( It's something of a blessing that she doesn't realise how he interrupted her quick, one-word answer as granting permission. Already she's upset on a visceral level, shaken to the core of herself when confronted by the depravity of a human she isn't exactly surprised by, but is affronted by on a personal level. Normally, she can maintain distance. Normally, she can find a goal, a purpose, something to achieve and focus on doing that instead of getting drawn into the messy and unproductive mire of weighing morals.

But what is there to do here? She cannot take his pain away, she cannot undo what this woman has done to him, and he doesn't want her to in the first place. There is a war raging within her, roiling her stomach and flaying her nerves, making her strain against her too-tight skin encased in her claustrophobic suit. Watching him resemble himself with so much deliberate care, she is reminded of her own ceremonious manner of donning her armour, and it is not a comforting sight.

Yet, outwardly, she is able to preserve a veneer of her professionalism cultivated over the course of all her years of service.

She meets his gaze when he gives it. No longer after she's learnt what's underneath, will she be unnerved by his teeth or remarkable eyes.

Unwavering, she does not ask him if he's literally saying he's from hell. )

Maybe I don't understand where you are from, but I have been a doctor long enough to be qualified to know a human when I see him. You can say what you like, but, in my professional opinion, I do not think there is any point in debating with you your species, Giovanni.

So. ( She turns, then, from him, and starts to write in her notebook, the movements of her pen able to disgusting the slight endemic tremors in her fingers. ) I will not be sending you to a vet. No matter how many times you may ask me for a referral.