The tears were streaming down his face. He didn't bother trying to wipe them away. He couldn't. Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't live. Couldn't think about having to get up tomorrow. Having to face the world as if everything was perfect. As if he was still the same Clint Barton he had always been. Because he wasn't. He had never been that Clint Barton. Everything he pretended to be every day, was just that, pretend.
He acted tough. He acted like a cocky flirt. He acted like he had no cares. No worries. No problems. When in reality, his world had crashed down around him when he was six years old and he had been trying to rebuild it ever since. All he'd managed to accomplish was to hollow out a nest for himself in the ashes.
In the end the tears stopped, as they did every night. He curled deeper into his bed and set his alarm. Tomorrow was going to come, whether he wanted it to or not. Tomorrow always did. He would get up and face it as he did every other day. He would plaster a fake smile on his face and throw an ego in everyone's face to keep them from digging deeper. He'd protect himself and push back the emptiness, at least until he was back safe at home. Until he was alone again. Until he had a spare moment to look back around at the ashes in his mind and heart and wonder just how long until he was finally free.
