Paris. 1868. Raining, again.

Viktor tried not to think about the rain too much. It had been pouring for the past three days, and as much as he liked the excuse to stay inside, slipping on the wet pavement when he had to run an errand was not fun. Especially with the end of the city's renovations. Fuck Haussman. At least the streets were wider.

Another thing he tried not to think about was you, sitting in the corner of his lab.

Lab was a big word, really, for the little hole in the wall he had, two streets off the Boulevard Voltaire. Three rooms: a waiting room for patients; a lab, that he also used as a medical cabinet; and a room to sleep. Nothing grandiose. But barely affordable, especially not for a scholar that even the academy of sciences held in disregard.

You let out a quiet gag as Viktor removed the liver from the dead body on his desk with surgical precision. After all, this was part of his job. And as you covered your mouth to try and seem a bit more dignified, he wasn't able to stop himself from shooting you a nasty smirk. Maybe the years of cutting people up had made him cynical, but he couldn't help but think--to himself--that it was a little hypocritical, when you looked exactly the same inside.

As he worked, the rain kept pit-pattering outside, paired with the quiet scratching of your quill in your notebook. Despite the clear disgust at the autopsy, you still managed to keep a relative professionalism in your work, jotting down your observations for next morning's paper.

Viktor was only half sure of what you were doing here, really. Upcoming star from one of the smaller, nastier editorial papers in Paris, he would've thought that you didn't want anything to do with someone like him. No, he was a scientist, and you wrote about writing. There wasn't much exchange to be had there. But that book just came out, Thérèse Raquin, and you had wanted to critique it from a different point of view. You wanted to see if Zola's representations of death had been accurate.

So he had let you watch his autopsies. In exchange? You'd write about his theories. Make them known to the public. Make them sound useful enough so that the academy would consider his application. It was a good exchange. His knowledge, your fame. It had been going on for long enough that you had reached a mutual understanding. Not friendship, but respect, the kind that only people like you two could have for each other.

This time, when you very obviously paled as Viktor sliced open a lung, he couldn't resist letting out a snort of laughter. You'd write the most violent reviews he had ever had the misfortune to read, and yet you squirmed at the sight of a little inside.

"You know, if this is too much for your delicate sensibilities, you can always wait outside."