Cy Helven

“What are you on about now?” You sighed, lowering the ice pack you were nursing against your chin from the blow Diana had landed when you’d tripped like a newbie on the sweat-slicked training mat. Oliver didn’t deign to answer verbally, instead simply pointing to the makeshift ring that showed a stone faced bruce up against a cockily grinning Hal. 

Oh. Oh no. 

Hal was no slouch. Between his former air force training and subsequent years in the League under taskmasters Bruce and Dinah, he was a competent enough combatant. Alas, he wasn’t quite up to Bruce’s impossible standard of bullshit techniques learnt from gods parading as “Tibetan Monks.”

You were onto those fuckers. No matter what Bruce said, there was no way they were human. 

“Hey, watch this,” Oliver grinned, elbowing you playfully with his good arm before cupping his hands to his mouth (like he needed assistance being louder). “Whoever wins gets to take our resident shady lady here on a date.”

“Don’t fucking call me that.” Is your immediate response, instinctive to the shitty nickname Ollie had given you years ago, followed quickly by a hissed, “Oliver, what the fuck!”

“Don’t worry, babe.” Hal winks at you, “I’ll save you from a night of boredom with sir-frowns-a-lot here.”

“Hal, I really don’t think Bruce is interested—”

“Sounds good to me, Italian work?” Bruce interjected, throwing you a blink and you’d miss it smirk. That motherfucker. This was revenge for that time you’d ditched monitor duty with him, leaving Bruce alone for hours with Booster Gold instead. 

Suddenly, all eyes were on you, the ever stoic Bruce and Hal who’d suddenly gone interestingly pink, brows drawn together in a frown and—did his eye just twitch? 

All other spars had stopped dead in their tracks, everyone coming to the same silent conclusion to stop and watch the carnage about to unfold. From the corner of your eye, you see Oliver reaching for his phone before you smack the offending item out of his hands, “Don’t film this, I can’t believe you!”

Oliver whines in dismay for all of three seconds before his face morphs into a wince that has you whirling back to watch the fight, or rather, the aftermath. Because somehow, in the span of the brief moment you’d looked away, Bruce has swept Hal’s feet out from under him, locking his biceps around Hal’s neck in a sleeper hold. Hal struggles, but Bruce is built like a brick shithouse and doesn’t seem that inclined to let go until eventually the brunette stills—unconscious. 

“Damn, he must have done something to piss Bruce off cause that was embarrassing. I’m embarrassed for him.”

“Yes, thanks for that assessment, Oliver.” You sniped, already hurriedly making your way toward Hal’s limp body. 

“Really, Bruce?” You sighed, kneeling down to flip Hal onto his back, fingers brushing his cheek tenderly as you place his head in your lap. The man in question just hums, totally unrepentant as he stares down at the gentle touch you’re offering the unconscious Lantern knowingly. 

You hate that you’ve worked long enough with Bruce to understand the wordless sentiment.

“Just—Help me get him to the infirmary, ok?” When Bruce raises a brow questioningly, you allow your scowl to deepen. “You did the damage, now help me get him away from prying eyes.”

Without a word, Bruce lifts Hal into his arms with an ease that makes you jealous of his bullshit natural strength. Though you suppose the sight is quite amusing, and for a moment you almost wish you hadn’t stopped Oliver from filming. Oh well, you’d just have to bribe Cyborg for the watchtower footage later. 

Luckily for your back (you’d think Mr Moneybags Wayne could spring for some better chairs; alas, comfort seemed off the menu when it came to the infirmary budget), it doesn’t take long for Hal to wake. 

“Morning, princess.” You passed the dazed Hal a cup of water, giving him a few minutes to adjust to the sudden change in environment and state of consciousness, “Have a nice nap?”

Hal drinks almost absentmindedly, body working on autopilot from your nonverbal command without question in a way that makes your traitorous heart pound at the implicit show of trust. Clearing your throat, you avert your gaze when you realise how intently you’d been staring at his lips, reaching for the cup when it’s clear he’s finished. 

“How are you feeling?” You try again, trying not to focus on the way his unfairly gorgeous lashes brush his cheek with every lethargic drink. You can’t help but wonder if this is what he looks like in the morning, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep. Did he wear pyjamas? Hal struck you as the type to sleep in the—

“Did I win?” His voice is still a little dazed, brow furrowed in confusion.

“Did you—” you snort, “Hal, honey, you’re in the infirmary. No, you didn’t win.” The petname slips free without your permission, and you freeze, waiting for him to notice. Only it seems you’ve lucked out, and Hal’s still shaking off the fuzziness that comes with an unexpected awakening from an unexpected bout of unconsciousness. 

Hal’s silent for a beat, and you start to fear something’s gone wrong when his shoulders slump dramatically, “So no date?” You’re baffled at the sudden change in demeanour, opening your mouth questioningly to ask if he’d been hit in the head, only to be abruptly cut off when he whirled to face you with enough force to displace the remaining contents of the cup in his hands all over his lap. “Wait, you can’t go on a date with Bruce!” 

You blink owlishly as the words register, your lips quirking upward in an amused smile. “I’m not going on a date with Bruce—Not that Oliver has the authority to decide that for me— but I’m pretty sure he was just winding you up.”

By now, your concern had plateaued, morphing into endeared amusement at Hal’s adorable behaviour. You know the confusion, the openness and lack of filter are just a side effect of the sudden awakening, and a part of you is almost thankful for Bruce’s chokehold for allowing you to see a side of Hal that you otherwise never would have. 

Reaching out, you take his hands in yours, smile widening when he perks up like a puppy. “You know I’m kind of glad you lost, if it means I get to see you like this. It’s almost, well, cute.”

“Me getting my ass beat is cute?” He’s dazed, his face even a little hopeful as you wince at the reminder of his embarrassing failure of a spar.  

“Well, no,” he deflates instantly, and you rush to rectify it, “It’s cute that you want to impress me.”

“Cute enough to get a date?” There’s a glimmer in his eyes now, the kind that tells you this adorably dazed version of Hal is about to expire. Still, you suppose you’ve always found him cute enough. 

“Cute enough to get a date.” You confirm, deciding that it's finally time to bite the bullet. Hal had always been a flirt, one that you hadn’t let yourself take too seriously for fear of getting hurt. But seeing him like this, sincere, unmasked, unintentionally, in the face of oxygen deprivation, is enough to make you feel brave. 

“Wait, really?” It’s Hal’s turn to be stunned, eyes wide and mouth agape as you stand, gently pulling your hands free from his now lax grip. 

“Mhm, pick me up at 8, and don’t be late.” You lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek before turning on your heel and sauntering out of the infirmary. 

“Wait, where are we going?” He sounds breathless, a little panicked even and you pause at the threshold, keeping your back to him so he can’t see the nerves displayed across your face at the bold move.

“You'd better figure it out.” You call back, throwing him one last wink over your shoulder before you promptly hightailed it away. 

Though not far enough away that you don’t hear Hal’s victorious woop, or the subsequent panicked calls for Oliver to help him plan “our first date.”