Disclaimer: Nothing's mine.

A/N: Thank you for your reviews! For taking the time to let me know what you think, and also for responding when I asked you to share your opinion, because feedback keeps me going :)

After giving this some final thought, I changed the rating to M. To everybody who's been wondering if Tristan/Paris pairing is ever going to work. A little crazy chapter but I think I love the way it came out. Hope you enjoy :)

The sound of her scream was shrill and loud, followed by a row of expletives.

Rory turned her head in the direction of the kitchen and stood up, heading for the source of the shrill cry as fast as her seven months pregnant belly allowed her. She found Paris wrapping her bleeding palm into a kitchen cloth.

Paris looked up, worry etched onto her features.

'It's deep,' she told Rory, her voice full of concern.

Every surgeon knew what it meant to hurt your right palm. Especially in a stupid cooking accident, it was about the most stupid thing one could let happen. Why should she have suggested to cut the damn salad instead of Rory? Cooking Easter Lunch at Jess and Rory's had seemed like a good idea, especially with Josh gone to his father's for Spring break. Not such a good idea anymore.

'You alright?' Jess came into the room panting, a grocery bag still under his right arm as he put a palm over Rory's shoulder, slightly turning her towards himself to inspect her for injuries. 'I heard a scream.'

'Paris cut herself, it's deep. Call Tristan.' Rory said, worry evident in her own voice.

Jess threw a look at Paris' hand, the cloth almost dripping with blood.

'I'm calling a cab,' Jess said, leaving the grocery bag down on the floor and taking his mobile out of the pocket of his jeans. 'Rory, take some ice from the fridge. The less it swells, the better the edges can be stitched.'

'Are you gonna fix my hand?' Paris asked biting on her lip as she watched him examine her palm with his brows pulled into a deep frown. They were sitting on stools across a portable surgical table in the ER.

'I need you to fix my hand. I can't be a surgeon without my right hand,' Paris continued, feeling restless.

'Stop gesturing and let me have a look,' Tristan said calmly.

'I need you to fix it. Seriously, Tristan, if you can't do it, I need to find someone brilliant and have it fixed right away.'

'I can fix it,' he said, his tone even as he leaned to inspect the cut closer, tuning her palm towards the portable operating light above their heads.

'Are you sure? Like, a hundred percent sure. We can't count on odds here, Mr Russian Roulette,' Paris wouldn't give up. 'I'm not gonna bet my professional future on a gamble, I need this to be an all or nothing answer. So are you gonna be able to fix my hand, yes or no?'

'Will you keep quiet?' Tristan asked, letting her hand rest on the table as he turned to the side and took out a surgical kit and unrolled its contents over the table. 'I need you to let me focus,' he mumbled as his eyes scanned the surgical sutures and stitch needles. 'I can't focus with you rambling.'

'I'm nervous,' Paris let out a shaky sigh. 'I ramble when I'm nervous. Are you nervous? Are you nervous because you can't fix my hand? Am I gonna become a cripple because you can't fix my hand?' Paris shot out, seemingly unable to stop herself from rambling on.

'Keep quiet,' Tristan frowned as he inspected her palm again, biting the tip of his tongue between his teeth.

'What do you see?' Paris prodded. 'Are there any tendons affected? Am I gonna be forced to reconsider my stellar future as a badass surgeon and take a meek desk job? Are you gonna tell my fortune by looking at my palm? Are you gonna deliver me with the news that will shatter all I've ever worked for? Is this why you're frowning? Why are you frowning? And why aren't you talking? Normally you're all chitty-chat and I can't make you shut up and now you're silent. Why are you silent? Is it that bad? Is that why you're so silent?'

'I'm trying to choose the tendon suture,' Tristan said thoughtfully, seemingly ignoring her nervous babble.

