"Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable knack for stimulating it."
Under the bright overhead light, the scalpel he held up like a conductor's wand was as luminous as an incandescent bulb. She couldn't believe he would ask this of her. But even as that thought raised her ire, she was already visualizing the cut, could feel the steel through the glove on her hand, the thick smooth draw of the blade through skin and muscle. Gross Anatomy had been her favourite course in medical school. She had loved getting to know the body in that deeply intimate way without the burden of risk.
She observed him assessing her reaction, no doubt finding the muscles and skin of her face as communicative as her hand and blade had of the cadaver they'd explored. She stood firm, and he stopped short of glaring but held her gaze sternly a few moments more before backing down. Her heart pounded under her coat which, thankfully, was heavy enough not to reveal that even to him.
She'd seen him handle any number of fine instruments, and she'd seen him crack eggs one-handed without losing a shard. He might not have her training on best practices, but she knew he could use the scalpel better than that. Perhaps he never had cut into a human body before. It would give anyone — well, almost anyone — pause. It was possible that he was experiencing performance anxiety, attempting something he knew she had far more experience doing while being observed by her. His arrogance extended to the limits of knowledge he knew he had, and rarely further.
Whistle-blowing for cabs notwithstanding, he did not claim to know more than he did. To the contrary; he regularly sought out consultants and contacts for skill he did not posses; it was efficient and pragmatic. Her refusal to share her expertise in support of the case would irritate him to no end. Finally, she acknowledged the small chance he was using the lessons she had brought to him, to get her to face her demons and process the psychological damage she kept under close guard. Well, she'd been trained in evasion tactics too.
Right now, it didn't matter what his reason for fumbling was. She didn't know if he was purposefully setting himself up to cut off his thumb or not, but either way, she'd have to deal with it if it happened, and no. She was not ready to handle living flesh at knife's edge again. Grappling an arm to be reset in its socket was one thing; repairing a severed finger or artery was another.
What did she want? She'd been rereading Robert Frost since finding that poem for him and the obvious cliche sprang to mind: two roads diverged. Which one would make all the difference, for her? She could stand her ground and simply tell him what to do. Among all the things he'd taught her was something about teaching. She knew she could talk him through an adequate autopsy.
Or she could put out her hand. She wanted to, and that was another lesson she'd learned these last few months with him: She could do what she wanted.
"Stop— Just stop. Give it to me."
Note: title from "The Road Not Taken" by R. Frost
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