She fled Stark Tower. Straight from the penthouse balcony, very nearly straight up, forgoing wings or any other display, straight up a thousand feet, and then arrowing for the ocean. The farther from the Tower she got, the harder it was to hold it in, until she was trailing a streak of flame and her tears were evaporating in the corona enveloping her.

Blindly, over the water, she hurled herself through dizzying spirals, trying to shape all the tangled emotions into something she could contain and not be destroyed by. What had she thought would happen, when she went to Stark Tower? That Tony Stark, of all people, would fall over himself to keep her by his side? They each knew what the other one was, down to the root; why lie to herself?

But it hadn’t been lies, exactly; it had been dreamwrought terror that had driven her to her feet, seeking him out. And it had been realising even that much that had locked some of the words in her throat. She had wanted to say, ‘why is it always me coming to you? Are you ashamed of me?’ And everything, /everything/, had come out wrong, and when he had said, ‘do you think I’m keeping you like some sort of pet,’ it had been her fear, named and laid out like a schematic.

Like one of his schematics. And since when could he name her so clearly?

The fear of his response now ate holes in her bones like acid, sang in her nerves like every wrong note at once. She still had no idea what had become of her gift. Had he even received it?

She thought she might throw up, if there were anything in her stomach to reject. She had to move, had to keep moving, out over the water where it was safe. Where her fear, her fire, wouldn’t harm anyone else.

Maybe, maybe, if she hoped hard enough, waited long enough, Tony would come find her. It was the only thing she could think without fear, so she made fireworks over Hudson Bay and waited.