Disclaimer: Still nothing's mine.

'I missed that.'

Jess turned back, eyebrows arched slightly.

'Me shaving?'

Rory was standing in the bathroom doorway, her eyes intent on him, like trying to memorize every word in a favorite book.

'The details no one else witnesses about you. There's something exclusive about those.'

She leaned a shoulder against the bathroom door frame, arms folded before her chest.

'Sometimes I'm going all territorial about you,' she said with a small smile.

'You are?'

'In my head. It's like I can't get enough. Like I wanna explore every corner of you, both physically and emotionally. Gets a little scary sometimes.'

'Why so?'

'In some way, I get so immersed in loving you, I know I will never get over you, at least not completely.'

Jess let the hand holding the razor rest by his side and walked to where she was standing. He lifted his free hand and moved a strand of her hair back, his knuckles brushing her cheek.

'I wanted to do this for you,' Rory said, her look directed at the razor shave by his side. 'When we got back from the hospital and you closed the door to that room,' she tilted her chin to the room behind her, the room he'd used as 'his' after the shooting. He had needed the distance, some borders to keep him space to recuperate. 'I wanted to feel close to you, I wished you'd let me touch you without pulling your guard.'

Their eyes met and the remembrance stirred both their faces, like a wave of sadness passing through, looming for a while before finally moving along and vacating the once hurtful space.

Jess kept Rory's look as he bit a lip and made a few steps back to take a seat on the stool next to the sink. He sat with his legs apart, bent in the knees, facing her. His lips moved with the barest of smiles as he lifted his hand, holding the razor shave out for her. Rory felt her feet move on their own accord, his gravity beckoning her.

She stopped as she stood between his legs. One arm reached to stroke the hair above his right ear, the other pausing to palm the side of his face. Her fingers touched the stubble that grazed his jaw, tracing it lightly while her eyes stayed locked with his.

She reached over his shoulder for the shaving foam and applied some against his cheeks and jaw, her touch resembling a caress, gentle and reverent. As she moved the safety razor along his skin, he willed himself to keep his eyes on hers. He let her finish and then wipe his face clean with a wet towel. She stood, admiring her work with a look of pure awe. Or maybe she wasn't admiring her work. Maybe she was admiring him. Every single corner of him. His hands slid up her calves to the back of her thighs and drew her closer so that they stood chest to chest. Jess craned his neck up, feeling her breath come out in a huff as she sighed with relief.

'Please don't get over me,' he whispered, his lips moving against hers. 'I wanna move back in. In this apartment. With you. Will you let me move back in?'

She caught his face between her palms and nodded, letting out a breath between a sob and a laugh.

'Yes. Yes, yes, yes.'

'You should show off more neck. You got nice shoulders. And your clavicle...'

'My clavicle?.' Paris arched an eyebrow.

Tristan gave her another analytical glance and then shrugged.

'It's classy. Makes your neck look...' he licked a lip and then shook his head, leaning both elbows against one crutch, keeping his left foot bent in the knee. 'Nice.'

He was going to say something else. Something cheesy or flirty or at least more praising than 'nice'. She just knew it. He was, but he caught himself at the last moment, backpedaling so his description of her upper torso sounded more impersonal. Why? Tristan wasn't behaving like himself after the accident. But, truth be told, neither was she.

Paris had to admit, she had done the unthinkable. She, Paris Geller, queen of punctuality and time well spent on actual hard work, had taken Tristan Dugray to the mall under the pretext that she needed to get some new clothes. She needed new clothes no more than he needed a new crochet hook set. She was of course simply trying to get him out of his funk. And truth be told, the pretext didn't really matter. Tristan had simply climbed up in the car, letting her drive him to the mall into his own Audi he hadn't been able to drive since the accident. It had been a week after his discharge from St Benedict's and he still hadn't gone outside. Tristan Dugray was a very physical guy and that was a well-known fact. The thing was, now that his walking had been impaired by a heavy cast and two crutches, he was the grumpiest of grumps. Who would've imagined his potential for staying in and doing nothing but watching Netflix for sixteen hours a day? Paris simply had to take him out and due to the heavy snowfall last night the streets weren't the best place in his condition. So... yeah. The mall it was.

'What are doing tomorrow?' Tristan asked, limping to the nearby sofa where his other crutch was propped. As soon as he took the seat he took his mobile out, pretending to immerse in its contents with a low scowl under his brows.

'Why?' Paris showed her head from behind the curtain of the changing room opposite the sofa.

Tristan continued scrolling over his phone's screen, the sulky expression never leaving his face.

'Just asking. Maybe we could order in and get the boys to watch Free Birds or something.'

Tristan Dugray wasn't used to feeling bad. It was such a simple and logical revelation, yet no one had ever particularly thought of it. Men were such whiny bad-tempered babies when they were feeling sick and Tristan Dugray was no exception. He had absolutely no idea what to do with himself when he couldn't take the physical energy out and keep his usual routine. Heck, his daily routine normally included two hours of workout, sometimes more. He was two weeks back on any kind of non-limping physical activity, including no funny business whatsoever. Two weeks. And probably some three or four weeks more. Training abstinence and celibacy had managed to turn him into an impressively itchy-bitchy pile of male indignation. Gone was the easy-charm, laid-back flirt. Meet moody bitchy grump, a Dugray even more juvenile than his usual outrageous self. It was so unexpected, it could be hilarious wasn't it completely unnerving.

'You could simply ask us over, you know,' Paris' voice carried from behind the curtain. 'For Thanksgiving.'

'Yeah, whatever.'

The curtain made a sudden screeching noise and Paris' head popped back out.

'Have you ever had anyone take care of you?' she asked in a clipped, business-like tone.

