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Evan shrugged, still holding the bottle out. "Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't let you get drunk, but maybe you need to get stupid for a while. Your best friend just died," he said without inflection, just stating it as plain fact, "you're certainly allowed to."

Evan sat back, satisfied, as Stormy took the bottle. He snorted in amusement as she poured some into her mouth. "I don't have cooties," he asserted, grinning. "I think that's one of the things our weapons protect us against."

Any attempt at levity fizzled and died at Stormy's question. Evan's mouth smoothed into a straight line as he quieted. "They made us keep going," he replied eventually, not meeting her eyes. "We'd get the news, we'd hole up around base to mourn in whatever half-legal way we could," he nodded pointedly at the bottle in Stormy's hand, "and everyone turned a blind eye to it as long as we were still able to function the next day." He finally looked up and shrugged. "Life went on."

"Nah," Evan replied, shaking his head. "You can't stop, because then people will start to take notice, and you don't want them taking notice of you unless you're up for a promotion, and even then you only want them to see the best of you."

He paused to make sure she was paying attention before continuing, "So you learn to cover it up. You bury it and let it eat at you where no one will know the difference and you show everyone else the best of you, but you can't hide it forever. Someday, some way, it'll eat its way out." He raised a meaningful eyebrow. "Sound familiar?"

The sound of Stormy's softly-slurred words was a welcome relief; it indicated that the shell she hid herself in was starting to crack. Evan could see the truth inside of her, shining and twisted and honest, and made no move to take the bottle away. If Stormy had to be drunk in order for the truth to come out, so be it--it was better than hiding it away, even if it hurt to see a once-bright spirit so tarnished by life.

Still, Evan nodded encouragingly as Stormy ranted. She needed this, he told himself, and it would be well worth the risk of a hangover, she would see. "Nobody's telling you you have to smile all the time, Stormy. It's okay to smile when you're happy, just like it's okay to get angry when you're mad. It's okay."

"This isn't ******** Disneyland, Stormy!" Evan exclaimed, exasperated. "Nobody's asking you to be that person! Do you think, if they knew what it cost you, they would want this for you? Do you think people need to be happy all the time?"

He finally reached out to her, one hand covering hers on the bottle. "Look, whatever people may or may not owe you--whatever. People will either find their own happiness or they won't. You owe it to yourself to take a break from trying so hard. Nothing you're doing will matter if it puts you into an early grave."

Evan pulled himself back as Stormy jerked away, watching carefully to make sure she wasn't going to fall onto the floor before crossing his arms over his chest. Clearly he had underestimated how...volatile she was right now.

"You are absolutely right," he replied. "s**t happens. Bad s**t happens--lots of it, and pretty frequently. But you can't force happiness onto people, sweetheart. You have to let people--and yourself--feel whatever they need to. You don't have to be there to make them smile if they're not up for smiling--you just have to be there for them, and that's enough."

His fingers twitched into fists as she chugged from the bottle. "Please don't throw up in my room," he requested evenly. "Or if you need to, let me know so I can grab the trash can."

As Stormy stood, Evan stood with her, one hand reaching out to hover awkwardly between them as he found himself torn between helping her up and letting her fall. Maybe it would knock some sense into her. Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he felt guilty about it, but only a little--whatever worked.

"You are acting like a five year old," he told her bluntly. "Five year olds expect the world to be sunshine and rainbows. They believe that all of life's problems can be solved if they wish for it hard enough. They think life works that way because they're too young to know better. But you're not."

The hell with it. Evan threw caution to the wind, one hand clamping on each of her arms as he hauled her upright. "People die here, Stormy," he ground out, his eyes narrowed as he looked into hers. "People get hurt. It's a fact of life, and you can't make it better just because you want it to be better. Let people find happiness on their own terms, and let them be sad when they need to. It's okay to mourn," he insisted. "It's okay."

As much as Evan wanted to shake some sense into Stormy, the threat of puking was enough to make him back off. His eyes narrowed at her as he let her go, only turning from her long enough to retrieve a wastebasket next to the bed.

"You don't look like you're coping," he informed her as he shoved the wastebasket at her. "You look like something the cat dragged in and chewed on for a while. When's the last time you slept, huh? Or ate something? You think she'd be happy to know this is how you're honoring her memory?"

Despite their arguing--and the threat of vomit--Evan was happy Stormy was yelling at him. It meant, at least, she was getting it out, and if he had to get her blindingly drunk for that to happen, he would take it.