#also yes this is based on a bilmuri song leave me alone

[andrewologist]

Can’t Get Control of the World

first full length fic I’ve posted in over a year and it’s batlantern. I’m not sorry.

thank you @emmajeancoco-deactivated20001027 for editing this for me even though you had no clue what the fuck was happening <3

tw: blood, mild gore, panic attack

also on ao3

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The mission went bad.

Spectacularly, woefully, bad.

There were a lot of casualties. The intel the Oa received was outdated. The Lanterns were outmatched. The planet they were supposed to be protecting was in ruins.

1,009,953,907 casualties. Too many of them children. Hal had done the math in his head over and over. and over. and over. and over. From the end of the battle to the debrief on Oa to the flight home. There was nothing that Hal could have done to stop it, to change it.

It wasn’t his fault.

And yet.

He could still smell the awful stench of burnt flesh.

He could still see the terrified face of the child, who looked uncomfortably human.

He could still hear the screaming and, god, the pleading.

The Watchtower was the furthest he could make it without collapsing.

He doesn’t know whether he should be relieved or disappointed that the halls are empty when he arrives. He makes a bee-line for the locker room, thankful that no one was there to talk to him but still hoping that one man, in particular, would stop him.

His hair is covered in dust, and his face is speckled red from the minor scrapes he gained from falling debris, but the rest of his body is relatively clean.

Except for his arms.

Despite their purple skin, the Vraissol still have red blood. It’s thicker than human blood, but it looks damn near the same.

And Hal’s arms were covered in it, from his fingers to his elbows.

The dust washes away, the scrapes sting under the hot water, but they had stopped bleeding hours ago.

But the blood wouldn’t get off his hands.

Between the debrief and the trip home, it had dried and hardened into itchy, red cement.

No matter how hot Hal makes the water, no matter how hard he scrubs with the stupid high-tech expensive decontamination soap, it refuses to come off in more than tiny flakes.

The longer it stays there, the longer Hal has to look at the almost-black blood, the sicker he feels.

The harder he scrubs, the more he remembers.

All he can see is the family of Vraissols trapped under the ruins of their home, the child cowering in fear from him because it didn’t matter that he was trying to help; he had brought destruction with him. He can still see the blood seeping through his fingers as he tries desperately to stop the bleeding; he can still hear the explosion nearby. His brain had telegraphed every moment of the rubble crashing down next to him right where the family had-

The door to the locker room slams open as Hal’s knees give out from under him, and it’s the thunder of the battle raging overhead, reinforcements exploding-

“Hal!”

Someone is calling his name; he can hear it, but it’s miles away, and he’s not there. How could he be here?

Footsteps pound toward him, and it’s bullets raining down-

“Hal, it’s Bruce. Breathe with me.”

The room goes quiet - someone turned the shower off - and all there is the sound of exaggerated breathing in front of him as he desperately tries to get control of the air around him.

“That’s good, Hal. Can you look at me?”

Hal wants to snap back and tell Bruce to stop treating him like a child, but he opens his eyes to see Bruce crouched down in front of him, dress pants soaked and shirt sleeves rolled up, towel in hand and fear flashing in his eyes for a split second before he gets control of it.

Hal is hit with just how much he missed Bruce. One kiss before an emergency Lantern call, and he missed him like a limb.

“Hal, what happened to your hands?”

Hal swallows and gets a grip on his breathing before responding.

“Not my blood,” he says, startled by how even and hollow his voice sounds. Bruce sucks in a breath and motions him forward as he unfolds the towel.

If it were any other day, Hal would’ve laughed in Bruce’s face. If it were anyone else, Hal would’ve been angry.

But he’s too tired and hollowed out to protest.

So he lets Bruce wrap him in a towel. Lets him search through his locker for an extra pair of sweatpants. Lets him hold Hal steady as he steps into the legs of the sweatpants one by one. He lets Bruce guide him to the bench. Watches as Bruce putters around the locker room in silence, opening and closing a few cabinets. Pretends not to notice Bruce glancing over at him every three seconds.

He stays silent as Bruce sits next to him and takes Hal’s left hand in his own, so gently that Hal momentarily forgets that those same hands could tear down all of Gotham. So gently that Hal is reminded that Bruce is a father before anything else, despite what he tells himself and everyone else.

Hal looks away from his hands. Stares anywhere but down.

“I didn’t think anyone was here,” Hal says, just barely above a whisper.

I didn’t think anyone would see me like this.

“I got an alert as soon as you returned,” Bruce responds, just barely below a whisper.

You don’t have to hide from me.

Hal turns to look at Bruce. His gaze is focused as he works at the blood on Hal’s hands. Whatever he’s doing is working. Hal is starting to feel the air on his skin again, but it still feels like lead.

Bruce’s features are pulled tight in an expression that Hal would have once read as anger and frustration. Now Hal knows that it means that Bruce is throwing himself into a task to try and forget the worry and fear at war in his head.

“We were outnumbered,” Hal says, still not daring to break the quiet of the air. Bruce pauses, and his eyes flicker across Hal’s face, calculating. Always calculating.

Hal looks away. Bruce continues.

“The intel was wrong. Somehow. They had more firepower.”

Hal is silent as Bruce finishes his left hand. He switches to his right hand, carefully removing the ring and setting it aside.

“Even with ten of us defending that planet, we weren’t enough.”

Bruce works at his right arm steadily.

Hal doesn’t look down until he pulls away. 

His hands are raw and numb. There’s a section of his left arm that is significantly worse than the rest. He realizes it’s because he had scrubbed at it until he broke the skin.

Bruce holds out his ring, and Hal takes it. Holds it in his hand.

“1,009,953,907 Vraissol. And they were all terrified.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Hal. You did what you could.”

Hal’s head whips around to look at Bruce, his eyes meeting Bruce’s for the first time in too long. It’s not pity he sees in the other man’s eyes. It’s understanding. Concern. Pain. It makes Hal feel incredibly small and infinitely old.

“But that’s the worst part, isn’t it? There was nothing I could do. Not a goddamn thing.”

Bruce takes Hal’s hand again, takes the ring from his palm, and slides it back onto his finger. Hal doesn’t take his eyes off of Bruce for a single moment.

Bruce meets Hal’s gaze, places his hand on Hal’s face.

“Sometimes our best isn’t enough. But you tried. You can’t save everyone, but that doesn’t make you any less good. There is good left in this world, Hal Jordan. You are proof of that.”

Hal is silent, but his eyes are searching Bruce’s face, his hands trembling, his whole world unsteady.

He can see the weight that Bruce puts on his own shoulders; can feel the weight on his own.

The weight of a thousand worlds on their shoulders and Bruce washed the blood off of Hal’s hands.