front steps
Jason was sitting on the front steps, off to the side. He hadn't managed to paw anybody yet, but hey, the night was still young.
He was wearing a well-faded t-shirt, not faded in the store, but actually faded from being worn. Just because the party was at 'Wayne Manor' didn't mean anyone was going to convince him to dress up.
There was a cigarette dangling from his fingers, a habit which had started when he was still living in the house he'd (sort of) grown up in. It was a cheap brand, and the smoke it produced was heavy. The bottle of vodka between his knees, though, was the lubricant that had convinced him it was his job to be the greeter at this shindig. The bottle was currently a third empty, and the level was dropping by the minute.
Thus an endless stream of "Hey, how's it going?"s and "Nice shirt"s and "I know we've never met, but you're too good for him, welcome to Wayne Castle"s flowed from the side of the steps as guests moved inside. Some laughed, some recognized him and laughed a little too hard to ingratiate themselves to a potential relative of the host, and some ignored him or hugged their dates a little closer.