this is an extensive list (in order of fic length) honestly doing this mostly for myself lol cause i reread these so often, thank you to all the authors for your fics <3
especially my fave joaquin fic authors: @love-chx @sortagaysortahigh @geminiwritten @cursedheartsclub @of-apollo please read their fics beyond the ones listed below!! <3
p.s. please let me know if you would like me to remove your work from the list <3
personal favourites - 💗
friday night dinner by @love-chx // roommate!series // fluff // jealous!joaquin 💗
your roommate ambushes you in your own home with congressman bucky and captain america sam. chaos ensues as joaquin convinces you to let them stay for dinner.
tell me i'm your national anthem by @love-chx // roommate!series // fluff 💗
fourth of july party
stakeout by @sunsburns // fluff // bestfriends-to-lovers, slight jealous!joaquin 💗
only you, only you by @of-apollo // fluff // pbjj!au, mutual pining 💗 You and Joaquin have spent a long time dancing around your feelings for each other. It doesn’t help that he might just be the most oblivious man alive. Luckily, your friends are relentless in their efforts to get you together.
swimming pools by @mindfulsweetheart // fluff // pbjj!au 💗
joaquín takes care of you after a night out with friends leads you right to his doorstep.
gazes by @joaquinwhorres // fluff, suggestive // mutual pining 💗
It's become increasingly apparent to Sam and Bucky that you and Joaquin cannot take your eyes off each other. Unfortunately for them, you two have decided to be Professionals and that means keeping your eyes, hands, and lips to yourselves. No matter how difficult it is.
only exes in the building by @snoopysupe // fluff, angst // exes-to-lovers, mutual pining 💗
you only had two months left on your lease with your ex
Nobody Gets Me by @sortagaysortahigh // angst, hurt/no comfort, no happy ending // exes, jealous!joaquin 💗
Getting married young had its risks, unfortunately for you and Joaquin, that marriage didn't work out, it's been years since you've been in contact, so why do your hearts still ache?
trick or treating by @magicalqueennightmare // fluff // established relationship
You and Joaquin take Sarah's boys trick or treating for her
A Hard Day by @emeraldserenade // fluff // roommate!au, friends-to-lovers
You had a hard day and Joaquín's there for you
Meeting the Roommates by @everydaydreamer // fluff // pbjj!au, slight jealous!joaquin, established relationship
Joaquin, your boyfriend, brings you over and introduces you to his roommates.
clueless by @munsonify // fluff // friends-to-lovers
you and joaquin are practically dating, and the only people who don’t seem to realize that is you two.
Miss Possessive by @petertingle-yipyip // fluff // jealous!reader
So what if you were a little possessive? No one got hurt.
The 5 Times Joaquín's Outfits Left You Speechless (and the one time you returned the favour) by @mrs-elsie-barnes // fluff, slight angst // coworkers Joaquín absolutely loves showing off in front of you, but he doesn't have to try hard to leave your mouth dry and your brain void of words. You're fairly sure he's just teasing, until his accident forces your feelings to the fore.
figure me out by @utopeian // fluff, angst, hurt/comfort // friends-to-lovers, jealous!reader
Being jealous and avoidant was no fun, but it was definitely one way to get with the guy you've been pining over for years.
Bed Chem by @sunshine-lux // fluff, extremely suggestive
the four times you made Joaquin speechless and the one time he got you back!
plus one by @fireinmoonshot // fluff, suggestive // established relationship
You help Joaquín get ready for a gala that he and Sam are attending – though because of the 'no plus ones' rule, Joaquín would rather stay with you instead... and he intends to convince you to let him.
means i care by @flowersforbucky // fluff, slight angst // friends-to-lovers, pining, enhanced!reader
"You were dead, Joaquín. Your heart wasn't beating when I pulled you from that water." He grins, taking your hand in his. He brings it to his lips and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles. “Well, it’s beating now. Because of you. But what’s new? My heart always beats for you.”
hover by @peterparkive // fluff, slightly suggestive // jealous!joaquin, established relationship
you just want to enjoy one good night out with your friends, your boyfriend, and some dangerously good cocktails—but some guys never learned to take a hint. luckily for you, joaquin’s never been shy when it comes to reminding everyone that you’re completely and utterly spoken for
oh, so pathetic! by @of-apollo // fluff // college!au, situationship!au, jealous!joaquin
Both you and Joaquin think that you’re more than happy with whatever you have being undefined. And then, Joaquin is the first to crumble (quite pathetically) and confess everything when he sees you flirting with someone else at a party.
Project Aphrodite by @happypopcornprincess // fluff, slight angst // holiday!au
When the Avengers get tired of watching you and Joaquin dance around your feelings for each other, they take matters into their own hands.
"I Don't Know If I Wanna Be You or Him." by @dameronspector // fluff
You finally get a chance to meet your idol. Your boyfriend is a massive fan as well. The two of you have a blast and receive an offer that you wouldn't dream of passing on. Joaquin experiences a confusing mix of emotions and you, Sam and Joaquin get the celebrity treatment.
everything, everywhere by @myladybelle // fluff, angst, suggestive // bestfriends-to-lovers, mutual pining
being long-distance best friends with joaquín isn’t easy now that you’re on different teams. the more you talk, tease, and lean on each other, the clearer it becomes that friendship might not be enough for you anymore.
forget it by @sunsburns // angst with happy ending // exes-to-lovers reuniting with ex!joaquín after his near death experience, but you’re the nurse assigned to his care after he gets out of surgery. you broke up a couple years ago because of your very demanding careers, and you don’t see him until you realize they put YOU on babysitting duty to nurse him back to health, yikes!
Sunshine by @sortagaysortahigh // fluff, suggestive // enemies-to-lovers, grumpy x sunshine, college!au, pining
Joaquin Torres had a reputation to upkeep, one that wasn't entirely accurate, but it was easier to fake the front. Or at least it was, until he realized he was falling for you, but you wanted nothing to do with that version of him OR Joaquin Torres pins after you, showing you who he really is, and you finally let him in.
smut warning below! 18+ mdni!
fall apart by @moonlight-pro // smut // established relationship 💗
distractions were best kept under wraps. even as joaquin blindly allowed you to toy with him at the worst possible moment. OR giving joaquin nasty head during his phone call with sam.
concentrate by @joequiinn // smut // established relationship 💗 You're stuck on an important business call, and Joaquin is making it incredibly difficult to stay focused...
roommate's helping hand by @jordiemeow // smut // roommate!au 💗 after his injury in cabnw, he’s super horny but it hurts his arm to jerk off :( so ofc reader notices how moody he is from being so pent up and he begs them to help him when confronted
Taste by @sortagaysortahigh // smut, fluff, slight angst // exes-to-lovers 💗
Desk duty at the Avengers compound was simple work, but throw in your obnoxious ex-boyfriend Joaquin, and a plant from a different planet, and you have a whole other problem on your hands.
you've got mail by @love-chx // roommate!series // smut, fluff, angst // jealous!reader 💗
when joaquin gets a letter from an old friend from bootcamp, some unsuspecting feelings start to arise in you—feelings that you didn’t think you had for your dear roommate. you try to brush it off, to return to some semblance of normalcy in your shared home. but when joaquin sends you pictures from his catch up with his dear old friend, something hot and possessive stirs inside of you. and this time, you can’t ignore it.
Already Best Friends by @cursedheartsclub // smut, fluff // friends-to-lovers, roommate!au. jealous!joaquin, pining 💗
almost wasn't by @cursedheartsclub // smut, fluff, slight angst // friends-to-lovers, mutual pining 💗
You and Joaquin have been best friends since the Air Force—shoulders pressed side by side through deployments, shitty rations, late-night confessions, and every almost that never became something more. You’ve seen him fall in and out of love. He’s seen you pretend you don’t need more than friendship. You date other people. You go on double dates. But every time, you end up right back next to each other—too close, too familiar, too full of everything you won’t say. Until one night, everything breaks open. And it turns out, the only thing worse than wanting him all this time… is realizing he’s always wanted you too.
safehouse by @geminiwritten // smut, fluff // slight jealous!joaquin 💗
you're an ex-assassin trained by hawkeye and black widow, and your old friend sam needs your help on a mission alongside his new protege... but things don't go exactly to plan and you end up indefinitely stuck in a safehouse with joaquín.
no promise of tomorrow by @love-chx // smut, angst // situationship!au 💗
you and joaquin work together and have sex--two entirely separate parts of your lives. but when you suddenly as for more one day, joaquin falters. a week long mission where another man captures your attention makes joaquin regret the words he doesn't say. but does it really change anything?
all maps lead to you by @love-chx // sequel to no promise of tomorrow // smut, fluff, angst // situationship!au 💗
though the post-haze of your last mission with joaquin has yet to settle and the storm between the two of you has barely started to form, you’re thrown into another battle front at the behest of bucky. thankfully, this time, you have a shield who goes by the name of bob. but…you might be the only one who’s grateful for his presence. between bob’s soft demeanor and joaquin’s tough exterior, you worry you might not make it through this mission.
friends don't by @geminiwritten // smut, fluff // roommate!au, fwb, jealous!joaquin 💗
it was only ever supposed to be casual. convenient. roommates with benefits—two rules: no kissing, no falling in love. but when joaquín returns from a week-long mission and his mother comes to stay, tensions rise, jealousy snaps, boundaries blur, and breaking those rules becomes inevitable.
kinktober day 23 by @cursedheartsclub // smut, fluff // friends-to-lovers, coworkers 💗
praise kink
roommates to lovers by @cursedheartsclub // smut, fluff // roommate!au, blurb
World Saving Deserves A Reward by @sunflowerlando // smut
Joaquín is back from another mission, and you want to thank him for always being out there trying to save the world.
