A/N: To everyone reading this - thank you for being here, hope you enjoy the new installment! Don't be shy, leave a word :)

WARNING: Contains M(-ish) implications around the middle of this chapter, right at the end of the first part. I'm wondering if what's there qualifies as M enough to warrant changing the rating to this story. Maybe I'm clueless but I'm really wondering what qualifies as M these days and does it change or does it go like that - once you're wondering if something's rated M, it's M. What do you think? If you have any opinions on the matter - don't hesitate, let me know (in a review or as a pm, whatever you're comfortable with). I'd love to know your thoughts (on anything you find thought-provoking, rating-wise or not... there's a lot of parenting stuff going on with Tristan, I'm curious what you make of it).

ONE YEAR AGO

'With your palm open,' Tristan instructed, taking her hand and prying her fingers open, 'don't close your fingers into fists or you'll hurt your knuckles. Okay, okay,' he chuckled as she started slapping his chest and shoulders with her palms open a little too energetically.

'And now if I close my palms against your throat?' Tristan asked, mimicking a choke hold. Paris tried to pry his forearms away but he shook his head.

'Now, that's not gonna work. Look, you weigh like - what, ninety pounds? You gotta seek the weakest point in the attacker's grip. The weakest point here are the thumbs. So you duck under, your head must go below my wrist-' he explained, moving her hands to his neck and then demonstrating getting out from her grip by ducking his head down and then to the side. 'Don't forget to keep your neck tight,' he reminded, tapping the veins of his neck before returning his hands around her throat. 'Now duck, head straight down and then back up so that it goes underneath my wrists. Come on.'

Paris did as he instructed.

'Beautiful!' Tristan cheered when Paris managed to get out of his grip successfully. 'See? You should concentrate your energy on the weakest point. Come on, let's do it again... Yeah, just like that!' he said as she managed to get out of his grip again.

Tristan took a step back and crouched a little so that they were closer to an eye level.

'Now what about if I come at you like that?' he said, taking hold of her upper arms. 'Say, at first I keep a respectable distance,' he continued, holding her firmly but without completely invading her personal space, 'What do you do?'

Paris tried to step back and get out of Tristan's hold but his grip only became tighter.

'See?' he said, 'That's what's gonna happen if you try to resist to an opponent who has a weight advantage over you and let's face it, only skinny twelve year olds don't have a weight advantage over you.'

Paris looked up to give him an indignant look and tried to lift her hand to slap his shoulder but he had locked her in a firm grip continuing to hold her at an arm's length. Tristan's head was tilted to the side in what looked like amusement while she was battling with the fact that he was right.

'Are you gonna teach me what to do or are you gonna spend the rest of the training mocking my weight?' Paris grumbled.

Tristan gave her a beaming smile as if he had been waiting to hear that.

'Grab hold of my shirt and close off the distance,' Tristan instructed, waiting for Paris to do so. She hesitated, licking her lips. Tristan rolled his eyes. 'Oh come on, Brezhnev and Honecker shared less personal space when they kissed,' he smirked.

'Did you just compare teaching me self-defense to the socialist fraternal kiss?' Paris asked, meeting his eyes disbelievingly. 'Jeez, surviving cancer was easier than enduring your sense of humor.'

Tristan gave her a wink.

'What do you know, I'm a very light-hearted rapist,' he said nonchalantly, his grip not loosening a tad. Then the smirk was wiped off his face and his expression got serious. 'Are you gonna take me down or not?' he arched an eyebrow, challenging her.

Paris huffed in frustration but pressed her lips together and gave him a nod.

'Okay, Leonid,' she said between her teeth, 'hit me with your wisdom.'

He let go and they took positions again, with him mimicking attacking her and her grabbing hold of his shirt and pulling him towards herself the way he had told her to.

'Now what?' Paris asked from under his chin, her torso pressed snug against his abs.

'Now you use the lack of distance as advantage to pull your leg back behind my legs and tackle me down.'

