[CW: prostitution; probably reference to child sexual exploitation; more might be added]

In private, this was where Tristan’s heart lay: attend to those most rejected by society and make their lives a little better and more humane. Perhaps it was why he had become an alienist. And it was certainly why he had responded to the call for a doctor to do consultations at the Pony. Dr. Whitaker’s example had further inspired him. But when he thought of the public eye, he dreaded it. It hadn’t been easy to start a practice in a new town and he still struggled to cover expenses. He couldn’t afford scandal and he often felt that everything he did was judged twice as harshly.
 
He had sneaked into the Pony via the back entrance. And then felt sort of bad for the cowardice. He was certain Dr. Whitaker didn't sneak in like this.
 
He didn’t like this place. The main room was exquisitely decorated, and he had to acknowledge the fine taste of whoever was responsible for it. But when he realized it served merely as a shop window for the ‘wares’, exquisite drapery turned vulgar and warm colours turned gaudy. It was a darker place than an asylum.
 
He had installed his temporary clinic in one of the small rooms on the ground floor, adjacent to the main room. He had just seen one of the ladies and had stressed to her the importance of using adequate protection. Now he was alone again, washing his hands. Poor lass. She had lived in terror under the late Mr. Carrington’s rule of the place, and was only slowly starting to sleep better. He very much doubted his next patient would be in a better state.

[CW: mild description of a wound]

Chéri didn’t need help. They most definitely, categorically, didn’t need help. They were making decent money now, they had a safe place to go to, some people that seemed to care, at least marginally, for them and didn’t need help.

But this was getting a little bit out of hand. The thing had been red, then white, than had turned purple all of a sudden. Chéri had smeared something on it and the circle had repeated. And now it was purple again. They had heard good things about this Whitaker fellow and their english was slowly improving -not that the thing needed much explaining- so they took at deep breath and off they went, to see the doctor.

Except for this doctor they knew. The delicate tumtum, all wrapped in a beautiful black, red and white kimono that they used as a robe, was simling wide a moment before reaching Tristan and their smile immediately disappeared. This doctor they didn’t want to inconvenience. They turned, trying to go away: they had asked enough of him and the other doctor would come back eventually.

The door opened quietly and Tristan looked up from his desk. It took a moment to remember where he had seen the angelic face before. Then his eyebrows pulled together in a sad frown. He was not as surprised as he wished he was at seeing the young foreigner in a place like this. Tristan wished he would have let him help him.

When Pierre turned to leave, the doctor got up quickly. "Pierre, please," he implored in French. "I'm sorry if I've offended or upset you. Please. I'm here to help." He still didn't know why the kid had refused to stay the night and had insisted on leaving. He could make a few educated guesses, however and they all made him sad. He doubted this was the first time the kid worked in a place like this.

Who the fuck was Pierre? Chéri stopped, but not to turn, but rather to look around. What did Tristan mean? Was there another Frenchman? Chéri shook their head. Oh, right, Pierre! They were Pierre.

Chéri shook their head and turned, their face fully neutral “Oh? Oh no, good doctor, don’t you worry, I am good, I was looking for somebody else, you haven’t offended me or anything. You are good!” they were saying “good” a little too much. Chéri didn’t want to offend Tristan, hadn’t wanted that originally either, they just knew not to make themselves a nuisance unless they really needed it. And right now they felt like they had already exhausted the amount of time or effort required from a doctor who, for all intents and purposes, was just trying to do his job and be nice. Actually nice. And actually nice people shouldn’t be around them.

Tristan tilted his head ever so lightly as he looked at the young courtesan before him. He felt that the kid was being insincere, but he did not want to be intrusive.

"If its Dr. Whitaker you were looking for, he isn't here today. I've taken over, and would be happy to help you. If you'd rather talk to him, he should be back next week. Whichever you're comfortable with."

