As Sam's bar got steadily busier Steve was grateful for the corner booth he was sitting in. From the back he can watch everything going on around him, but not be disturbed. He watched as Bruce, Betty and Tony laughed and joked around with each other. Ten minutes later he saw Tony get up and greet a woman, gorgeous with strawberry blonde hair. Steve's first thought was that must be Pepper. The other thought that crept into his mind is how did Tony score a woman like that. Turning his attention back to the bar he watched as Bucky shamelessly embarrassed himself flirting with Sharon. She was eating up all of his attention but still managing to serve drinks to the other customers. He knew he was being a little childish by leaving his friend alone, but even the mere mention of Nat got him upset. With only a quarter of his own beer gone he remembers the first day of classes.

"Art history, I got lucky to get in this year. But at least it was the last required class I needed."

As he walks into the room, Steve is amazed at the size of the class room. It's much more like an amphitheater. Looking around to find an empty seat, he is caught off guard by a glimpse of auburn hair, and he does a double take.

"That can't be her. The odds of Natasha and I sharing a class…nah, it's just my imagination."

Steve takes a seat in the second row, and the very girl he just thought he saw was sitting in the last row at the top of the steps, chatting with her friend Bobbi, when a brief glance down distracted her.

"Nat, you okay," Bobbi asks. "Who or what did you see down there?"

"For a moment I thought I saw that guy I told you about. I knew he was going to be in art history class, but it wasn't him."

"Right, the guy you're crushing on after he accidentally bumped into you twice on Monday."

"Shut up Bobbi, I'm not crushing on him. It's just that I've never met a guy who called me out on my attitude before."

"Uh-huh, and you were the one who called me out for my crush on Clint. Come on Nat, you have the same google eyed look that you said I got when you introduced Clint and I."

"Whatever, Morse. How are things with Clint, I barely see him anymore. Thanks to you."

"Things are great; he's trying out for the U.S. archery team. He wants to compete in the Olympics in four years."

"Well tell him I wish him luck."

As the class begins, Professor Coulson introduces himself. He goes over what they'll be learning and their first major assignment. Natasha is listening but still spares a glance down at the second row. She's still not sure, but she thinks the guy might be Steve. Pushing the thought aside, she refocuses on the lecture. After the class ends, she and Bobbi each head off for their next classes, unbeknownst to Steve who stayed behind to talk with the Professor.

"Professor, I really look forward to your class. I'd been determined since last year to get in."

"Thank you Mr. Rogers, didn't you have some art on display in the student gallery?"

"Yeah, mine was the one of the brownstone apartment in Brooklyn. It's where I grew up."

"It was incredible. You've got talent. The colors were vibrant, and the detail made the sketch look almost like a photograph."

"Thanks, if you wouldn't mind, could I get your opinion on a sketch I did last night?"

"Sure, I've got a few minutes to spare."

Steve reaches into his laptop bag and pulls out the sketch. Handing it to Coulson, he's a little embarrassed, because of the subject. The Professor is amazed.

"Wow, who is this? Old girlfriend?"

"No, Sir. She's someone I met on Monday while registering for classes. I'm hoping I caught the fire in her eyes perfectly."

"Looks like anger, how did you meet her?"

"I uh…ran into her as she was exiting this building. Yeah it was anger. It was an accident. The fury was unmistakable though."

"Well, it's a great piece. The lines are a little rough, but then the human body is tough to capture perfectly. Emotions change, and with that the body follows suit. Have you shown this to her?"

"I haven't, partly because I'm not sure how she would react, but also because I haven't seen her since Monday."

"Well, you might keep this one between us then. But you should keep drawing; someday you might be able get your work displayed in an art museum. See you in class next week, Mr. Rogers."

Steve smiles to himself at the memory. He did eventually get some his work displayed. In the Smithsonian, under a brief exhibit they did on the war a few years back. Even on the field of battle he still managed to find time to sketch what he saw. The curator told him that the most popular piece was Sunrise over Baghdad. He and Natasha would have four other classes together, but end up always just missing each other in the first weeks. With that, Steve finished his beer, and went back to the bar.

"Hey Steve," Sharon greets him as he comes back. "Can I get you another?"

"No thanks, Sharon. Hey Buck, you ready to go?"

"Yeah, just a minute. It was nice to meet you Sharon."

As Bucky turns to walk away, Sharon calls him back.

"Hey Bucky, here's my number. Call me."

Bucky walks back to Steve with a smug smile plastered all over his face. As they exit the bar, Steve can't help but laugh.

"Even after all these years, it's still so easy for you. But I've never seen you get that flustered before. What did you two talk about?"

"Sports, music, that small dimple she gets when she smiles. Come on Steve, did you really think I'd ever be bad at talking to a woman?"

"Never in a million years. Come on Buck let's go home."

On the way Bucky can't shut up about Sharon. She's working for Sam while she finishes her Master's Degree. She's even helped Sam out with a few of his sessions with soldiers coming home. Which led to her pursuit of clinical psychology for the degree, she's always wanted to help people. Back at the apartment, Steve helps Bucky to his bedroom. Crashing on the couch, Steve collapses from exhaustion and jet lag. Unfortunately he has a hard time falling asleep, with his memories of Natasha that were all brought back up running through his mind. It would be the first night of many where this happens.