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Seven Minutes in Heaven, or Why Hal Jordan Really Needs a Collared Uniform

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"God," Hal whines against Bruce's neck, and it feels like his throat is going to tear, it's clenching so hard, though not as hard as his balls that are aching like a fucking motherfucker.

"Shh," Bruce says, but it only makes him hotter. What the fuck is happening here? They aren't even very well hidden. Anyone climbing down the ladder to the gunnery would see them. Hell, anyone above with decent hearing would know they were down here. The Javelin is full of people with exceptional hearing, and that isn't even including Clark.

"Fuck," Hal moans again. "Let's—"

Bruce's mouth erases his words. Bruce is kissing him like it's his goddamned job. Insane, this is officially insane. He can feel the heat of Bruce's cock, nudging against his. Bruce tugs at a gauntlet with his teeth, tossing it aside; he struggles to get his hands on Hal, all over him. Hal hasn't humped this furiously against a wall since he was in high school.

"I'm gonna come," he whispers in Bruce's ear. "Oh God."

"That's the idea," Bruce whispers back, his voice just as tight.

"I want to feel your ass, God your ass, can I just feel it." Somehow his hands have found the right catch, or have slid inside, and—

The utility belt falls to the floor with a terrifyingly loud thud. Bruce just snorts and redoubles his attack on Hal's mouth. "Fucking hot, you are so fucking hot," Hal manages. Bruce's hands are gripping his ass, pulling him in closer, humping against him, and they are grinding like mentally deficient teenagers, but he doesn't care, God he doesn't care.

"Co—coming," he gasps. "Nnnggh."

Bruce's only answer is a grunt and another thrust, and then he feels Bruce coming with him. Bruce's arms are around him, and he can feel every shudder of Bruce's body. He finds Bruce's mouth with his and can't stop kissing, can't stop touching. By the time they're done, his knees are shaking.

"Goddamn," he pants. Bruce says nothing. He needs to be detaching his sticky wrecked body from Bruce's but somehow can't, quite. Their arms are wrapped around each other, and somehow they don't loosen.

He scrapes his face along Bruce's, and Bruce—Bruce's face nudges against his, too. Bruce is still wearing the cowl, of all things. Bruce's hand is curled around his neck. He has just had sex with a giant bat, where "sex" is loosely defined as humping against another person until you come your irrational brains out. But still his face will not stop touching Bruce's. He can't let go. Bruce isn't releasing him either. Their breathing slows, together.

Bruce finally does move his face, but only so he could tip his forehead against Hal's. "Holy fucking shit," Hal says softly.

Bruce kisses him again, or he kisses Bruce. They need to be moving away from here. They need to get back up top. Why won't his arms obey him? Why won't they disentangle from Bruce, why is Bruce's mouth still reaching for his? He tries to gather himself together. He needs to get up top and land the damn bird, for one thing—they have to be approaching the Watchtower soon.

"I—we could—" he finds himself saying. "In my quarters, when we get back. We could. . . continue this."

Bruce shakes his head. Just a small peremptory motion, in the cowl. Of course Bruce is saying no. He had been an idiot, how could he have made such a fool of himself as to—

"We have a meeting," Bruce whispers. "But. . . tonight."

"Tonight then." Hal's stomach clenches, and then he is forcing himself out of Bruce's arms—God, it physically hurts, what the fuck is happening—pulling his clothes back together, moving his limbs up the ladder and into the cockpit. Ollie is in the co-pilot chair, where no one invited him to be, his feet propped on the console.

"Pretty damn exciting," he drawls, and Hal looks at him with startled eyes.

"The firefight," he clarifies, and "Right," Hal says, returning to his instruments.


It had been a routine mission, until Thro-van had opened fire on them. Not generally a problem; Hal knew the Thro-vanians well from Lantern patrols, and while they were irritatingly belligerent, they were not what anyone would call overly gifted in the strategy department, and their tech was several comfortable decades out of date. So he hadn't worried about it, even though he knew they were flying a diplomatic mission into rebel-held territory, because what the fuck were Thro-vanian rebels going to do, launch a potato gun at the Javelin?

And he didn't worry, right up until the point seven bogeys had closed on his position at a speed no rag-tag rebel group should have been able to manage, and hello, it looked like the Corps was going to be having a sternly worded conversation with whoever was selling these jumped-up goatherders goddamn interstellar combat planes. "Fuck," he spat, as a missile came within inches of grazing the Javelin's hull.

"Get me a gunner, right goddamn now!" he had shouted, and the back of the plane had erupted in motion, and to his relief it was Bruce sliding into the hole. Hal had relaxed every muscle and found the quiet center that would navigate this bird through the screaming hell of noise and fire and crashing asteroids, his reflexes bypassing his conscious brain entirely as he sank deeper and deeper into the still place within him. The ship's gunports fired like an extension of his own will, almost like Bruce's missiles were following the track of Hal's eyeballs, and in four intense minutes the whole thing was over.

