With the amount of people trapped here just like he is - more people than he would have ever expected - it's inevitable that he wouldn't be the only one here tonight drinking his troubles away. He should know better, really; his joke of a father seemed unwilling to exist without a steady stream of ethanol running through his veins. He was always looking at the world over the rim of a bottle or glass, tipping back another and another. So. He should know better. But he's not him, he tells himself. Not even close. He'll never be him.

He doesn't rely on alcohol to get through life, he seeks it out sometimes on nights like this, when there's too much in his head not letting him sleep.

A few drinks, just to take the edge off. Nothing wrong with that. He's not always the best company, he thinks, but yet, he appreciates seeing someone else here. Not being alone. He appreciates having a stool between them for now, too, at least until they get a feel for each other. He's trying to not automatically assume everyone here is untrustworthy, because that's proven to be false already. There are good people here, there are still good people in general.

Looking over, he glances at her first, and then the bottle. Bourbon. Nice choice.

"Sleep? I think someone told me what that was once..." He tips his glass a little, a smirk playing at his lips. "You, too?"