Again with the title warning. Guess who is the saddest superhero this time . . .
Also, my Nick Necro may be way nicer than comic book continuity would deem accurate. In this universe, he, Zatanna, and John ended up in a three-way relationship but rather than betraying them and then dying terribly, they just broke up (which sucks too, don't get me wrong.) This also means the Constantine got his trademark trenchcoat through other, no doubt very mysterious ways.
Trigger warnings: Character death, after-effects of physical and magical torture, explicit homosexuality, sexual acts wherein the aggressor is not completely aware it is consensual (even though it obviously is to the reader).
Chapter 8: In Blackest Night
June 29th, 20xx
Zion, IL, 2:18 AM
Day 9
...
...
Iris West's uncle Howard owned a cottage on the northwest shore of Lake Michigan, a couple miles south of the Wisconsin border. Hal remembered that Barry had stayed there three summers ago for a West family reunion that involved shots of communion wine and a pregnancy scare for Iris's 16-year-old cousin. It was there that they went now, as they had nowhere else to go. Just two hours ago Hal had received a call from his Ethiopian landlord—perhaps the one man in America who hadn't watched the news for the past week and thus did not know that Green Lantern lived in his apartment complex—who told him, rather sardonically, that the apartment building had gone up in an electrical fire.
The whole place is destroyed, Mr. Abebe had said. We think it started on your floor. Hope you have renter's insurance.
Hal didn't, but figured that was the least of his current concerns.
Barry's place was still standing, but that was all that could be said for it. They weren't going anywhere near it, not when their enemies had undoubtedly just destroyed Hal's apartment building, and when they knew that 'John Stewart' was not to be trusted. Barry's apartment was either bugged, rigged with traps, or both, and so Barry had dragged him to the old lake house.
"The family won't be there," Barry had assured him. "They only come up once or twice a year, and Howard was adamant about not renting it out. With people still refusing to come back to Chicago, I doubt we'll have anything to worry about."
And they hadn't. Their biggest concern over the last five hours had been what to have for dinner, which was a problem solved by Barry streaking through a Taco Bell three states away, grabbing chalupas and leaving cash on the counter.
Now, Hal sat on the firm, twin bed, one of two in the guest room they elected to sleep in, watching the steady rise and fall of Barry's chest. The speedster had been flagging all night, but he'd refused to take his eyes off of Hal for more than the few seconds it had taken to grab dinner. He strong-armed Hal into sleeping in the same room, largely as he was afraid that Hal would up and leave him the moment he could. They knew roughly where Carol was, after all. The only thing holding Hal back from haring off after her was the fact that D.C. had been declared a war zone, and a kill on sight order was on each and every one of their heads.
(Well, that and the thought that Barry would drag him right back before he got more than a mile down the road. Hal was realistic about this. Even if he drugged Barry into unconsciousness, it wouldn't hold long, and then he'd be right back to where he started. The only effective measures of stopping Barry Allen were to freeze him, or maybe put the ending of the movie Titanic on a loop, which still made him cry even after watching it upwards of 15 times. )
Still, this was the best chance Hal would get to save Carol, even if it meant leaving Barry behind. Especially as it meant leaving Barry behind, as logically, he knew that Barry wasn't going to go to D.C. with him. Not when the stakes had been raised, and they were down to four able-bodied heroes, two of which included Damian Wayne, who was a minor, and Jason Todd, who was a loose cannon at the best of times. The number would bump up to five when Ollie got back, and potentially six, depending on how bad Shazam's damage was, and if they'd even allow him to fight alongside them.
No matter what he had promised Hal, Barry would have to stay and help the super community. And now that the first rush of fury had passed, Hal knew that he had to do the same. Ollie had hit the goddamned nail on the head when he'd told Hal to do the right thing, not the Hal thing. He would be betraying his vows as a Green Lantern and as a member of the Justice League if he went off after Carol on his own, with no real hope of return or success. Now that he'd had some time to calm down and think, he knew that Barry had kept him from making one of the worst mistakes of his life.
And Oracle's last text alert had given him hope. Zatanna had been rescued after a week's captivity. Granted, with her magic she had a skill set that Carol had no access to, but that wasn't to say that Carol couldn't still be alive, as well. There was still a chance to save her, and maybe Tim or Zatanna would have useful information about the other captives, or their captors. It would be reckless to go without hearing that. He had waited this long, he could wait a little longer.
Hal's gaze was drawn down to the bed as Barry stirred. He mumbled something that sounded like 'probiotic samples,' and turned to his side. His arm flopped out over top the covers, his fingertips dangling over the edge of the bed. Hal wished with a suddenness that stunned him that they were sitting on the couch, watching tv. Then they could sit close and Hal could glean some physical comfort from his proximity. Maybe he'd fall asleep and wake up dozing on Barry's shoulder. Maybe it would be the other way around. Hal was not a man who would ever ask someone to just freaking cuddle him already, but he was clawing out of his skin for something. Even when it was something that he could only technically ask Carol for, but really, really wanted from Barry.
Annnnnnd he was done. He couldn't do anything about his wayward feelings, but he could control his thoughts. Hal heaved himself off the bed and padded out to the living room. He could make part of his desire a reality, and so he slumped down onto the couch and turned on the news.
For a while he channel surfed mindlessly, not really taking in the snippets of information.
"—bridge in London fell, today, killing dozens—"
"Is war breaking out anew in Syria? We bring military war correspondent Colm Howard to discuss—"
"Are you at risk for the Zika virus? Stay tuned—"
Finally there was a channel that caught his attention. It was a talk panel of individuals discussing America's current situation. Hal changed the channel just in time to hear a male, dignified, middle-aged African-American moderator say, "Superhero approval ratings have dropped to as low as 8% in certain polls. This no doubt reflects President Luthor's warning that the Iconoclasts are more likely to be deranged supers, rather than actual alien invaders. As per his latest speech, we remind the American public not to trust, harbor, or support any beings with greater than human capabilities. On the bottom of the screen is a hotline you may call if a 'superhero' is spotted."
Hal froze. Shit, this was escalating quickly. It wasn't entirely unexpected. The noose was tightening around their necks, and unless they figured out a way to remove the magical weapon, the source of the Ikon's immortality, the few victories they'd scored against them were rendered useless. Soon, even their defensive maneuvers might be impossible to keep up.
They needed to find a way to go on the offensive.
"All the heroes?" One of the panelists, a slightly younger Asian female commented. "That seems harsh. Not all of them can be evil!"
"There's no way to tell," an overweight Caucasian panelist replied. "But there are cities who are holding out. My brother lives in Gotham, and he says the bat symbol is everywhere. For them, it's a point of pride to stand behind Batman. With all his villains in jail, no one's gonna' sell him out."
"Gotham is a notable holdout to this law," the moderator agreed. "It's rumored that President Luthor has demanded what is popularly called the 'Batfamily' to be extradited to D.C., but Gotham refuses to comply. Commissioner James Gordon was quoted earlier as saying, 'With all respect, but if the President wants Batman, he can wrest him from our cold, dead, hands.'"
Hal shut his eyes. All this, and they didn't even know that Batman was dead.
"Bruce Wayne and his adopted family are by no means super-powered beings," the Asian panelist pointed out, tucking a dark strand of hair behind her ear. "Technically, they should be exempt from the extradition law."
Hal's phone buzzed in his pocket. He scrambled for it, sure it would be something about Tim or Zatanna . . . but it was only Ollie, whose text read, Honey, I'm home.
Hal tsked, but it was more from habit. He was more relieved that Ollie didn't run into any trouble returning to the country. Everything go ok over there? He texted in reply.
A minute later, More or less. Billy's wrecked, so I'm gonna let him sleep through the night. Apparently going without food or water for 3ish days will do it to you, even when you're a magically powered super-being. Who knew?
Hal relaxed further. If Ollie was feeling well enough to be making sardonic quips, maybe that meant he wasn't furthering a suicidal resolve. Barry had been adamant that Ollie wanted to die, and Hal hadn't wanted to believe him. Hearing from him now helped settle one of his major anxieties.
What about you? He typed, hoping Ollie would get it. He was too tired to be more explicit than that.
This response took longer. I'll be ok. I made a promise. Besides, I'm pretty sure Billy needs me. It'd be rude to leave him hanging, you know?
Hal cocked his head. Ollie and Shazam were close, now? On first name terms? Friendly? When and how had that happened? Glad to hear it. But if you need anything, just let me know.
Gotcha. You still with Barry?
Yes.
Good. Tell him I said exactly nothing at all to him. That'll teach him to steal all my best friend time with you.
Hal rolled his eyes. You're weird, Oliver.
Only for you, bestie. But I'm crashing for a few. Talk tomorrow?
You got it.
Hal settled his phone down on the coffee table before leaning back against the couch. The talk panel was still going on about the merits of hunting down superheroes, but Hal was just about to drift off to sleep when a door creaked open. The next moment, Barry was standing off to the side, vibrating with tension.
His obvious relief at seeing him on the couch made Hal's heart hurt.
"I woke up and you were gone," Barry said, only slightly calmer. "I thought—I thought . . ."
"I'm here. I just couldn't sleep," Hal said quietly. "So I tried watching TV and texting Ollie. He's fine; has Shazam. And he doesn't say hi, by the way."
"Don't do that," Barry stressed. "I can't take it if you disappear. I won't be able to sleep if I'm worrying about you."
Barry had just found a way to give him exactly what he wanted, even when he had no idea Hal wanted it. Hal was a selfish bastard, and in this current state would take all he could get. "Come watch TV with me, then," he said, gesturing for Barry to join him.
Barry eyed him suspiciously. "You sure? I'm . . . probably just going to fall asleep on you again."
He must be remembering Hal's hissy fit the last time that happened. Seeing as how it had been barely a week after he had turned Carol's marriage proposal down, essentially for him, Hal thought it was justified, if a little unfair to Barry. Now, Hal could think of many, many worse things than Barry's weight against his. Now that their lives were collapsing, there was little point in pretending otherwise. "Then I'll fall asleep right back."
It's not cuddling, Hal thought as Barry sat down next to him, arm to arm and close enough to enjoy his warmth from the get go. Barry turned on his side and nuzzled his head on Hal's shoulder, apparently too tired to give a shit about what it looked like. For a few blissful, stressful minutes Hal wondered if he could get away with—should get away with—wrapping his arm around Barry and holding him closer. Before he could make a decision, Barry's breathing deepened, and just like that, he was asleep.
Well now it's cuddling, Hal allowed. He picked up the remote, turned off the TV, and the room was thrown into darkness.
He closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, and allowed himself to drift off to sleep.
...
...
...
June 29th, 20xx
Gotham, Wayne Manor, 4:27 AM
Day 9
...
It was 4:27 AM and Tim Drake was not dead. This was what Jason told himself as he sat by Tim's bedside, watching the steady, methodical beep of his heart monitor, and the scroll of information at the monitor behind his head. It was better to reflect on that than anything else. Because Tim was alive, and that was a great thing, but it was now 4:28 AM and Dick, Roy, and Kori were still missing and there was no way to find them.