His body had switched out of combat mode like flipping a lever, and he had gotten up to stretch and grab a water from the back for his suddenly parched throat when he had caught sight of Batman coming up from the hole. "Nice work," he had said, to predictable silence.

"Here is where you tell me that was some pretty decent flying," he said. Batman had only aimed a glare at him.

"There's something you need to see on the starboard gunport," he had growled, and Hal had rolled his eyes.

"Jesus Christ, you're in the hole for thirty seconds and you broke my ship? What the hell happened?"

"It's not your ship," Batman had said, but Hal had followed him down below. No sooner had his feet hit the metal gangway than something like a black Kevlar wall had crashed into him. He had been too astonished to know what was happening, even, but by the time his brain had gotten up and whacked his body with a rolled-up newspaper—pay attention, you idiot, fantasy numbers nine through forty-seven are about to come true here—his mouth had already gotten the memo and was kissing Bruce back just as fiercely, and his arms were way out in front of the game and were already grappling with Bruce's body, though his cock was the clear winner with a boner that went from zero to are-we-coming-yet in four seconds flat.

Definitely the most surprising event in his week so far, and here it was only Tuesday.

He piloted the plane the rest of the way back to the Watchtower in silence, only listening with half an ear to the occasional conversation in the back. Ollie dozed, and even managed to snore until Hal prodded him with his foot. J'onn cleared them for approach within the hour, and soon the Javelin was sliding like her slim steel namesake into the Watchtower's flight hangar, her landing as smooth and effortless as any Hal had yet managed, not that any of the ingrates in the back would notice. He flipped off controls, running through his post-flight check more or less on autopilot, and he waited until everyone had deplaned before he went to the back of the cabin and gripped the edge of the little sink in the bathroom and tried to figure out what the fuck had just happened.

He looked up to see Oliver's eyes on him, from where he was leaning against the bulkhead watching him.

He turned on the tap and splashed some water on his face, not looking at his reflection. "What," he said. Ollie just lifted his eyebrows. "What," he repeated.

"You going to the briefing?"

"Yeah, I'm coming. Just let me get freshened up."

"Okay," Ollie said. "Though while you're doing that freshening, you might want to see what you can do about the mother of all hickies on your neck there."

"Fuck," Hal said, grabbing at his neck.

"Evidently," Ollie said with an open-mouthed laugh that made Hal want to punch him.

"Fucking shit," Hal muttered, glancing at his reflection in the mirror. Oliver was if anything being too kind; it looked like someone had hit him in the side of the neck with a metal bat. "That fucking—"

"So, Hal," he said, and he was still laughing like a freaking loon. "Tell me, what exactly was wrong with that starboard gunport again? I hope it wasn't anything that required some emergency suction, because that—"

He had done it before he knew it was happening. Ollie's back had crashed into the bulkhead, and Hal's fists were gripping his shirt, pushing him into the wall. Ollie's hands were raised, his face suddenly wiped of laughter, and beneath the astonishment in his eyes was alarm. "Shut up," Hal said, which was unnecessary, because Ollie already had.

"Hey hey," Ollie said, his voice gentle. "Hey." He kept his hands raised, and shit, Hal had just attacked his best friend for no reason.

"Fuck," Hal said again, running his hands through his hair, trying to get control of himself. It was every sick military impulse come to life; it was the time some punk-ass lieutenant had found him getting head in the bathroom stall at the O Club, and Hal had had to shut him up with his fists. "Sorry," he managed. "I'm. . . sorry."

"It's okay," Ollie said, that same easy voice. "I was wrong to make a joke."

Hal snorted. When had his sex life ever been anything but a joke? What the hell would Bruce want with him. Just a fuck, just a quick lay, and that was fine, that was all he ever wanted from anybody else. Except—except that had been both of them, down in the gunnery, that hadn't been just him. He knew that for certain. It couldn't have been just him, who had felt that. Like something electric, like moving out of Bruce's arms was ripping bits of his skin off.

"It's okay," he said. "I didn't mean to—I just thought you meant. . . something else."

"Hal, you know me better than that," Oliver said quietly.

"It's just," Hal tried. "It was—intense," was the word he settled on. "I hadn't really thought—I mean, when I thought about it, and let's be real I think about sex with everybody—but I hadn't really thought it would be. . . that intense. That's what I mean."

"Yeah," Ollie said, and the drawl was back in his voice. "Go figure."

Hal gave him a sharp look. "What's that supposed to mean."

"Hal. You two fight like cats and dogs. It didn't occur to you there was a reason for that?"

"Oh," Hal said. "Huh."

"Really?"

Hal shrugged. "Well," Ollie said. "At least you two got it out of your systems. Maybe you'll be easier to be around, now that you're not measuring each other's dicks all the time."

"Right," Hal said, and Ollie's eyebrows went up again.

"Holy shit, you're seeing him again," he said.

