I'm baaack! And yes, I realize that this is hideously OOC. But anyone reading this should really know we left 'in character' behind 2 years, 2 months, 2 weeks, and 4 days ago.

Also, I wrote half of this at 2 am. Sorry, and enjoy.

There's only one thing in this world that can make me excited.

Well. Okay. Two, but I'm not talking about sex right now.

And I'm not talking about normal excitement right now, or even adrenaline; I'm talking about the kind of rush you occasionally get where you can feel your heart beating against your ribs, feel the blood rushing through your veins and roaring through your head. Where you are on top of the world in that moment, and nothing – absolutely nothing – can ever, ever bring you down.

One of the things that can bring me to that level was Clint – more specifically, sex with Clint.

The other thing was something else entirely. It was something that I had never told a soul about; one of the few secrets that I kept close to the vest. Clint didn't know. Jarvis didn't know. Dad didn't know, and wasn't that something?

If any of them knew anything, it was only that occasionally, I snuck out of the Tower in the dead of night. I didn't say where I was going. When asked, I blamed insomnia.

This…wasn't insomnia. It was so much more fun than that.

I smirk to myself as I pull the non-descript pickup truck I'd taken out of the garage into a wide alleyway and throw it into park, leaning over to rummage in the glove compartment, coming up with a piece of paper.

It's only got three lines of text:

August 22nd. Steinway St.

Bring your best.

Don't be late.

I smirk at it before tossing it in the back, climbing over the front seat to grab the small backpack I had stashed on the backseat and change from my t-shirt and jeans into something a little more suited for what I was doing: a one-piece black jumpsuit, black racing gloves, and tough but flexible black boots.

Climbing out of the car, I either looked like I was about to rob someone blind or like I'd just stepped out of an – ahem – adult movie.

Neither applied, thank Thor.

I make my way around to the back of the truck, unlocking the tailgate and climbing into the bed. I unhook a few bungee cords and pull off the tarp covering a thin, low shape in the center of the bed of the truck.

The tarp falls away to reveal a sleek and shiny black motorcycle with accents of purple; not too much, as discretion was the name of this game, but enough that I didn't look like a complete shadow.

My heart rate spikes just looking at it. I'll admit that I had a thing for fast bikes. The first one I ever built when I was eighteen was black and reactor-blue, with a top speed of 200 miles an hour, which was about mid-range when it came to fast.

But this beauty? It could hit 280, easy. 290 or 300, if I really pushed it. It was custom-built, of course, on the chassis of a Suzuki Hayabusa, with a modified Dodge Tomahawk engine and the body of a Yamaha YZF R1, everything bolted together with odds and ends I'd found either online or in the workshop.

I grin as I wheel it out of the truck, leaning it against the wall as I grab my helmet from the cab and lock everything up, stashing the keys in a hidden pocket.

I grab my bike and leave the alleyway, eyes scanning the street until they fall on two other people, both with their own supped-up bikes.

They both look up as I approach with my helmet tucked under one arm and the other guiding my bike.

"You Stark?" Guy #1 – his bike was a yellow Kawasaki Ninja – asks in a rough voice.

I give a sharp nod. "You Shaw?"

He nods, and then motions to the man next to him, standing by a red and black BMW K1200. "This is Johnson."

I give a half-wave, really only a flick of my fingers. Of course I knew who these guys were – I had dug up everything on them before I even stepped foot out of the Tower. Kawasaki Guy was Ethan Shaw, a blue-collar mechanic out of the Bronx. BMW Guy was Paul Johnson, an ex-MotoGP racer-turned mailman from Brooklyn.

"We need to get this shit done before the cops show," Johnson mutters, nervously glancing up and down the street.

"Well?" I step back and gesture with a hand. "Ladies first."

I ignore the two rude gestures that gets me as I wheel my bike into the street and up to the line. I was in the middle position: I had an ex-pro racer on my left, and a guy that knew how to make bikes go fast on my right.

Really, my only true advantage was that I did stupid stuff every day and was fairly fearless because of it. Compared to mutant flesh-eating mutant hamsters and psychotic aliens, this was a piece of cake.

I sling a leg over the bike and settle in, grabbing my helmet and shoving it onto my head. It was probably the simplest part of my outfit: a semi-glossy black fiberglass with a slight ridge in the center going back and a dark tinted visor that, when I put it down, made my face impossible to see.