Friends Don't Hook Up by @emeraldserenade // smut, fluff // bestfriends-to-lovers
A night changes everything after you and Joaquín finally give into the sexual tension.
Hot, Bothered and Tactical by @fireside-fanfics // smut, fluff // established relationship
Thrist Trap by @hauntedhowlett-writes // smut // friends-to-lovers
joaquin accidentally sends you a shirtless selfie
real love purified by @utopeian // smut, fluff
Joaquin's obsessed with the fact that you were soulmates in your past lives, even more so that there's evidence of it: your moles.
A Little Distraction by @blank-potato // smut // coworkers
It's been a while since you've gotten laid, and it's starting to affect your concentration. It especially doesn't help when the person you're training is Joaquin Torres.
never late is better by @luvemmdubb // smut, fluff, slight angst // established relationship
Joaquín is late for your anniversary dinner.
lending a helping hand by @love-chx // roommate!series // smut // fwb
a big client’s request for a custom art piece has clouded your mind the past few weeks, leaving you stressed and tensed. it was a pain to be around, so joaquin had no choice but to confront you and support you. he’ll help you get unblocked, he insists, no matter how creative it gets.
Me Rehúso by @therogueflame // smut, angst, hurt/comfort // exes
It was just a drink. Just catching up. Just a little too late to call it nothing.
Redamancy by @phantomspiderr // smut, fluff, angst // fwb
The aftermath of sleeping with your best friend is never good—feelings grow where they weren't supposed to, and it drives a wedge in your relationship. Then things change...
Mi Amor, Mi Guerra by @cursedheartsclub // smut, angst, fluff // (one-sided) enemies-to-lovers, thunderbolts*
thunderbolts and sams avengers team are working together (sambucky no longer divorced) but y/n and Joaquin are both fighting to see who is better in Sam’s eyes?
woman in the chair by @kikismultifics // smut, fluff // mutual pining, enhanced!reader
after a scare from Joaquin on a mission, and you're forced to patch him up (because he's too stubborn to get properly looked at), you realize that maybe your feelings for the new Falcon goes beyond just caring for him like a friend. When he realizes that you are in much need of a carefree night full of alcohol, you're forced to confront your feelings—as well as his.
sin ti by @moonlight-prose // smut, fluff, angst // exes-to-lovers, pining
five years have passed. five years since he boarded a plane and left you behind to wait diligently for the man who would never return. when letters and patchy phone calls failed to keep the spark of your relationship alive, you find each other again. only this time as two entirely different people.
welcome home by @love-chx // smut, fluff, angst // exes-to-lovers
drifting from state to state looking for a place in the world after the death of tony, you find yourself back on new york ground when bucky starts the new avengers. coming back to cement your dad’s legacy, you promise yourself you’ll be out of the city before anyone even knows you’re there. but circumstances lead you right to joaquin, and you’re forced to face your hurt ex-boyfriend, having no choice but to confront everything you left behind.
heavy by @love-chx // smut, fluff, angst
you’ve worked with joaquin a lot over the years, from the military to his career as the falcon, as his physical therapist. as easy as joaquin was as a patient, it was hard. hard because he was such a shameless flirt, hard because he was so charming—but you’ve always been friends and nothing more. after the events of the red hulk, joaquin finds himself having a harder time recovering than usual despite having you by his side. a slip of the tongue leads to a fight that leaves the both of you tense, but all is forgiven when you find yourselves in an attack and confessions come to a head.
Jealousy, Jealousy by @sortagaysortahigh // smut, fluff, angst // enemies-to-lovers, witch!reader
It was as if every single thing you did irritated Joaquin Torres, you didn't even have to say anything to him, your presence alone was enough to tick him off. Don't get him started on your relationship with Peter Parker either.
en español by @geminiwritten // smut, fluff // friends-to-lovers
after joaquín returns from a two-week-long mission things feel different, then he convinces you to go undercover with him where tensions rise—only for him to leaving you wanting more... until he stops by your office for a very intimate spanish lesson
Slim Pickins by @sortagaysortahigh // smut, fluff
Every Friday for the past few months you've been going on shitty dates, and at this rate, you're convinced that you're either ending this life alone or settling for another douchebag. You can't find a genuinely good guy, it's not like there's one right in front of you or something!
Garden by @sortagaysortahigh // smut, angst
Y/n Y/l/n and Joaquin Torres had spent their entire childhood together, but growing up meant growing apart, and when travesty after travesty struck the world, their paths couldn't have been more polarized. But sometimes paths are meant to be crossed again, and there's always a chance for change.
Two years should have been enough for you to move on from a heartbreaking situationship. However, Jake's return to North Island proves that time doesn't necessarily heal all wounds.
▸ PAIRING: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, unprotected sex (she's on the pill), lots of dirty talk, sexual banter, some angst, basically maverick!jake, jealous & possessive!jake (personal fave)
▸ WORD COUNT: 15.1K
▸ A/N: longest work yet and this jake made me frustrated and happy. this is basically if mav and penny started off as fwbs. planning a lot of jake pov scenes from this one because i want to write him as an emotional mess! for now, pls enjoy :)
—
Quiet mornings at The Hard Deck are your favorites. With all the rowdy patrons gone, you’re left in the peace of the bar. It’s just you, the sticky floors, and the sound of waves lapping up against the shore.
It’s been a few years since you took over for Penny. Her retirement with Maverick is well-deserved. The woman has the patience of a saint for dealing with military chaos for years before they chose to settle down somewhere quieter, somewhere less… government. Now, this is your life. Nothing you should be complaining about.
You like the hands-on work, you like being able to meet new people while also having regulars. The manual labor is almost gratifying. The motions of the day are muscle memory at this point. Restock any necessary bottles behind the bar, ensure you still have sufficient supply in the back, wipe down counters, and do your best to remove the residues from the previous night off the worn wooden floors. The number of people who come this way has increased over the last few months, something about training more and more graduates for air combat. Always preparing for a war that hopefully never comes.
Some faces are more familiar than others, ones that come much too often. Out of all of them, your mind tends to wander to a certain blonde, and your heart pinches at the thought. Even after years of absence, he never fails to remind you of the things you’ve lost.
You shake his face away from your head. Today is not the day. You haven’t thought about him in a couple of months. There are things here on the island that remind you of him, spots you can never scrub free of traces of him, no matter how many memories you try to put in their place.
Jake “Hangman” Seresin was a blessing and a curse. Once upon a time, you might’ve even considered him your best friend. The first time you met, he pulled all of his best lines to charm the pants off you. The only thing he left with was a hefty bar tab after he slid his phone on the bar counter to you, asking for your number. That bell ring is still the most satisfying one you’ve done to date.
He ended up on North Island often, pulled in for special detachments and training. Eventually, he even started training his own batch of recruits. With the amount of confidence and sweet-talking he brought to you, it was no surprise that you ended up in his bed at some point. Well, him in yours mostly because your place had a lot more privacy compared to the apartments he shared with Bradley.
And that one time turned into two and then three. After a while, you lost count of how many times you’ve come apart in his hands. It wasn’t only his witty remarks or playful banter that won you over. It was the quiet nights you shared when he told you about growing up in Texas, when you told him about what it was like growing up with both your parents in the military, when you both shared your secret fears and desires in the darkness of your room.
Jake was all hard edges and sharp lines. He was a shameless flirt and an incorrigible asshole. But he was also a devoted son who visited his parents states away every time he had a weekend off, a good friend who apologized for missing a night with you when he had to comfort Javy after a breakup, a man who squeezed your hand through your nightmares and held you close.
He was a man who was hard to miss in both senses of the phrase. Handsome. Smart. Loud. Loyal.
Falling for him was inevitable. Even now, as you’re trying to distract yourself with chores for the day, the pain from that night still lingers. Your whispered confession, the flare of panic in his eyes.
“I love you.” The words come out easily. They are ones that have been trapped in your chest for the longest time, restricting your heart from beating as freely as it should. You’ve known it for a while, choosing to bury them deeper and deeper until the feelings pile up again to the surface. With nowhere else to go, the only way to release it is to say it out loud. But saying it out loud makes it real and that terrifies you more than anything.
You and Jake are no secret to regulars. No official labels, but when he’s on the island, you’re his. Completely. It isn’t as if you’re sleeping around with anyone else, even when he’s gone. He’s rarely gone long enough for you to crave touch from someone else – not that you do. Jake has replaced the memory of every man before him, and spoiled you for every man after.
The silence speaks volumes. You don’t dare look up, instead opting to withdraw from him in favor of slipping on your shirt. Another barrier between the two of you. A belated protective shield for you.
