I don't love anyone (Howard/Steve; Captain America)
Title: I don't love anyone
Characters/Pairings: Howard Stark/Steve Rogers
Rating: soft R
Word Count: ~2500
Warnings: Sexual content, language.
Summary: He never fell for anyone. It simply was not in his wheelhouse.
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me. Neither does the Marvel universe. Nothing does. I OWN NOTHING AT ALL IN THE WORLD.
A/N: It's been a while since I've seen the movie, so my apologies if there's any inconsistencies. Also, if there are any anachronisms, I apologize for that as well.
(also at AO3)
Howard Stark didn't give a damn about too many things. Much of the world was extraneous noise - distractions. And distractions were costly. Distractions were something that the great Howard Stark did not have the time or the patience for.
Steve Rogers was turning into an incredible distraction.
* * *
I am going to fuck that man, Howard had decided when Rogers had emerged from the capsule, sweaty and muscled and the exact physical opposite of the thin rail that had gone inside only minutes before. I am going to fuck his brains out through his ears.
He had always been attracted to men. He had never been ashamed of it. It was the rest of the world that looked down upon such things, so his... proclivities were something he was forced to hide, in dark bathrooms and behind locked doors in seedy motel rooms. Dirty and quick and rough.
This guy, though - this Steve Rogers - was going to be something different. Slow, tender, and utterly satisfying. He imagined it often, his fingers stroking his cock idly, naked beneath the sheets.
But then Steve Rogers was whisked away to do a stage show throughout the States, and Howard Stark was left with only his hand to keep him company.
He could only hope that they would cross paths again.
* * *
He kept trying to tell himself it was only physical. He'd barely acknowledged the fellow before the experiment was performed (well, okay, he'd had a brief, flitting thought of He's a cute one, but this was irrelevant), and honestly, who wouldn't want to sleep with him after seeing him shirtless? You would have to lack a pulse entirely.
But it was becoming clear that Steve Rogers, a.k.a Captain America, was much more than just an exceptional body. He had an exceptional soul. And Howard was falling for him, and it wasn't good. He never fell for anyone. It simply was not in his wheelhouse. There were just too many things to do, too many thoughts about more important things and ideas, than to get bogged down by...
He was not in love. He hardly knew the man, for God's sake. It was just an infatuation.
But he was definitely still going to fuck him.
* * *
“To a great victory.”
Howard swung back his champagne, while Steve merely sipped at his. They were alone, finally. Howard had been forced to pay some people off in order to get them the hell out of there, but alone they were, and now his plan could finally be put into motion.
“Y'know, Steve - can I call you Steve?” He sat next to him.
“Sure.”
“Steve, I think you did amazing today.” Howard flung his arm around Steve's shoulders, which became a little tense. “Really, I do. You're a hero. And I'm not just saying that in a schmaltzy kind of way. I mean it.” And he did.
“Well, thank you. I appreciate that, Mr. Stark.”
“Please. Call me Howard.” He smiled, leaning in just a little closer. “My middle name's Walter, but don't tell anyone.” A wink.
He chuckled. “I won't.”
Howard bit his lip and ran his tongue across the inside of his teeth, his eyes darting about across Steve's face. “Tell me, Steve... you got a girl back home?”
“Me? Ha. No.” He shook his head, blonde strands shaking, and Howard nearly felt his stomach jump into his throat. “Do you?”
“I'm not a one-woman kind of man, my friend.” Or a one-man kind of man, either. “There must be someone special, though. Someone who's caught your eye.”
“Well... there is someone...”
Heartbeat accelerated, Howard gripped onto his shoulder more tightly. He could practically feel his pupils dilating.
“Um, it's just - I don't mean to - you know, never mind,” Steve said, and turned his face away, clearly embarrassed. God, he was so adorable.
“You can say it. Go on.”
“No, that's okay.”
“In any case,” Howard said, the pads of his fingers brushing Steve's shirt, his cock already half-hard, and Steve was completely oblivious to all of this somehow, “there's someone who's caught my attention, at least.”
“Oh?” He still wasn't looking at him. Howard wanted to grab his jaw and turn him and kiss him, rough and hot, but it was too soon; he didn't want to come on too strong.
Or maybe he did. The alcohol was certainly impairing his judgment on such matters. He was floating out of his skin, and reaching to grab Steve's face, when suddenly the door swung open and there stood Colonel Phillips, professional cock block.
