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.

“So tell me about Paris.”

Tristan had been sitting at the edge of his seat, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face. He was tired. School that day had been exhausting. He had had four exams, had stayed up all night studying for them. Normally, he wouldn’t have needed to pull an all-nighter, but he had been so distracted. With his sessions. With her. And every time he tried to concentrate on his books and his notes, his mind kept wandering. To her.

Tristan’s face appeared above his hands, withdrawn. “What?” He hadn’t heard the question. His mind had wandered back to each of the classes that he shared with Rory. He remembered the way she had bent over her exams, absently chewing on the tip of her pencil. He remembered how the brown hairclip she had used, to keep her hair from her face, hadn’t been able to keep stray wisps of soft brown hair from falling into her eyes as she concentrated on her exam. He remembered…

“Paris. Tell me about her.”

Tristan let out a deep breath, and leaned back against the soft cushions of the couch. “I’ve already told you. We’ve known each other for years. Since kindergarten practically,” he said, vaguely, bored.

The man chuckled softly, as if dealing with a slow child. Tristan was too tired to bother with a condescending smirk. “I meant… What happened with Paris.” He spoke quietly, but firmly. He knew Tristan’s mind was wandering. And he had an inkling towards what those thoughts were wandering to. Or rather, to whom his thoughts were wandering to.

Tristan sighed heavily and looked up at the ceiling. Paris was a friend, he supposed. But even if she weren’t, what happened had hurt. Not so much him, but still, he remembered the pain on her face, and he knew that he had been the one to put it there. No, he was remembering incorrectly. There was pain and anger there, but he hadn’t been the target. She had directed it at Rory. And because of that, it had been his fault.

“Rory suggested that I date a girl with substance. Someone different from the ones I usually date.” He said it as if it weren’t a big deal. But the man noticed that there was hurt and pain in the young man’s eyes. He was certain that the girl had suggested someone other than herself, and that had probably thrown the boy for a loop. Had probably crushed him.

“Someone like Paris and not like Summer,” the man offered.

Tristan nodded, impatient. He didn’t want to talk about Paris. “Yeah.” He didn’t want to talk about Summer either. But most importantly, though he would have loved to talk about Rory with someone else, to be able to adore her freely and publicly, he wasn’t sure how he felt about sharing his feelings with this man.

“Uh huh.” The man was making mental notes. And his tone of voice suggested that he had already figured it out before Tristan had even confirmed the Paris link. As if he knew Rory well enough to have known what she would have said to Tristan. Had said to him during their conversation on the bench.

Tristan shook his head, irritated. “What does that mean?” he asked, irked.

“Rory suggested that you date someone with substance. She suggested Paris. So you did.” He said it as if he knew exactly what had happened. As if he had been there on the bench with them.

“Yes,” Tristan agreed, slowly, reluctantly. He wasn’t sure he was going to like where the man was taking this conversation. He knew he wasn’t going to like it because he knew the man would be right.

“You went out with Paris because Rory told you to, and her opinion means a lot to you.” Pause to let Tristan digest the information. “You did it for Rory. Not for Paris. Not for yourself.”

Tristan blinked. Then the defense mechanisms came up. “You make it sound like an accusation,” he remarked, petulantly.

“It’s more like a fact, Tristan. Can you deny it?” He raised a brow and waited for the stream of denial and sarcastic remarks.

None were forthcoming. Tristan didn’t say anything. And he didn’t have to. They both knew the answer.

“But Paris liked you. And she thought that one date would lead to more,” the man continued, without any encouragement.

Tristan shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. “I didn’t lead her on.”

“Okay.”

“I didn’t lead her on,” he insisted, firmly.

“I believe you.”

“I just… She just…” He stopped in frustration, running his hand through his hair. He was so tired, and the last thing he wanted to do was analyze what had happened between him and Paris. “It should have been enough that we had fun together.”

“I understand. But could part of the disappointment -- the fact that it hadn’t gone the way either one of you wanted it to -- have anything to do with the fact that you went out with Paris specifically, and solely, because Rory had suggested the idea. Your heart obviously wasn’t in it.”

Tristan relaxed slightly. “The thing is, you’re right. I didn’t have my heart in it. How could I? Never in my life would it have occurred to me to date Paris. It has nothing to do with looks, or intelligence, or any of that. She’s Paris. She’s smart and she’s cute, I guess. But I’ve known her forever. And the surprising thing was, I had a lot of fun with her that night. Honestly. But it simply made me realize that I only liked her as a friend. Nothing more.” He bit his lips. “I can’t help it.”

