Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The thing about Bruce Wayne, Hal had learned, was that he was surprisingly easy to be around once you got past the part where he was Batman.

This was not a small caveat. The Batman part was considerable. It came with a specific gravity that Hal had spent years navigating in a professional capacity, the kind of presence that reorganized a room just by entering it, that made other very capable people instinctively straighten up and account for themselves. Hal had never been particularly susceptible to it, which he privately suspected was either his greatest asset or his most irritating quality depending on who you asked.

But past that. Past the cape and the contingency plans and the voice Bruce used when he wanted a conversation to be over.

Past all of that, he was just easy to be around.

Hal was thinking about this as they settled into the corner table of a restaurant that was, in typical Bruce fashion, exactly right without quite announcing itself. Small. Family owned, from the look of it, the kind of place where the menu hadn’t changed in thirty years because it didn’t need to. Red checked tablecloths. Candles in wine bottles. The smell of garlic and something slow cooked drifting out from the kitchen. Not fancy enough to feel like a statement, not casual enough to be accidental.

Hal had clocked it the moment they walked in. The deliberateness of it. Bruce Wayne had a thousand restaurants he could have chosen and he had chosen this one, which meant he had thought about what Hal would actually like rather than what would impress him.

He wasn’t going to say that out loud.

He picked up the menu instead.

“Place is empty,” Hal said, glancing around at the surrounding tables, all neatly set and conspicuously unoccupied. “Slow Tuesday?”

“I reserved it.”

Hal looked at him over the top of the menu. “The whole place.”

“Yes.”

“Bruce.”

“It’s practical.”

“It’s a lot.”

Bruce picked up his own menu with the air of a man who considered the conversation closed. Hal watched him for a moment, turning something over.

“You know,” Hal said, keeping his voice light, “if you’re ashamed of me you could just say so.”

Bruce lowered the menu.

He looked at Hal with an expression that was doing several things at once, working through whatever internal process he ran before he said something. Hal had seen it before. He’d learned to wait it out.

“I’m not ashamed of you,” Bruce said.

“Could’ve fooled me. Covert rooftop picnics, empty restaurants—”

“I want this to be ours,” Bruce said.

Hal stopped.

Bruce held his gaze, steady in the way he was steady when he’d decided to say something and was going to see it through. “Whatever this is. I want it to exist somewhere that isn’t the front page. Somewhere that’s just—” he paused, the briefest hesitation, “ours.”

The word landed quietly and stayed there.

Hal had made the joke with enough lightness that it could have stayed a joke. He’d half expected it to. Bruce deflecting, the moment passing, both of them moving on. He was good at moving on. It was practically a skill set at this point.

But Bruce had answered it straight, and now Hal was sitting with the answer, turning it over in the particular way he turned over things that mattered before he figured out what to do with them.

The truth was there had been something real in the joke. A small, unexamined question that had been sitting quietly at the back of his mind since the beginning of all this. Not doubt exactly. More like the thing you didn’t look at directly because you weren’t sure what you’d find.

He looked at it now.

Bruce Wayne, who held most things at arm’s length, who had spent thirty years making sure nothing got close enough to be used against him, was sitting across a checked tablecloth in a family Italian restaurant telling Hal he wanted something that was just theirs.

Hal looked out the window at the street for a moment.

“Okay,” he said.

Bruce watched him.

“I mean it,” Hal said, looking back. “Okay. That’s—” he stopped, edited himself, settled on something simpler. “Yeah. Okay.”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth moved. Not quite a smile. Something quieter than that, and more certain.

Hal looked back down at his menu before he did something embarrassing.

“So,” he said. “What’s good here?

He was still looking at the menu, weighing the merits of two different pasta dishes, when a figure appeared at the edge of his vision.

He looked up.

Stephanie Brown was standing at their table in a server’s uniform, order pad in hand, with an expression of such concentrated professionalism that it took Hal approximately two full seconds to process what he was seeing.

He put the menu down.

Across the table, Bruce had gone very still.

“Hi,” Steph said pleasantly. “My name is Stephanie and I’ll be taking care of you today.” She smiled the smile of someone who had been practicing it. “Can I start you off with some water while you look at the menu?”

Hal looked at Bruce.

Bruce looked at Steph.

Steph looked at her order pad.

“How,” Bruce said, in a tone that wasn’t quite a question.

“We also have a specials board,” Steph continued, gesturing toward a chalkboard on the wall with the smooth efficiency of someone who had rehearsed this. “The mushroom risotto is particularly popular. Very romantic.” She paused. “Not that I’m assuming anything about the nature of your lunch.”

“Stephanie,” Bruce said.

She looked up from the pad with an expression of perfect innocence. “Sir?”

“What are you doing here.”

“I work here.” She clicked her pen. “Now, have we had a chance to decide, or do we need a few more minutes?”

Bruce opened his mouth.

“I’ll have the pasta,” Hal said.

Steph beamed at him and made a note. “Excellent choice. And for you?”

Bruce looked at her for a long moment with the full weight of of Batman patience applied in a civilian context. Steph held his gaze with the serenity of someone who had decided she had nothing to lose.

“The risotto,” he said finally.

“Wonderful.” She collected the menus with practiced efficiency. “I’ll have that right out for you.”

She disappeared toward the kitchen.

Hal watched her go.

Then he picked up his water glass, took a long drink, and set it back down.

“So,” he said.

“Don’t,” Bruce said.

“I genuinely wasn’t going to say anything.”

“You were.”

Hal considered this. “I was going to say that she’s good.”

Bruce closed his eyes briefly. “She’s a menace.”