Which was good, as – like I said – this was illegal.

I slap my visor down and crick my neck and my knuckles as I press the start button for my bike, grinning as it rumbles to life below me.

I watch the stop light above us – still red – as I carefully shift my weight from one foot to the other, the movement making the bike tilt just slightly. I lift my weight to the balls of my feet as the other two bikes roar beside me.

The light turns yellow. I take a few deep breaths, centering myself entirely on the task before me and idly wondering if Bruce would be surprised to know his meditation techniques helped my street racing career.

To my right and left, I hear asphalt crunch as the bikes and riders shift.

I keep my eyes on the light as I get into position – leaning forward over the bike, jockey-style, and lifting one foot entirely off the ground and pressing it close to the bike.

The light turns green.

I shoot forward, going from 0 to 250 in under three seconds and only climbing from there. To my left, Johnson's BMW matches me nicely. Shaw's Kawasaki lags just a bit, but that didn't fool me – the tortoise won the race, after all.

(Not this race, but yeah.)

I hit the first turn fast and lean hard to the left, coming close enough to the street that I could reach out and brush a hand against the asphalt if I so wished.

Another turn, and Johnson overtakes me, going up and to the outside to simply slip past mid-turn. He passes with a high-pitched whine, and I curse loudly and violently.

I sling around another curve, and now Shaw's gaining – this is not good - and I push my bike a little harder, hitting 275.

Shaw's front wheel pokes ahead of mine, and I take a chance to glance ahead.

There was a straightaway coming up. This is good.

I swing around one more turn, leaning towards the inside of the track and squeezing my knees in so they didn't hit the ground, as that would be…really bad, to say the least.

The bike straightens up, and I begin to open up the throttle – slowly, at first, but steadily. It hits 280. 285. 290.

Just as the speedometer peaks over 295, there's a flash of color in my peripheral vision. It was Shaw, and he was up to something.

I pace myself so that we were nose and nose, glancing over to see my opponent poised and taught, like a panther ready to pounce.

Suddenly, my bike jerks to the right, wobbling dangerously before I steady it. Swerving away from Shaw as we take another curve, I come to a realization: I was being pushed off the track.

Well, that wasn't going to fly, now was it? Two could play at that game.

I straighten the bike up again and shift my weight onto the balls of my feet, carefully edging closer and closer to the BMW.

I knew, right off the bat, that I couldn't beat him in a shoving match. My bike was made to be feather-light and thin, optimized for speed and only speed.

For a split second, I hesitate about the next option.

But then I remember that I was no superhero – not here, in a back alley in some dingy part of Queens, doing very illegal things that would get me very arrested for a very long time, regardless of my last name.

So, I press in close to Shaw and reach over to very carefully shove him off his bike. Hard.

I gun it as he goes flying into the gutter, his bike spinning and spinning and tearing into little pieces.

I just take a deep breath and disappear around the next curve.

Two more curves go by, and then I can see two things: Johnson, about three yards ahead of me, and the finish line, about a hundred yards ahead of him.

I take a deep breath and squeeze the throttle as hard as I possibly could, glancing down to watch the speedometer slowly climb to 300.

My bike screams as I push it closer and closer to Johnson, eating up the lead that the pro-racer held at an astonishing rate.

With 300 yards to go, I'm none to nose with Johnson, who I can tell is pushing his bike too far. Pro races only reached upwards of 220 miles an hour - and that was on manicured, smooth racing track. Johnson's Kawasaki Ninja only had a top speed of 176; it was obviously customized, but that was quite a stretch.

Johnson seems to know this too, as he begins to try some of the same tactics Shaw had, but I smoothly make my way around him and to the inside of the track, passing him by without incident.

100 yards to go. I risk a glance down at my speedometer: it was holding steady around 300. I knew that keeping the bike a top speed for an extended amount of time lead to greater risk of something failing, but it was a risk I had to take.

50 yards. The world becomes a giant blur as I focus on the finish line and only the finish line.

10 yards. I breathe, I blink, and I win.

And it's all over.

I throw my hands up in silent celebration as the bike eases back to safe speeds, driving it in smooth circles the diameter of the street until my heart's stopped beating quite as hard.

