"Nowt productive in talking," Will muttered. Talking only made a bloody mess of everything. He wouldn't be in this godawful conversation right now if people didn't insist on telling him to talk about shit. "An' I don't need a bloody shrink, Christ. I know my head might be fuckin' broke, but I'm not mad."
It was the kind of thing he'd never have said sober, certainly not to Tuck, and certainly not in the face of a genuinely caring suggestion. Sober, he'd had said thanks and he'd think about it, because of course Tuck was right and a man couldn't go around bottling everything up, and then he'd have lost the number because just watch him. With a stomach sloshing with whiskey, all he heard was, that's right, Stutely, you're a proper headcase.