When you finally chance a glance his way, there’s a storm of emotions clouding his eyes. You can recognize the ones you anticipate: disappointment, resentment, pity. He doesn’t move where he sits on your bed, still naked beneath your sheets. Your name comes out of his mouth like a scold. Your face crumples into a wince.
After the first few times, you both agreed that this is meant to be clean. A no-relationship relationship. Just sex whenever he’s in town. It’s a win-win for him who’s constantly on the road and for you who can’t imagine yourself managing anything else beyond the bar.
But who were you kidding? You never stood a chance with Jake Seresin. Nights with him aren’t just hours spent tangled in each other, chasing the sort of pleasure that only comes from familiar, experienced hands. They are midnight conversations and tender touches. They are your laughs encouraged by his kisses.
“I know” is all you can muster. “You don’t have to say anything.”
Jake doesn’t. He can’t possibly give you a response that would remedy this situation. This relationship.
“Look, forget about it. It was a mistake.”
“You made it complicated, sweetheart. I told you I don’t do complicated.”
“I get it,” you snap back, a little harsher than you intended. “I’m not asking for anything. I just… it came out.”
Jake licks his lips as his hand reaches up to run through his messy hair. Minutes ago, it was your fingers that rumpled through his blonde hair. It feels like a lifetime away now. His frustration is more palpable now. He grits his teeth when he coldly says, “Why did you have to go on and ruin a good thing?”
It’s like driving a stake through a gaping wound. “I fucked up, I’ll admit. But you don’t need to be an asshole about it. There are probably worse things in life than to have someone tell you they love you.”
A hoarse laugh escapes him. “Really? You think so? Because right now, it doesn’t feel like there is.”
“You’re a fucking asshole.”
“Well, I’m not the one that decided to fall in love with a fucking asshole.”
On some level, you’re probably aware that he doesn’t mean to be this cruel, throwing your feelings back in your face. It’s the heightened emotions and the exhaustion from a long day. However, you’re also the one who got rejected. The least he could do is be decent about it, be gentler.
“Love isn’t a goddamn decision, prick.”
“Name-calling, darlin’? Not your best attack.” Your humiliation and sorrow are replaced by fury. As someone you once considered a close friend, mocking you in this very moment feels like a bullet straight through you.
You swallow thickly, looking away. Any more from him and you may break down in tears, and the last thing you want to give him is your vulnerability. Clearly, he doesn’t deserve it. Nor did he ever want it.
“I should go.”
Looking at the darkness outside, you feel your heart soften. You’re pissed, but you’re not a complete monster. You won’t resort to being one like he did. “You should stay the night, it’s late. You can leave in the morning. Take the couch.”
A grunt. “You know that’s no longer a good idea. I’ll be fine.” He shrugs on his clothes quickly. The ticking clock on your wall feels like a bomb that’s about to explode. Only, you feel as if you’re already standing in the aftermath of it all.
You walk him out quietly, standing a foot away when he opens the front door. The evening breeze chills your hallway and you immediately rub the goosebumps rising on your arms. Jake looks up at you one more time, those three so-easily identifiable feelings still etched onto the lines of his face.
“I don’t think we should do this again.”
The final nail in the coffin. All you can do is nod in agreement. It hurts. Of course, it fucking hurts. But there’s nothing else you can do – he held up his end of the bargain and you let it fall apart in your hands.
“Be safe,” you say in response. It feels like the only appropriate one.
Jake nods and closes the door behind him. With the roar of his bike, he disappears into the night.
Two years. It’s been two years since that fateful night. Jake hasn’t been back since. It’s not just your bar that he avoids, it’s the entire base altogether. While you see some of his friends on occasion, his face is nowhere to be seen in the crowd. There are murmurs on where he’s located, even if people try to whisper it far away from you. But Jake isn’t one to stay under the radar for too long, his exploits are thoroughly discussed by many who pass through your bar. Last you heard, he is deployed in the Middle East somewhere on a long-term operation.
Part of you is grateful that you don’t have to deal with the awkwardness of being half an ex; it stings even more when you think you’re not even really an ex. However, after months of constant texting and late FaceTime calls even when he’s gone, his absence is noticeable. The ghost of him is apparent in the echo of his laugh by the pool table, the shadow of his broad frame when he leans over your bar and shoots you a wink.
But it’s been two years and you’ve moved on. Somewhat. You’ve seen other people since then – not only sleeping with them but actually going on dates in what hopefully would turn into something more.
No such luck.
The effort is exhausting and you find working at the bar much more rewarding. It’s small talk that is meaningful to you, building new relationships with soon-to-be regulars rather than vetting an unknown man to be your potential boyfriend. At this point, you can almost say for certain that there is not a lot of potential in the crowd you meet.
After two years, the ground beneath your feet is steadier. You hold nothing against Jake. You knew what you signed up for with him and it was neither your fault nor his that you ended up losing someone close to you. You’re thankful that you were able to tell him your feelings before he disappeared; it’s comforting to you that at least he knows, wherever he is, that he has someone who cares about him.
With that said, you also have no interest in reliving one of the worst moments of your life. Your embarrassment lives in the deepest corners of your mind. You’ve thought a lot about what you would do if Jake ever came back.
You would play it cool. You would be friendly. Cordial. But you also have no interest in a fresh start. You and Jake are going to be complete strangers with a lot of mutual friends.
It’ll be fine. It will work.
At least, that is what you tell yourself when you sense that familiar presence. You hate how attuned you still are to him. The sound of his footsteps, the laugh that the wind carries in, and even the way he opens the door. A slight creak that sounds almost thunderous in the sparse bar.
You don’t look up. You don’t need to. You continue wiping down your glasses and chatting with Irene, who probably spends too much time here. However, her company in the present is much appreciated. Your back faces the door and you have an excuse to keep your eyes fixated on the woman in front of you, rather than the blonde who’s getting closer and closer.
Andy – the second bartender you’ve hired since business picked up – is manning the side of the bar closer to the door. He can handle him. Irene’s voice blurs into the background and suddenly your heart is rushing in your ears and the only voice that slices through is Jake Seresin saying your name.
Fuck.
Two years. Two long years without him and you still can’t get yourself together when it comes to him.
Andy taps you on the shoulder, tells you someone is asking for you. You wish Irene weren’t so kind, wish that she would tell Andy to take care of the man himself. Instead, she leaves you to your misery with a comforting smile.
Taking a deep breath, you urge your heart to slow. It’s just Jake. You were friends once. You can be friendly.
You turn around.
Nothing could have prepared you to see how much Jake has changed. He’s still undeniably and objectively handsome, those sharp features and bright eyes could appeal to any man and woman in the vicinity. However, the five o’clock shadow along his jaw and the healthy tan on his skin give him that rougher edge that his boyish self never had. He’s older, grown.
Even so, there’s a softness to his eyes that’s new. His gaze has always been hard when he dials up his flirting game. This tenderness – it feels like the work of a woman.
Could it be? Someone has finally tamed the young and wild Jake Seresin? The thought hurls you with bitterness and annoyance. It’s been a few years. It’s entirely possible that in that time, he’s met someone who changed his mind about love.
Your mouth dries at the thought and you internally curse your body for reacting this way. Be happy, be nice. You inhale a shaky breath as you make your way towards him, a small smile forced onto your face.
“Jake Seresin.” Saying his name feels like a prayer and a curse.
He tips his head and then offers you that blinding grin. One that you’ve grown so used to receiving and have missed immensely. “How are you doing, darlin’?”
“Same old.” Your lips quirk up. “What are you doing back on this side of the planet?”
Jake leans over the bar, his large frame coming up too close to your personal space. The temptation to draw the invisible line that he cannot cross is there, but that would be a little too immature, even for you. His arms fold on top of the counter. “Looking for the prettiest girl on the planet.”
“Hm? Any luck?”
“Yeah, think I got it right on the first try.”
Your heart does a backflip in your chest. Fucking Jake Seresin and his snake charming tendencies. It’s almost painful how easily the two of you fall back into old routines – the banter, the flirting. You neutralize your expression to ensure nothing gives away how difficult this is for you. You’re not giving him the satisfaction of showing him how affected you are by him. Still, even after two goddamn years.
“What do you want, Hangman?”
“Iced tea.” Your eyebrows jump at that.
“Have I entered the twilight zone in which you don’t get drunk off your ass the moment you walk into this bar?”
That was a mistake, because you’re then rewarded by that full-bellied laugh. The one you grew fond of. Your heart does its thing again.
“As much as I would love to clean out your stockpile of IPAs – you probably have a surplus at this point, I do have to head to base after this.”
You take your chance to pull a fresh glass and prepare his drink, your back once again facing him. You run through the list of safe questions in your head. Don’t ask him how long he plans to be here, you’ll sound interested. Don’t ask him what he’s doing here, you’ll sound like you care too much.
You’ve learned the hard way that he hates that.
Instead, you settle for a simple “got it.”
Calm, cool, collected. That’s your motto for however long Jake has his fucking feet on this blasted island.
You turn back around and slide the glass over to him as he hops onto a stool. He tilts it back and takes long gulps, like a parched man in the desert. He cleans out the drink and immediately asks for a refill. You oblige and hand it back to him.
“How’ve you been?”
