Of Therapy and Organs
A heart is an organ.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Maybe it was years of medical school that taught me that. Or maybe it was the personal experiences. But all I knew was that the heart could not feel emotion. The brain, sure. But the brain isn't always the best thing to believe. I mean look at all the mental illnesses that affect people's judgments and all the times that brains have been manipulated to believe certain people's beliefs.
Why should I have something tell me what I feel when it might not even be true? I mean, look at love. You may think someone loves you, and that you love them, but then they do something that obviously meant that they never did.
A heart is a stupid thing to symbolize love. It pumps blood through the body, nothing more. It's actually pretty gross if you look at the real thing.
Who am I kidding? I'm probably the worst person to talk about love in the world. I mean -
"Catrice Coulson?"
I winced at the sound of my name through the nasally voice of the secretary. Standing up, I grabbed my and purse, shoving my phone into the opening.
Goddamn. I really needed to clean that out. I'm pretty sure that the only reason I got this phone was because I lost the other one in the depths of my purse. It's like a black hole, once something goes in, nothing comes out.
Walking swiftly, I approached the desk and the secretary with what sounded like bad allergies.
"Catrice Coulson?" She asked again, snapping a piece of gum afterward. I nearly rolled my eyes. This lady was ridiculous. Between her fake nails and tan, I didn't know if putting her out in the sun would make her sweat or melt.
"That's me," I answered with a forced smile, placing my hands on the desk that went to around my chest. The woman handed me a form to sign, and then pointed to an elevator at the end of a hallway.
"Third floor, second door on your right." After she finished she went back to clacking on her keyboard (how the hell does she type with those fingernails?). I was about to make my way to the elevator, but I stopped to ask the question that's been burning in my mind since I got here.
"Um, excuse me? But do you know why I've been called here?" I asked, giving a small smile.
"Sorry, hon, but I don't. Guess you'll just have to see, huh?" She asked in an all too cheerful way. I nodded slowly and backed the hell out of there as quickly as I could.
I shook my head and let a quick breath out while padding down to the elevator. It was a weird building, mostly gray and black, with not that many windows. Not to mention the bird symbol that was thrown around everywhere.
On the way to the elevator I noticed a few people, a few years younger than me, all with bluetooths and holding armfuls of coffee. I shuddered. Interns. Not that I didn't like them or anything. I was an intern in a firm once, and it was terrible. If you've ever been one you can feel my pain.
Between contemplating interns and bird symbols, I hadn't noticed that someone was headed straight towards me. Well, I did but it was too late.
"Oh fuck!" I cursed as I fell towards the ground. Then suddenly, my prince charming rushed forward and grabbed me before I hit the ground, staring into my eyes as he lifted me up.
Just kidding.
I hit the ground. Hard.
"Shit," I groaned, immediately grabbing the side of my head to feel for a lump.
"Are you alright?" Someone asked beside me. "Oh God, ma'am, I am so sorry." A hand was outstretched to pull me up, but I waved it off, hoisting myself up. "Are you alright?" After standing and steadying myself, I looked over to the person who had knocked me on my ass. Literally.
He was attractive, I'll give you that; muscles (very visible, might I add), a good jaw, and a head of neat blond hair. His personality definitely didn't match his looks.
"Probably no concussion," I laughed, adjusting my bag on my shoulder, and giving a small grin. The man furrowed his brows.
"Um. I'm joking," I reassured, raising a brow. Goddammit, Catrice, you can't use humor like this in public. Get out of this situation, now.
"Are you sure you're fine?" He asked again, worry filling his eyes.
"I'm fine," I laughed. "But if I'm not I'll have my lawyers contact you." Holy shit. I did not just say that. The man's eyes widened. "Fuck. Again, I'm joking. I'm – I'm just going to go now." I gave a small wave and hurried to the elevator at the end of the hall.
I fought the urge to mutter to myself right there. Of all the situations I've been in, I had to choose now, with an attractive man and medical injuries to use my humor.
After mentally beating myself up and getting into the elevator, I began my trip up to the fifth floor.
.xxX
After three wrong doors, I had finally found the correct door (more like I had asked for help and someone escorted me there). After the escort had opened the door, the room was revealed to be a plain, gray square. It honestly looked like a prison cell.
