Disclaimer: Nothing's mine.

A/N: A very hard, conflicted chapter to write. I've been living the emotions along with the characters, and I've been twisted up in knots for days trying to figure how to make this chapter work. I'm still not sure if the emotions come across right, so your feedback will be especially helpful. Hope you're in for some more in-depth Tristan backstory, because it's coming in the next chapter :)

She felt her fingers close tighter around his. His palm was warm. His whole body was warm beside her,warm and solid. Feeling his hand squeeze back, returning the gesture, Paris felt her pulse pick up and lifted her chin, walking straighter next to him as they entered the hotel elevator.

With her heels on, their height difference was still only short of ridiculous, but somehow more bearable. They got some strange kind of symmetry, a weird pair who complimented each other in ways that were unlikely yet didn't completely suck. She caught their reflection into the mirror surface of the elevator doors. Dugray and Geller. Complimenting each other. Huh. That, or they were Jeeves and Wooster.

He cleaned up well. His thick box beard contrasted his military cut, the seamless button up under his slim fit blazer contrasted the dark washed jeans. Paris had made a comment about him looking like a stray homeless man with all that facial hair. Of course she would imply he looked like a tramp because of the beard. Except he didn't. He looked like a Men's Health model, stylish and casual. Because Tristan Dugray made contradiction work.

Paris looked at her own reflection, checking out her high neck sleeveless black dress. The only accent in her outfit was the neck of the dress which was heavily decorated with silver jewelry ornaments. She had thought it looked classy, even some kind of royal maybe, when she bought that dress last year. But now she thought if maybe it was a little prudish, too. She checked out the outfits of a couple of other women who got into the elevator after them. Heavy partying was written all over them and their inviting smiles as they checked Tristan out made her want to roll her eyes.

Paris let out a sigh and braced herself. She wasn't that person. Walking into a party with the former king of Chilton didn't automatically turn her into some petty little miss whose only social weapon was her skimpy outfit. She was a surgeon, for god's sake. A surgeon and a mother. Not some brainless bimbo. She turned to give Tristan a quick glance and found him resting his head back against the elevator wall with his eyes shut, seemingly blocking everything around them. Paris was going to ask him if he was feeling sick but as soon as the elevator doors slid open he straightened and tugged on her hand, leading the way out, his step easy and determined as if nothing had passed through him a minute ago. And when he turned to give her a look before they entered the lobby bar, there was a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his lips, his eyes lighting up as soon as they met hers. He was feeling comfortable with her. Something was bothering him but it wasn't her presence around him. If anything, her presence seemed to anchor him, give him a sense of calm.

Their hands were firmly clasped together as they walked into the lobby. She felt like he needed the gesture more than she did, having fallen into some unlikely Tristan-the-Brood stupor. It was rare when he got into one of his moods. However, it felt like he was being more honest when he did, his actions somehow based on instinct rather than pulling off the lively superficial exterior. She remembered the first time she saw him like this. It felt like a lifetime ago, two Christmases ago when they were both finishing their daily shifts and he had gotten into a fight with the father of a patient because the father had hit his daughter. She had seen him like this again when she'd asked him to call Shefield for Nanny's surgery. Then again, after his leg was operated on and he was stuck with a pair of crutches for a whole month. Every time he got into one of his funks, there was a solid reason for it.

Paris held on to him. Because she intuitively felt that he needed that. A reminder of her presence, her silent support somehow transpiring between them, pulling him out whenever he sank into his own thoughts.

And when they spotted the groups of people having drinks chatting, she told herself that she, Paris Geller, was the one who would bring that amazing smile over his features. Not any of the fabulous bombshells around here. She was the one who brought him peace while gorgeous Beatrice Shefield was making him feel contrite. Paris tried to concentrate on his demeanor, the slightly protective stance as they leaned over the counter to order their drinks. The way he would look around, his eyes leisurely scanning the surroundings, standing with his legs further apart, his whole frame somehow wider than usual, circling her as the bar got more and more crowded.

Music was getting louder, people were getting tipsier. The party crowd dancing and mingling all around them, people looking for a quick thrill before returning back to the mundane stress of everyday life.

Paris was still sporting a half-full glass of Martini while Dugray was hovering over his untouched beer. They were such dorks right now. Such complete nerds. No party spirit whatsoever. Maybe it was contagious. Maybe she had infected him with disdain for the feeble-minded.

Something was happening to him, she thought. But she couldn't pinpoint what. She considered the possibility of her projecting her own feelings onto him. Who knew, maybe she was the one who was feeling confused and was getting clingy, trying to read more into his thoughtfulness than there was. Maybe he was simply bored and that was why he was so sullen. Nah. She knew better than that.

She replayed the last forty-five minutes in her head. As they started their way to the bar, she gave his palm a reassuring squeeze before letting go, being forced to do so as people came and talked to them, exchanging pleasantries. Hands were shaken, socially required hugs were exchanged. And for the first time in forever Paris was the social speaker for the two of them. Because tonight Tristan wasn't his usual chit-chat self. He exchanged nods, managed brief lines with the colleagues who stopped to greet them, but he didn't indulge into small talk or any kind of jokes whatsoever.

Paris wondered if he was waiting for Beatrice to appear from somewhere. If the ex-girlfriend vixen was the reason why he was so high strung, why his mind was working on overdrive while his outward posture was silently distraught from his loud surroundings. There were many fancy chicks around there too. Maybe he was frustrated because he was stuck with Chilton's nerd nazi instead of heavy partying with a couple of oversexed medical graduates. Paris stole a quick sideways glance. Tristan Dugray didn't look like he was regretting missing the chance to party. He was silent, completely drawn into his own head. And sad. Maybe it was finally safe to acknowledge the obvious. He was sad.

