Clint doesn't have a functioning arm. Phil doesn't have a functioning body. They make it work.

Eighteen-year-old Tony Stark is the boy genius who woke Captain America, and now he's stuck with him. That's not a bad thing, but between Steve's wide-eyed wonder at the new world and Tony's little fanboy crush, the awkwardness just keeps happening.

The first time Darcy gets kidnapped by a mad scientist, it is not her fault.

The Avengers get shanghaied into chaperoning a high school prom. In Steve's opinion, things go downhill from there, but Tony's determined to save the night. With the Macarena.

Getting ambushed at a McDonald’s in downtown New York was not the finest moment of Phil Coulson’s career.

Of course Phil would get into Harvard; he was the valedictorian, student body president, honor society treasurer—it would’ve been a damn miracle if he hadn’t gotten in. In the meantime, Clint had two years of high school left, and Phil was just going to be...gone.

If this is what the middle of the night is usually like, Clint is prepared to visit it way more often.

Clint's got a secret love, and it's spelled b-a-n-j-o.

Steve Rogers is a capable leader, a kind and cheerful man, a good friend, a strong role model, and a loyal soldier. He's also teetering on the edge of suicide.

Tony shakes his head. “Seriously. All that Twenty Ways to Please Your Man stuff? I mean, a) all the actual women of our acquaintance,” he nods at Natasha, “will tell you that’s it’s sexist bullshit, feeding the male hegemony, denying the importance of female pleasure and seriously, get Pepper even halfway drunk and ask her about this because she has a lecture prepared, I swear to God. Anyway b) sex is not that complicated.”

Clint’s hands never shake. He can take down an enemy sniper at one hundred feet in driving rain while bleeding out from a bullet wound in the stomach (that’s not theoretical; he’s tried it) but his hands never shake.

As a child, Tony Stark spent a lot of time thinking about how cool it would be to meet Captain America. When it finally (improbably) happens, it doesn’t go at all like he’d imagined.

He’d pictured fewer insults, for one thing.

His power's running low, the arc reactor flickering. Cold, rancid sewer water is rushing into the fissure at his torn up shoulder, filling up the gaps, rising along his neck in frigid fingers. He's been like this before.

He sketches out schematics for two new models of repulsor boots and a pocket water filtration system on the back of a napkin—he’s nothing outside of the suit, is he, well fine, he’ll show that frosted-over Americana has-been douchebag--and gets out of the car in a whirlwind of irritation and almost-but-not-quite falling on his face.

“Those curbs’ll sneak up on you, boss,” Happy says, a hand on Tony’s elbow to steady him, his face perfectly straight.

Tony doesn’t pitch a fit in the middle of the street, but only because Happy keeps a chart for that kind of shit and Tony’s over his quota for the month.

A voice - a voice which sounds distinctly like it’s cursing - drifts up from the tiny 'speakers'. Steve puts the phone back to his ear.

"Hello?" he tries again.

"You," the voice on the other end replies, dripping exhaustion and disdain. It sounds vaguely familiar, but he has troubles placing it, filtered as it is by the phone. "You're... you're the one with... shield. The blue… and star one...?"

There is a labored quality to the words, Steve realizes, and whoever is talking is breathing heavily between them.

"Who is this?"