Disclaimer: Nothing's mine.

A/N: A very bittersweet chapter to write. Your reviews matter.

His jaw was tense, his look focused, looking intent and haunted. Paris had woken up to find him sitting in the bed with his elbows resting over his knees, leaning forward. It looked like he had been sitting like this for a while.

Paris sat up next to him, studying him. It didn't look good. She took a bracing breath and let it out slowly. She had known their time was ticking. She had known it all along. The expiration date of this little joyride with elements of torment they had been taking, had been looming over them since day one. It had been everpresent, foreshadowing their relationship even before there was a relationship in the first place. Tristan had known it. Moreover, Paris had known it. Yet, she opted to take whatever she could get. It was as simple as that. If she could have little or nothing from him, she would at least have little, trying to dig and scrape, excavating her way into his soul. For all it was worth, Tristan had lasted even longer than she would've given him credit for. Three months. A small eternity.

'You can tell me,' she said somberly, quiet resignation flooding her voice, sitting with her knees drawn up next to her chest, leaning over to look at him. After a second's hesitation, she added, 'Whatever it is.'

'I...' Tristan licked a lip and looked up at the ceiling, running a hand through his hair, pulling at the edges. Then again, running his fingers through the short locks, squeezing his fingers into a fist at his nape.

'I had a dream.'

He looked as helpless as she'd ever seen him.

'O-kay.'

In any other case Paris would have prepared to be led through the intricate smutty paths of Tristan's erotic dreaming, but something was off, had been off for a while. For a couple of days now something kept nagging at her senses. Like a small shift in your peripheral vision, something in Tristan's demeanor had shifted, he had become a tad sadder, a tad lost. He had been distracted, disappearing into his head, and she had noticed. Of course she had noticed. He had refused to address whatever was bothering him, so she waited. Maybe she had waited for, anticipated, dreaded this exact very moment. The moment when he realized he couldn't do this anymore. But first she had to hear what he had to say. Whatever it was. So she kept her eyes and ears open.

'It was one of those lucid dreams, you know...' his voice trailed off, as if going back there if even only in his mind, pained him.

'I know,' she said, her eye registering every little change in his face.

'There was a fire,' Tristan started, letting out a heavy breath. 'We were outside your apartment building, looking at the flames. You were standing next to me, and Aiden was sitting in a nearby ambulance.' He licked a lip and looked ahead, obviously lost in the memory. 'He was taken care of by the paramedics.'

The air between them had suddenly become heavy. Something was so off.

'What about Josh?' Paris asked, her voice strained.

Tristan rested his head in both palms and moved them to massage his temples, trying to relieve some of the tension.

'He was inside.' He cleared his throat. 'He was inside the burning building. You were standing right next to me and the look in your eyes...'

He stood straighter resting his arms against his knees, straightening his spine.

'I went over to Aiden and told him I loved him.'

Paris nodded slowly, her brows furrowing in concentration.

'Then I went into the building to look for Josh,' Tristan said so quietly, as if he were revealing one of his worst fears, as if he were admitting his most shameful secret.

Paris' brows furrowed even more, having trouble following.

'What?'

'I told my son that I loved him and that I was sorry. Then I went into a burning building to look for your son. Somehow, in my dream, I knew you couldn't move on from such a loss and I... had to go in.'

Tristan inhaled sharply and then scoffed.

'Do you realize how screwed up this is? I said goodbye to my own son so that I could go in and save yours.'

He was shaking his head, his expression tormented.

'I'm not ready for that kind of relationship,' he admitted solemnly, looking defeated, before he turned to face her. 'Please tell me you understand.'

That's what he was trying to tell her the other night, when she cut him off thinking he was about to tell her he wasn't right for her. It was I'm not ready. He wasn't ready. That's what he was trying to say. Not I'm not right for you. I'm not ready for you.

'Okay,' she reached out to place a palm behind his neck. 'I'm gonna hug you now.'

Paris pulled Tristan's head in against her shoulder and let herself breathe along with his deep exhale of relief.

She couldn't ignore another fact she'd noticed. He said 'not ready'. Not 'don't wanna'. Not ready. Like with time, maybe he was gonna get around the idea, just not now. Was he asking her to wait? Could she wait for him? What would they be waiting for exactly?

People accepted the love they thought they deserved. Tristan came from a cold dysfunctional household, whoring himself out of proportion because he thought that's what he deserved. Because he had a love denied for no apparent reason and he learned to protect himself from the prospect of ever being denied something he craved. And at some point he found himself facing a love he didn't know how to reciprocate. Maybe one day he would know how to do this. Maybe. But right now, it terrified him to no end. He knew how to be her friend. He had no idea how to be more. He needed time to figure it out. Please tell me you understand.

The way his arms had locked around her, the way he inhaled her, savoring the feeling, told her things he wasn't ready to face. Things that made him panic every five minutes. Things that he had been denied and learned to live without.

I understand, Tristan.

'Give me one night,' Paris said with newfound determination.

He pulled back to give her a confused look, his brow furrowing questioningly.

