Their tower is new and old, and Barry can't say he's not proud that it only took them so little time to do it.

They made their own rooms there, as well as extra, just in case. It's mostly symbolic, except for when they go there after missions to recuperate, or when going back to their homes is too risky.

Bruce gets the outermost room, with a window. It's not the most secure thing, but he can defend himself, and besides, he never likes using doors. The bed's on the opposite side of the room, though. It's smaller than most beds. Not by a lot, just a little.

Barry's never actually seen him sleep in it. The walls are empty, too, bland and white-gray. He didn't style it much. He doesn't need to. There's a medical aid package and books and blueprints, but all of what he actually needs can be seen in his house.

Houses. Wayne Manor's getting rebuilt.

Diana's room is. Well, it has a look to it. It's older by look, and from a glance, it looks empty. Organized. Trinkets, some more out of place than others, separated by time, dusted, antique. Wardrobe of carefully picked extra clothing.

It feels old, clinging to moths and dust. The bed is large, boxes and trunks under it. The sword hangs by it, glistening, just beside the window. Just in case.

The computers are new though. Always new. Top-quality, shiny and sleek, silver and smelling of warm metal.

Diana replaces them when new ones come out- not always. But often.

Victor doesn't need electronics. He is them. Still. He puts little things in his room. Posters. Figurines. Television. He doesn't need a phone. He keeps it here anyways. Wardrobe, too. There's a football hanging in a nook in the wall, just by the mirror set.

Clothing. Mostly hoodies, if Barry was paying attention. Sometimes he wore them. Sometimes didn't. Frugal, despite the things in it. Vic's bed was odd. It was smooth, too, as though washed and pressed daily. Hard, too. Like wood. Barry could put his entire weight on it, and it wouldn't bend.

The rug was nice, though.

Arthur's room is dark. It's wet. Not literally. Literally, it's normal, pictures of ocean sunsets and aesthetics and people. Literally, there's nothing interesting, outside of the blue circular rug with patterns that look like vortexes, the smell of sea salt clinging to the air. The mirror is flawless, accompanied by brushes and little boxes.

It's sort of messy too. Things strewn about it, but not too much. A rack of hats on the door.

" Did you drink here?" Barry asks, nose wrinkled.

Arthur laughs, his hand clapping onto the armor of Barry's costume, gripping onto his shoulder lightly.

" Not always."

Clark's room is the most welcoming. Though not by much. He doesn't need this room. He doesn't. He fills it with bookshelves of philosophers and Rousseau and some sort of kryptonian hymns rescued from destruction when the planet exploded. He keeps a desk with a computer and coffee and paper and pens, all neat in a bottle. Used. Well-thumbed.

The wooden desk is worn, despite only being there for a few months at most. Light scratches sliced over it. He keeps aplaid wardrobe, and a bed that's never slept it- that Barry knows of. Everything's folded, neatly.

The chair swivels.

" A teddy bear?"

Barry yelped indignantly. " I have superpowers! I should be allowed to have teddy bears."

He snatched it over quickly.

" You'll need built-in lights." Clark pointed out.

" I can generate my own electricity."

" By yourself?"

" I won't need to use this place much anyways." he pointed out.

" Do you need anything else?" Bruce asks.

" 10,000 dollars?"

" No."

" Rude." Clark mutters.

" What are you planning on doing with this?"

" Don't know. Work?"

" Lame." Arthur says.

" That's what all the rest of you do!"

" We're adults." Victor says. Barry stares at him. Victor shrugged back. " I'm 19. Same thing."