Chapter Text
Sam fucking hates knives.
They’re incredibly annoying in combat. Sure, he’ll use one if he has to, but he prefers good old-fashioned fistfights, should it come to that. Not knives flying this way and that. Nobody likes getting an artery sliced.
Bucky would disagree with him; the guy loves his collection of Gerbers and Ka-Bars and who knows what else. Sam has come to assume that he has at least three knives on him at all times. It’s kind of a problem.
But back to the original point: knives. Sam hates them.
He especially hates them when they’re in the hands of assholes, pressed against his sister’s throat.
“What do you want,” he asks, fighting to keep his voice even. Sarah’s face is deceptively calm, and her hands are steady, but Sam knows better. He can see it in her eyes; she’s terrified. He tries to keep his voice and posture as reassuring as he can.
“You’re not Captain America,” Asshole growls, tightening his grip on Sarah. She gasps, almost imperceptibly.
“Okay,” Sam says slowly, “It sounds like you have a problem with me. How about you let her go and we talk about it?”
“You’re not fucking Captain America! ” Asshole bellows. Spittle sprays from his mouth as he yells, and Sam gets a good look at his straight white teeth. His chestnut hair is well groomed, and his clothes look to be name-brand. Whatever problem this guy has with Sam, it doesn’t look like he’s wanting for much in his life.
He hasn’t let go of Sarah; the blade of the knife is still pressed against her neck. It’s a flaying knife, one that he recognizes from her kitchen. Crime of opportunity, then?
“Okay,” Sam says, holding his hands up non-threateningly. “Okay. I’m not Captain America,” he licks his lips, swallows. It stings to say it, despite the situation. He’s just now beginning to really embrace the title, to really believe that he can make a difference. “Let’s talk about it, okay? Put the knife down.”
Asshole lowers the knife a little bit. It’s still dangerously close to Sarah’s jugular, but Sam’ll take the progress where he can get it.
“That shield belongs to Captain John Walker,” Asshole says. “He fucking earned it. And you stole it from him!”
Sam blinks. Oh, this guy has got to be fucking joking.
“You know Walker?” he asks incredulously.
Asshole frowns. “No, not personally.” He pauses, as if saddened by this fact. “But he’s my Captain America! The shield belongs to him! ”
Sam wonders if this guy knows that Walker has murdered a man with the shield in broad daylight. Looking at Asshole now, he doubts that he cares.
“Okay,” Sam says. “You want the shield, then? ‘Cause I gotta say, I’m not really cool with handing it over to someone who’s got a knife at my sister’s throat.”
“Give me the shield, and I’ll let her go.”
Finally, they’re getting somewhere.
“Okay,” Sam says, “Let me go get it.”
“Fine,” Asshole snaps, “Be quick.”
Sam really hates this guy. He can’t wait to see his face when he comes to get the shield back from him. Better yet, maybe he’ll bring Bucky with and let him show Asshole how knives are really used.
Sam slowly steps toward the house. “You want a lemonade, too?” he snarks. Sarah glares at him as if he is an incredibly stupid person. Sam shuts his mouth and goes inside.
He removes the shield from its case and brings it back outside.
“Give it to me,” Asshole demands.
Sam shakes his head. “You first, buddy. Let her go.”
Asshole releases Sarah, and she rubs at her throat with a grimace. Sam blinks. He hadn’t expected this to be that easy.
“Now give it to me,” Asshole growls. Sam looks over at Sarah, who’s now a safe distance away, and frowns.
“You know, man, I might just hang onto it.”
Asshole yells in fury and lunges at Sam, knife in hand.
Sam uses the shield to block the initial blow aimed somewhere around his shoulder, but the knife slides along the surface of the shield and slices into his side. He winces; Sarah really keeps her knives sharp.
He parries the next blow, and the next, and the one after that. Asshole is incredibly pissed off, face red with exertion, breaths coming out in loud huffs.
“Come on, man,” Sam tries, “Give it up.”
“You!” Asshole gasps, lunging again, “Aren’t! Captain! America!” He stabs, and Sam blocks it.
“Dude,” Sam says, getting really fed up, honestly, “Calm the fuck down.”
As if summoned by Sam’s growing annoyance, sirens echo in the distance. Police cars come speeding into the driveway, and before long, Asshole is getting cuffed and sent on his way to prison, or perhaps, an insane asylum.
“You okay?” Sarah asks, coming up behind him, cell phone in hand. “That was… something else.”
Sam grimaces, lifting up his shirt to look at the cut on his side. “That’s gonna scar, ouch. Why do you gotta keep your knives so sharp?”
She scowls at him. “Yeah, you’re fine. Need a drive to the E.R.?”
Sam shakes his head. “I got a med kit here, I can take care of it.”
“You do that.”
Sam presses against the cut and walks toward the bathroom, shield in hand.