There are so many ways you can answer this question. Three C’s. Remember the three C’s. “Good, it’s been busy here. A lot of new faces but some familiar ones. Think Coyote was here a couple of weeks ago so you just missed him.”
“Yeah, he told me. The man’s getting married soon.”
Of course, he still talks to Javy. Why wouldn’t he? Unlike the two of you, they’re actually friends.
You mentally chide yourself for being so petty. On the outside, you nod. “Winter wedding. Good thing he’s doing it in Mexico City. That’ll be a fun trip.”
“You’re going then?”
“Yeah, winter is actually pretty slow for the bar so think Andy has it covered.”
Jake nods slowly. You observe his thinking face, another question on the tip of his tongue that he decides not to ask. The serious expression disappears as he flashes you another smile. “I’ll catch you then for sure.”
“Best man?”
“Best best man,” he replies with a wink and you can’t even stop the laugh that comes out of your mouth. His eyes gleam a little brighter. Jake straightens a little, looking almost awkward when he asks, “Are you bringing anyone?”
The implicit questions are there. Are you seeing anyone? Are you dating anyone serious enough to bring to a wedding? A wedding where your ex-situationship is the best man?
You think of the limited number of ways you could avoid answering this question. “Thought it was a small wedding, didn’t think I would get a plus one.”
“Javy would definitely let you bring one if you wanted.”
“That would be nice of him.”
“So are you?”
Stupid Jake and his stupid ability to push. You could lie, but that means you would have to find someone by that time to actually bring to this destination wedding. That feels a little much, even if it’s to teach Jake a lesson.
“Nope,” you shrug and your curiosity wins out, “are you?”
He seems to think about it for a bit, worrying his bottom lip. “No, not right now at least.”
Not right now. It definitely hurts more than it should.
Jake quickly adds, “I’m not seeing anyone. I just – you know, things can change between now and December.”
“Right, yeah, of course.”
When you look at him again, he seems to be contemplating something. The thinking face is back on. “I’ll be here for at least a month,” he starts. You have a bad feeling about where this is going, but you already know your answer. Your resolution stands firm. Thankfully, he keeps it in safe territory. “Teaching a new batch of recruits with Bradshaw, actually.”
“Oh, I haven’t seen him around in a bit so that’ll be nice.”
If you say nice one more time, you may actually choke on how nice you’re trying to be.
“Yeah,” he clears his throat. “It’s kind of crazy. To think they would trust me to teach other pilots.”
“Is it that crazy?” His eyes flare with surprise. “I mean, you and Bradley are probably the best aviators. You trained under Mav. Plus, you can be a tough teacher, but your confidence is something that gives other people confidence.”
Jake lifts his glass to his lips again, saying nothing.
That’s when you realize– “Are you blushing?”
He immediately scoffs, still hiding behind his drink. The ice clinks against the glass as he jerks it up higher. “I don’t blush.”
“Aw, Jake, you don’t have to be so shy about it.”
The tips of his ears turn a deeper shade of red as he rolls his eyes at you. “I’m not shy. I just… wasn’t expecting that from you.”
“Expecting what?”
“I don’t know, a compliment?”
“Am I really that mean that you don’t think I could compliment you?”
“It’s not that,” he huffs, curling his fingers together around his cup as he stares down into it. “The way we left things off, I didn’t think–” he pauses, “–I wasn’t sure how you would feel about me being here again.”
Oh. You shift a little where you’re standing. “I’m an adult, Jake. I can take care of myself so you don’t have to worry. My feelings are not your responsibility. It’s also been two years, I’ve moved on. It’s fine.”
His eyes flicker with something unknown. “I never apologized for—”
“You really don’t have to,” you interrupt, a coarse laugh slipping past your lips. “You definitely do not have to apologize.”
“No, I do. At least for how I responded. I was a dick. The situation at the time wasn’t ideal, but you deserve better than how I reacted.”
Your smile softens. “Well, thank you. The apology was unnecessary but appreciated.”
Jake returns your expression. “I’ll be around. I have to head to base, just wanted to stop by and say hi.” He drops a few bills on the counter. Before he turns, he looks at you again. Those blue eyes that still spark something inside of you. “It’s good seeing you.”
“You too, Seresin.”
With that, he’s gone and you’ve just survived your first interaction with Jake Seresin.
–
Jake wasn’t kidding when he said he would be “around.” Without fail, every night, he is back at the bar with the trainees. They are a boisterous crowd, reminding you of the Dagger Squad years back, before you even took over for Penny. Most of them are always by the darts or pool table, bickering about who’s the better player, which apparently translates to who’s the better pilot. There are a few that Bradley drags over to the piano, belting out classic rock songs that he and Mav used to bond over.
Even as a cocky pain in the ass, Jake has always been good at building connections. The peals of laughter following whatever story Jake tells reverberate across the bar, catching your attention and momentarily distracting you from whatever customer you were serving.
It’s kind of heart-warming to see Jake with the next generation of fighter pilots. You’ve seen him grow into his skin. From being a thoughtless asshole to a confident, skillful team player, Jake Seresin has created a reputation of his own. Maverick’s name will live on at Top Gun forever, but Jake won’t be too far behind.
Some nights, Jake would saunter over to the bar himself to grab the next round. He could’ve easily sent off one of his students with his credit card, but you have a sneaking suspicion that he likes showing off in front of you and them.
“Next round’s on me, darlin’.”
Before your heart can skyrocket traitorously, you snatch his card and ring him up for two rounds of beers for the entire crew. He doesn’t blink at the doubled amount, signing his check with a wink before whistling them over to grab their drinks. When one of them fails to thank you for the service, Jake will slap them on the back of their head and scold, “Manners.”
Still polite as ever.
“How’s your day going?” Jake asks as he slides onto a stool, taking a slow sip of his beer.
God, you know those eyes. That is a look that is all too familiar. That come-hither that has led you to the back room, his bed, a wall, and whatever remotely accessible surface he can press you against.
“Don’t even think about it,” you hiss.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do you really think I wouldn’t know that look on your face after seeing it for years?”
Jake smiles with feigned innocence. “I was actually hoping you would remember.” His eyes drag lazily from your face, down your neck, to your curves, before flying back up. His pupils are blown wide as he wets his lips. You resist the shudder that creeps up on you.
Shaking your head, you hide your smile as you back up towards the bell.
Jake’s expression falters fast as he looks down at his hand, where his phone is. “My phone didn’t even touch the counter,” he argues.
“That look you’re giving me is pretty disrespectful, Seresin,” you smirk as you ring it loud enough for the entire place to hear. His phone clattering to the bar should’ve earned him a second ring but you decide to show mercy.
The room erupts into cheers, people – including his recruits – stopping by to give him a firm pat on the back. Comfort or gratitude, or maybe both. “Rookie mistake,” you pick up his phone and toss it his way.
Even with a tab that’s slowly mounting, Jake doesn’t lose the smile on his face. “Anything to get you more business, sweetheart.”
Shaking your head, you click your tongue. “I hope your credit limit has improved since the last time this happened.” Paying for the entire bar and getting thrown overboard was a memorable experience for him.
“Trust me, sweetheart, I came prepared this time.”
When the night comes to an end and you pull up Jake’s tab, all he can do is offer a sheepish look.
“I’ll get you the remainder tomorrow?”
Even if the bar is closing soon, you max out his credit card on the majority of the tab but still have his recruits toss him out onto the beach. When you look at him splayed out, covered in sand, he still has a dopey smile on his face. “Take an economics class and learn about inflation before you come back tomorrow, Seresin.”
Jake’s magnetism knows no bounds. It’s difficult not to be drawn and trapped into his orbit. Between his chiseled face and toned body (only half of which is visible, mind you), he also has the added appeal of that southern spell. The slight drawl to his syllables and the invisible cowboy hat. And this is all before he starts recounting stories of his adventures in the Navy with an added, “It’s all confidential, of course.”
Once, you were on the receiving end of all of that. Back when he still needed to talk you into going home with him. Now, you can see the full force of his charisma when even some of your regular girls – ones you know are not the type to fall at the feet of the first hot man to walk in – fall at his feet.
Even with all the attention on him, you find that his eyes always come back to you.
There is something incredibly flattering about the way his stare peruses you lazily, the slow stroll of his eyes up your body until your gazes lock. He doesn’t turn away, nor does he even blink. He isn’t awkward about the fact that he has been caught looking. Instead, he flashes you that blinding grin again, the one where his lips stretch wide to reveal his perfect set of pearly whites.
In another world, Jake probably could’ve been a model, like the ones on the cover of Vogue, with an equally attractive female companion. In this one, he’s a purely cocky and insufferable government asshole.
You always break your gaze away first. Sometimes he stares at you so intensely with that look in his eyes. A second longer and you may be one of those people falling at his feet and you certainly cannot have that happening.
Again.
When you close up shop for the day, you find him waiting outside, leaning against your car. His arms are crossed over his chest, emphasizing how thick his biceps have gotten since you last saw him. You didn’t even think that was possible. A toothpick flips between his lips as he smiles at you. “Drive you home?”
“I can drive myself home, thanks.”