'So there is a cut tendon. You need suture, so there's gonna be stitching and then scarring, and scarring pulls the tendon in and pulling means contraction and if contraction turns bad, I'm gonna just have to-'

She was cut short by his lips closing on hers, his tongue making a quick entry into her mouth as she gasped. His tongue swept over the inside of her lower lip before stroking on it once and moving on to her upper lip. He sucked on it chastely and then his lips pressed on hers into a half closed mouth kiss before pulling away and sitting back on his stool across the surgical table, concentrating on her hand which he still held between his as if he hadn't just blown her mind.

Paris blinked, her ears pounding, her mouth still half open in a gasp, his taste still fresh on her lips. Her mind was completely numb for some time. She couldn't tell for how long. She had no idea. She couldn't tell her own name for a while. She stared at him as he cleaned the cut on her palm and started working slowly, methodically, injecting local anesthetic into the pad of her thumb and then the base of her index finger before suturing her cut flesh layer by layer.

Tristan registered the scene before him and with a couple of wide strides he was by the hospital bed, pulling her into a hug.

'Hey, what's going on?' he asked sitting down by her side.

He stroked her back and her sides, pulling back to scan her face and then her body, looking for injuries.

'Is it your hand?'

Tristan took her wrist and turned her palm so he could inspect it.

Paris shook her head, wiping her eyes with the back of the hand free from his hold.

He brought her against his chest, kissing the top of her head.

'It's gonna be okay,' he hushed her. 'Is this because you're worried about the cut?' he asked, his voice a soft murmur. 'Are you worried I didn't stitch it right? It's gonna heal perfectly, I swear,' he stroked the back of her head. 'If anything, I think you're even gonna be better with your right hand than you ever were before,' he joked, rocking her gently as her hiccups wouldn't subside.

'It's a bear.'

'What?'

'A Christmas Teddy-bear,' Paris sniffed. 'With Christmas lights wrapped around it. And there are old people,' she started sobbing again. 'Why are commercials with old people so damn touching?'

Tristan drew back, his eyes narrowing. He heard a Christmas song somewhere behind his back and turned to see her laptop open on the other end of the bed, a Christmas commercial playing. It was featuring some dream American family and homeless old people coming through the door for Christmas dinner, no doubt an act of superhuman charity on the happy family's side. Normally, Paris would make fun of the superficial way those commercials were made. Geez, normally Tristan would make fun of these commercials, and he was immune to a lot of fluff. Still.

'It's the beginning of April,' Tristan suggested, for some reason thinking that this piece of information should be relevant in this case.

'Christmas commercials are so fucking emotional,' Paris sniffled again, shaking with another sob as she rested her forehead against his shoulder.

'Paris,' Tristan began carefully, 'are you pulling an elaborate prank on me?' he asked slowly, articulately.

'I've been feeling overtly emotional ever since the preppy nurse gave me my pain medication,' Paris wobbled. 'I did some simple research and my best guess is she stupidly switched my meds with the hormonal superpill for the reproductively-challenged woman in the next room.'

Paris shook with another sob, shaking her head.

'It's so stupid. I'm drugged with some super potent female hormonal dope,' she sobbed. 'You smell so good,' she sighed then, moving to sniff his neck. Tristan went still against her as she leaned more into him.

'You smell like wind and ocean,' she rubbed her nose against his jaw. 'I'm a hormonal mess,' Paris sighed, feeling for his arms and holding on to his elbows as she leaned in and pressed her mouth against his.

Tristan pulled back, his brows knit tightly.

'Paris,' he warned, his voice low.

'You're always leaving me high and dry,' she groaned, nuzzling his neck. 'You're teasing the hell out of me.'

Funny she would be the one saying that since she was trying to crawl up his lap. Tristan took a sharp breath in, forcing himself to stay put.

'Okay, enough,' he let out a long exhale as he stood up, keeping his hands on her shoulders both for the sake of steadying her onto the bed and keeping her at an arm's length. 'What are you doing?' he asked, trying to get his own breathing under control.

Paris looked up at him, her eyes shooting daggers before she let out a resigned sigh, her shoulders momentarily sagging.

'It's the stupid hormones,' she sniffed, wiping at her left eye. 'They make me emotional and horny,' she said, angrily wiping at her poor left eye. Why was one of her eyes always tearing up more than the other?

