Missing scene from the end of Secret Origins, with a tiny little nod to the STAS World's Finest episodes (The Superman-Batman Movie), if you can spot it.
And of course, I own nothing besides the season DVDs.
One in the morning had drifted past before the chaos died down enough that the team could catch their breaths. Team. Clark had called them that, and it sounded okay coming from Metropolis's poster boy, he supposed – but he had enough trouble working with two or three partners (ones he knew he was more skilled than, naturally); he wasn't about to commit to working with six of them, all super-powered. They weren't a club, for heaven's sake…that kind of juvenility was for the Titans.
But a team they had been forced into being, at least today, and this was the first real chance he'd had to truly evaluate the others. While he still didn't fully trust the Martian, he couldn't find any logical reason now not to. J'onn had mentally shielded him, after all, and had distracted the Imperium long enough for him to reverse the ion charge and free the others. And now those telepathic powers were being used – from a safe distance, because people were freaking out enough as it was about aliens – to calm minds in the most heavily-damaged cities.
Then there was the 'rookie in the tiara', as the Lantern had called her. She had nerve, he had to admit, to join the established clique without anyone but the Martian inviting or wanting her, and she had not been lying about Amazonian strength. (She also had the looks to get anything she wanted from any normal man, but that was an entirely moot point. Entirely.)
He had seen the Flash only occasionally (sunny Central City was as far a cry from Gotham as was possible to be), but had already judged him relatively harmless. Young, immature, arrogant, and annoying – but he'd yanked several innocents (including himself) out from under falling debris, and so he owed the young man one. Debt notwithstanding, if Superman intended them to all work together then he would need to discover the Flash's other identity in short order. Someone had to guard the guardsmen, and that meant guarding them from themselves.
Green Lantern he knew enough about, and while he had known rogue Lanterns he doubted John Stewart would be anything but an asset if they were forced into cooperation again. Hawkgirl – Shayera Hol, her Thanagarian name – also had her own file in his records, though it didn't hold much useful information – and what he did have was vague and contradictory. No one knew for certain where she came from and why.
He didn't trust her, but then he didn't trust any of them completely. If they wanted his help in this little grouping, then they could simply deal with it. Enough said.
Finally he had gotten the last check-in for the night; the Flash had been drafted into messenger service around the globe. He had to figure out some better way of communicating before he strangled the Speedster for talking at warp speed and spouting puns that not even Joker would have laughed at. If he heard one more crack about caves and vampires, he swore –
Suddenly he felt a disapproving mental nudge that broke up that appealing mental scenario. Scowling, he shut off his mind to the Martian for the night, and felt mild amusement travel back just before the link was mutually broken.
But he didn't need the alien's telepathic powers to know where Superman would be, nor did he waste time looking around in the destruction of the Metropolis downtown. Alfred reported that Gotham wasn't in much better shape than the chaos here, but he had one more thing to do before he left for home.
Landing silently on the shattered wreckage of what had been the Daily Planet building's iconic globe, he blended into the gray-blue shadows until Superman finally turned from the still-burning skyline, broad shoulders slumped. The fact that he was standing, not hovering, only added to his mind's odd notion that it was not gravity holding the man to what was left of the Planet's roof.
He emerged from the slanting beam of black cast by a jagged edge. "I checked on Lois," he said simply. "She cried for a few minutes. Then asked if I'd seen you. No, Clark Kent you. Said she couldn't find you at the Planet or your apartment and she was worried." The corner of his mouth quirked in a thin half-smirk. "When I told her I'd seen you downtown with Superman she just glared at me and sat down to write a front-page headliner."
Clark blinked twice, as if just realising who and where he was, and then offered him a weak smile. "Thanks."
"In other words, she's okay."
"Good."
"Are you okay?"
"Oh, sure," the Man of Steel replied bitterly. "I put the whole world right into those…things' hands with my disarmament plan. Cities all across the world are in ruins, and you nearly got yourself killed, because I opened the gates and let them waltz right in here. Sure, I'm just great, Bruce."
"I got myself nearly killed because I was too slow," he corrected with a throaty growl. "And you aren't the guardian of the whole world, whether you like to think that or not. I don't care if you are Superman, you're still just one man, Kent."
