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 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.

That's the twenty-first century love song, baby. Glitz and glamour and every one of us is a liar.

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.

After contracting an Asgardian virus, Tony starts forgetting things. And people. And Steve.

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.”

His best friend keeps cockblocking him, his relationship guru is a computer, and he might be gay. The future is very complicated.

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.

On the plus side, marriage is bound to be easier than proposing.

Steve was looking earnest. Which was kind of his default expression but he was looking especially earnest right now. "I've been reading about safe sex," he said, "and all the pamphlets say we need to discuss our previous sexual partners before we do this."

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.

"Hello Captain, I see you are mostly clothed today! Felicitations!" Thor said, while Steve smiled weakly back.

Oh god, what if Jarvis infected Dummy with, with emotions. Jesus Christ.

The world is big, and empty, and fake, and their feet are tangled together on the bedsheets, and Steve's watching Tony, and Tony's watching the stars.

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.