeezed his hand and kissed every knuckle, "I won't. I promise."
Hal was not a woman.
Martin Jordan made that perfectly clear to him — he wasn't raising a bunch of sissies that didn't know how to stand for themselves.
Hal learned how to survive on streets-smarts alone before he could figure out how to write his own full name. His father seemed proud of that.
Jim swore to break the cycle for his own kids. Helen, their niece, meanwhile, grew up with Jack, who believed that the rule also applied to daughters.
Oliver once told Hal, in a fit of vulnerability, that parents often make mistakes because they are determined to protect their children, even if they end up becoming what their children need protecting from.
Hal only believed that up until the day he became part of the Wayne family.
"MUM!" Tim and Cass greeted him out loud, causing everyone's attention to turn to him.
Hal assessed the scene before him.
Jason, pinned down with Cass laying her torso across his legs while playing with Duke's Nintendo Switch (despite owning one herself), and Tim straddling him while bent over to see his face, one hand on a make-up brush and another on a pallette, and the Jason's arms were effectively locked over his head because Alfred the Cat had decided to nap on his wrists that fine Saturday morning.
Siblings.
"Mum, help," Jason whimpered.
"Mum, don't help, this is Bat business," Tim said with utmost seriousness, dabbing his makeup brush into a purple-ish hue.
Hal chuckled, leaning over curiously, "What 'Bat business' would involve harassing your brother?"
"I'm covering a black eye he got from having shit thrown at his helmet during last night's patrol."
Jason whined, "Yeah, with PURPLE EYESHADOW! It'll make it worse!"
"O contraire, brother dearest," Tim continued, mixing up hues over his wrist, "This means that even if your makeup disappears in this humidity, people will only assume the bruise is from makeup itself! Now hold still."
"Fuck kinda logic is- No, wait! MUM!" Jason shrieked, seizing his head up to no avail.
Tim meticulously peppered blush along Jason's eyes, in a sort of practice and ease only characteristic of someone used to it.
It warmed Hal's heart, truly, whenever he watched any of the boys dabbling in cosmetics. It was usually for practical reasons, of course.
Even now, Tim insists his harassment of Jason is an occupational necessity… despite using the glittery sort and using more silver than considered necessary.
Not that Hal would know anything about that.
He remembered being 8 and trying to copy his mother's smoky eyeshadow makeup using chalk dust after playing with his brothers.
Martin elected to dunk his head in the water pan where they wash dishes, telling him all sorts of things Hal could never dream of repeating to any of his own children.
(It didn't matter that Martin patted his head after or dried his face tenderly; the damage had been done.)
"-um? Mum? Hal!"
"Hmm?"
Hal shook out of his thoughts, piecing back his reality slowly, and he realized whatever banter Cass and Tim had been having stopped in favor of calling his attention.
"Cass is asking if you want to be her little practice mannequin," Tim said, not looking up from his work on his clearly disgruntled brother, "To copy what I'm doing anyway. She got interested when I pulled out the glitter."
Cass was indeed sat up, eyes twinkling with hope.
Hal winced a bit. "Oh, are you sure?" he asked, stopping himself midway to remember that this house, these people, couldn't possibly understand the truth behind his hesitance.
"Uh, aren't you supposed to learn makeup that works for your own color?"
"You're tan enough like me," Cass said, shuffling upright and sticking her forearm against his. True enough, they were relatively the same shade. "Please, Mum?"
Hal acquiesced, largely because he didn't have anything to do.
So he laid down on the floor next to Jason, and allowed Cass to straddle him too and start using the cleanser to pat his skin to a desired state.
"I'm in your care," he told her as he closed his eyes.
"You're in her mercy, more like," Jason grumbled, only to get a flick with a brush over his mouth to shut him up.
"Jason, your toxic masculinity is showing," Tim grunted.
Hal held his breath for that, because he knew what that word meant, having been accused of it plenty, too.
And he knows how terrifying it is to be called out for it, to be a victim of your discomfort and not even knowing how to justify your way out of it.
Jason doesn't let Hal think the worst of the present, immediately retorting to his brother.
"I couldn't give a rat's ass if you put lipstick on me and curled my hair," he huffed, "Purple is simply NOT my shade."
"Nothing is your fucking shade, that's basically the problem, you fucking corpse," Tim hissed.
Cass nodded seriously, "Your whiteness haunts even the living, Jason."
"WHAT!?"
Hal cannot help but giggle at that, finally letting himself open his eyes and look to the side.
Jason still wore his miserable, sullen look, but now purple and silver dusted around his eyes, shimmering from the light pouring from the windows. Tim was grinning and saying something about skulls, making Jason jolt his leg up and causing him to tumble sideways.
Hal's sons… they live in a home where they can do this freely and not have to worry about the fact that the windows are transparent and the doors are open.
It doesn't quite heal Hal, but his blood warms over, and his nerves stop spiking with shock.
Hal spends the next few minutes like that, on the floor and letting Tim's directing of Cass around drone on in the background. Jason would occasionally quip with something about his dissatisfaction, and get abused for it, some way or another.
It is decidedly calming.
"I'm done! I'm done, right?"
"Yep. Whoa, you got it."
"Damn, Mum."
Cass helped Hal upright and held a mirror up to him.
Hal looked like... himself.
Of course he did. Nothing really changes about a person, no matter what they get up to, he knew this.
No amount of purple eyeshadow and glitter will change the fact that he is Hal Jordan, and it was his body.
Except… his skin seemed to glow differently, and had he always had those smile lines when he grinned? Hal's mouth falls a bit. His eyes... were they always this green?
Hal reached his hand up and traced the blend of the violet and silver.
Hal looked like himself, but more…
Just more.
"Fuck you staring at, Old Man?"
Hal shivered and shifted his eyes away from Cass' hand-held mirror and over to the doorway, where sure enough, Bruce was stood, leaned against the frame, smiling warmly.
Bruce catches Hal's gaze, and he comes to a conclusion on his own without Hal seemingly expressing anything other than his surprise.
"Can't I just like seeing my family being so close?" Bruce asked rhetorically, and Hal knew his tone suggested he had wanted to say something else.
Hal tries to avert his gaze, shrink behind his daughter's silhouette even, but he can still feel Bruce's attention locked on him
"Cass, Jason, heels in 15 minutes, if you still want to be dropped off at your nests before Damian, Duke, and I head to the mall."
"Can I come too? I wanna buy something."
"As long as you're ready in 15 minutes."
Tim beamed and stood up, only to have Jason latch onto his leg, making Tim stumble and immediately bolt, chased after by his yass-ified brother.
