Steve Rogers One Shots

The End of the War

"The due date is in your syllabus. You guys should open it once in a while, there's loads of useful information in it."

You packed up your things and pulled the strap of your messenger bag over your shoulder as you hurried out of the classroom. Your professor stopped you just as you were about to reach the bottom of the stairs.

"Miss, can you stay behind a moment?" Professor Coulson's voice held that authoritative tone he took when he was upset. "Mr Rogers, you're welcome to join us."

You looked over your shoulder at Steve who was slowly packing away his pens –including the mechanical pencil you had thrown at him during the lecture. He zipped up his pencil case with a smirk, sensing you were watching him.

Professor Coulson said nothing as he leant back against the edge of his desk, his arms crossed over his chest. Great, you had pissed off your favourite teacher...

"You are my best students," he began. You and Steve kept a neutral expression, though, on the inside, you both preened like peacocks at the compliment. "But you're also my worst nightmare." Professor Coulson fixed you with a pointed stare. "In this class, we do not throw pencils at other students." He turned to Steve, giving him a hard look. "And we do not scoff when another student speaks."

The two of you looked away, your head hung in shame. As strange as it seemed, you didn't want to disappoint your history teacher. It wasn't like him to snap at his students. He was one of the only good teachers; always friendly and caring.

"I understand," Professor Coulson continued, his voice soothing. "American history is fascinating, and you're both strong-minded people. I appreciate your enthusiasm, but you've got to learn to tone it down."

"I'm sorry," Steve said. "It won't happen again."

Professor Coulson let out a frustrated sigh. "Oh, it will."

Still staring at your shoes, you grinned to yourself. He wasn't wrong.

You had known Steve for four years now, and each year the rivalry between the two of you only seemed to intensify. At the beginning of each semester, teachers prayed not to see your names on their class roster.

You suspected they were counting the days until you both graduated.

"My colleagues had warned me about you, but I naively thought I'd be able to put an end to your little war."

"Only the dead have seen the end of war, sir," you quoted, smiling coyly at the way Professor Coulson pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You exhaust me," he grumbled with a shake of his head. "Get out of my classroom, it's time for my Xanax."

You chuckled at his joke and walked toward the door, Steve following a few steps behind you. He stepped on the back of your shoe, pulling it half off.

He chuckled as he walked past you, and you stared daggers at him while you wiggled your foot back into your shoe. When he made it to the door, you surged forward, wrapping your hand around the door handle.

Professor Coulson's loud voice echoed through the empty classroom. "Any peace is better than any war," he said, exasperated. "Remember that."

"Yes, sir," you both said through clenched teeth.

Steve batted your hand away like it was an annoying bug and pulled the door open. He could feel Professor Coulson's eyes on him, so he made a show of letting you exit the classroom first.

"After you," he said, holding the door open for you. Then he added in a whisper, "Ass kisser."

"Thank you, wannabe," you said, whispering the last word as you ducked under his giant arm to leave the room.