A/N: Okay, so we have here yet another story... Sue me! It's one of my winners, Jason's to be exact. So I hope you all can give me the benefit of a doubt and work with me on this... Review?

Warning: This story is YAOI, M/M, homosexual. You don't dig don't read and don't bother to flame.

To my winner Jason: This is all yours and I seriously hope you can dig it!

Thanks a bunch Esqi for being my beta! You rock!

Chapter One

"How did you get Dysthymia, John? For God's sake the kid is hearing shit!"

Tristan Blake sighed. Today was turning out to be a very long day. He had had appointments with clients nearly every hour on the hour working as both psychiatrist and therapist for more kids than he could count and now he was hassled with the additional stress of looking over his colleague's diagnosis of a new patient. A diagnosis that was terribly wrong, if he said so himself - which he did. He understood, after being involved in social work for so many years, that the counties got the best they could afford - which wasn't much on any account. But it was just ridiculous to hire people who had no idea what the hell they were doing. It only made it harder on the other, more capable employees and made it a hassle to all when they were later replaced.

"What should I have put? He shows no signs of intellectual impairment, hypochondria nor physical immobility! The kid's depressed is all and -"

"Yes, he is, but there is something behind all this depression and as his psychiatrist you should have found the reason." He shook his head at the man who sat before him and ran his hand through his hair in agitation. "Just because he shows no signs of psychotic depression doesn't mean that there are not other types of depression that could fit his symptoms."

"What do you suggest?" John asked, his jaw clenched at the nerve of this guy trying to tell him how to treat his patient and for what. It was ridiculous that he was even here. He had lowered himself to do social work and did his job for next to nothing! The least the damn people could do was let him do his job as he saw fit. However, being the new guy, everyone had insisted on reviewing his diagnoses' for his patients to ensure he was doing his job accurately. He found the whole idea preposterous and insulting at best.

Tristan raised a sleek blond brow at the hostile tone the man had just used with him. From the sounds of this fellow he wasn't altogether sure he himself didn't need medical treatment. If this John guy got so outraged at someone merely overseeing his work then he could only imagine what else would set him off. He ignored this for a moment as he answered in a perfectly even voice. "Bipolar depression. With psychotic attributes." He held his hand up for silence when the man went to deny it. "Your patient has sudden changes in attitude from joyful to irritable, angry and hostile. High sex drive and restlessness. Increased impulsivity. I could keep reading on - what you yourself wrote."

John sighed himself, knowing he had given the wrong diagnosis but hating to admit a mistake, particularly such a big one.

"I think you should have the boy come in immediately for a change in prescription. I also think Angela and I should oversee the rest of your cases for the next few months. Just to ensure you know what you're about -"

"That is ridiculous! One bloody mistake and you're going to have me seek your approval for my patients like some newfound green boy? I am an accomplished psychiatrist! I am doing you people a favor by even being here!"

"Furthermore, I believe you should start attending our anger management classes weekly. Your temper cannot be a good thing when working with patients such as ours."

"You actually have the nerve to evaluate me?" The man fairly roared, outraged at the other's daring.

"I just did." He could hardly blame the man for being miffed. He didn't suppose he would be too happy with another person telling him how to do his job either. But then it was there that he did think there was a difference. He knew how to do his job and had yet to give a wrong diagnosis, and he didn't think he was going to start now, not after four years of perfection.

John watched as the man calmly stacked and filed his papers before picking up another file, his eyes widened as the man merely shook his head and began writing over what was previously written. When he was handed the paperwork he was forced to actually bite his tongue to keep from growling out an expletive. Over his own handwriting was Tristan's neat script that silently contradicted not only his diagnosis but also his prescription. He couldn't believe the nerve of the man! To re-evaluate two of his patients in less than twenty minutes was one of the biggest insults one doctor could give another. Why, he was sure the man was doing this just to exert his superiority in the office. He seemed like the type too.

As if reading the other man's thoughts Tristan leaned back in his chair and said quite clearly, "I am doing this for the good of our clients. I can see from your clenched jaw you think otherwise, but quite frankly, Dr. Washington, I couldn't care less how angry you get. Though if you should ever find yourself needing a counselor I'm sure Angela or I would take your case." He held back a grin at the outraged gasp he received from the other man. "All the same, I believe you are merely mistaken on these counts and have perhaps rushed to conclusions while trying to make a good impression here. For these reasons I will not tell the admin, but if your temper is anywhere near as obvious as it is now when you deal with patient, I fear we may have to see you to the door."

"You are an asshole, you know that?" John growled, rising from his chair, his face livid.

"So I hear, but I'm right nonetheless. Good day, John."

--

Tristan sighed as he entered the club, his hand already on his tie loosening the bothersome thing to a more comfortable and stylish angle, as he hadn't even bothered to go home and change. The obnoxiously loud rock music mixed with the muttering of the crowd made him feel more at ease, calming his aching headache and filling his body with that lovely adrenaline.

He bobbed his head lightly to the music as he made his way to the bar. The drink that was set before him was much appreciated and very much needed, especially after spending all that time with that dickhead John. Why anyone had bothered to hire him was beyond Tristan's comprehension. If he was going to be forced to do someone else's work he would rather do it all himself instead of having to go over a grown man's work and correcting it like a bloody school teacher.

"Hard day, Trist?" The bartender asked, immediately refilling the man's shot glass.

"How can you tell?"

"You're drinking Jim Beam ..." the man trailed off as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Tristan chuckled and took the shot back with a soft hiss. "Point taken, give me a chaser, Alex." The barkeep immediately did as told, giving his customer a beer before moving off to handle a few more customers. "New band?" The blond asked as the man came back, holding his hand up to halt the other man when he went to pour him another shot.

"Yea, pretty good these guys. They were here last Friday but you were nowhere to be found."

"Paperwork," Tristan explained in short before turning his back to the bar and glancing toward the stage. He found himself being thankful for his height once more as it would have been hard to see over the crowd standing in the middle of the floor had he been any shorter.

His eyes were immediately assaulted with a strip of lime green hair surrounded by darker brown locks that were clearly drenched with sweat, a Mohawk was nothing new but it wasn't the kid's hair that had him taking a second look. The kid's face, or at least what he could see of it from this far across the room, was rather boyish but defined giving him an oddly corrupted look. Like most kids nowadays, his face was full of metal piercing protruding from too many places to count, but even this didn't deter Tristan. He actually found piercing rather hot - especially lip and tongue rings.

His garb was simple, a white wife beater over mildly baggy black pants, black duct tape was wrapped around his left arm in a way that, Tristan was sure, would cause pain once removed. He looked to be of medium height and rather slender to say the least but then Tristan found a few surprisingly well-set muscles hiding about the kid's body as he moved to his music.

"I thought you might like him. One of the reasons I was hoping you'd show up last week," Alex said with a laugh, a smirk on his face as he watched the way his regular's eyes consumed the guy on stage. "Definitely looks like your type."

"I have a type?"

Again the man chuckled, "Sure do."

"Is he legal?" Tristan asked, looking over his shoulder briefly as he asked the question.

"He'd have to be to sing here."

"Good," he said before ordering another beer. He watched as the band finished their song before starting another. He vaguely wondered when the fellows would be worn out enough to take a break ... He didn't have to wait long before the singer was giving the crowd a promise to return in a few. He watched as the stage lights dimmed and the DJ in the far corner started up a routine mix. Still his eyes never left the lead singer until he was off the stage.