Cass snorted, "I'm gonna go get my bags and enjoy Jason getting a second black eye then."
She patted Hal's face, gathering the makeup kit and disappearing in some other direction.
Leaving Hal at the mercy of his partner, with a gaze too piercing and a mind too imaginative for comfort.
"I have a cleanser in the bathroom, easy to use," is what Bruce said instead of whatever it was he appeared to think.
Hal took the small mercy. "Cass got handsy," he sighed, reaching his hand up, "Be useful and help me on my feet, will you?"
Bruce did pull him back to his feet, but suavely maneuvered so that their lips would crash when he did.
Hal is mad that it worked.
Bruce knew he would be mad, so he didn't let their mouths part immediately, and Hal is too much of a kiss-drunk fool to do anything about it right away.
He wrapped his arms over his shoulders and moaned sweetly into his lips, parting slowly and nuzzling his face against his, sharing a breath and a heartbeat in the few moments after their kiss.
"Fucking sap."
"Your fucking sap," Bruce definitively corrected, his hands grabbing at the sides of Hal's waist and squeezing tenderly, "I didn't think you'd be up and about too soon."
"Got bored in bed. You and the kids off to the mall?"
"Mm, Jason and Cass drop off, so might as well. You want to come?"
Hal hummed, feigning forethought. "I will be paid for, naturally."
"Naturally," Bruce repeated, grinning, "What else is your rich husband good for?"
"Boyfriend, Bruce," Hal corrected, feeling himself flush pink.
Bruce liked doing that, referring to Hal as a spouse instead of a partner, even if there was no ring on anyone's finger yet and they'd only been together for some odd year only.
It wasn't horrifying, but much more embarrassing.
Bruce, as expected, fired back with his common response.
"I am 44, and you're 51. I am absolutely not calling you my boyfriend," he grumbled.
Hal pouted, "An unc can be a boyfriend, you know."
"You spend too much time around Duke and Steph."
"Instead of spending time with you, Unc?"
"Stop it."
Hal was not a woman.
He didn't like being referred to as one, and especially not in the context of mistaking him for a ghost he keeps seeing in the mirror. He didn't like having his body touched when it was a confusing sensation over comprehension. And he especially hated having long hair or anything remotely feminine on him.
Yet…
Hal had let his children call him 'Mum' and put makeup on him, and hold him as they showered him with beautifiers and tender affection.
He knows, of course, that it was a new century and these thoughts belong to the last millennium.
But he could not help the deeply embedded reaction in him anyway.
Some things make it easy. Like now.
Hal watched Damian and Tim on either side of their father, animatedly bickering while swinging their hands at uneven directions as they walked.
Damian was wearing maybe a hundred colorful bangles on either wrist, and Tim had put on earrings and makeup for this outing.
Yet Bruce held them both like it was completely normal, like being with them in public was easily the most important and most wonderful thing he could do.
Martin Jordan was probably somewhere (Hal's not sure if it was heaven or hell) absolutely tweaking over this… or whatever it is that Dick says.
Hal, meanwhile, had linked arms with Duke as the family made their way out of the mall and into the busier fashion district nearby, his free hand full of many shopping bags.
Duke was in what most people expect boys to be in, albeit fashionable anyway. But his nails were painted, and his lips were glossy.
Hal does not feel any less endeared.
Why is it different when it's me?
The family stepped into a fashion house, and it wasn't until the boutique manager immediately stopped at the sight of Bruce that Hal gathered that this was one of many fashion houses enjoying Wayne Enterprises' patronage.
"We're just looking, ladies~" Bruce chirped in regular Brucie Wayne fashion.
If Hal were a more insecure person, and he wasn't at all sleep-addled, he'd be saying something.
Sensing this, Duke seemingly ushered Hal away.
"Let's leave them to the gallows," Duke chuckled, speed walking off to some other part of the obscenely large boutique, "People like you and me that are new, we get to be invisible."
Hal grinned back.
There's a reason he enjoyed joking that Duke was his favorite not-child.
They find themselves on another floor of the boutique. The place was chic, or whatever the word 'chic' actually meant. Hal just decided it was pretty. Maybe he'd call it Maximalist, for all the obscure decor there was.
Hal kept close to Duke, who was interested in poring through the racks of flowy shirts and blouses as though he understood this world.
"You know, just when I think I'm used to whatever lifestyle comes with being Bruce Wayne's longer-than-normal beau, I come to places like this and get confused as shit," Hal complained, fiddling with the racks offhandedly.
$580 dollars on a stripped flowery blouse with uneven sleeves?
What on fucking Earth?
"What's confusing?" Duke asked on, making conversation while pulling out some cloth pieces from the rack.
Hal shrugged, "Like, how does sizing work? How is this different from a department store? Why is a flower blouse with one sleeve purposefully shorter worth 580-fucking-dollars?"
Duke stilled and turned around, "What blouse?"
Hal gave him a dry look. "You don't give a fuck about what I say, do you?"
The boy giggled silly, and while he was endearing, Hal is still a little miffed.
Nonetheless, he pulled out the blouse he had been looking at and passed it off to the Duke, who took one look at it and put it in the same hand as the rest of the pieces he was holding.
"You at least have a good eye for clothes, even if subconscious," Duke said, winking at him cheekily, "I'm sure you'll get the hang of things just as Bruce decides to pop the question."
Hal gawked, face flushing pink.
"I swear to god, if this is you Bats' idea of soft-launching the idea of Bruce proposing to me," he grimaced, pinching his hand over the bridge of his nose, "We've been dating for a year."
"And what was an awful situationship for 19 years aside that," Duke said, still poring through the clothing racks aimlessly.
Hal stilled a bit in himself, mind going foggy at the weight of all that that assessment carried.
He sighed, "And still, I don't know the first thing about all of… this."
Everything that Hal enjoyed in life today was hard-won.
His good faith with his family. His position in the Corps. His position in the League, reclaimed once more. The family he found in the Corps and the League. The steady, honorable career he locked in about something he's passionate about.
The life he built with Bruce.
There's still a lot of work to be done, and Hal knew this, of course.
He's become complacent, too. Hal had been foolish to believe that he had worked hard enough to be happy with the progress he's reached.
And now here he was, fighting through the last 48 hours of his life like it was a struggle to control it.
He wasn't afraid. Hal rarely is.
But he was spiraling out of control, and he had learned a long time ago that it was a harder feeling to endure than any other emotion.
Heavy footsteps echoed from behind. Both men perked up as a saleslady approached them.
"And what will it be for you today, sirs?" the lady beamed.
Hal noted that there wasn't really a 'uniform' for the workers in the boutique, just a constant diva-off in outfits.