"Fancy seeing you here," a silky voice says from behind me.

For a moment, I freeze, remembering that I was completely unarmed, before slowly turning around to watch the Black Widow solidify out of the shadow of a nearby building.

She fixes me with an unreadable look as she twirls a knife between her fingers, then fixes her glare on Johnson and Shaw, who looked like he'd gone through a meat processor.

"Run along now, boys," she purrs dangerously, and run along they do: Johnson hops back on his bike and speeds off while Shaw drops the bike altogether and flat-out runs, which was impressive.

I watch them go and take off my helmet with a small sigh. "They owed me money."

"You shouldn't be out here in the first place," Natasha points out as she approaches.

"What are you gonna do, ground me?" I scoff and then wince as I turn off my bike and it lets out a rattly cough. I knew pushing it would end badly. "I'm fine."

"Are you?" she asks with a significant look.

I glance down at myself. My heart was still beating a little too fast, my lungs heaving as the adrenaline rush ebbed away. I knew my face was flushed and my eyes bright, my hair sweat-slicked and pressed to my forehead.

"I'm better than fine," I admit as I dismount and walk around the bike, carefully checking for any loose or broken parts.

I was not expecting the blow that landed on the back of my head.

"Ow!" I rub the sore spot and scowl up at Natasha. "What the hell was that for?!"

"You're an idiot, that's what you are," she growls. "You're a grown woman, Stark. You should know better than to sneak out in the dead of night, without even telling the AI, completely unarmed."

"I don't have my permits and I wasn't going to add possession to my charges," I point out. "And I can take care of myself. You said it yourself - I'm a grown woman."

"You're acting like a teenager," she sighs. "I'm sure you know how illegal this is."

"Fully aware," I nod, finishing my bike checks and standing up, glancing up and down the street. "And speaking of illegal, we should probably go before the cops show up."

I gesture for her to follow as I lead the way back to the truck, the two of us easily managing to get the bike into the truck and secured. I hop in and start the truck, pulling away just as sirens begin wailing in the distance.

"So," Natasha starts after I park a few blocks away. "Street racing."

"Yes."

"Illegal street racing."

"Yes."

"Why?" she asks.

I shrug. "Why not? I like it."

"Stop acting so brash about this!" she hisses. "Do you know what you could lose here? If you get arrested, you could lose your position at SI. You would definitely lose your position on the Avengers. You'd become just another low-life criminal, lost in the system. Do you want that?"

"Of course I don't!" I snap, bristling. "Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot, Natasha, because I'm not. I am fully aware of the consequences, but I've also made sure that I can't get caught. My phone is off and can't be hacked even if it was. I've made sure no one knows where I am, and the only people here are low-lives whose words would never hold up against a Fortune 100 Company Vice President."

I cross my arms and glare at my passenger. "So no, I don't want to get caught. But I won't, because I'm better than that."

"You can always screw up," she whispers. "No matter how good you think you are, you can always mess up and pay the consequences for it."

I glance over to see fear lurking behind her eyes, and I get the feeling she isn't talking about here and now.

"This isn't going to get me shot, Nat," I sigh. "It isn't a matter of life and death – only of losing a few hundred bucks, at most," I amend with a wry grin. "And I like it. I really do."

"If it's bike racing you like, then why don't you just get onto the MotoGP tracks or something? Tony would jump at the chance to own a team."

"Because I really damn busy as it is," I deadpan. "I have four jobs, Natasha. Four. I'm the Vice President and second-in-command to Stark Industries. I'm also the Chief Information Officer. Then I've got the Avengers, of course, but also press relations for the team on a part-time basis. Add my social life on to that…" I shrug. "I can't be a full-time racer. I just don't have the time or the energy."

"Fair enough," she nods. "So you're saying that there's no way for you to do this through the correct channels, and yet you still won't quit."

"You know what they say about drugs," I reply with a wry smirk. "You can't have just one."

"I'm…pretty sure that's Pringles," Natasha retorts slowly. "Yeah, that's Pringles."

"Whatever!" I throw an arm up, thumping the roof of the truck. "Same concept, Nat. It's like…it's like…" I trail off, racking my brain for another Avengers and their dangerous pastimes. "My Dad and alcohol."

