It's chance that has Steve Rogers rounding the corner in time to see Khan's head snap back, blood fanning like crimson plumage down his face. He'd been trying one of the training programs on the holodeck (while he prefers the gym, it wasn't exactly built for a super soldier), so his shield is slung over his back in a leather satchel, cotton clothes loose and damp at each pulse point.

He pulls up to a halt, feet spread in a ready stance, a second passing before he moves in (eight feet forward at one o'clock, each opponent standing at six-feet tall, force disproportionate to body weight and build; the flick of Jim's chin, the look in Khan's eyes -- they're going to tear each other apart).

"Hey!" he shouts, shrugging his shield off and sliding it against the wall in one fluid motion as he propels forward. It stops about two feet shy of the scuffle, and Steve slings his arm around Khan's neck in a choke hold. "Let him down."

With an average opponent, Steve wouldn't have to tell him twice.