'Forget it,' she shook her head, reaching for her mobile on the night stand. 'I'll call Matt, at least he doesn't seem so appalled by the prospect of engaging into a PG thirteen interaction with me.'

Tristan bit on the tip of his tongue, his look sweeping around the room. He made a couple of steps to walk by the door and put his hand on the door handle.

'Bye, friend,' Paris sniffed, her voice desperately trying to sound snarky despite the tears.

To her surprise, instead of opening the door to leave, Tristan turned the key and then shut the blinds. Then, with an efficient couple of strides, he was back by the bed, pulling her up by the arms. He threw a last look around the room, finalizing his game plan. His hands took hold of her hips, navigating her backwards until her back hit the wall.

'Mind your palm,' he murmured as his grip on her hips tightened and he lifted her up, her legs instinctively going around his waist. He stepped closer so that their lower bodies made full contact and she groaned as she felt him pressing hard against her.

'Try not to make too much noise,' he instructed.

She was about to say something snarky but he ground against her and she moaned. The feeling, even through their clothes, didn't come close to anything she had experienced lately. It was so much better. It had to be because of all the pent up angst through the months of dancing around each other.

He moved and she moaned again, louder, feeling like her chest was about to explode with the piling emotions. He stilled against her before moving back and grinding against her, this time applying more pressure.

Her head fell back against the wall, her eyes fluttering shut. Her hands moved to grip onto his shoulders but he lifted a hand to take hold onto her right wrist and leaned more into her so that her elbow was placed over his shoulder, moving her bandaged hand further away from potential contact. 'Mind your palm,' he repeated, his voice strained and low. Her left hand moved to grip the side of his neck, her nails grazing his nape which caused his hips to jerk involuntarily, hitting another angle. 'Shit,' both of them hissed at the new sense of friction.

'How come you dry humping me feels so much better than having actual sex with a man who worships me?' she breathed.

He went rigid under her for a moment, the muscles of his whole body straining, as if bracing himself. And when he moved again, he created a steady rhythm. When she got close he covered her mouth with his, swallowing her cries and keeping her steady until she rode her high.

They stood still for a moment, foreheads touching, labored breaths colliding, until their brains caught up with what just happened.

She felt limp in his arms, feeling completely weightless. After taking another moment, Tristan slowly moved back to put her down on her wobbly feet, taking special care to move her right hand off his shoulder without hurting her dressed palm. And next thing Paris knew, he was off unlocking the door and walking out of her hospital room.

As soon as she opened the door to her apartment Tristan moved to walk in, passing her by.

Paris narrowed her eyes and followed him into her living room.

Thankfully, the effect of the hormonal bomb had mostly washed away and she was clear-headed again. She watched as Tristan paced around her apartment, looking like a caged animal. He ran both hand through his hair, his features drawn into a strained expression.

'I tried to get you out of my head,' he muttered, more to himself than for her to hear. 'I told myself I was above that. I can divide physical stuff from other stuff. It's always been blue balls when it comes to you. I should've known better,' he rambled.

Paris stood, watching him with her arms crossed before her chest, her own expression a strained one. He was struggling, his internal battle much more pronounced now that he couldn't keep frustration at bay and she was watching him with her mind not clouded by potent chemical substances.

'I must have set a record in the history of jacking off, and I thought it could go on like this, that I could keep that in check,' he continued, seemingly oblivious to her presence in the room. It was ridiculous since they were in her apartment. He had come into her apartment. And he was oblivious to her presence into her own place. Into her own place where he had come to look for her. But the ridiculousness of the situation didn't seem to be relevant at the moment. He was pacing to and fro, debating with himself.

'I could've gone to someone. Maybe I could do it if I set my mind to it. But not since today. I shouldn't have opened my eyes.' He paused, rubbing a palm against his forehead. 'Now that I've seen you fall apart, I can't keep your face off my mind,' he shook his head.