A part of Jason wanted to rampage like a mindless animal, but he couldn't summon up the energy for it. He hadn't slept in over 24 hours, at this point. Damian had crashed a few hours ago at Alfred's insistence, but Jason had refused to go down. He'd sat in the room as Dr. Leslie fought to save Tim's life, and he'd even given some blood for a transfusion. Tim was lucky Jason had died once. He hadn't been a universal donor until he'd been dunked in the Lazarus Pit.
Just more proof he hadn't exactly come back right.
Now, while Dr. Leslie rested in one of the guest rooms, Jason sat next to Tim's bed. He was afraid that if he moved away, Tim would die alone. Or die at all. He knew he was being irrational, but it was based on a long held, if abstract, idea. Before now, Jason'd had this weird idea that the only Robins that would ever die were he and Damian. The mean ones. The scrappy ones. The ones who weren't afraid to blow out the lights of every baddie in Gotham. Dick and Tim were the good ones; the happy ones; the rational ones. The ones who still thought life was everyone's gift, and that no one had the right to take it away.
They were the Robins who didn't deserve death. And even now, knowing it was ridiculous, he thought that as long as Tim kept living, Dick might too.
He remembered what he'd told Tim on the phone the night Metropolis fell, and Tim had been freaking out about Kon's safety. It had held Tim together, maybe it was what Jason needed now.
"I believe in him," Jason whispered, quietly and intimately as a prayer. "I believe he is alive. I will not let this defeat me." He murmured it over and over, until the cadence ran together in his mind and the words lost their meaning. He kept on saying it until Kon-El Kent walked in through the medical section of the Cave, boldly, like he had a right to be there.
Jason looked over at him, his hands folded together, his elbows on his knees. "Oracle's gonna kill you," he observed, voice gravely. He didn't mention any ideas of his own on that subject. Dick wasn't here and may never be again. What did it matter if Kon had figured out what they were to each other?
Kon set his jaw as he looked over Tim. He was pale but determined, and while his eyes glistened when he saw the damage, he did not look away. "She can try. But this is Tim. I gotta be here for him."
Alfred stepped in, clearing his throat to announce his presence. "I thought it best that Mister Kent be here. He is very important to Master Timothy, after all."
Jason stood, offering his chair to Kon. One of his knees popped, and his bandaged arm throbbed. Kon sank into the chair like his legs had been cut, and hesitantly reached for Tim's relatively uninjured hand. The other was still awful to look at, even with all Dr. Leslie's incredible work. When his fingers wrapped around Tim's hand, Kon's jaw clenched tight.
"They aren't gonna win, buddy," he said, his voice thick with unshed tears. "I'm gonna take 'em down for you. Every last one of 'em."
Jason stepped away, giving Kon a moment of privacy. Alfred caught his eye, and beckoned him over with a tilt of his head. Jason leaned down so that Alfred could speak quietly.
"Upon thinking it over, it might be best for Master Timothy and Miss Zatanna to be tended in the Watchtower," Alfred said in his impeccable accent. "If Dr. Leslie will consent to go with them, they'd be in a much safer place, with the best medical equipment the world has to offer. Mr. Kent could go back with them, and continue as Oracle's spy."
Jason nodded. At this point he'd agree to anything, particularly if it included a chance to sleep, kill something, or obtain a lead on Dick and/or Roy's whereabouts.
"But should the worst occur . . ." Alfred continued in a lower voice, "Do you recall the location of the Lazarus Pit that Talia al Ghul . . . introduced you to?"
In his grief and sleep-deprivation, it took a moment for Alfred's meaning to penetrate. "You want to—no. No, I don't. Even if I thought it was a good idea, I can't help you. She only dunked me in it once, and I was out of my mind."
"Master Jason—"
"No," he interrupted the aging butler. "You don't come out right. He wouldn't be Tim anymore. He'd be something like me."
"Is that so terrible?" Alfred gave him a look that was so full of understanding, of pity, that Jason could hardly stand it.
He was more than a little relieved when Kon called out just then, "Hey, guys? I think he's waking up!"
They rushed back to Tim's bedside. Jason had the presence of mind to call for Oracle through the com link he'd never taken off.
"What's—Jason? What is it? I'm in the middle of something important."
"Tim's waking up," he said unapologetically, and then put her on speaker.
"Don't push him," she ordered. "I'm getting everything I can out of Zatanna. Let him rest."
Last Jason knew, Zatanna had been unconscious in one of the guest rooms. Trusting all that to Babs, he looked over just as Tim's eyes fluttered open. He groaned in pain, and Kon's grip around his hand tightened.
"Hey, bud," he said. "How're you feeling?"
"You're safe, Master Timothy," Alfred said, his voice low and soothing. "Be easy."
Dr. Leslie had painstakingly removed the threads that had once held Tim's mouth shut, but it was still hard to look at the holes in his lips. They moved soundlessly for a moment, before he managed to force out. "Jason. Where's . . ." The effort was too much for him, and he choked.
Jason stepped forward and reached out to touch Tim's knee. "Hey. Hey, I'm here. Keep calm."
"Jay—" Tim tried again, his eyes welling with tears. "I'm so sorry. They . . . Dick. They—he . . ."
Jason closed his eyes. "Did he suffer?" He asked, his voice flat. Before they killed him, went unsaid.
"One of the Ikons took him away," Tim said, more coherently this time. "For something special. About an hour before you came. Maybe less."
Jason's eyes cracked open, his heart pounding with a sudden hope. "He's still alive?"
"Master Jason," Alfred said hesitantly. "Are you all right?"
No, he was not all right. But this was better than the worst. "What'd they do to him?" He asked Tim, ignoring Alfred.
"What'd they do to you?" Kon redirected. "What happened?"
Tim swallowed and glanced at Kon. Seeing his friend bolstered him, and he took a deep breath before admitting, "My Ikon hurt me the whole time. Looked like John Stewart. He didn't even ask me any questions, just kept . . ." He took a pained breath before continuing. "The one that looked like a severe librarian was with Roy, and for a while we could hear him scream. They left early on. His Ikon came in and said something about transferring him to a different location."
"And Dick?" Jason asked, through clenched teeth.
"Dick's Ikon didn't look like a human. It kept drugging him and asking him questions. He tried so hard not to answer. But in the end . . . Jason, you should know. He talked about you. They know. His Ikon talked about coming after you, looking like him. He told Dick the last thing you'd see was his face."
"What does that mean?" Alfred asked, looking at him, rather than Tim. "What's going on?"
Red-hot rage was bubbling up, insidious and powerful as the waters of the Lazarus Pits. Jason turned to go before he turned his anger onto anyone there, but Tim's reedy voice stopped him.
"Dick said you'd know it wasn't him," he said faintly. "He believes in you. He's not dead," Tim slurred, energy giving out. "Not . . . dead."
Jason didn't realize he was crowding Tim's bed until Kon was there, pushing him back.
"You don't know that!" Jason screamed, out of his mind with grief and fear.
"Hey!" Kon yelled, pushing him away from the gurney."Calm down, ok? Your boyfriend's alive. That's good news!"
"Boyfriend?" Alfred asked, and from his tone it was clear he still didn't know what Tim was talking about.
"He loves you," Tim murmured, before passing out again.
Jason lost it. His uninjured arm went for his gun, as if it could do any good at all. He screamed in rage when Kon stopped him, nearly breaking his other arm in doing so.
"Fuck you!" Jason roared, right in his face. "Fuck you! Fuck you!"
"Yeah, you're done," Kon said. Then, moving too quickly for Jason to block, his hand came up. Pain bloomed up from the back of his head, and then there was nothing at all.
...
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June 9th, 20xx
Gotham, Wayne Manor, 5:00 AM
Day 9
...
A scream rose up from below, faint, yet throbbing with pain. Wondering if they were under attack, Zatanna hesitated long enough for Oracle, who was looking at her though the computer monitor, to get antsy.
"Zatanna? What's wrong?"
"I'm not sure," she said, bringing her attention back to Barbara. She sat back down on the Wayne guest room bed, running her fingers over the bedspread. "Did you hear that?"
"That was Jason," Oracle said, her voice tight as tight as her pursed lips. "Tim woke up and gave his intel. It was . . . of a personal nature."
Zatanna's eyebrows rose. She hadn't thought much could affect the Red Hood now that Bruce was gone. Jesus Christ, she wished that Bruce wasn't gone. That was one of the things she'd hoped to God that her Ikon captors had been lying about. To hear that they actually had managed to bring down 'the Bat,' along with Helena and Dinah made her rage flare.
Her anger was all that was currently keeping her going, so she held fast to it. It was a far better alternative than succumbing to the helplessness of her captivity. She needed to make them pay for what they had done to her. She needed revenge.
"Keep going," Barbara commanded her. "You were captured in a mage trap while looking for Nick Necro, and then when they brought you to Atlanta . . .?"
Zatanna closed her eyes. The problem was not in remembering; it was in putting words to the horror. Her desperate shot that had hit one of them but did jack all, followed by hours of unconsciousness. Waking up in the small, dark, room, with concrete walls and no windows. Suspended in the air, enclosed by a magical bubble that simultaneously leached her dry and buoyed her up. The magical sigils on the walls, which glowed red whenever she grew too weak, about every eight hours or so . . .
The memory of it made her quail. Cold, hard, and ruthless, she told herself, as she opened her eyes. That is where strength lies.
"They put me in a room with magical symbols on the floor and the walls—I didn't recognize any of them, and believe me, I had days to stare at them. I can't tell you how the spell worked, but it sucked away my magic, and then was supposedto suck the life out of me. I think it was part of what powered their magical pulse."
"How do you know?" Barbara asked.
Zatanna grit her teeth. Memories of the Ikons standing underneath her, directing cold fingers of their own magic into her, a crude diagnostic to answer the question of her continued survival. "They did tests. They were pretty damn vocal with the end results."
"Did Damian destroy it?" Barbara asked, taking another tack.
"Yes, but not the weapon itself," Zatanna admitted. "I was just a battery, and as far as I can figure, the spell itself was a converter."
"How did you survive?" Barbara asked bluntly. Zatanna was in no frame of mind to take offense. Any information she gave them brought them that much closer to bringing the Ikons down, and that was her sole purpose in life, now.
"I don't know," Zatanna replied. "According to them, Nick died in less than a day. Yet every time I hit rock bottom, the light would dim and the spell would shut down and they couldn't restart it, so to speak, until my magic had replenished itself." Her breath hitched, remembering the first time it had happened. She had been ready for death, and the relief it had tokened had been torn away from her without warning. Lingering at the edges of consciousness, she had been jolted into and out of awareness by the the rushed series of tests the Ikons had performed after, wherein they inundated her person with painful strands of alien magic.
"I thought they were doing it on purpose to prolong my agony, but they couldn't figure out why it wouldn't kill me, either," she admitted after a pained swallow. "Two of them worried that my magic would infect theirs, but the others argued that they'd found their perfect, fucking, battery."
Zatanna laughed brokenly. "That's when they started feeding me, and giving me water. They thought if they could keep me alive indefinitely, they'd be stronger for it. I held out and tried to starve myself, afraid that I was making them stronger . . . but I couldn't do it. I'm sorry, Oracle."