He didn't want the kid to feel pressure to speak to him. Perhaps it was a private matter he had already discussed with the other doctor and was reluctant to share with Tristan. But he also didn't want the kid to leave without at least having been offered help. It pained him to see people so young and vulnerable pulled into this kind of life.

[CW: gore]

The reason why Chéri did not wish to have Tristan take care of him, was that he found Tristan had the look. More commonly found on nuns, schoolmasters and carpenters too soft for their own good, the look was something that highly moral folks had on their face that firmly positioned Chéri as an inferior who deserved help more before anything else. And Cheri hated that with passion. Maybe that wasn't Tristan's intent, maybe he just naturally had what Chéri read as "the look", but it was enough to put them off.

However, Chéri wasn't stupid. They thought about the colour the wound had become. How high were the chances of coming back from purple? Not high. And the bandages didn't help enough.

Chéri sighed. They looked at Tristan one last time with uncertainty and decided it was worth risking some pious blabbering or pitiful gesture for relief.

Without a word, they sat where they were supposed to and opened a portion of their kimono. They didn't care about being naked in front of anyone, but the good doctor might have been squimish after all, so the exposed just what was necessary. On the inner part of their right thigh, there were some bloody carvings, oblique lines ( \/\ ) that intersected each other at the tip. The cuts were weeks if not months old and only partially healed. Chéri stayed silent and looked straight in front of them, unchanged on the surface.

'The look' increased when Chéri exposed the wound and the doctor moved over and crouched down to get a look. The pity was mixed with horror, though, at the clearly intentional injury. He looked up at the young courtesan's face. "Who did that to you? How long ago was this?" Months possibly. And the wound had clearly not been properly disinfected or treated. The poor kid could have developed sepsis or gangrene, and these were still on Tristan's radar as his eyes moved back down to the disturbing pattern.

There was more than horror and pity now. There was anger as well. Pierre was just a kid.

A sigh of frustration. Chéri briefly considered if kicking a little the man crouching on him could have him change his expression, as they really could barely stand it, but they concluded it would probably change their willingness to help them too, so they didn’t. A mask of indifference, they rose their brows defiantly “The day before I came to Whitby,” as for whom, Chéri didn’t say. It was not the place “Am I going to die?” they said flatly as if it didn’t matter.

The doctor was losing his temper. Chéri smiled delicately and kept it light for the sake of sarcasm. No matter what, they were getting a big reaction from men that came here, even if they were doing their jobs.

The attitude did not bother him. It wasn't how people who came to his practice acted, but he had seen it all back at the asylum. Tristan noticed that his first question hadn't been answered, but he did not push. He could make his own deductions though. The day before this young foreigner had shown up in Whitby without money, without friends or family, without the ability to speak the language. Fled from this kind of brutality? He strongly suspected it. He abhorred any kind of violence, but in this case, he would so like to punch whoever had treated Pierre like this.

He looked up again. "Most likely no. Not if it's treated properly. Though I wish..." he stopped himself. Telling the already reluctant kid that he should have sought medical help sooner was probably not going to help building trust between them. Trust was everything in these situations and he was already starting out at a deficit.

"Has it looked like this all the time? Any changing of the colour? Any pus?"

If Chéri had answered, his answer would have probably been something like “a gentleman” and nothing more anyway. And there was nothing either of them could do about that. They both knew it. Nothing was the best-case scenario in this kind of situation.

Chéri nodded as if the answer was of little consequence to them. “What do I need to do?” they were practical. Chéri blinked. Their look was challenging. What did you wish, doctor? Did you wish this didn’t happen to me? It would have happened to somebody else. I am there but to fill a role. You know that I know that. That was all their eyes said, their defiance typical of wounded animals. But they choose silence because they wanted people to believe them polite at least. At least sometimes. Politeness was one of the few things that could do anything against the look.

Chéri shook their head “I put some pomade on it. It was better for a while, it became less red and then it was almost red no more. Then it opened again. No pus, though, only blood.”