There's a pained flicker across his face, then a slow nod. He hadn't even had to list off all the experiences, because she'd already instantly guessed at them: the memories and twists of fate that kept digging those knives deeper with their reminders of what he'd been, what he'd lost, what he'd once been. The feywild. The memory share. The City. The body swaps. The dreams.

Luther leans forward, elbows propped against his knees and hands interlaced between them (and even that shift of position is uncomfortable; his shoulders pull at his shirt, tugging it taut across his shoulderblades, the fabric straining).

"That's kind of it, though. All those other times... we didn't control any of that. It was a surprise. We didn't even know what was causing it and it just happened, out of nowhere, uncontrollably."

And you didn't have to be a genius or a seer, to guess that things unexpectedly happening to Luther's body could still be a sore point, a raw wound.

"But if I did the research and reached out... at least that's my choice. At least I examined the options, spoke to the person who can do it, listened to what they could do, sized up their experience with their powers, decided whether or not it was worth the risk of trying. Then it would be my choice. Does that make sense?"

His blue eyes are riveted on her now, his expression cut open in a way that it rarely is, praying and hoping that she understands. His open beating heart on display. That hopeless yearning drifting unhappiness that sits beneath this skin, and which has been smothered so long.