AN Prepare yourself. We only have a few chapters left.

Natasha's house was so quiet without Clint. She didn't know how she had stood it before, waiting around in oppressive silence, hearing only her own thoughts, her own heartbeat, her own movements. There were no words, no laughter, no nothing. Just silence.

It smothered her. It gave her time to think. It made her want to cry.

Everything she did now seemed to involve Clint. Painting a picture made her think about his endless questions about her work. Eating made her miss the way he fidgeted through every meal, like added motion made the food taste better. Sketching people on the subway reminded her of his comments on how her style had changed, then of his excitement when she had confessed he was her muse. Walking down the street caused her heart to leap every so often because each whiff of cigarette smoke made her think, maybe, just maybe, it was Clint standing nearby.

(No wonder she hadn't been in any other proper relationships. She was far too needy for love.)

This sort of heartache should have reflected in her artwork, she thought on rare, dramatic occasion. She should have been drowning herself in hues of blue, each line and brushstroke turning silky and sad. But it didn't show up in her art. Nothing showed up in her art. Natasha found herself stalling more and more when it came to painting or sketching, her inspiration disappearing as she worked out her loss.

Because it felt like a loss. It felt like Clint had been stolen from her by fate, like she would never get him back. Which was ridiculous, because she hadn't given him up. She had asked for a break, not an estrangement. But it was seeming more and more likely that Natasha's only way of coping was the compulsion to hide.

She felt pathetic. She felt lonely. She felt terrified to call Clint.

How could she call him? She hadn't made a decision, hadn't decided how she felt about his life of crime (other than hurt). She had only wanted to put a hold on things so she could have time to puzzle out just what she wanted. Natasha had known herself well enough to realize that she couldn't look on this tiny betrayal without irrational hate swelling up in her chest. She had needed time to remind herself that just because Clint committed crime, he wasn't one of the animals she used to work with. He wasn't like her uncle.

Natasha only partly believed that. Demyan had made it clear that human decency only ran so deep with criminals.

And what if she did ask him to come back? Could Natasha prevent things from going bad? Or would his life of crime bleed into her and call out the nastiness she had worked so hard to bury? Would they realize that whatever they thought they loved about each other was just a thin sugar shell of lies?

When she saw Clint's text one morning, Natasha was both relieved and anxious. Her stomach jolted into her mouth and kept her from breathing as she fumbled with her phone, trying to unlock it. Then she tried not to feel upset that the message was so clinical, so brief.

How are you doing?

It felt like an insult. How was she doing? Finally, after days and weeks of painful silence, he asked how she was doing?! Natasha wanted to scream.

It took her a day of being infuriated to realize that it was a perfectly valid question. He didn't know how she was. Clint had obeyed her request with heartbreaking sincerity. Their lack of contact had been absolute so now he was gently asking her if he was allowed to come back.

Natasha took another day to realize that she had only been angry because she had wanted that text to be their solution. She wanted Clint to have solved the problem for her. She wanted him to have found the perfect solution she was so greedily asking for, to have found a loophole so he could come back and spend forever with her.

She was so selfish. She didn't want to be like that anymore.

Out of all the people Natasha knew, she did not expect Barney Barton to call her in the middle of the afternoon.

"Barney?" she asked, somehow confused by the whole situation. Why would Barney call her? Why, when things had fallen apart with Clint? How did he even get her cell number?

"Yeah, y'know, Clint's brother?"

"No, yes, I know who you are. I just…I'm surprised, is all. Is everything alright?"

"Sure," he sighed. It sounded like he had had a very long day. "We can say that."

"Is this personal or business?" Natasha clarified. She wasn't certain which would have been worse.

"It's about Clint."

"…Oh."

"I…I'm not really sure how to handle this?" he said, clearly as uneasy as she was. "I know you two are…on a break, so it's kinda awkward to act as a go between for you two. Would be awkward either way, actually."

"'On a break'? Did Clint tell you that?" Natasha asked, suddenly eager for any news of him.

Desperate, desperate, desperate.

"Yeah, he gave me the bare details. But, Natasha, this…it's not gonna be about what you expect."

"…Why? Did something happen to him?"

"Yeah. Clint…he's in jail, Natasha. He's been arrested for burglary."

Natasha braced herself against the counter. She felt like she had been hit in the stomach. Clint was in jail. Clint had been arrested. Clint had been stealing.