“I’m sure she would have been disappointed to hear that, but in time…”

“I shouldn’t have done it,” Tristan interjected.

“Well, if you hadn’t gone out with her, you might not even have come to the conclusion that the two of you could be friends,” the man chided gently.

“No,” Tristan shook his head, upset. “I kissed her. After the date. I shouldn’t have done it.”

The man pursed his lips. “No. Perhaps you shouldn’t have…”

Tristan sighed. “It was reflex, you know. Something I do at the end of dates. And she looked like she wanted so much for me to…”

“It’s probably not the worse thing you could have done…” The man was trying to make him feel better.

Tristan would have none of it. “I let it slip that Rory had been the one to suggest that I ask her out,” he blurted.

The man was taken aback. “Why would you do that?” he asked, after a momentary span of silence.

“I don’t know,” Tristan said, anxiously.

“Typical teenage boy stupidity or calculated move, Tristan?” He was trying not to pass judgement.

“I don’t know,” Tristan repeated. And he didn’t. “I don’t think it was…” But he stopped himself, because he really wasn’t sure. He looked upset with himself.

“So Paris was angry with you.”

Tristan’s glance went to the floor. “No. She wasn’t. Not really. She blew up at Rory instead,” he mumbled.

“What?” But he had heard.

“She directed her anger at Rory. And I think that it really messed up their friendship.” Tristan looked miserable.

“Paris will get over it.”

“Maybe.” But he looked doubtful. “And then Rory…” He met the man’s eyes and the man nodded for him to continue. “She was upset with me. She accused me of not trying hard enough. So I told her. I didn’t know what else to do. She was so angry with me. And I just wanted to make it better. I just wanted to calm her down. I just wanted to…”

“What did you tell her?” The man’s ears perked up. How had the boy sabotaged his own chances again?

No reply.

“Tristan?”

A sigh. “I told her that it wouldn’t be fair to keep dating Paris because I liked someone else.”

“Rory.”

Tristan nodded, slowly, swallowing, as if it were too hard to do so. “Yes.”

“So she knows.” This came as a surprise. Had the girl turned him down after all? He was sure that if she had, Tristan might not have come back. Or rather, he might have felt more of a need to vent his frustrations.

Tristan gave a short and harsh laugh. “No, and that’s the funny thing. She’s so smart, so gorgeous, and yet, she’s absolutely clueless. So incredibly dense… she thought I was talking about Summer.” He stressed Summer’s name with a mocking tone. Upset, he rubbed the back of his neck. “But I’ve been over Summer,” he said, reflectively, quietly, mostly to himself.

“And you didn’t have the heart to tell her she was wrong.”

Tristan glanced up. “No.”

“Why not?”

“What’s the point?” He made a noise with his throat. “In a way, I wish it had worked out.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “I wish that Summer hadn’t been who she was, and that the relationship had worked out. I wish that I had been able to see Paris as something other than friends. Feel something more for her than what I do. I wish it had been able to work. I wish I could have lied to her and to myself that I wanted it to work, even if it wouldn’t have been fair to either one of us. It would have been easier for everyone involved if I had been just a little more hurt by Summer, or if I had been able to fall hard for Paris.” His jaw was clenched and his fist balled. He knew he couldn’t change any of those things, but he could blame himself for them. Even though he really wasn’t at fault. Even though there really was no way he could expect to change his feelings to conform to what everyone wanted him to feel. He sighed deeply. “I just wish things could have worked out the way Rory had thought it could and the way that Paris had hoped it would.” He was so tired of blaming himself, and yet, he knew of no other way to sort through his conflicted feelings. He could go on and on about how he wished things had ended up differently between himself and Paris, but in the end, he knew that it would be a lie. And he hated that. He wished he could be who everyone wanted him to be, but he couldn’t. Hell, he didn’t even know who he wanted to be.

“Tristan, why didn’t you tell her?” He brought the topic back because he knew that Tristan didn’t want to answer it.

“Who?” He asked, frustrated. He wanted to go home, crawl under the covers, and not resurface until graduation day. It would be so simple…

“Rory.” The man’s insistent voice jarred him back to reality. Because they both needed to know the answer, and because he had said the magic word.

