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.

He entered his office quietly. He had been caught in another appointment across town, but had excused himself to rush back. He had an important person to meet. Someone he liked very much. Someone he wanted desperately to help stop hurting. He thought he had a few minutes to spare, but as he stopped to chat with his secretary and to pick up his messages from the morning, she had informed him in soft tones that the boy was waiting for him in his office. He had arrived early, right after school, and had preferred to wait in the office for their regularly scheduled meeting.

Tristan was lying across the couch, eyes closed. He had indeed come straight from school, still dressed in his Chilton uniform. The blazer was unbuttoned and the tie slightly loosened at top, but everything was still basically in place. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady pattern. The older man was almost positive the boy was asleep. And in his sleep, he looked so peaceful, with a slight smile gracing his face. He wondered idly whether the boy was dreaming.

He placed his messages on his desk and poured himself a mug of coffee from the freshly percolating pot his secretary had readied for his return. Tristan’s eyes flew open to see the man still observing him. He hadn’t heard the man enter. Tristan sat up, sheepishly. “I guess I used the couch after all,” he said, wryly, running his hand through his hair and blinking a few times to clear the cobwebs.

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell,” the man joked, smiling. He sipped his coffee.

Tristan still looked embarrassed. “I came from school.” It was an unnecessary admission. The man could see that already. Tristan glanced down at his uniform and tugged at his striped tie, but did not undo it. “All the teachers have been test happy lately. I was going to go home and change, but I didn’t think I’d make it back in time. Or at all, if I did.” He stopped mumbling, realizing that he was beginning to babble. Tristan DuGrey did not babble. He frowned slightly at this newfound behavioral quirk, trying to decide when he had picked up the habit. Another inadverten influence Rory had on him.

The boy did look exhausted. “We could do this some other time,” he suggested. “I doubt you’ve been getting enough sleep. You should go home and rest.”

Tristan’s eyes shot up to meet his, concern in the youthful face. “No, it’s okay. It wouldn’t be different any other time anyway.”

“Okay.”

Tristan stretched and sat back in the couch. “Okay,” he agreed, too.

The man sat down in his regular seat. “So were you thinking about her?” The question was asked under the cover of innocence, but was decidedly not innocent.

Tristan’s eyes glanced up sharply. “No.” But the answer had not come quickly enough. “I wasn’t…” but he didn’t finish, knowing that any attempt to dissuade the man from thinking otherwise would just be labeled feeble and desperate.

The man shrugged. It wouldn’t matter either way if he had. The boy was far from lovesick, but he was getting there. He still had a very fine control over his emotions, and the man had to give him credit for that. Especially since it seemed so obvious that the boy wanted to let loose, wanted to let go of the control. If only given the right encouragement, and the right opportunity. If Rory asked him to or gave him permission to. “So… let’s go back to your girlfriend,” he said, as if carelessly, but his eyes were carefully gauging the reaction he would get from the young man.

Tristan sucked in a deep breath. It didn’t feel as if he had been slapped or punched in the gut. Or that he was upset that the good doctor had seemingly not been paying attention to their last few sessions to have picked up on such a minor detail as differentiating between a girlfriend and an ex-girlfriend. Rather, it was the knowledge that the man was trying to bait him, and that he knew he was going to walk right into the trap. Because he couldn’t not correct the mistake. “Ex-girlfriend,” he reminded, firmly. And he didn’t want to talk about her.

“Okay. Ex-girlfriend,” the man agreed, nonchalantly, as if he were humoring him. “You liked her.”

“Yeah.” Tristan looked dazed, as if he was no longer sure where he was being led, and had decided to follow blindly. But Tristan dragged out the word long enough to let the man know that he was suspicious of where he was trying to go with this conversation. And sure enough, Tristan’s eyes were firmly locked on the man’s face. Cautious. Distrustful.

“And you wanted the relationship to work.”

“Yes.” That word was also drawn out. Suddenly, Tristan’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Where are you going with this?” he demanded to know.

“Why was it important for the relationship to work?” the other man asked, as if he hadn’t heard the accusation in Tristan’s voice. As if the boy wasn’t suspicious and quickly losing his cooperative attitude.

Tristan nodded, pretending to understand. He knew the game. Didn’t want to play it. “We’ve been through this before,” he answered evasively. He looked incredulous, almost upset that he had to be awaken from his slumber to discuss Summer, of all people. He wondered absently if he had made the wrong choice to stay. He had been given an out and yet he hadn’t taken it. Was it really that important for him to sort out his feelings with this man? This man who knew most of his secrets now, and potentially had the power to destroy him. Destroy his perception, his image, his hopes and his beliefs.

“Remind me,” he prodded.

“I… I liked Summer. Isn’t that enough to want a relationship to last?” A resurgence of insolence?

“Maybe.” He shrugged, noncommittally.

“I moved on. And I guess I wanted to show Rory that. That she didn’t get under my skin anymore. That she didn’t mean anything to me. That I could have a normal healthy relationship.”

“Was it healthy, Tristan?” he asked. There was no condescension that Tristan could pick up on, but he couldn’t be sure. It was the last thing he needed. Condescension and a patronizing shrink.