"He's cut down recently," my companion points out. "And with a tolerance like that, he's not going to kill himself unless he drinks a lot. With this?" Natasha gestures towards the dark city streets. "One second of failure, and it could all be over like that." She emphasizes her point with a snap of her fingers.

I give a bitter, humorless laugh. "You think my whole life isn't like that, Natasha? Do you think that one slip-up in the lab, one wrong word in front of the Board, I don't have the potential to lose everything? Do you think that when I make the conscious decision to take a bullet or a blade or a genetically-modified, supernatural wasp sting for one of you guys, that I don't know that my life can be stopped on a dime?"

"The only difference," I continue, fingering the lapel of my jumpsuit, "is that out here, it doesn't matter as much. Out here, I'm not Taylor Stark, Vice President and icon and superhero and…" I shake my head. "I'm just Taylor – if that – the girl with the crazy fast bike that isn't afraid to play dirty sometimes."

Natasha is silent for a long, long time, and I'm just about to give up on talking and start the car when she says, "You're wrong."

I blink in shock. "What?"

"You're wrong," she repeats. "Not about your life, not about the responsibilities you carry, and not about you playing dirty – rebenok, I've seen you cheat at poker too many times to believe that you never play dirty. But you're wrong about it not mattering."

I just tilt my head in confusion, not understanding what she was saying.

"For a genius, you sure can be thick," she huffs, leaning forward to look me directly in the eyes, emerald meeting sapphire. "Let me pose you a situation. What if, just as you were coming across the finish line, the guy on the yellow bike decided to lunge at you, throwing you off your bike. What if you went flying at the ridiculously high speeds you were going, and you hit the pavement, and you never got back up?"

"Nat, I appreciate the imagery, but what…"

"Let me finish," she interrupts sternly. "What do you think Clint's face would look like the next morning, when he finds you not in bed beside him? What do you think Tony's face would look like when he realizes you aren't in the Tower at all? What do you think Jarvis' voice would sound like when he registers your heat signature halfway across the city, but it's fading fast, too fast, because you're bleeding out? What do you think Bucky will think when he sees the blood, and what is Steve going to say when he sees the twisted heap of metal that he and you had once bonded over?"

She pauses and then, in a rare (or maybe not-so-rare) moment of emotional vulnerability, she asks, "What would I do if you were dead because of something entirely preventable?"

I try to protest, I really do. I try to reassure her that no, that won't happen.

But I can't seem to speak around the lump in my throat.

(Distantly, I realize that she's guilt-tripping me. Also distantly, I realize that sincerely guilt-tripping people out of doing things is a very mom-like thing to do, and with her maybe-maybe-not dating my dad…file under: further research.)

"You know," I croak once I can speak again, "for a person that isn't supposed to be good at emotions, you sure do give one hell of speech."

"It's all your fault," she grumbles, but she doesn't actually look too beat up about it.

"I'm sorry," I sigh. "I know it's stupid, and childish, and reckless, and all the other things my dad would ream me out for. But I don't want to stop."

"You don't have to," she says softly. "You're a grown woman. It's not like I can ground you – and the last time Tony tried, it didn't exactly go well for anyone." I snort at the understatement. "But can you promise me a few things?"

I raise an eyebrow, the prospect of a deal sending me into Shark Tank mode. "Hm?"

"One: tell me where you're going. Not even Jarvis has to know. Just me."

I nod, already devising way to bypass Jarvis' systems to only relay message to Natasha's phone and not have them be traced back to-

"Taylor."

I blink at the hand being waved in front of my eyes. "Sorry. Go on."

"Two," Natasha continues. "You let Tony look at your helmet. You can tell him whatever you want. Just let him go to town on padding."

I nod again, but this time I grimace at little because I wasn't sure that Natasha quite understood what lengths Dad could go to where my safety was concerned.

"Three: you let me look at your jumpsuit. I may not be a designer, but I've been in this business for a long time and this?" Natasha tugs at the thin fabric covering my arms. "Is not safe."

"It was the most I could slip under the radar," I mutter. "No judging."

Natasha just laughs, then she nudges my leg. "Move over or be sit on. I'm driving. No arguments."

I grumble half-heartedly but shuffle over anyways, tipping my head back and closing my eyes as the truck rumbles to life.

The adrenaline was fading, as adrenaline did, and all I wanted now was to go home.