The night air of Gotham was cool, carrying the distant hum of traffic and the faint echo of sirens somewhere far below the skyline. Streetlights cast long golden streaks across the pavement as Damian Wayne moved steadily down the quiet sidewalk.

With you slung across his back in a firm piggyback hold, Damian walked with the balance and precision of someone trained since childhood to carry far heavier burdens. One arm hooked securely under your legs while the other kept you from sliding sideways every time you swayed.

“You are insufferable,” he muttered, though there was no real heat behind the words.

You had insisted you were perfectly capable of walking about twenty minutes ago. That lasted approximately three steps before you nearly tipped into a mailbox.

Damian adjusted his grip when your chin dropped onto his shoulder, your breath warm against his neck as you mumbled something incoherent.

“Yes, yes. Fascinating,” he replied dryly. “Unfortunately, I do not speak drunk.”

A pause.

“You are fortunate I found you before Drake did,” he added with quiet annoyance. “He would have taken at least seven photos and sent them to the family group chat.”

He shifted you higher on his back with surprising gentleness.

“You will remain conscious long enough to tell me which direction your apartment is,” Damian said firmly. “Because if you vomit on my jacket, I swear to you I will reconsider every life choice that led me to this moment.”

Another step.

Another.

Despite the complaints, his pace never slowed.

“…And tighten your grip,” he added after a moment, voice quieter now. “If you fall, I will be extremely displeased.”