Disclaimer: Nothing's mine. Song lyrics used in this chapter belong to Street Of Roya's 'Prisoner'.

A/N: Aah, some Tristan turmoil. I know, I know... but it's just the way this story feels true, blame it on the characters :P I need your reviews to keep going, feedback is bliss :)

'Lie down on the couch.'

'Eh?'

'Lie down on the couch,' Paris repeated, gesturing towards the empty couch of the break room.

'Am I gonna be naked by the end of this conversation? Because I love the way your mind works, Titch.'

'You're such a guy, Tailcoat.'

'Why thank you.'

'By guy I meant pervert.'

Tristan shrugged, his smirk growing wider.

'You didn't mind that last night.'

'If you cooperate, there might be some nudity involved.'

'See who is the pervert now,' he rose his eyebrows, the look in his eyes flashing with excitement. 'Are we gonna role play? Because I love role play.'

'I'm psycho-analyzing you. Lie down on the couch. Remember - nudity.'

Tristan hopped down on the couch, lying back with amazing dexterity. It took so little to get a guy motivated.

'What is your first memory of your mother?' Paris asked then.

The air in the room stilled. Tristan stilled. Paris stilled. They stood, him lying on the couch with his eyes closed. Her standing by the couch with her hands clenched into eager fists by her side. A pause in which Tristan seemed to suck in a slow breath and moved to sit on the couch, letting his feet step down on the floor. He rested both palms flat against the edge of the couch, his knuckles going white as he sat, motionless, detached.

'Don't,' he said, his voice a rueful rumble. 'Don't go there.' Then, after a pause, 'Please.'

Paris moved to sit beside him, putting a palm over his shoulder. All his muscles were strained. He stood at the edge of the couch, looking like a runner at a starting position, waiting for the whistle to blow.

'You know I'll dig until I find out what broke you beyond repair, right?' she asked, her voice calm and void of humor.

He turned to look at her, his jaw set firm, his shoulders stiff.

She was impossible, stubborn, unyielding. She was the last person you wanted digging something you wanted to forget you even buried, something wanted to forget ever existed in the first place. But she wouldn't be the Paris who saved your leg if she wasn't like this, would she? And who she was made for someone outstanding.

'You're too smart for your own good, Titch,' he said with a resigned sigh.

'You can talk to me, Dugray,' Paris let out a thoughtful sigh of her own and rested her cheek against his shoulder. 'You can trust my super smart ears to hear the right stuff, you can be dumb in front of me and trust I won't use it against you.'

She paused, then after giving it a moment's thought, added,

'I can also make for one hell of a hellhound, I'll scare off anyone who tries to offend you, vamp-wise or otherwise.'

This produced a short chuckle from him.

'I bet you will.'

'I don't like to see you like this,' she tried to prod. Carefully, tentatively, because she knew he didn't react well to being cornered.

As if sensing she'd come close to crossing some invisible line, she added with exaggerated playfullness, nudging his side,

'This diem ain't gonna carpe itself.'

Nothing. Okay, so she wasn't an expert on gauging life-shattering deep-laid fears out of people. She was blessed with little to no finesse when emotional stuff was concerned. She was honest, she was loyal, but when it came to being delicate with someone's feelings, she felt about as adequate as a Tim Burton fan at a Jane Austin convention - lost and useless.

It had been good. Who was she kidding, it had been much more than good. The sex had suspiciously resembled love-making. Sensual, intimate, rewarding. It had been all those things and maybe more. Maybe it had been just a bit short of phenomenal. Maybe he was reaching for something within himself and his path passed through her. Maybe for a couple of hours they both let themselves be, past and future forgotten, minds and souls here and paying attention.

The morning after, she would expect him to have second thoughts and go all freakingly prudish again, tell her this shouldn't have happened, he had been weak/delirious/under the influence/stupid/horny/curious/blind/angry/confused and she would have believed him, but he hadn't. Instead, he had been playful and open. He had been making jokes and looking for excuses to put his hands on her. There were little gestures of intimacy like hooking a finger under the hem of her knee-length tee (his tee in all truthfulness) as she passed him by and drawing her closer so he could place a chaste kiss on her shoulder, or lean over her from behind and pause, his lips an inch from her ear, his chest covering her back, warm and vibrant, and linger there, his breath feathering her nape. He had been smiling. God, was he smiling. And it ignited small campfires within her, warming places she had considered long hollow and frozen.

And then here they were. Him at the starting line and her trying not to blow the whistle.

Every time she tried to prod something more from him, something beyond the playful exterior, she hit a wall. He turned sad and moody. Every time she tried to look for something more than skimming along his easy-going surface, he became someone else. Someone she didn't know at all. It was unnerving. And scary. Paris had thought she was beyond that phase in her life where she got scared easily. She had been wrong.

'I won't judge,' she said gently, looking up at his profile as if to confirm a promise.

Tristan kept looking ahead, the tendons of his neck bulging with each silent breath he took.

