Nothing quite prepares Steve for the first week back on campus - two years of this shit and you'd think he'd be used to a kilt-clad Morrison unicycling through the men's west wing while playing the bagpipes, but nope.

(It would have been eccentrically endearing if the man hadn't done it at 6:00 in the morning the day of Steve's sophomore-year Middle-English lit exam.)

Natasha calls him "old man" sometimes - an old man "in the body of a sexy twenty-something history major." Steve says nothing in return - Natasha's kickboxing skills are nothing to sneeze at.

Steve's upperclassman nostalgia gets the better of him though, somewhere in between filling out the parking permit and loading his bags onto the push-cart to take up to his room. New year, new students, but the campus never changes. The school cafe still serves triple-shot espresso at the ass-crack of dawn and there's a new Snogging Couple behind the dugout. This university feels like home - Steve can tolerate Morrison the Unipiper.

New year means new roommate - school policy - and the name on Steve's info sheet offers little insight into his roommate's identity.

James Buchanan Barnes

Steve decides he'll just have to wait until he meets him in person to get the measure of him.

When Steve makes it up to the dorm, James is nowhere in sight. There is one canvas duffle on the floor, and sheets on the bed closest to the door, but no roommate. Steve shrugs and takes the bed by the window. He must be out and about.

Steve is never one to bring much with him, and his bags are unpacked, bed made, and items stashed in the closet within half an hour. Whoever James is, he seems to be a man of a similar mindset because his half of the closet is almost empty, and the only bag of his that Steve can spot is the canvas duffel by the bed. His clothing is nondescript and plain, offering no clues.

An enigma.

His unpacking is done, but it's only six in the evening. Classes don't start for another week, and anyway, Steve had finished the remainder of his summer homework on the drive up during a two-hour long period of time when the country road was gridlocked by an errant herd of cattle. There's no sense in lazing about the dorm if the elusive roommate isn't in attendance. Steve shoots off a text to Nat, and a reply comes almost instantly.

Steve: Are you free?

Natasha: Just drove in. Clint's filling out parking forms for the motorcycle.

Steve: Dinner at Pancho's?

Natasha: The day I turn down Pancho's will be the day I die.

Steve: Don't I know it.

Natasha: I've got Stark; you grab Wilson.

Steve: Sure thing. Bruce?

Natasha: If you can pry him out of the lab.

Steve: I'll see what I can do.

Natasha: See you in fifteen, old man. You're buying ~

Steve: No, I'm not. See you there.

Sliding his phone into his pocket, Steve grabs his jacket from the peg by the door and heads out.

Sam Wilson is Steve's old roommate, a fellow New Yorker. Steve arrived two years ago, a scrappy boy from Brooklyn, a little out of place on campus. Sam welcomed Steve into his life and his dorm room with a grudging hello and a plate of his mother's cookies. It's going to be weird not having Sam as a roommate, no muted fuck you responding to Steve's 5:00 alarm every morning.

Sam's rooming down the hall with Rhodey this year - he'll still suffer the Unipiper's morning rounds. He's close enough that if Steve's lucky, he'll be able to get some of Mrs. Wilson's care package cookies.

Rhodey opens the door with a hello, and Steve spots Sam laying on his bed, earbuds in and bouncing one knee.

"Pancho's with Nat?"

"You know it." His phone chimes. "Nat says you're buying."

"I never agreed to that."

Rhodey agrees to come when he hears Tony will be there. Steve doesn't know Rhodey well, but he's been Tony's friend for years and he seems like a solid guy.

Bruce is, as expected, holed up in the chem lab. No, Pancho's will not tempt him away from his research, thank you very much - Bruce is, in his own words, a busy, busy man. Steve's offer to bring him back a burrito is met with a distracted wave.

"Come on man, not even for margaritas?" Whines Sam. "A little birdie told me - and by a little birdie, I mean Nat - that this old man here -" He elbows Steve in the ribs - "Is buying."

"I never agreed to that." Steve shakes his head; he is a very aggrieved man.

Bruce laughs. "Tell Nat I'll make it next Thursday, yeah?"

By next Thursday, he means in two months. No one holds it against him.

Fifteen minutes later everyone - sans Bruce - is standing on the sidewalk outside Pancho's. The sun sets the sky on fire as it slips below the maple trees. Steve looks at the laughing group, bathed in orange light, and smiles to himself. It's just like old times.

