Assassinations (Instrumental) by Stateless is today's inspiration. Warning: this chapter does contain some graphic content which has made me change the rating on this story to mature. Enjoy.

Afternoon brought paperwork. Lots of it. A mountain that practically enslaved Coulson in his office. He should have guessed it though. Fury would supply him with as much work as he could handle to either serve as a distraction from the visions and the nightmares or as something that would eventually break him. They were tiring reports of missions he'd participated in years ago, before New York. Before they'd brought him back. They were to be looked over thoroughly, to remind him of who he'd once been and who he was supposed to be now.

Lest I become that thing again, Coulson thought. He pulled his glasses off and massaged his temples. He hadn't seen any of the team in what felt like hours. He tried to imagine that was a good thing. May had seemed determined to make sure he didn't end up in some S.H.I.E.L.D. medical facility again, begging for death.

More than anything, he didn't want that.

He stood up and stretched. His stomach growled.

Every time he thought of eating, the image of that sandwich, cold, sad, unappetizing on its big white plate next to the cup of vibrant red jello returned to him. He'd lose any inclination to eat in moments.

Tea might have been good though. He left his office and headed to the break room. The Bus was surprisingly empty. He didn't blame Fury for reassigning most of the other agents though. New York was still being cleaned up after the Chiutari invasion. Loki's plans had nearly come to fruition here. He took a shuddering breath ad he dispensed some hot water into a mug and selected a bag of chamomile tea to dunk into it. It languished and turned the water to gold.

There had to be a way to do this. There had to be a way to not remember what he'd endured so vividly, a way to forgive S.H.I.E.L.D. and Nick Fury for what they had done to him. But the thought of the unflinching optimism and loyalty only turned his mind to dark places. Had those also been reprogrammed into his head?

He reached to grab a stir stick but found them all gone. He yanked the drawer out for a spoon and discovered a similar shortage. The sink nearby was filled with murky water, soap suds floating at the top, with, no doubt, all of the spoons resting at the bottom.

Just like children, he thought, cracking a tiny smile. He reached into the drawer and drew a knife, plunking it into the mug and swishing it around as he added some sugar.

Pulling the knife back out wasn't as harmless. Once it was in front of his gaze, he once again felt the world being pulled away from him, tugging him back there…to the hospital…

He'd actually tried to eat some apple slices one morning. He'd gone nearly five days without food. The only thing that had kept him going was the saline IV and the odd sip of water here and there.

"A marked improvement," he'd overheard one of the doctors say. Sure. Whatever you want to think.

One of the nurses had stopped by moments later to help him bathe. She'd removed the cuffs on his wrists and was just helping him out of bed when she was abruptly called away. The warning lights were flashing. An emergency. A true emergency. She hadn't bothered to strap him back into the gurney. One minute she was there, and the next, half way down the hall.

He didn't even know where he'd found the pair of shears. They may have been with the nurses things so she could change his bandage. The doctors might have left them in the room by accident while re-applying his stitches.

It didn't matter.

The nurse returned to find him dragging one of the blades up his wrist, fresh blood spilling. She'd called the doctors. Within moments, he'd gone under again in what he'd hoped was a lasting darkness.

"Don't fight it, Agent Coulson," he heard Raina's voice in his head. "Don't fight it!"

As the images faded, the blood bloomed and strengthened until he realized just what he'd done. It gushed down his arm, soaking his suit shirt. He grabbed the counter for support, dropping the knife and sending the mug of tea to the floor.

CRASH.

He grabbed at his wrist, trying to stem the bloodflow. It oozed between his fingers.

Footsteps behind him now.

"Oh my god!" Fitz's voice rang out.

Coulson suddenly felt hands on his shoulders, gently guiding him down toward the floor.

"Simmons! Get a kit! Quickly!"

Fitz's hand clamped down on the deep gouge with a dish towel. Coulson seethed from the sudden pressure.

"How did this happen, Boss?" he asked the older agent.

"It was an accident. I don't know how…"

Simmons arrived moments later, her eyes wide with horror. "Oh, geez!" she cried kneeling down in front of him and breaking open the kit. "What happened?"

"I don't know," he said. Exhaustion washed over him and sleep beckoned for him to join its dark embrace.

"Let me look at it," Simmons said, gently taking his arm and removing the dish towel. A squirt of blood spat out, staining Coulson's trousers. "Oh, it's deep. We've got to get him over to medical. Now!" She put a hand to his face, snapping him out of his slow progression into sleep. "Can you walk?"

Coulson nodded and with Fitz's help stood. He let the younger agents guide him down the hall to the medical bay, the blood leaving trails down the corridor behind them.

The moment he saw the medical bed, everything in him tensed. He planted his feet and Fitz nearly lost his grip on him.

"Sir, what's wrong?" Simmons asked, studying him.

"I can't…I can't go in there."

"It's the only way we can take care of that cut. We can't have you bleeding out right here."

Why not?

He shook his head. "I'm not lying on the bed," he said resolvedly.

"Fine, this chair will do."

They sat him into a straight backed chair, tore at the sleeve of the shirt and rolled it up past his elbow. "Jesus, it's nearly half way up his arm!" Fitz noted, keeping pressure applied to the area closest to his wrist.

"How did you say this happened again?" Simmons asked, grabbing some antiseptic and stitches from her kit.

"I was making tea," Coulson said, finding it hard to keep focusing on her voice.

"With a knife?"

"Were no spoons in the drawer," he slurred and eyed Fitz. "Someone doesn't do their own dishes."

Fitz's eyes widened for a moment. "I swear if I'd thought not doing my dishes would kill someone someday, I'd have been right on that, Boss."

Coulson closed his eyes, drifting on a sea of pain.

"Here," Simmons gave him a shot. "That should dull some of the pain while I work on this."

He felt it enter his body in a huge burst, slipping through his veins so quickly it nearly caught him off guard and only brought sleep closer.

"…look self-inflicted…" he heard Simmons murmur to Fitz. "I think I should call Director Fury…"

"No!" he cried out, making both junior agents jump. "Don't do that."

"Sir…" Simmons began to protest.

He opened his eyes a crack to look at her. "I want Melinda. Only her."

Simmons nodded to Fitz and said, "You call. I'll take over from here."

The pressure on his arm released for only a moment before another replaced it. It was just enough to allow the blackness in, and as it swallowed him, he faintly heard Raina's voice again urging him "not to fight it".

Chapter 6 to come soon...