Another apology. Maybe Clint didn't realize that I'm sorry could hit a point of diminishing returns, where one too many started diluting the sentiment. And Scott wasn't entirely convinced he knew what he ought to be apologizing for in the first place, as it wasn't the drinking that had gotten Scott riled. There were always going to be moments that life became too much to bear, that a little self-medication was the only thing that felt like it would do any good. Scott had fallen prey to it himself, in that first year of victory. Even now, he didn't always take his anti-anxiety pills exactly as prescribed. The trick was striking a balance - everything in moderation.
Last night had not been moderation. It hadn't been a fluke, either. Clint had been drinking more heavily since at least the inception of the Great Fish Heist, and that was just when Scott had noticed the increased frequency. "I don't care about helping you clean a mess, pal. I care about you turning into one." He stepped around Clint, reaching up into a cabinet for a plate and holding it out toward the griddle.
"It's been a couple of shitty decades," Scott ceded, setting the plate down when Clint had deposited the nearly-charred pancake onto it. "On top of a couple of real shitty months. I know it's not easy, believe me. I'm not saying there aren't a metric shit-ton of reasons to drink. But I'm not going to watch you go and pull a Thor, either. I'm just not." He pushed himself off of the counter and started for the bedroom, figuring he ought to investigate whether Jess was here or not. As Deputy Mayor of Cirrhosis City, she probably wouldn't be conducive to the makeshift intervention he and Steve were planning. They'd have to depose her.