Steve's intention had been to give himself shit, though inadvertently it does seem to be a joke at the expense of the both of them, anyway. He's glad that Bucky takes it in stride or at least seems to. It wouldn't be the first time Steve's big mouth got him in trouble, but it's only in recent years that he's had the muscle to back it up. When he'd been younger, he'd been the target of more than a few bigger guys trying to get him to keep it shut. The lesson never really stuck.

It's not hard to see the way the groups are broken up in the rec room. It's a tribal sort of thing that he's seen in plenty of more wholesome environments than a prison. Humans are tribal by nature, even if Steve himself strives to judge a man by his actions and not whether or not they have trivial things in common. Most people crave the familiar and in here, finding people who feel familiar is probably what keeps some people feeling sane and normal.

He nods to Pumba, not sure if the man sees the gesture, but if he finds joy in a talk show, Steve's not going to be the one to pull his attention away from it. Everyone deserves a little happiness.

Then he catches up with Bucky's words. Our group. Steve wonders if that means he's welcome that easily. It's a nice thought. He's used to being on his own a lot of the time, but it's not because he's some anti-social loner.

He makes a noncommittal sound at the description of the skin-heads. Even if they're not devout, Steve plans to steer clear and make sure that really is true from afar. Even pretending to be a Neo-Nazi isn't something Steve thinks too highly of, even if he knows that he's got the look like he'd be welcomed in with open arms. He's got no love for them.

"What kind of group is your group?"