Putting the unlit cigarette in his mouth, he takes the shirt and looks over it. Twisting it this way and that, nodding. "That works. Good. Okay then," he says, figuring this can't be too bad.

Until the comment about pants.

"What? It ain't my fault you are built like a twig," he says, having checked him out often enough to know just how long and lean those legs are. "How am I supposed to walk around in this underwear?"

Making a face, not at all happy about that. Then he sees the bottle. He's coping without alcohol, hasn't been here long enough to get over his addiction and seeing that bottle makes his heart leap and his gut twist.

"Fucking hell, why didn't you start there."

And he might be revealing part of what is bothering him, why he's so grumpy in this place.