Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Steve is in the final phase of getting his office put together when there’s a knock on the door. “Let’s take a walk,” Sam says from the doorway with a smile on his face.

“But I—“ Steve starts, looking at the pile of books he still needs to alphabetize before they go on his shelf. It’s not a necessary task, but it’s the next one on the list. He wants everything in his office to be put together before the students arrive.

“Man, your office looks better than people’s who’ve been here five years, myself included. Let’s go for a walk. You need to see the sun for at least a few minutes before the students descend and I need a sandwich.”

It’s a valid point. The needing to see the sun thing. While there are a few students already on campus for various reasons – jobs, clubs, leadership roles, snuck into someone else’s pad and never left – the deluge will truly begin on Saturday, when the first years will move in, teary-eyed parents and guardians with them until they drive off and the drinking begins. It’s not unusual to Steve, who worked a two-year stint at a big state school prior to moving to Triskelion College for this tenure-track gig. But he’s been on college campuses since he himself was a first-year student, and he understands the shaking kind of anticipation in the air as the campus readies itself for the students.

“Okay,” he relents and lets Sam lead the way out.

“You’re gonna love it here during fall,” Sam says.

“Can’t be better than Shield’s campus,” Steve says, referring to his and Sam’s alma mater, where they met as students. Both of them know that Steve’s goading him — Shield’s campus was nothing compared to Triskelion’s.

Sam shakes his head. “You have no clue what kind of a treat you’re in for. I know you and you’re gonna crap your pants when the leaves start changing. Moving here stepped up my Insta game by a thousand percent.”

“Now you have two aunts and your ma liking your photos?” Steve asks.

Sam elbow’s Steve side. “Why you gotta be like that? Huh? You’re a pest. I should’ve never told you about this job posting. Just gonna come to campus and be a goddamn pest.”

Steve laughs, swatting at Sam’s elbow as they walk out of the Victorian cottage that houses the Triskelion Art History Department’s personal offices. He’d had his doubts about accepting a potentially life-long position at a small school in the middle of nowhere, but the fact that Sam was already here and making a career for himself sold the place to Steve. They’d been friends in undergrad, pen pals during grad school, and now they’re back together, working together in the Triskelion American Studies department. Steve teaches Art History courses, but specializes in intersections between American artists and the labor movement. Sam is a historian writing a book on Black Olympians during the Cold War. Having a tenure-track position at a school that Sam’s also at feels like more than he could’ve ever hoped for.

It feels really good to be here. It feels really right to be here.

They walk out and onto the quad, a rolling meadow with a library on the far side, a dining hall next to it, and spiraling gothic architecture all around. Steve had been so surprised when he’d first stepped foot on campus, to find this space looking like it was plopped out of Europe just sitting in the middle of Ohio. Now that he’s here, he finds himself always looking around and finding something new and unexpected about the place he now calls home.

“Enjoy it while you can,” Sam says. “When the kids get here, this place becomes a Frisbee death zone. You wanna hit the Pub for lunch?” he asks, referring to one of the few small restaurants that are actually walking distance from campus. They’re pretty remote, so most of the dining is in the nearby town, about a fifteen minute drive outside of campus through pristine farmland.

“Sure thing,” Steve says. “I’ve been jonesing for—“

“Lay your sleeping head, my love, / Human on my faithless arm; / Time and fevers burn away / Individual beauty from / Thoughtful children, and the grave / Proves the child ephemeral: / But in my arms till break of day / Let the living creature lie, / Mortal, guilty, but to me / The entirely beautiful.”

At first, Steve looks behind him to see where the voice is coming from, but there’s no one there. Noticing Steve’s confusion, Sam elbows him, then points up to a nearby tree. A man, around the same age as he and Sam, sits in the branches. He’s got a cigarette in one hand and a battered book of poems by W. H. Auden in the other. When he finishes his performance, he looks down at Sam.

“I’m not impressed,” Sam says.

“Aw, come on, Sammy. It’s kismet. I was readin’ this then you walked by. Thought you might be impressed by somethin’ I’ve done in my long life.”

“Man, I’ll never be impressed with you ripping off one of the greats, no matter how creepily you do it. How long you been waiting in that tree for me to walk by? You starting to photosynthesize?”

“Probably,” the guy says. He takes a moment, puts the cigarette in his mouth, and then pops out of the branches and onto the ground in a fluid movement. He tucks the book of poems in his back pocket. “Photosynthesis is a more perfect way of bein’. I suggest you try it some time.”

“If that’s the title of your next novel, I want royalty fees,” Sam says, eyebrows raised.

“The whole sentence’s too long for a title. But there’s somethin’ catchy about Photosynthesis.” He does a little gesture with his cigarette-free hand. “That could work.” He grins, then looks at Steve. “Who’s this?” he asks, tilting his head towards Steve as he looks back at Sam.