“Because she doesn’t get it.” Tristan frowned. How could she not get it? That was what he couldn’t understand. Was he not obvious enough? Or did she indeed get it and hadn’t deemed him worthy enough? He couldn’t dwell on that second thought.

“And?”

“Because if she doesn’t get it now… after everything I’ve tried to impress on her… after being so incredibly obvious, what’s the point?”

“What is the point, Tristan?”

“The point is…” He seemed to struggle with the words, with what he wanted to say, what he wanted to admit. “The point is… what if I do tell her and it makes no difference? What if I tell her, put myself out there, and she turns me down. Or brushes me off. Or laughs in my face. Or worse, pities me.” He stopped his rant, biting down on his lip. His voice toned down, “I’d rather suffer alone and have her as a friend than let it out and have her pity me.” Hate he could deal with because it was a strong emotion and she would still talk to him, still banter with him. Indifference and pity were weak, because it meant he had lost all control of the situation. Indifference and pity were what a person felt when they didn’t care enough to feel strongly about something. When they couldn’t even be bothered to muster up enough energy to make up their minds about how they felt about someone.

“Tristan…” The man’s soothing voice drew him back again. Tristan was beginning to hate reality very much.

“I can’t let it out,” he insisted, knowing he would be contradicted, knowing he was being a baby about it. He couldn’t help it. It hurt too much to be anything else. “I know it’s a weakness, a sore spot, a whatever. A control thing. I get it. But I can’t help it. I can’t let it out unless I’m sure because once I let it out, it’ll be there. Out there. And I won’t be able to take it back. And I’d rather she hate me than think me weak.”

Tristan didn’t want to think about it. Hadn’t wanted to relive the night since it happened. Or rather, since the fallout happened. If only Paris… He wanted so badly to… to what? He didn’t hate Paris. He liked Paris. She was like a… She wasn’t Rory.

“I’m sorry about that.” The man returned to his armchair, having ended the quiet telephone call that had interrupted them. “A client with bigger issues than you.” It was meant to be a joke, but Tristan did not crack a smile. He was too busy berating himself for past events, past actions. “Where were we?” he prompted, lightly, as if they had been busy sharing sports scores.

Tristan frowned. “You were just about to either blast me for kissing Paris or cajoling me into telling Rory everything.”

The man grinned brightly. “That’s not very fair, Tristan. I was going to do neither. This is your time. You dictate the conversation.”

“Do I?” Tristan turned a challenging brow to the man. “It seems as if every time I decide I don’t want to talk about something, you find a way to bring me back to the topic, and don’t stop until I do talk about it.”

“Well, that’s my job, isn’t it?” the man asked rhetorically.

Tristan sighed. “I’m tired. And you know that I won’t necessarily do anything you advise me to.”

The man shrugged. “Fine. So I’ll skip the friendly advice about pouring your heart out to Rory.”

“Fine,” Tristan grumbled.

“But why the kiss? You said yourself that you knew during the date that you didn’t like Paris in the way that she wanted you to. A kiss is rather intimate, isn’t it? Something friends don’t normally share quite like that. At least in my experience.”

Tristan resisted the urge to shrug. “She looked like she wanted me to.” Pause. “And I didn’t want to disappoint her.” No, here was a boy who was not used to disappointing. Wasn’t capable of disappointing because he knew the consequences of failing. “I guess because she was having so much fun, and I didn’t want to upset her by turning her down.”

“But in hindsight…” he prompted.

“Hindsight is 20/20,” Tristan muttered. “It doesn’t help.”

“Okay. So we’ll move onto something else.”

“I’ve kissed her before,” Tristan said suddenly. He lifted his eyes to meet the older man’s expression. There was shock there, and Tristan wasn’t sure if he was pleased to see it so clearly on the man’s face. Up until now, the man had seemed to know what Tristan was going to say, what he was feeling even before he actually said them. And for some unexplainable reason, it had been almost comforting to know that maybe he could be so transparent. That his feelings, his thoughts, his actions, weren’t so strange after all. And that all Rory would have to do was look at him. Really look. And then she would see.

“Paris? You’ve kissed Paris before?” The man had kept his face neutral, but there was some amount of incredulity in his voice. After all that Tristan had shared regarding his feelings about Paris, it had seemed odd that he would have kissed the girl before.