There was a gray (big surprise) table in the middle, with chairs on either side. The escort motioned for me to sit down, closing the door behind him. A few seconds later, two men walked in; one in a black trench coat (and an... eye patch?), and another in a plain black suit.
"Ms. Coulson," The man in the trench coat greeted with a nod of the head. The other man walked to me without a word, grabbing my purse from the table.
"Hey!" I protested, sitting up and trying to snatch it back.
"It's protocol, Coulson." The man in the eye patch sat down again, setting a manilla folder in front of him. The man continued to fish through my things in my purse, pausing when he pulled out a half eaten snickers bar at the bottom of the bag. He raised an eyebrow.
"Holy shit, that's where it went!" I exclaimed, giving a small smile. The man continued to give a questioning look. "I... get hungry." I shrugged and he continued to fish through.
Great way to make a first impression.
"So you're probably wondering who I am," The man said, folding his hands in front of him on the table. I huffed and tried to resist saying 'No shit.' I had been given an address and told to come as soon as possible. Of course I was wondering why.
"I'm Director Nick Fury."
I nearly rolled my eyes. "And?" I asked, raising a brow, mimicking the man going through my bag. Goddammit, no! Catrice, too much sass.
Fury rolled his eyes – er, eye – and continued.
"I am the director of SHIELD." He paused, waiting for my reaction. SHIELD. Why did I recognize that name? "Ring a bell?"
I shrugged. "I'm trying to make a connection," I said, clicking my tongue. After a few seconds I shook my head. "I recognize it. But I don't know from where."
Fury unfolded his arms and sighed. "We employed your father."
My eyes widened. My father. My dad.
"I'm sorry, you employed my father?" I asked, sitting more upright and placing my hands on the table.
"We do. Did. Until the incident," He said, shrugging. The man going through my purse finished and left the room, leaving me alone with the director.
"Tell me what happened to my father," I demanded, gritting my teeth. Come on, Catrice. Keep your cool. You've helped people with this. You should be able to keep your calm.
But at the same time, this was my father.
"We will. Once you help us with something, we'll give you information on your father."
I frowned. "What could you want from me?" I asked, crossing my arms in front of my chest.
Fury chose to ignore my question, and stood up to pace the room. Each way was only a few paces considering the length of the room. "You live in New York, is that right?"
I nodded. "The outskirts, yes."
"Where were you during the third week of May last year?" He asked, which made me raise a brow.
"I believe I was in Hawaii," I answered, shrugging. "My dad sent me there for a vacation, said I was stressed and needed a break." Fury seemed to think it over again before stopping in front of the table, leaning his palms into it.
"Are you aware of what happened during that week in New York?" He asked.
I shrugged. "Isn't that when the big alien attack happened?" Fury scoffed.
"It was. Are you so aware of what else happened besides the alien attack? Specifically what countered the attack?" He asked, raising a brow.
I snorted. "Wasn't it superheroes or something?" I asked, rolling my eyes.
"What, you don't believe it?"
I shrugged. "Honestly, superheroes aren't my forte."
"And why is that?"
"I'd rather not say," I answered, turning my head the other way and crossing my arms in front of my chest.
"Then you do know of superheroes?" Fury questioned, stopping in front of the table and crossing his arms.
"I know of one."
"And that is?"
"Captain America," I rolled my eyes once more, trying not to sneer. Fury chuckled.
"I take it you don't like him then."
I looked down and bit the side of my cheek in anger. "Let's just say I'm not too fond."
.xxX
"So, Ms. Coulson, you are how old?" Fury asked, steering away from the previous subject. I was happy to oblige.
"Twenty eight."
Fury nodded. "No family?" I shook my head.
"Not besides my father and I. But considering that I don't know where he is, there might not be any family." I brushed away that thought in my mind.
"We'll get to that," Fury said, picking up the manilla folder on the desk. He read a few lines of the paper and then set it down in front of me. "You have no romantic partners?"
I paused and ran my tongue over my teeth. "I did. But not anymore," I answered calmly, or so I hoped.
"Something happen, Ms. Coulson?" He asked.
"Again, I'd prefer not to talk about it."
Fury chuckled. "You're a lot like your father." After reading another few lines, he continued. "So, Ms. Coulson, you're a licensed therapist, correct?" I nodded. "And where did you study?"
"Harvard."
"High marks, I see. And you've finished your residency?" He asked.
"I did; a year early."
