Ok, so the name lied. Whoops. This is a completely cliche free Avengers Road Trip sorry, you're welcome.

"So we split up." Offered Natasha, "you guys go to the grocery store, and we find hotel rooms?"

Tony gave a grudging nod, and dragged the majority of the team backs over to the bus he had hired. They'd been traveling Africa for the past two weeks, and were finally headed to Wakanda. One more hotel and then the next sleep would be in the guest sweet of the Wakanda palace.

"Um, Nat?" Peter asked, confused as ever, "we don't like, have a car or transport or anything."

"I don't suppose you guys both want to ride my bike."

She glanced speculatively at the Harley she had bought so she could participate in the road trip, but not be stuck in the stuffy bus.

Peter and Clint answered at the same time—"NO!"—because we both knew Natasha drove like she was in an intense car chase when in reality, she was just going to pick up some milk from the dairy.

She pouted and looked at a beat up Bentley that was parked half-way up the curb. "What about that?"

It looked like it couldn't go much faster than one hundred kilometres per hour, so Peter was fine with it, and Clint seemed to have come to the same conclusion.

"Now how do we get in?"

Nat gave me a malicious grin, "Oh, poor innocent Peter, there is always a way into a car."

"I hate to side with Peter—and I mean I really hate to side with him—but even a contortionist couldn't fit through that window Nat."

She had a wicked twisted smile on as she spoke, "good thing I'm not a contortionist."

She whipped a fishing rod from almost out of nowhere and proceeded to hook out they keys through the windows.

Baffled, Peter had turned to Clint. "Isn't she like, wearing a skin-tight suit?"

"I've learnt not to question it, kid."

We stood back and watched as she hot wired the car, getting rid of Peters hopes that the speed limit would be one hundred kilometre per hour. Now that she'd messed with it that would probably be the minimum speed.

"Okay, done." Said Nat as she emerged from the hood of the Bentley.

She was about to climb into the drivers seat as Peter and Clint realised what she was doing. Clint was the first to shout no. Peter echoed him.

She frowned, "then who drives?"

"Not you. That much I can agree with," Peter spoke.

"I don't want to die either. But I . . . can't drive manual."

Nat smiled, "then I drive."

Peter and Clint yelled "no!" again.

Clint turned to Peter, sending him a hopeful look. "Can you drive?"

"I—Uh. Yeah?"

Natasha patted Clint on the head and gave him a patriotic look such as the kind an owner might give their disobedient puppy. "He can't drive legally idiot, what if we got pulled over?"

"Actually, Aunty Nat. If we get pulled over, I can show them this!"

He held up a Mexican drivers license with his picture on it, and the name 'Barry Larry Tarry.'

Clint looked like he was holding back snickers, and Nat held a stony face. "Okay, you drive, Peter."