He lifted the lid of the trashcan and held his breath as he peered in and poked around.
Lots of empty wrappers, plenty of disgusting slop, but not much in the way of actual edible food. He rummaged around gingerly for a couple of minutes, before closing it and moving on down the street to the next one.
So far, he'd collected a dry, cracked piece of cheddar cheese, four squishy apples, and a third of a loaf of bread with only a bit of mould on the top couple of slices. He'd been so hungry he'd eaten them all right then and there, even nibbling down as much of the apples cores as he could. He'd also found some containers with a white sauce on them, and he'd licked those clean too.
Steve had thought extensively, but he had limited options. No money, no contacts, and he was now forcing himself to accept that he had limited intel about the area, he really needed help. Having checked his last known local army base and had no success, his next idea was to try and find out where the nearest modern base was located, report to whoever the commanding officer was, and put himself at their mercy. He knew that would be the protocol.
But he kind of felt protocol might have gone out the window a little bit.
In the next trashcan, he found a chicken carcass, obviously the remains of a roast dinner. For some reason, the cook hadn't bothered to boil it down into nutritious stock. After half an hour of poking through discarded food, Steve thought he had spent all his surprise at the wastefulness of this neighbourhood, but he still felt a rise of indignation. Meat was expensive. What a waste. He'd always bought the cheaper cuts from the butchers, but even one helping of the liver his doctor had recommended for his anaemia had cost more than a week's worth of potatoes.
He sighed. Even if he'd known where he could go next, either to report back or just to beg anyone for help, he literally did not have the energy to walk any more miles. Which was why he'd only wandered a couple of blocks, before heading down this residential back alley and started looking through the trash. He needed rest, and he needed food, urgently, or he'd end up passed on the ground somewhere anyway.
Specifically, he needed protein. And meat had protein.
He eyed the chicken grimly, and then pulled it out carefully, so it wouldn't fall apart. He picked out the soggy carrot peelings in the chest cavity. It had probably been there a day or two, and it looked truly disgusting. But however run down he was, the serum was unlikely to let him get food poisoning. And he reminded himself sternly he'd eaten far worse than cooked chicken. He'd eaten that liver raw, every week he could afford it, right up until the day he got the serum. Now that had been disgusting.
Steve peeled off a bit of the skin, bundled it in his mouth, and chewed.
It somehow managed to be greasy and dry at the same time. It was also warm, from being in the trash on a hot day. He pulled the carcass apart, methodically snapping off the pieces so he could sucking off any remaining meat and spit out the inedible bones. He knew protein was especially important for rebuilding and repairing, and he didn't expect meat would be any easier to acquire now than it had been when he was anaemic.
When he'd finished, he cleaned his hands and face as best he could using the inside of his stolen jacket, tidied up the mess he'd made, and moved on to the next trashcan. There was no point lollygagging about.
The cops caught up with him about an hour later, as he was in the process of putting the debris of yet another of his meals back in the trashcan.
"Alright there?" the officer greeted, friendly enough.
"Hello," said Steve, shortly.
He'd seen the pair of them strolling towards him. But he wasn't doing anything wrong. Nobody else wanted this trash food, and he was leaving everything as he found it. And he was hungry.
The officer nodded towards the nearest house. "Is this your property?"
"No," Steve replied.
"So not your trash then?"
"I'm not doing anything wrong," Steve said defiantly.
"I hear that a lot," she said dryly. She smiled at Steve.
He didn't smile back, but some of the tension dropped out of his shoulders. He shifted on his feet slightly.
"We've had a couple of calls. You've been out here a while, I take it?"
Steve shrugged.
"People get a little worried about someone going through their trash. Identity theft, you know."
Stealing an identity? Steve thought. From a trash can?
"I'm not stealing anything," he said slowly. Was he? This world was so strange.
"Why are you looking through people's trash?"
Steve said nothing. He felt the hot flush of shame rise up his neck.
There was a long, drawn-out pause.
When it became apparent Steve wasn't going to answer, the second officer tried.
"I'm Denise," she offered, with a smile. "This is Rebecca."
"Oh," he said uncertainly. "Hi. Rebecca." She didn't look anything like his Rebecca. His Rebecca's hair was so light it was nearly as blonde as his own. She was very competitive about it, because she wanted to be more blonde. She often held her hair up to his, just to check he was still winning. Her hair usually ticked his face.
But this Rebecca's hair was dark.
"What's your name?" Denise prompted.
"Steve." He saw her expression go carefully blank. Her eyes flicked down briefly across his Captain America uniform.
"Steve...?"
He hesitated. If he said Steve Rogers, he knew how they'd react. The lady doctor in the hospital, the guard at the Brooklyn Army Base – Terminal, he corrected himself, not a base anymore – had both been quite clear that they didn't believe he was telling the truth when he said he was Captain America come back from the dead.
That meant that so far, anyone he'd told the truth to had thought he was a liar, or crazy. In all fairness, he thought the time travel thing was all pretty unbelievable himself. Except, he knew he wasn't lying.
