( He threads his forearms through the bars again, resting his weight on them, and scowling at the back of a guard who stopped paying attention to them an hour ago. Hearing his name from behind him makes his shoulders tighten, but it isn't enough to get him to turn around again.

A long, frustrated exhale. He presses his forehead against one of the bars, grinding it left and right for a few seconds.

He stays there for a while, back to Steve, steadfastly ignoring him. A few contemplative minutes pass — nearly fifteen — before he peels back again and goes to sit back down beside Steve on the bench. Still frustrated, but reeled in and better maintained. )

I'm not pissed at you. Not exactly. You didn't... do anything wrong. I'm pissed at myself, or... the situation, but there's nothing you can do about any of it. I don't even know how much I can tell you, because if it changes things... Everything that happened needs to happen. I don't know how to make you understand that I don't wanna be responsible for messing up the way things go.