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"You should already know the answer to that," he said, "if not from what I've said so far, then from the choices I've made." With a soundless sigh, he once more began fiddling with the guitar, picking at the strings idly. "Sorry if it's not the answer you want to hear." In all honesty, despite every element of his life that indicated otherwise, he had a hard time thinking with a criminal's mind. He saw his actions objectively and knew them to be inexcusably evil. He wouldn't forgive someone who had killed a member of his own family, and so he found it impossible to forgive himself.

"Maybe it was selfishness." A few meandering chords accompanied his words, loosely strung together as if attempting to become a melody. "I guess I might have been trying to protect myself as much as I was trying to protect you. Like I said, I don't have very good experiences associated with the word 'friend.'" That was likely true, now that he properly considered the possibility. He treated the external parties as the victims, but he'd been fairly wounded by the ordeals as well. A defense against hurting as well as against being hurt. He had the right to afford himself that much shelter, didn't he?

"You can go ahead and think of me as a jerk if you want to. Sounds accurate enough," he said with another shrug. His volume lowered with a sigh. "You know, we humans are pretty ugly creatures. As long as we communicate, we inevitably fight and argue over stupid things. The only thing we can do consistently is misunderstand one another or piss each other off." He continued to strum at the guitar, a noticeable harmony emerging from the chords that seemed incomplete without vocals to accompany. "I worked with Galactic peacefully for ten years after Morrison and Elissa left," he realized that he had never spoken of Elissa, but he assumed context would allude to the fact that she was a friend as close as Morrison. "What sets those ten years apart is that I wised up and stopped trying to communicate with people on a personal level. I don't think it's wrong of me to want that peace back." Maybe he was dumb. He probably was dumb. But if he could be dumb in a way that never affected anyone but himself, then he didn't rightly care.

"What kind of life is it to live preoccupied with how to avoid hurting someone, or how to avoid fixing it when you do?" he countered. "We could argue about this forever, Claire. I'm not going to give and neither are you. You can be angry with me or hate me or think I'm horrible or whatever you want. I'll still be here if you ever need any help." He was becoming weary of the ordeal - weary of having his choices attacked and criticized, weary of defending himself against someone who didn't seem to care what his reasons were.

"Sorry. Force of habit." He had been relied upon fairly frequently as a Galactic elite, for both assistance with training and advice in personal matters no matter what department either was affiliated with, though it still seemed strange that she would outright reject all assistance just because they were with different departments. Or maybe she was simply rejecting assistance from him. The thought surely stung, but he shrugged it off as best he could. If she would be angry with him, let her be angry. He deserved that much.

However, she didn't look angry. She looked more... upset? Crap. Hopefully she could find it in herself to channel that disappointment into hatred. She turned to leave, and he murmured after her, still strumming his otherwise wordless serenade, "I hope you're happier."