Clint didn't care if she smoked. He indulged on occasion. Listening to her he rolled his eyes. "Yeah well,' he started. "You're not going to feel better if you fucking lie around all day and sulk." Clint wasn't one to talk but he ran every day and even attended a couple of Bell's stupid classes during the week but he drank just as much as Em. If not more.
Taking a deep breath, he glanced down at her and shook his head. "Christmas is shite anyway," he agreed. "It was Christmas when I got here. Found my dad hanging from a beam in my dead sister's bedroom. Mum had a nervous breakdown. Good times." He reached over and stole her cigarette, taking a long drag before handing it back.
"You're not the only one who'd rather be drunk," he muttered. "Which is why that's fucking exactly what we're going to go do."