[ It is something that happened, but it's also behind them now, behind him. Steve doesn't hold a grudge against the person who put that mark on his body, remembering intently how he'd felt even after he'd come to. No, he doesn't hate the person who did this to him; rather, he can't stand his own actions, how he'd willingly gone in expecting to free all those people like he had during the War, when Bucky had been MIA and assumed dead, and how it had turned completely around on him. He glances down at Andyr's hand around his, gently twisting his fingers so that they push between his and he can squeeze them properly. A tender moment that no one else will ever come to know had passed between them. (And idly, he thinks, this is the type of affection he prefers, quiet and calming and defined by the unspoken desperation.) His mouth thins. ]

A lot of them are. [ Not by his hand, not that many. The rest of the crew had come to their aid, unable to tolerate the very thought of freedom being stripped away the way it had been for anyone there, and Steve sighs. ] And those who aren't probably wish they were. It's... [ It's not okay, but what else should he say? ] This universe didn't give us the best welcome.

[ A weak smile, and he reaches over in an absent gesture to smooth some of Andyr's hair down, tug a tiny wayward leaf from the damp strands. The back of his hand brushes his cheek, a careful motion , and then, he's looking away to stare at the waterfall. ]