"Can I get a room and all of this in a size XL?" Duke asked, holding up what looked like maybe a closet's worth of clothes already.
The lady nodded and took it off his hands, now zeroing in on Hal. "And what would your, uh…?"
Hal chuckled. This always happened and didn't get old. While normally he'd have a field day explaining his position in the family, he found himself too lethargic to do much besides explain, piece by piece, what step-foster parent mentor could possibly mean.
"Dad," Hal put simply, patting Duke on the shoulder, "And I'm just supervising. Don't know anything about this honkie-poke, so you take care of my boy, okay?"
"Well, you just sit down anywhere you like, Mister Dad. This will be a while!"
"Don't I know it."
The lady ushered Duke into some corner of the boutique, and Hal was alone again.
He could find Bruce and the other boys downstairs, but that involved walking on stairs, and he wasn't doing that with sleep-deprived knees.
So Hal wandered deeper into the boutique, mind blanker than earlier after having to think about, well, frankly, just about his whole life.
Then his eyes caught it.
A striking deep green that stood out amongst all else.
Hal's spaced-out state made him gravitate towards the color, and he realized what it was up close.
A posed mannequin with an emerald green sheath dress stood imposing on a showcase platform, draped in gold jewels and gold shoes that wrapped ribbons up to the knee, exposed with a high slit to the side.
It was decidedly beautiful.
Shockingly, the observation crossed Hal's mind that it was big enough to fit himself, which didn't seem all that bizarre. Gotham had a thriving alt fashion scene, so Duke had explained once.
The boutique itself had diverse personnel; Hal typically disliked pointing things out, but even the saleslady who took Duke looked like she was on the gender spectrum that the kids seemed to use as a dive board half the time.
Something hits Hal's chest, hot and thorny.
"That's a nice dress."
Hal looked up. Another saleslady was approaching him, or was it a lady? She had a she/her pin on her lanyard, but Hal learned not to assume.
She was, admittedly, a little bit more stylish than the rest, her hair tied up with jewels pinned along her scalp, her dark violet pantsuit glittering like a sunset sky. Her laugh lines and wrinkles showed despite her borderline pitch-black skin, lined with gold makeup.
She looked old and happy, like a legend made human.
When it dawned on him that he was being spoken to, Hal responded, "I was just… looking."
"Obviously," she giggled, joining his side with her hands poised behind her, looking up at the mannequin, "Rochess, Pre-Fall, 2022. Timeless, wouldn't you say?"
"Oh, I wouldn't know," he laughed nervously, "I'm here with my son- children, actually, and my partner. I'm supervising."
The woman watched him, her gaze piercing in a way that normally would not have bothered Hal.
He didn't get the sense that she had malignant intentions, and Hal typically had a good sense of judgment on that. Her eyes were warm, not heated; they were familiar, searching, and honestly, pitying.
It made him feel… assessed in a way he hadn't felt with anyone else.
It was as if this woman understood more about him in an aspect he'd yet to even acknowledge is there.
"Well, it doesn't seem like you are supervising someone right now, no?" she hummed, clapping her hand and smiling brightly, "How would you like to try it on?"
Hal sputtered, "It's a dress."
"Yes, it is," she said like a 'duh', "If you're worried about it fitting, we have some variations of sizes for this piece, and there's an in-house tailor if you would like to try it."
Hal doesn't know what possessed him to even think about a response.
This should easily be a 'no', a firm and gentle one delivered with a laugh and a curt comment.
But the dress was nice, and he had time to spare, and it wasn't like him to think too hard about trying something otherwise inconsequential but indulgent.
And anyway, Duke had pointed out that Hal was capable of grasping this world eventually, and there came the knowledge that he would only learn if he tried.
Gotham does have its queer customs; its royal family even more so.
So Hal nodded.
"You know what? Sure, as long as the kids don't go crying for me. I'm in your hands then…" Hal squinted to read the tiny tag on her chest, "Orchidia."
Huh, that ain't a name you hear every day.
Orchidia lit up impossibly bright. She took one of his shopping bag-covered arms and shook his hand enthusiastically.
"And you are in good hands indeed, sir! I will make you the prettiest doll in this boutique that the girls here would be begging you to model even more."
Hal smiled wryly, "Uh, hopefully not. Anyways, call me Hal."
She paused, mouth gaping.
"Hal? As in… Harold Jordan?"
"Yes?"
"Mister Wayne's elusive beau? The test pilot? From California?"
He grinned, "Hal the test pilot, sure."
Orchidia giggled.
Then she linked arms with him and dragged him off, speaking in that thick transatlantic accent of hers and snapping as she spoke, sales girls popping out of nowhere to trot behind them.
Hal got all the shopping bags off of him and various measuring tapes wrapping and pointing around him as he walked among professionals.
"Someone get me a piece of the Rochelle Pre-Fall 2022 Star Emerald and possibly a few statement bangles, preferably white gold of half an inch to an inch and a half thickness. Do get me a comb as well, a teasing comb, with some of our coconut hairspray."
"Is this necessary, Orchidia?"
All the sales girls stopped and looked at him like he had grown a second head.
"You are our star until I say otherwise, sir," Orchidia slurred, clapping again, "Right, in you go, girls!"
And that's how Hal ended up in a dressing booth, hair combed into a more charming tousled form than his usual bedhead-esque, dressed down to just his boxer shorts.
The girls left as soon as his hair was done, and he was left with Orchidia, who had returned with the dress on a hanger. Had she always been so freakishly tall?
"One step away from being a supermodel," she joked lightly, handing the dress to him, "Would you need help with this?"
Hal smiled and shook his head, "Maybe some 50 years helping my mother, sister-in-law, nieces, and best friends in dresses did end up being good for something."
For a moment, Hal reminisced about easier days, or however 'easy' a day in the life of Hal Jordan actually was. He learned how to zip up or lace up dresses as soon as Carol became old enough to doll herself up, and later he'd learn about petticoats and such when little Helen was born.
He knew enough about this particular part of the world.
And yet, when he was alone in the dressing booth, Hal felt cold and alone all over again.
Maybe he should've just said yes to Orchidia's offering to help him into the dress. She seemed cool.
She does the next best thing, whether by virtue of knowing Hal needed it or just because she is who she says she is. Orchidia filled the silence.
"You know, Mister Test Pilot, I have dressed many of the Waynes."
"Oh yeah?" Hal goaded on.
If asked if his voice wobbled in the end, he'd deny it. He was simply balanced to get both feet into the dress, that's all.
Thank god there's no mirror in the booth itself.