Tristan made a noise and threw an annoyed look at the door, the exit. “Why do you ask when you already know the answer?” He was becoming fed up and irritated. The incessant and unwelcome questions regarding Summer, on top of his lack of sleep, had started to make him testy and difficult. Everything about this session was starting to grate on him.

“It doesn’t help when I know the answer, Tristan. You have to know it, too.”

“Fine,” he grumbled. If his companion was going to persist, he would be game, but reluctant. “It was far from healthy. I was deluding myself into thinking that a relationship with Summer could work. But I knew, deep down, that it wouldn’t. I guess I was trying so hard to convince myself that it could work, that I was willing to forgo my entire past behavior to try to make it work. Desperate to make it work.” He looked mournful. “I don’t always have to be a player, you know. I’m just trying to find that right girl. I want to be able to love someone unconditionally, give them the attention and care that my parents used to give each other, feel for each other. I’m not entirely dead, you know.” There was a shadow of a grin on his face.

“And you picked Summer?” There was no ridicule.

The grin turned wry. “I picked the wrong girl,” he replied, mocking himself. As if he had finally let himself in on the joke.

“So you let Summer boss you around, play you, when you initially thought you were playing her.”

“I was not playing Summer.” When slight disbelief showed up on the man’s face, Tristan repeated it again, firmer. “I was not playing Summer.” He threw his hand in the air, frustrated. “I didn’t want it to be that way. Not with Summer. Not that time,” Tristan insisted doggedly, shaking his head to stress his statement.

“So why did you let her? What was so special about that time? You said so yourself that Summer was no different than any of the other girls you usually date,” he reminded. And Tristan did not like to be reminded. There was no reply and he knew he would have to supply an answer in order to get Tristan to talk again. “You let her because she was a substitute. For Rory. Rory’s that right girl, and she reminded you of her.”

“She’s not Rory,” Tristan said, angrily. He didn’t think he appreciated the way his companion was throwing out Rory’s name with such careless abandon. She -- her name -- was something to be cherished and spoken reverentially. Wasn’t it?

“No, but she was a good enough substitute, wasn’t she?” he needled again.

“She wasn’t a substitute. She’s not Rory. Don’t say that.” Tristan’s anger was flaring. And all his nervous ticks came at once as he rubbed his hands together, jaw clenching and unclenching.

“What makes her so different from Rory. She obviously reminded you of Rory for you to have picked her for this so-called deluded relationship.” He was needling Tristan and they both knew it.

“Summer was different,” Tristan remarked, almost bitterly. “She was mean. And hurtful. And selfish. And conceited. With no regards for the feelings of others. A fire could have erupted and the only thing she would have been concerned with would be saving herself and looking good while doing it. She’ll say or do anything to put people down just to make herself feel better, to feel superior.”

The man didn’t say anything.

“And that’s not Rory,” Tristan admitted softly.

“But still… she reminded you of her. That’s why you were desperate to make it work. Because not only would it prove to both you and to Rory that you could be part of a relationship, and be a caring boyfriend, but that… That you would be able to convince yourself that if you couldn’t have her, then you could have the next best thing. And you chose Summer because she was the closest thing to Rory.”

“She wasn’t the next best thing,” Tristan insisted.

“But she was,” he contradicted.

“She wasn’t,” Tristan asserted.

He did not try to contradict him again. “You dated her because she reminded you of Rory, the girl you’ve really been interested in all this time.”

Tristan didn’t want to admit any of it. “Physically maybe. But personality-wise, they were direct opposites,” he was willing to concede. “Rory would never purposely be mean or hurtful… unless I was annoying her again.” He paused to smile to himself. “And she’s not conceited. She’s one of the nicest girls I’ve ever met. You could annoy her and make her mad, but when push came to shove, Rory would be the first one there to comfort a mortal enemy when they were feeling down. She’s just that kind of person. Summer was never like that. And she’ll never be like that. And I came to that conclusion.”

“But you kept up the act. It was important that the relationship work. Why?”

“I don’t know. I thought that maybe if I couldn’t have Rory, maybe having someone close to Rory would be enough. There aren’t that many girls who are like her personality-wise. She’s unique. No other girl from Chilton would ever think of bringing a book to a party. A damn book.” He shook his head, still in awe with Rory. “And Summer… well, she kind of looked like Rory. Or at least she made it easy to pretend…” He stopped and cleared his throat, embarrassed. “And I guess I thought that if I couldn’t find anyone close to resembling her personality and what made her so goddamned unique, I’d be okay settling for someone who just resembled her. I thought maybe I could be happy with just her physical aspects.” Pause and deep breath. Tristan frowned. “That made me sound like a jerk.

“But you weren’t happy, were you?” Stupid question. He wouldn’t be here if he were.

“No,” he declared, with abject disappointment. And possibly horror. Too late he found out. “Because it really wasn’t her looks that had attracted me to her. It never had been. It might have been at the start, but in the end, it wasn’t what drew me to her, what made me want to keep punishing myself with her indifference. To allow myself to be continually shot down by her.”

“It was her personality, what made her tick. The whole package,” he concluded for him.