'One night,' Paris repeated. 'Before you put an end to our broken romance,' she gestured with her hand, slightly rolling her eyes before she looked him square in the eye dead serious. 'I want one night where you let me in, really allow yourself to get a taste of what it could be, then we go back to non-tactile territory.'

Tristan blinked, his ocean blue eyes digging holes in hers. His face was such a peculiar mixture of reluctance and apprehension.

'I don't wanna fall in love with you,' he whispered like a plea, his voice raw.

'I know,' Paris put a palm against his cheek and he closed his eyes, involuntarily leaning into her touch.

He didn't wanna fall in love with her. Hence the way he held on to her every night they fell asleep next to each other. Tristan could only be described as an aggressive hugger. Every time she woke up before him, he was all wrapped up around her, holding on as if his life depended on it. He didn't wanna fall in love with her. He was leaning into her palm, his eyes squeezing as if he were in some actual pain while he tried not to give in to the impulse to return the affection. Yet, he didn't wanna fall in love with her.

'It's not a matter of choice, Tristan,' she said softly.

And a little too late.

He opened his eyes to look at her, his eyes haunted in the semi-darkness. She held his look, her spine straight, her chin up.

'Open that closet for once and walk straight in. I'll be right beside you.'

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

'What do you wanna know?' he asked.

'Everything.'

You can't run forever, Tristan.

'She left him,' he said, his voice so low and scratchy it sounded like it was coming from a distance.

He looked around the room, as if looking for an escape, then shaking his head and taking a steadying breath.

'Thirty-five years later, she left him.'

Who left who? Oh. Oh.

'He was a feeble-minded man who got in love with a pretty girl,' Tristan smiled a small self-deprecating smile, as if reminiscing. 'He waited for her to come back home after her shopping trips, knowing she had been in a hotel screwing his colleague's brains out. He waited for her anyway. When I tried to stand up to him and talk about that, he shut me up. He defended her, telling me they were content with the way they chose to lead their lives. When she understood about my standoff, she offered him to send me to Military School. God is my witness I offered them enough excuses to do so. He didn't object. They went on with their arrangement for thirteen more years. Thirteen more years of this, and she left him, thirty-five years into that marriage.'

Paris watched him, her mouth slightly agape. She wasn't exactly shocked. She was smart enough to get the gist of Tristan's home situation. The signs were all there. But what shook her was the sudden understanding how different their situations growing up had been. Because while she came from a distant, absent family, he came from a family that had been actively dysfunctional right before his eyes. He had been there for all of it, growing up. The impact had been so different, she now realized. Years of betrayal and quiet acceptance.

'When... when did you get the news?'

She had to ask, although she suspected the answer. She knew there had been a reason for his funk over three months ago when they went to that Medical Malpractice conference in Boston.

'The day when we went to Boston.'

Something kept nagging at the back of her memory. Something he had said then. It had sounded so out of context, so random.

What was he had told her when she asked him what he was thinking about? Something about her explaining life semantics to Josh.

Can little boys like him feel big love? Yeah. That's the one. Tristan had remembered, word for word, what Paris Geller had told her four year old son about love and growing up. That while four year olds understood like 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. The love was the same, people were the ones who changed. Jesus, Dugray. The love was the same, people were the ones who changed. He. His father. The love was the same. The betrayal was the same. Kids held on to their love while grown ups learned to let what they loved free. His father let his cheating mother free. Because thirty-five years later he still loved her the same. The same way Tristan couldn't not love her, no matter how hard he tried. No matter how much he wanted to despise his father for letting that woman stomp all over his heart, he couldn't because he realized just how much they were alike.

Paris had put a hand before her mouth, nipping on her lip, her eyes trying their best not to well up.

She took a breath and her look focused back on his, her emotions back in check.

'Tristan Dugray, I'm in love with you,' she said in a serious, typical Paris tone. As he opened his mouth to speak she put a palm over his mouth, shaking her head no. 'Shut up and listen.'

She took a breath.

'You're broken in many ways I never suspected, but even in your broken state you have found a million ways to shine and give love in every way that matters.'

Her fingers pressed against his lips as she felt them move.

'Let me make love to you,' she whispered and moved her hand away, cupping his cheek as she moved to straddle his lap, taking his face between her palms. He looked up at her, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes wide, taking in each little detail, his hands unconsciously finding their place at her waist.

His senses were screaming, alarmed and starved. He'd never let anyone this close, never put himself in a position to be dependent on someone's mercy. And the way she touched him, she gave and gave and gave, and his starved mind took and took and took. And for one night, he let her take the lead and show him what it would be like to be made love to. For one night, he mustered the risk to trust himself with someone else and place his fears behind, if only a step behind. Next morning would find him gripping onto her for dear life. Because the love was the same and it was the only kind of love a golden-haired golden-hearted little boy was capable of feeling. And as he grew up, he learned to let what he loved free. So, when he woke up the next morning, Tristan disentangled himself from her, pressed his lips to her hair and left.

TBC