"Don't be. You were right to choose life. You did the right thing." While Oracle's expression softened, she didn't try and placate her with sympathy. For that, Zatanna was grateful. The last thing she needed right now was anything to make her feel weak.
"What else do you know about the nature of the spell?" Oracle asked, after a moment of quiet.
For all that her jailers had no compunction in speaking in front of her, she hadn't been able to discern the specifics of the spell. She knew her role in it, but not even how it connected to the larger spell, or the magical pulse. "Not much. John will know more."
Oracle's next question was hesitant. "Have you been in contact with him?"
"Not yet," Zatanna promised, darkly. "But I will be."
"Is Constantine connected to the Ikons?" Oracle asked. She sounded nervous, and for good reason.
"No," Zatanna quickly replied. "But he'll know. Or he'll find out. It's what he does."
"Zatanna, if there's anything else you can tell us, particularly about the others currently hostage . . .?"
Zatanna hesitated, thinking. There were days of her life missing, and during those times her captors had spoken over her, thinking what she had heard could never be used against them. But more of her time in captivity was inaccessible, and of those conscious hours, more were spent alone in the room, drifting in pain until someone came to poke and prod at her. Not could she trust the veracity of her memories when the pain grew too great. Only at certain stages of the magical cycle had she been coherent: the first hour or so was generally safe, and oddly enough, so was the last hour of the magical cycle, almost as if the spell itself wound down along with her strength. It was, along with her incredible rage and desperation, part of the reason why she had been able to use her power to get them all out of the basement.
There were a few things she knew for certain, however. "I don't know where anyone else is. I know they considered Atlanta to be their safest base, or at least the hardest to track—it's why they kept me there. It's sheer luck they left Tim there, rather than Dick or Roy. Honestly, I think you took them by surprise. They didn't think anyone could or would go after the hostages. They told me you had all voted against saving us."
They had taunted her with that. Stood beneath her in their billowing, dark robes and whispered that her friends had deemed her an acceptable loss, and that she would be theirs until the end of her days. Zatanna knew better, but the sixth time they tried to discourage her, it worked. She'd wept until her magical imprisonment forced her under, and when all this was over, she would allow herself to feel ashamed for believing them, even for a moment.
"It wasn't like that, Zatanna," Barbara assured her. She leaned forward in an unconscious attempt at proving her sincerity. "We had no idea where you were for the last week. Carol is different. We know where she is, we just don't know if she's an Ikon or not. Do you?"
Zatanna rubbed her temples. They had told her about Batman—crowed over his defeat, as well as Dinah's and Helena's deaths. Nothing about Carol, however, and her disappearance was news to her. "I got nothing. None of the Ikons took her form, but apart from a few glimpses here and there, I only ever saw them in their black robes."
After a moment Barbara asked her more gently, "And is there anything else? Anything at all?"
Zatanna let out a bark of bitter laughter. "Well, you know John Stewart isn't who he says he is, right? Because they were gonna use him to splinter us further. He was planning to denounce Barry at the next emergency meeting. They wanted to drive a wedge into the Lantern/Arrow/Flash power bloc."
Barbara didn't look surprised. "Yes, we knew about him. I'll warn Lantern, Flash, and Arrow to steer clear, but I doubt he could do anything to pull them apart, now. But what about Shayera? Are they assuming her form, as well?"
"I . . . I can't be sure, Oracle. I can't remember if they ever mentioned her specifically. They talked more about John, Ra's, Bane, and Luthor."
"Zatanna, this is important," Oracle said, and her expression was serious. "Do you know of any reason at all why Shayera might have survived the magical pulse?"
Zatanna frowned. "Well, did we figure out Koriand'r?"
"She's pregnant with a half-human child. It's enough to shield her from the killing effect of the pulse."
"Then there's your answer," Zatanna said. She was getting cranky, largely because her hold on her power was slipping. After being under direct control of the spell for so long, freedom had made her feel relatively normal. Now that she was getting used to the feeling, her power was going all wonky again. Unless she wanted to travel to John the normal way, she was going to have to get moving soon. "She's either pregnant or an Ikon."
"How about—"
"No, Barbara, I don't know anything else. What I do know is that I have to get to John now, before I lose all control over my magic, again."
"We need you here." Barbara stressed. "Or did I not make clear how badly this war is going?"
"You need me stable," Zatanna pointed out. "And if you say John is coherent enough to hack your computer, then he can help stabilize me."
The world slanted sideways, and Zatanna nearly fell off the bed. This is just like the time I got stoned at John's 40th birthday party, she thought. It's only going to get worse. It's going to hurt bad, soon.
"I'll contact you when I can," she said, cutting Oracle off mid-rant. "I gotta' go now."
"Zatanna Zatara, don't you dare—"
Without turning off the computer, Zatanna stood. She keeled over immediately, only catching herself on the nightstand.
"You're not well," Barbara tried to convince her. "Stay here and rest!"
"Screw you," Zatanna muttered. And then, pulling on the thinning line of her power, she took a step and said,"!enitnatsnoC nhoJ levarT"
Zatanna closed her eyes against the world as changed around her, a mass of colors and shapes stretched beyond recognition. This was different than last time—had she done it wrong? Or was John somewhere she couldn't safely access?
Shit, she thought. Didn't think of that.
It was too late to turn back now, however. She walked forward, and with each step hurtled further across the Atlantic—by way of airport, plane, a wobbling step in a field in the English countryside, and then, blessedly, John's living room.
It was surprisingly clean, Zatanna noted distantly. Did he have company over? Who was she fooling? John cared not at all for social niceties, and back when they were together, she or Nick would have to clean the apartment themselves if it bothered them. Sitting on the lumpy old couch was the man himself, replete with cigarette, and the signature trench coat. He looked only mildly surprised to see someone appear in his living room. When he got a better look at her, that surprise became concern.
"Zatanna? I didn't think you'd come by, unannounced." His expression grew guarded when he took in her bedraggled appearance, her no doubt wild expression, and the gaunt lines of her face—she'd only been fed the bare minimum for the last few days, after all . . .
Actually, that begged the question. Just how was she still functional?
John stood up from the couch, dropping the cigarette carelessly to the ground. True to form, it fizzled out before it landed. "Are you all right, luv?" He asked cautiously, hands out in a gentling gesture. His power rushed over her in a cool wave, calming her, settling her. By the time his hands lowered Zatanna felt better than she had in weeks. She breathed deeply, and felt more like herself.
At the sight of his stupid, handsome face, and his stupid, totally merited concern, Zatanna remembered why she was angry. "They had me," she snapped. "The Ikons."
John froze, his eyes searching hers. "You escaped?"
"Red Hood and Robin saved me, but they had me for a week. A week, John. I should be dead!" She shrieked, losing the line of her thoughts. "What they did to me killed Nick in a day."
"Nick is dead?" He whispered, his face crystallizing into an expressionless mask. For someone who wore his heart on his self-deprecating sleeve, this was disconcerting, as it spoke to a level of emotion was deep enough to hide. Zatanna was too far gone to pay him much mind, however. She had been captured, she had been made helpless . . . and John had not. Now, whether he wanted to or not, was going to help her.
"I need to be beyond their control. How are you doing it? How are you safe?"
"Zatanna . . . "
"Don't take that tone with me!" Zatanna screeched. She knew she was being unfair, but she needed to be safe. Needed to be strong. Needed to be in control. "Just help me, John. Please!"
John stopped, and his hands lowered. He took a deep breath and looked down at the ground before admitting, "I . . . already have. To a lesser extent." His mouth worked as he searched for the words, or, judging by the look of defeat on his face, the resolve to utter them. "If you want more than that, you're going to have to agree to something."
Zatanna's blood ran cold. It generally wasn't a good sign when John got serious."What do you want?"
He chuckled mirthlessly, his face twisting in pain. "Oh, it's not what I want, luv. This is me being selfless, believe it or not, but if you want me to get you off their magical grid, then you have to promise me—and we'll be making this a binding covenant, don't fret—that when this is over, you won't seek me out again."
Zatanna was taken aback. That was it? No deal with demons, or payment of flesh? All John wanted was a restraining order?
Like he hadn't gotten enough of one with their dramatic, three-way breakup almost five months ago. Zatanna still didn't know how to blame for that—she wanted more, Nick wanted everything, and who knew what John really wanted—but when the screaming and spelling had stopped and the dust had settled, she'd been alone. While she had been able to salvage a professional, if strained, relationship with Nick, John had left her completely behind, save for the few, extremely painful dreams she'd had about him.
(In the one she'd had two weeks ago, they'd eked out a life together. They'd had children, and they had thrown a birthday party for said children with more screaming children as guests. She had a clear mental image of her and John hiding out in the kitchen, drinking shots of whiskey as they quietly discussed the merits of using magic to put them all to sleep. Afterwards, in a fleeting montage of images, they had taught their children pieces of their own disciplines, and watched their children develop powers of their own. She had driven a minivan, John had pretended to quit smoking, and it was so hopelessly domestic and simple and happy that Zatanna had woken up weeping, unable to cope with the simple fact that it would never come to pass.)
Dreams like those, along with her broken heart, had fueled her hatred of John Constantine. Now it might be cemented forever. But he had her over a barrel. She needed this, and he was literally the last person on Earth who could help her.
Nothing has to change, she told herself, even though she felt a lot like cursing him, spelling the shit out of him, and then weeping mindlessly in his dingy little kitchen. We're not together now, and won't be in the future. He made his choice, and even though he's strong arming you into agreeing, it's what you want!
Her pain was not enough to convince her of this, however. Deep down she knew it was not what she wanted, but there was nothing she could do.
"I accept," she murmured.
John's eyes flickered down to the floor, momentarily hiding his expression. When he glanced up again he was business as usual. "Well, then. Perhaps I should begin by admitting I've already laid the groundwork for the protection. It's likely why you survived your captivity." He swallowed, and now looked a touch nervous. "You, uh. How much do you know about blood magic?"
Zatanna frowned. "Nick told me some," she ventured. "But not much."
John smiled again, but it was not a happy smile. "Yes, well. He taught me some. We . . . Well, to practice, we um . . ." He trailed off. "Oh bugger it," he muttered. "We practiced on you. Once. For your protection."
"What?" Zatanna shrieked. "What the hell did you do?"
His hands went up, like he was an average man and she, and average woman, and they couldn't send a devastating barrage of magical spells down upon the other. "Protected you! We just gave a little of our own blood—charged with our powers and inherent protections—to you! It's nothing binding. At least, not both ways!"
Zatanna could barely comprehend this. Nick and John had performed a ritual on her without her permission? Without her even knowing what it would do? Christ, she wished Nick was alive so that she could kill him again. She would have to settle for John.
She stalked up to him, jabbing at his chest with her finger. "Tell me everything," she demanded.
