Chapter Text
Steve sat down in the middle of the lecture theater, the cushioned seats both a blessing and a curse. A blessing since it meant that for the next three hours he would be completely comfortable and could fall asleep at any point in time. The curse being that he would fall asleep at any point in time. Steve checked his watch. The old, cracked face read at 6:57am. Class would start any minute.
Other students started to trickle into the lecture hall within the next few minutes. They all picked spots equally spaced out and away from everyone else, and Steve could tell they were all trying to stay inconspicuous. All of them looked exactly how Steve felt: bone tired. This was one of the first lectures of the year for the class, “Poli Sci 305: American Politics during World War II.” It was taught by a Professor P. Coulson, whom Steve had become acquainted with over the course of his college education. Professor Coulson specialized in everything World War II, of which Steve was fascinated with.
Steve had taken a few years off after high school, enlisting in the military and serving overseas. They almost didn’t accept him on account of his asthma, but accepted him when Bucky decided to enlist with him. Steve’s father must have pulled some strings somewhere. After the PTSD wore off enough, he applied to Culver University, opting on getting his political science degree rather than fighting for freedom. Bucky had followed him to Culver, and had been accepted into an arts program.
The program seemed to do Bucky well. When Bucky had nightmares, he would paint. The scenes he painted were a lot of fire and blood, reminiscent of their time in Afghanistan. The paintings were painfully beautiful, and Bucky had sold a few of them last winter in order to get their furnace fixed.
“Hey, mind if I sit here?” a frantic voice broke Steve out of his daze. He hadn’t realized he had been falling asleep until his peer plunked down in the seat beside him, a few notebooks spilling out of her messenger bag and bouncing off his knee.
“Shit! Sorry, so sorry.” Steve’s eyes opened just in time to see the other student duck down to grab the notebooks at his feet. One of them was adorned in cupcake stickers. “Sorry, I got it. There.” She whispered, tucking everything back into her bag and shoving it all under her seat, save for a silver coffee mug and a giant can of Monster.
The other student was a brunette female, with full red lips and winged eyeliner. Her hair had been twisted messily into a bun near the top of her head, random curls spilling out around her face, framing it.
“Not an early riser?” Steve smiled, shifting in his seat so she could fold out her arm rest/desk.
“Not so much. I’ve managed to spend the last two years of my educational career with loads of afternoon and night classes. So waking up this early is almost inhuman.”
“I hear you.”
The girl had cracked open her Monster, letting the metallic sound resonate through the lecture hall. Professor Coulson had just arrived, taking off his coat at the front podium. A few other students looked back at Steve and the girl, whom gave them a death glare to make them turn back around. The girl paid no attention, and simply poured the Monster into her half-full coffee mug.
“I’m going to die,” the girl said before taking a long drink of the caffeine concoction. “Darcy Lewis.” She smiled after a few more sips, leaning back into her seat.
“Steve Rogers.” Steve smiled, situating himself into a more comfortable position as Professor Coulson began his lecture. At some point Steve closed his eyes and fell asleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Mr. Rogers?”
Steve’s eyes snapped open, his pulse racing in a slight panic. He blinked a few times, focusing in on the face in front of him. It was Professor Coulson, whom looked mildly amused. Steve looked around him, the girl (Darcy Lewis) was gone. So was everyone else in the class. Steve sat up, wiping his face with his hand.
“Sorry, Professor.”
“No worries, in fact you were a main source of entertainment for today’s lecture.” Professor Coulson, or Phil, as Steve had come to know him as outside of class, linked his hands at his stomach, leaning back against the seat just to Steve’s right. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah, just tired. Bucky was up late again last night so I slept in the living room,” Steve began to stretch, feeling his muscles protest from being in the lecture theater seats for much too long.
“Okay. I’ll send you the readings I assigned today, but you’ll have to get the notes from another student. That good?”
“Yeah, of course.” Steve stood up, gathering his bag and slinging it over his shoulder.
“Oh, and Steve?”
“Yeah?”
“Go take a nap.” Phil smiled, before heading out of the hall, clapping Steve on the shoulder lightly.
Steve got home around 11:30. He found Bucky on the couch, flesh arm covered in paint and a wet paintbrush still in his hand. The paint dripped onto the drop cloth that Steve made sure was always put down. Steve dropped his bag and he patted Bucky’s knee. “Buck,”
“Hmmwhat?” Bucky dropped the paintbrush on the floor, using both hands to rub his face. His hair had been tousled from playing with it too much with anxiety, and there were a few paint smudges on his face. His metal prosthetic was placed on the floor by the couch, a few drops of red paint on the fingertips. Bucky’s other arm - the amputated one - was hidden with a fleece throw blanket Steve tended to leave lying around.
“Did you eat at all since I left?”
“I know what you want me to say, but no. I didn’t.” Bucky sat up, grabbing for the arm on the floor. He clicked it into place, rotating his shoulder, the metal plates whirring and clicking as he calibrated his arm. Steve sighed, doing an about-face and making his way to the kitchen.
“How was class?” Bucky followed him in, leaning against the counter as he watched Steve pull out a carton of eggs from the fridge. “Phil let you answer all of the questions again?”
“Nah, I fell asleep,” Steve smiled, cracking a few eggs and whisking them until they became one big bowl of yellow goop. “Met a pretty girl though.”
“Oh, do tell, Rogers.” Bucky smiled, rinsing the coffee pot as he started to help Steve.
“Not much to tell, I only got her name before I dozed off.”
“Sorry about that,” Bucky’s face darkened, metal hand combing through his shoulder length locks. His hair was tangled and was in desperate need of a haircut but Bucky couldn’t bring himself to trust anyone but himself with sharp objects around him.
“Don’t worry about it, bud. Let’s just get some food in us before I pass out again.”