"Rotten," he remarks, bent over the squirming body. His hand reaches out. "Forceps, now."

You hand him the nickel-plated tool, his good eye flicking over the horn beak extracting pliers before sliding them into the man's mouth. You can only close your eyes, as though it will help block out the screams as Finsen wrenches at the molar. The pliers scrape against the enamel with a sound that makes you tense.

A sharp twist of his wrist. The man jerks against the straps.

Finsen hisses. "Hold him down."

You obey, fingers digging into the man's shoulders as you push him against the chair. His fingers scratch at your skin, at the leather of the seat, drawing blood from you and his own fingernails from the pressure. The smell hits you next, sour breath and heavy copper. It soaks into the gauze at the corner of his mouth.

"Root's split," Finsen mutters, readjusting his grip.

"Sir," you begin, voice weak beneath the sound of the man's screaming. "Perhaps we dab the gums?"

Finsen breathes, pulling back as he releases the man for a moment. His eye finds you, half-lidded with disappointment. "Why wouldn't you remind me before the procedure, assistant?" He questions, tilting his head. It's both not and is very much a fair question, as he doesn't feel pain himself, and he should most definitely be aware of it in patients. "It's too late now. The man will have to suffer for his safety."

"I'm sure it's not too late, sir, we would just-"

He grabs your shoulder with a bloodied hand, fingers tensing against you. "I'm sure that you think that, but you're my assistant, aren't you?" You nod, guilt pooling in your stomach for failing the patient. "Now," he releases you, more gently than he treats teeth. "Go fetch me more rags, this man is bleeding through his apron."

"Yes, sir," you bow your head, leaving the room. You make sure to close the door behind you. The other patients don't need to hear the coming horror. "...Remind me of pain relief when you first sit down, would you?" You murmur as you meet a woman's wide eyes before stumbling away to a nurses' station.

The hall shouldn't be so cold, but perhaps it's because of how empty it is, or maybe it's the crust coagulating on your shoulder, sticking stained fabric to skin.

Your shoes scuff against the floor. The lamp burns, flickering, sending streaks of yellow light against the tiles and the folded clothes.

Someone has already boiled the rags, steam curling from the basin, with some still needing to be cleaned just off to the side. There's a clearing of a throat to your right, and your eyes snap to the noise, finding a nurse. "Hello. You're Finsen's assistant, aren't you? Did he ask for something, dear?"

"Patient has bled through."

She blinks, sighing. "Well, the man works well, just not kindly." She grabs a pair of tongs, takes a few towels out of the water and squeezes them until they're at least resembling dry. "How has work been treating you, love?" She questions, meaningless small talk as she folds them. "I would have to guess Finsen isn't for the faint-hearted."

"Certainly not," you agree, remembering what he has managed to burn into your mind despite only working for him for a few months now. Pain makes a man strong, and he has made many strong, and soaked in blood. "He's talented, though, I'll give him that."

There's a squeak of leather behind you.

"Ah, speak of the devil," the nurse greets. "Afternoon, Dr. Hunter."

You turn, seeing the dentist's sleeves coated in red, fingers tense against his sides. "The patient was... unfit. He has left." He rubs at his throat, grimacing at the streak of grime left behind. "Couldn't handle the pain, so he will handle it. Himself."

Her hands still their movements on the rags before she hands them to you. "I can only assume you'll want the cleaning supplies. A man bolting is a man who leaves a mess."

"Oh, yes." Finsen nods, pressing his fingers against his bad eye, now covering it in red. He winces, as though he didn't do it to himself, not from pain, but from the disease he could possibly be transmitting to himself, the mess, the gore of it all. "Quite the mess. I'll need to let the groundskeeper know, there's quite an amount of filth from the man's mouth now coating our courtyard. He stumbled off somewhere, though I stopped caring the moment he refused my help."

"I'll have it at your office soon."

He nods at the nurse, turning to you.

"Bring those with you. I have a feeling the next patient will react in similiar fashion."

"Pain relief." You murmur after him, following with a sudden lurch, pausing only a moment to nod thanks at the nurse who fills your arms with rags. "Sir?"

He lifts a hand, turning his head over his shoulder to glance at you. "I heard you. Thank you, I'll remember to soothe our next patient beforehand."

---

        "Are you going home already?"

You flinch, looking up from wiping the dried blood from your shirt's shoulder, finding Finsen peering down at you, tracking every movement with his healthy eye. "Yes, sir," you nod. "I did ask. Though if there is something you would like me to do, just tell me."

He opens his mouth, closing it soon after. His gaze does a small circle around you, gathering his thoughts, before he speaks. "Perhaps just stay a moment longer? Let me finish up some papers in my office, and I'll walk you home, if that's alright. Two people have already gone missing from the hospital. You should know that. It's not safe to leave alone."

"Oh, right," you nod, shuffling in place. "I... I suppose I'll sit in the waiting room, then."

"You may if you would like, but I have more comfortable chairs in my office." He offers.

"If you're certain I wouldn't be in the way-"

He pats your back. "Come." He orders, walking and assuming you will be following. And you are. Adjusting to his gait is easy, easier than anything else you've done today, with the screaming, the shouting, the horror in people's eyes, and the sheer amount of gore one man is capable of producing. He pushes open the door, stepping to the side. "After you,"

You bow your head, scrambling in to not keep him waiting.

The office isn't awful, not dirty or bloody, though it is cluttered. Notes and diagrams hang on the walls, his unpublished research a feast for your not-as-experienced eyes to ingest. "Sir..." And your less-mad eyes to worry about, trying to connect dots that perhaps don't exist. "Baby teeth?"

"They fall out anyway," he chimes, lifting a finger in his defence. "And I conduct my experiments on those already dying, with their knowledge."

He sits at his desk, opening a large book.

You study his work for a moment. "Light therapy? For dentistry?"

"You're a very curious person." There is no other answer he gives, writing down who he saw today, if they made it through, and the pay with a practiced hand. "Would you like to sit?"

You find a chair across from him, busying yourself with trying to pick out the dried, brown crust on your shirt. For a moment, it's just the scratch of a pen on a ledger, the squeak of an admittedly more comfortable seat, and your inisit scratching at fabric. Then the pen stops, and your eyes flicker to him. "...Am I annoying you, sir?"

"No, no," he mutters, eye stuck near your collar, where he had marred the shirt himself. "Does it bother you that much?"

"It is unsightly."

He nods. "I suppose," he puts his pen down, standing and reaching across the desk. He grabs your shirt, pulling it up so he can inspect it better, and you shift to obey his silent demand for you to be closer, to simply make things easier for him to manhandle. He tucks his fingers of his free hand underneath, dragging the tips against where the stain would be on the inside and his knuckles against your skin. "I ruined this shirt, didn't I?" He asks, lowering his voice as he's grown closer to your ear.

"It was you, yes, though I can surely find some way to get the mess out," you mutter, though you are more used to removing snot or vomit from clothing than staining, fabric-ruining blood. "And I should have expected my clothes to be coated sooner than later."

"Still," he glances up. "I'll get you some more clothing you can wear for work. I would like to see you near the chair more often. I prefer a pair of hands that isn't scared of getting..." He trails off, spotting already healing scars from the man who ripped through your skin when you held him down. "Hurt."

"I'll take on more shifts then, sir."