John, faced with the wrath of a dangerous woman, began to babble. "Remember the night we experimented with the dream sex spell? You better, Nick and I were phenomenal. Not that you weren't as well, Christ, you were amazing, but—well, anyways, that's when. We mixed our blood in the goblet, you drank it, and we affirmed our intent by proving our . . . our devotion to you in the dream. We'd done all the additional spellwork earlier in the evening, when you were on stage performing your set, actually, and—"
Zatanna flushed, remembering the dream sex night. It had been one of the last truly good episodes before shit had hit the fan, as well as a stunning evening in a more carnal sense. "But what does it do?" She interrupted him.
John stared at her, nonplussed. "I told you, gives you part of our magical protection, as well as aligning you to our own magics. Why do you think you can travel the way I do? I only taught you how after the ritual."
Zatanna sucked in a breath. That was true, John had only taught her about a month before they all broke up.
"Regardless," John continued, "I'm not entirely sure what Nick's gave you. It was personal, and I didn't ask specifics. Mine was largely centered on protection." Here, he grew sheepish, and couldn't meet her gaze. "I wanted to protect you from all the wayward magic in my life—most of it mine. If Nick made a similar resolve, it may have combined to include most magics, if not all."
"What are you saying?"
John winced. "You may not be able to be killed outright by magic. Car crash? Sure. Cancer? God help you. But I'm 80% sure —and Nick was about 78%, if that helps—that you are, in a sense, magically invincible . . . but not immortal."
Zatanna sat down. Right on John's ragged carpet. She crossed her legs in a half lotus position, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply.
"Er, Zatanna? Are you still with me?"
Two more breaths, she told herself. Then I can kill him. Or, you know. Try to.
"We were doing it for you, luv," John said softly, from much closer by. He must have crouched down, and was now whispering to her, in that throaty, husky voice that she still loved so, so much. "We wanted to protect you. You're so young, so bright, so beautiful. So bloody amazing. We were dried up old men, even then. We knew you'd have a future beyond us, and we wanted to give you every chance of enjoying it."
Zatanna had a flash of memory. It was of the mage's trap in the warehouse, the one made with the lingering remnants of Nick's magical signature. This was why it hadn't hurt her. He had still loved her, even to the moment of his death.
John's voice was closer now, and it sent pleasurable little chills down to her belly. "Zatanna, please, open your eyes. It's all right to be angry, but there's nothing connecting you to us. You're free, and—"
Zatanna opened her eyes and punched him in the face.
"Oh, bloody hell!" John reared back, hands over his nose. "Why are Americans always so violent?"
"You deserve that," Zatanna reminded him. "I am furious with you. But the Ikons are not going to wait for me to forgive you, so keep talking. How can you protect me further?"
John sat back up, keeping a good three feet between them. "That's—oh bloody hell, it's bleeding—that's more of a process. As long as you stay close to me you should be all right."
"I thought you wanted me to keep my distance?" Zatanna asked, bitterly.
John hesitated. "I—look. We need to take down the Ikon's magical weapon first. I have a plan, but I couldn't enact it until my associate reached your level of stability. Not that you're here, and he's almost stable, if should definitely be doable. After that, you can pop off back to your war, and I can continue helping out in my own way, from across the ocean."
"Your associate?" Zatanna asked, wary. "Who might that be?"
John stood, and then offered her a hand up. Zatanna refused it, rising on her own. He shrugged it off, and only looked mildly put out. "You've met him," he said. "He's sleeping off the most recent transfusion, but he'll be up in a few hours."
"Transfusion? You're doing to him the same thing you did to me?"
"Minus the sexual dreams part," John assured her. "He's a teenager. I may swing both ways, but I'm no monster."
In no mood for levity, Zatanna charged past him. There was only one other room in John's apartment, and if she knew him at all, she knew he kept his projects close. She threw open the bedroom door, and on his bed slept a skinny, teenage boy with tousled dark hair, pale skin, and a magical aura that staggered her.
Zatanna looked closer. "I do know him, but I can't remember his name," she murmured. "John, who is . . .?"
John leaned against the doorframe, and for a moment the urge to lean back into his body was so strong she nearly did it. She remembered herself just in time, and clenched her hands into firsts.
I hate him, she reminded herself. Hate, hate, hate.
"Tim Hunter," he explained. "The greatest mage of the millennia. Or, he will be, when he gets a bit older; a bit more seasoned. But he's one of the good ones, and I couldn't let the Iconoclasts have him, not with his raw power. You met him once, briefly, when I was first showing him about the magical world."
"He's so young," Zatanna noted. "A teenager!"
"He's 18. That's old enough."
"You're sure about using him?"
"No, but I don't have any choice," John admitted. "I can't do it all on my own. I need someone to watch my back when I make the deal." He shifted, and his hand drifted up towards her face. At the last moment he pulled back. "I won't lie to you, Zatanna. If I cock things up, things won't go well for us."
"For Tim and I, you mean," Zatanna corrected. "While you get off scot-free."
John's answering smile was small, and sad. "Oh luv," he murmured. "It always goes badly for me."
...
...
...
June 29th, 20xx
Arrow Cave, California, 7:52 AM
Day 9
...
Ollie wasn't sure what woke him, at first. There was a crackling noise, but with a metallic depth to it. The incongruity of it tore Ollie from sleep, and he rolled from his old bed in the Arrow Cave, landing on his feet. Not knowing what was going on—were they under attack? Had the Ikons finally come for him? Where was Billy?—he grabbed his bow and a quiver of detonating arrows as he raced out to the kitchen. The unfamiliar shape standing at the counter made him relax.
"Jesus, kiddo. I thought we were under attack!"
Billy, in his newest role as shaggy-haired, acne-prone teenager, was attempting to make coffee with . . . what was that, a coffee pot? Was he sifting the beans with his hands, for chrissake? Where had this boy been raised, Guatemala? Oh, wait. The noise that had woken him up was a coffee grinder. Yes. That would explain it.
Damn, he didn't even know he owned a coffee grinder.
Billy shrugged apologetically. "I wanted some coffee, but didn't want to wake you. I'm sorry."
"Billy, we have a keurig for that," Ollie groaned. "Stop making morning noises. Stop making noises, period. Go back to bed."
Billy glanced at the clock hanging above the fridge and then back to Ollie. "It's almost 8," he pointed out. "I'm used to getting up for school at 5:30. And I'm not jet-lagged, so I think I'll stay up for a bit, Mr. Oliver."
Ollie narrowed his eyes as the metaphorical arrow headed straight for his heart. Even Roy had never called him that. He'd called him Mr. Queen back when he'd first left the Indian Reservation, and only after had come Dickhead, Dingus, and even more devastatingly, Dad. Those days were long gone now, buried under the emotional rubble of one too many fights about Ollie's lifestyle, Roy's addiction, and his current career/life choices.
(Ollie stood by his opinion that slumming around with the Red Hood was not the best choice of action geared towards a long life expectancy, but allowed that implicating Koriand'r was an enemy just because she survived the magical pulse was a dick move. In short, he figured they were tied, and therefore should both go sit and spin, and then maybe get a drink after.)
"You don't have to call me that, you know."
"I want to," Billy said quietly, fingers sifting through the coffee beans. "I mean, I can't go on calling you Arrow, and now that you know I'm just a kid, I'd rather do what I'm more comfortable with. If that's ok with you?" He asked, tilting his head up so he could peer at Ollie through his fringe. He had definite olive tones to his skin and hadn't gotten sunburned, even after three days of tramping around the Khandaq Desert, which Ollie thought that was unfair, as he'd been in the desert for maybe an hour, completely covered, and was peeling all over.
"You could just call me Oliver," he said. "Or Ollie. I've been known to respond to both."
"You're also twen—I mean, kind of older than me," Billy pointed out. "Isn't it more polite to do it this way? Besides, I still feel uncomfortable calling you all by your first names. It just doesn't feel right. The matron of the orphanage used to smack us if we did that. Said we were being fresh."
Ollie blinked. He hadn't wanted to know that Shazam's upbringing was akin to A Little Princess. Now that he did, he kind of wanted to give the kid a hug. His mind boggled for a moment, both at the thought of giving Shazam a hug, and also at how quickly things could change. Just yesterday he'd been hoping he wouldn't have to, when he wept in the Khandaq Desert. Now, after seeing how Billy really was, and his visceral sorrow for Ollie at losing the love of his life, it kind of seemed like the thing to do.
But not the only thing he could do. " . . . Fine. I'm going to get odd looks from . . . well. All the remaining members of the League," he said with a spasm of pain, "But it's fine. Mr. Oliver it is, although I'm calling you Billy. Sound good?"
Billy flashed him a tiny smile, a mere uptick of the corner of his mouth. "Sure, Mr. Oliver. Um, do you want some coffee too?"
And now the kid was giving him puppy eyes. He's imprinted on me, Ollie thought. He's gonna follow me around and call me Mr. Oliver and give me the saddest faces known to man. This is my life now.
Somehow, the realization wasn't as unpalatable as it might have been.
"Sure, kid. But only if you use the damn Keurig."
...
...
...
June 29th, 20xx
CNN World News, 9:00 AM
Day 9
...
Patricia Barnesly, news anchor for Channel 5 News, was young, African-American, and obviously horrified; only sticking to the script with the thinnest layer of professional veneer. Later on, when cooler heads reviewed all the tapes of those reporting on the scene, it was decided that she held up fairly well. As it was, the hand holding the microphone shook as she gestured to the building behind her—the Pentagon. In front of it was a gallows made from gleaming cherry wood. It had been erected overnight, and was what had drawn the massive throng of people watching intently. A few were equally as horrified as Miss Barnesly, and turned away or even left the area. Far more remained, telling themselves they wished only to witness history, and not simply delighting in the macabre end for the three chained and hooded figures huddling at the base.
"Behind me are the first three victims of the Anti-Super Act, all found guilty of treason against our country and humanity in a court of law late last night," she said in a rich alto voice. "All three confessed to their intent to assassinate the President and key members of his cabinet. Michael Carter, Carol Ferris, and Theodore Kord are all sentenced to be hung from the neck until dead, and the chosen location—no doubt chosen to prove a point to their friends, families, and fellow members of the quote unquote supercommunity—is the newly erected gallows in front of the Pentagon."
Miss Barnesly took a deep breath. "There are notable absences from many of the Presidential cabinet, but President Luthor is in attendance, as is his Secretary of Defense, John Stewart, and head of the Department of State, Ray Ghulia."
She pressed a finger to her earpiece. "And I've just received word the first victim is ascending the platform."
The view switched to another camera located far closer to the gallows. One of the hooded figures, dressed in a white robe, was led up the steps by a grim-faced executioner. The executioner wore a helmet rather than a traditional hood, and it lent a modern edge to a punishment that hadn't been carried out in the United States since the 20th century. When he reached the top, the prisoner's hood was removed. Ted Kord's features were slack. Whatever was causing him to remain compliant—drugs, magic, or some other alien weapon—was more powerful than his will, more powerful than the scarab that powered him.
"Theodore Kord, do you have any last words?" The executioner asked, in a thin, reedy voice.
Ted said nothing. It was clear that he was incapable of turning his head to look at the executioner, let alone speak. The executioner looked uneasy. He turned back to the dais where Lex Luthor, John Stewart, and Ra's al Ghul sat, among other highly-placed politicians in the new regime.
