Summary: AU! Clint Barton hates his stupid mandatory psych evals his workaholic boss, Captain Steve Rogers, forces him to attend. But there's just something about Phil Coulson that he can't put his finger on. And maybe Clint starts to open up the same time Phil does. And maybe their appointments turn into something more.
Clint Barton is just about to pack up his things to leave the office and the world of paperwork behind when his phone rings, his boss's number flashing across the screen.
"Barton. Yes, Captain Rogers. I was just about to- But sir, I- No, I don't need-" A sigh and then, "Yes, sir. I'll head over right away." Cursing under his breath, Clint drops his coat and bag and moves the step and a half to the door of his cramped office. Being a part of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s MCRT has both its advantages and disadvantages. Like, he gets his own office. But it's tiny, stuffy, and has no windows. Or that his team gets the most high-profile cases, but that means he has to work most weekends and he hasn't had a vacation in ten years. And while he and the rest of his team sees the most action as compared to the others, it also means he has to go to a mandatory psych eval. Which his workaholic boss just told him is now a weekly ordeal.
Clint Barton officially hates being the MCRT for the xeno related crimes unit of S.H.I.E.L.D. It's nothing but trouble. Walking down the hallway - and taking his sweet time with it - Clint heads towards the bank of elevators that will take him up to the seventeenth floor and to his mandatory shrink. His mind wanders as he makes the ten floor climb. He stops at three floors. Once because the ride is going too quickly and he wants to take as long as possible and in some sort of twisted way, he thinks if it takes him too long to get to the office, the shrink will just leave. And another two to let someone from legal on and then off. He arrives too soon for his liking.
When he finally reaches the door to the outer waiting room, giving in after a five minute walk down the short hallway where he stopped and pondered each and every abstract painting, Clint sighs and pushes the half open door all the way inside and leans his entire upper half through the doorway, looking for all intents and purposes like a vampire waiting to be invited in. The receptionist - and why doesn't he get a receptionist? - looks up and raises an eyebrow at his obvious reluctance to come inside.
"Please," she drawls. "Take a seat. Dr. Coulson will be with you momentarily." Then she goes back to flipping through what looks to be the only up to date magazine in the whole of the waiting room. Huffing, Clint scans the table and picks up the least boring magazine, hands turning pages a little more aggressively than needed. After about seven and a half minutes of reading Martha Stewart Living - Clint checked - the only other door in the room opens, and Natasha, a fellow member of his team, steps out and turns to shake the doctor's hand. He smiles what Clint assumes could be considered charmingly and says, "If you'd just head over to Miss Hill, she'll set you up with a follow up." Then he looks up and beckons Clint over to him, that same smile plastered on his face. But Clint knows that smile. And it's anything but real.
"So," the shrink grunts as he lowers himself into the armchair left of the little table with the lamp and tissue box on it. "Let's get to know each other a bit, 'kay?" Clint has to double take, his mind occupied with thoughts of the tissue box and who would cry in here. They're a pretty hardcore branch of the government, only letting the best of the best in. Who even cries in a mandatory therapist appointment? Then he panics. Will he be required to talk about more than work? He isn't going to have to lie down on a couch and talk about his mother, is he?
"Wha?" he manages when Coulson snaps his fingers in front of face. The shrink's eyebrow is raised and his face looks no more amused than that receptionist of his on the other side of the door.
"Mr. Barton? You here? Or do I need a certain security clearance to your thoughts?" He snorts quietly, like he's trying to make it seem like he's holding back his chuckles, but he and Clint both know neither find it very funny.
"No, I just- I just don't do shrinks, okay?" And Clint crosses his arms and slumps in his seat, looking like a moody teenager. Coulson, face neutral, nods and shifts in his seat.
"Well, then. Can you at least tell me why you 'don't do shrinks?'" Clint shifts his eyes from where they're tracing the pattern of the wallpaper to Coulson's hands. Well, Coulson thinks. At least that's an improvement. And that's a far as they get. Clint refuses to speak for the remaining fifty seven minutes, and walks right out of the office, not bothering to schedule a follow up. Sighing, Phil looks to his receptionist for support, only for him to get a shrug and noncommittal grunt.
"Classy," Phil remarks, heading back into his office. Obviously, this one would require more cunning tactics to open up. And damn it if Coulson wasn't persistent.