Work Text:
He dials the phone with calm precision. It's automatic, calling the one other person who will know what he's feeling without him having to say it.
"Natasha," and he can already feel that's a mistake. Using her name. She’s working. She's on a mission. She’s working. Work is carrying on. The world is carrying on without them. Its a clear sign he's slipping, that it’s getting to him.
But all he can think of is being off mission, when first names are allowed and all the times he enjoyed saying his name. The first time he was allowed to say it. The first glimmer of approval and real respect in his eyes when Coulson listened to why his orders were wrong. The first time they could drop the handler/agent titles. The first time he whispered it into his shoulder as he came. Clint. And he suddenly can't say it. Can't have that Clint, his Clint be the one that's compromised.
It wasn't the man who once asked him to kiss his new bow for luck, soft joyous surprise spreading over his face when he'd bent to do so. It wasn't his Clint who had insisted on being under the sheets of their bed to tell him about the life at the circus, about his brother, his parents. It wasn't the Clint who had kissed him before he left for new Mexico, with a promise he would be good. It wasn't him who had been touched by Loki's spear.
It may have been Clint who had heart but it was Agent Barton they would rescue. No other way could he stay Agent Coulson, calm in the face of catastrophe. No other way would he be able to do this.
"Barton has been compromised."