The Watchtower has never looked like this before.

The metallic halls that usually hummed with mission alerts and the glow of holographic briefings were now strung with warm fairy lights. Someone (probably one of the Titans) had dragged in an ancient disco ball that cast fractured rainbows across the chrome ceiling. The giant observation window overlooking Earth had been polished until it gleamed like glass crystal.

It was prom night — Justice League edition.

And no one looked more out of place than the actual League members.

You were part of the organizing committee — technically, the ringleader. It had started as a joke: “What if we made them act normal for one night?” Then the Young Justice kids joined in, and suddenly there were catering tables, playlists, and a “mandatory attendance” notice that mysteriously appeared on the League comms board.

Now, standing in the middle of a galaxy-view ballroom, you could only watch the chaos unfold.

Clark stood stiffly near the punch table, tie slightly askew, trying to act casual as Lois teased him into actually dancing. Diana looked ethereal — a vision of grace in a Grecian gown, sipping fruit punch like it was nectar. Hal and Barry were already arguing over who had the better dance moves (spoiler: neither).

And then there were the billionaires.

Bruce Wayne, in a black suit so sharp it could cut glass, stood by the balcony doors with his usual expression — calm, unreadable, mildly judging everything. Oliver Queen looked like he’d walked straight out of a GQ cover, champagne in hand.

“Why does he look like he’s at a funeral?” someone whispered near you.

Damian, now old enough to begrudgingly attend, stood in a corner with Jon Kent and a few other next-gen kids, all of them pretending not to be watching the adults flounder. His suit was slightly too formal for the occasion — of course it was.

The music shifted from some upbeat pop to a slower song. There was an awkward shuffle across the floor. Couples paired off — Lois dragging Clark, Diana tugging a half-reluctant Bruce out of his statue pose. Barry tripped over his own feet trying to twirl Iris. Arthur just stood in the back, watching with amused disbelief.

“Can you believe this?” Hal muttered, watching the sight. “We save the world and now we’re line-dancing.”

Before he could react, there was you, grabbing his sleeve and hauling him toward the dance floor before he could protest. He sputtered, laughing.

Laughter rippled around the room. For the first time in ages, there was no mission briefing, no incoming call, no looming apocalypse. Just… music. People. Family.

Even Bruce cracked the faintest, blink-and-you’d-miss-it smile when he saw Dick trying to teach Diana how to do a spin.

Oliver clinked his glass. “To the League,” he announced. “The only group of people who can save universes and still need their kids to teach them how to have fun.”

The room erupted in laughter and applause.

And as the lights dimmed and the Earth spun silently below, everyone — gods, mortals, aliens, billionaires — just existed. Together.

For one night, they weren’t heroes. They were just people trying to dance.