“She’s committed,” Hal said. “There’s a difference.”

She came back with bread.

This was, on the surface, a normal thing for a server to do. Hal might have believed it if she hadn’t set the basket down with such deliberate care and then remained standing at the table approximately thirty seconds longer than necessary, refreshing their water glasses with the focused attention of someone performing a task they had assigned themselves significant importance.

“Everything okay over here?” she asked.

“Fine,” Bruce said.

“Great.” She didn’t move. “So how do you two know each other?”

“Through work,” Hal said.

“Oh, interesting.” She topped off his water glass, which was already full. “What kind of work?”

“The kind that’s not relevant,” Bruce said.

“Public service,” Hal said.

Steph nodded with the gravity of someone filing this away. “That’s really meaningful. My boyfriend does public service too, actually.” She topped off Bruce’s water glass, which was also already full. “It can be really hard on relationships. The hours. The stress. The—” she gestured vaguely, “everything.”

“We’re fine,” Bruce said.

“Of course.” She picked up the now-empty water pitcher. “Do you find that you communicate well? As a couple?”

“We’re not—” Bruce started.

“Yes,” Hal said.

Another beat.

Steph looked between them with something that was almost, for just a fraction of a second, genuine before snapping back into server mode. “That’s so healthy,” she said. “I’ll go check on your food.”

She disappeared again.

Hal reached for a piece of bread.

“She’s going to do that the whole meal,” he said.

“Yes,” Bruce said.

“Are you going to do anything about it?”

Bruce picked up his own bread. “No.”

Hal looked at him.

“If I react,” Bruce said, with the patience of a man who had raised several extremely difficult children, “it gets worse.”

Hal thought about this. “That’s actually good advice.”

“I’ve had practice.”

The food arrived and it was, despite everything, excellent.

Steph delivered it with the precision of a surgeon, setting each plate down with a focused care that would have been impressive under any other circumstances. She ground cheese over Hal’s pasta with the concentration of someone defusing something, pausing to ask if that was enough, then grinding a little more, then asking again.

“Perfect,” Hal said.

She beamed. She had a good beam. Hal was almost impressed by it.

“Wonderful. Now, I just want to check in about the atmosphere.” She looked around the empty restaurant with an evaluative eye. “Is the ambiance working for you? We can adjust the lighting if it feels too—” she tilted her head, “intimate.”

“The lighting is fine,” Bruce said.

“Are you sure? Because I feel like this corner table might be giving a certain—”

“Stephanie.”

She looked at him.

“The lighting,” Bruce said, “is fine.”

She made a note on her pad. An actual note, with actual deliberation, and Hal watched this happen with the feeling of a man watching something unfold that he had absolutely no framework for. “Noted,” she said. “And how are we feeling about the portion sizes? Because I can always bring more pasta if—”

“We’re fine,” Hal said.

“Great.” She didn’t move. “So. Fourth date.”

Hal looked up from his pasta.

Steph was looking at her pad with the casual focus of someone reading back an order. “That’s an important one. Really tells you a lot about where things are going.” She glanced up, pen poised. “Would you say you’re on the same page? Intentions-wise?”

The silence that followed had a very specific texture to it.

Hal looked at Bruce.

Bruce looked at Steph with an expression that had moved past frustration into something quieter and considerably more dangerous.

Steph looked at her pad.

“The pasta,” Hal said carefully, “is really good.”

“Thank you, I’ll pass that along to the kitchen.” She made another note. “Any other feedback? Concerns? Things you’d like to discuss openly and honestly with your—” she glanced between them, “lunch companion?”

“Check,” Bruce said.

“Of course.” She clicked her pen closed. “I’ll bring that right over once you’ve finished eating.” A pause. “Unless you’d like to finish the conversation first.”

“We would not,” Bruce said.

“Totally valid.” She tucked the pad under her arm. “Can I get you anything else in the meantime? More bread? Still or sparkling? Relationship advice?”

“More bread,” Hal said.

“Coming right up.” She turned on her heel with the crisp efficiency of someone who had trained for this. “Save room for tiramisu,” she added, over her shoulder. “House made. You’re going to want it.”

Then she was gone.

Hal watched the kitchen door swing shut behind her.

He picked up his fork.

Across the table, Bruce had the expression of a man exercising considerable restraint, which on Bruce looked like almost nothing at all unless you knew what you were looking for.

Hal was starting to know what he was looking for.

“You know,” Hal said, “for what it’s worth. The intentions thing.” He kept his eyes on his pasta. “Same page.”

He could feel Bruce looking at him.

“Yes,” Bruce said, after a moment. “Same page.”

Hal nodded and took a bite of pasta and didn’t look up, and the afternoon light came through the window and lay warm across the checked cloth between them, and it was, despite everything, a really good lunch.

They ordered the tiramisu.

The restaurant was empty by the time Steph pushed through the kitchen door and leaned against the wall outside and pulled out her phone.

It rang twice.

“Well?” said the voice on the other end.

Steph looked out through the window at the street, at the two figures still visible for a moment before they turned the corner and disappeared.

“It’s more serious than I thought,” she said.

A pause on the other end.

“How serious?”

She thought about the corner table. The afternoon light. The thing that had settled between them over checked tablecloths that had nothing to do with her being there and everything to do with the fact that they’d stopped noticing she was.

“We need to bring in the big guns,” she said.

A beat.

“I’ll make some calls,” said the voice, and hung up.

Steph pocketed her phone.

Then she went back inside to clear the table, where both tiramisu plates were, she noted, completely empty.