Chapter Text
One .
Steven Grant Rogers wakes up snuggling a trashcan filled mostly with his own vomit. He’s also the little spoon to a blow up doll. He lifts his head a fraction of an inch and glares at his roommate, who is wearing pink fuzzy handcuffs and a bra. “I hate you.”
Tony Stark just waves his free hand. “I know, I know.”
24 hours earlier…
The Carnie, the Norse God, and the Potential Assassin
Clint Barton grins broadly into the warm September afternoon and lifts his bag a little higher up on his shoulders. He slips his sunglasses off and lets them hang off his shirt collar.
College.
No one was stupid enough to bet that Clint would ever wind up here. In fact, more than half his family thinks it’s some sort of con.
But nope.
He’s going to university.
And it’s perfect.
Harried upper middle class families wielding heavy bags and boxes spilling into and out of the red brick building like spiders. There’s shouting. At least four different sources of conflicting music. Someone’s lit up a joint. And when his daughter isn’t paying attention, a very respectable-looking dad pulls out of a flask.
Yeah, it’s perfect.
He ducks into the dormitory, stopping near a table. A nervous woman is handing out keys attached to lanyards, meanwhile also trying to scream instructions at pissed-off people.
There’s a small line.
Not much of one.
But Clint gets comfortable.
People watching.
These strangers could be his neighbors, his drinking buddies… maybe even a girlfriend. He catches the eye of a tall blonde, the possibilities are endless. And that leggy, wide-eyed creature is just his type.
The line moves forward, and now there’s only one person in front of him.
Big guy.
Blonde. Broad shoulders.
The woman flushes when she looks at him, even if she’s nearly forty years his senior and playing absentmindedly with her wedding ring. “Um, nuh-name?”
The guy leans forward and says politely, “Steven Rogers, ma’am. I should be staying with James Barnes?”
She looks down at the paper list in front of her, Her pencil tracing down the long line of names. She flips to the second page. To the third page. She looks up at Steven Rogers and her face is scared. “I’m suh-so sorry. There was a-a misshap with the computer system and all of the rooms on your floor got mixed up and, and-- here’s your key. 506. Fifth floor.”
Rogers hesitates before turning towards the stairs, looking confused and holding a room key.
Clint shrugs and steps up. “Clint Barton,” he says, smirking down at the old woman. “Should be in a double somewhere.”
Apparently, the Barton charms and good looks don’t do anything for this old bird. Because she doesn’t blush or stutter about a computer error and just shoves the key at Clint. “It’s actually a triple. 502. Fifth floor.”
He shoots her a look and walks away from the table.
There’s currently a battle of the wills on the elevator, where a tiny brunette is trying to fit in a large machine thing that absolutely will not fit inside. There’s a line about ten people deep behind her, with equally ridiculous boxes and fridges and such behind her.
So Clint takes the stairs.
Which are only moderately less chaotic.
The fifth floor is a strange place.
Right off the bat.
There’s a knife buried in the bulletin board. It’s pinning a notice up, welcoming everyone to the fifth floor and reminding them that there will be a floor meeting on Tuesday night at seven (ice cream is provided).
Clint’s eyes slip from the heavy duty knife-- and he knows a thing or two about knives-- and two the cheery note and laughs.
He actually misses 502 because it’s tucked into a corner.
When he finally finds it, the door is open wide and there’s a beaming blonde giant inside laughing loudly and holding his arms out. The Norse god’s whole face lights up when he sees Clint and he quickly embraces the newcomer. “You must be our third! Welcome! Welcome to the room!”
The room is small. Three lofted beds shoved against opposite corners, light spilling in through one opened window. There’s one dresser, one desk and one closet for each bed. And a strange support pillar going through the dead center of the room.
“My name is Thor Odinson.”
The giant claps Clint on the back enthusiastically.
Dude’s strong.
“Barton,” he says, smiling back. “Clint Barton.”
“Bond. James Bond.” A voice mocks from the corner.
