2012 - Washington D.C. (two weeks after thawing)

Pushing his way past two big glass double-doors and through a small, tastefully decorated lobby, Steve finally finds the small block of offices that he's been after all day. There's a petite brunette with immaculate nails manning the huge, sleek wooden desk that dominates the space - neatly situated between two shiny, silver elevator doors. A couple of thick books with titles like "War in America" and "The Cap Effect" sit in a haphazard pile at her elbow. The woman is just wrapping up a phone call, accompanied by some irritated sounding clicking around on her computer screen. He waits politely until she's done.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" A distracted acknowledging noise as the brunette frowns thoughtfully at her screen. "I'm looking for the director of the Captain America exhibit."
The woman at the desk nods, barely glancing at him. Her frown deepens slightly and she makes a correction to whatever she's been typing, then reads over it again.

"Do you have an appointment, sir? Dr. Hanson is very-" her eyes shift disinterestedly toward him, and she falls abruptly silent when they land roughly in the middle of his chest instead of his face. Slowly, they scan upward until she's looking him in the eye, growing wider and wider as they go. There's a stunned-looking blink and another long silence. "- ...busy…"
Her dark brown eyes have goggled to roughly the size of baseballs and she's openly staring at him, pretty clearly gobsmacked.

Steve pretends not to notice.
"I don't have an appointment, no, but I'd really like to talk to him anyway. Could you get him, please?"

"I-I don't… I can't-" she founders impressively for a moment, then seems to rally. "Are you Steve Rogers?!" The receptionist, -he glances at her name-plate: Ms. Tamera Sutherland- blurts out. She flushes immediately, looking mortified as soon as the words are out. Her eyes quickly drop into her lap and stay there.

Steve stifles a sigh. He should be used to this, but his patience just isn't what it used to be. "Yes ma'am." he grates out, trying not to sound as irritable as he feels. "That's me."

Dark eyes flick back up to study him. The frown is back.
"... Forgive me, but… you're dead."

This time he does sigh. Right…. He keeps forgetting that, technically, he's a ghost at this point. … If the SSR files are accurate, he has been for almost 75 years.
"Not exactly..."

Ms. Sutherland's eyes slowly narrow as she looks him over, suspicious, and her lips purse.
"What was your mother's maiden name?" she asks suddenly, one hand shifting unconsciously to her hip. She looks a little like a scolding church lady when she does that, and he wonders idly if she realizes it.

"... O'brien…" he says slowly, raising an eyebrow. "Why?"

"When was she born?"

Steve makes a frustrated noise. "Look, ma'am, that's really none of your-"

Ms. Sutherland cuts him off sharply with, "If you don't even know when Sarah Rogers was born, I can't let you-" and he has to admit, he admires her nerve, even if she's annoying the living daylights out of him right now.

Steve decides to just play along. What does it matter? His mother's been dead for close to 100 years, anyway. It's not like the information is all that private anymore.
"My mother was born on April 19th, 1897." he says promptly, before Ms. Sutherland can really wind up a temper. She seems to stumble on his sudden candor and goes quiet, apparently trying to recollect her thoughts.

For a moment, in his mind's eye, Steve can see a slight blonde woman in a faded grey sundress, looking out their tiny, dirty window into the early spring morning. She turns to him and smiles, declaring that it was going to be a wonderful birthday. A thin hand ruffles affectionately through his hair.
She said that same thing, 'it's going to be a wonderful birthday', every year like clockwork … at least up until the the year that she died. That year, she really hadn't said much. Just held his hand in withered fingers, squeezed with whatever strength she had left, and told him to be a good boy when she was gone.

A tiny ache swells into being inside his chest, but he pushes it down.

"Ma was the youngest girl of eight kids. Married my dad when she was 20, had me when she was 21. She passed two weeks before I turned 18. I remember 'cause she was trying so hard to make it 'til after my birthday." The eyebrow arcs just a little higher, and he swears he doesn't mean to sound bitter when he says, "I can tell you her favorite color or what perfume she wore on Sundays if you want, but I'm not sure that's relevant."
Sutherland's mouth is hanging open now, and he can't quite tell if the look on her face is shock, delight, or both.
"Can I see Dr. Hanson now, please?"