Jack padded downstairs barefoot, feeling much better. He'd managed to shower and dress himself with minimal problems. He had opted to forego his shave and his button-down shirt was hanging open. He was assailed by the scent of bacon, eggs, pancakes, and coffee as he entered the kitchen.

"What is all this?" he asked.

Irina turned to answer, but her breath was caught in her throat as she looked at him. He still had a haunted look in his eyes, but standing there in the mid-morning sun, with a five o'clock shadow, bare feet and open shirt, he was still able to make her heart do back flips at the sight of him. At 55, he was the most unassumingly sexy man she'd ever met.

"Irina?"

She'd been caught staring and fumbled for a response. But Jack kindly filled the silence.

"I can do many things right-handed. Alas, shaving is not one of them, nor is buttoning a shirt. Would you mind giving me a hand with it?" he asked, chagrinned. "I'll have to do without the shave until my hand heals."

Irina was confused for a moment then realized he must have thought his normally clean-shaven face was why she was staring.

"I could do that for you, later, if you'd like. Unless you don't trust me not to slit your throat," she baited as she did up the shirt.

"Uh, we'll see," he said noncommittally, backing away. "You never answered my question: What's with the food?"

"I know you haven't had a real meal since Dixon brought you dinner a couple of days ago and I figured . . . shit."

"You've been spying on me?"

"Not ex . . ."

"How long?"

"Three days."

"Son of a bitch!"

"I got the intel on Sydney's death the morning after the fire. I wasn't going to come, but I was worried about you."

Jack frowned, "You were working with Sloane. Why do you care what happens to me at all?"

"I didn't know he was going to kidnap you, let alone hook you up to that IV! Whether you believe me or not, I do still care about you!"

"Do you know what was in that IV?"

"No. I simply assumed it was a sedative or sodium pentathol. Why?"

"Nothing," Jack averted his eyes.

"Jack, what is it you're not telling me?" Then it hit her; Irina knew what had been bothering her about him for the last few days. "What did the IV do to you, Jack?"

"NOTHING!" he repeated, more forcefully this time, ending the discussion. He grabbed a plate from the cupboard and began piling food on it, in essence admitting that he was as hungry as Irina had assumed.

He stood at the counter, trying to get his fingers to remember how to hold the fork; it was doubly hard since he'd taught himself as an adult to use his right hand. The damned utensil didn't want to cooperate and as his frustration increased, his appetite decreased. He finally gave in and held the fork as a child would in order to eat before the food got cold.
Irina came over and gently placed her hand on his, willing him to meet her eyes. When he did, she could see the pain and embarrassment it was causing him.

"Tell me."

Jack hesitated before giving in, "Whatever was in the damned IV did something to how my cerebellum is working, this in turn has affected my motor skills, basically the smaller movements. The doctors said it was just a matter of relearning some skills, but my right hand isn't as strong my left. So you see, I have the coordination of a five-year-old," dark humor colored his words.

"Let me help you. Please," she added when he hesitated again.

Reluctantly, he nodded. Sitting at the table together, she helped him grip the fork and they finished their breakfasts in, if not a companionable silence, then a fairly relaxed one.