“You boys done flirting, or are you gonna go out to the bar with the rest of us?” He could've sworn that the Colonel was giving him a particularly pointed look, but he had closed the door again before Howard could fully decipher his expression.
“Guess we should head back out there, huh?” Steve had disengaged himself from Howard's grip.
“Yeah... I'll catch up.” Howard watched sadly as Steve walked out the door. But not too sadly. The boy had one hell of an ass.
I'll get you next time, he thought.
* * *
He goes home alone that night, despite the beautiful women clamoring for his attention, his mind unable to focus on anything except Steve.
And it wasn't for the reasons one would expect, either (although those thoughts did occasionally flutter in). His heart was swelling with a deep feeling he hadn't even known he was capable of. Howard was astounded, on every level, his body shaking and prickly, at what Steve had done. He couldn't imagine being able to do something like that. Ever.
Sure, he could help in his own way, with modern science and inventions, but to put himself right in the line of fire, instead of whiling away in his laboratory, dreaming up flying cars? That took something special. Something that Howard simply did not possess. But Steve did. Steve, mere months ago a scrawny kid with no parents, beaten up on a regular basis, an art school drop-out (of course he had looked at his file, what did you think this was?), and now he was saving countless soldiers from a Nazi organization, with plans to save even more.
He was in awe, plain and simple.
And maybe a little more than just awe, if he had to admit it to himself.
* * *
Howard was fixing himself a sandwich when Steve was suddenly behind him, and he snapped to attention immediately.
“Well, hello,” he said, slowly turning to face him. God, he was handsome in that uniform of his. “How can I help you, Captain?”
“I need to talk to you. Alone.”
Howard raised his eyebrows. “Alright.” He followed Steve into the next room, unable to keep himself from expecting Steve to say, “Mr. Stark, I want you to screw me on this desk right now. I just can't contain my desire for you and your glorious mustache anymore.”
But Steve didn't say that. Instead, he said, “You know Agent Carter?”
“I do.”
“Do you... are you and her...?” He was moving his hands back and forth in a stilted, awkward motion.
Howard stared at him. “I don't... I don't understand what you're...”
Steve just kept doing it, giving him a sheepish look. “Uh...”
“Do we play pattycake? Is that what you're asking?”
“Is that another word for it?!”
“Another - ” Oh. “No! No, Agent Carter and I aren't involved at all, my dear. Why do you ask?” Why did I call him dear? I shouldn't have done that. Goddamn me.
Steve seemed unfazed, though, and stopped his odd gestures, hands falling to his sides. “I was... wondering.”
“And why were you wondering that?” His voice was low, seductive mode engaged. He took a step closer, just on the edge of Steve's personal space, his hands in his pockets. His pulse rapidly thumped, he gazed deeply into Steve's eyes, and -
“I think I... I think I screwed it up. With her, I mean. Wait, so what does 'fondue' mean if it's not...?”
Shit. He took a step back, shoe hitting the floor with a solid thud. Well, this certainly put a damper on his plans. And he couldn't help but feel incredibly disappointed.
But he saw the look on Steve's face, and it was so forlorn and lovesick. It was cute. Really cute. And it was a look that Howard suddenly realized that Steve was never going to have for him. He'd seen the way Peggy Carter had been around Steve, and who would he be if he stood in the way?
It was something real. Something Steve clearly wanted. And so he blew out a puff of air in resignation.
“Come with me, Rogers,” Howard said, waving his hand in the direction of the door.
“Fondue's just bread and cheese, my friend,” he said, as they entered the next room.
“Really?”
I'm either the world's biggest saint or its biggest sucker, Howard thought.
* * *
He threw himself into his work. There wasn't time to pine away. There wasn't room for regrets or could've-beens or jealousy or any of that nonsense. It was liberating. He didn't have to think about anything at all except the work. The rest of the world was cut off. Fat to be trimmed away.
But there was no escaping his nights in bed, explicit dreams, sensational dreams, romantic and silly dreams, that made him hate himself in the morning, before forgetting most of the details only minutes later. That was a relief, at least.
He was trying to ignore it. He really was. And usually he could. But then Steve would stride in, all heroic and dirt-smeared, after another successful mission, and it would hit Howard like a train and the worst part was he could do absolutely nothing about it.
