Our silhouettes led us out into the parking lot as the PA announcer read out the particulars of the game. Steve's shadow was a good three feet longer than mine, broad-shouldered and long-legged. God, everything about him was disgustingly heroic.

I reached up behind him and made shadow-puppet wings on either side of his head.

"What are you-"

"There we go," I said, tipping my head toward our silhouettes. "I knew something was missing."

Steve laughed. "Think I should ask S.H.I.E.L.D. to put those back on the helmet? I hear vintage is in these days."

We walked slowly through the lot. The chatter of other fans thinned out around us as they each found their cars. The orange light from the streetlamps hung close, swallowing up our voices as Steve ragged me about my last-place team. They'd certainly played the part this evening - they fell in spectacular double-digit fashion to the hometown heroes, which I guess was only appropriate.

"Don't worry. You'll get 'em next time," said Steve, his face a mask of innocence. I shoved him, or tried to - all I managed to do was knock myself off-balance, and upgrade Steve's smile to a wicked grin.

Soon enough, he stopped walking and pulled out a set of keys. When I saw the car, a low whistle passed my lips. Steve looked back at me and smiled.

"You like it?"

The car was a classic Mustang, painted black with red racing stripes. I didn't know too much about cars, but I knew that this one was gorgeous.

Eyebrows raised, I looked over at Steve. "Not quite your era, is it?"

"I'm making up for lost time." He slid into the driver's seat and reached across to unlock the passenger-side door. "Let me give you a ride to your car."

Well, hell. You don't need to ask me twice.

In the end, we took a couple turns around the stadium. Steve wanted an excuse to show off his car's muscle, and he only looked a little bit guilty when he startled some pedestrians with the engine noise. Finally, we pulled up to my sad-looking blue sedan, nearly alone in the lot.

I got out and walked around to the driver's side. Steve extended a hand through the window. "Thanks for the invitation," he said, smiling.

I took his hand. "Thanks for joining me."

"I owe you a beer. Let's settle up sometime soon."

I gave him a lazy salute. "You got it, Cap."

The Mustang's engine roared as he pulled away. I shook my head, a grin tugging at the corners of my lips. Boys and their toys.

Steve would eventually buy me that beer, and then a couple more on top of it. We never quite settled our "debt" - it just seesawed back and forth between us, prompting Steve on more than one occasion to mock my accounting skills.

Sometimes Natasha Romanov would join us, and those were the nights that invariably got out of hand: vodka shots, karaoke, smartphones full of incriminating pictures. Steve would always tell her that he was never inviting her again. And then, eventually, he always would. We had both resigned ourselves to the inevitability of blackmail.

"Don't tell me you're tired."

I smiled at the voice, lifting my forehead from the elevator's glass wall and turning to face him. The leather jacket was the same, but instead of pleated slacks, Steve wore jeans and a Nats cap. In his hand were the keys to the Mustang. A circular keychain dangled from them, Dodger-blue '42' in the center.

"Not on your life," I grinned. "You're buying."

Thank you all for your kind reviews! This silly little short is finished, but with how well it turned out, I'll definitely be looking to write more.