He had been half-hoping to get a reaction with that – but he received only an even more dejected look, like a puppy that's just been swatted with a newspaper for tracking mud on the floor when it didn't know any better.
"Still, you know as well as I do that it's mainly my fault," Superman muttered.
"Of course it is. Your point?"
Clark blinked, head coming up again to raise an eyebrow at him.
"Yes, they played you." Realizing he was about to step on a piece of the shattered globe, he instead moved around it, jerking his cape out of the way. It felt wrong – desecratory – somehow, to walk on it…like stepping on a gravestone or entering a temple with shoes on. "I've told you I don't know how many times, that you're too trusting."
A small red glow of annoyance sparked in the Man of Steel's eyes, and then just the moon and smoky shadows lit the night again. "And I've told you that you're too cynical, Batman."
The use of his identity instead of first name was obviously intentional; Clark was starting to grow angry instead of just moody. Good. That was his prerogative, no one else's, and the role reversal was simply wrong.
"Exactly," he retorted, arms folded impassively across the dark symbol upon his chest. "It's who I am. And that's who you are. Gotham needs a keeper. Metropolis needs a hero."
"Some hero." Hostility vanished as fast as it had appeared. Superman gestured bitterly over the rubble of the district, now outlined vaguely in smoldering mist. Somewhere in the rumble of shell-shocked nightlife another siren wailed, shrieking a reminder of the near-Apocalypse that had shaken the entire world – and certain of its heroes – at their complacent foundations. "Maybe she needs a new one, if this –"
As if. His interruptive snort was loud enough to be heard in Arkham. "Don't be ridiculous, Kent."
"I'm not!" Superman protested, reaching toward his nose to push up non-existent glasses – a nervous habit he'd noticed on the man long ago, only showing itself in times of high stress. "Bruce, what am I supposed to do?"
A gloved finger pointed at the wail of the siren and the blinking of red and blue on the black of night. "Stop brooding over something you can't change, and go put out that fire."
Superman glanced mechanically in the direction of the flashing lights, in a millisecond categorized no cries for help or life signs from the smoldering building, and then sighed. Finally his shoulders slumped in resignation under the drift of red cape. "Yeah...okay."
He stalked toward the edge of the roof, but turned back to see Superman hovering a few inches off the ground for a moment, to scan the city for the worst damage zones.
"Hey."
"What?"
"We'll fix it, Clark. We will."
Their eyes met across the wreckage of the city's icon, and for a moment only the harbor wind and the occasional auto horn drifting from thirty-seven stories below broke the fragile silence. Then a siren shrilled again insistently, its pitch piercing enough that Superman winced and glanced toward it. The spell broken, he returned firmly to secure ground; he was at home in the darkness, the silence of the night and the organization of his mind.
"I'll call you when I have a plan," he muttered at last, awkwardly creaking his weight to the other foot.
"Thanks, Bruce." The sadness still lingered in the pathetic smile but the guilt at least looked less physically painful. Mission accomplished. "Are you heading back to Gotham?"
"For now." Alfred had sent his ride, presently waiting below in an alley. All aircraft had been banned for days due to the invasion.
He needed the long drive to think, anyway. If this little Justice Club was really going to be working together even on occasion, they would need communication methods (preferably not involving a punning, obnoxious, turbo-charged caffeine buzz), equipment…organization…facilities…money. Oh, Lucius was going to love being told he needed a Space Station built without any of the higher-ups knowing where or why or how much it cost Wayne Enterprises.
Suddenly something made him pause just at the edge of the debris-littered roof, and he smirked into and through the darkness. "Clark?"
"Yeah?"
"I may not have a cute little supersonic-signal-watch to give you, but you know where I live."
By the time the Man of Steel had turned, the darkness had already claimed the man who was part and keeper of it. Superman glanced in the direction of Gotham City for a moment as familiar tires squealed into the shadows, and then smiled, for the first time all night.
"You could have waited long enough for me to say I'm really, really glad you're still alive," he grumbled under his breath, before streaking toward an apartment fire.