"Great. Ms. Coulson, we'd like to offer you a job with SHIELD," Fury said blankly.
I widened my eyes. "I'm sorry, a job?!" I asked.
"We need a live in therapist here. You'd be provided with a room and all of your expenses would be payed for," he explained, gesturing with his hand.
"What makes you think that I would just drop everything and come and work for SHIELD?" I asked, scoffing.
"Please, Ms. Coulson. I know for a fact that you work for a small firm and you don't get paid as much as you should. You'd be much better off here, and far happier I would think."
"Oh please."
Fury rolled his eye and said one last thing. "We'll give you information about your father. That's the only way."
.xxX
"Sign here, here, and here." I quickly scribbled where the agent showed me to, handed back the pen, and continued following Director Fury.
"Now who am I working with?" I asked, adjusting my bag on my shoulder.
"You'll see, Ms. Coulson. You're going to meet right now, actually." We walked through a door into a huge meeting room, complete with monitors, TVs, and papers littered around. In the middle was a long, glossy table with office chairs surrounding it. Various people were standing around in conversation with each other. "Ahem," Fury coughed, and everyone turned to face him.
"Ah. Cyclops, nice to see you again," a man with black hair and a goatee, wearing an ACDC shirt, smirked, walking towards the director. "Who is this?" He asked, pointing towards me.
"This is Catrice Coulson," Fury introduced, nodding his head.
"Coulson?" Another person in the room asked, a man with short light brown hair, who was standing next to a short red haired woman.
Fury nodded. "She's Coulson's daughter."
"Does she know?" The same man asked, but soon after the woman next to him slapped him in the stomach, hard.
"She doesn't."
"Know what?!" I asked, crossing my arms.
"I told you. We're going to get to that," Fury gestured to the man with the goatee. "This is Tony Stark." The man grinned and waited for me to recognize him.
I stuck out my hand. "Nice to meet you," I said, shaking his hand, which was limp.
"Oh my god..." Tony started. "You don't know who I am." I shook my head.
"Should I?"
Tony scoffed. "Ever heard of Stark Industries?" I blinked and shook my head.
"Not everyone knows who you are, Stark," the red headed woman said from the other end of the table.
"Please," Tony said, rolling his eyes, and then eyed me up and down. "Fury, why did you bring her in? She certainly doesn't look like a superhero. I mean, she does look good, but certainly not an Avenger."
"I'm sorry," I turned to Fury and raised a brow. "Superhero?"
"Holy shit," Tony exclaimed. "Does she know what SHIELD is?" Fury shook his head.
"Ms. Couslon, welcome to SHIELD. We created the Avengers: a team of superheroes," Fury explained, gesturing the rest of the people in the room.
My jaw dropped. "I thought I told you I don't like superheroes," I ground out, clenching my jaw afterward.
Fuck. Did I really just say that in front of superheroes?! They could beat me to a pulp.
"Well, I find that offensive," Tony said, crossing his arms. "And how is she going to work with us?! I'll say this again, she doesn't look like a superhero."
I scoffed. "What's that supposed to mean?!" I asked.
Tony rolled his eyes. "Seriously? When was the last time you did physical activity?" He asked. My eyes widened at his rudeness.
"The last time it was required of me," I answered calmly, with confidence. "So senior year of high school."
Okay. I'll admit it. I'm not an athlete. I'm thin, just not fit. I don't have a completely flat stomach and I don't have muscly legs and I definitely don't look like a superhero. But considering I'm at a healthy weight and my pants fit, I could honestly care less.
But even though I wasn't the fittest, that was no excuse for someone to point it out.
"Well excuse me."
"Ms. Coulson, actually, Dr. Coulson, is being brought in as a live in therapist," Fury explained.
"A therapist? Seriously?" Tony asked. "She doesn't look a day over twenty five. How is someone supposed to be a therapist when they haven't even had enough experience to be one?"
I rolled my eyes. "For your information, Mr. Stark, I'm twenty eight. And I've had enough experience to know... let's see," I started, looking him up and down.
"Checking me out sweetheart?"
"In your dreams." I folded my arms and began. "I know that you have post traumatic stress disorder, undiagnosed by a real doctor, considering that your hand is jittering, obviously from nerves, most likely because you've never met me before." I pointed down to his hand, which was tapping against a chair absentmindedly. He stopped after I acknowledged it.
