Notes: These is going to be a series of drabbles (stories that are exactly 100 words) that I'm throwing together for The Avengers. I'll post five at time. They may connect to form a larger story, or they may be five little one-shots. It will vary on which character I focus on depending on what themes the random word generator decides I should write about. If you would like to give me prompts, feel free to send them to me. Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, especially when it comes to Marvel. Please don't sue.


"Let's go, Cap."

"Tony, it's fine."

"No, actually it's not. It's embarrassing. I have an image to maintain and I can't go out with you looking like that."

"There's nothing wrong with what I'm wearing."

"Everything is wrong. You ironed pleats into your khakis. And you're wearing khakis. Shopping time—let's go."

Steve sighed but followed Tony anyway. Stark promised to let him keep his leather jacket, but demanded that he revamped the remainder of his wardrobe. He promised to keep his look "classic", but Steve was unsure someone who only wore shirts with band names knew what that meant.


Of course he built himself armor; he'd been doing it all his life. Except now he had a physical manifestation. Anyone who looked closely at Tony Stark for more than three seconds could spot what he was constantly trying to hide—insecurity. Years of attempting to live up to a father's legacy and a board of directors' demands burdened him with the constant need of having to prove himself worthy. And now as the one who didn't have training from a military or intelligence agency, super serum, radiation, or the title of a god, he felt the weight even more.


They were a ticking time bomb. Sure they'd come through and saved the world a time or two now, but there were still teamwork issues. With the exception of the Captain, and possibly Thor, these were individuals who'd spent the majority of their lives depending solely on themselves. It was a wonder they could work together at all.

And whichever SHIELD agent it was that convinced Steve Rogers that it would be a good idea to schedule team-building time at a ropes course too early on a Saturday morning deserved to be used as a punching bag, burned, and shot.


"I don't understand how you do it, Natasha."

"Do what?"

"Keep your hair and make-up all perfect, even in a fight" Tony muttered while waving a hand in the general direction of her face.

"Showers help, Stark."

"Hey, I'm clean."

"You have motor oil on your forehead."

"It's part of my bad boy charm."

Natasha rolled her eyes and stalked off. Honestly she didn't mind being the sole female on the team, but there were times that being surrounded constantly by males was enough to drive a girl to the practice range to throw knives for a few hours.



The headstone was simple, clean, and elegant, much like the man it memorialized. It said his name, noted his service in the military, included the dates of his birth and when Loki stabbed him, but nothing else. Of course there couldn't be any mention of his work with SHIELD. That would require more than a handful of people to know about it.

No epitaph.

As he stood looking at his own headstone, Phil Coulson wasn't sure to be relieved or worried that Clint hadn't scratched in any of the number of epitaphs he'd swore at him on their missions together.