"The late Mrs Martha Wayne, for one, was among my first customers. Just like you, she wore emerald green well. Her patronage was so appreciated that until now, I'd make an emerald green dress in her memory every season. Oh, if only any of the other Wayne children looked good in green as well."
Hal cannot help but smile, "Cass is better in black and dark blue."
"Yes, yes, the Wayne colors are good on Miss Cassandra. As it should."
"Damian looks good in green."
"Yes, Mister Wayne-Al Ghul, I am aware. I've not remembered if he chooses his formal wear here."
"No, he takes it to the Blue Lotus. The designer there knows his culture."
"Ah, naturally. Perhaps it's why the likes of Mister Tim and Mister Duke prefer this boutique of ours."
"Tim prefers red. Duke is beige or yellow."
"So you do know your colors!"
"In a way, yes."
Before Hal knew it, he was already in the dress and stepping out of the booth. He doesn't immediately turn to what he knows is an imposing mirror along one of the walls, instead deferring to Orchidia's judgment.
"Well?" he asked in a strangled voice.
Orchidia's mouth was gaped open, stars in her eyes. "You are absolutely gorgeous, Mister Test Pilot, sir!"
Hal flushed, "You're just saying that."
"I do not get paid to compliment; I get paid to complement," she corrected, approaching him and grabbing his wrists, transferring some of the silver bangles on her arms onto his.
"You have very small hips. Your body is an inverted triangle shape, you see, and your back and upper body muscles are stunning! This dress was practically MADE for you!" she explained cheerily.
That was… a very creative way to describe his body.
But a tasteful one.
Hal can't help but smile, "Is it now?"
"Yes!" she insisted, taking a step back, "Now, because I do insist on completing the look, how do you feel about heels?"
Hal racked his head for a memory that could serve him well in this regard.
"Um, I've worn them before, but it was more like they wore me."
"Hmm, flats then, for now," Orchidia answered, stepping away for a moment and coming back with a shoe box.
Inside looked like one of those shoes that defied gravity, with the laces and everything. Hal had seen Cass wear them plenty and had never really asked how they worked, somewhat afraid.
Fashion seemed terrifying. Definitely, if Orchidia had not asked Hal gently step-by-step, he might've exploded about 10 minutes ago.
His confusion was definitely apparent, as Orchidia asked next. "Do you know how to put these on?"
"I know it's possible, but I don't know how," Hal laughed.
"Then I will put it on. Feet forward then, Mister Test Pilot," Orchidia said, sinking down to her knees.
Hal blushed hard in embarrassment. Gods, he was only in boxer shorts under this dress. "Uh, you sure, Orchidia?"
She looked up at him and giggled at his expression.
"Mister Test Pilot, I work in fashion. If I wasn't comfortable with touching other people, I wouldn't be here," she said, taking his calf and stopping, looking in awe all of a sudden, "Goodness gracious, your leg is incredible."
Hal didn't know how to respond to that, so he let her work.
It was mesmerizing, how much artistry goes into putting on an absurd shoe.
Orchidia rose back to her feet, looking at him excitedly. "Moment of truth then?"
She beckoned him over to the fancy mirror on one of the walls and left him standing in front of his reflection.
Hal looked.
It was still himself staring back, because of course it would be.
It was the same with the makeup from earlier; nothing will change the fact that he was Hal Jordan, and this was his body.
Except he was now in a dress.
A good dress, at that. Dolled up in silver shoes and bangles along his wrists. It contrasted well with the sun-kissed gold of his tan skin.
He could see the muscles honed from his devoted knighthood, the long scars that told the story of a lifetime living in a body that rarely felt like his own. The dress was loose, simultaneously showing off and tastefully de-emphasizing them.
Hal looked like himself.
Hal Jordan looked like Hal Jordan.
Always had and always will.
It's why the fact that he didn't recognize himself immediately made him sick.
Half his lifetime, he'd been told he had to be one thing; the other half, he was forced to be something else.
Even before Parallax or the Specter, Hal already had whatever was 'true' in him ripped out to make room for something else to be stuffed in. First, it was Martin Jordan, then it was the Guardians, then Sinestro. He was a son, then a brother, then a soldier, then a knight, then a traitor, then a man.
Part of him, the one he was more used to grasping and identifying with, wanted to rip the dress to shreds and scream until everyone's ears bled as much as his heart did.
And then there was the other part of him — this part, he didn't know where it came from, what it sounded like, and whether or not it was a remnant of some awful repressed memory or another — that wanted to say he liked the dress out loud.
But saying things out loud would make them tangible to others, weave the statement into the invisible waves that permeate the universe, and make it law.
And if Hal were to say he liked the dress, he feared more things might tumble out of his mouth… in front of these hapless store girls who knew nothing but looked at him like they knew everything.
He might say things about how he was a man, that he was the Greatest Green Lantern to ever live, that the universe sang songs and told folktales about his heroism.
Like how Hal was not a woman.
Like how some mornings, he woke up, and he didn't know whether the weight on his body was depression or not.
Like how some mornings, he had to ask himself if it was his body, if his soul was wearing his skin and bones correctly that day.
Like how some days, looking at a mirror made his eyes burn, and being touched felt like having acid poured on him.
Like the fact that Hal was 50-fucking-years old and he'd already paid his due and he was only starting to feel like he owned his body again, and here he was, ruining it all over again with heavy silver and a cinched dress and shoes that were absurdly shaped.
And he knew…. Hal knew damn well he'd say all of this in the same tone that Martin Jordan had used when Hal dared be soft or stare at the girls' section of department stores too long or put even a hint of pink on any of his toy planes. That he'd say all of this with the same furrowed brow that Sinestro had when he refers to Hal as a creature of pure will rather than a person capable of faltering. That he'd do all of this with Abin Sur's face burned into his retinas, wearing a fond, comforting expression, saying that his softness is what regarded him as worthy of power, despite living a lifetime of being told that power came to those hardened enough to be able to bear its weight.
Hal Jordan hadn't felt like 'Hal Jordan' in a long time.
If he ever did, that is.
"Mister Test Pilot? Sir?"
Hal blinked and shook his head, realizing how foggy and hot his eyesight had gotten.
Orchidia stood next to the mirror, in a position that felt deliberate, so that Hal's reflection would always be in the corner of his eyes.
Her smile reached her eyes, age and change apparent all over her person. "My, you're pretty like an emerald raw from deep Earth, you are."
He swallowed thickly, turning away and fumbling with the bangles.
"I should get these off," he grunted.
"Do you think you would be better off without the bracelets?"
"No, I… I'm not buying it," Hal sighed, shucking it all off and placing it at a nearby stool, muttering under his breath, "Gods, this was stupid."
