Save Me (Steve Rogers Fanfic)

3- Genevieve

The days slowly move by, and my progress on the exhibit is minimal.

My frustration has reached its peak.

Rogers and I have been emailing back and forth for a couple of days, small stuff like picking where to go for dinner, what time, etc. It was awkward, emailing is absolutely terrible. I was tempted to just ask for his number, but that seemed too inappropriate.

Thursday finally approached, and I packed up my outline of the layout for the exhibit.

The drive to the restaurant was traffic-filled, but the podcast on World War II that I found made it tolerable. When I finally pulled into the parking lot, I had a few minutes to double-check that everything was in order. I pulled out my lint roller and ran it over my black dress, brushed through my hair, and fixed the straps of my heels. Stepping out of the car the wind immediately messed up my hair, throwing it up and around, making it feel as though I had slept in it all night.

As I walk towards the restaurant, a motorcycle approaches. It parks nearby and the rider, sans helmet, swings his leg off. He's tall, blonde, with a leather jacket over broad shoulders, probably Steve Rogers himself.

We get to the door at the same time and he holds it open for me, not meeting my eyes as I thank him and step in, but only muttering a slightly gruff, "You're welcome." The hostess asks if I have a reservation and I tell her my last name.

"Genevieve Davis?" I hear a voice from behind me, turning I see the man himself, Steve Rogers. I nod and stick out my hand.

"Call me Gen. Steve Rogers I presume," He nods and shakes my hand, his grip firm and heavily calloused. We follow the hostess to our table and take our seats. She hands us each a menu and we begin skimming it.

We order and make small talk about our days and traffic until the food arrives and we dig in.

The conversation flows easily, surprisingly no awkward tension, or strange silences.

We decide to pass on dessert, choosing instead to head to a nearby bar to continue talking. I ask him some antiquated ice breakers and learn some interesting things. For instance, his favorite color is green and his favorite food is Thai because he just tried it. We joke around a bit and I discover his sense of humor is very similar to mine, fatalistic and dry.

It's so strange to see America's 'Golden Boy' throwing back beers.

"Ever since the serum, I haven't been able to get drunk," he explains, downing yet another.