Paris tried to drag him down but Tristan was twice as large and he didn't budge an inch.

'You can't take me down by force,' he shook his head. Then he took her by the hips and nudged her a little to the side so that they weren't exactly face to face. 'You have to knock me off balance and for that you have to use my own momentum against me. So when I come at you like that-'

He took a step back and mimicked attacking her again,

'You can take me by the shirt, pull me further into yourself while stepping to the side and then pull your leg behind mine to trip me up.'

Paris tried again. They wrestled in what looked like some comic take on a couple who had trouble keeping balance while dancing.

'Don't exert yourself,' Tristan instructed, not one bit out of breath. 'Look for the weakest point in my grip, then use my momentum to your advantage...Just like that, just like that, and then push - push... And he's down!' Tristan clapped from the floor as she managed to tumble him down. 'Beautiful!'

Paris panted, releasing her grip and taking a step back to rest her palms over her knees.

'We done?' she asked, hardly catching her breath, resisting the urge to spit over the gym wrestling mat.

'Just another one.'

'Okay,' she straightened up, 'show me.'

'Take a sec, you're hardly breathing.'

'You said you won't be easy on me,' she insisted. 'I'll be fine, just show me.'

'I said I'm gonna call the shots to your training no matter whether you like it or not. I'm telling you to take a moment and then we continue.'

They stared at each other until she finally relented. When it came to physical training, Tristan was the one who knew what he was doing, so she let him lead.

'Come on, come on, come on,' he urged while holding her wrists up, his legs mounting hers. 'Now twist - not this way but the other, so that your body becomes perpendicular to mine.'

She did, twisting and grinding beneath him, until she managed to find a weak point in his hold and used it to get out from under his grip.

'Beautiful!' he cheered as he stood up and offered her his hand to pull her up. Paris took it and got up from the floor, wiping sweat off of her forehead.

'Why do you say that?' Paris asked, narrowing her eyes.

'Say what?' Tristan frowned, taking the bottle of water from the ground and lifting it up to drink.

'Beautiful. You say that instead of 'well done'. Are you trying to sneak some self-esteem back into me?'

He finished drinking and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, offering her the bottle. She took it, her look still suspicious.

'What are you talking about?' he asked, looking clueless and slightly pissed.

'You say beautiful, why?' she didn't give up.

'I don't know,' Tristan shook his head, getting more pissed by the second. 'That's what came to mind I guess.'

'Really,' she muttered sarcastically, turning to walk away.

She felt him put a hand on her shoulder.

'Hey!' he said catching up with her, trying to turn her back towards him.

She sidestepped his grip, the way he had taught her.

'You know what,' Tristan licked a lip and looked to the side angrily before returning his gaze on her. He put his arms up as if showing surrender, 'for a smart person you have such a superficial mind frame.'

This got Paris' attention.

'Excuse me?' she bristled.

'You don't find yourself beautiful, so suddenly the word is prohibited around you, huh? What if I find you beautiful?'

'Oh please,' she huffed.

'See?' Tristan pointed his index towards her, his eyes shooting daggers. 'That's your problem. You are the one who can't see below the surface, so don't you come telling me which word to use or not to use.'

With that, he strode off towards the locker rooms, mumbling angrily under his breath.

Dumbfound, Paris stood looking at his retreating back.

'What's the trouble in paradise?'a familiar voice asked beside her.

Paris turned to find Jess standing beside her, wearing his gym gear. She hadn't even noticed he had also come into the gym for an evening workout.

'What?' she asked, distracted.

'Just a moment ago you and Dugray were all lovey-dovey on the gym mat.'

'I don't remember being lovey-dovey,' Paris rolled her eyes, trying to look more pissed off than caught off guard. 'Ever.'

Jess shrugged,

'Last time I checked, Dugray was trying to have sex with you on the wrestling mat and you were trying to look like you were opposed to it.'

