[She couldn't see from the tears by the time she made it back into Stark Tower after her
conversaion with Robert. She was glad of her private entrance then, face tear-streaked and all the lost weight from two weeks with the undead making her look even more of a bruised up and starved mess than she had when she'd gone downstairs. She was still hungry; her stomach still cramped and complained, and she licked salt off her lips as she stopped in front of the room where she'd stashed the few things from the penthouse that she wanted. She'd need to get the charities transferred out of Robert's name, but she could do that later, put it all in the hands of the lawyer that was selling the penthouse and putting the money into a fund for Milo.
Right then, she just wanted to grab Harley and go home. Well, at least sobbing might convince the taciturn little blonde to leave Marvel's smog-free skyline behind. She was scared to go home, and she could use the company. And
that? That was selfish, and she was too emotionally exhausted to care.
She threw the bag with her items over her shoulder, and she didn't bother trying to scale down while carrying it, not in her current condition. So, she left the sanctuary of her own private little bolt hole, and she walked down the hall in search of an elevator, jeans too loose and around her hips, grey shirt all collarbones and bruises.]