Luthor nodded gravely, a modern day equivalent to the Emperors of Rome deciding a Gladiator's fate.
The executioner turned back to the silent hero. He fitted the noose around Ted's neck, and then nudged Ted so that he stood squarely over the trapdoor. There was no resistance.
The executioner pulled a lever, and the trapdoor gave way. Ted fell down the requisite 5.6 feet, neck snapping upon reaching the bottom of the fall. He died instantly, and his body swung slowly, the ropes creaking slightly under his weight.
The audience was silent, and for a moment, so was the news anchor. Then, in a whisper barely picked up by the camera she said, "Oh my god. I can't believe . . . I thought they'd pardon them!"
Someone from the studio must have reminded her she was on the air, for she attempted to look more professional. "And for those of you who were just tuning in, that was Theodore Kord, President of K.O.R.D. Inc, and the vigilante previously known as Blue Beetle. His crime was high treason against the government of the United States, and the punishment was to be hung from the neck until dead. And the next vic—I mean, prisoner is . . ." here she swallowed, and her eyes were glassy, "Ascending the ladder now."
Michael Carter's execution was precisely the same as Ted Kord's, down to his listlessness, and the quickness and efficiency of his passing.
So was Carol Ferris's.
...
...
...
June 29th, 20xx
Zion, IL, 10:36 AM
Day 9
...
At first, Hal wasn't sure what exactly was vibrating. It dragged him from sleep more surely than did the crick in his neck and the stiffness in his left leg, for it could only be one of two things. Either his cell phone was going off, or Barry was vibrating in his sleep. The latter was nothing special. Although he had fantastic control over the speed force, Barry was operating on an entirely different molecular level than anyone else now living. A little physical vibration now and then was normal, and just about everyone in the League had remarked on Barry 'shivering' every so often, particularly when he was trying to keep still.
Actually, now that Hal was thinking about it, he'd vastly prefer the vibrating against his leg to be Barry. In that warm and sleepy morning stage, with the warmth and weight of his best friend sleeping half on top of him, Hal was honest enough to admit that the thought of Barry moving against his leg was kind of erotic. Ok, it was a lot erotic. And—oh, shit. There he went. Half-mast and already beginning to tent his jeans. Even the discomfort of sleeping in said jeans couldn't save him now. Barry was warm and heavy and smelled good even after running around all day, and Hal's heart was so full he couldn't fucking take it. He wanted to roll on top of Barry and breathe deep, sinking into him. He wanted to kiss him awake, swallowing down any of Barry's confusion, protests, or enthusiastic agreements. He wanted to push him back against the couch and devour him until Barry couldn't think of anyone other than him.
Yet he could never do any of that. He was a selfish, possessive bastard, but he drew the line at cheating. He had Carol, who was a wonderful, amazing, beautiful woman. If he'd never met Barry, that would be more than enough for him. But he had, and he could no more stop loving him than he could stop wanting to stand in fear's way, uphold justice, and protect the universe.
No wonder Iris made me promise, he thought, and the memory of her was enough to stave off the worst of his arousal. She knew I'd never stop loving him. No matter what I do, I just can't get over myself. Goddamnit.
"Hal?" Barry murmured.
"Mm?" Hal hummed. Contentment covered him like a blanket, but it was spoiled by the guilt that set in after. This isn't mine. I can't have this. God help me, when will I stop wanting this?
"You're vibrating," Barry noted sleepily. "You should maybe check that."
"Yeah," Hal said, more a rumble in his chest than an actual word. "I'll get right on that."
Barry shifted a little, digging his shoulder into his ribcage. It was uncomfortable, but there was no way Hal was telling him to move. Ollie was right, he thought. I am an awkward tween.
To stave off this uncomfortable realization, he fumbled for his cell phone. Just then, his other leg began vibrating.
"Uh, Bar? Think you're vibrating too."
Barry groaned. "Get that too," he mumbled, and Hal, because he had the emotional self-preservation of a freaking lemming, did. He reached over for Barry's pocket, trailing his fingers against the warm flannel. He absolutely did not rest his palm on Barry's hip. Like the good, always prepared boy scout Barry was, he had his phone with him, just in case of emergencies. Hal shifted just a little to reach down and grab the phone from the bottom of Barry's pocket. It brought Barry's face closer to his collarbone, and he felt dizzy at their closeness. He hadn't felt this awkward and good since he was a teenager. Give him something to fight, great. Impossible odds and a failing ring? Sounds like Thursday. But put him within kissing distance of Barry Allen . . .well, shit.
What's for breakfast?" Barry asked, unperturbed by any and all of Hal's awkwardness, and Hal could have kissed him, awkwardness or no awkwardness.
Instead, he fumbled with Barry's phone before answering. "Whatever you feel like maki—oh shit."
Barry woke up quickly, lifting himself up and off of Hal. "What? What?"
Hal barely finished reading the rest of the text message before Barry had the phone out of his hand, read it himself, sped off, dressed himself in his outfit, and then sped back to the couch.
The sender was Shayera Hall. It read: Need help. John's been taken by Ikons. He's still alive. Oracle won't answer my hails. Please. Attached was a pinned google map of where to meet.
Hal was never so thankful that he slept with his ring on. With a thought, he sealed all the doors and windows of the cottage, leaving Barry frowning at him frustratedly.
"Barry, this is the most obvious trap any of us have ever sprung," he pointed out.
"It was never proven that Shayera was an Ikon," Barry argued. "And ignoring her hails is exactly what Oracle would do right now."
"And so you're just gonna go after her and save the day, huh?" Hal asked, and his tone was harsh. Between the whiplash quick change of mood, simmering jealousy that Barry was still a total idiot over Shayera, and the hypocrisy of Barry's going after his not-girlfriend while Hal couldn't save his actual one, he wasn't at his best.
Barry stepped up to him, supernaturally quickly. His blue eyes were earnest, and the only part of his face Hal could stand to focus on, right now. "Come with me. If she needs help we can give it. If it's a trap . . . well, with you at my side, I've got nothing to worry about, right? Besides," he continued, "Trap or no, she may have info on Carol, Richard, or Roy. Hell, she may know where Ted or Michael are! And that's our priority right now. Saving our friends, and bringing them home."
Hal's throat was in danger of closing up. This was way too many emotions for him at any time, let alone early morning. "You're just going because you think she's hot," he said, because he was a moody 10-year-old jerk, apparently.
A pained expression flashed across Barry's face. He tried to offset with a little smile, but Hal was not fooled. "No, Hal. I'm doing this for you."
And that was that. Just as Hal couldn't pummel the shit out of Barry—shit, especially with this new ring—he couldn't actually say no to him either. "Let me get dressed," he sighed. "Make some coffee, and we'll go."
"Be quick," Barry urged him, shifting from foot to foot. He zipped into the kitchen, and the coffee maker began to gurgle.
Hal went to the bathroom to change and do his business, goddamnit. Afterwards, he stared at himself in the mirror, noting the bags underneath his eyes, and the greasy cast to his skin. I need a break, he thought. And a shower. And for Carol to come back, Ollie to keep his promise, and for Barry to—
There was a quick rap at the bathroom door. "Hal, come on. Coffee's ready. Are you?"
Hal closed his eyes. Coffee would help. It was all he'd get, right now. "As ever," he called back, and then opened the door.
…
…
…
In the rush to leave, Barry tapped out a quick text to Oracle, telling her where they were off to. Hal choked down his coffee and let him take care of that. He had completely forgotten about the text message that woke him, and therefore did not open Oracle's frantic text messages until much, much later.
Urgent: Don't listen to the news.
Repeat: Hal, report in. Do not listen to the news.
HAROLD JORDAN ANSWER ME!
…
…
…
With Hal flying after Barry in his construct of the American X-15—and Barry going at a slightly more sedate pace than he'd prefer—it only took them about 25 minutes to reach the meeting point, a rooftop of what was, if the flickering lights that only highlighted half the name were anything to go by, one of the less successful Las Vegas casinos. Hal didn't have the presence of mind to pick up much more than that. Shayera Hol was standing at the middle of the roof, and she was surrounded by the bodies—hopefully unconscious—of at least a dozen, dark-suited men.
"Barry, we better come out of this ok," he muttered to himself as he brought the construct down for a landing. "Because if Shayera kills me, I am going to be so fucking pissed."
If Shayera hurt Barry, Hal was going to lose it. That went without saying, particularly as he wasn't sure how much Barry could hear when he was inside one of his construct, swathed in his power. Barry raced into the building, up the stairs and service elevators to reach the top. There was one fleeting moment where Hal and Shayera were the only conscious beings on the rooftop, and in that bare instant, she smirked.
Well, shit, he thought. Trap it is.
Hal rose up a few inches, so that he was hovering off the floor. He always felt better in the air, even before his Lantern days. Barry burst through the door leading to the roof, and Hal had half a mind to swoop in a grab him before 'Shayera' could enact her plan, but Barry stopped at the opposite end of the roof, slowing so that even an Ikon could catch him.
"Shayera, what happened?" Barry asked, cautiously. "These are a lot of assassins taking a nap on the roof. Care to fill us in?" There was still a harder edge to his voice, denoting that he was more Flash than Barry. He wasn't entirely incautious, or insensitive to the danger they were in.
'Shayera' laughed bitterly. "The Ikon formally known as Bane sent them after me. It's been a rough couple of days."
Hal discreetly floated a little closer to Barry. "Oh really? How's that?"
'Shayera' narrowed her eyes at him, and Hal suspected he had only a little time to make a move. It would likely be diving at Barry and throwing them both off the roof, but if Barry fought him at all forming a construct would be damn tricky when they were free-falling.
"Look, there's no time," she said. "John's—"
"An Ikon," Hal cut in. He was only 10 feet from Barry now, and if Barry would just catch his clue and move towards him all this could be resolved with no one dying. "We know."
"They have him prisoner," 'Shayera' stressed. "How do you think they got the DNA sample from him? Any sophisticated test would be able to tell if the DNA had been frozen or otherwise preserved. John Stewart is alive and I mean to save him."
"Why?" Barry asked. It was so unlike him that both Hal and 'Shayera' double-took.
"Because I love him, you ass!" 'Shayera' shouted.
"Aw, shit," Barry murmured. "Shayera would never admit that to me. Hal, you were so right. She's an Ikon."
Hal could have kicked him. What the hell was he doing, giving away the advantage? Hal raced for him, but 'Shayera' screeched with rage, and flung herself headlong at Barry, mace and all. Barry smirked, and Hal could practically see him thinking, 'too slow.' When he tried to move out of the way, however, nothing happened. He had been frozen in the same way that Bruce and Dinah had been.
Barry's struggles grew wilder as Shayera closed in on him, her mace held high. Hal wouldn't reach him in time. He had to try something else. Throwing out both his arms for additional stability, he hastily willed a construct into being—a sheet of titanium, further powered by his desperation—that thing was not taking Barry. The moment she swung, green light flared before her eyes. Barry hunched down, attempting to protect himself . . . and 'Shayera's' mace ricocheted off Hal's construct.