Even a week before the start of term, Pancho's is packed with college kids, and the muted roar of youthful partying washes over the group as they squeeze through the doors. Inside is even louder, and Natasha steers the group towards a corner booth by the front window, far from the rowdy bar. She pushes Steve onto the bench seat and slides in after him, dragging Clint with her.

"Move your ass, old man."

Everyone scoots in after them, sliding across the wrap-around seat till they fit. Tony scoots close on Steve's right and ribs him in the side, saying "I heard it through the grapevine that you're buying?"

"That's right," hoots Natasha, leaning on Steve's other arm. "Drinks are on Rogers tonight, boys!"

Steve shakes his head, aggrieved. "Nat, drinks are never on me."

"Don't be a wet blanket, Steve."

Steve sighs. He's only twenty two, but he is definitely too old for this. "Just one round."

Nat whoops again and musses his hair. Steve smiles indulgently and rolls his eyes. "Just one round."

A waitress whisks by, taking their drink orders. Steve opts for a corona, and Clint, Sam and Rhodey order beers as well. Tony and Nat both order margaritas. Steve raises an eyebrow. "A little early to party, don't you think?"

Tony gives him an old-money smile. "It's five o'clock somewhere, darling."

Steve nurses his beer as the amicable ribbing amongst his friends flows over him as they fight over what to order. The waitress comes back with her notepad and then sweeps away, returning with their food in record time considering the steady flow of customers tonight.

Steve's order of lengua tacos is met with some ribbing from Tony.

"I pegged you as a meat-and-potatoes guy," he teased, "Mr. All-American."

Steve rolls his eyes. "the street vendor by my Brooklyn apartment sells these. I like them."

Tony snags a piece of lengua off Steve's plate before he can protest. He waggles his eyebrows as he pops it in his mouth. "So you could say you're the type of guy that's good with - "

Steve fixes him with a stare. "Ooooh, Stark, you're in for it!" Hoots Nat.

"One more tongue joke. I dare you."

Tony wags his eyebrows once, steals another bite, and turns away to say something into Rhodey's ear. Rhodey looks back at Tony and looses a bark of a laugh.

Steve looks across the table at his friends and smiles to himself. Nothing much changes around here.

The group piles out of Pancho's three hours later. The sun has sunk down beneath the hills now, and the streetlights throw shadows up against the walls. It's not late enough in the year for steam to rise from Steve's breath, but the night air still sneaks a chill up the back of his jacket. He stamps his feet on the pavement to warm himself and bids everyone goodnight, scuffing his way across the quad to his dorm.

He lets himself through the door. Someone has already managed to burn popcorn in the communal microwave. Despite the sign on the wall prohibiting microwave popcorn. Someone has thrown wide the common room bay windows, yet the smoky scent lingers. Some first years are doing their best to look blameless while sitting on one of the battered sofas; it almost works, except that they keep stealing nervous glances towards the microwave. Steve nods to them on his way to the stairs and they stiffen. One yelps. All look culpable. Steve laughs and shakes his head.

He lets himself into his room, blinking in the dark entryway. Steve flips on the bedside lamp and looks around. No sign of his elusive room mate. He shrugs and tosses his keys, wallet, and phone onto the nightstand. He falls asleep in bed with the light on, a copy of Corelli's Mandolin open across his chest.

Some time later, a man lets himself into the dorm room. He looks at the sleeping blonde in the far bed, book propped open against his clavicle. He crosses the room and picks up the book, dog-earing and closing it before setting it on the end table. Steve stirs in his sleep and turns over, mumbling something unintelligible. He does not wake.

The man readies himself for bed, making little noise and occasionally glancing at Steve. When he approaches to turn off the bedside lamp, Steve rolls over, blearily registering a figure standing before him. The man pauses, seeing if Steve will wake. Steve sees nothing much with his sand-sticky eyes and, almost immediately, sleep rolls over him once more in a dense blanket.

The light is shut off with a snick.

Sheets rustle as the man settles himself into bed.

Steve sleeps soundly through the night.

When he wakes, There is no one in the room. His book is on the end table, and the light is off, though he cannot remember readying himself for sleep. He vaguely recalls a person in the room sometime during the night, and looks across the room. The other bed has been made, nothing to betray the past presence of an occupant save a slight wrinkle in the counterpane.

Steve rises and greets the day alone.