'What?' Tristan looked up from his phone.

'You have never had someone help you, watch out for you,' Paris answered her own question in typical no nonsence Paris fashion. 'You realize I've been stuck in a changing room trying outfits I basically despise only so that you can rub your ass against a sofa that's not the one opposite your plasma in your living room, right?'

Tristan blinked.

'I suggest you stop being an ass and start showing some damn appreciation,' she said, closing the curtain with another loud screech.

Tristan opened his mouth and closed it, suppressing the urge to say 'Yes madam'.

Hot damn.

Paris Geller could make the top of Hottest Principal In High-School History charts. That was, in case she was a High School Principal. Every male in a ten mile radius would be dreaming of spending some quality time in her office.

Okay, wrong train of thought. He had promised himself he wouldn't go there. Paris Geller was off limits. Since when, his grumpy inner voice asked. Since she saved your life, asshole. Now, let's revise. Paris Geller equals off limits equals no warm fuzzies, no feeling hands or whatsoever. Got it?

'I'm done with this stupid charade,' Paris' voice came, sounding exasperated. 'I'm not trying on any more clothes for your ungrateful sake. Come help me get out of this, the zipper is stuck. And think of some nice flattering compliment on your limp here.'

Tristan suppressed a smirk and grabbed the crutches, limping to the changing room curtain that opened with yet another screech, revealing a halter dress clad Paris.

'Holy Moly,' Tristan uttered as he caught her reflection in the changing room mirror.

'What?' Paris asked, looking at her reflection too. There was a short moment where she watched him watch her but it was just a second and it was over in a blink.

'Is it that bad?'

He had averted his eyes, studying her zipper.

'No... not that bad.'

He got the stuck zipper free and left. That was strange. He was Tristan Dugray. Normally he would've made a production out of helping a woman out of her dress. However, today he was all business - eye the stuck zipper, free said zipper, get out of the changing room without as much as a look.

Paris narrowed her eyes and suppressed the anger that rose within her. She felt an odd disappointment that he was making a special effort to neglect her. Interesting how this was gonna work for him.

On the drive back she caught him staring again.

'What now?'

'You're angry,' he said pensively.

Paris turned to give him a look. Really, Dugray. You're the acclaimed master of one-night stands charming women's panties off everywhere you turn, but you're suddenly the dorkiest of dorks when it comes to communication with a normal red-blooded female? Only, she hardly classified as normal... But she was red-blooded. And whatever.

He looked thoughtful. At least after they left the mall he cut on pretending to be invested into his social profile holding onto his mobile like a lifeline. It was all make pretend, she knew, a distraction - like so many other things about him. An year into spending time around him almost every day, and Tristan Dugray was still a mystery.

'Matt asked me out,' Paris blurted.

Tristan's brows knit in thought for a second, then recognition showed in his eyes.

'Henderson? Yeah, I thought he would.'

'What?'

'The way he looked at you, it was quite obvious.'

'Well, he did.'

He did ask me out. Why am I acting so surprised?

'You should go.'

She was lucky they had just pulled up to a stoplight. Otherwise she might've pushed the brakes a tad too abruptly.

She turned to give Tristan an incredulous look.

'What?'

'He likes you, you should go.'

'You think I should go out on a date with Matt Henderson,' Paris repeated, as if proof-reading the words.

'Why not?'

Yeah. Paris. Why not? Oh jeepers.

Are you kidding me, Dugray? Why not? Hilarious. Or not. It felt more like a punch in the gut. Like witnessing the death of a canary. Oh hell with melodrama.

'You're right,' she sighed. 'It's time I got laid and stopped imposing on you anyway,' she rested back in the driving eat with both hands holding firm onto the steering wheel.

From the corner of her eye she watched Tristan closely for a reaction. Nothing. No cringing, no bracing himself, no angry imploding. He was really telling her to go find a nice lay. Damn it, Dugray.

The traffic light turned green and she steered towards his apartment building, letting disappointment wash over her and roll off her shoulders. They didn't have to fall into the cliche.

'And you should cut on playing broody,' she sighed, 'it's unbecoming. Can you summon your pretty boy charm back so we could talk like our normal selves again?'

She took a turn and pulled into his street.

'Okay.'

'Okay?'

She killed the engine as they reached the underground parking of his apartment building.

Tristan was watching her from the passenger's seat, his head tilted to the side.

'Okay.' Then he opened the door and limped towards the backseat where his crutches were lying.

'Your keys,' she got out of the car too.

'Keep them,' he nodded towards the keys. 'Use the car, I won't be able to drive for at least another month anyway.'

Paris gave him a stern look from across the Audi's hood.

'Why are you giving me that look?' Tristan asked.

'What look?'

'Like you're trying to figure me out.'

'Because I am trying to figure you out,' she crossed her arms before her chest.

The glint was back in his look.

'And how is it going so far?'

There was a trace of amusement in his voice. At least he was keeping his part of the deal, going for his usual laid-back self.

'I'm hitting a dead end. Or I don't like the answer. I'm not sure which one it is yet.'

He smiled. The first real smile after he was discharged from St Benedict's.

'If you have any progress, do let me know. Night, Paris.'

He gave her a humorous salute, leaning one elbow over the crutch and touching two fingers to his temple. Then he took firm hold of both crutches and limped away towards the elevator, followed by Paris' look.

Something told her figuring him out would be a hard task to tackle. However, she'd never been one for jumping a low hurdle. Bring it on, Dugray.

Back from the car, her mobile chimed with a message. She got in and sat on the passenger's seat, unlocking the screen of her mobile.

Hey. I'm gonna be over to New York for a couple of days. What are you and Josh doing for Thanksgiving?

Doyle.

TBC