“Just want you to be safe, darlin’.” You narrow your eyes at him and he holds his hands up in defense, yet that stupid smile never leaves his face. “I’ll be good, scout’s honor.”
“Woe are your fellow men if you were ever a Boy Scout.”
“Don’t disrespect the organization. For your information, I was an Eagle Scout.” He puffs out his chest proudly. “And I did swear an oath to help other people at all times. Hence, here I am tonight. Looking to help.”
“And how will you get home after?”
Jake’s eyes twinkle with something mischievous that you immediately scowl at. He laughs, “I’ll get Bradshaw to come get me. He’s not too far.”
It’s been a long day and you can feel the exhaustion disintegrating deep into your bones. Rather than argue further, having a driver for the night doesn’t seem like the worst idea. You toss your keys over to him and watch as he swings open the passenger door for you. Once you’re settled in, he jogs over to the other side.
You forget how familiar he is with your car. He knows just the right wiggle to get the old thing to start purring, where all the knobs are, and even to avoid the cupholder on the driver’s side where you constantly spill your hot drink for the day. Before long, he is pulling out of the lot and starting the short drive to your place. You make a mental note that Jake still remembers where you live – admittedly, he has driven there many times before. Perhaps too many times.
Jake always starts the conversation by asking how your day went. With anyone else, you keep it short with a “good” because they usually don’t actually care about your day, they want to get their beer. However, Jake actually does ask follow-up questions. Sometimes he asks you if you’re planning to change your beer selection for the season, or how work with Andy is going, or even if there’s anyone causing you any trouble.
“You let me know and I’ll handle it.”
You shake your head, a smirk tugging on the corners of your lips. “The only trouble in my bar is you, Seresin.”
“Me? Trouble? Never.”
“Isn’t it part of Scout’s honor to never lie?”
He laughs, head tipping back as he does so. “Don’t think they make us swear that oath. How do you think I got away with so much?”
“And again, I say, trouble.”
Jake turns to you for a brief moment, his eyes shrinking as his smile stretches wider. You raise your eyebrow at him in question. He lets out a deep sigh but the delight does not seem to leave his face. “It’s always you,” he murmurs quietly.
You’re not sure if he intends for you to hear, but it might be best to ignore it. Your stomach is already fluttering uncomfortably, and you can feel your pulse racing, pressing against your skin. When your eyes fly over to his one-handed grip on the wheel, you can’t help yourself from studying the veins that run up his large hand. His other hand holds onto the gear shit, clutching tight.
The breeze from the open window carries in the memories you’ve tried to bury deep. Long drives on summer evenings when you don’t feel like going home just yet. His hand on your thigh, large and imposing. Parking on the side of a deserted road where he pulls you onto his lap and has you ride him until you’re a whining mess.
Fuck.
You mentally bat the thoughts away. The last thing you need is to get turned on in Jake’s presence. You can already feel your thighs pressing involuntarily together and you just hope Jake doesn’t notice.
Except, when you look up at him, his gaze is already trained on your legs where they are exposed underneath your shorts. It’s heated. There’s a weight to them that you can’t ignore. It only makes you shift even more. Your gaze shifts to his hands, his knuckles now white from how tightly he’s holding onto the wheel. Your eyes meet for a brief second and he follows the movement of your throat as you swallow the saliva that’s gathered on your tongue.
Luckily, your house is already in sight. You pull your eyes away from him, clearing your throat to look at the road ahead instead. He slows to a stop in front and turns off the engine, leaving you both in the silence, accompanied only by the winds blowing from the shore.
You pull yourself off the leather seat and get out of the car, hearing Jake do the same. Without giving him another glance, you walk up to your door. Your knees feel wobbly and you curse yourself for being so spineless.
Two years without him and you were fine.
Two years and your body still responds to him this way.
As you unlock your front door, Jake calls out, “Not going to invite me in for a drink?”
You stare at him from your front porch. He is again propped up against your car, arms crossed. Only this time, he isn’t smiling. He stares at you with that look. The one that reminds you of sex and regret. He looks like a man straight out of the movies. Good thing he never went into Hollywood.
It’s all too tempting to say yes, tell yourself that one drink can’t hurt.
But you always know where you end up with Jake.
“I think you’ve overstayed your welcome, Commander.”
Jake’s eyes shine with something dangerous. Desire. Want. He loves it when you call him that. He clenches his jaw. “You’re really going to leave me out here after addressing me like that?”
“Thanks for the ride, sweetheart.” You smile and disappear behind your door, breathing in deeply once you’re safe in the confines of your home.
If you were keeping score, you’d guess you’re at least a point ahead of him.
–
It’s a gorgeous day. The kind that feels like a nice break before the chaos that will inevitably occur at the bar tonight. You enjoy quiet afternoons like these. The sun sits high in a cloudless sky, and seagulls soar lazily overhead, caws sounding in the distance. A light breeze drifts in from the ocean, salty and soft, just enough to cool the warmth that kisses your skin.
You’re perched on one of the outdoor tables, your bar ledger in front of you as you’re scribbling down line after line of expenses. Each one makes you wince a little more. A bar is not the most profitable endeavor. While you enjoy the work, you know that you’ll never live a life of luxury running this place. It’s something you’ve come to terms with a long time ago.
Releasing a deep sigh, you reach your arms up in a stretch. The bar is taking a toll on your savings and your back. Aging isn’t a kind process.
While you mourn the numbers on your pages, you do have one good thing going for you.
Namely, the hooting and hollering happening down by the water.
Touch football has become a tradition for the Navy, at least for those who had been part of the Dagger Squad. Maverick’s success lives on through this team bonding activity that the members now pass on to their trainees. It’s become a ritual for them to bring out a new team out here to get more comfortable with each other. You’ve seen a number of them throughout the years and each group is always more enthusiastic than the one before.
You place your hand above your eyes, blocking out the sun so you can get a better look. Jake and Bradley aren’t difficult to spot. Two tall, muscular men running circles around their recruits. They seem to be enjoying the exercise much more than the people they’re supposed to train. The cheers and yells echo down to where you sit and you find your eyes following the silhouettes chasing after the footballs on the beach. Some of them fall over, rolling around in the wet sand, while others are tackled straight into the sea.
You can admit to yourself that you’re really only paying attention to one man. Since he’s been back, you’ve only seen him in uniform or in casual wear like denims and t-shirts. But it’s been a while since you’ve seen him shirtless. Even from this distance, you can see the shadowed lines of his sculpted six pack, his broad shoulders, and the curves of his structured arms.
It’s no wonder Penny enjoyed sitting out here. She got a good look at Maverick while she did her accounting, you just inherited the habit from her. Your work is long forgotten now, pen useless in your hands as your eyes continued to follow his form traveling across the sand.
Biting your lip, you replay all those times you’ve run your hands over that body, how much time you spent watching every muscle flex when he hovers above you. You could practically feel the whisper of his lips against your skin.
Fuck, you really need to get laid. Soon.
Not by him. Definitely not him.
You’re about to bang your head against the table when Jake perks up and waves at you. There’s a shit-eating grin on his face and you can already see that wicked glint in his eyes hidden behind his shades. You force a smile and return the gesture before hunkering down on your work again.
You curse your past self for thinking that manually keeping track of quantity and dollars would be a better idea than running the whole thing on a spreadsheet. Penny always liked the act of holding a pen and writing all of these digits down, said it made it more tangible.
More like tangibly painful. As you wrap up the last of your receipts, you make a mental note that it’s time to join the modern world and dump this entire thing into a software that would make your life infinitely easier.
Just as you’re about to stretch again, a figure steps up and obstructs your exposure to the sweltering sun. The brief reprieve from the afternoon rays is one you welcome, but not when you realize it’s Jake who’s shown up. The sun traces a glow around his figure, an unwelcome ethereal effect that makes him look more than human.
He shifts away and slides into the bench opposite you. A smug smile is still dancing on his lips as his chest and shoulders heave with heavy breaths. “Care to join?”
Your eyes fly to the crowd that’s still running around like headless chickens and back to him. “Absolutely not. Who do you think I am?”
Jake’s eyes begin to dangerously explore you. From your hair pulled away from your neck in a loose bun, strands messily swirling in the wind, to the shape of your smooth, exposed shoulders carrying the thin straps of your tank. His gaze trails down to your chest, where your cleavage peeks out from beneath the flimsy fabric that lifts and falls with the wind. You can’t deny that this top makes your tits look great, and no, of course you didn’t wear this just because you knew Jake was coming to the beach today.
You definitely did not.
That would be ridiculous.
You tell yourself that that’s the truth, and it helps you sleep at night.
Jake looks at you again, but his gaze has darkened. “Wouldn’t mind seeing you running around in a bathing suit,” he smirks. “Or if you prefer to run around wearing nothing at all, I don’t think I would mind, but let’s keep that for the bedroom.”
Scowling, you fling your pen his way and he easily catches it. Stupid Jake and his stupid military reflexes. “The only thing running around here is your imagination. Keep it in your pants, Seresin,” you snap.
“That’s not what you said before.”
“Years ago,” you bite back, “I’ve outgrown you, Hangman. You and all your bravado. We all know why they call you that.”
Jake laughs and you can’t help but drink in his sun-kissed skin. He looks golden. “You know full well I’ve outgrown that definition of my call sign. Now, Hangman just means something else – something you’re intimately familiar with.”
