There was a wealth to say there. To pick apart, to question, to demand answers to. Most of it was self-directed. Why had he even come here? There were plenty of other people he could have bothered while he was feeling this way, and Steve was always so slow, so gentle, so fucking tender until Kavinsky made him remember that he didn't have to be.

"How's your shoulder?" he asked with grim, morbid satisfaction. A moment later, he turned away, looking at the food.