The idea of cutting into a friend's flesh, which was essentially what Cain was to him at the moment, was sickening. Steve had used a knife before on people, but he didn't like it. He liked his fists and his shield. Getting close enough for a knife to be effective was too close. He had to watch the life drain from his enemy's eyes when he used a knife. The initial resistance, the pop he could actually hear as a blade pierced the skin, the usual gush of hot blood over his hand. Steve shuddered at the memories and closed his eyes, swallowing convulsively.

"Theft? Right. Theft . . ."

Steve opened his eyes again and stared at the pale skin he was supposed to cut into. The fingers of his other hand brushed Cain's sharp hipbone absently before he curled his fingers around the man's opposite hip, holding Cain still. He set the knife against that untouched flesh and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, then cut. Steve's movements were smooth and quick, slicing the word into Cain with surprising skill. In moments he was done, before the blood even had a real chance to well up from the first stroke. It was only then that he glanced up at Cain, face a mask but eyes a roil of emotions, not all of them bad.

"Cain?"