Had she caused this? Had their fight sent him spinning into bad decisions, had he raged against the void between them by spiting her in ways she would never know? No, no, she wasn't thinking straight, she needed to be logical. Natasha had looked into his face when they had argued, she had seen his selfless need to make her happy. Clint had been ready to do anything she asked, had practically been offering his entire life in sacrifice if it meant her forgiveness.

So...why had he gone and done the exact thing she had demanded he not do?

"Arrested? When?" she managed. Even though her voice sounded a little hollow to her own ears it didn't shake.

"Last night, late. I don't know all of the details, but…he was on a job and it went sideways."

"Alright. What exactly was…uhm, what's going to…why are you calling me? I mean, uhm, how did you get my…?" Natasha pressed a hand against her eyes. She was so off balance she couldn't even speak straight.

Get a mask, Natasha. Find a persona and use it to get you through this conversation.

"Clint called last night, after they'd processed him. He asked me to call you, told me your number."

Clint had memorized her phone number.

"So here I am, I guess," Barney continued. "He's alright, ego's little bruised, but…it's lookin' like he'll probably do time, the case is pretty open and shut. He just wanted you to know, in case you wanna try things out with him again. Clint also says he wouldn't blame you if you left and never looked back."

But she would. She would blame herself so much. Before hearing the news Natasha had been uncertain and hesitant, afraid to reach out to Clint on the off chance that the filth of crime would ruin what they had. Hearing his helpless apology, even though it was from Barney's mouth, pushed away all of her doubts. He wasn't asking for help, wasn't using the painting as leverage against her. He was telling her goodbye and to have a good life.

"Look, Natasha," Barney said. He sounded a little more serious, now, less tired and more determined. "I don't know exactly what happened between you two and I don't need to. But you should know that Clint adored you. You made his life better, I swear. And from what I saw at Tyler's party, you seemed to like him a whole lot back. Talk to him, please. Before anything happens just go talk to him."

"Yeah," Natasha murmured. She frowned, a hazy recollection coming to mind. "Wait, he's still in jail? Can't you do something about that? What is it, paying bail?"

"He said he didn't want it," Barney said, the exhaustion crashing back into his voice. "Trust me, I tried, I was halfway out to the car to go help him myself, but…Clint wants to stay there."

"Okay. Okay." Natasha chewed on her lip as she thought. Clint wanted to stay in a cell. He wanted himself to suffer? The thought made her jaw clench. Despite all the insistence he gave that she was important and good and desirable, he still failed to believe it about himself.

Natasha asked Barney for a little more information and Barney listed it off. He sounded like he needed to sleep. They probably both did, if the heaviness in Natasha's limbs was any indicator.

"Thank you, Barney," she said. "No matter what, you're a good brother."

"Some days it doesn't feel like it," Barney chuckled. "Somedays it really doesn't. But I guess that's just part of loving Clint, y'know?"

Natasha smiled because she very much did.

The rest of the day felt empty, sliding by in a blink. She couldn't sleep that night. She couldn't get the picture of Clint in a jail cell out of her head. He had been arrested for theft. She needed to help. But how could she, when he was refusing to accept it?

Why had Clint even chosen to stay there? Why hadn't he let his family help? Why had he asked Barney to let her know? Was Clint hoping that she would be chased farther away? He had to know she wouldn't run away from him, not when he needed help. But then...in a sick sense, it would be exactly the distance she had asked for.

Natasha didn't want to get out of bed the next day. She wanted to roll over and cry because things had gone so disgustingly wrong. But she did get up. She got up and took a shower and ate breakfast and went for a walk and came home. She curled up in Clint's favorite chair. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on her knees.

Natasha's home phone rang. She let it ring out. Her answering machine took over and politely apologized for missing the call.

"Natalia, pick up the phone."

Natasha jerked to her feet and grabbed the phone before she could think.

"Why are you calling me?" she snarled, the Russian hot and angry as it rolled off her tongue.

Demyan scoffed out a laugh. "I told you, Nia. Your month is up. Give me the painting."

"I told you, I don't have it!

"I've had enough!" he snarled, and the steel in his voice made her flinch. "Give me the painting. If you don't, I will cut your life apart bit by bit until you are surrounded by nothing but blood and bone."

"You wouldn't dare. I could ruin you just as easily," she scoffed, emboldened by grief. There wasn't anything left for him to take, now.

"It wouldn't be worth it. I would destroy you before you got the nerve."

Natasha actually found herself laughing. "There's nothing left for you take from me."

"Oh? Tell me how that crook of yours is doing."

