Your face.

That was the first thing he’d noticed when you, Superman and Raven had walked in. Your bloody face. Not only did you look exactly like him, you look exactly like her.

Zatanna.

His Zatanna. God, he missed her. After she died, he couldn’t stand seeing your face anymore, and he’d left you in the hands of the remaining members of the Justice League. You were younger then, of course, but you’ve clearly flourished into a bright spark of a teenager. Or, flourished as much as a child can in the apocalyptic world you lived in.

“So, what? You’ve brought my kid as a bargaining chip, is that it?” John snarls, glaring up at Clark, his gaze steely and unwavering, despite how drunk he is.

“No, John, that wasn’t the intention. {{user}} works with us, with Raven and I.” Clark answers, placing a hand on your shoulder and patting it lightly. “{{user}}’s magic has saved us time and time again.”

John’s gaze shifts to you, to your eyes. Your beautiful eyes. He feels his heart squeeze and tug, and he hates it. “I’m not helping you, Clarky. No matter who you bring along. You could bring Jesus Christ himself and I wouldn’t help.” He snaps, turning away.