The power behind her swing forced her back, and she flapped her wings in order to gain purchase. Barry still struggled to lift his feet, but he was stuck. Hal reached him a moment later, and was just preparing a construct of an excavator, so he could just dig the ground out from under Barry and wing all of that far, far away when he found that his own feet were stuck the floor.
"Shit fucking shit!" He swore, and thought it a rather eloquent summation of the turn of events.
"Hal, get out of here!" Barry begged. "Save yourself."
As if there were any universe in which he would do that. "Can't now," he gritted, eyeing 'Shayera' from the corner of his eye. He could still feel the connection to his power, and that meant he could still form constructs. Did she know that? She was about to find out, and in the few remaining seconds allowed to him, he had to determine exactly what to do to make her flee.
Rather than attacking them outright, however, the Ikon sauntered up to them, swaying her hips like she was an actual woman. "I suppose the game is up," she said, in a voice that was both like and unlike Shayera's. The tone and timbre were correct, but the cadence was wrong—its lack of tone marked it as something other. "Using this form was always a calculated risk. The subject died too quickly, and we were unable to glean a full profile from incomplete data. We did not expect to use her form with impunity for much longer."
Hal's anger flared. Hearing that Shayera had been killed so casually was like a kick to the head. For all that he'd been jealous of her, she had been one badass chick. She had more than earned her place with them, and he respected that. Respected her.
"Fuck you," he spat. "This ends here."
'Shayera' inclined her head. "It does indeed, Harold Jordan. I must admit, however, I am surprised to see you here. I thought our display would have distracted you long enough for me to take care of Bartholomew Allen."
"Display?" Barry asked, largely to get the Ikon's attention off of Hal for a moment. "What are you talking about?"
"The hostages," Hal pieced together. "Nightwing and Arsenal. Don't worry. We're gonna save them the same way we saved Red Robin and Zatanna."
'Shayera' shook her head slowly, and her lips curved in a small, self-satisfied smile. "Oh no, Harold Jordan," she said, and Hal thought if she said his full name one more time he may have to deck her with a construct, right in the schnoz, even if it gave away his connection to his power.
"I am referring to the public address this morning," she continued. "Or did you not watch the news?"
Hal narrowed his eyes at her, but said nothing. Instead, he sent a tiny spark of green to flash at the corner of Barry's eye. From her angle, Shayera shouldn't be able to catch it. From his quick intake of breath, Barry had.
"Oh, you don't know," the Ikon continued, in a tone of detached curiosity. "I see. In that case, let me enlighten you. It really is the least I could do for you before I kill you."
With an ease that displayed just how long she'd been undercover, the Ikon reached down into the hip pocket of her costume and pulled out an iPhone. She swiped through the opening screen, thumbed through to an app, turned up the volume, and then held up the phone directly in front of his face so that Hal had no choice but to look.
Offscreen there was the practiced tone of a television announcer, "Pardon was not granted for the first two prisoners, and it is highly unlikely it shall be for the last. Gender does not seem to play a role in this new presidential administration. The last victim is ascending the platform now."
A hooded prisoner stumbled up the steps, wearing white, flowing robes that were impractical for daily use in prison. They were notably smaller than the helmeted executioner that led them up the steps, and then pulled off their black hood to reveal—
Hal stopped breathing. The listless, blank-faced prisoner was Carol, and he was about to watch her die. He stilled as the executioner asked for her final words. There were none. The noose was laid gently around her neck, and tightened to eliminate slack. She was directed over to the trapdoor. And then . . . And then . . .
Hal still wasn't breathing, and dark spots obscured his vision. From somewhere far away Barry yelled 'Breathe, Hal!' He did and his vision cleared just in time for the trapdoor to give way beneath Carol's feet. The rope snapped taught, bouncing her body like she was a puppet in a show gone horribly wrong. Her legs kicked once, twice. It was nothing more than death spasms, and then she was still.
Somewhere else, Barry was yelling. Hal could not make out any of the words, but he sounded angry. That was funny, because Hal was not. Hal was cold and still, and he felt as dead as Carol. Maybe he was dead? What an odd word. Dead. Dead.
There was a different voice, a female voice, closer by than Barry. It was a voice he didn't like, and it made the sleeping beast inside of him rouse itself.
"What an interesting exhibit," the Ikon said. "I would have thought his reaction to be one of anger, rather than despair. It is disappointing, however. We had projected Harold Jordan to be a far greater threat than he ended up being."
The sleeping beast had a name, and it was rage. It was a monster from within him, born of all the injustices he had been unable to make right. All the pain and violence he had survived, and the fear he had turned his back on. It was a vengeful beast, and it was climbing up within him. Hal did not know what would happen when it reached the light, but the mental image of Carol falling through the trapdoor, her neck failing to snap on impact only made it move faster.
"Apparently I misjudged," she said, turning to Barry. "In that case, it would be best to do away with you, first. It shall be easy enough to slay him when you are gone."
"Don't you fucking dare!" Barry screamed, his face mottling red with fury. "Don't you touch him! Hal! Hal, wake up!"
Hal did not wake, but the beast within did. It had reached the surface of his consciousness, and it overtook his being. Rage ignited, and the power of Appa's ring tore through him, swathing him in a brilliant green light.
The beast turned its eyes on the Ikon, and it demanded vengeance.
...
...
...
June 9th, 20xx
Las Vegas, Nevada, 2:25 PM
Day 9
...
Barry didn't know what the hell was going on, but he knew it wasn't good. One moment Hal had been gone, no sense of self at all in his dark eyes. He had tried to bring him back, all the while knowing there was no way he could get through to Hal when he'd just been forced to watch what he inferred—he hadn't been able to see the screen—was Carol's execution.
The next moment, Hal was inundated with a light so bright that both Barry and the Ikon had to shield their eyes. Power was rolling off of him in waves, and something about it must have snapped the Ikon's control on both of them, because Barry could move again. So could Hal, who took advantage of the Ikon's stumble backwards to fly towards her, bringing back his arm, fashioning a pair of brass knuckles, and punching her so hard in the face that Barry could hear bones breaking.
The Ikon screeched, an unearthly, birdlike cry. Barry took advantage to zip by and steal the mace, even though he was fairly sure she was just as deadly without it. In his next step he kicked out the back of her kneecaps, bringing her down to her knees. Hal reached back his arm and formed a construct of a rocket, aiming it at the Ikon. Barry raced to the side as Hal threw the rocket forward, but just before the green rocket reached her, the Ikon blurred. As the rocket hit down, blowing a hole the size of a minivan in the roof of the casino, the Ikon was at the far edge of the roof. Before the dust and fist-sized chunks of concrete had fallen back down, she was gone.
That . . . could have gone worse. Seeing as how the Ikons were immortal—but apparently not invincible—that could have gone far, far worse. But they had to get out of here. The property damage alone was daunting, especially when they were all being hunted by every level of law enforcement in the U.S.
"Hal, come on, we have to go—" Barry turned back to Hal and cut off. This . . . wasn't Hal. It was his body, and it wasn't an Ikon or anything, but it also wasn't Hal. It was the husk of him, his physical form without any of the warmth, intelligence, or maddeningly insensitive sense of humor that Hal had going for him. A husk that was still inundated with power, and was bearing down on Barry with an alarmingly violent look in his eye.
His eyes that were glowing with an eerie green light, similar to yet different than the color of his ring. Oh, that's not good, Barry thought. Oh that is very not good. Hal's rage and new ring had given him the power to hurt an Ikon, but Hal had gone so deep that he could not longer differentiate friend and foe. That was bad enough for someone superpowered, like Barry, but if someone normal ran across them . . .
. . . Like the police SWAT team that would undoubtedly come for them—if they hadn't arrived already? A good chunk of the roof was gone, and there was no hiding the fact that super-powered being had been the cause. Hal would rip through them like tissue paper. Barry had to get him out of here. Now.
"Wanna' fight me, Hal? Then catch me if you can," He taunted him. Dropping Shayera's mace, he turned around and wiggled his rear, for good measure. He wasn't exactly sure what would get through to him, and he needed to be the most obvious target since the Shayera lookalike. At half speed, he took off across the roof, leaping across the distance to the corresponding floor of the car park. A quick glance over his shoulder told him that Hal was hot in pursuit, flying after him with no construct to aid him. He bored down on him, haloed in green light, his expression grim.
Time to go, Barry decided, and then raced down the car park, and through main streets. Barry had never been to Las Vegas before, and it was a little weird to be here at midday. He'd always imagined it as a midnight sort of place, and—
A bolt of green energy tore through the sidewalk, directly to his left. Hal was sending projectiles towards him, and gaining all the while. Shit, he was a lost closer than Barry'd thought. Barry upped the speed, but not so much that Hal couldn't follow. They were well out of the city proper, and almost out of the city limits. Soon there would be nothing but desert, and—
With an unexpected burst of speed, Hal tackled him from behind, sending them both skidding across the concrete and into a crumbling stone building, long abandoned and covered in graffiti. Barry's suit took most of the damage, although his shoulders took a fair bit from being thrown through a freaking wall, crumbling away or no. He squirmed like a fish to get out of Hal's hold, and as soon as he did, he went to business.
He rained down punches on Hal's chest, kicking high enough to disrupt the mostly-formed construct of a baseball bat that Hal was forming. Thankfully, Hal seemed more intent on physically grappling with him than sending projectiles after him. Hal gave as good as he took—better than he took, thanks to the souped up ring—and finally, after Barry took a hit to the solar plexus that made him wheeze and race away to one of the corners of the room, he realized this might be too much for him to handle.
"Hal, buddy, you gotta come back," Barry begged. One of Hal's punches had clocked him right on the jaw, and it hurt to speak. "Please."
Hal charged him. His eyes were still glowing green, and his face was as inexpressive as before. At the end of the his rope, Barry did the only thing he could think of.
Barry raced around him, keeping away until he could find the opening he needed. "In brightest day, in blackest night, no evil shall escape my sight," Barry recited, hoping that Hal's mantra, the Green Lantern code, would get through to him when nothing else would. "Let those who worship evil's might, beware my power, Green Lantern's light!"
Hal staggered, and his punch went wide. One of his hands went to his head, and the green light in his eyes dimmed, before flaring up again.
Time to press the advantage. "In brightest day, in blackest night, no evil shall escape my sight—"
Hal groaned, and it was the first coherent sound he'd made since he'd watched Carol's execution.
"Let those who worship evil's might—"
Hal clutched his head, hunching over in what looked like pain.
"Beware my power—"
Hal head picked up, his unnaturally green eyes opened wide. His features were twisted in agony, and Barry could almost see the emotional dam breaking.
"Green Lantern's Light!"
The green flickered out of his eyes, and Hal screamed. He fell to his knees, fighting for breath. Barry was there in a heartbeat, struggling to lift Hal in a fireman's carry.
"Hold onto me," he ordered, and by some unexpected miracle, Hal did. Barry raced through several states at breakneck speed. It took him a little under two minutes to arrive back at the lake house in Zion, IL, and by that point, Hal's whole body was shaking. Barry laid him out carefully on the bed in the master bedroom, terrified that some new horror was about to unleash itself, and then froze.
