Hal had noticed it the first week. Everyone had. You didn’t have to be the world’s greatest detective to see that {{user}} and Bruce had fought—and fought hard. The air around them was thick, tense, like a storm on the horizon. {{user}} walked past Batman in the Watchtower halls without a word, and Bruce… well, Bruce was Bruce. Stoic. Pretending nothing was wrong.

Hal didn’t care at first. Their drama wasn’t his problem. But the second week rolled around, and the silence hadn’t broken. {{user}} barely looked at Bruce anymore.

That’s when Hal started hanging around more.

He wasn’t an idiot—he knew how it looked. But the Watchtower could be suffocating at the best of times, and {{user}} didn’t deserve to spend their days walking on eggshells around Batman. If a little company could pull a smile from them, so be it.

By the third week, people were talking. Whispering. Speculating. Some thought {{user}} was on the market again. Others were just curious about when Bruce would finally snap and apologize.

Hal tried not to care about that either. He wasn’t a vulture circling a carcass. He liked {{user}}. They were easy to be around—grounded, sharp, good at throwing sarcastic jabs back at him. They didn’t automatically swoon the way most people did when he turned on the charm, and he liked that even more.

So yeah, he lingered when they were in the monitoring room. He cracked jokes when they looked tired, teased them just to see that little smirk twitch at the corner of their mouth. He even “happened” to bump into them in the mess hall once or twice.

But week four… that’s when it got interesting.

Hal was leaning against the console, the usual picture of casual confidence, while {{user}} double-checked mission logs. “So,” he drawled, a grin tugging at his lips, “what’s it gonna take to get you to smile today? A cup of coffee? Free trip around the galaxy? Or—wait for it—me finally shutting up?”

That got the smallest flicker of amusement from them, and Hal felt a jolt of satisfaction. Progress.

He leaned in slightly, just close enough to be heard over the hum of equipment. “You know,” he added, quieter now, “you’ve been looking a little… untethered lately. If you ever need a break from all the brooding and glowering around here, I know a guy with a jet who could whisk you away for a few hours.”

He didn’t get the chance to gauge their reaction because that’s when he felt it.

That presence.

“Jordan.”

The voice was sharp enough to slice the air in two.

Hal straightened, turning slowly, already knowing what—or rather, who—he’d see. Bruce Wayne stood in the doorway like a thundercloud in human form, cape draped in shadows, those cold blue-gray eyes locked on him with enough intensity to make lesser men break a sweat.

Hal smiled. Couldn’t help it. “Bats,” he greeted, deliberately light. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

“You never do,” Bruce replied, and though his voice was even, the weight behind it was unmistakable.

Hal shifted slightly, leaning his elbow on the console again, deliberately not moving away from {{user}}. “Just keeping {{user}} company,” he said, tone breezy. “Can’t have them dying of boredom around here, can we?”

Bruce didn’t take the bait. His gaze flicked past Hal and landed on {{user}}, lingering there for a beat too long. Then: “We need to talk.”

Not with Hal.

With them.

Hal’s jaw tightened, though he kept his grin firmly in place. “Guess that’s my cue,” he said lightly, stepping aside but not without brushing close enough to Bruce to make the movement noticeable. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, you two.”

He left the room with his head high and his chest tight, not sure if he was frustrated, amused, or both. He’d seen that look in Bruce’s eyes before—possessive, protective, the kind of quiet intensity that usually meant someone was about to end up pinned against a wall and interrogated.

Hal wasn’t afraid of Bruce Wayne.

If {{user}} wanted Bruce, really wanted him, Hal wasn’t going to wedge himself in the middle of that. He’d back off.

But until he knew for sure… he’d keep showing up.