“Steve Rogers,” Steve says. “I’m the new Art History professor.”

“Ahhh,” the guy says. “So you’re the new hire everyone was all excited about. And by everyone, I mean this guy,” he adds, pointing his thumb at Sam.

“Don’t give this asshole more of an ego than he already has,” Sam says, nudging Steve’s side as Steve looks down in embarrassment.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” the guy says. “I’m Bucky Barnes,” he adds, reaching out his cigarette-free hand. Steve shakes it. His skin is surprisingly soft for someone who seems to spend their free time hanging out in trees. “Writer-in-residence and English professor. I teach creative writing and the occassional poetry course.”

“Asshole-in-residence,” Sam corrects.

Bucky shrugs, taking his hand from Steve. “If the title fits…” He takes a puff of his cigarette and blows the smoke out over his shoulder and away from Steve and Sam. Steve is not someone who generally likes being near smoke or smokers, but he is at least grateful for the small gesture of goodwill, and he takes the moment to actually look at Bucky.

He’d heard of Bucky Barnes before applying to Triskelion. He’s a novelist and alumni of the college who basically endowed himself a chair after he got a movie deal for one of his first books. Bucky is kind of a big deal, and somebody that the college spends a lot of time bragging about. Steve had assumed that he would be the sort of quasi-professor who spends a lot of time off-campus and offloading his work to TAs, so he is surprised to be meeting him so quickly, and why he couldn’t immediately put a name to the face.

Looking at Bucky in person, as opposed to the very staged photo of him sitting in front of a fireplace with a group of studious-looking students around him on the Triskelion College website, is a difference experience. He’s got this goofy grin mixed with languid posture. His hair is artfully mussed, and he wears jeans, a t-shirt and a blazer that looks like it’s seen better days with tan patches on the elbow. He also has a pair of thick tortoiseshell glasses frames and, of course, the cigarette.

He’s good-looking, albeit in a professor straight from central casting kind of way. Steve wonders, vaguely, if Bucky’s married to another professor, and whether that’s the reason why he decided to move back to campus.

“You’re the guy who wrote about queer performers in Dada spaces, right?” Bucky asks him.

It takes Steve a second to respond because he is, frankly, unused to people bringing up that area of his graduate research. He’s published a few short essays on it, but it’s not a topic that his colleagues tend to find really stimulating, and his graduate advisor told him to write his dissertation on something else. “Yeah,” he says, after a long beat.

“You wanna guest lecture on your last essay for my Modern Poetry class?”

Steve blinks. “Sure,” he says, honestly surprised.

“Fantastic,” Bucky says. “I’ll email you and we can figure out a date.”

“We’re headed to the Pub,” Sam says. “Want a sandwich?”

“Unfortunately, my dancecard is full,” Bucky says, still looking at Steve. “But I am having a get-together for staff members I like next week at my place.” He looks to Sam. “You’re both invited.”

“How do you know you like me?” Steve asks.

Bucky looks back to him with this… delighted grin. It’s charming. “A gut feeling,” he says. “It’s on Saturday night. I’ll add you to the email chain. Sam should’ve already gotten the email invitation if he hasn’t blocked my address.”

“You kept sending me pictures of dogs stuck in things when I was grading finals. I had no other choice but to block.”

“That’s cold,” Bucky says, but he’s laughing. Steve chuckles along as Bucky looks back at him. “Don’t make other plans,” Bucky says to Steve.

“I’m not sure I don’t already have plans.” Steve isn’t sure why he says it, but if Bucky and Sam play around, there’s no reason Steve can’t play, too.

Bucky frowns. “I’d suggest cancelling them,” he says. “Makin’ new friends in a new location should be your first priority and I am a great friend.”

“I think tenure is Steve’s first priority,” Sam says. “And my first priority is that sandwich, so if you’ll excuse us.”

“I will,” Bucky says. “I’ll see you boys around,” he says.

“Gonna climb back up that tree?” Steve asks.

“Yes, I am.”

“Godspeed,” Steve says.

Bucky salutes and Sam and Steve head out on their way.

“He’s a piece of work,” Sam says when they’re out of earshot. “Decent dude, don’t get me wrong, but he can be a lot to deal with when you’re knee-deep in final papers and he decides to send you endless photos of dogs.”

“He seems fine to me,” Steve says, glancing over his shoulder back at the tree. He sees Bucky lounging in there, still smoking his cigarette. Bucky must see Steve looking because he waves. Steve turns back around, then looks down at his feet while he and Sam walk. “He seems fine,” Steve repeats, quieter, as they make their way to the restaurant.

They get their sandwiches and get to talking about the year ahead. For Steve, it’s like the future he’s always dreamed of is finally starting, but he’s still at the starting line. Now, he’s more than eager to leave the gate.