Yeah, J. Thaddeus, quite a lad. Speaking of fabulous characters, England has produced a bumper crop of them. But don’t forget, over here in the colonies, we’ve managed to come up with a few of our own. How about Paul Bunyan, Pecos Bill, Johnny Appleseed, Black Bart, Davy Crockett, Daniel Boone and, of course, the one and only Ichabod Crane. Old Ichy, if you recall, was the country schoolmaster dreamed up by Washington Irving. Oh, he had a way with the yarn, good Mr. Irving.
I feel like Steve, even as a big, healthy, super-soldier, has a kind of aura/presence that just makes you want to take care of him. I feel like old ladies would pick up on this. Cue little old grandmas scolding Steve for not eating enough, knitting him scarfs and inviting him round for dinner.
“Steve, honey, that orange isn’t really your color,” Sam says, tugging at the scarf that Steve definitely didn’t have when he left the house.
Steve blushes, which only exacerbates the clash of his the yarn against his skin. “I mean,” he says. “I don’t think it’s so bad. Is it?”
“Oh.” Looking sort of forlorn, Steve strokes the soft yarn. “Well. Mrs Danskon gave it to me. She said I looked cold the last time she saw me. I think she knitted it herself.”
“What, Linda?” Sam asks. Steve nods. “Oh. I guess you should probably keep wearing it, then.”