When she sits down, some of the tension ebbs out of him, too, his shoulders loosening; looking a bit less like he's about to bolt out of that seat and out of the room. (He'd done that before, back home, fleeing the foyer.) He hates having Allison angry at him. Hates it. It saws on his nerves, makes them sing in strained jaw-clenched unhappiness. This rueful, logical rationalising is better: Luther knows how to deal with this better.

It's almost like talking about mission parameters. Logistics. Safeguards.

Not emotions.

"There's a couple people who— have experienced something similar." He breathes in, breathes out. He doesn't explain that it's nice to have that unexpected solidarity, a thread of simpatico even with total strangers. Maybe it goes without saying.

"And then one person said they can manipulate biological material on a genetic level. I'm asking them for more details, because that sounds promising. Another said they can heal injuries and illnesses — anything from puncture wounds to heart attacks to poisons to hypothermia to comas, but I... don't think that'll work for me. It's not an injury."

Despite himself, Luther's gaze automatically drifts down the line of Allison's jaw, to her neck. The healed scar there. His jaw works, chews over the question that's suddenly on the tip of his tongue, a pivot of the topic right back at her:

"Have you ever considered...?"