[Had her fingers lingered a little longer, she'd have discerned that the collar is chill to the touch, a disconcerting kind of coolness that never goes away. Something he feels down to the centre of himself, at times, if he's properly attending to it-- a bonedeep glacial piercing, another sharp-edged reminder of all that he is and all he can never be. In comparison, his own skin is always slightly too warm, as though he's running a slight fever despite his apparent perfect health. Kerberos, the beast in him-- it asserts itself in a myriad different ways.

But as things stand, her hand lingers only on his shoulder, and for now Giovanni remains poised where he is, as though awaiting her permission to move or officially consider the examination over. It's so easy to fall into these expected habits, his ideas of what a doctor should be and do, despite her obvious differences from the kind of 'doctor' he's accustomed to.

But then her words come, and he's unable to hold back on a barked-out laugh, a sharp and jarring kind of sound that lances through the companionable quiet of their conversation.]

My consent.

[And his tone, it's a sardonic slide, a dry refutation of the very term. That level of autonomy-- it's never been for him. At the very least, he's good enough to elaborate.]

The implantation was made before I ever gained consciousness. From the first moment I opened my eyes, it was already a part of me. It's all I've ever known.

[Again, as if in response to the faint squeeze of her hand (the strange shock of warmth it elicits from him, some vague feeling he can't name), there's once again the dismissive rise and fall of his shoulders. All casual, easy grace.]

And whilst I'm sure you believe you're offering me something of value, I wouldn't want you to remove the Spine any more than a human would want you to cut out their heart. This is what I am. What I always will be.

One of Mother's dogs.