She was going to kill him. She was going to wring his stupid, arrogant, stubborn neck and strangle him to death, then bring him back and slap him silly. As soon as she finished patching up his lacerated arm. And his three broken ribs. And finished assessing the severity of his concussion.

She avoided looking at his face as she ran the needle through the long gashes in his bicep. She knew what she would see there. Anger, pain, and cold, dark blue eyes like pools of broken glass. The eyes of a killer, not her Jack. But you said he's not yours anymore. Remember? A small voice in the back of her head whispered. She quickly stamped that part of her brain down and began wrapping his scarred, bruised chest with bandages.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Zeigler. I should have been more careful."

She sighed. He always had the same stiff apology ready for her, to make sure she wouldn't refuse to patch him up.

"No, you're not Morrison. You would go back out there right now, if your biotic field wasn't stolen, and do the same exact things."

############################################################################

Jack was trying hard to keep his mouth shut. He knew he should just let her do her work and be on his way. But she was refusing to look at him, and that bothered him. He knew she disapproved of his methods, but was he really that disturbing to her? Finally, after trying and failing to catch her eye several times, he couldn't take it.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Zeigler," He murmured, as she wrapped her bandages around his chest. "I should have been more careful."

She sighed, and continued working for a moment, before replying in the same overly level voice she had used when he had limped into her office thirty minutes ago.

"No, you're not Morrison. You would go back out there right now if your biotic field wasn't stolen, and do the same exact things."

He frowned. She was still avoiding eye contact with him. His eye twitched and pulled at the scar on his face. Finally, after four minutes of her managing to patch up a cut on his forehead without meeting his eyes once, his growing irritation got the better of him.

"Angela, look at me." He said, the heat in his own voice surprising him.

"No."

Jack blinked.

"What? Why not?"

Jack felt an uncomfortable tightening in his chest as she let out a short, humorless laugh. That was not like her.

"Because, 76," She spat his alias out of her mouth like poison, "I'm tired of looking at you and seeing proof that my friend really did die in that explosion over and over again."

He growled. He wasn't sure why he was so angry, but he was.

"Oh, so now I'm 76?" He couldn't keep the hurt out of his voice, no matter how hard he tried, "Dammit Angela! You think I want to do this? I HAVE to. It's the only way to bring Talon down."

"NO YOU DON'T!" She screamed, finally meeting his eyes. Hers were practically burning, and he almost backed up a step. "The Jack I knew always found a better way. You're not doing this because it's the only way, you're doing it because it's the easy way."

Jack was seething now. Who the hell did this woman think she was? With a herculean effort, he reined in his temper just enough to keep his voice level.

"Easy, Angela? You think this is easy for me?" He asked softly, "I go to sleep every night and see all those faces of people I've failed waiting for me behind my eyelids. Do you think that's easy? Do you think it's easy seeing the one last friend I've allowed myself, look at me like she's disgusted by me?"

Angela glared right back at him, her face dark with anger.

"And what, you think it's easy for me seeing my friend get torn to pieces again and again, night after night, and having nightmares about him getting hurt so badly I can't put him back together?" She turned away from him. "I'm sorry jack, but I can't do that anymore. I lost you once. I won't do it again."

Jack's eyes widened as a cold feeling settled in his stomach.

"Angela, I-"

"Get out Jack."

"But I-"

"Go."

Jack stood there for a few moments, staring at her slender frame, shoulders stiff. He sighed. Grabbing his jacket, he limped past her towards the door. In the doorway, he paused.

"You know, Angela," He muttered, shrugging his jacket on. "Every night I was on my own, cold and injured and hunted by the people that put me back together, I would think of you and what you told me that night in Greece. I think you loved me once. I'm sorry it caused you so much pain."

And with that he left, ignoring the prickling in his eyes and fighting the urge to look back at the small woman standing in the shop. He didn't see the tears fall, or the whispered,

"I still do."