Toriel. Ford. Names he only knows in passing, from cursory looks at the network. Can't say he doesn't understand Cloud's hesitancy. He's pretty damn near sick of anyone in a white coat putting their hands over him as well, and since when has anything about him been curable?

"Maybe not a cure," he says. "But maybe it's treatable."

Living with this shit, living with the stuff he has to live with - it doesn't go away. It never goes away. It just sits there, heavy on his chest or in his head or on his back, and he just has to learn how to mitigate it.