Paris looked down, biting on her lip.

'Yesterday Josh asked me who Chuck Norris was,' she said in a resigned tone. 'So yeah, my son is four, it's high time he knows who Chuck Norris is, hence we're having a Norris binge at home tonight.' A pause. 'Thought you and Aiden may wanna join.'

'Count us in,' Tristan grinned immediately, although the change of mood looked rather forced on his strained features. She wondered how many times she had seen this transition and missed it. The way he would cover a wound with a grin or lame joke, making you believe the damage had never been there in the first place.

'And after the boys fall asleep, we may move on to the nudie part of that arrangement,' he offered, his tone turning more playful by the second. 'Because some parts of me are far from broken.'

Paris' lips pressed into a thin white line. He watched her, his placating smile fading only a little as concern crossed his pale blue eyes. How many times had she watched this transition, worry passing through him without making his smile falter? Did she know him at all?

She gave him a curt nod and stood up.

She knew him, she told herself. She knew him, dammit.

She knew him well enough to see his transparent stalling. He used sex as a distraction. He had never tried to cover that. The thing was, he used a loud and sunny personality as a distraction of some gaping wounds he had, and it was like a veil was being lifted, uncovering a whole new book of unfinished stories. Maybe both sides of him could somehow work together. Maybe his dark and bright could work together to create beautiful shadows and highlights. Maybe.

Tristan Dugray wasn't ready to pronounce declarations of soul-bearing honesty. And Paris knew better than to push him. The thing was, if there was one thing she was good at, one single skill she had mastered to extraordinary heights, it was pushing. She pushed herself and she pushed others. She pushed people to their limits, bulldozing their way into their better selves. The problem with pushing Tristan Dugray was, the chances he was gonna be around for any reruns if she overstepped some boundaries, were less than scarce. He had warned her. More than once. He had pleaded with her to not do this, not ruin what they had in search for building something more. Numerous times, he had warned her he wasn't ready to give her anything more than what she already had from him. And she felt a growing unease because her gut was telling her one thing, and her heart was reaching for another.

~ give me warmth and wealth, give me dreams and hope,

give me fame - give it, give it, give it to me

give me sex and art, give me love and soul,

give me everything as fast as possible

I see this city burn and see this city fall

if only I could flee - if only only I could flee ~

Beatrice Shefield's voice was crisp as she walked into the scrub room.

'He's in love with you.'

With that, she passed Paris by and started scrubbing over the sink next to the one taken up by Paris. Pristine white scrubs and light blue surgical cap on, Beatrice Shefield somehow matched the atmosphere of the OR. Clean. Neat. Cool. Sterile.

'He's gonna be overwhelmed by a desire to run away,' Beatrice continued. Then observationally, analytically, her words sparring with Paris' silence,

'How long before he goes and tries to make what he's feeling for you more bearable by random meaningless sex? I give him two weeks, give or two. And then what?'

Beatrice could have as well debated the stock market course. She had the cool composure of a businessman telling you you were broke and knowing fully well they weren't delivering any new information.

Paris rose a skeptical brow.

'He can't bear anything meaningful with a woman,' Beatrice stopped before her, arms bent in the elbows, dripping. 'He's been like that forever, you may go and think how you're gonna be the one that saves him but you're smart, you can't really believe he's gonna change only because he met you.'

'And why not?'

Beatrice shook her head with a bitter smile.

'Do you believe in the magical vagina spell, Geller?'

Paris' eyes narrowed and flashed with non-concealed warning.

'I thought so. Neither do I. You may heal his body's need to screw anything that moves, but this need never had anything to do with his body in the first place.'

Shefield's head tilted slightly to the side, her green eyes thoughtful.

'Maybe you don't believe me. You have all reasons to. But believe it or not, I care about him. And he's not about to move past his demons only because he met someone he feels more deeply about.'

Paris turned fully towards Beatrice, facing her with her own arms bent in the elbows, dripping with water. They looked like a weird pair of comic characters about to start throwing magic fireballs or whatnot.

'What do you know about his demons?' Paris asked.

Shefield shrugged.

'Not much, I guess.'

Her lips stretched into a thin smile.

'But enough to know it's a matter of time before he itches to belittle what he's feeling for you. He's been fighting it and he's not gonna stop fighting it only because it's getting harder to ignore. He's gonna itch to go and have something meaningless so that he breaks free from what he's getting in with you. And if you're about to go around claiming you are gonna be the one who's gonna cure him, maybe first you should ask yourself if you're gonna be the woman who stays in a relationship after he messes up. Because he's gonna mess up. A lot. And he's gonna hate himself for it.'

Like you did? Paris tipped her chin up and tried to assess Shefield's graceful, impeccable features, tried to see if she were talking about Tristan or if she was really talking about herself.

'He spent six months with me,' Beatrice said.

Take it from the one woman who has been in a relationship with Tristan Dugray.

'You know why? Because I wasn't trying to save him. Think about that.'

With that, Beatrice passed Paris by and walked into the OR. Paris followed.

