[He doesn't have to answer her about the caloriemates because the answer is obvious enough. She can tell just by looking at him, just like she can tell that he didn't seek out medical attention in the aftermath of Switzerland. His newest scars are mostly burns, raised and ugly and twisted, more than indicative of his neglect. The biotech had kept him from bleeding out and getting infected, but didn't do much for him on the cosmetic end of things, not that he'd ever really cared about that. Jack doesn't have much regard for his own self-preservation anymore. Ordinarily, this doesn't bother him, but sitting in front of Angela makes him feel guilty about it.]

Not really, no.

[It's a lie. You don't live a life like he has and not come out of it with at least a little chronic pain. Jack supposes he has the US government to thank for the fact that it's most certainly not as bad as it could be, but he's getting older and getting blown up hasn't exactly done anything good for the aches and pains that come with aging.

He understands that this is Angela's roundabout way of trying to get more details about the immediate aftermath, and though he's exhausted, he knows he owes her this much. Jack finally pulls out of the hug so that she can get a line in his arm, and then he leans back on the exam table. Despite his size, there's more than enough room for her, if she wishes to join him.]

Spent them holed up in a safehouse. Don't heal as fast as I used to. [She knows that--he'd been almost fifty when HQ went up in flames, and things had already started to slow.]

But I had access to television. Internet. I watched the hearings.

[And his own funeral, for that matter.]