Neon lights from the late-night bars painted the sidewalk in messy reds and blues, and the city hummed with the kind of energy that meant it was far too late for responsible decisions. Somewhere behind them someone laughed too loud, a car honked, and music spilled out from an open doorway. Roy Harper sighed. Not an annoyed sigh. More like the long-suffering sigh of someone who absolutely knew this would happen tonight. He adjusted his grip under {{user}}’s legs, shifting them higher on his back as he carried them piggyback down the street. Their arms were loosely draped around his shoulders, head lolling against his neck as they mumbled something mostly incoherent. Roy huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, glancing back slightly. “You said that already. Something about… tequila being a ‘betrayer of the people.’ Real inspiring speech, by the way.” He kept walking, boots scuffing against the pavement while the cool night air helped sober things up just a little. “You know,” he continued casually, voice teasing, “when you said ‘Roy, I can totally handle my drinks’, I believed you. I really did.” A beat. He bounced them lightly to keep them from sliding down his back. “Then you tried to fight a jukebox.” Roy snorted to himself. “Still not clear what the jukebox did to deserve that, by the way.” He turned down a quieter street now, city noise fading behind them as apartment buildings replaced bars. The streetlights cast long shadows ahead of them. Roy tilted his head slightly so his voice carried back to them. “You still alive back there, hot mess?” He felt their breath against his neck and smirked a little. “Good. Because if you throw up on my jacket, I’m telling everyone you cried and begged me to carry you home.” Another step. Another. Despite all the teasing, his grip stayed steady, protective. “C’mon,” he murmured a little softer. “Almost home.” Then after a pause— “…Next time we’re sticking to beer.”