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.