Orchidia approached, taking the bangles off the desk and sliding them back to her arms.
"I'm surprised," she commented, her voice even, and it grated at Hal's flaying inner peace, "You were very happy wearing it. You glowed... differently compared to when I saw you the first time."
Hal grimaced, stepping his foot upwards on the stool and fumbling with the clasps.
"Look, you don't have to butter me up," he snarled, "Do you want a tip? Oh god, am I giving hush money? Being Bruce's boyfriend is fucking ruining me, I swear— FUCK, these shoes are-!"
"Mister Jordan."
Hal stilled, looking up at Orchidia.
There was no judgment. Simply patience, and maybe a little amusement.
"Mister Jordan," she said, sinking to the chair and helping him with his shoes off, "Growing up in a body that wasn't mine, I also had a hard time wearing things that weren't expected to be on me. I'd know that look in your eyes if I searched it in old photos of mine too."
Hal paused.
He really hated noticing these things and pointing them out.
But Orchidia's body was almost square-like, broad, jaw a little more taut than most, and straight lines where curves should be.
She had the body of someone who owned themselves completely and decided that they preferred their body to look and be decorated a certain kind of way that was previously assigned to it by standards older than their existence.
Orchidia looked beautiful.
Orchidia looked like she belonged to herself.
Envy coiled around Hal's heart when she smiled, like existing was the easiest thing to do.
Meanwhile, Hal was sure he was hyperventilating and one flat tone away from breaking down.
Orchidia slipped both shoes off of Hal and put everything down on the stool.
Her hand reached out and fiddled with the collar of the dress. Not quite pressuring, but... there.
Her eyes glimmered; it was as if an old film began playing in the glint in her gaze.
"It is a nice dress," she commented.
"It… is," Hal admitted quietly.
Orchidia hummed thoughtfully.
"I loved seeing it on the Milan runway, worn by someone born with the expectations to wear it," she said, meeting his gaze, "But it is my first time seeing it on someone with the desire to wear it, however deep that desire is buried."
And then she cupped his face, careful and tender, like a blessing passed from one hand to another.
"There are many dresses in the shop, and there is plenty of time to try them," she told him, "I should hope to see you again soon, Mister Jordan."
With that, Orchidia left. She lingered outside the dressing room to give orders to the sales ladies, but eventually disappeared.
Hal doesn't waste time getting into the booth and taking the dress off.
But when it pooled around his feet, Hal could not help but freeze up.
Tears fell from his eyes and onto his swollen feet.
Oh.
Oh, great. You can't be fucking serious now, are you?
Hal bit his lip and took shuddering, shallow breaths, trying his best to still himself.
Stop crying.
He pulled his shirt back over himself, patting it down and covering himself up.
I said STOP CRYING.
His pants were a struggle. He couldn't balance. The air felt so heavy that it was quite literally dragging him down.
Stop crying, you fucking sissy.
His shoes should've been easy to take off, slip-on, and loose as they are. But he can't see, and the colors were blending together.
Harold, stop crying before I fucking GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO CRY ABOUT, BOY.
Duke looked relieved beyond words when they crashed into each other on the stairs.
"OH THANK GOD," he sobbed dryly, taking the shopping bags from the rest of the spree off Hal's arms and onto his, "Bruce would've killed me if I gotten you kidnapped in Gotham, of all places."
He took him back to the ground floor of the boutique, where Tim and Damian were sat on one of the plush stools scattered about the place, seemingly locked in a passionate conversation about… accessories?
"Objectively, necklaces are better."
"Objectively, he says."
"They're versatile, and one piece can apply to a billion outfits!"
"And they're horrible to put on when alone."
"Then just don't be alone, you bitchless wimp."
"What did you call me!?"
"Boys," Hal sighed.
Tim and Damian looked up and lit up in the same shining way. Damian immediately leapt up to his feet and latched onto Hal's side.
"Father is simply settling the bill and seeing an old friend," Damian said, trailing off to retell what apparently was a disastrous time sharing a dressing room with Tim for a good one and a half hour.
He was in a dark green halter romper, a black belt with a silver clasp on it shaped like a DW.
Hal noticed that Tim was in something new as well. Still in pants, but with a white corset top that had intricate lace designs on it.
When he turned to Duke, the boy was still in his usual clothes from before.
"What?" Duke gaped, then realized, "Oh… yeah, I got new clothes, but I wash new things I buy before wearing them, unlike some people."
That set Tim off, "Okay, you HAVE to know that these clothes are clean."
"This is a public shopping space, Timothy! No, I can't just trust that!"
Duke responds with a screech instead of words, and Tim returned the sentiment.
Hal felt his sleeve get tugged on. Damian was now zeroed in on him, wide eyes staring up with fondness and excitement.
"Don't I look nice, Mum?" Damian asked again, twirling again.
Envy curled around Hal's heart again, seizing around the organ that swelled hard with all the love he had for his children.
Take that off right now, BOY.
Hal cupped the boy's head and kissed his forehead.
"What a pretty baby I got here."
Hal was not a woman.
Hal was not a man.
Hal Jordan was Hal Jordan, and only Hal can decide what that means.
Bruce knew this, of course.
Some battles, he can't fight for Hal — that was a fact of their relationship that Bruce was still doing his best to reconcile with.
Hal's duty took him to god only knows where to do god only knows what, and he comes back a little less like himself than he had when he left.
Their love was but a sanctum. For both of them.
A place to exist without having to prove that one deserves the space they took up. A corner of this vast universe where sense and logic were suspended, and all that was there was feeling.
So Bruce did nothing.
It's why he didn't comment on the makeup the kids had put on him. It's why he told Duke to leave Hal in Aunt Orchidia's hands.
It's why Bruce made a point to cancel patrol and have dinner in public with the few in the family that represented everything he wanted to offer Hal.
Wear what makes you happy.
Call yourself what you want.
Take your time.
Let me hold you as you let go.
He knew he'd been made, naturally, when he returned to their bedroom from tucking the kids to bed and found his tablet open on the bed, a recent search still on.
Orchidia Rochell Gotham boutique -ai
Bruce heard the telltale sounds of a shower stopping and followed it into the master suite bathroom.
Hal was sat on the closed toilet while only in his boxers, towel hanging loose over his head as he leaned on the sink with shallow, labored breath.
His dearest looked up at him, gaze still hazed and unfocused around the edges, but he did his best to smile.
"A bit too late to join me, handsome," he joked breathlessly.
Bruce made a non-committal hum and let himself in, taking the towel and gently drying over his sweet, damp hair.