It takes you a second to divert your attention away from his radiant skin. When the realization of his words dawns on you, you involuntarily gag at his comment.
He opens his mouth and you cut him off before he could say a word, “If you even think about dropping a ‘that’s what she said’, I’ll personally ban you from the bar and charge you for every single drink from here on out.”
Jake doesn’t falter. He grins even wider, “Never took you for financial fraud, that’s kind of sexy.”
You sniff, turning away from him and back to your papers. “Orange isn’t really my color so, again, keep it in your pants.”
“Every color is your color, darlin’. We can both agree on that.”
That’s the first compliment he’s given you in a while. You feel your cheeks warm but you blame it on the blistering afternoon sun. Perhaps it’s time to take your work back indoors. Before you do though, you snipe back, “Well, red isn’t really yours so put on more sunscreen.” You gather up your documents and move towards the entrance.
Of course, you don’t miss the last wink he throws at you and the blatant ogling of your ass as you walk away.
Okay, so maybe his staring can be a little flattering.
–
Ever since Jake came back, you’ve been a little more than sexually frustrated. When you close your eyes at night, the image of him shirtless above you appears. From the way his blonde hair falls over his eyes, mussed up from a workout, to the way his blue eyes glitter deviously. Your imagination – worse yet, your memory – carries you through the whole scene of Jake’s fingers in your hair, his grip around your thigh, his cock—
Fuck, you barely last more than ten minutes most days.
You end up frustrated with your hands between your legs, pleasured but not completely satiated.
Jake Seresin is a blight you need to purge from your life.
It certainly doesn’t help that he shows his face night after night, flashing that smile at you from across the room. You have to remind yourself that you’ve done that more than enough times, you can’t do it again.
Instead, you focus your energy, including your insatiable libido that keeps growing, on your patrons. It’s not the best idea, especially when you start accepting and returning the flirty remarks you receive from men you usually wouldn’t glance twice at – not because they weren’t attractive (because they were), but because you simply had no interest in a full romantic commitment with any of them.
Being a bartender means you’ve endured a good amount of flattery, some more appropriate than others. You’ve never responded to them. You just take their money and you run with it. If they ever get too disrespectful – well, you know the drill.
Not tonight, though. You’re enjoying the attention you were getting, and the sources of said attention noticed that. When they flirt, you flirt back. You relish in the fact that you still have a little game left in you. It’s supposed to be fun, light. It helps ease some of the sexual tension that has you all wound up.
The bar is particularly busy so you have some regulars who are surprised by how welcoming you are and newcomers who are more than happy to oblige.
This behavior does not go unnoticed by Jake. His eyes are always on you after all.
When you’re bending over particularly low over the counter or giggling more over silly pickup lines, you could feel his gaze burning into you. You don’t acknowledge him. Instead, you flick your hair over your shoulder and smile at whoever you’re talking to.
The tip jar gets some much-needed love that night.
When you do look over at him, his eyes are still stuck on you. He barely pays any mind to whoever’s trying to speak to him. There’s a strange, sick satisfaction in the way his knuckles pale when he grips the cue by the pool table, the way he grits his teeth with a stiff jaw.
You add another point to your scoreboard.
With his eyes on you, maybe you do exaggerate your game a little bit. You sashay your hips a little more when you grab a beer. You brush your fingers against theirs. Even Andy shoots curious looks your way, but thinks better than to question it. There is a ninety percent chance that you’ll regret leading on these people tomorrow, but that’s a problem for future you.
Current you enjoys the suggestive looks these men are throwing your way.
Andy calls your name from the other side and tells you that you’re out of coffee liqueur behind the bar. “I’ll get it, keep these fellas company for me, will you?” You give them one last wink, receiving some excited howls, before heading towards the back.
The stock room is dimly lit by the sun setting outside. The light has been broken for a while and you make your tenth mental note to get that fixed. One day, you’ll get around to it.
When you hear the stock room door close behind you, you don’t need to turn around to know that Jake is standing there. His cologne and familiar footsteps reach you before his question does. “Having fun?” His voice slices through the muted rumbles of the outside.
There’s a heaviness to his question that sends a shiver up your spine. Rather than turn around and look at him, you purposely take your time scanning through the boxes to find the bottle you’re seeking. You bend over low to grip the neck of one before slowly rolling up, pretending to inspect it.
“What ever do you mean?”
Jake steps into your line of sight. His height towers over you, and you back yourself up against the supply. He leans over, palm pressed against the box near your head. He’s so close that you could smell the mix of beer and mint in his breath. You can feel yourself clench tight between your legs. He presses his tongue against his teeth. “I don’t like to share.”
Irritation pricks at your skin. You glare at him. “Newsflash: I am not yours, Hangman.”
“If you want me to take care of your little problem, you are.”
Your lips part in surprise. Frowning, you snap, “What are you talking about?”
A sour laugh bubbles up his throat. The sound isn’t comforting. It feels almost like a warning. “You think I haven’t noticed you sending me those fuck me eyes. How you press your legs together when you look at me.”
As if on cue, you instinctively press your thighs together. God, there’s always something about Jake when he’s more demanding than usual. The dark shadow across his eyes as he takes you in hungrily.
You lick your lips, his eyes dropping to them before darting back up. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you simply say.
“I know you better than you know yourself, sweetheart. You know this. So what is it that you want? Do you want me to take you here in the backroom? Because I could, it wouldn’t be the first time–” you gasped and he continues, “I could bend you over that bar outside, show those guys who you belong to. Who gets you this wet.”
Air refuses to leave your lungs, but you manage to spit out, “I’m not fucking wet.”
Jake laughs, “You’re telling me that if I stick my hand up your dress right now, you’re not wet? I can smell you from here.”
“Fuck you.”
“Oh, you’d like that.”
Your heart stutters in your chest. You refuse to back down but so does he. All your emotions feel heightened in that tiny room. The anger, the wanton need. It feels as if you’re about to combust. You can hear your blood rushing in your ears.
Taking in a faltering breath, you grit your teeth. “I have a bar to run.” You move to pass him with your trembling knees, but not before he catches your arm.
He keeps his message short and simple. “Anyone touches you again, I’ll knock their teeth out.”
Your eyes narrow at him. “Jealousy isn’t a good look on you.”
“Maybe, but you’d look good on my cock again.”
Fuck. Your breath hitches, and the sound speaks volumes in the quiet room. The fucking audacity of this man. You yank your arm away from him and march to the door, swinging it open.
“I mean it,” he calls out, “I’ll knock out anyone who even tries with you tonight.”
Jake is a lot of things, but a liar isn’t one of them. He does not bluff. His confidence comes from a rightful place of pure experience and skill, both of which he has with you. Rather than risk a brawl, you decide to heed his warning.
You no longer find excitement in how some of the men flirt with you, spending the rest of your night ducking away from their grasp and ignoring their teasing. The disappointment and confusion are clear, but all you can do is offer a sheepish look. They can blame the six-foot blonde keeping his eyes on you.
It’s not the fear of Jake starting a fight per se, but rather the way you revel in the way his gaze prowls over you. Constantly present, clear in your periphery.
When you finally call it a night and shoo the last of your drunk visitors out, you lock up the bar and turn to find him standing there. There’s an air of ease around him, one that’s usually there, but it almost feels like there’s something more brewing. Something a little more sacriligeous. You tense when his eyes pull up from his phone to you. He quickly tucks his phone into his pocket and smiles at you.
“You always were a good listener.”
At that, you scowl. “That wasn’t for you. I just didn’t want to give them the wrong idea.”
His smirk only deepens. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” He plucks the keys from your fingers and unlocks the car, swinging open the passenger door before you can protest. “Get in, darlin’. I’m not in the mood to argue with you.”
“That’s a first, you make it seem like it’s your full-time job,” you mutter but slip inside anyway.
He slides into the driver’s seat and turns on the engine. When he backs out of the parking lot, he stretches his arm across the back of your seat and looks over his shoulder, leaning closer towards you. You catch a good whiff of his scent again.
Fuck him.
He knows exactly what that move does to you.
When he finally backs out, there’s a knowing smile dancing on his lips.
There’s a thrum of anticipation in the car. Soft jazz croons from your crackly speakers and the wind whipping through your hair is barely a distraction. Jake is tapping his finger against the wheel in a consistent beat, his other hand on the seat between the two of you. His fingers are so close to your thigh, but they don’t touch. If you shift even a little bit, you could probably feel him on your skin.
However, you would not give him that satisfaction. You know that he wants you to do precisely that. To admit that you are as affected by him as he says you are.
That stupid smile is still on his lips. “Having fun?” You mocked, imitating his question from earlier.
His blue eyes sweep to you. “What ever do you mean?”
A glower mars your features. “You’re such a prick.”
“You fucking love it.”
“Ego the size of goddamn Jupiter, I’m surprised the president hasn’t kicked you off this planet yet.”
Jake chuckles. “Missed that mouth of yours.”
“Give you my fist instead,” you grumble under your breath.
“Not my thing, darlin’. But if you want to try, you know I always aim to please.”
You balk. “Kinky motherfucker.”
