AUTHOR: The Corruptor
RATING: PG with some mild swear words
CHARACTERS / PAIRING: Tristan and some other guy
SUMMARY: Tristan’s therapy sessions from GG: Season 1; 3rd person omniscient but mostly from the therapist’s POV
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Ok, here's "The Dissertation"! PROCEED WITH CAUTION... Very Long, Very Pro-Sympathetic-And-Complex Tristan Fic!! Just having some fun trying to sketch out Tristan’s character since we know so little about him. For those of you who might want to skip this (and there may be a couple of you. der!), the basic storyline for this fic is a rehashing of Tristan's thoughts and feelings about what's happened so far in Season One. And please… I’ve never been to a therapist before (though that’s really surprising) so I have no idea exactly how a session is supposed to be except for what I’ve gotten from TV and movies (great sources, if you ask me. D’oh). His main job here is only to help Tristan speak his mind. Also remember patient/doctor/reader confidentiality; since these are Tristan’s private sessions, some parts contain only short excerpts from each session, instead of the entire therapy session.
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but the clothes on my back, and that annoying shrink. The rest was borrowed from GG and the WB.

“Why do you keep referring to her as ‘she’?” he asked, curious.

Tristan shifted in his seat, not really wanting to answer the question. He was casually attired again, having come that day in blue jeans, sneakers, and a blue T-shirt. He was beginning to resemble more and more a frustrated and confused teenager. “Because.” He was being insolent again. He hadn’t decided how much he wanted to share with this man -- this man who he had been revealing his deepest fears and feelings to for weeks, but was, for all intents and purposes, still a stranger. Only now, he was a stranger armed with information about Tristan. Trust was a hard thing to learn to accept and to give. Especially when there was so much to lose. So much pain affiliated with trust.

“Does she have a name?” he asked innocently.

“Yes,” Tristan replied simply. But he did not go into detail. He did not say her name.

“Are you afraid that by saying her name… giving your problem a name… you’ll give her power over you?”

Tristan rubbed his hands together. It was a nervous habit. Rubbing his hands and rubbing his neck. He had noticed these things and knew that when Tristan did them, he was getting close to a truth. “Her name is power.”

He sat back in his armchair. “What does that mean?”

“When I first met her, I refused to call her by her name. I gave her a name. Mary.” Tristan squirmed, revealing this part of his past. This distasteful aspect of his history with her.

“Why do you think that is?”

Tristan frowned, not wanting to revisit the “Mary” days. “Because it was easier to play the game if there was no real emotional connection. Because it annoyed her and frustrated her to no end. Because it gave me power and made her inferior.”

“And?” He sensed it. There was another reason.

“Because she was special.”

He frowned. “That’s not it,” he told the boy, matter-of-factly.

“Because… because saying her name would give her the power over me and not the other way around.”

The man merely nodded and made an assenting noise to himself. Tristan did not say anything. He didn’t know if talking about this, about what was bothering him, was supposed to make him feel better. Because it hadn’t so far. It only made him feel worse. Because he was made even more aware of the torment he had initially put her through. And now, not only did he know and she know, someone else knew as well. It didn’t seem fair that this persona of him being a jerk would precede him from now on.

“I don’t think I should see you anymore.” He was matter-of-fact and blunt. And his face was serious.

“If you say so.”

“I’m not the kind of guy who goes and sees a shrink. I don’t need therapy. I’m relatively well-adjusted. I’m not crazy. All I needed was a good venting session, and I can do that by myself.”

“I’m not your shrink. I’m a friend,” he reminded gently. And over the past few sessions, he had indeed become that.

“Whatever,” Tristan shrugged, neutrally. Friends didn’t pay others to be friends. It went against the definition of friendship.

“You know, it’s not just crazy people who need therapy. Sometimes people just need to talk to someone who’s willing to listen. Someone who has no hidden agenda.”

The walls were coming up fast. “It’s my mother’s thing. It’s the in thing to do. I don’t want to do it. It’s not important that I conform.” But he had. Because almost everything he did at school, almost every act he had pulled so far, was because others had expected them from him.

“Okay. It’s always been your decision to walk away,” he informed, slowly.

“Yeah,” Tristan agreed, quietly, not entirely believing him, but thankful for the out.

“Rory.”

“What?”

Tristan had come back after all, looking fresh and confident. He had been smiling when he walked in, as if they were old friends, ready to play a round of impromptu basketball. Only, as soon as he sat down, the confident smile had faded and he resumed looking uncertain and doubtful. His two weeks away had seemed to relax him, put him back at ease. But now, he seemed to be burdened with his thoughts again. He had sat down, picked at the corner of the couch cushion and not said a word until now, taking him completely by surprise as the other man wondered whether they would have to start all over again with the petulance and resistance and sullenness.

“Her name is Rory.” It was said in a quiet and thoughtful manner, with a hint of respect and awe and adoration.

“So she does have a name,” he joked lightly. Even if he hadn’t heard part of the story already, he would have been able to pick up on just how Tristan felt about the girl from those four words.

Tristan grimaced. “Yeah.”