Paris turned her head to give him a death stare. Jess looked at her incredulously, seemingly amused.

'Did you not realize that was what you were doing?' he asked, looking only mildly apologetic.

Paris glared at him.

'We were practicing self-defense.'

'Whatever you kids are calling it these days,' Jess shook his head and left with a chuckle.

...

'Sometimes I feel like you're picking up a fight only to get me worked up.'

She kept silent. They were back at his place standing awkwardly in the middle of his living room. They had spent the drive home in silence, each of them getting worked up over the other.

Tristan gave her a questioning look. Paris shrugged.

'It's true, isn't it?' Tristan shook his head. 'I can't believe it.'

'I like to get you out of your skin,' she admitted. 'When you get like this, you are so passionate, I stop comparing.'

He blinked.

'Comparing,' he repeated. 'Comparing to... what?'

'Other women.'

'Other women? What other women?'

He was at a complete loss. This was getting ridiculous.

'All other women,' Paris made an indefinite gesture around. 'Tall women, short women, thin women, fat women, exotic women, plain boring women, all women.'

Tristan kept his eyes on her. His look was hard.

'You're insane.'

'I'm jealous,' she said a little sadly. 'I'm far from my best shape and you... well you're you,' she waved her hand in his direction with an eye roll, as if Tristan being himself was something obvious and self-explanatory, 'And I'm feeling insecure. That's why I'm looking for proof.'

'Unbelievable,' Tristan shook his head with an almost hysterical smile.

'It's pathetic, I know. I'm a cancer survivor who also happens to be a badass single mom and rock star surgeon - nothing should be able to make me feel insecure, right? Believe me, having all these conflicting feelings is such a pain in the ass, I would surgically remove them if I could.'

Tristan was still shaking his head and looked like he was torn between laughing out loud and yelling.

'Do you know why I lashed out on you back at the gym? Because I'm incredibly, painfully frustrated.'

Paris opened her mouth but he rose a hand to stop her.

'Sexually frustrated,' he clarified. 'I was there sitting on top of you and you were wiggling under me and I was so painfully hard I thought you might get puncture wounds by the time this training was over. Jesus.'

'What?'

'I can't believe you didn't feel it,' he shook his head in disbelief. 'I'm used to training and keeping my mind on track while doing so. I'm good with discipline. I can usually take care of a hard-on. But you turn me on,' he sighed, spreading his arms to the side. 'And it's hard to control myself when I'm around.'

'I... turn you on?'

'For the love of god, Paris, yes,' he huffed. 'You will soon put a couple of pounds on and start looking like yourself again, will it be easier for you to believe me then?'

'I...'

'Yes it will. And you know why? Because since you got sick, you've only been focusing on the surface of our relationship.'

She clenched her jaw but kept silent because... well, because he was right. She had treated him like he was the King of Chilton. Like she didn't know him at all.

'Outside of the gym mat, I don't like to fight,' Tristan continued, looking weary but still angry. 'With you it's hardly ever a ride in the park, but I won't be dragged into pointless fights only so that you can feel more confident in what I feel about you through blackmailing me for proof. If you feel insecure, you come and ask me, but do me a favor and don't question my motives when it comes to you.'

Paris glared at him with a mix between awe and shame and then a determined glint sparkled in her eyes.

'Are you still frustrated?' she asked, crossing the space between them until she was in his face.

'What?'

She pushed his chest and used his surprise to gain momentum, placing her hands on his hips and pushing him back until the backs of his knees hit the sofa. She pushed him down into a sitting position and without giving him time to react climbed to straddle him.

'Paris, what the-'

She caught his jaw between both of her palms, angling his face up.

'You know what turns me on?' she asked, her thumb brushing his lips. 'You angry. When you get all bossy and condescending, all I wanna do is...' she leaned into him, her nose nuzzling his neck as she slid a hand down the soft hoodie covering his chest, pressing against his abs with the heel of her palm as her fingers slid under the elastic of his sweatpants, 'put my hands on you,' she finished, slipping her palm straight inside his boxer briefs.

