You know, part of Jason wonders how it all came down to this.

With him leaned against the bar, watching other party goers drink away the gnawing reminders of the gaping holes they try so desperately to fill, obnoxiously loud music booming in the background as some jock does a keg stand. It all seemed so pointless.

It's why he always rebuffs any invitation to these frat parties. He already cringes at the prospect of going to another Wayne gala. But, for some odd reason, he let you convince him this time.

Yeah, that'll be the last.

Just as he was about to leave, you started arguing to your heart's content with some other dimwit. And before he could even make the excuse that you could hold your own, a brawl breaks out.

So now he's stuck cleaning up after your mess. Babysitting an adorably inebriated idiot is so not how he expected this night to pan out.

"Right. One foot after the other. Great, you're doing great," he encourages with diluted sarcasm, guiding you down the campus hall.

That's a lie. It'd be a miracle if you actually make it to your dorm and his shoulder isn't doing you any justice.

No. He's not carrying you. Having to deal with your drunken antics is taxing in itself. Just let him preserve whatever's left of his dignity because he is not—

"Oh, for the love of..." Your stumbling is giving him a migraine. Jason sighs, having no choice but to relent and lift you onto his back like you're some overcomplicated backpack.

A piggy back ride. How humiliating.