Alcohol was always at a premium in the Grand Central kitchen. Evan had learned long ago that he occasionally needed to take what he could get, even if what he could get was some lousy swill that Americans liked to pass off as booze. This Vodka… he didn't even know the brand of it, but it had barely passed through his lips before he cringed. He shook his head violently as the burning liquid made its way down his throat, then grabbed yet another and downed it just as quickly. Fucking American swill, he thought as he tossed the empty bottle into the trash and turned to head back to his bedroll.
Except when he got there, he was unpleasantly surprised to see someone with his very distinctive black leather-bound journal in their hand, rifling through the pages as if it was their position to do so. Evan's eyebrows furrowed as his eyes narrowed to mere slits on his face. What the fuck, he abandoned his mission to get back to his bedroll and complain in the aforementioned journal about how American liquor was swill and approached the man holding his journal with an indignant look on his face.
"Just because something is sitting on the floor doesn't mean it's free for the taking," he snapped, grabbing at the journal and tugging at it, trying to take it from the man's hands. "So, if you'll excuse me, I'll be taking that back…" he added. This didn't have to get too nasty, it really didn't. So long as the guy didn't argue him for it. Evan was not afraid to start a row, so if that was this guy's prerogative? Well… he'd just see how things went down, for now.