"Choices," he says, quietly. "Being forced to make them, being pushed to... unable to refuse them. Especially when they're -- related to that."

He'd been so careful for so long, after D.C., learning to exist as himself again, clawing back each breath of freedom bit by painful bit. Reminding himself that he could choose; that doing so wouldn't instantly result in agony.

Still, sometimes it was far, far easier to not. Drinking black coffee as a standard, unquestioned, always available, no matter what he might actually prefer. (He'd ended up liking it, always had, but still.) Deferring to Sharon on dinner and wine; accepting the house special rather than fight his way through selecting amid options.

"It goes back to how I was... trained. Programmed. What I was made." He glances at her.

"It won't be easy to hear," he warns.