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It was Evan's turn to go and make the sandwiches and the only reason he looked at his phone as it buzzed was because he thought it was Stormy asking him to bring her something from the kitchen.

It was not. He frowned at his phone and considered ignoring it--until Tuck was up and he had time for this, until he had some sleep and wasn't quite so deliriously exhausted, at high noon on the 12th of never--but he figured, well, no time like the present. Stormy had been quite clear that this particular problem wasn't going to go away just because he glared really hard at it, so he might as well get it over with.

Evan had been drifting to sleep sitting up while the bacon he had put on for BLTs slowly burned on one side. Gale's timing was fortunate in that it woke Evan up enough for him to realize that no, the kitchen was not on fire, but their lunch soon would be if he didn't act.

"Yeah, I'm in here," he said over his shoulder, flipping the bacon over. It sizzled happily now instead of warningly.

The spatula could be a weapon. The stove could be a weapon--on or off, but more so when it was on--and Gale was such a tiny little thing. Evan was very carefully not thinking about all of the things he could do to a body in a kitchen because somehow Stormy always knew and he didn't want to face that disapproving frown when he went back down to the pod room.

Besides, Evan didn't really have any justification for disliking Gale beyond the obligatory. If he didn't like what Gale had to say, then it would actually be legitimate. Stormy might frown less. Life could go on. "So," he said, deliberately keeping his back turned to the teenager, "talk."

It was a fair question, and one Evan had been expecting for a while now. This was probably the worst time Gale could have asked it, though, when he was tired and on edge and Stormy wasn't there to remind him to be nice because this was the boy she had decided that she loved.

Evan was in no mood for nice, and tact had left him days ago. He focused on the bacon, trying to soothe his frayed nerves. "First time I came home on leave," he started, "my little sister--my real one, by blood--she had just started getting into boys. She had a crush on some boy or another, some kid in her class, and it turned out it was mutual, cause I came home one day to find them kissing in the backyard. I chased that little rat b*****d up a tree. My sister didn't speak to me for weeks, but she got over it and moved on to some other boy."

The bacon, at this point, was just about done. Evan set the sizzling pan on a cool burner. Bread next, he decided. It could toast while the bacon cooled. "As a big brother, it was my obligation, my right, my responsibility--whatever--to keep her safe from the boys who would use her and move on just like she did. Better to scare them off early than let them break her heart later on."

He hadn't done the lettuce and tomatoes yet. Handling a knife would actually help as long as he had something to use it on that wasn't Gale. "At first," he continued as he started slicing the tomato, "that's what it was with you. Stormy can be pretty fragile sometimes, emotionally, and in our line of work, that can get you killed. You were a distraction she didn't need."

The knife paused, the tip digging into the wood of the cutting board. "Then I came home from deployment. It was just after Nevada had died and it was obvious Stormy wasn't taking it well." Evan's grip on the handle tightened. "I had to get her drunk just so she'd talk to me. That didn't end well either. She got so bad that someone had to drug her against her goddamn will for fear that she was killing herself by inches. And she was," he added, just for clarification. "What I'd like to know," he said, finally glaring at Gale across the counter, "is what the ******** you, her boyfriend, were doing when all of this was going on, because it sure as hell wasn't doing her an ounce of good."

Behind him, the toaster dinged.