Clint knew he should have let Coulson be the one to give Natasha her first driving lesson.
Granted, the former Russian spy already knew how to drive; the Red Room Academy had trained her to infiltrate anywhere, and that meant she had to know. That didn't necessarily mean she could do it well. There was a world of difference between driving in Russia and driving in America. Besides which, when a highly sensitive secret spy group wanted you after you'd defected, you needed to get your driver's license before you got your pilot's.
Still, when a former police academy driving instructor turned stuntman outright failed someone, you shouldn't volunteer to teach them. Ever.
"Brakes! Brakes! Hit the BRAKES!"
"Why?"
"WHY?! That was a red light! You're supposed to stop!"
"It was clear."
"That doesn't matter! Even kids in car seats know that red means stop, green means go!"
"What about the yellow?"
"For you, that means stop too."
"I thought it meant-"
"It means stop. Don't argue. And for chrissakes, slow down! Those signs are not suggestions!"
Clint had been clinging to the bar over the door so hard that his right hand was starting to cramp. And when Natasha hit the highway, he began to jerk on the door handle as hard as he could with his left.
"Oh, God, why won't it open!"
"You are acting like an infant. Grow older."
"It's up. Grow up. And considering I shit my pants on that last turn, I sort of feel like an infant. Turns are meant to be taken on four wheels, not two!"
"What if this was a motorbike?"
"Not the issue at hand, Romanoff. You need to get the hang of four wheels before I let you anywhere near two."
Aside from Natasha's pathological need to weave in and out of traffic, straight aways weren't too bad. At least, not until she almost missed their exit. Of course, Natasha would have said she knew where it was all along. Clint was convinced she still saw road signs in Cyrillic rather than English.
And thank whatever powers-that-be who were listening that it wasn't raining, because their fishtailing might just have flipped the car if it had.
"I think I'm gonna be sick…"
"Quit whining. You're lucky I haven't shot you yet for-"
"BOTH HANDS ON THE WHEEL!"
"Nag, nag, nag, you're such a старуха."
The bland office that was SHIELD's ground based headquarters came into view as they raced along the quiet road.
"Natasha, you think you might want to be using the brakes right about now? Or now? Or for the LOVE OF GOD, NOW?!"
Her turn into the parking lot had them spinning out but sliding neatly into a parallel parking space. Sideways. Clint's scream grew higher and higher pitched as the curb closed in, ready to kill him. It petered out as the movement of the vehicle stopped.
As soon as Natasha shifted into park and the doors unlocked, Clint flung his open and let his wobbly knees hit the ground outside the SHIELD building. The solid concrete was reassuring, and for a moment he wanted to fall forward and kiss it. He managed to restrain the urge.
"Solid land! I'm never leaving you again!" He couldn't restrain the one that had him shouting to the sky, however. Coulson, wearing his perpetual shades, merely shook his head.
"That's the last time I give you caffeine before a mission."
"I want hazard pay, Phil!"
"I'll run that by the Director."
Natasha walked by him, rolling her eyes and clicking the lock button on the remote.
"You should see me drive a stick. I make gearshifts much smoother."
"Never again, Romanoff. Never. Again."
"Child."
He really should have let Coulson give Natasha her first driving lesson.
.0.o.0.o.0.
A/N: старуха – Russian – 'old woman'
