Eva learned to dread the approach of elderly senators and statesmen, the way they shook Steve's hand and leaned into his space to mutter, conspiratorially, "The country's not like it used to be, is it?" It was like the ticking of a bomb that only Eva could hear.

"You're right," said Steve, the third time it happened, "nobody dies of the flu and I can't get arrested for marrying a black person."
[...]

In the middle of an election season, Steve had sent an editorial to the New York Times singing the praises of labor unions, and harshly condemning Libertarians and fiscal conservatives and Wal-mart and possibly Apple; Eva had only managed to horror-skim it so far. "Did you go around trying to stir up shit back then, too?"

"In Brooklyn? During the Depression?" said Steve. "Um, yes?"
[...]

"How is this a hard job?" Yumi said that weekend over drinks. So many drinks. "C'mon, Steve Rogers, he's such a boy scout."

"Oh god," Eva muttered, rubbing her temples, "don't get him started on the Boy Scouts."

Previously, previously, previously, previously, previously.