"Another reason is that you have a gun strapped to your ankle," I pointed now to his jeans, which had the top and side outline of a gun.
"It's required by all SHIELD agents," Tony said.
"Ah, yes. But it's probably not required to keep an extra case of bullets in your pockets," I gestured to his pockets, where you could clearly see a box, obviously heavy, considering it was weighing down his pockets. He kept quiet this time. "You also are probably trying to treat it with music therapy," I gestured to his ACDC shirt, "but that wouldn't work because hard rock isn't the most soothing, is it? You're also trying to treat it with alcohol, due to your bloodshot eyes you probably drink your sorrows away. But drinking is never the answer; is it Mr. Stark?" I smirked. "I think you try to convince people that you're a lot more well off than you really are. And that's why you need me."
Tony stood there, scowling, before the man with the short brown hair piped up. "I, quite frankly, like her. We should keep her," he said, grinning and laughing.
"I agree. No one has the courage to tell off Stark," the red headed woman laughed, and they walked up. Two other men walked up as well.
"I'm Bruce Banner," one man introduced. He looked nice enough, and had been wearing a purple shirt and glasses, which he folded and slipped into his pocket. "I'm known as the Hulk, and you'll most likely be seeing me in quite a few sessions. I have a, let's say, diagnosed condition." He pointed to the next man, who was, in lack of a better term, huge. He had blonde, chin length hair and had huge muscles. "That's Thor, he's literally a God, which we'll have to explain to you later. That's Natasha Romanoff, she's a trained assassin, also known as the Black Widow." He pointed to the woman with the red hair, and then to the man with brown hair next to her. "And that's her partner, Clint Barton, also known as Hawkeye, also a trained assassin. And of course you already know Tony, who is known as Iron Man." Tony was still scowling, but the rest said hello, before Bruce turned to Fury.
"We're only missing Rogers," he said, "but I do think that you should tell Dr. Coulson about her father before we go on. I think you owe it to her."
I automatically decided that I liked Bruce. He was going to be a great friend. And once I make a decision, I never change it.
"I do believe you do, Director Fury," I said, turning to him. He sighed and set his jaw.
"I guess I do," he answered, "you might want to sit down."
"I'm fine standing, thanks," I answered, raising my eyebrow, waiting for an answer.
"I guess that there's no easy way to say this, but your father worked for us, as you already know. He was also one of our best agents," Fury started.
"That's great! I'll be working with him, finally. I haven't seen him since Hawaii," I grinned.
"But I'm sorry to say, Ms. Coulson, that your father is dead."
Both my jaw and my bag dropped to the floor simultaneously. "What?" I asked, my shaking hand came up to my mouth.
"Great way to deliver news, Fury," Tony said sarcastically, crossing his arms.
"Stark, I will fucking murder you," Natasha hissed, glaring at him.
"Please tell me you're joking," I whispered, my eyes welling up.
No. You're not going to cry. You're not going to show that you're weak. You know what happened the last time you showed that you were weak.
"I wish I were," Fury stated, crossing his arms.
"I'm so sorry," Natasha comforted, staying her distance from me.
I stood there, breathing heavily. My father was dead. Dead. No longer living. I would never see him again.
Stop it. Don't cry. You're not weak. You've helped people like this. You can do it. You'll be fine.
But my dad.
Suddenly the door opened, and someone walked in. "Sorry I'm late," a masculine voice apologized. I turned and saw the same man I had literally ran into at the elevator.
"Not a good time, Cap," Tony said, as the man walked near us. "This is Coulson's daughter. She just received the news." I wasn't looking at him directly, but I could see that it had dropped out of the corner of my eye. My eyes were still watering, as I fought to keep the tears from falling.
"Catrice, this is Steve Rogers, also known as Captain America," Bruce introduced, putting a hand on my shoulder. My mouth dropped once more and my shaking hand moved from my mouth to pointing at Steve.
"You," I hissed. His brows furrowed and he opened his mouth to speak. "You're the one that killed my father!"
.xxX
Well, I hate to leave you all with a cliff hanger like this! ;) Guess we'll just have to see what will happen!
I'm aware some of you came from my other stories, so I hope you'll like this!
I do this on my other stories as well, so we'll do this on this one too!
Question of the chapter: If you were going to work at SHIELD, besides being a superhero, what would you be? Tell me!
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