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.

"I was actually thinking maybe sleep before physics," Bruce says, because it's after midnight and he still finds New York exhausting, the knife-edged balancing act that keeps him in control somehow harder here.

"Sensible man," Pepper says.

"I suppose," Tony says. "I suppose we do let guests sleep."

"We do," Pepper says. "If they want to." She and Tony exchange looks that Bruce can't read, except that whatever is being communicated, it ends with both of them smiling at each other in a way that's a little embarrassing to watch. "You're going to owe me, though," Pepper says.

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.

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

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.

Tony knows he shouldn't sleep with Loki, it's just sometimes he's drunk and she's female and he forgets why.

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.”

The resemblance between him and Lord Rivers has been remarked upon more than once, and Tony's still deciding if that's a good or a bad thing. He's pleased by the fact that the tabloids mistake them for each other, when Rivers is fifteen years younger than he is- mixed blessing, though, because sometimes, given grainy tabloid photographs, Obadiah and Pepper don't believe him when he says it's not really him.

And then there was that time in Ibiza; Tony still legitimately doesn't know which one of them that was.

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

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

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.

Steve wakes up in the 21st Century. He doesn't think much of it, and it's dubious about him. He meets a Norse God, joins a superhero team, and feels terribly awkward about the whole momument at Arlington he's rendered obsolete by not being dead. Meanwhile, Tony is trying to make his mark on history by being the man who finally drove Nick Fury over the edge.

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?"