He hissed as she closed her fingers around him.

'You can forget about your discipline,' purposefully slowly, she touched the tip of her tongue to his neck. His hips jerked in response making her smirk with satisfaction. 'You're safe with me,' she whispered, her lips brushing his ear as her hand slid and closed firmer around him. 'You can relax, I got you.'

'We need...' he said with his throat dry, 'need to take this slow.'

'I can go slow,' she whispered against his neck, leaving small butterfly kisses and sucking the skin in between. 'I can go as slow as you like,' she continued, pumping him agonizingly slowly.

'Fuck,' he let out a throaty sigh, resting back against the sofa, his will to fight with her finally over, giving in. 'You're gonna be the death of me.'

'No one here is dying,' Paris said, sliding off his lap to free him from his sweatpants.

'Pa... Shit.'

NOW

'The therapist said I need to be the parent and for that I need to stop acting like an older brother.'

It wasn't what Tristan said. It was the way he said it, though. Like he hated every single word.

'You don't like what the therapist said because you think the idea's preposterous or you don't like what he said because it makes you feel bad about yourself?'

Tristan looked to the side, his eyes focusing out of the window. He stood with hands on his hips and breathed heavily, nostrils flaring, looking like a pissed off dragon. Like an action movie hero mentally skipping though handgun options for his personal vendetta.

'I see,' Paris said calmly, leaning a hip against the kitchen table.

Tristan inhaled sharply and then exhaled. Like he was about to say something but then thought better of it. He frowned and rose a point finger, opening his mouth but then closing it again with a shake of his head. Like a gulping fish he stood there, his anger with the atrocious therapist giving way to a new feeling - the feeling of betrayal by his one and only advisor, his closest confidant.

With practiced patience, Paris watched his obvious distress.

Stiffly, as if recuperating from an unexpected blow in a friendly fistfight, Tristan made a couple of steps around the room before turning to face her, his expression twisted with defiance and agitation.

'You think he's right?' he asked. There was an edge to his voice, the question not so much a question as much as hurt accusation.

Unperturbed, Paris sat down in one of the kitchen chairs. She crossed her arms before her chest, as if she was just getting comfortable in order to watch a gig. She was taking a seat giving him time to unwind. Her face was calm, purposefully clear of emotion. No mockery, no judgemental scowl. She was simply waiting for him to let it out. And there was quite a bit to let out all right. He was just getting started.

'You do,' Tristan looked up at the ceiling, letting out a humorless laugh as he rubbed a hand down his face. 'You think he might be on to something.'

'So what do you recommend?' he sneered, 'That I finally snap out of it and quit the man-child act? Do you think I'm sidestepping responsibility as a father because I refuse to grow up? Do you think I am the reason why Aiden can't handle normal conversation and is feeling progressively anxious and circled out as a teenager? Because all this time he needed a father and all he got from me was the older brother?'

He was breathing heavily, his nostrils flaring with hurt and indignation. The dragon had taken a stab to the heart.

'Don't you think I wanted him to get the father figure he deserves? That all I wanna be is family with him and you and Josh? I'm not the best option in the family department, I get that. But no one will love him, stick to him through thick and thin the way I will,' Tristan said with such conviction and fervor the corners of his mouth twitched. A vein across his temple was pulsing, his eyes turning into dark blue pools of madness.

Paris mashed her lips together and rested back in her chair, a perfect picture of composure in the face of an approaching typhoon.

'I may not be everything he deserves in the father figure department, but I'm the best he could get at the time,' Tristan vented on, his voice rising a notch. 'And he didn't have a happy carefree childhood all right, but he had a good one. Thanks to me, Aiden had a good enough childhood and the older brother drill worked well enough-' he paused before her with his hands hanging by his sides in tight fists, looking down at his shoes in offended exasperation. In and out, he breathed with careful precision, as if he might forget how to if he stopped paying attention. Like a fighter facing an immeasurably stronger opponent, he was doing his best to take the blows with dignity when he was obviously feeling far out of his league.