If he told these officers his name was Steve Rogers, they'd ask, 'you mean like Captain America?' and he'd say 'Yes, that's me!' and they'd keep their careful blank eyes and supportive smiles until they had him carted off to the asylum.
Things might have changed a lot in the last seventy years, but he was pretty sure that the policy of locking up people who were dangerous would still be the same.
No way was anyone locking Steve Rogers in an asylum.
"Just...just Steve," he said, feeling something inside him break.
"What's your last name?" Denise persisted.
He shook his head slowly. The officers exchanged glances.
"Ok, Steve," Denise started coaxingly. "What are you looking for in the trash?"
He could be honest about this, couldn't he? Captain America doesn't lie.
"I'm hungry," he muttered, ashamed.
Denise nodded understandingly. "Did you find anything to eat? What have you had to eat today?"
"I found some stuff in the trash," Steve said dully.
"And yesterday?"
"Someone gave me some food. Two people."
"Ok, that's good. So some people have given you some food. Did you know them? Are they friends?" Denise's voice was kind. Steve shook his head again. They hadn't been his friends, had they? That was the problem. He didn't have any friends in this place. In this time.
"So some strangers gave you some food. Ok. Where are you staying at the minute, Steve?"
He looked at her mutely. It all sounded so bad when he said it out loud. He'd thought he'd been doing ok. He could feel his pulse picking up.
"I'm sorry," he said, in some distress. Maybe he hadn't been allowed to sleep in the park. There had probably been signs, he hadn't even looked.
"What are you sorry for?" Her voice was calm. She kept her gaze focused on him.
"I didn't look to see if there were any signs. I'm sorry, I didn't think to look. I was really tired." He felt miserable and disappointed in himself. He'd been trying so hard, tidying up everything he left, tucking himself into quiet corners, and still, all he was doing was causing trouble for people.
She digested this. "You're sorry because you went to sleep somewhere, but there might have been signs saying that wasn't allowed, is that right? Don't worry about it, Steve. Everyone has to sleep somewhere. But where are you sleeping tonight?"
"I'll find somewhere," he assured her. "I'm sorry to bother you. But I'll make sure I'm not in anyone's way."
The two women exchanged glances again.
"I will," he insisted. "I won't bother anyone."
"I'm a bit worried about your hands, Steve," Rebecca said carefully. "And your nose. It looks like you've hurt yourself."
It's ok, it's just the frostbite from my seventy-year nap in the ice, Steve thought. He couldn't say that either.
"I'm fine," he said instead.
"Have you seen a doctor about it?"
"Yes."
Rebecca was quiet for a long moment, considering him. Her fingers drummed on her bulky vest. Steve noticed she was wearing a gun on her hip, and felt glad neither of them had moved their hands towards their weapons. Then she said, "Can I be honest with you, Steve?"
"Of course," he said, slightly startled.
"I think Denise and I are a bit worried about you. You've said you've seen a doctor, and that's great, but I'm a bit worried that you're not getting enough food, and about where you're sleeping tonight. I would feel better if we could take you to see a doctor, just to check that you're ok. And I think we might be able to talk to someone to find you some food and somewhere to sleep tonight. What do you think, Denise?" She turned to her partner for support.
"I think that would be a good idea," Denise agreed. "I'd feel a lot better if we could do that. Steve? What do you think?"
Inexplicably, Steve could feel himself trembling slightly. He wondered why on earth why. It wasn't that cold.
"I don't need any help," he said in a low voice.
But he knew that wasn't true.
"It's your choice, Steve," said Denise gently. "We're not going to say you've got to come with us. But I would really feel much better if you could come with us, and see one of the doctors, and then maybe speak to one of our colleagues to see what else we can help with. And then if you want, you can leave. But could you do that for me? Come to the hospital?"
Steve wavered.
"I don't-" he started. He licked his lips anxiously. He could still taste the greasy chicken he'd fished out of the trash. "I really don't need any help," he tried. "Honestly, I'm fine. I don't want to waste anyone's time."
"Oh, if that's your only objection!" said Denise cheerfully. "That's what we're all here for sweetheart, don't worry about wasting anyone's time. Imagine a hospital if people never went for a check-up. Or police if no one ever called us. We'd all be out of a job!" She smiled at him encouragingly. Without thinking, he found himself giving her a small smile in return.
"I am fine," he said again, without much energy.
"Come on then, we parked the car round the corner," she said firmly, and chivvied him along. He moved obediently.
His head was still pounding with directives, ideas, urgency. But he felt like he might trust these two. And it felt really, really good to be standing next to someone who was looking at him sympathetically.
As the three of them walked along, Rebecca said, "I like your outfit, Steve. It looks really authentic. Where did you get it from?"
She said it like she wanted to know what store he'd bought a nice pair of shoes from.
"...I've had it a while," Steve responded in a strangled voice.
"Do you often dress up as Captain America?"
Steve opened and closed his mouth but found he had absolutely no response to that.