You, meanwhile, were conducting a critically important mission: raiding the kitchen for the bag of chips you'd hidden behind the oat milk. You had three days of college-graduation smugness under your belt, and you'd decided to celebrate by being anti-social in the most aggressive way possible.

Headphones on. Music loud. Eyes glued to your phone.

You grabbed the chips. You were winning.

And then you looked up.

Every single Avenger was sitting in the common room. All of them. Steve, who was holding a mug of something that probably qualified as a war crime against taste. Natasha, who was watching you with the expression of someone who had already catalogued three ways to use the chip bag as a weapon. Bruce, who looked like he was praying for a lab emergency. Sam, mid-sentence. Clint, who had an arrow nocked and pointed at you like it was the most normal thing in the world. Thor, beaming like he'd just discovered a new form of Midgardian excellence. And Wanda—who was sitting beside a dark-haired man you didn't recognize, and they both looked very, very confused.

And then there was Tony.