'Until recently. It worked well enough until recently,' Tristan added flatly, losing a battle with himself.

He didn't know the rules of this game.

Rules. In sports, there were rules. In military school, there were rules. If you knew the rules, you might not always win, but at least you knew what to expect. Life became predictable, of sorts. If you looked at medicine from an analytical point of view, you could easily see how it was a profession defined by rules - logical, with well set career goals and a pretty well-outlined career ladder. To an outsider it might seem high school jocks would be the last people to care about rules. But if there were rules, it was easier to know what was expected from you. Easier to belong. If there were rules, it was easier to know who you were.

In parenthood, none of that applied. You protected your son with everything you got. The world still found ways to seep in and find cracks in that shield. You tried to be someone so that when your son looked back at you they saw someone of worth. Someone to a aspire to, a role model to follow. But what you were really doing was trying to get your son to be someone of worth. Your son. Not you. Because you've been well aware you were never gonna make it half as good if it weren't for your kid watching. How could you know who you were when there were no rules? All you were trying to do was look like you knew what you were doing with your life in front of your kid only so they would do something with theirs.

Paris nodded slowly. She studied Tristan, trying to decide if he was finished. When he didn't fall into another venting fit for a whole minute she decided he might. When he finally mustered up the courage to look up and meet her eyes, Paris leaned forward and spoke.

'It did work,' she said calmly, authoritatively. 'It did work pretty well when Aiden was a kid and, thanks to you, he did have a good childhood. Now Aiden is growing up, the situation is changing and the big brother drill doesn't work anymore,' Paris continued, holding his gaze. 'That's why you need to change the drill. In order for it to start working again.'

'Change the drill,' Tristan huffed with what little fight he had left in him.

It was... What if he couldn't? What if the older brother persona was all he would ever have to offer? Maybe Tristan didn't have it in him - that parenting, going through life doing right kind of thing.

How could he play this game if he didn't know the rules?

There were people like Paris Geller who made their own rules. In the face of a storm they fought relentlessly until they conquered it -like surfers finding a way to ride the waves even when they came tsunami-sized. Paris Gellers were kings and queens, and masters of their own fate. And then, there were people like him. Lost boys, Tristan Dugrays coming from borderline hateful households, running from their problems by living their life like it was an endless bachelor party. Lost boys who hardly filled their own shoes, still learning how to be themselves properly, let alone fill the role of responsible steady fathers.

Somewhere along the way, a lost boy had stumbled over someone precious. With that he found meaning, a greater purpose and that had changed the game, made him less lost in a way. At least he'd thought it had. Now he was trying to build a family with this someone and both their children but nothing worked according to plan. The plan was that love should be enough. Life had tried so many times to teach him love was almost never enough. Love was simply a good place to start.

What scared him, and it scared him beyond good measure, was the fact that hadn't he met a hurricane of a woman called Paris Geller, chances were he'd still be chasing after temporary fixes, distractions serving as means to run from what he felt uncomfortable with in his own life. Tristan used to call this compartmentalizing. But what he was really doing was slicing his life into thin meaningless pieces, cheap slivers of reality that would be easier to throw away one day. Staying unattached with his own life was the way he was used to living it. There was that comfort in making the same mistakes over and over again. It didn't feel right but it felt familiar, it felt comfortable. This had been the drill. For so long, it had been the drill and it had become his default. What use was a Tristan Dugray in a world where thirteen year old boys needed someone to be their father? Change the drill. Did he know how? However, Tristan knew what a lost thirteen year old boy didn't need. And it was another lost boy. Change the drill. Did he stand a chance?

'Yes,' Paris confirmed, as if what she was saying wasn't atrocious but was in fact the most natural thing in the world. 'You're gonna work on it until you get to a point where what you can give Aiden in the - what expression did you use, father figure department - is enough again.'