Ice lodged in Natasha's throat. She dragged in a jerky breath, too horrified to try hiding it. Demyan's laugh was much colder than hers had been.

"That good? I'm delighted that your taste in nice, wholesome men hasn't changed, Nia. Though I'm surprised that you picked someone so fragile. Maybe you wanted to act like you were in control for once?"

"You—you—you," Natasha spat, hands shaking almost as much as her voice. She knew she was stammering but she was too appalled, too irate, too terrified to speak properly. She pressed a hand against her mouth, forcing back the hateful sob threatening to leave her throat. "You had Clint arrested? You framed him?"

"Hardly. He's not a very good thief, is he? Very easy to guilt. The moment complications arose because he backed out of a job, he instantly came back to help. He never would have survived anything high stakes like what we did.

"You made him take that job?"

"Has living on your own dulled your wits?" Demyan asked, irritated in an instant. "Of course not. I told you. The idiot took the job of his own will. If he'd had an ounce of self-preservation, he would have just walked away. What did he expect but to be arrested? So easy to lure."

"You set him up!" Natasha snarled, slamming her hand down on the counter. She cradled it against her chest, letting the burn of pain fuel her hatred toward Demyan. "All because I won't give you the painting, you sent him to jail! You monster."

"He was playing with matches like the best of us. He just wasn't as good at it. Now, Natalia, if you want you precious idiot to remain safe, you will give me the Vereschagin. A thousand things can go wrong from now to prison."

"And you wonder why I ran away from you," she hissed, knowing there was nothing that could hurt him but needing to try all the same.

"I always imagined it was because you wanted to keep my share."

"Of course you'd actually believe that."

"I am done playing games, Nia. Give me the Vereschagin and we can end this nicely."

Natasha threw the phone into the cradle before she could say anything she would regret.

Natasha forced herself to remain very, very still while she waited. She didn't look at the officer behind the desk, she didn't examine the walls, she didn't check the camera. She just waited.

"—c'mon guys, I know it's kinda crazy, but you realize I don't actually want to be released? I mean, does it look like the kind of guy that's got enough friends to post bail?"

"I don't actually care what kind of friends you've got," a police officer said, finally coming into Natasha's line of sight. She held her breath and watched as the officer gestured Clint to the doors, entirely unimpressed with his protests. Clint was still frowning at the man.

"Anyway," the officer said, "seems like the only friend you need is missy over there."

Clint turned, and it actually hurt Natasha's heart to see his face fall when he saw her.

"Nat," he murmured.

She stood up and walked to him. Every step was stiff, every breath stuck a little in her throat. That was fine. She had Clint, that was fine.

"Thank you, officer," she said, and took Clint's hand.

He stumbled after her in confusion, not saying anything until they were outside. The sidewalk was littered with people, but it felt so blessedly free after the oppressive office.

"Natasha, what're—Natasha, hold on," Clint said, grinding to a halt. He didn't pull his hand away.

She turned to face him, mouth set. "What?"

"Tasha, I'm—" he swallowed and shook his head. Clint took a moment to find the words, hands stabbing into his pockets. "Look, I'm really grateful you did this for me, but I didn't want you to."

"No, you wanted to go to prison."

"It's probably for the best. I mean, if I've gotta actually suffer for being an idiot…okay. Maybe it might straighten me out for real."

"Not okay!" she snapped, letting go of his hand to throw her arms in the air. "That's the stupidest thing I have heard you say! I do not want you in prison, I don't want you to suffer!"

Clint gave a strained laugh and looked away like he didn't quite believe that.

"Look at me!" she said, stretching on her toes so she could catch his eye. "I will not let this happen to you."

"Nat, I got caught. I chose to help rob that store. My choice. My punishment. That's why I didn't want anyone to post bail. This way I can't do anything else before I'm sentenced."

"You're being ridiculous. Demyan did this," she ground out. "Demyan made you get caught!"

"Dem—your uncle?"

"Yes. I don't know how, maybe he tipped off the police or something, but he had you arrested. He knew you had refused to do the job, but he tricked you into taking it again. He would have gotten you another way if not now."

"He didn't make me do the job, Nat! I don't know how you got this into your head, but…just stop. I mean, I'm touched, but stop trying to convince yourself I'm something I'm not."

Clint turned away but Natasha caught his arm and jerked him back around. People were glaring at them for taking up so much of the sidewalk and for shouting, so Natasha dragged Clint down the street. He let himself be pulled into a small inlet in front of a store, but he still looked like he was only humoring her.

