What people don't often understand is just what it takes to keep a camp like this running. They understand the need to hunt, to gather and dry firewood, to tend to their sick. They understand defending their new makeshift homes. Understand repairing gear and doing whatever they can to forget what it was like to be full.
It's the things people don't think about that are equally as important. Taking care of waste that would infect and spread sickness. Dealing with the bodies of those who simply don't wake up. There aren't many yet, but there aren't none. People get sick. People die. And maybe it's a waste to have someone like Steve Rogers on this kind of unpleasant duty when he could be out fighting or running expeditions but he comes from a time that's dealt more personally and viscerally with sickness, death, and filth than his more modern cousins.
He's been in a camp during the dead of a winter before and kept it running.
Steve knows what has to be done. He spends most of his time resting, because with his metabolism the rations he gets just aren't enough to keep him going as good as he could otherwise be. His bulk needs more calories than others to keep going and there just isn't enough food to go around. When he is awake, he does whatever Isidor Durant needs doing. Whether it's carrying bodies, waste management, shoveling snow...he's there with his head down trying not to make a fuss no matter how bleak things get.
No matter how much his insides ache and the cold makes his skin crawl with unwanted memories. He settles into a numb sort of autopilot after a while. It's late the night he spies a familiar duo patrolling in the dark. He's spent and filthy from shoveling snow, near stumbling back toward the warm beacon that is the cafe.
"Find anything...?" Steve's voice is quiet, barely heard over the wind. One step, then another crunches through the snow as he approaches the bots.
What needs to be done is best done in the dark
It's the things people don't think about that are equally as important. Taking care of waste that would infect and spread sickness. Dealing with the bodies of those who simply don't wake up. There aren't many yet, but there aren't none. People get sick. People die. And maybe it's a waste to have someone like Steve Rogers on this kind of unpleasant duty when he could be out fighting or running expeditions but he comes from a time that's dealt more personally and viscerally with sickness, death, and filth than his more modern cousins.
He's been in a camp during the dead of a winter before and kept it running.
Steve knows what has to be done. He spends most of his time resting, because with his metabolism the rations he gets just aren't enough to keep him going as good as he could otherwise be. His bulk needs more calories than others to keep going and there just isn't enough food to go around. When he is awake, he does whatever Isidor Durant needs doing. Whether it's carrying bodies, waste management, shoveling snow...he's there with his head down trying not to make a fuss no matter how bleak things get.
No matter how much his insides ache and the cold makes his skin crawl with unwanted memories. He settles into a numb sort of autopilot after a while. It's late the night he spies a familiar duo patrolling in the dark. He's spent and filthy from shoveling snow, near stumbling back toward the warm beacon that is the cafe.
"Find anything...?" Steve's voice is quiet, barely heard over the wind. One step, then another crunches through the snow as he approaches the bots.