Love was a peculiar thing. They said it made a fool out of a person. Maybe. It turned a person into a hope hunter. And hope hunters fearing the end of a dream were a sad, cruel, messy thing.

Beatrice Shefield had had Tristan Duray for six short months. And the reason he'd stayed with her was she didn't really have him at all. The moment she tried to own more than he was willing to give she lost him, irrevocably.

Trying to save Tristan Dugray from his concealed loneliness would cost him his freedom. It would take away the chance to feel entitled to screw up. Hope was a scary, powerful thing and it had the power to destroy people. Tristan feared hope. He feared it like he'd feared nothing else in his life. Once you have explored a certain kind of sadness, you get addicted to it. Not because you want sadness upon yourself. But because you start to believe that's what you deserve. And as time goes by, it's the only thing that starts to feel familiar. Because it's easier to relate to. Loneliness starts to feel like home.

How long before he goes and tries to make what he's feeling for you more bearable by random meaningless sex?

He could give his body to anyone, Paris realized. But it wasn't his body she was concerned about. It was his heart, and she wasn't sure it was ever on the table to begin with.

Her love was a prison he'd try to break free from. Because love came with expectations. Love came with hope. Hope you had for yourself. Hope you had for the person you loved. And the weight of that hope, the expectations it entailed, were unbearable for someone like Tristan Dugray, because he was a prisoner of his freedom.

Beatrice Shefield didn't know Tristan's demons. But she knew hers. And Tristan and her were much more alike than Paris would like to admit.

~ entertain my broken soul, entertain my faith,

entertain this life - ain't that what you're aiming for?

teach me my own ways, teach me my beliefs,

teach me what I'm not and what I'll never be...

I want to runaway, runaway

I need to runaway - help me runaway from here ~

'A word?' Paris caught up with him as he made his way out of the lockers room in his civilian clothes.

Tristan followed her out onto the ambulance parking lot.

'Am I in trouble?' he asked, his tone playful.

She turned and looked at him, a troubled expression over her face. His brows furrowed.

'I need to ask you a question and want you to be very honest with me, okay?' she asked, her voice uncharacteristically timid.

His expression changed momentarily. He made a step forward, his hand reaching out to touch her elbow. He gave her a slow nod.

'Are you a rundown bar?'

He stood watching her, not a trace of amusement, waiting for her to elaborate. By now he was familiar with her pattern of speaking, knowing she needed stark metaphors to make her point.

'Is there a 'sorry, we're closed off emotionally' tab hanging off your door?' Paris asked, her look shifting between his eyes, searching his expression for signs. Signs of what, she didn't know exactly. He was some bad whiskey and she had gotten hung up on him, her breath tasting like the remains of what could be an epic story but kept shutting down after the opening credits every time.

He kept his eyes on her, his breathing even. His look was firm on hers as he turned her words over in his head.

'If I had any say in it, I would never fall in love with you,' he answered truthfully.

'You don't wanna fall in love with me,' Paris repeated.

'Not the least bit,' he replied.

'And how has this been working out for you so far?'

He smirked, one corner of his mouth lifting up a bit.

'Terribly. Let's say you've pummeled through the 'we're closed off' sign and broken in, robbing whatever caught your eye in stride. I'm wondering if I'll have anything left in that rundown bar if I kick you out now.'

Paris chewed on the insides of her cheeks. He did have feelings for her. A lot of them. He didn't want to. He'd rather not have a single feeling for her but now that he did, he fought it. He didn't wanna fall in love with her. It was a bit late though. Now he was trying to deal with the aftermath of that. Maybe something good could come out of that. It was his call though. Not hers. She had all of her cards on the table. He was still debating if he was ever join the game.

They looked towards the back entrance of the hospital where Rory and Jess were just walking out, her hand looped around his elbow.

'We're not like them.'

'Eh?'

'Rory and Jess. We're not like them. They... make sense together. We don't.'

'Oh.'

'Yeah.'

He opened his mouth as if to say something else but then hung his head and stuck his hands in his jeans pockets.

'Night, Paris.'

'Tristan?'

He turned back.

'They didn't make sense when he was being a jerk and tried to make her hate him. But they stuck around each other long enough and eventually, they figured it out.'

She gave him a pointed nod as if to say, try beat me on that. Tristan's eyes paused on hers and for a moment they stood, gazing at each other. Then a wide smirk spread over his lips and he tilted his head to give her a salute before he left. They were like a miscalculated math problem. On all the logical points they didn't make sense. But together somehow they created a bubble of good energy, adding together, somehow minimizing the minuses. Maybe. Maybe someday.

And when later on he found her in the kitchen of her apartment while the boys were watching Sidekicks, he stood behind her and his arms wrapped around her, engulfing her into his larger frame and the way he held on to her wordlessly, desperately, felt a lot like an apology and a little bit like a promise. And she couldn't bring herself to give up on him. Because there was that. Someday. Maybe someday.

TBC