Clint’s eyes narrow and he turns around. Perched on the top of her bed, feet dangling over the ladder, a redhead smirks at him with bedroom eyes and a strangely threatening demeanor. At his surprise, she laughs a little. “Yeah, the computer mix up really messed things up. I was supposed to be across campus but somehow I end up here. On an all-male floor with you two.”
She hops down to the floor and doesn’t offer her hand. “Natasha Romanoff. Nice to meet you Barton, Thor.”
She’s smaller than she carries herself. Short red curls and a face that’s more interesting than beautiful. She wears jean shorts and a white tank top the same way that braver men wear fatigues.
And she doesn’t break his eye contact.
Thor’s booming yell breaks their spell and he opens his arms wide. “We should drink to celebrate our new home!” He reaches behind his duffel and heaves out a growler.
Clint laughs, dropping his bag to the floor between his boots. He reaches in and pulls out a fifth of Jack. “I think I’m gonna like this place.”
Natasha quirks an eyebrow at both of them and picks a bottle of what can only be Russian vodka. “Yeah,” she says, eyes flickering over Clint. “I think we can make this work.”
The Choir Boy and the Billionaire
Okay.
So he’s not rooming with Bucky.
No big deal.
Steve doesn’t need his childhood best friend to hold his hand through the next big chapter of their lives. True , Steve did choose to go to a school mostly because Bucky was going here on a full baseball scholarship. I mean, he still got a full ride football scholarship out of it. So there’s that.
But if he’s honest with himself, it’s mostly Bucky.
Steve stops in front of 506 and stares at the fake wood.
There could be a new friend on the other side.
Another Bucky.
Well, not a replacement for Bucky. No one could replace Bucky. But maybe another person who is patient enough to get Steve. Look past the star football quarterback exterior and see the vulnerability, the pain, the skinny asthmatic kid who grew up dirt poor in Brooklyn.
Well, everyone’s poor in college.
Steve takes a deep breath and opens the door to 506 and he couldn’t have been more wrong if he tried.
There’s a flat screen TV on the wall that cost more than everything in Steve’s bag, and the guy trying to screw it into the wall is wearing a watch that doubles everything.
Steve’s bag drops to the ground before the guy looks over.
A quick grin and styled hair. He quickly slips his sunglasses off his face, tucking them into the neck of his white button down. The sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, and there are cuff links. He isn’t wearing a tie but there’s a suit jacket tossed carelessly over the back of a steel chair that most definitely didn’t come with the room.
He takes Steve’s hand. “Hi, new roomie? I’m sure you know already, I’m Tony Stark. I thought I was getting the single room, but looks like there was an issue with the computers…”
Steve did recognize him.
Stark is on the front of the news site that Steve checks out every morning. He built some sort of conductor engine thing and was raking in the money for it.
Steve’s distinct thoughts after reading the interview were not positive.
Well, mostly not positive.
Cute.
But, what an ass.
Steve gapes at Stark, still shaking hands. But his roommate doesn’t look too worried. He pries his hand out of Steve’s and heads back for the TV. “I hope you don’t mind, I already did some research and found out who you were. Steven Grant Rogers, all-star quarterback. You could have gone to any school you wanted but you chose this dump.”
“It’s not a dump,” Steve murmurs, edging into the room. For whatever reason, he doesn’t want to put his back to Stark. “Number one engineering program in the world. National-title-holding baseball team. One of the best art programs in the country.”
“Yeah,” Stark scoffs, looking over his shoulder. “And you came here for the art program.”
“What if I did?” Steve spits back, hackles rising.
Stark stops, and looks over at Steve, slow grin building over his face. “Football-playing art-student? I hate to play the stereotypes but gaaay.”
Stark was joking.
Mostly.
But Steve ducked away and his cheeks flushed bright red. When he was able to look back up at Tony Stark, billionaire playboy he had fantasized about a few times, his new roommate was gaping at him in stunned silence. He didn’t know it then, but so very rarely was Tony Stark ever silent.
Anyways, that was how Steve Rogers ever came out to anyone for the first time in his life.
Yeah.
Not so great.
They’re just… They’re just really freaking pissed off.
Bucky recognizes him.
Obviously.
He’s on the football team.
Steve’s on the football team.
