Time. Clint hated everything about it. He hated the feeling, the pressure, that is put on him. He hated the waiting that was involved with it. Time gave you time to think, and that was something that Clint didn't want to do. Thinking led to memories, and memories led to things that were best left in the past. Some things were meant to be left in the past, but time always seemed to bring them back. But now it seemed like all Clint had was time. Too much time. He was tired of laying low and doing nothing all day. His house was empty, just like his hallow being. His mind and body had been spent over the last few weeks. His superiors told him it was for the best, that he deserved a break, but it was torturing him, stripping him of his very being. What he really wanted was to be out in the world, distracting himself from the horrors that resided inside of him.

It had been six months since the accident, since his accident. For the first few days Clint had been okay with the rest-just breathing had hurt him-but he was well now. He should have been back out in the field weeks ago. Clint's hand tightened around his glass of whiskey as the other dropped to his side, fingering the knotted scar. He scowled at the amber liquid, a sense of vulnerability overcoming him as he thought about the accident. After all the bullets and knives he had taken, something as simple as a piece of steel had nearly killed him. A fragment the size of a pencil had pierced his side in an explosion, but Clint had hardly paid it any mind. Three days later he was laid up in the infirmary with an inflamed liver that was poisoning his body. It was a reminder that Clint was human, and that was something he would love to forget.

With a grunt Clint poured the remainder of the whiskey into his glass and tossed the empty bottle aside. Others littered the floor, along with various piles of trash and clothes, but Clint was too withdrawn in himself to care. His near death experience had left him depressed and moody. He had taken to drinking again, a dangerous habit for him. He wanted more than anything to be back out in the field, but doubt gnawed at his mind; could he handle it? Clint snarled at that thought and slung the glass of whiskey against the room. The glass hit the wall and shattered, narrowly missing the man that had just entered room.

"It is good to see you too." Phil Coulson frowned at the man that sat before him, his lips pressed into a thin line as he surveyed the room. He picked his way through the litter and pulled a chair up to the table, sitting down across from Clint. He studied him for a long moment, his scowl increasing.

"Whadya want?" Clint's words slurred together and Coulson flinched as the liquor stained breath reached his nose.

"I stopped by to check on you, see how you were doing. I'm glad I did...you're a mess." Coulson frowned as he observed his friend. He was clad in nothing but a pair of stained boxers and a week old beard covered his face. His hair was getting long and was unkept, and a liquor haze clouded his eyes.

"Wassit toya?" Clint swayed slightly in his seat.

"I'm your friend. I care about you."

"I ain't got no friends. Just them bottles." He gestured towards the floor and nearly fell out of his chair. Coulson shook his head, heaving a sigh.

"Ok, if you say so. I'm here because it is time for you to get back out into the field. You need to stop wallowing in self pity. It is time to come back to the base."

"Why? So they can hook me up to some damn machine and watchme?" His words slurred together more as his anger rose.

"No. So we can get you back on your feet. It is time to get back out into the world. You've shut yourself off from the world. It is time to come back."

"Is that whatya know? Yaknow that huh?" He grumbled and scratched his bare stomach.

"I don't have time to deal with your drunk ass." Coulson finally let his frustration get the better of him. He shoved away from the table and crossed the room, shoving his way into the small bathroom. He kicked all the dirty clothes aside and opened the shower door, reaching in and turning the cold water on. He tossed a fresh bar of soap and a razor into the shower rack before stalking back to the kitchen. He hauled Clint to his feet, grunting under the other mans weight.

"Lemme go." Clint tried to protest and put up a fight, but his coordination was no better than a toddlers. Coulson steered him into the bathroom and shoved him under the stream of icy water, slamming the shower door shut.

"Clean up and be ready to report by 8 a.m. I'll be here then. If you aren't ready I'll personally have your ass expelled from the agency." He didn't bother to wait for a response. Instead he turned on his heel and shut the bathroom door behind him, leaving Clint alone once more.

"Some friend." Clint mumbled, fumbling to turn on the hot water. Once he finally managed to get that accomplished he stumbled around until he managed to free himself of his soaked boxers. He tossed them over the shower door and they landed with a wet smack on the tile.

Clint frowned as he placed his palms against the cool tile, letting the stream of hot water run over his head. The minutes trickled by and slowly Clint's mind began to clear. He looked into his shaving mirror and winced, hardly recognizing himself. He looked like a hillbilly that had stumbled away from his moonshine still.

"You've really let yourself go Barton." Clint picked up his razor and turned it over in his hand, eyeing himself in the mirror. "Time to get back into the game."