There's still so much anger, but hearing her words, and the emotions underneath them, turns it all toward himself. Steve jerks back again; this time he feels the slap, even if it's only verbal. His fingers loosen, and let go of her arm. "You don't know me," he tells her lowly, "so don't tell me what I want. But since it's crystal clear you don't give a damn anyway..."

He takes a step back, and then another, his eyes not leaving her face until he suddenly spins around. Yanking off his gloves and shoving them in his waistband, he scrubs his hands through his hair, making dust and grit poof out like an unholy halo. The tears that have been clogging his throat for the last several minutes, that he's been ignoring, finally start leaking, but he dashes a quick, careless hand over his cheeks, smearing them into the grime and blood already coating his face.

On the off-chance the woman - not-his-Marie - is still there, he says without turning around, "Sorry for inconveniencing you by trying to find one solid thing in this godforsaken world I could hold on to. Won't happen again."

There's a car tipped on its side a few strides over, and Steve decides fuck it. After the day he's had, nobody's going to judge him for sitting down for a few minutes and wallowing in grief, so that's exactly what he does. He hunkers down where the car's hood curves into the windshield, drawing his legs up and resting his head back against metal. And if a few more tears leak from beneath his closed lids... Well. Hard to see it with everything else dirtying his face. And he just doesn't have the energy to care, anymore.