Hal was back to gripping the sink. "I don't. . . even know," he said. "But we said. . he said. . . later tonight. Fuck, Ol, what am I doing. I never should have said yes to that, but it was—I don't even know, I can't even describe it, it was three minutes against a metal wall and it was like nothing I've ever felt before, it was like a fucking cyclone hit me, it was like afterward I couldn't. . . stop, you know? Neither of us could, and I don't know what the hell that's about, I've never even—fuck, what the hell is happening to me?"

He would say Oliver's face was grave, but that was just an estimation. In truth the expression on Oliver's face was nothing he had ever seen there before, and his eyes were wide. "What," Hal said. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"No reason," Ollie said. Ollie was a terrible liar.

"Do you know—has anything like that ever happened to you, or am I just going mentally unbalanced here?"

"No," he said. "You're not unbalanced."

"So that's happened to you before?"

"Uh huh," Oliver said.

"What did you do about it?"

"I really don't think you want to hear the answer to that right now."

"Yes, I seriously do."

"No, you seriously don't. Look, we've got to get to this briefing, and you can't show up looking like the bride of Dracula. Put on your flight jacket and pop the collar, that ought to hide it."

"I can't wear it like that, I will look like an unbelievable douche."

"Douche or Dracula, man, take your pick. As a side note I would point out that we are now worried about what we look like at League meetings."

"Shut up," Hal said, reaching for his flight jacket. They went out of the Javelin together, and Hal reflected.

"Actually, that's comforting," he said to Oliver. He was feeling better about the whole thing now. "That something like that happened to you once, and you came out the other side of it, I mean. It doesn't have to be a big deal, right? It will go away, just like it did for you."

"Uh huh," Oliver said, that queer sound in his voice again, and Hal stopped walking.

"Who," he said.

"Who what?"

"Don't play dumb, who was it?"

Oliver winced. "We're . . . we should get going, we're gonna be late to the briefing."

Hal was still standing there, staring at Oliver with suspicion. "Oh my God," he said. "Holy shit. Are you trying to tell me. . . did you. . . was that Dinah?"

Oliver looked chagrined. "We're gonna be late, buddy," he said, with a hand on Hal's back, but Hal shrugged it off.

"You mean that when this happened to you. . . you got married?"

"Hey, I'm sure it's different for everybody, this doesn't necessarily mean you and Bruce are going to—"

"AAAAUUUGGGHHHH!" he screamed, his voice reverberating off the metal walls of the cavernous flight hangar. "Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME??"

"Hal—hey now, just calm down, okay, just—"

"FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING GOATSHITTING PIGSPITTING COCKSUCKING HELL! JESUS CHRIST ON A FUCKING ROASTING FORK, ARE YOU TELLING ME—FUUUUUUCCCK!" And the only release his emotions could find was to pick up a steel cargo bin and hurl it as far as he could throw it. It thudded along the floor.

"NO NO NO NO NO," he yelled, and finding the cargo bin inadequate, he turned and began beating the sides of the Javelin with his fists. "This is NOT happening, I will NOT let this happen, I am NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT going to allow this, what the fist-fucking Jesus motherfucking Saint Jehoshaphat are you trying to tell me, what the—AUUUGGHH!"

Oliver sighed and sat down on an unmolested cargo bin to wait it out. He knew better than to try to intervene when Hal was like this. After a minute he became aware that Clark had come in through the hangar's side door, and was standing beside him, watching Hal with a frown on his face. "What in the world," he said. Hal had finished trying to re-shape the side of the Javelin with his fists, and had turned to grabbing metal tools from an engineer's rack and hurling them across the hangar.

"Yeah, he's got to work this off," Oliver said. "We might be a little late."

"Huh," Clark said, and he crossed his arms, watching the show with interest. "You know," he said, after another minute, when Hal had exhausted the tools and turned back to beating things with his bare hands. "This looks awfully familiar."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Not unlike the scene I left just a few minutes ago, in Bruce's quarters. Curious."

"Ain't it though."

They watched in calm silence as Hal continued to wreck the hangar, his yells and truly Shakespearean curses punctuated now by various exclamations of pain. "Think we're gonna survive this?" Oliver asked, and Clark sighed, shook his head.

"Hell if I know. You want to grab a drink, after the briefing?"

"Sure, sounds good. How long do you reckon we've got, before we're on duty tonight?"

Clark scratched at his chin. In the far corner of the hangar, Hal had begun dismantling a hydraulic lift with a rubber mallet. "Four hours, maybe five? I figure we've got time for this briefing, and then at least a couple of drinks before the first I'm having an emotion, please explain it to me phone call."

"You're on," Oliver said, getting up with a groan. His back was getting stiff these days; Dinah was probably right about neglecting his core muscles during training. He would have to get on that. "Well," he said, "looks like he's going to be a while. What say we just carry on without him."

"Sounds like a plan," Clark said with another sigh.

"You're buying, right?" Oliver said, as they strolled out of the hangar.

"I don't know that that seems exactly fair, seeing as you're the billionaire here."

"Yeah, but your boy started this."

"Fair's fair," Clark acknowledged, and together they walked up the hangar's gangplank toward the sliding cargo doors and what would possibly be the world's shortest—and definitely most interesting—mission briefing.