"I don't care that you were arrested for theft. I mean, I'm not thrilled, but that doesn't make me hate you! It's okay, Clint, it's okay. But what's not okay is Demyan trying to destroy the happiness I have."

"Nat, you can't look at me and say—"

"Yes, I can! I can say you make me happy because you do, Clint! I love you too much to lie to you."

"That's not anything I want on you, though!" Clint said. The heat in his voice took her aback. He seemed upset to hear those words come out of his mouth. I love you too much. "It's been, what, a couple weeks since you saw me last? And in that time I can't even hold myself together enough to respect your wishes! The moment you turn away, I'm back to being a petty thief. I've thought about it and I'm done. I'm done dragging people down because they care about me."

Natasha grabbed his shoulders and yanked him close, on the verge of shaking him to get him to understand. She was almost snarling when she spoke, angry that he was so insistent on hating himself.

"He told me, Clint! He wants the painting, my month's up! This is the punishment he had in mind! He's going to tear my life apart, he told me. This isn't you."

"Then I'm just endangering you!" Clint yelled back, pushing her hands away from him. "Don't you get it, I'm just causing trouble for you. Let me go, Natasha, I don't wanna cause you any more trouble."

"Don't you get it?!" she demanded, putting her hands back on his arms as though she could hold him there and make him listen. "This isn't about you, Clint! Demyan knows I care about you, so it doesn't matter how far away you are, how long it's been since we last talked, none of it matters! He is going to hurt you to hurt me, so would you please just value yourself for one moment and let me care about you?!"

She was shaking she was so frustrated, but Natasha didn't care. She didn't want some mask or façade that made her seem in control, because she wasn't in control. She was scared and angry and determined. Natasha didn't want to hide that. So she stared at Clint head on, begging him and needing him to agree with her. He had flinched when she ordered him to care about himself, but he didn't seem upset that she had said it.

"Listen to me! You are worth being cared for! I would walk through fire before I let anything happen to you! And I'm not asking for your permission to let me help you, I'm doing it whether you want it or not. But will you at least make things easier for me and help?"

His mouth was a tight line as he looked away from her. When he spoke he was glaring down the sidewalk. "If your uncle wants to hurt me...how are you going to stop him?"

Natasha's grip loosened on his arms. She had been trying not to think about that. It was the only option she could think of, but it scared the hell out of her to think about.

"I…I know some people that can help. It might be difficult but they know how to handle people like him."

Clint continued to give her that borderline suspicious look, but he didn't question the sudden hesitance in her face. He licked his lips, then nodded. It looked like he was trying to convince himself.

"Yeah, okay. Sure," he said, head still bobbing. "I, uh, alright. You sure?"

"Yes, Clint, I am sure," she said, almost sighing in relief. Her hands slipped from his arms to his hands, moved by an instinct he had kindled in her chest. Touching him felt so easy now.

"Even about...that stuff you said about me?" he asked, hunching in on himself as he mumbled the question at the ground.

"Yes, of course, yes." She squeezed his hands to emphasize her point, hoping and praying that he believed her.

He nodded again, then took a deep breath. "Okay. I…thank you."

The words sounded awkward in his mouth.

Natasha smiled at him, wanting to feel relieved but not finding it within herself. She hadn't earned that yet. If she made a single false step before now and winning, her uncle would destroy her without hesitation.

Clint cleared his throat and looked at the sky. "I…should get home. I spent the whole night in a holding cell, so…it'd be good to get washed up and call Barney or something."

Natasha sucked in a breath, a little wounded at his opting not to go home with her. It hurt, but itmade sense. Her home was not his home by any stretch of the imagination. He needed clothes, a shower, some food, and maybe a toothbrush. And probably some time away from her.

After a few moments of her forcing out a waxy smile, it melted into place.

"Of course. Go get some rest. But…will you come see me? After? There's some things I want to talk to you about."

"Sure," Clint said, still refusing to meet her eye for more than a few seconds. He forced out his own smile and squeezed her hands.

Natasha let him go, a knot forming in her chest. "I'll…I'll let you get going. And Clint?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for letting me help."

He smiled again, and this time it felt real. "Thanks for wanting to help."

Clint brushed her cheek with the pad of his thumb, then walked past her to the subway. Natasha stood there a moment as she tried to catch her breath, then made her own way home.

AN MAN LOOK AT THIS PLOT GO.