Steve Rogers was cruising down Route 66 in his 1959 Cadillac Eldorado. He was on his way to meet Nick Fury at an undisclosed location to discuss important world-saving matters.

Suddenly, however, a piercing hunger resonated deep in his stomach chambers.

"Say, I sure could go for a burger right now," Steve exclaimed. Out of the corner of his watery blue eyes, he spotted a glistening sign boasting the words, "Next Exit: Babe's Chicken Dinner House". His salivary glands tingled with delight, and he veered his vehicle to the right, gliding nonchalantly off the interstate.

Before long, Steve found the entrance to Babe's Chicken Dinner House and performed a stunning parallel park, eager to quell his overwhelming hunger. He aggressively strode through the doors, fists clenching and unclenching, for he was so restless to get some of that American cuisine. A stunning waitress approached Steve to seat him, but he took no notice of her appearance, for his only thought was his growing starvation.

"Table for one?" asked the waitress.

"Yes, plea-" Steve began, but was cut off mid-sentence as he spotted a loud, boisterous man across the room.

In the dim lighting of the diner, the man, who appeared to be in his early 50s, was pulling apart a chicken wing, eyes glazed with concentration. Steve couldn't help but admire the way his thick fingers skillfully worked, the way his sunglasses rested on the back of his folded neck. His button-up Hawaiian shirt boasted neon orange flames that complimented his shiny tan skin so perfectly, Steve's heart skipped a beat.

Steve was so caught up in his observation that he did not notice the man looking up from his meal.

Their eyes met.

Steve gulped.

The man lifted his fingers to his lips and licked the grease off each digit, continuing to maintain eye contact. Steve felt heat rise in his cheeks. He bit his lip to prevent a moan from escaping. Those deep, dark eyes kept staring into his, and they seemed to go on to infinity. Steve felt himself floating.

"Sir?" the waitress questioned, waving her petite hands in front of Steve's occupied eyes. Steve nearly jumped out of his American flag boxers.

"Oh, yes, table for one, please," stammered Steve, licking his lips nervously. He wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow and followed the waitress to a table. His heart began to beat faster as he realized that the waitress was taking him to the table across from that man. He licked his lips once more and began fiddling with his 1959 Cadillac Eldorado keys. It took him four tries to grasp the back of the seat, for his hands were now sweating profusely. As he finally managed to pull out the chair and plop down, he could feel those eyes roaming his vulnerable body.

"What would you like to drink?" asked the waitress, ignoring the fact that Steve was visibly distressed.

"I'd like some of that ass," muttered Steve, staring at the man who was still eating his chicken.

"Excuse me?" asked the waitress, startled.

"JUST WATER, THANKS," Steve bellowed.

As the waitress left, Steve reached for the menu with shaking hands. He could feel his pit stains growing with each passing moment. He tried to focus on ordering food. He had been so hungry moments before, but now he had an insatiable hunger of another sort. The words made no sense to him; the hyperrealistic images of succulent appetizers had no appeal. He looked back up towards the direction of the man. The booth he had been sitting at was now empty. Steve swallowed the lump in his throat and frantically searched the room for the large man, who was nowhere in sight. Steve shook his head- he was probably in the bathroom, right? He probably just needed to take a shit after consuming so many wings.

But suddenly, Steve felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. Chills ran down his spine.

"Mind if I join you?" a husky voice implored. Steve thought his heart was going to beat right out of his chest.

"S-sure," he managed to choke out. The large man plopped his large behind into the seat across from Steve, his large muscular calves tightening for a second. They sat in brief silence until the waitress returned. She raised an eyebrow at the man now accompanying Steve. She gave Steve a knowing smile and set his glass of water on the table.

"Y'all ready to order?" Steve panicked, for he hadn't yet read the menu. His eyes darted across the laminated pages, desperately searching for any sort of food item. The man across from him spoke up, "He'll have the Hoppin' John sautéed with barbecue sauce, Babe's Supreme Fatback Sandwich, and some Hushpuppies slathered with mayo."

"Would that be all?" the waitress asked, pen scribbling away.

"A gallon of sweet tea. And onion rings on the side. You know how I like 'em," he added with a wink.

"Comin' right up," the waitress nodded and walked off, her heels clacking on the tile floor. Steve noticed he was holding his breath the entire time, and exhaled loudly. He felt so utterly grateful that the man had just saved him from an extremely embarrassing situation.