“You’re one to talk.”
Jake parks in front of your house, switching the engine off and drenching the two of you in silence.
The ride is short, but the stillness stretches for miles.
A heavy hush coils in the car again, thick with something unspoken. Still, all you can hear is the steady rhythm of Jake’s finger on the wheel, like a clock counting down to what you both know is inevitable. Your heart pounds loudly in your ears, masking all the white noise around you until all you can focus on is him.
Then, his hand shifts. Just an inch. Just enough for the edge of his pinky to brush the hem of your skirt.
You freeze, breath caught halfway in your lungs. Your body wants to lean into the touch, but you hold still. His pinky strokes the bare skin of your thigh – so faint, it could almost be accidental. But it’s not.
You know it. He knows it.
When you don’t pull away, his touch turns deliberate. His entire palm glides over your thigh, slow and steady. You could practically feel his pulse against your skin. The sight of his broad hand on your leg makes your stomach flip, and you swallow hard, trying to resist the whimper clawing its way up your throat.
“Darlin’,” Jake starts, voice rough and low, tinted with a touch of desperation.
You chance a look his way and catch the tension in his jaw, the heat behind his eyes. Your gaze falls to his lap, and you see the length of him pressing against his jeans, clear and thick even through the denim.
The sharp ache between your legs is sudden, insistent. This time, the sound that leaves you is impossible to hold back. A soft whimper that fills the car with heat.
Jake’s tongue swipes across his lips. The movement draws your eyes to them.
This is a bad idea, you remind yourself.
But that voice, one that is all too familiar to you, a voice that is soft, sly, and unmistakably yours, whispers back that this might just be the best one you'vel ever had.
His name is barely out of your mouth before he’s unbuckling his seatbelt and capturing your lips in his. You melt like molten lava into the seat of your car. His hands are fast to slide up your hips to cup your cheek as he presses his lips more insistently against yours. He tastes like bitter beer, sweet mints, and excruciating heartbreak.
But you relish in the flavors. A recognizable mix that belongs to you and only you.
The clouds curl between your thoughts, a delicious haze that has you pliant in his hands. He’s kissing you so intently, a determination and hunger that feels like homecoming. Every moan you let out, he swallows like it’s his last breath.
“Fuck, you taste so good. Missed you,” Jake mumbles against your lips, nipping lightly.
You can’t bring yourself to respond when he begins peppering wet kisses along your jaw and down your neck. His hand slides down to cup your breasts, his thumb dragging lightly over your sensitive nipple over the fabric. “Shit, Jake,” you groan.
“Let me take you inside, sweetheart. Wanna take care of you properly.”
Jake doesn’t wait for your response and hops out of the car. He circles to open your door and practically drags you out, your feet stumbling to keep up with his long strides. He presses you up against your door, one hand on your waist and the other buried in your hair. He tilts your head and slants his lips over yours again, tongue slipping into your mouth to tangle with yours.
His grip on you is firm, holding you up even when you feel your foothold go unsteady. You turn to unlock your door and he’s close behind and you can feel the thickness of his erection against your ass.
The room spins when he finally closes the door behind him and leads you to your bedroom. He scoops you up and tosses you onto the bed before climbing on top of you. He’s shrugging off his shirt in between kisses, flinging it somewhere across the room. Jake kisses you like tomorrow won’t come, like this is the last time he will get to indulge in the taste of you.
He drags his tongue down your neck and sucks lightly on the skin until you feel the bite of a mark. He loves leaving his traces on you, a territorial seal that tells everyone else that you’re his. You forgot how much you love it when he does that.
Jake leans back slightly, thumb against the blooming stain on your skin. “Fuckin’ gorgeous. All mine.”
He crawls down between your legs and hikes up your dress to your waist. He curses under his breath about how short these things are, how he could see your ass so clearly. However, his words taper off when he sees his favorite lace panties.
So sue you, maybe you were expecting something to happen tonight – if not with him, then someone else.
Oh, who were you kidding? There’s no one else. It’s always been him.
His finger slides down the damp line on your underwear and you clamp your legs together, embarrassed by how wet you are. How wet you’ve been the entire tonight. His large hands splay out on your thighs and pry them open again until he can see and smell you. “Shit, honey, your fucking pussy is dripping for me, isn’t it?”
The force of his gaze has you twitching underneath him.
He positions himself on his front between your legs, his mouth huffing hot hair too close to your sensitive skin. You’re so responsive to him, almost too responsive. He knows every little thing that makes you tick, every touch that makes you all too aware of his presence.
His lips rake kisses up your thighs, and he pauses when you squirm in his hold.
“You’ve never been shy,” Jake murmurs as he looks at you more closely, hooking his finger on your panties and slowly pulling them down to carelessly toss them aside.
“It’s been a few years, alright,” you grunt, throwing an arm over your eyes to avoid looking at him in your vulnerable state.
“A few years–” he stops, “Have you not–not since we last…” He trails off, the question dying in his mouth.
You roll your eyes, “Of course, I have. Just–I haven’t had anyone go down on me in a while.”
“Oh, darlin’,” he says it not in pity, but in a way that has your cunt seizing. Like he himself has waited too long for this moment.
The first touch of Jake’s mouth on your pussy has fireworks exploding behind your eyes. There is no hesitance in his movements, not in the languid way his tongue strokes up your folds, not in how his fingers dig into your legs as he pulls you down closer towards him. Your breath jerks in your lungs as he dips his tongue in and drags it up to your clit. His moans vibrate throughout your body until you’re arching off the bed.
God, Jake knows exactly where to put pressure, where to tease you. Your fingers cannot compare to the way his mouth moves on you, slow and anchored. He takes his time appreciating your taste and how you whine needily with every caress. Your hands fly to his head as he buries his tongue deeper into your cunt, collecting your juices and spreading it across your skin as he plants more kisses on your thighs. His mouth hones in on your clit as one finger slides into you.
“Fuck,” he groans, “you’re so fucking tight, darlin’. Like a virgin.”
Your pussy flutters around his fingers as he pushes another one in. It’s been months since your last good fuck.
You tighten around him again when he says, “God knows I’ve been in this pussy enough times before. Can’t wait to fill you up with my cock. Want to stuff you with my come.”
“Jake,” you cry out as your eyes slide shut. An expletive leaves your lips as he begins leisurely sliding his fingers in and out of you while he sucks on the sensitive nub.
It’s been so long. You’re so close. You could practically feel your orgasm clamoring to free itself. It’s so close but Jake doesn’t let you enjoy it that easily.
He pulls his fingers out and climbs up to slip your dress above your head, using the fabric to keep your hands together as he ducks his head to pull your nipple into his mouth. “No bra, darlin’? You’re trying to get me to kill a man out there.”
“The fuck are you talking about?”
“All that bending over, you probably had people peeking on these pretty tits, sweetheart,” Jake growls, tightening his hold on your wrists. “Is that what you wanted, hm? Tease strangers just to get me jealous?”
Maybe. You turn your face away in lieu of responding.
“You don’t need me jealous. You already have me. I would’ve fucked you if you just asked.”
“Go fuck yourself, Seresin.”
He laughs, “Missed this mouth. The things you say. The things you could do.” He kisses you again, and this time, there’s the tart tang of you on his tongue. His soaked fingers push back inside you and he traps every moan that leaves your lips. “So fucking wet for me. Could’ve had you warming my cock at the bar. Show all those guys who you belong to. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
The mewls that escape your mouth are answer enough. The thought of him taking you in front of everyone, sitting on his lap with his cock buried inside you, has you clenching around his fingers again.
“Don’t come yet, darlin’. I want you falling apart on my cock. I’ve waited too long for this.” He drags his fingers out along with another protest from your throat.
Jake finally releases your hands as he moves on top of you again. It’s straight out of your fantasies. This same image has plagued your every thought. When you’re alone at home and all you have are your fingers and this memory of him. You had imagined him pleasuring you so many times before that this feels like a fever dream.
But Jake reassures you that he’s there with another kiss to your lips. The feeling is jarring, a delicious dose of reality.
“Don’t think I can wait any more,” Jake pants, as he shoves off his pants. You tuck away a mental note that he goes commando. That’s new. “I’ve been thinking about this pussy for so long, sweetheart.”
“Yeah?” You smirk, confidence settling back. “How long?”
“Since I walked back into your bar that day and saw you again. All I could think about was kissing you stupid and bending you over the counter. Imagined how wet your pussy would be for me. Then again and again whenever I saw you at the bar, at the beach, driving you home. I’d stop the car and fuck you by the side of the road if you asked.”
Shit, you bite your lip and stare up at him with hooded eyes. He seems to enjoy that because he drags his tongue across his teeth again.
“But you’re no different, are you? I can still smell you in these sheets. Been touching yourself? Have you been thinking about me?”
A scoff that sits on the tip of your tongue falls when he runs his hand through your hair.
His gaze is loaded, pulling the truth from your lips rather than a poorly concocted lie. “Yes,” you confess, “been thinking about this right here. You on top of me.”
“Shit, honey, I could’ve been here all along taking care of you.” Jake shakes his head. “I’m here now, going to make sure you feel real good. It’s been so long, I don’t know if I’ll even fit inside of you.”
