Disclaimer: I do not own Bones
A/N: I was inspired by the song "Frontier Psychiatrist" by the Avalanches...and this fic came to be. Somewhat slashy.
Purely Psychosomatic
Psychosomatic: adj. pertaining to or involving both the mind and the body.
That boy needs therapy…
He can list off psychological disorders from memory, recognize symptoms at the drop of a hat, so he should recognize his own repression and the psychosomatic repercussions. But he just ignores them. He knows they're there, knows he should see a psychiatrist…but he'sa psychologist, so he tells himself he's got it covered.
…psychosomatic.
It starts with dreams, and dreams he can ignore. It doesn't matter how far the dreams go or what happens in them. They can be the hottest sex dreams, or the most depressing nightmares, either way, he can ignore them. He's never subscribed to Freud, so he can write them off as random firings of neurons in the brain.
It isn't until he begins to experience physical symptoms in his waking hours that he realizes there may be something more to all this.
That boy needs therapy, purely psychosomatic.
At first he doesn't really notice anything's different. Life goes on as normal. It isn't until after one of his sessions with Temperance and Seeley that he realizes there's more to this than dreams.
He shakes their hands, bidding them both a good day, rolling his eyes at Seeley's closed minded view of the entire situation (he's still impressed that Temperance is more open to the therapy than Seeley); then Seeley claps him on the back, gets closer to him than ever to whisper more about his disdain for the sessions, and he looses his train of thought.
Seeley's hand is heavy on his shoulder, breath hot against his cheek, and his own breathing hitches. He feels his palms growing sweaty, one hand still clasped in Seeley's, and he wishes he could pull away, turn away, before the heat rising in his face is noticed.
But the moment passes quicker than it feels, and Seeley and Temperance is out the door. Gone before he really knows what's just happened.
But what does that mean?
He flips through every book he has, tearing them from the shelves in search of something that covers latent homosexual tendencies. He rereads his books on Freud, studying his dreams using all the online materials he can dig up for interpretation, and even debates asking April what she thinks.
He doesn't, because he knows that'll only lead to questions he doesn't want to answer. No matter how vague and hypothetical he keeps it, he knows she'll keep pressing the way she always does.
So he decides he can live with it.
You're a nut.
You're a nut.
For now.
You're crazy in the coconut.