Tristan was standing still, looking at her as if she was sharing a recent encounter with alien intelligence and her brief interaction with the aliens that foreshadowed an oncoming zombie apocalypse somewhere around the end of this weekend.

Paris sighed, knowing how Tristan always steeled himself for her critique. He always assumed she was going to dissect him with her lucky scalpel. Because she was this superwoman nazi mom and professional and he was - well, you know - moron.

Tristan Dugray wasn't used to being praised, period. But it applied especially to her. The only logical appraisal coming from her seemed to be total annihilation. Stupid boy. When would he finally start to listen?

'When is the last time you grounded Aiden?' Paris asked.

'What?'

'Or the last time you demanded answers from him,' Paris continued. 'The last time you told him you weren't putting up with his antics anymore?'

Tristan's forehead was split by deep worry lines.

'You call manhandling my son actual parenting?' Tristan asked, his expression one of disbelief. One would think Paris Geller wouldn't fall for the cliche picture of dysfunctional parenting where the parent forced their way over the child... right?

'Not physically,' Paris shrugged, not looking offended by Tristan's obvious shock. 'When you're the parent and he's the child you make the decisions, whether he likes them or not. It's your call,' Paris explained.

'I tried to talk to him,' Tristan reasoned. 'I tried to engage him, then waited, then tried to engage and talk to him again.'

'That's what a good, caring older brother does,' Paris said seriously. 'I guess there is even some term about it, something politically correct like creative collaboration between peers or whatnot. When that still doesn't work, decisions have to be made. And maybe an outside source can help. Maybe the kid needs to see a therapist, so you make your research and take that kid to see the best damn therapist you find, whether kid likes that or not. You make the decision and get the kid the help they need, not the one they want. Parenting is rarely politically correct. But a parent doesn't thrive to please, they thrive to do what's right even if that sits badly with their own ego. That's what a real parent does.'

Tristan's face was frozen into a peculiar mix of surprise and bafflement. Paris sighed.

'You sought help in a situation you saw you couldn't handle on your own. That's not pathetic. It's honest and it's brave. If you feel like you must wallow in self pity and toss blame around - you go ahead and do that. But you can also admit to making a grown up decision and own that.'

An older brother would have the luxury of saying Okay I tried, it didn't work. A parent couldn't. A parent would never relent. A parent would seek a way until a way was found. And that's what Tristan was doing.

'Whoa.'

Paris narrowed her eyes.

'What did you expect me to tell you?'

'That seeking help is for losers?' Tristan answered as if she were asking if the sky was blue, like that was the most obvious reply in the world.

She gave him a thoughtful nod.

'Why?' she asked.

Tristan blinked in disbelief.

'Because you are you? I mean, if you had to write The Ultimate Guide On How To Find The World's Most Pathetic Moron, the book would be a one-pager and go with a mirror. And, jeez, I don't know - because you are the person who fought stage three cancer alone? How about that to seeking help in a stuck situation?'

Paris shrugged.

'I was too stubborn to seek help. Doesn't mean I didn't need it. I was just too afraid to admit that. Everybody needs help sometimes.'

'Very...' Tristan paused looking for the right word and licked a smirk off his lips '... mature of you to say.'

Paris arched her eyebrows and her smirk reflected his amusement. Over the last two and a half years, she had learned to try and look at things beyond her current circumstances. It was proving to be... therapeutic.

'Cancer survivors adopt an inexhaustible supply of wisdom,' she explained. 'Now I'm gonna go change into something sweaty and go for a run. You coming?'

'What?' Tristan blinked, sobering. Then gave her a nod. 'Oh. Okay. Yeah. Let's go for a run.'

Paris started for the stairs to her bedroom. She was a couple of steps up when she paused and turned to meet his eyes.

'Oh, and, Tristan? I didn't fight cancer alone,' she said seriously. 'I had you there. You were there with me, each step of the way.'

TBC