And he would drink and it numbed him a little bit, just enough that he could stop thinking.
* * *
There was that female Private that was eyeing him. Howard recognized her as the woman Steve had said had kissed him.
“What's a girl like you doing in a bunker like this?” he'd asked her, all smooth and silky, and her lips smirked tantalizingly. Her hair was the same color as Steve's, was a stray thought that floated across the back of his brain as he pulled her closer.
He knew she was imagining that he was Steve, later in his room, their clothes gone and his cock inside her, both of their eyes closed, their hands clenching at arms and sides, nails digging in deep. This was fine. He was imagining the same thing.
The next morning, as they both left Howard's room to do their walk of shame, Steve rounded the corner and saw them. He stopped and stared as Private Lorraine gave him a coquettish look over her shoulder as she sashayed down the hallway.
Steve turned to Howard. “Well, she got over me quick, didn't she?” He grinned and laughed.
Howard made himself laugh too, and clapped Steve on the shoulder as he walked past.
* * *
Bucky Barnes was dead, and Steve was simply... blank. Howard studied him from across the table, unsure of what exactly to do.
“I'm sorry about Barnes, Steve,” he said.
“I know. You said that already.”
Howard chewed on his lip. The grief emanating from him was palpable.
“How long did you know him?” he asked.
Steve was silent for so long that Howard wasn't sure he was going to answer him, when he said, “Since we were kids. He tried to protect me almost my whole life. And then... when the moment came... I couldn't...” His head bowed, and Howard didn't need to see his face to be able to tell that he was quietly crying.
This was too much for him to handle. He wanted to wrap Steve in his arms and tell him it was going to be okay. But he also wanted to run away, far away, to the sanctuary of his machines. Emotions were not something Howard Stark was particularly well-versed at.
He opted for the middle ground, and placed his hand on Steve's wrist. Steve looked up at him, eyes lost.
“You know what you need?”
He shook his head.
“Scotch.”
* * *
“I don't understand how I'm not drunk yet,” Steve was saying after his sixth drink.
“Hmm,” said Howard, plenty drunk himself, and brushing Steve's hair out of his face. “It's possible that the serum could regrow your dead cells at such a rapid rate that you can't become intoxi... intoxicated.”
“Great.” He took another shot anyway.
Howard let himself take Steve in for a few minutes, the quiet settling into him, his hand cupped around his chin. The booze was clouding him and stirring him.
This is wrong this is wrong this is wrong, he chanted to himself, but that didn't stop him from grabbing Steve's knee, unable to stop wanting him, wanting him so badly, wanting to comfort him but not knowing how except the only way he knew how to communicate with anyone at all.
But Steve still wasn't looking at him, didn't even seem to notice his hand on his knee, and Howard gave up and took his hand away and stood up.
“We should go back,” he said, words slightly slurred.
“You go ahead. I'll catch up,” Steve said, and Howard stared at the back of his head, his strong shoulders that were slouched, before turning and walking away, door softly closing behind him.
* * *
Now Steve was gone.
He wasn't dead. Howard couldn't let himself believe that. He was just... gone. The idiot - the heroic, brash imbecile -
“Why did he do it?” he asked Peggy later, and he knew he was being cruel but he couldn't stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth. “Why didn't you stop him?!”
“It was the only way,” she said, her voice cracked and broken.
“Bullshit.”
Peggy stormed off in a fit of tears, and Howard was alone.
I'm going to find him, he thought, tipping the last of the beer into his mouth. I don't care how long it takes. What I have to do. He has to be down there still. He's not dead. He isn't.
Captain America was indestructible. Everyone knew that.
* * *
His dreams were haunted since that night, since the months of fruitless searching. Dreams of Steve trapped in ice, banging his fists, yelling and yelling “Let me out! Let me out!” Howard, armed only with a chisel, chipping madly away at the ice but nothing comes loose, nothing cracks, and Steve slips away. And he'd wake up in a cold sweat, his hand reaching out.
Years later, and Howard makes himself look at old photographs, old posters and cards every day. He collects Captain America memorabilia, but keeps it stored away where Maria can't see so she won't ask questions. He tells his son the old stories over and over, even though he can see the boy grows bored of constantly hearing about dad's adventures with the late, great Captain America.
He does these things, because he doesn't want to forget.
