In the short time they've known each other, she's tried to be acutely aware of his choices. Of giving him an option as often as she could, because so much of his past has been spent under orders. She remembers what a relief it was, leaving the League. Daunting and terrifying and liberating all at once. She wants that for him, too.

His hand turns, offered out to her, more open in a way than she'd have expected from him. She hesitates, studying the lines of his palm, long fingers and calloused skin. Her hand slides into his, palm against palm, fingertips skimming against his own.

Is it his choice? Or something he does to offer her comfort? Is it programmed into him, and if it is, does it make a difference?

"What did it do to you?" she murmurs. He'd seen the fury, the unbridled violence that consumed her own nightmare. That it wanted to destroy, spill blood, cause pain in any way possible. But she still didn't quite understand what had happened. How he'd vanished into thin air, replaced his body when she'd destroyed it.