Once satisfied, Bruce doesn't push him away. Instead, he hung the towel over his shoulders and leaned over to kiss over his head.
"How are you feeling?" Bruce asked.
Hal hummed, thinking for a moment before responding. "Today was… tiring."
"Tiring," Bruce repeated, weighing it carefully.
There was no point in asking if Hal was okay.
Hal had his whole life challenged in an afternoon. A trial that he'd been putting off for years occurred within 72 hours, where he was his own judge, jury, and executioner.
He was losing control. He just had to be assured that it didn't have to be dangerous.
He picked up Hal's hand and leaned down to kiss it, grabbing his attention and giving it an earnest look.
"I have something to give you," he said.
Hal narrowed his gaze cheekily, "Now, what did we say about gifts, Spooky?"
"It's not that expensive."
"To you."
"I don't ask for a proportional exchange."
"No, but you'll break my pelvis bone, according to how expensive it was."
Bruce gave him a withering look, actually eliciting an honest laugh out of Hal.
It was music. It was all Bruce wanted and more.
He would give Hal all the world's weight in gold if it meant he'd keep laughing like this.
But this was the closest he could get to it. So Bruce led him by the hand, not back to their bedroom, but to the adjacent walk-in closet.
When the lights flickered on, Hal's eyes widened, and his feet immediately readied themselves to flee from what Bruce had prepared to give Hal.
He doesn't let him leave, squeezing his hand and keeping him still.
"Hey," he murmured, pulling Hal back to his spot. He decides on a small mercy and lets his broad frame block Hal's view of his gift.
Hal's eyes got damp and glassy as he stared up at him with feigned fury. "Fucking let go of me, Bruce."
Bruce briefly remembered, just last night, how Hal had bared his heart in that soft, vulnerable way that people traditionally did not allow men to do.
He promised that night that he wouldn't do exactly that.
So he doesn't.
"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do," is what Bruce said instead, seizing Hal's attention, "You don't have to do anything about it now, or tomorrow, or a week or month or year from now. But when you're ready, this will be here for you, as will I."
Hal glared up towards him, but not at him.
"I'm not scared," he snapped.
"I know," Bruce replied.
"I'm not scared. I'm not- I'm not afraid of wearing a dress."
"I know, Hal."
"I'm really not."
"I know you're not."
The hung dress remained still on the stand, unaware of the damage it was aggravating.
Hal snarled in frustration, but it came out as a sob. That's when it came out, all of it.
He crashed and leaned onto Bruce, fists balled against his chest. Wanting and willing arms wrapped around him.
Hal didn't cry loudly, not often anyway. He cried quietly, like it was ingrained in him to bite his tongue until it bled and lick away his own tears.
Aunt Orchidia, when he asked what he could do to help Hal understand that he wasn't a lesser person for deciding to live by certain rules, told him this much:
The world simply deprived him of the delight in making decisions about how to live his life. The best you can do, if you love him, is make him realize he has many choices to choose from. Not just what society limited them to.
So after a moment, Bruce asked, "Hal, do you want me to hide away the dress, or do you want to try it on?"
Hal doesn't respond immediately.
But he doesn't shiver at the idea of wearing it.
He tried again, not stopping his hand from soothingly brushing over his back. "Hal, you can say 'I don't know'."
Hal keened a bit, pushing himself deeper into Bruce's embrace. "Can we… Give me a minute."
"Okay."
Five minutes passed, and Hal finally gave an answer.
"I want to try it on," he whispered against the skin of Bruce's collarbone, "But I…"
Another two minutes pass before he continues the thought.
"I don't want to see myself right away."
Bruce nodded, "Need my help?"
"Yeah."
Hal moves with the motions, and Bruce creates them for him to follow, because he's not entirely certain that Hal can handle having to make too many little choices, after making one very big one.
Carefully, he turned Hal away from the vanity mirror of their walk-in closet, let the drapes around the mirror fall over it, and covered up the standing mirror nearby as well.
Hal remained as he was, still in his boxers, scratching nervously at his forearm. Bruce dared to glance at his darling love, his heart fracturing at the sight of his toiling in doubt just from standing there.
"Hal," he beckoned, moving to stand in front of him again, "I'm putting the dress on you again."
Hal let out a shuddering breath, his glassy eyes gazing far from the room. He nodded wordlessly. Bruce wanted to kiss his bitten lips, but he worried it might just be what set his love off.
So Bruce focused on doing as he promised, unhooking the dress from the stand and loosening it.
He fell to his knees, letting the fabric pool around them. When he reached out to touch Hal's bare calf, Bruce swore he heard a whimper.
"Feet in, my love."
Hal obeyed wordlessly. Bruce took his time to pull the dress over his feet and up his legs.
He tries not to think too hard about the way the satin clung to every sleeping muscle and every soft curve, how he wished to kiss every inch of skin from his knees to his navel until his mouth burned its presence there. He tries not to be too excited over the idea that one day, Hal might enjoy his body enough to take pleasure in living in it.
But he cannot help but gasp scandalously when he fitted the dress over his waist, how the cloth stretched around his hip.
"Sweet mercy," Bruce muttered.
Hal doesn't outwardly reply, but a blush fluttered from his cheeks and all over his chest. When Bruce rose back to his feet, standing again, he could practically melt into the heat radiating from his lover's body.
Bruce locked eyes with Hal, watching the fog in his lover's gaze clear up into something more aware — not quite unwilling enough to flee, but not calm enough to surrender.
Of course, this wouldn't change things overnight. That wasn't the point.
This was a re-visitation to an idea. An appeal to a trial whose verdict was corrupted since that awful day in the Californian airfield.
This was Hal actively asking who 'Hal Jordan' is.
The gown was already up to his waist; all that would be left was to tie the laces to secure it over his body.
Bruce reached around Hal's impossibly small waist, twirling the laces hanging behind him.
"Hal," he beckoned, "Are you still with me, Dearest?"
"I… think so, yeah," Hal sighed, averting his gaze again, "It's not… I mean."
"Take your time," Bruce said.
And his time, Hal does take. They don't move for another 3 minutes. Bruce counted. Every second was an opportunity for Hal to blow up and run, and Hal was very good at running. Not that Bruce can't catch him. Not that he'll try, anyway.
Their love was a sanctum, rooted to the ground.
Bruce would stay where he left him until Hal decided otherwise.
Because Hal Jordan is good at running like a woman and good at biting like a man.
And Bruce Wayne happened to be very good at waiting and very polite about being bitten.
"I can put on the dress myself," Hal murmured, "I've done it before, in the- in the shop, but…"
"But?"
"I don't want to."
