What could possibly go wrong?
After his conversation with Hank, Clint couldn't help but feel like a bit of a hypocrite. There he was, telling Hank how much he needed to get out of the lab and the mansion more, instead of solely dwelling on Jan when Clint himself was guilty of staying in and dwelling on his own problems. Hank's wife was, at the last, confined to an alternate reality with a real problem.

Clint couldn't say the same about his ex-wife. She was here, on this plane of existence, but on the other side of the country, doing her own thing while he did his. They'd each been doing their own thing for the last four or five months. The phone calls were common for the first couple of weeks, then more sporadic until a few months ago, when they just stopped coming and going altogether.

"His own thing" consisted of sleeping until about noon, then getting up and working out, followed by a rousing bit of television or haunting the mansion. Then there was another pulse-pounding workout, before he armed up and started target practice. After an hour of that, it was usually dark, at which point Clint put on all of his gear and went out to beat up crooks on the streets of New York, which was all of the real "getting out" that he did anymore.

There was that and the increasingly common occurrence of running into Jessica Drew in her nightclothes, which kept Clint up and on edge until sunrise, at which point he usually crashed from exhaustion. Wash, rinse and repeat.

Not tonight. I need to break the habit.

Clint threw on jeans and button-down shirt and a pair of his good boots and went on down to the Eighth Street Bar for a night of drinking. New York has enough heroes that he can take a night off, and maybe watching New York kick the tar out of Boston will lift his spirits.

He walks in and sits down the bar, ordering a beer and some wings to enjoy with the game. He ignores the stares of the women and the glares of the men, and tries to concentrate on having a good night. Bobbi wouldn't want him to start or finish any fights.

He has no idea /why/ that matters to him right now, but it does.

Twenty minutes in, someone calls his name.

"Hey, Clint Barton? It /is/ you!" the male says, stepping into his field of vision. Clint sees a younger, pudgy guy that he remembers instantly from the smile on his face.

"Bobby Warner? Hey, man!" Clint says, shaking the offered hand. "Have a seat. Didn't know you came here." 

"I don't, not often, but I'm here with some of the guys from work. Wanted to watch the game without the wife nagging." he says, laughing. "Speaking of wives, how is Bobbi?"

Clint's expression gives the man his answer before Clint even says anything.

"Oh, sorry. I still don't know when to shut my mouth. Hey, let me buy you a beer to make up for it." Bobby says.

Bobby and and Clint catch up, talking about the game and such, before Bobby puts an idea on the table.

"I work for a new security firm, Nightwatch Limited. They're really good, man. Now, I know you're an Avenger and you don't need a nine-to-five...but the firm is always looking for a few people who are good at what they do for courier work. The money's good, too. I'd get into it, but....." he pats his round belly. "The wife feeds me too well." he laughs.

"Thanks, Bobby, but like you said, I really don't need a nine-to-five. I've been pretty busy." Clint says.

Yeah, moping is an all-day sport, isn't it, Barton?

"The money is really good, too, Clint. Look, let me get my boss on the phone. Just hear him out and if you're not interested, you're not." Bobby says.

Clint really wasn't interested, truth be told, but Bobby was a good guy when they worked at Cross Security, before they realized the boss was a nutjob. And while Clint didn't technically need the money, he needed to be out of the mansion more.

"All right, I'll listen. But no promises." Clint says.

Thirty minutes later, Clint Barton agrees to deliver a briefcase to a government agent in Las Vegas, Nevada. That place had some memories to it, unpleasant ones, but the money was enough to make him not think about it. As it stood, he wouldn't be going anywhere near those canyons anyway. Once he was done, he could get on a plane at McCarran and go to Hawaii for a few weeks with the money he had.

Yeah, a lot better than moping.

"Deal. I'm in." Clint says, hanging up the phone. He shakes Bobby's hand and excuses himself, leaving the bar to walk back to Avengers' Mansion.

He had some packing to do.