In Clark’s defence, he didn’t think he could get drunk, so you really can’t blame him for the state he’s in, babbling incoherent nonsense as you try to walk him back to his hotel room. He’s leaning most of his hefty Kryptonian mass on you, he’s as dense as a boulder, you think, mentally scolding him for being such a lightweight.

You’re drunk too, not nearly as much as Clark is but you feel the warm buzz of that night’s activities in your chest, even if you’re stuck babysitting the wasted Man of Steel.