Unlike the garages at SHIELD, where there are rows upon rows of the same black and sometimes very, very dark grey cars, the garage underneath Stark Tower is a museum of exotic and expensive automobiles.
She stands in the doorway for only a second, scanning all of her other options before locating the small silver sports car the keys she took (stole) belongs to.
Her bag is tossed unceremoniously into the small trunk and she slides into the driver's seat, taking a deep breath. She's gripping the steering wheel and her knuckles are turning white and, for a second, she's questioning her decision to-
"Where are we going?"
The voice in the back seat makes her jump and he sits up slowly, with the look on his face that says she's confusing him again, and he wants to know why.
"Shit, Clint. Don't do that." She reprimands herself for not being more careful, for not checking the back seat.
He makes a show of climbing into the front beside her before speaking again. "What are you doing, Nat?"
"I don't- I don't know," she admits, refusing to look at him. "I just..."
The fire had been an accident, and nothing had been damaged. But that's not why she wanted to leave, not why she stole (took) the keys, and not why she's sitting her now.
"Natasha."
"I just don't like the way they look at me," she whispers, staring pointedly in the other direction. She slides her hands up and down the steering wheel. "Like I'm broken, or breaking, or going to break in the near future."
It had started with the panic attack and they'd been careful afterwards, always tiptoeing, and she hated it. But for two months she'd kept going, kept working and cooking and laughing, playing cards and drinking, ever aware of the secret looks and the staring and how sometimes they let her win, as if it was going to set her off. Clint had hated it to, she could tell. But then there was the accident and the fire and she'd fixed it, and Clint had fixed her, but everything was different.
The balance had shifted when they saw her cry.
"You're not broken, Nat," he says, simple as that.
After a moment, she finally faces him, looks him in the eye so emerald meets grey. "I think I could be happy here."
"But you're not right now."
"Not now, no. But I think I could be." He pries one of her hands off the steering wheel and wraps it in one of his own. "I just need sometime. To figure some stuff out."
In response, he pulls on the seatbelt and straps it in place, leaning back in the seat. "Great. Where are we going?"
She looks at him, incredulous, before realizing there is absolutely no way she will be getting him out of the car. The thought calms her down and she thinks she might even want him there anyway.
"Where's the happiest place on earth?" she asks, starting the engine and pulling slowly out of the parking space. The red Porsche on her left would not be good to hit.
"Not Budapest," he says with a smirk and she nods in agreement. "I'm happy as long as I'm with you."
She looks at him for a second, trying not to over analyze what he just said. "Actually, you're wrong. I'm pretty sure it's Disney World."
He opens one eye to see if she's joking and she flashes him a smile, an actual genuine smile and he remembers how much he missed it.
She throws the car from reverse to drive without truly coming to a stop, one fluid motion and they're going forward.
He can't help but wish it was really that easy.
The car skids a little on the January ice outside the tower, but she doesn't slow down.