He stopped pacing right before her with his hands braced over his hips. His head was hung low and he kept looking down to his side for a moment before he lifted his head to look at her.

'I'm so turned on right now, I can't think straight,' he admitted, his voice deep, his eyes troubled.

If anything, he was so much more worried about their current situation than she was. And he was the one practically asking for sex. He was, right? Paris frowned a little, the thought occurring to her that it wasn't beyond possible for him to come to her apartment and admit his current state of horniness only to reaffirm that he wasn't gonna have sex with her. He was known to do this, right? Repeatedly. So why wouldn't he do it again now?

'Tristan,' she tilted her head to the side, keeping his look as she took a step closer so that their feet were aligned, 'I'm gonna take off your tee and if you try and stop me, I may use some violence,' she explained, excitement and frustration battling in her voice.

He seemed to hold a breath before he balled the neck of his tee and pulled it off over his head. Paris licked the inside of her lips, her head starting to cloud with desire. She took a step back and began to unbutton her blouse.

'This better be good,' she mumbled a little nervously. 'After all that time, this has become the slowest slow burn in history of slow burns.'

The corners of Tristan's mouth lifted. He took a step towards her, hovering over her.

She put a palm against his chest. He had a nice chest. Warm, solid. Full of life and strength. She could become reacquainted with this chest more times than she cared to admit.

'One thing,' she said quietly.

'Just one?' he smirked, his tone playful. Paris remained dead serious.

'I'm still gonna be me. I'm not gonna be a nameless body... not tonight, not any night.'

Tristan's smirk grew a bit wider before he looked to the side and let out a chuckle, his smile turning bitter. When he focused back on the place where his hand was resting against her shoulder, his expression was humorless. Paris watched him as he played with the collar of her silk shirt, his thumb absently running along her pearl necklace she had put on earlier today. Was he once again gonna pull back, trying to play it safe? He was such a chickenshit for a player, guarding his heart and the safety of their relationship like a fanatic. A generous coward. That's what he was. A golden-hearted immature fool. God, she wanted him. Why wouldn't he let that thing between them, whatever it was, happen? His eyes were haunted. Why were they haunted? Was he having doubts because he was thinking about other women? Some women his body would like better? Or was he thinking about that one woman, Aiden's mother, the one he let his heart embrace but his body never really touched? He was such an unlikely prude. So restrained, staying put, keeping his cool. Paris was afraid she was too real for him. That she was so real he would get scared and pull back again. Or worse, that she wasn't measuring up to what he was used to. That she simply didn't have the magnetic pull of a bombshell and that was why he was so resilient against her charm. Who was she kidding, she had never been charming. She was a whole hell of a lot more, but charming she was not.

Paris willed herself not to move, pressing her lips tighter. She wanted to understand. Wanted to give him a chance to make his case and be understood. But he was such a mystery. A stark paradox of outgoing and unfathomable. Paris had always been good with puzzles. A problem-solver. But she had no clue as to what he was thinking right now.

'Leave them on,' he said, finally meeting her eyes, his look turning darker, lust stirring it into a deeper shade of blue.

'What?'

'Leave the pearls on,' he said, stepping closer, letting his palms slip beneath the open hem of her shirt, his hands warm against her rib cage. He took hold of her torso and spanned his fingers over her back, squeezing lightly, feeling her weight in his hands before pulling her in.

When their heads got close enough to share a breath, she wet her lips.

'I'm nervous,' she whispered.

I'm not ready to become another of your mistakes. Intimacy is meant to mean something.

He leaned above her ear, his breath sending wave of chills down her neck.

'I'm terrified,' he said, his voice low.

She let out a huff, looking up to meet his look, expecting to find him amused. He was far from amused. He looked one step away from breaking apart. His thumbs were caressing slow semicircles along the underside of her bra as his eyes looked at her with an intensity that made her whole body buzz.

'Let's find out,' she uttered. 'Together?'

He wet his lips and gave her a slow nod, his eyes staying locked with hers.

'Together.'

They leaned into each other and took a chance.

TBC