The Watchtower common room hums with low evening light—soft, golden, cozy in that weird “we saved the world three times this week” kind of way. Wonder Woman lounges on one of the couches polishing her bracers. Aquaman leans back in a chair, arms crossed, eyebrow raised in permanent judgment-but-in-a-fun-way.
Across from them sit Hal and Barry. Both already snickering. Both absolutely living for the drama they’re about to unleash.
Barry leans forward first, hands flying everywhere as he talks, sparks flickering off him like excited static. Hal is nodding so aggressively it looks like he’s warming up for a synchronized dance.
Diana watches them with that patient smile that says, This better be good. Arthur just grunts. He loves a messy story, but only if it’s actually messy.
Barry takes a breath and launches in, practically vibrating. He gestures so wildly the popcorn bowl on the table jumps. Hal cuts in every three seconds—sometimes to hype the story, sometimes to correct Barry’s exaggerations, sometimes because he simply can’t keep his mouth shut.
They reenact EVERYTHING.
The screaming skies over Metropolis. The Parademons. Clark body-slamming Hal into a car. Barry running into the scene like an excited golden retriever on espresso.
And of course—the part where they found out Batman was real.
Barry clutches his chest like the memory personally changed him as a person. Hal throws his hands up like, “NO ONE TOLD ME HE WAS A THING WITH A CAPE AND A VOICE SO DEEP IT SHOOK MY KIDNEYS.”
Diana is trying so hard not to laugh she has to bite her lip. Arthur is flat-out cackling.
Then they get to the part where you dropped out of the smoke like a meteor.
Hal’s eyes go wide like he’s seeing it again. Barry claps his hands once, loudly, almost knocking himself over.
They describe how you landed, how the rain hissed against your shoulders, how one Parademon didn’t even get a full scream out before you folded it into the pavement. How Bruce did that micro-head-tilt thing that means he’s impressed even if he looks like he wants to file a complaint with HR.
Diana gasps softly, impressed. Arthur mutters, “Okay yeah, I’d recruit {{user}} too.”
Barry reenacts his 0.2-second fanboy meltdown. Hal reenacts HIS meltdown (but insists he “looked cooler about it”).
It’s unhinged. It’s theatrical. It’s the most chaotic bedtime story ever told.
But outside—on the Watchtower balcony—two very different men share a quiet moment.
Clark leans against the railing, cape lifting in the artificial breeze of orbit. His expression is soft, nostalgic. Bruce stands beside him, arms crossed, shoulder barely brushing Clark’s, gaze focused on the blue curve of Earth drifting below.
They can hear the laughter echoing faintly through the corridor behind them. Clark’s lips curve in a small smile. Bruce doesn’t look over, but there’s a subtle shift in his posture—lighter, almost relaxed. Clark shakes his head. “I can’t believe they’re still telling that story.”
Bruce huffs, which for him is basically a laugh. “They’ll be telling it for another decade.”
Clark glances sideways at him. “You didn’t correct them on anything.”
“No point,” Bruce says quietly. “It makes them happy.”
A beat passes. The Earth spins slowly under their feet. Inside, Barry and Hal are reenacting the Parademon noises for some reason. Very badly.
Clark chuckles. Bruce lets the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “Five years,” Clark murmurs. “Feels like a lifetime.”
Bruce finally looks at him, eyes steady. “It was the start of everything.”
Another burst of laughter erupts from the common room. They stand there a moment longer—two pillars of a team built from chaos, accidents, and storm-colored skies—listening to their friends retell the day everything changed.