This doucheface is some loudmouth tight end who can’t stay focused long enough to run a damn play.
His name is Sam Wilson. He introduced himself earlier. Rudely.
Apparently he didn’t like Bucky either.
At least it’s mutual.
There was a brief argument over who got which bed. There was a guy in the room to the left of theirs who immediately started having wild, loud monkey sex with his girlfriend. Both of them wanted the bed not against that wall. There was a stare down. A couple of veiled threats.
They settled it with an arm wrestling match.
Which Bucky won.
Handedly.
Afterwards, he stood up and made a remark about Sam having bird bones. Sam replied heatedly that at least he wasn’t pining over his best friend.
They glared at each other long enough for the imminent threat of violence to be enough for one of their RAs to clear his throat nervously and step into the room.
The RA stuck his hand out at Sam first. “My name’s Phil. Nick and I are the RAs for this floor. I just wanted to say that we’re having an ice cream social on Tuesday to get to know everybody and go over rules for the floor and maybe select a floor representative.”
Nick, the other RA, leaned against the door, glaring and obviously hating his life. He looked mildly interested when there was the possibility of Sam and Bucky fighting, but when Phil diffused the situation, he went back to glowering and hating everything. He had a nasty scar over one eye that Bucky almost wanted to ask about.
The two RAs disappeared though and left Sam and Bucky in a tense and angry silence.
Bucky shoves his underwear into the tiny dresser and shoots a dark look over his shoulder.
Why couldn’t his roommate have been Steve?
Forever alone.
Bruce Banner sinks back into his bed and stares glumly at the empty room.
He’s been dreaming about this for years.
In his mind’s eye, college was always the place where he found peers. Where he finally belonged to something. Where he wasn’t just the smart guy in class.
Whenever he thought about it, it was always sunny. He was roommates with a guy with a different set of ideals and they argued about their beliefs passionately, but not angrily. They changed each other and became friends.
Friends.
Fat chance he has of making friends when he doesn’t even have a roommate.
“Whuh--what do you mean I’m in a single room?”
The woman looked up at him, in two seconds flat turning into a grandmother. “I’m so sorry, dear. But there was a mix-up with the computers. Everything on the fifth floor got mixed around and you’re in a single room. By yourself. It’s 507.”
He looked so distressed that she put her hand on his. “It’s okay. You’ll probably end up liking this better.”
He didn’t.
He was supposed to be roommates with a guy named Thor Odinson. Great name. There had to be a story there.
Even Bruce could start a conversation with a guy named Thor.
He did some research.
The guy is on the football team. And from his picture on the team roster, he looked like a great guy. He wore a wide welcoming smile and shoulder length blonde hair that didn’t detract from his masculinity at all.
Bruce slumps down a little lower in his bed.
How pathetic.
He almost jumps out of his skin when his door bursts open. A young guy with dark hair lets himself into Bruce’s room looking around the place contemptuously before his eyes settle on Bruce.
“You.” He says.
“Me?” Bruce straightens up a little, adjusting his glasses. “I’m sorry what did--”
“You stole my room,” the guy accuses him, cocking his head to the side. “I was supposed to get the solo room. Instead I’m bunking with Boy Scout of the Year and you are sitting there.”
Bruce tenses. Another bully?
“I’m sorry, I didn’t--”
The guy chuckles, tension in his face breaking. He holds his hand out. “You look like you’re about to wet yourself. I couldn’t do it any more. Don’t worry about it. My dad wanted me to bunk alone. Less distractions , he said. It’s like he doesn’t know me at all. M’name’s Tony Stark. Who’re you?”
Tony Stark?
The Tony Stark?
Tony Stark who just complained about his father, Howard Stark Mechanical Engineer of the Millennia?
Bruce holds his hand out and just gapes. “I, uh, I’m… I’m uh, Bruce. Bruce Banner.”
“Bruce,” Tony repeats, smiling. “Nice to meet you. I’m trying to figure out who all of the cool kids are on this floor and you look like one of them. Wanna come meet the rest with me?”
“I, uh…”
Friends.
Is Bruce really that lucky?