Hal was weeping. Big, wracking sobs that shook his frame and wet his cheeks and reddened his eyes. He curled into a ball on the bed; a 6'2", 210 lb superhero sobbing like a child. That, of all the things that had happened in the past 24 hours, was what tipped Barry over the edge. Without thinking about it further, he lay down next to Hal on the bed and wrapped his arms around him. Hal turned to him, burrowing in even closer than they'd been last night.
Barry had thought their earlier fight reminiscent of the night in the field after Iris had died. Now, he knew better. This was the same, was no different at all except this bed was more comfortable than newly-tilled earth. He held him tightly for a long, long time. Only when Hal's tears began to taper did Barry bring one of his hands away from Hal's back. He removed Hal's domino, unneeded now that their identities were known, but it was a force of habit for him. He carded his fingers through Hal's hair, rubbing his fingernails against his scalp in an effort to soothe him.
After only a few minutes, Hal sucked in a hitching breath and mumbled into Barry's collarbone, "I—I lost control."
Barry's fingers hesitated before going back into their circular pattern. "You got it back. No harm done, Hal."
Hal breathed out, a stream of hot breath against Barry's neck that seeped through his costume. His whole body was burning with Hal in his arms, and right now, with his emotions running high and his barriers down, that seemed less like a bad thing, and more like a necessary thing.
"What if I lose it again?" Hal whispered.
Barry tightened his arm around him. His heart was full, and after sleeping with Hal on the couch last night, and fearing the loss of him the whole day before hand, he had a better idea of why that was. Remembering what Hal had said after Iris had died, the words sprang to his lips, unbidden. "Then come at me. Do what you're gonna do. I'll let you do anything, because I love you, Hal, and I can't lose you."
There was a breathless moment in which Barry realized what he said, and Hal went still as stone in his arms. Oh holy shit, Barry thought, rather than any number of more helpful sentences that might save this situation; might convince Hal that it wasn't that kind of love, not necessarily, and—
Hal surged up and out of his arms so that he loomed over Barry on the bed. His expression was wild, and Barry almost thought he saw a flash of green lighting up his dark eyes. And even though Barry's immediate self-preservation relied on him opening his mouth and finding the words that would appease Hal, he could find none of them. For that was the crux of it: he had invited Hal to take it all out on him, and he had done so out of love.
"Do you mean that?" Hal gritted out.
Barry still couldn't tell what his expression heralded. Was he about to be punched in the face? Slammed with a construct? Mocked? Cried on? It didn't matter because this was Hal, and somewhere along the line Barry had up and fallen in love with him.
God help him, but he was in love with his stubborn, emotionally unavailable, total asshole of a best friend.
"Yeah," he said, with a small, pained smile. "I absolutely do."
Hal stared at him for a moment more, his eyes blazing, his cheeks still wet from tears. Then, in a movement Barry could hardly comprehend until it was completed, Hal lowered himself down onto his forearms, leaned forward, and kissed him.
For one panicked moment, Barry froze. Here Hal was, kissing him frantically, as if his life and sanity depended on it. His mouth was hot and open and searching, and it made Barry's heart stutter in his chest. He could hardly breathe let alone return Hal's ardor, but when Hal broke the kiss to stare down at him, his eyes wide and expression panicked, Barry found himself reaching up for his face and pulling him right back down.
Now Barry kissed him in earnest, infected by the same desperation that drove Hal. This was an open-mouthed, desperate, messy kiss; so different than kissing Iris, or any other of his previous girlfriends. Hal's mouth seemed so big in comparison, his jaw so strong, his scent so masculine. The scrape of stubble at the edges of the kiss made shivery delight quiver in Barry's stomach, as did the hard planes of Hal's body above his, and the assurance with which Hal licked into his mouth.
Barry moaned into the kiss when Hal slid his tongue along his. He retaliated by nipping Hal's lower lip, so soft and surprisingly full for a man who spent three-quarters of his day either scowling or yelling at people. Barry brought his hands down Hal's chest, a little dizzy at the pace. The hurtle from friends to lovers was breathless, but Barry's libido seemed to have no problem catching up. His cock was straining against his uniform, and when he brought his hands to Hal's hips, the give of Hal's uniform against Barry's thumbs revealed that Hal was just as on board.
Hal pulled back and exhaled roughly. "Jesus, Bar. You don't know . . . I gotta—" Before he could complete a coherent sentence, he was back down upon him, kissing him once, twice. "Take off your uniform."
Barry's heart stuttered again, and he felt a little like he had when he'd lost his virginity, back during his freshman year of college. It wasn't too dissimilar, he thought, a little wildly. It's just my virginity to a guy. Is that a thing? Jesus. Is now.
But this was moving too fast, wasn't it? And on the wings of such incredible heartbreak . . . "Hal, are you sure?"
"Do it," Hal commanded, his voice dropping down a fifth to the authoritative tone that had made Barry shiver once or twice even before now. As it was, he found himself shimmying out of his uniform—no easy task when Hal refused to move away, even for a moment. When he was in nothing but his undershirt and boxer-briefs, he looked up to see Hal's eyes darken even further.
"God, you're—" Hal gritted out, back to speaking in incomplete sentences. "Barry," he muttered, before leaning back down. He brought his mouth to the side of Barry's neck, licking before he sucked.
"That's my name," Barry quipped weakly as Hal kissed up to his ear. When Hal closed his mouth around Barry's earlobe and tugged, his head fell back onto the pillows. He reached out for Hal's shoulders, frustrated that he couldn't touch his skin. Sure, his domino was off, but he wanted to feel him, skin to skin.
"Hal, take your clothes off," Barry moaned as Hal laid down a wet, sucking kiss at the juncture of Barry's shoulder and neck. "Hal, I wanna touch you."
Hal's arms quivered. "Gotta keep kissing you," he muttered. "Gonna kiss you all over, Bar."
And Barry was done. He needed Hal naked now, and he wasn't the fastest man alive for nothing. It was a thankful thing he was fairly well-acquainted with Hal's uniform from all their years of fighting crime together. It was the work of half a minute, literally, to divest him of it. It did have the side effect of keeping Hal's mouth away from him, but it would be worth it to see him, to feel him, to be about to touch him.
I have never touched anyone else's cock in my life. How on earth can I be so excited about the prospect now? Barry thought wildly. But he couldn't deny the arousal that coiled in him at the thought of Hal's body against his. It didn't matter that he had zero previous experience with men. This was Hal, and that was more than enough.
When Barry finished, they were no longer the Flash and Green Lantern. They were just two men on a bed, nearly naked, and completely aroused. They stared at each other for a moment before reaching for each other again, mouths meeting in a wet kiss. Barry wanted to give Hal some of the attention he'd given him, but Hal had other ideas. He pulled off Barry's undershirt before pushing him back against the mattress, perpendicular to the pillows. He then proceeded to lay a trail of slow, wet kisses down Barry's abdomen, making Barry squirm when he licked along his hip bones.
Was he . . . ? No, he couldn't. No matter the madness that had taken them, there was no way straight-as-an-arrow, heterosexual ladies' man Hal Jordan was going to continue this trajectory to his cock. In this Barry was proven wrong, however. Hal made his way steadily to the waistband of Barry's boxer-briefs. In a show of his strength, he hoisted up Barry's hips and yanked his boxer-briefs down.
Barry hissed as his cock bounced free. The sound Hal made was far more appreciative, and it soothed most of the anxiety attached to another guy staring at his Little Barry. Girls didn't have this, as far as Barry knew. They were far too sensible. But guys got a little funny about other guys' equipment, and Barry knew for a fact that Hal was larger than him, due to a few covert glances in the locker room in the Watchtower, and the one time Hal had stroked himself with the bathroom door accidentally left open while Barry had been over at his apartment.
None of that seemed to matter to Hal. He zeroed in on Barry's cock with a flattering amount of focus. Resting on his elbow, Hal reached over and pumped Barry's cock confidently, not exploratively, as Barry would have done. There was not an instant of hesitation, and Barry wondered what that meant about his preconceived notions about Hal's staunch heterosexuality, and perhaps his own. Then, just when Barry had wrapped his mind around the tip of this iceberg—Hal's hand is on my cock. He's jacking me off, Jesus Christ—Hal upended his sanity entirely by leaning down, and taking the mushroom head of Barry's penis into his mouth.
Barry moaned loudly. Nope, nope; he was never going to get over this. Hal with his eyes closed, lathing Barry's cock with his tongue. His cheeks hollowing as he sucked Barry's cock into his mouth. To say nothing of the heat of Hal's mouth, how big it was, yet how careful he was not to scrape his teeth against Barry's throbbing cock.
He couldn't take his eyes off him. Nor could he remove his hands from Hal's hair, which he gripped in a way he'd never been able to do to a woman's. "Oh God," he muttered, over and over. "Oh, Hal. Hal, you don't have to—don't have to—ah!"
Hal pulled off, breathing hotly over Barry's red-flushed member. "Don't stop me unless you don't like it," he growled, before bending his head to take him into his mouth again.
That was it for Barry. Hal was sucking hard, now, almost too hard, but with his emotions running high it was just the right amount of suction to kick him into overdrive. He was going to cum, and he hadn't cum this quickly since he was in high school. This would be embarrassing if it wasn't so painfully, exquisitely hot. "Hal, I'm gonna—you gotta . . . !"
Hal suckled him harder, taking more of him into his mouth, and then it was too late. Barry's orgasm shot through him with all the grace and inevitability of a runaway train, and he came in his best friend's mouth. Hell, with the amount his cock Hal had managed to fit in his mouth at the time, he came down his best friend's throat.
"Oh god, I love you," Barry murmured, because his brain had shut down and his heart now had a direct line to his mouth."Fuck, Hal. That was so good. You're so good. Fuck. Let me . . . let me do you."
How Barry was going to about this with zero experience and a body that felt completely boneless was a minor consideration. He was going to blow Hal's mind as hard as he had his, just as soon as Hal stopped swallowing his cum, and thrusting shallowly against the inside of his thigh.
Rather than take him up on his offer, however, Hal leaned back down and suckled on the tip of Barry's penis. It was a lingering, yet entirely superfluous gesture, as Barry had nothing left to give. Even though the sparks of pleasure, Barry realized he had missed something. Hal's eyes were closed, and there was a crease between his eyebrows, but he was undoubtedly aroused.
This isn't spur of the moment, he realized. Not entirely. He's wanted this. The part he wasn't sure about was whether it was him, specifically that Hal wanted, or men in general. There would be time to find out later. For now, he had to give back.
Barry pulled at Hal, hoisting him up so that they could kiss. The bitter taste of his spend in Hal's mouth was no different than it had been in Iris, or in previous sexual partners. But it was still Hal, and that was what made him shudder, and grip him all the harder.
"Lube," Hal murmured into his ear, before thrusting his hips right up against the curve of Barry's ass.
Barry's body flushed hot before chilling cool. His stomach clenched with desire, but also fear. Hal was going straight for the finish line, and Barry had no idea if he knew what he was doing. Barry certainly didn't. Anal wasn't something he had pushed for with female partners, largely as it hurt at the best of times, and if he lost control . . . if didn't bear thinking about.