But... at the same time... he does.
Characters/Pairings: Howard Stark/Steve Rogers
Rating: soft R
Word Count: ~2500
Warnings: Sexual content, language.
Summary: He never fell for anyone. It simply was not in his wheelhouse.
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me. Neither does the Marvel universe. Nothing does. I OWN NOTHING AT ALL IN THE WORLD.
A/N: It's been a while since I've seen the movie, so my apologies if there's any inconsistencies. Also, if there are any anachronisms, I apologize for that as well.
(also at AO3)
Howard Stark didn't give a damn about too many things. Much of the world was extraneous noise - distractions. And distractions were costly. Distractions were something that the great Howard Stark did not have the time or the patience for.
Steve Rogers was turning into an incredible distraction.
* * *
I am going to fuck that man, Howard had decided when Rogers had emerged from the capsule, sweaty and muscled and the exact physical opposite of the thin rail that had gone inside only minutes before. I am going to fuck his brains out through his ears.
He had always been attracted to men. He had never been ashamed of it. It was the rest of the world that looked down upon such things, so his... proclivities were something he was forced to hide, in dark bathrooms and behind locked doors in seedy motel rooms. Dirty and quick and rough.
This guy, though - this Steve Rogers - was going to be something different. Slow, tender, and utterly satisfying. He imagined it often, his fingers stroking his cock idly, naked beneath the sheets.
But then Steve Rogers was whisked away to do a stage show throughout the States, and Howard Stark was left with only his hand to keep him company.
He could only hope that they would cross paths again.
* * *
He kept trying to tell himself it was only physical. He'd barely acknowledged the fellow before the experiment was performed (well, okay, he'd had a brief, flitting thought of He's a cute one, but this was irrelevant), and honestly, who wouldn't want to sleep with him after seeing him shirtless? You would have to lack a pulse entirely.
But it was becoming clear that Steve Rogers, a.k.a Captain America, was much more than just an exceptional body. He had an exceptional soul. And Howard was falling for him, and it wasn't good. He never fell for anyone. It simply was not in his wheelhouse. There were just too many things to do, too many thoughts about more important things and ideas, than to get bogged down by...
He was not in love. He hardly knew the man, for God's sake. It was just an infatuation.
But he was definitely still going to fuck him.
* * *
“To a great victory.”
Howard swung back his champagne, while Steve merely sipped at his. They were alone, finally. Howard had been forced to pay some people off in order to get them the hell out of there, but alone they were, and now his plan could finally be put into motion.
“Y'know, Steve - can I call you Steve?” He sat next to him.
“Sure.”
“Steve, I think you did amazing today.” Howard flung his arm around Steve's shoulders, which became a little tense. “Really, I do. You're a hero. And I'm not just saying that in a schmaltzy kind of way. I mean it.” And he did.
“Well, thank you. I appreciate that, Mr. Stark.”
“Please. Call me Howard.” He smiled, leaning in just a little closer. “My middle name's Walter, but don't tell anyone.” A wink.
He chuckled. “I won't.”
Howard bit his lip and ran his tongue across the inside of his teeth, his eyes darting about across Steve's face. “Tell me, Steve... you got a girl back home?”
“Me? Ha. No.” He shook his head, blonde strands shaking, and Howard nearly felt his stomach jump into his throat. “Do you?”
“I'm not a one-woman kind of man, my friend.” Or a one-man kind of man, either. “There must be someone special, though. Someone who's caught your eye.”
“Well... there is someone...”
Heartbeat accelerated, Howard gripped onto his shoulder more tightly. He could practically feel his pupils dilating.
“Um, it's just - I don't mean to - you know, never mind,” Steve said, and turned his face away, clearly embarrassed. God, he was so adorable.
“You can say it. Go on.”
“No, that's okay.”
“In any case,” Howard said, the pads of his fingers brushing Steve's shirt, his cock already half-hard, and Steve was completely oblivious to all of this somehow, “there's someone who's caught my attention, at least.”
“Oh?” He still wasn't looking at him. Howard wanted to grab his jaw and turn him and kiss him, rough and hot, but it was too soon; he didn't want to come on too strong.
Or maybe he did. The alcohol was certainly impairing his judgment on such matters. He was floating out of his skin, and reaching to grab Steve's face, when suddenly the door swung open and there stood Colonel Phillips, professional cock block.