Bruce's heart skipped a beat when Hal suddenly moved closer, placing his head onto the crook of his neck and breathing against the pulse that throbbed only by his will.
"Bruce," he whispered, "Don't let me go."
The double meaning was crystal clear, and Bruce got to work.
This might just prove to be the most important thing he'd done with himself in a while.
Bruce wove the lace-up neckline of the dress with steady hands, moving according to how much Hal sighed and moved against him. As for the back, he made sure to tie the waist neatly and loosely, at least for now. Hal's breathing wasn't the most steady.
Once everything was secure, Bruce cradled the back of Hal's head and pressed kisses along his ear.
"It's done," he told him.
Hal doesn't acknowledge it outright.
Instead, he asked: "Tell me how it looks?"
Bruce nodded and let himself step away from Hal by two paces.
Good god.
Hal was a supernova made human, a piercing star along an aurora. His freckled sun-kissed skin was glowing in the warm light of their closet and highlighted by the contrast of the dress's deep emerald green. The dress purposefully hung loose over his collar, showing off the blush-tinted skin over his neck. The dress fell from his waist, framing his firm, muscled legs from beneath.
His lover's face was contorted with adorable confusion. Gods, Bruce must have the stupidest expression on his face to prompt such a disdainful look on Hal's face, but he truly doesn't care at all.
"Well?" Hal scoffed, "Say something, Bruce."
Bruce could say something, and maybe he should.
But he cannot think of anything else besides wanting to fall to his knees and worship Hal right at this second, kissing from his calves and up to his plump lips.
The heat that coiled in him wasn't lust, not really, but it was a certain kind of desire that can only come from seeing a whole new phase of a person you already knew very well. The thirst to know, to meet, to want all over again.
Bruce's mouth opened and closed several times before the words came to him.
"You're beautiful."
Hal's eyes widened, and Bruce shook himself out of his stupor to think long and hard if it had been the wrong thing to say.
But Hal doesn't run, doesn't shift in his place.
His eyes, however, began to glimmer with the relief that comes with surrender.
He looked like himself still, except he was now… more.
"I'm old, Bruce," Hal blurted out, rambling before he could think twice.
"My body's been possessed, mangled, and blasted up to kingdom come a thousand times already. I feel like a puppet to dead people. I feel like my body isn't mine, and it's taking all my damn strength to keep living in it. I don't know what I am, not even just with all of this, but whether or not I'm still even me anymore, given what I've done and what I've been through. I'm not terrified of anything, but the idea of having to figure all of this out makes me sick."
They let that truth settle around them and permeate this small figment of existence that only expanded from the heels of Bruce's feet to the hem of Hal's dress.
Bruce carefully takes a step closer, knowing some things and expressions were too frail to be forgotten to distance.
"And you're beautiful," he added, "You're all of that and beautiful."
"Bruce, I'm serious."
"So am I."
"Learning how to wear a dress won't change anything," Hal hissed, and even he seemed unhappy with that particular recognition.
"I know it won't," Bruce said, pulling Hal closer with one hand pressed to the small of his back, "I also understand that labeling and all is overwhelming, and you don't have to do it. You just need to stop hurting yourself."
Suddenly, Hal's eyes narrowed, "You're saying I asked to be this way?"
Bruce shook his head, "What I'm observing is that you are struggling, and you're berating yourself for struggling, even if what you're struggling over is perfectly normal, perfectly understandable, and perfectly human."
Orchidia told Bruce that he and his children were all lucky to know that the self-love that willed one's body to eat and sleep well was not conditional for them.
But in an attempt to bridge the gap, she had explained what it looks like in essence.
Hal was grieving the stolen time to retrieve his deprived peace.
And Bruce knew that all too well.
"Believe me, Hal, I know," he said, "I know what it's like to spend a lifetime fixing something that was broken in a matter of seconds, and every time I think I'm done fixing, it falls apart all over again."
Hal pursed his lips, thinking hard before relenting, "I guess you do."
Bruce cupped a hand over Hal's face, reverently rubbing his thumb over his cheekbone that he found himself particularly drawn to. The small, faint mole in the corner of Hal's eyes that he yearned to kiss, even if they were mere inches away.
He thought about Martin Jordan, Jessica Jordan, Jack Jordan, then Abin Sur, then Sinestro, then the Guardians. He remembered Parallax, then the Specter.
If I could, I'd rip their claws off of you, and you'll finally belong to yourself again.
Instead of saying something as selfish and impossible as that, Bruce instead told Hal, "Your suffering is only suffering. You have to want to be happy first, Hal. You have to try."
Hal whined and leaned into the warmth of Bruce's palm on his face, sighing, "What if I never finish putting my life back together? What if I... What if I never figure it all out?"
Then there were children who would happily spend the time he had to give trying on makeup on you.
Then there were decades of fashion that he missed out on that he can explore again.
Then there were friends to sing with and new languages to try, and a love bed that will never be empty for as long as Bruce lived.
"Then you have fun trying," Bruce answered in the spirit of all of that and more.
Hal gazed up at him, doe eyes furrowed sweetly in a way that would haunt Bruce in his dreams and nightmares forever.
Suddenly, their lips were locked into a heated kiss. Not quite lustful, but just as searching, just as wanting. Hal kissed like the world was ending, because often, it felt like it.
But for once, the kiss felt like Armageddon ending, and the dust was settling, and there was a whole new world to live in and learn of.
It was sweet. It was caring.
It was Hal imprinting the feeling of him on Bruce for a second time.
When they parted, Bruce embarrassingly wobbled a bit, eyes a bit unfocused. Though when Hal smiled, his mind immediately focused, and all his psyche was full of was the thought of Hal.
"Fun," Hal repeated, "Like having a mental breakdown in a damn dressing room."
Bruce blinked, "In a dress that made you feel nice while wearing it."
Hal's lips puckered into a smile.
"It was a nice dress," he conceded, but then looked down at the dress currently on him, "Not as nice as this one."
Bruce's mind zeroed in on that.
But before he could even inhale, Hal snapped, "Bruce Thomas Wayne."
Bruce's expression fell, and Hal laughed. It was a less restrained laugh, and he ended up smiling in the end, genuinely smiling.
Hal's arms weave over Bruce's neck, leaning in to share one air, one heartbeat.
"I don't… know where to start," he admitted, "But I think I want to start."
Bruce lit up, "So we will."
Ending:
Hal's POV
I'm not a woman.
I also used to be only attracted to women, but then I learned that nothing is ever simple.
Because god fucking forbid anything was that simple. Why couldn't I be born into one of those unicellular civilizations that don't really need shit like sex and clothes?