"So," said the man, leaning forward. "You come here often?"

"First time, actually," Steve replied nervously. He could smell the musk of wings on the man's breath. He was so close that the crumbs in his beard were visible.

"Babe's Chicken Dinner House," the man said, musing. "Babe, I'd like to chicken your dinner at my house."

Steve's face went as red as the flames on the man's crinkly, sauce-stained shirt. (AN: We said the flames were orange, but suspension of disbelief) He didn't know what to say. He was torn between wishing he was back in his 1959 Cadillac Eldorado and wanting to know this man more.

"M'name's Guy," said the man, pointing his stubby finger in no particular direction with a snap. "Guy Fieri."

"Steve," said Steve. "Steve Rogers." He kept his hands under the table.

"Hm, sounds vaguely familiar," said Guy, stroking his coarse chin hairs. "Have I heard of you somewhere? Nah, probably not. But you should totally get to know me. I have my own show called Diners, Drive-ins & Dives." He leaned closer. "Or Triple D, for short," he said coolly.

Guy rambled about himself for a while, licking the remnants of his long-gone wings from his fingers all the while. Steve listened intently, fascinated by this man's courageous culinary journeys.

"I… I really admire your career," stammered Steve.

They exchanged a brief smile, but to Steve, it felt like infinity.

The waitress returned, snapping Steve out of his trance. She was balancing the

four plates on her arms and placed them on the table.

"Oh, boy, I love it when the fatback extends off the plate like that," commented Guy. He rubbed his hands together. "You can take the silverware back." The waitress, being a minor character, left without us having to mention it. Oh wait.

Guy ran his hands through his wildly spiked hair and dug in. Steve could only stare at the way he scarfed down the grub, chugging down gulps of sweet tea between handfuls. It seemed like he never even stopped to breathe. Steve was strangely intoxicated.

In what seemed like minutes, Guy leaned back in his chair and rubbed his belly, releasing a resonating belch. He loosened his belt by a few notches, briefly exposing his stomach hair.

Steve glanced away, blushing. He had not eaten anything, but he still felt so satisfied. He couldn't help but notice barbecue sauce dribbling from Guy's lips. Steve wanted so badly to lap up the sauce off those succulent lips. Guy noticed him checking him out, and let out a deep chuckle. His devilish laugh put Steve over the edge. Without thinking, he found himself gravitating towards Guy's face, so close he can feel the man's warm breath against his skin. Suddenly a voice came out of nowhere, and Steve jumped back into his chair.

"Y'all finished here?" Steve blushed, and nodded his head at the waitress who interrupted them. She placed the bill on the table and went to pick up a plate. Guy snatched it out of her reach and began frantically licking the remaining sauce off the plate. The waitress, taken aback in shock, cleared her throat, "I guess I'll come back later for the plates."

Guy seductively slid him the bill. Steve didn't mind; he couldn't help but want to pay for Guy's meal. It was the least he could do. He slapped some bills down on the table, and rose from his seat. "Will I ever see you again?" He asked, tears welling in his eyes. Guy tried to play it off cool, and wiped his oily forehead.

"If fate allows it," Guy whispered, burping softly. He stood up and waddled out of the diner.

As quickly as it had begun, it had ended.

Steve stood there, an overwhelming emptiness consuming him. Steve couldn't care less about SHIELD or saving the world- this man was his world. A single tear rolled down his cheek.

Steve broke into a run in an emotional frenzy. How he longed to see the man's face once more, to run his hands through his frosted tips. He shoved a waitress aside, abandoning all reason, and made for the door. But Guy had been too quick. As Steve frantically searched the parking lot, the realization descended upon him: it was too late.

Guy was gone. Forever.

Steve stood in the middle of the lot, staring at his shoes. He fell to his knees. With a shriek that pierced the heavens, Steve cried out in emotional agony.

In the blur of his tears, he did not see the headlights approaching. Ironically, he did not even see the familiar face and frosted tips he had been searching for. With a gut-wrenching crack, Steve was hit by a red Ferrari, containing none other than Guy Fieri.

Everything went black.

AN: Hope you guys enjoyed my first fic. I really poured my heart into this one. :3 Please leave a review and follow! I will be posting updates as fast as my body allows, for I am withering away, but I have vowed to dedicate the last of my life force to completing this story. This is what I want to be remembered for.

Yours truly,

-Janet