“You boys done flirting, or are you gonna go out to the bar with the rest of us?” He could've sworn that the Colonel was giving him a particularly pointed look, but he had closed the door again before Howard could fully decipher his expression.
“Guess we should head back out there, huh?” Steve had disengaged himself from Howard's grip.
“Yeah... I'll catch up.” Howard watched sadly as Steve walked out the door. But not too sadly. The boy had one hell of an ass.
I'll get you next time, he thought.
* * *
He goes home alone that night, despite the beautiful women clamoring for his attention, his mind unable to focus on anything except Steve.
And it wasn't for the reasons one would expect, either (although those thoughts did occasionally flutter in). His heart was swelling with a deep feeling he hadn't even known he was capable of. Howard was astounded, on every level, his body shaking and prickly, at what Steve had done. He couldn't imagine being able to do something like that. Ever.
Sure, he could help in his own way, with modern science and inventions, but to put himself right in the line of fire, instead of whiling away in his laboratory, dreaming up flying cars? That took something special. Something that Howard simply did not possess. But Steve did. Steve, mere months ago a scrawny kid with no parents, beaten up on a regular basis, an art school drop-out (of course he had looked at his file, what did you think this was?), and now he was saving countless soldiers from a Nazi organization, with plans to save even more.
He was in awe, plain and simple.
And maybe a little more than just awe, if he had to admit it to himself.
* * *
Howard was fixing himself a sandwich when Steve was suddenly behind him, and he snapped to attention immediately.
“Well, hello,” he said, slowly turning to face him. God, he was handsome in that uniform of his. “How can I help you, Captain?”
“I need to talk to you. Alone.”
Howard raised his eyebrows. “Alright.” He followed Steve into the next room, unable to keep himself from expecting Steve to say, “Mr. Stark, I want you to screw me on this desk right now. I just can't contain my desire for you and your glorious mustache anymore.”
But Steve didn't say that. Instead, he said, “You know Agent Carter?”
“I do.”
“Do you... are you and her...?” He was moving his hands back and forth in a stilted, awkward motion.
Howard stared at him. “I don't... I don't understand what you're...”
Steve just kept doing it, giving him a sheepish look. “Uh...”
“Do we play pattycake? Is that what you're asking?”
“Is that another word for it?!”
“Another - ” Oh. “No! No, Agent Carter and I aren't involved at all, my dear. Why do you ask?” Why did I call him dear? I shouldn't have done that. Goddamn me.
Steve seemed unfazed, though, and stopped his odd gestures, hands falling to his sides. “I was... wondering.”
“And why were you wondering that?” His voice was low, seductive mode engaged. He took a step closer, just on the edge of Steve's personal space, his hands in his pockets. His pulse rapidly thumped, he gazed deeply into Steve's eyes, and -
“I think I... I think I screwed it up. With her, I mean. Wait, so what does 'fondue' mean if it's not...?”
Shit. He took a step back, shoe hitting the floor with a solid thud. Well, this certainly put a damper on his plans. And he couldn't help but feel incredibly disappointed.
But he saw the look on Steve's face, and it was so forlorn and lovesick. It was cute. Really cute. And it was a look that Howard suddenly realized that Steve was never going to have for him. He'd seen the way Peggy Carter had been around Steve, and who would he be if he stood in the way?
It was something real. Something Steve clearly wanted. And so he blew out a puff of air in resignation.
“Come with me, Rogers,” Howard said, waving his hand in the direction of the door.
“Fondue's just bread and cheese, my friend,” he said, as they entered the next room.
“Really?”
I'm either the world's biggest saint or its biggest sucker, Howard thought.
* * *
He threw himself into his work. There wasn't time to pine away. There wasn't room for regrets or could've-beens or jealousy or any of that nonsense. It was liberating. He didn't have to think about anything at all except the work. The rest of the world was cut off. Fat to be trimmed away.
But there was no escaping his nights in bed, explicit dreams, sensational dreams, romantic and silly dreams, that made him hate himself in the morning, before forgetting most of the details only minutes later. That was a relief, at least.
He was trying to ignore it. He really was. And usually he could. But then Steve would stride in, all heroic and dirt-smeared, after another successful mission, and it would hit Howard like a train and the worst part was he could do absolutely nothing about it.
