"I've got it. I'll send her a text message!" Steve Rogers snapped his fingers and departed the gym. He showered for the occasion, then realized it and smacked himself in the head upon stepping onto the bathmat.

Phone in hand, "Now, Steve, what do you say...?" He shook his head and felt totally unprepared for how to do this. At first he blamed the technology. But then he thought about standing at the telephone, twirling the cord, and contemplating what to say should she pick up and say, "Hello?"

"Okay, not so different," He thought. He looked up her number and tried to think of where he'd like to take her. He'd begun to adjust to being among civilians in his new form; after all, he'd have had to deal with a somewhat similar situation adjusting had he "survived" the war.

He snapped his fingers again and typed simply, "Do you like Moroccan food?" He took a deep breath and hoped that he'd come up with a "modern" idea. Due to his truly amplified metabolism, he could eat several calories daily with little effect on his percentage of body fat (lucky sod). So he'd taken advantage of the vast number of different types of cuisine throughout New York.

Birgit spun in a squeaky circle on the old lab stool. "It's from him!" She squealed to Emma. A bookish grad named Ken who was leaving for lunch furrowed his brow.

"Day and a half?" She beamed and pushed her laptop out of the way.

"Yeah, I was going to text him tonight."

"Well, now the wait is over. What did he say?"

"He asked if I like Moroccan food." She jerked her eyebrows up and down.

"Oooh," She shook her head and the short blonde locks bobbed side to side. "How modern!"

"Very modern. That's pretty hot. Though, truth be told, I would've gone out with him to get an egg cream if he suggested it." She smiled, allowing herself a few minutes before responding (you all know you do it so you don't seem desperate).

"What actually is in an egg cream?" Emma wrinkled her nose.

"Eggs, I'd presume."

"Captain A-bvious."

"That's a good one. Alright. I'm replying."

Her thumbs flew, "I love Moroccan food. Are you inviting me out to eat Moroccan food?"

As Emma moved to Birgit's table, she looked up to tell her friend the smooth response she'd crafted. Before she could set her phone down, however, it began to buzz and ring.

"He's calling!" She announced, her eyes rounded.

"Answer, bitch!" Emma slapped the table. Birgit launched off of her stool and ran into the hall (for privacy; you know Emma would've gotten all up in that phone call).

"Well hello!" She answered.

Rogers blinked and wondered if he wasn't supposed to call to answer the question. He figured, after all, it would be more polite to ask a girl out voice-to-voice.

"Hi, Birgit. This is Steve." He took a deep breath.

"Hi Steve, are you inviting me out?" She flapped her eyelashes and held her breath.

"...Yes." Birgit screamed silently. "When could you go?" held a fist to his lips.

"Tonight?" She quirked an eyebrow and decided she so did not care about seeming desperate.

Cap laughed, "That's great. So, how about..." What time was appropriate for a date? "Seven O'Clock?"

"That's great."

"Yeah," Rogers almost interrupted. This idea was gold. "The place I was told to try is near the coffee shop we went to. Do you live near there?" He lifted his head.

"I do. I didn't know there was a Moroccan place nearby. How terrible of me." She started to hope that he'd actually ask to pick her up and escort her there.

"I'll pick you up and we'll go."

She hopped up and down. How classic! "Alright. That sounds great." She spun around. He spun around to grab a pen and a piece of paper to write down her address.