[ There is an immediate reaction to that, something sharp, a tension and a blatant, obvious anger that moves through him. No. Absolutely fucking no. Never doctors, never therapists, never a fucking shrink, over his goddamn dead body. It's the distance he had before that saves him from an outburst, but he still has to shove it down.

Calm, when he speaks, but that bitterness seeps through. ]

I was discharged from duty, spent about two years in Freelancer's own care before they decided I was well enough to reactivate. I spent those two years slowly and painfully learning how to separate my own memories from someone else's, trying to claw myself out of my own skull, and then somehow putting myself together enough to lie about how I felt and how much I knew whenever they sent someone. Doctor. Therapist. Interrogator.

So no. No therapists.

[ And he absolutely does not fucking want one. Thanks. ]