And he would drink and it numbed him a little bit, just enough that he could stop thinking.
* * *
There was that female Private that was eyeing him. Howard recognized her as the woman Steve had said had kissed him.
“What's a girl like you doing in a bunker like this?” he'd asked her, all smooth and silky, and her lips smirked tantalizingly. Her hair was the same color as Steve's, was a stray thought that floated across the back of his brain as he pulled her closer.
He knew she was imagining that he was Steve, later in his room, their clothes gone and his cock inside her, both of their eyes closed, their hands clenching at arms and sides, nails digging in deep. This was fine. He was imagining the same thing.
The next morning, as they both left Howard's room to do their walk of shame, Steve rounded the corner and saw them. He stopped and stared as Private Lorraine gave him a coquettish look over her shoulder as she sashayed down the hallway.
Steve turned to Howard. “Well, she got over me quick, didn't she?” He grinned and laughed.
Howard made himself laugh too, and clapped Steve on the shoulder as he walked past.
* * *
Bucky Barnes was dead, and Steve was simply... blank. Howard studied him from across the table, unsure of what exactly to do.
“I'm sorry about Barnes, Steve,” he said.
“I know. You said that already.”
Howard chewed on his lip. The grief emanating from him was palpable.
“How long did you know him?” he asked.
Steve was silent for so long that Howard wasn't sure he was going to answer him, when he said, “Since we were kids. He tried to protect me almost my whole life. And then... when the moment came... I couldn't...” His head bowed, and Howard didn't need to see his face to be able to tell that he was quietly crying.
This was too much for him to handle. He wanted to wrap Steve in his arms and tell him it was going to be okay. But he also wanted to run away, far away, to the sanctuary of his machines. Emotions were not something Howard Stark was particularly well-versed at.
He opted for the middle ground, and placed his hand on Steve's wrist. Steve looked up at him, eyes lost.
“You know what you need?”
He shook his head.
“Scotch.”
* * *
“I don't understand how I'm not drunk yet,” Steve was saying after his sixth drink.
“Hmm,” said Howard, plenty drunk himself, and brushing Steve's hair out of his face. “It's possible that the serum could regrow your dead cells at such a rapid rate that you can't become intoxi... intoxicated.”
“Great.” He took another shot anyway.
Howard let himself take Steve in for a few minutes, the quiet settling into him, his hand cupped around his chin. The booze was clouding him and stirring him.
This is wrong this is wrong this is wrong, he chanted to himself, but that didn't stop him from grabbing Steve's knee, unable to stop wanting him, wanting him so badly, wanting to comfort him but not knowing how except the only way he knew how to communicate with anyone at all.
But Steve still wasn't looking at him, didn't even seem to notice his hand on his knee, and Howard gave up and took his hand away and stood up.
“We should go back,” he said, words slightly slurred.
“You go ahead. I'll catch up,” Steve said, and Howard stared at the back of his head, his strong shoulders that were slouched, before turning and walking away, door softly closing behind him.
* * *
Now Steve was gone.
He wasn't dead. Howard couldn't let himself believe that. He was just... gone. The idiot - the heroic, brash imbecile -
“Why did he do it?” he asked Peggy later, and he knew he was being cruel but he couldn't stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth. “Why didn't you stop him?!”
“It was the only way,” she said, her voice cracked and broken.
“Bullshit.”
Peggy stormed off in a fit of tears, and Howard was alone.
I'm going to find him, he thought, tipping the last of the beer into his mouth. I don't care how long it takes. What I have to do. He has to be down there still. He's not dead. He isn't.
Captain America was indestructible. Everyone knew that.
* * *
His dreams were haunted since that night, since the months of fruitless searching. Dreams of Steve trapped in ice, banging his fists, yelling and yelling “Let me out! Let me out!” Howard, armed only with a chisel, chipping madly away at the ice but nothing comes loose, nothing cracks, and Steve slips away. And he'd wake up in a cold sweat, his hand reaching out.
Years later, and Howard makes himself look at old photographs, old posters and cards every day. He collects Captain America memorabilia, but keeps it stored away where Maria can't see so she won't ask questions. He tells his son the old stories over and over, even though he can see the boy grows bored of constantly hearing about dad's adventures with the late, great Captain America.
He does these things, because he doesn't want to forget.
But... at the same time... he does.