"Are you sure?" He asked, his voice pitched soft and a little strangled.
"Gonna hurt otherwise," Hal murmured. Balancing himself on one forearm, he brought his free hand down the junction of Barry's body, smoothing past his cock, reaching down to grip his ass. Hal groaned, and it was like the sound was ripped out of him.
He was serious, and in that case, Barry needed to move. "One sec," he whispered, leaning up to plant a kiss against Hal's cheek. Then he was moving too quickly for Hal to make out, throwing open cabinets and desk drawers, hoping that Iris's uncle still had a fairly active sex life. Otherwise he'd have to turn to olive oil, of which there was only the dregs of a small bottle left in the kitchen. Five and a half seconds later, he was back, triumphantly wielding the lubricant and a 3-count box of condoms.
Hal grabbed him the moment he slowed enough to do so, his grip hard enough to leave bruises. "Don't do that again," he commanded as he guided Barry down onto the bed, onto his hands and knees. Neither his voice nor his touch were gentle, but Barry thought he knew why.
"I wasn't leaving," he promised. "I'm not gonna leave you, Hal."
Hal's response was a hissing exhale through clenched teeth, and the pop of the lubricant's cap.
This is not a good idea, Barry told himself as he hunkered down on the bed, listening to the stretch of latex as Hal smoothed the condom over his cock. Safe sex was a step up, but this was going to hurt him physically and emotionally. It likely would, in the long run, do irreparable damage to his and Hal's friendship. He was under no illusions about Hal's motives. He had just lost the love of his life, and was attempting to drown out that pain in the immediacy of physical pleasure. Barry was just the nearest person to hand, as well as the only person proclaiming their unexpected love for him. Hal was reacting, and when it was all over, he would regret this.
Even knowing that, Barry couldn't bring himself to stop this. He found himself curiously weak against Hal's determination. Realizing his feelings for his best friend were romantic as well as sexual didn't help. If this was what Hal needed, he would give it. Selflessly, and without hope for more in the future.
Every physical touch was so vibrant and powerful that Barry couldn't protest against them. The feel of Hal's slicked up fingers tracing up his perineum, circling around the tight ring of muscles just above was delicious and strange. It was hard to bare himself in front of Hal, and to have his attention so firmly focused on him there, but that was also part of the reason it felt so damned good. When he got going, Hal's focus was 1000%. To know from his appreciative grunts and the heavy trace of his fingers that he enjoyed all this . . . it was heady, to say the least.
When Hal's slicked finger wormed its way inside of him, it was a touch more than heady. Barry didn't have much experience with appendages there, save for one clinically enlightening prostate exam a couple of years ago. Good as it had felt when the doctor had prodded his prostate—all the while droning on, in a faint East Coast accent, Everything feels normal, Mr. Allen—it had been awkward enough that Barry had not explored that erogenous zone on his own. Now, with Hal's bare finger curling up inside of him, he wondered if Hal knew about the prostate. Of course he did, what was he saying? What he really meant was: would Hal find the prostate? And if he did, would it feel good enough to offset the oddity of Hal's fingers inside his ass?
This question was not answered until Hal had two fingers inside of him, filling him up and making him squirmy. Barry was torn between breathing deeply to ease the stretch, and praying to God that the chute was clean, so to speak. It wasn't like he'd planned for this, nor knew how to give himself an enema anyways, so—
A bright spark of pleasure ripped through him, making his cock twitch. Oh, there it was. There was the prostate, Hal had found it, good for him. He found it again, and Barry's back arched.
"Oh God," he moaned, more to signal Hal that he should keep doing that. "Hal, that's—that's . . ."
"You like that?" Hal asked, his voice dusky. "I'll give you more, baby."
Hal's addition of a third finger—along with the sexually charged term of endearment—made Barry put his flushed face down to the bed. He didn't know when he'd ever felt so full of conflicting emotions, before. There was pressure and some pain from Hal's fingers, but also overwhelming pleasure whenever Hal's fingers glanced against the prostate. More than that was the power of Hal's regard, and of his own need.
It was too much. He needed this to be resolved, and he needed it resolved, now.
"Hal, do it," he ground out, fisting the bedspread in anticipation for pain. "I need it now. Hal, please."
There was no hesitation. Hal withdrew his hands, wiping his fingers on the bedspread. There was a moment where he swiped more lube over his cock, and then there was the press of something larger and firmer than Hal's fingers against him. Barry made a conscious effort to relax, remembering what his own stuttered advice had been to his girlfriend during his freshman year of college had been.
Even so, his breath punched out of him when Hal pushed inside. The pain was immediate in unexpected ways. He'd broken limbs, been run through, crushed to within an inch of his life by external pressures, but never had he experienced pain there, like that. When Hal pushed deeper it became more acute, but it was offset by Hal's moan, which sent electric pinpricks of arousal dancing on his skin.
Barry clenched his teeth and focused on breathing through his nose. The odd dichotomy of pain and pleasure, particularly as it was Hal's pleasure he was reacting to, was not entirely reassuring. It would get better, he assured himself. I'll get used to this, and then—
Then Hal pushed in at an angle, and his cockhead caught Barry's prostate. Barry moaned embarrassingly loudly, and pushed up on his forearms. "Oh God, Hal," he muttered. "Do that—do that again."
Hal did so, with increasing enthusiasm. Pain and pleasure were now in equal measure, and there was no room for coherent self-inspection. There was the solidity of Hal's body behind and within his own, and the hard pace he set which grew ever faster. There was the matter of his own sharp arousal, and the way his body strained for it, reached for it with every thrust. There were Hal's hands on his hips, and the choked off syllables of Barry's name. There was the too-full feeling in Barry's heart, and the bone-deep assurance that Hal would not last much longer. Barry could not come again, not so this quickly, but not for lack of trying.
And then there was Hal, pushing in deeper, his hips thrusting unmercifully hard. He hunched over Barry, pressing his chest to as much of his back as he could. His hips jerked out of rhythm, and the sound that tore out of his throat when he came made Barry's heart throb in his chest. There was a moment of stillness, where the only movement was of Barry's racing heart, and Hal's breath fanning across Barry's spine. Then, Hal pulled out of him, quickly enough that it stung.
Barry gingerly let himself down on the bed, wincing at the spasm of pain. There was the sound of latex stretching as Hal peeled off the used condom. Barry prepared himself for all manner of awkwardness, but not for Hal's reaction. When he glanced over his shoulder, Hal was standing in the middle of the room, eyes wide and face pale, as if he'd seen a ghost.
Barry's heart fell to his stomach. After all that, and Hal was horrified? Shit shit shit. Hal was straight, and this was going to fuck him up. Barry had to tread carefully, even as he had no blessed idea what he was doing.
"Hal," he said, carefully. "Will you come here, for a minute?"
Hal shook his head, looking a little like he might vomit. "I didn't even ask you. I didn't even—oh God. I—oh shit, I—"
Ignoring the pain over the growing panic in Hal's expression, Barry streaked over to him, taking him gently but firmly by the shoulders. "Hal, it's ok. Just—"
"But I hurt you," he stressed, and there was a distinctly wild cast in his eyes. "I—"
"Hal—"
"I raped you!"
"No, you did not!" Barry yelled. "I wanted that! I want you!"
The deluge broke. With a pained moan, Hal began to cry again. He tried to pull out of Barry's hold, but he held on doggedly. Barry had to push him up against the wall to make him stop fighting him.
"Carol's dead," Hal gritted, through clenched teeth. He was crying in earnest, his throat thick and his voice almost unrecognizable. "I couldn't save her."
Barry stepped into his arms, holding him tightly. "It's not your fault. Listen to me: you did everything you could."
Tears rolled off Hal's cheeks. He was clutching Barry too hard to wipe them away. "But I didn't go after her. I should have gone after her!"
"And then you would have died as well," Barry said. "It took losing her to summon the strength to hurt one Ikon. What would have happened if you were up against two? Three? All of them?"
Hal's response was a pained moan, and then to drop his head onto Barry's shoulder.
"We have to tell Oracle," Barry reminded him gently. "About Shayera, and that we're all right. Do you want me to call her here, or in the next room?"
Hal clutched him, and that was all the answer Barry needed. He steered Hal over to the bed, where he spent a minute trying to convince him to get under the covers before giving up and wrapping the bedspread around him like a taco. He fished out his cellphone and made sure to hit the audio call button, rather than the audio-visual before bringing it to his ear. He reached for Hal's hand and gripped it tightly, even as Hal turned his face to the pillow to muffle his cries.
Oracle answered on the third ring. "Flash? Where the hell are you? Is Lantern with you? I can't get ahold of him!"
"He's here," Barry said quietly. "We're both ok, physically. We have bad news."
"Is it about Carol?" Oracle asked, hesitantly.
"Shayera's an Ikon," he told her bluntly. "She called me out. It was a trap. Hal came with me, because that much was obvious at the outset. She did mention that the real Shayera is dead. She was trying to convince us that the real John Stewart is alive, and held captive."
"Shit," Oracle breathed. "Shit. Although that would explain his DNA sample, and why they didn't send Shayera's. I'll alert everyone immediately. How did you guys escape?"
Barry sighed, looking down at Hal. Although Hal still refused to look at him, he gripped his hand harder, showing he was listening. "Hal knows what happened to Carol. The Ikon showed him. She had frozen us in place, but Hal's . . . emotions, along with his new ring, were enough for him to break free. He managed to hurt the Ikon. Not badly enough to really make a dent in her, but enough that she skedaddled."
"Could he do it again?" Oracle asked, intently.
"I don't know," Barry said honestly. "He was a little out of control, afterwards. We're still recovering, Oracle. It's not just emotionally."
"I understand. But you do know I'll have to DNA test you guys again and in person. Just to be sure."
"Of course. Just let us know the details. We might need an hour or two."
"Got it. I'm sorry, but I can't tell you anything else until you're tested."
"Text us the details," Barry said, eager to be done with this conversation. It'd be easy enough to prove Hal and he were human, his powers and Hal's control over his ring were enough. "I gotta get back to Hal."
Barry hung up and laid the phone down on the end table. Hal let go of his hand and turned away from him, hunching in on himself. From the shaking of his shoulders, Barry knew he was still crying.
"I'm going to hold you now," Barry told him, matter of factly. That they were stark naked mattered not at all to him. "And that's not gonna change until you fight me off. I meant it, Hal. Everything I said, I meant. I'm not letting you go." He would be no more explicit with his feelings for him than that. If Hal didn't understand that Barry loved him stupid, he would simply show him with his refusal to give up on him.
Hal didn't respond, but didn't push him away, either. So Barry slid down behind him, wrapping his arms around him, measuring time in the space between Hal's hitching breaths, and gauging his doom. He had fallen in love with his best friend while he was in the throes of the greatest heartbreak of his life. For all Barry's determination, he knew this would never end well.
There was no pleasant path out of this moment. There would be no happy ending for him.
Barry held on anyway.
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If you're not already 100% on Team Flash, then get there, friend.
I have a feeling I'm going to get a lot of negative feedback on this chapter. I suppose I am prepared.