One of many things I have to live with, I suppose.
When Oliver explained what "pansexual" meant, I thought that was the last time I had to hear about the whole business with flags and -sexual and -gender and whatever-isms.
But then Tim and the others sat me down one day and spent half the morning explaining gender to me — identity and expression.
There was a whole damn spectrum too, as if I don't already have my hands full dealing with just the Lantern spectrum.
Damian was at least on my side, or I think he is.
He told me that same morning: "Gender is an imperial idea, Mum. Do as you will, and do it well."
I thought about jumping out of my seat, but then I saw the way Tim's eyes lit up when he got to explaining what non-binary meant. And Damian had pointed to the genderqueer flag, then to the set of bangles he chose to wear that day that were lined up to the same colors. And there was a slide where they made up the non-binary flag by palette-picking from a random picture of Duke eating a cheeseburger.
I remember going to Coast City after that morning with the kids and sitting on the beach until the sun set.
It was there that Carol came to find me at Bruce's behest.
"Do you know?" I had asked her, thinking Bruce had told her about my recent revelations.
Instead, she introduced a completely different point.
"You used to joke about wearing my pumps better than me, and damn, you'd been right. I practically prophesied this, Jordan."
A childhood I'd forgotten, learning how to do Carol's eyeliner on that one summer where she broke her arm in robotics camp, pranking her by getting dolled up in her dresses only to stare at the mirror too long… it washed over me at that second.
"What do you think?"
"About you as a person, or about all of this?"
"Well damn, Carol, save some room for emotional vulnerability, will you?"
She doesn't. It's why Bruce sent her my way. It's why I laughed instead of snapping.
Carol leaned against me, and, after a while, said, "I think you deserve to be happy. I worry a lot you'd forgotten how. If this is one step closer to that, even if it ends up not being it, I hope you have a great time anyway."
They keep saying that. Having a good time.
As if all of this trans business isn't poking at the bruises that only began to yellow.
It only made sense when Carol dragged me to shop with her that same night, and we left the mall buying nothing. But I got to try on different clothes again — not dresses, but something close.
Carol would ask me, "What do you think?"
Instead of admitting that I can't think, I only say, "Not my style."
It's not about deciding immediately and being cursed to permanence. I don't have to wear anything or go by anything forever — Tim explained as much.
It was about learning to live with myself.
I flew up to Jim and Sue's place again in Sacramento after that day with Carol. Jim was the only one awake by then, and he looked a little shocked.
We shared a beer. We didn't talk for a while. I don't come over unless I have a problem, even less when it's night, and I am still definitely dressed in Bruce's stolen clothes.
"I tried on a dress the other day," is what I chose to start with.
Jim didn't answer, but his expression did fall. I took up the space he left to talk about what it's like to live in a house so different than the one I'd grown up with, what living with the likes of Damian, Tim, and Duke has done to me.
I talked about the other nightmares I have of Dad seeing me in a dress and pushing me off a plane, leaving me to the mercy of the skies, until the dress around me dissolved into Parallax's cape, then the universe, then I become nothing.
Jim downed his beer after that and turned to me, only asking one thing:
"Are you happy, Hal?"
It was a heavy question, and god knows what the right answer for that is. But Jim was looking at me full of hope that I just said the first time that came to mind
"I don't know yet," I answered, "But I'm excited, I guess."
Jim smiled, and I felt like that was the right.
He handed me another bottle of beer and expressed as much, "Then I'm happy for you too."
I fell asleep with Jim leaning on me on the couch.
When I woke up, Sue had apparently left a pair of earrings packed on my palm, with a note that said: Not my style but maybe it can be yours <3
Jade creole earrings.
I wore it on me when I went back to Gotham.
The first 24 hours since deciding to begin was hard, and the days that follow were harder.
I've been to Orchidia's boutique thrice since that day. Once, with the kids, looking around the clothes with the mind that they might look good on me. Another, with just Bruce, and I try on some other pieces, and learn some pointers on what colors and styles might look good on me (to no one's surprise: green looked good on me).
The last time, I came alone.
Orchidia took me to her office, offered me tea, and told me her story.
"I was 41 when I began transitioning, much later than most," she explained, "Not a lot of medication was good for us women back in the day, least of all us black dolls. I basically sentenced myself to death!"
I listen. I don't say much. Orchidia showed me pictures of her and her own mother — one with her mum before she transitioned, then one without her mum but after she transitioned. They looked happy.
"Didn't you think you were a bit too late?" I asked her. I think that was the only question I asked.
Orchidia leaned back on her seat and stared at the ceiling, in that way that reminded me of Kyle when he's thinking up the ending of a story arc.
"My mum said that we aren't promised tomorrow," she answered, "But we do choose how we die tomorrow, by living that version of ourselves the day before."
"So you decided if tomorrow ain't happening, might as well be a woman today?"
"No, darling. I decided if I won't wake up tomorrow, I might as well live every day before that as myself."
Something burned inside of me when the thought settled onto my shoulders.
I tell Orchidia about Jessica Jordan, then Martin Jordan. She hugged me tightly and said they would've been proud, even my father. I actually believed her and cried.
Before I left, Orchidia gave me the shoes that went well with the dress she sold Bruce to give to me.
"It's not going to be easy," she warned me.
I remembered that I laughed and asked, "Learning to walk in these or the whole…?"
"Both," Orchidia chuckled, "But I grant you, walking in heels is the harder part."
She was right. It's not been easy.
It wasn't supposed to be, anyway.
I already knew that wearing a dress once and talking about it a handful of times wouldn't fix everything.
Hell, I still call this whole thing about gender exploration an 'it' in my head.
I insist on being bare in bed now and sometimes scratch my forearm raw. I woke up one day and disliked being called 'Mum' and accidentally scolded Cass for it. I keep the mirrors in the walk-in closet covered, and the dress was left in a place I can't see for now.
These days, I wake up screaming, with Parallax taunting me in one ear (about how I can't even conquer my fear of belonging to myself) and Specter on the other (telling me I enacted violence on myself and I deserve some justice).
Bruce is there.
Bruce is always there.
Bruce takes it when I call us both awful fags. Bruce stops my hands from breaking skin and lets me claw at his arms instead. Bruce explains to the kids in gentle words what I find myself unable to express. Bruce makes sure the dress is out of sight and the mirrors in the house are reduced.
Bruce wakes me up and holds me until I can feel my body again, until I can understand in my head that I'm only with him and nothing can hurt me.
Bruce asks me what I needed, what I felt, what I wanted him to do. The answer is always the same.
"Don't let me go," I tell him.
He'd kiss me and always answer, "I won't."