“On a dare. In sixth grade,” he admitted, almost embarrassed. The man tilted his head and gave it a little shake. Tristan continued, “I kissed her and I got $20 for it.” He didn’t sound apologetic. His voice was oddly lacking in emotion, eyes unfocused as he recalled the incident. “It hadn’t been a big deal to me then. By sixth grade, I had kissed a couple of girls already. Kissing wasn’t a big deal. I was practically a pro at it. And Paris wasn’t. She was the smart one, the bookworm, and the self-proclaimed, socially inept one. And she was always so shy around me. So they dared me. And I did.”

“Tristan.” There was an almost paternal disappointment in the man’s voice.

Tristan glanced up, smiling wryly. “It was a nice kiss. For sixth grade. For a dare.” Then he shook his head and the smile disappeared. “I guess that was part of the reason for the kiss, too. I guess I wanted her to know that I could kiss her on my own volition. That I didn’t need a dare to kiss her. That she’s not that kind of girl.”

“What kind of girl is that?” he asked, curious.

Tristan didn’t hesitate. “The kind of girl that guys only kiss when dared. She’s not that kind of girl. She deserves more. Better.”

“But it wasn’t your own volition. You kissed her because Rory asked you to,” he pointed out. “It might as well have been another dare. But instead of $20, you were hoping to win Rory’s respect.”

Tristan shook his head adamantly. “No. Rory suggested that I date her. She never told me to kiss Paris. That was… that had been my own fault.” The last part of the confession had been made quietly.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Wasn’t it?” There was fire in Tristan’s blue eyes. “I led her on with that kiss, didn’t I? Gave her hope that there could be something more between us. Gave her hope when there really shouldn’t have been any. If I hadn’t kissed her, then maybe she wouldn’t have been so excited, wouldn’t have expected more, wouldn’t have been so mad…”

“Was there any other reason why you would kiss her?” He knew there was. Tristan never had just one reason for anything. Everything had to be so complex.

“We had so much fun…” Tristan bit his lip, pondering, weighing his words. “And Rory had reminded me that Paris and I had history together. And she liked me so much. That used to be enough. And you never know. I couldn’t say with absolute certainty that there would be nothing between Paris and me. You really can’t predict anything like that. I guess I thought…” Tristan seemed to be having trouble expressing himself. It was unusual for the outspoken and verbal boy.

“What? You thought what?” his observer prompted.

“I guess I thought that it would be easier if I could just open my eyes, and suddenly see Paris in a new light. It seemed promising. We had so much fun. And I actually liked being around her. And I thought that the kiss would… you know, make it or break it or something.”

“So how was the kiss?”

Tristan gave a sad smile. “It didn’t knock me off my feet, if that’s what you’re asking. But it was okay. It was nice.” He repeated it again, as if he had to convince himself of it, remind himself that the kiss had indeed been satisfactory But it hadn’t been great. And that was the problem. If it had, they wouldn’t be here talking about it, and he wouldn’t have had to keep reminding himself about it. He would have been able to sleep at night. “But it was like kissing a… a sister. Or a good friend. There was nothing. And just for a second… I thought that maybe I had been wrong.”

“Could your unresolved feelings for Rory have been clouding your judgment?” he asked, curious.

Tristan frowned. “I’ve been replaying the kiss in my head ever since she exploded in front of everyone. I’ve tried to analyze it. Tried to find something that she could hold onto, something that would take her hurt away. To give her hope when there really shouldn’t be any.”

“You do know that that’s not your responsibility.” No response from Tristan. The man sighed “And did you find anything for hope?”

Tristan hung his head. “There was absolutely nothing. And it has nothing to do with Rory. Because trust me, if I believed that there was any inkling of something possible between Paris and me, I would jump at it. Honestly. Why wouldn’t I? Why wouldn’t I when Rory… and Paris…” He gave a frustrated sigh.

He believed him. It was hard not to. He observed Tristan as the boy clenched and unclenched his hands. Another nervous gesture. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

The boy let out a soft sigh, as if resigned to everything that had happened so far. He had stopped being mad a long time ago, around the time that he had made such a fool of himself at the formal. And now, he was resigned. “Don’t be.” There was a genuine though almost sorrowful smile. “There’s a reason for everything, isn’t there? That’s what you said, right?”