The physical injury could wait. Tristan leaned back against the table, half-sitting on the edge. "Aren't you?" he asked, not in an argumentative manner, but rather as if he was inquiring after the climate in France.

Chéri ought gratitude to Tristan. They owed him not sleeping rough and now they had received help from him in a professional capacity, which did not command gratitude per se, as the man was being paid, but respect yes. Which was the whole reason why they didn’t snap at that response. Instead they sighed slowly and commented “You have answered my question, sir, thank you,” they smiled with only half of their mouth.

Wrong approach. Perhaps he had taken too much of a risk. He pushed himself off into a standing position. "The anesthetic will make sure you don't feel pain locally, and therefore won't make unexpected movements, which could cause accidents. I'd much rather suture with it, especially in such a delicate area. You will still be aware of what's happening and will still be able to speak. It might just feel a little funny. But it's up to you."

The doctor went back to more practical matters. Chéri raised their brows at the comment “So I have to try not to have the wound move too much?” maybe that had been their mistake. “What’s suture?” they continued, ignorante as they were. Chéri stayed silent for a little “Oh, you mean I get a choice?” was that an offer or was Tristan just describe him what was about to happen?

Tristan shook his head, more at his own oversight than in response to Chéri. "I'm sorry. I should have explained. To suture is..." He suddenly realized he didn't know the word for sewing in French. "It's like when there is a rip in your clothes and you use a thread and needle to close it. The cuts should have closed by now. If they remains open, there is a risk of infection, and that could lead to worse. If I suture it, it will heal quicker. But yes, you have a choice in all of this. If you don't want me to suture it, I won't, though I would strongly recommend you let me. If you don't want the anesthetic..." maybe that word was unfamiliar too, "the thing that will make sure you won't feel pain... I will not administer it. But it will be very painful without in that area, and if you jerk your leg in response and my hand moves... well, I wouldn't want the needle to end up somewhere it shouldn't down there." He didn't want to frighten the kid, but also wanted Pierre to make an educated choice.

There was a great deal in Tristan that made Chéri naturally suspicious, but also a great deal that made them curious and appreciative. He apologised for this. Not for insulting Chéri without considering it an insult, not for intruding, but for not being clear. Doctors generally weren’t, so why was Tristan worried about that? Like had been worried about touching them, which honestly felt almost ridiculous in this context. Chéri nodded. “Sewing,” Chéri replied with certainty, “but flesh,” they said that with indifference, as if they weren’t talking about their flesh. They just distanced themselves with their eyes. “Sew me up and give me the…” they gestured. They didn’t know suture, but anesthetic sounded like tipsy. They knew tipsy, they could deal with it.

They smiled for a moment, on the verge of making a joke, but figured Tristan wouldn’t enjoy it, so they forced themselves to close their mouths. Only a few moment of dimples for the good doctor. Chéri chortled, shook their head and lied down, pinning the heel and bending their leg to one side, while one of their hands kept everything that could be in the way on the other side, to allow Trista to work freely.

Tristan was expecting Pierre to reject at least the anaesthetic at this point, if not the surgery altogether. The kid seemed so eager to oppose, and so mistrusting. And so he was all the more relieved when the approval came. He returned the smile, his own not as guarded. "Good."

He took some disinfectant, put some on a cloth, and took the syringe. Then he approached his patient again and knelt down. He quickly wiped the area where he intended to put the needle, put the cloth away, and looked up at Pierre's face. "Might hurt just a little," he warned. Then he looked down. He tried to grab a bit of flesh between his fingers but failed to get a good grip. And so he carefully put the needle in the thigh as it was, taking care not to go too deep.

"There we go," he said when he had injected the substance and pulled back the needle. He rose. "I hope that wasn't too bad? It will take a few minutes before the area goes numb."

Chéri was a contrarian sometimes and they were out of mere spite too, on occasion, but they weren’t stupid and didn’t want to suffer. They just wanted some form of weapon against what they perceived as free cruelty towards them. Why did everyone have to pity them? Where were all these pious people when they were starving? They were only there when Chéri had something to offer. It was all hypocrisy, really. Everything came to a price. They wondered what was the doctor’s price.

Chéri didn’t move a muscle while receiving the suture. They changed their breathing, released the tension, closed their eyes, but didn’t move otherwise. They were ready. And they were patient. Chéri nodded when Tristan announced it was done. Chéri shook their head.

“It was but a pinch,” they reassured Tristan, with small, warm smile. They could do much better, so this ought to be at least partially sincere.

Tristan returned a small smile. "That should be what hurts most. Once it's gone numb, you won't feel the suturing." He took a cheap pocket watch from his pocket and checked the time, so that he would know when the cocaine would start working. Then he put it away and began to set everything ready. He was rather glad to have something to focus on, rather than staring awkwardly at the young courtesan who didn't seem to like him much.

Once everything was set ready, he checked his pocket watch again. He looked over at his patient. "How do you feel?"

Chéri blinked “That should be what hurts the most?” they seemed surprised by the idea. They giggled as if that was nothing, too genuine to be toughening up or just trying to hide that. Either they were used to the pain or a little number than most. Or both, of course. The doctor proceeded with his work and Chéri answered simply.

“Good. But it doesn’t matter much, does it? Either way, you gotta do it. Or would you be sorry if you hurt me?” they wondered.