'Are you okay?' Paris asked touching his arm, studying him with concern.

He took a breath and put his hands on his hips and bit on his lower lip, looking to the side. Then looked at her, shaking his head. His eyes were so blue. So blue and so bruised, it made her feel a pull in her chest.

Paris gave Tristan a quick nod and grabbed her purse, taking his hand.

'Okay, let's bail,' she said leading him out of the bar.

As they walked out into the crispy spring air, they made a couple of steps stopping by a small clearing with two benches probably intended for a smoking area. It was still cold in the evenings despite being the end of March and the area was secluded.

She arched an eyebrow and turned to give him a look, a slight smirk grazing the corner of her mouth.

'Better?'

He returned her smirk and his whole posture relaxed, seemingly at ease again. Their eyes locked and there was a light in his, a bout of nervous energy she caught on as his gaze moved between her eyes, as if searching for something before he lowered his gaze, suddenly self-conscious.

Paris narrowed her eyes.

'Any particular reason why you turned all Hulk back there?' she pointed back towards the hotel.

Tristan shrugged, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans, kicking a cobblestone as he stepped from one foot to the other.

'You're worse than me when you get moody,' Paris shook her head and wrapped the ends of her coat tighter around herself, stepping from foot to foot in an attempt to keep herself warm. 'At least I bitch around and scream at people to get their shit together. You clam in and turn completely blank,' she commented, her voice void of judgement.

Tristan looked up, his smirk reappearing but hardly reaching his eyes.

'Are you dying of something incurable?' Paris clipped, not entirely joking.

That produced a short laugh from him. At least he didn't look like he was dying.

'Dugray, seriously, what's going on?'

'I've been thinking,' Tristan said, running a palm down his nape, kicking another stone as his eyes roamed the pavement under his feet.

'I knew something was entirely wrong with the Universe as soon as you came out of your room wearing a shirt without a ridiculous cartoon print on it,' Paris huffed and made a step closer, searching his gaze. 'Wanna talk about it?' she asked, her voice much softer.

His lips stretched into a brief smile before he shrugged and his nose scrunched.

'Not really.'

Paris groaned, rolling her eyes in an exaggerated 'I knew I shouldn't waste my time with you' fashion.

'I'm so gonna regret this,' she sighed, resting her forehead against the tips of her thumb and middle finger. After a short pause, she asked, her voice laced with eternal patience. 'What were you thinking about?'

A quick smile touched the corners of his lips as he looked up at her. Of course he would find her frustration amusing. Then he got thoughtful again, moving to sit on one of the benches.

'Do you remember when Josh asked you what changed when people grew up?'

'Eh?'

Tristan clasped his hands together, leaning both elbows over his knees.

'He asked you if little boys like him were capable of big love. If he would love his new toys more when he grew up. If you loved him more than he could love you because you were older and maybe your love was bigger too.'

Paris blinked.

'Oh...kay.'

Tristan's lips curled into a small smile.

'You told him that love was the same when you were four years old and when you were forty. But while four year olds understood love as hugging what you love, when you grew older you realized love meant responsibility. And four year olds thought holding on to what they loved was a testament to their love while grown ups learned to let what they loved free. You told him that the love was the same, we were the ones who changed.'

Paris squinted slightly.

'I said that?'

'Yeah,' Tristan nodded thoughtfully.

'Huh.'

'It was a wise thing to say to a four year old.'

'Very funny,' Paris rolled her eyes.

Tristan's brows furrowed.

'I mean it. It was wise. And kids are able to understand much more wise stuff than they're given credit for. Especially Josh. He is a pretty smart kid.'

'O-kay,' Paris nodded slowly, not really getting where Tristan was getting with all this. 'And you were thinking about me talking life concept semantics with my four year old instead of indulging into the heat of a party because...?' she made a meaningful pause, gesturing with her hand to prompt him to continue.

'I just thought about it. You asked me what I was thinking about and that's it, so yeah,' he lifted a shoulder.

He stood resting his elbows over his knees with his head hung low for a while before he tilted his head to the side to look up at her.

Paris rose an eyebrow, giving him a 'don't you bullshit me' stare. He blinked, his look open and void of any traces of bias.

Paris let out a sigh and moved to sit next to him.

'You're weird, you know that right?' she asked, leaning both arms over her crossed legs, partly mirroring his position.

'I've never seen you so sad before,' she admitted quietly.

He shrugged again, the ghost of a sour smile back over his lips.

'It's sad there aren't more Paris Gellers in the world.'

Paris blinked, trying to decide if he was bullshitting her.

'You're so weird,' she let out a confused chuckle.

He looked at her, his blue eyes boring into hers.

'And you're amazing.'

They fell into an eyelock before Tristan was the first to break the spell, standing off the bench.

'Come on, starry-eyed hot stuff,' he reached out a hand to offer to her, 'Let's go before I've done something stupid.'

He took her hand and led her back in the direction of the hotel. Paris tugged on his hand, making him stop.

'Why are you fighting this so bad?' she asked, her tone traced by hurt and confusion.

Tristan's face contorted with a myriad of emotions. Apology, plead, apprehension. He breathed in to compose himself.

He reached behind her head and pulled her in for a hug, his lips pressing over her forehead.

'Because I can't lose you,' his voice came low, scratchy with emotion.

And as he led the way back, walking her to her hotel room and waiting against the opposite wall until she closed the door, Paris had one question playing on repeat in her head.

What happened to you, Dugray? What happened to you to scare you so bad?

TBC