Before you can tell him off for his cockiness, he’s pushing the tip in. Your breath catches in your throat. He’s big. You forgot how big he is. He pushes in slowly, sweat beading his forehead as his biceps flex as he tries to carefully ease into you. You know he’s doing his best not to hurt you, but all you want is to be full of him.
You lift your hips up to meet him, legs curling around his torso. “Fuck, darlin’, don’t do that,” Jake groans. “I’m gonna come too fast.”
“Please, Jake,” you whimper. “Just wanna be full of you.”
Another pleased sound escapes him. He pushes all the way in until he can’t fit anymore of himself inside you. It’s mindblowing how big he is. It takes him a few more thrusts before he can bury himself completely inside of you, your pussy stretching to accomodate his length.
“Fuck, condom,” he pales when he realizes. His cock twitches inside of you.
Oh. Oh, he likes being inside you without it.
“I’m on the pill,” you admit.
“But–”
You cannot have him leave you when it feels this good. “I’m fine. I’m clean, are you?”
“Yeah, there’s been no one else.”
Those words catch you off guard but Jake is too distracted with fucking into you slowly. Your brain shortcircuits when he bends your knee so he can fuck into you deeper and harder. Your groans blend into a symphony in the quiet of your room, bouncing off the walls and echoing to amplify your pleasure.
Jake presses into you, slow at first, like he wants to feel every inch of you around every inch of him. His mouth is everywhere, finding your lips, then trailing hot kisses across your chest. “Fuck, you feel so goddamn good, darlin’. So tight.”
His voice breaks slightly as he tries to restrain himself from fucking too hard, too fast. He wants this to last, wants this to be as good for you as it is for him.
“You were made for me,” Jake breathlessly whispers. It isn’t a question. It’s a prayer he speaks into an honest truth. The kind that you say in confessionals, a secret that only one other person knows.
Your hips meet him greedily, chasing the friction and the stretch. He rocks harder inside of you at an angle that has you curving off the bed, the tip of his cock kissing the deepest parts of you. Every wet, desperate sound between your thighs interweaves with the shared moans and whimpers that fall from both your lips.
You claw at his back, your nails scratching your own territorial lines down his back, red against his tan skin. The sting yanks another deep groan from his throat.
“Do that again, sweetheart. Mark me. I’m yours.”
So you do, harder. Your fingers delving into the muscles of his back. He rewards you by snapping his hips forward, plunging himself so deep into you that you gasp. Everything feels like lightning striking the earth.
“You like that? Like me ruining this pussy? No one else can have you like I do. I’ll ruin you for everyone else.” He says it like a promise, a threat. All you can do is nod, biting his shoulder to keep yourself from screaming.
His hand slips between you, thumb circling your clit again with a precision that reminds you how familiar he is with you. Everything that makes you crumble under his touch.
It’s all too much. You can feel the blood climbing and rushing. His cock is dragging against your walls and his filthy, private thoughts sounding too loud in the cacophony of your moans.
You feel it building fast. Your orgasm curls tight inside of you.
“Come for me, darlin’. Make a mess on me. Let go.”
You obediently listen. Your body trembles, your ass lifting off the mattress in your final chase, as he follows with an urgent groan, hips stuttering with him holding you close. The orgasm crashes over you in waves, dragging you under.
But Jake is quick to breathe more life into you, kissing you deeply as the last of his come paints your insides. You feel the warmth spill into you as he holds you tight, tattered breaths against your lips.
Your chest heaves as you come down from your high. You’re a sticky mess. Your hair is a frazzled nest on top of your head, your skin feels clammy, and your pussy is dripping the evidence of his pleasure. But you’ve never felt more alive.
Jake presses a kiss against the side of your head before he slowly pulls out with a groan. He rolls off your bed and wanders into the bathroom, coming back with a warm, damp cloth. You lie there as he litters kisses all over you, drawing a laugh from your lips, as he wipes you down carefully.
“‘M gonna shower anyway,” you mumble.
“In case you were lazy,” Jake smirks.
You peel yourself off the bed and jump straight into the shower. The hot water cascades down your skin, stripping away the grime from your prior activities. Jake steps in behind you, his lips on the back of your shoulder as he scrubs you down with soap, massaging your tense shoulders and lingering around your breasts.
His moves are purposeful. When his fingers slip between your legs again, you come apart a second time under his touch.
By the time you tuck yourself into bed and Jake slides in to spoon you, your eyelids are heavy with a pleasant, sated sort of weariness, the kind you haven’t experienced in a while. “Sweet dreams, sweetheart” is the last thing you hear before sleep pulls you under.
–
Waking up the next morning is easy. You feel sore in all the right places, but you feel satisfied. A sort of peace that you didn’t even realize you were missing.
However, the regret washes over you all too fast. An overwhelming tide that pulls the rug out from under you. The weight of his arm across your middle and his face nuzzling into your hair as his light snores fill the room are reminders of what transpired. It’s proof of what you’ve just done.
The one thing you told yourself you would never do again.
Not after last time.
You mutter a silent “fuck” to yourself. Calm down. It’s just Jake. This is a one-time thing and it will never happen again. Never. He’s going to leave again and not come back for a while, just like he always does. He’ll disappear from your life just like he did last time.
Only this time, you won’t be pouring your heart out to him. You won’t be professing your love for him like a blind, lovesick fool. No matter how much your heart demands it of you.
When you look down at him again, you observe how his long lashes brush against his cheeks. You run your fingers delicately over the stubble on his jaw. God, he’s fucking beautiful.
The ache that haunts you from two years ago returns in full force. Your heart leaps in your chest as you swallow the realization thickly.
You’re still in love with Jake Seresin.
Two years have done nothing to diminish your feelings. It’s as if you buried them six feet under, only to dig them up again when he comes around. It’s a cycle that erodes the hope within you.
Jake will leave again and you’ll have your bar in this small town. You’ll continue your life as if he never came back. As if you’ll never see him again.
Seeing his smile and hearing his laugh in the bar. The echo of his overjoyed calls across the sand. You have just gotten used to having him around again. Not as yours, but almost adjacent. It’s a gut-wrenching thought. One you don’t let yourself dwell on too much as you painstakingly extract yourself from him,
The loss of his warmth is immediate. Your feet touch your cool floors to bring you back to the real world. Reaching for your t-shirt, you tug it on and pad downstairs to start the coffee. He always needs a cup with sugar and a splash of milk before he heads in to the station.
You go through the motions numbly. Grabbing the instant coffee from the top shelf, filling your kettle with water, and then waiting. Jake never sleeps in too late and the clock on your wall signals that he will likely be up in the next ten to fifteen minutes.
Crossing your arms over your chest, you watch the kettle boil. The slow whistling and the smoke seeping into the air distract your mind from spiraling over what happened last night. You don’t want to think about what’s next for you and him.
In fact, there is no you and him.
You have work to get to. Restocking, ordering more supplies, figuring out bills for the end of the month. Then you have to work on Penny’s boat, which means you have to take it out to the yard and–
“Morning.” His voice is a low rumble behind you. That gravelly, break-of-dawn voice you once started your mornings with but now feels like a distant stranger.
Your eyes flick to the wall again. He’s up earlier than usual.
“Coffee’s almost ready,” you say, opting not to turn around. God knows your resolve will falter the moment you see him.
Jake doesn’t let your decision last for long as he saunters up to you. A strong arm winds around your waist to pull you close. He tucks your face into his chest and his lips find your temple in a tender kiss.
He never plays fair.
He disregards your weak attempt to untangle yourself from him. “Missed you in bed,” he mumbles. Luckily, you’re saved from having to respond when the kettle screeches to completion. He moves to prepare his own cup of coffee. The only problem is that he keeps his arm around you as he navigates through your kitchen with too much familiarity. He finds the mug he gifted you a while back on the shelf above the sink, the sugar in your spice rack by the stove, and pulls the milk you always have in the right side of your fridge.
The entire time, he keeps his hold firmly around you. He maneuvers you around the kitchen with him as he works with one free hand.
“Are you heading to work early?” He asks as he stirs his coffee. “I could drop you off and pick up my bike.”
“No, it’s fine. I’ll drop you off at the station, then head to the bar. You can get your bike later.”
You notice that he’s already dressed in the clothes from yesterday. He’s leaving. You know this already but seeing your worst concerns materialize still hurt. It’s mortifying how you’re still so hurt by something you’re already anticipating.
Your eyes are glued to the buttons on his shirt, focusing on the one hanging on to a loose stitch.
“Sweetheart.” There’s that drawl again. You hum in response, your eyes still fixated on his shirt. “Are you going to look at me at all this morning?”
Your throat dries. “Don’t feel like seeing your ugly mug this early,” you mutter with no bite.
Jake laughs and the sound is clear, resonating straight to your core. His chest rises as he does so, stretching the fabric across it even more. “Better sooner than later.”
There is a split second of silence before you feel his fingers on your chin, drawing your face up to look at him. He searches your eyes for a moment, lips tightening at whatever he sees there, then he dips his head and places a soft kiss on your lips.
You sigh into his mouth, tucking yourself closer in his hold. Your mouths move leisurely, soft in the early hours of the morning. There is no hurry in his movements, no agitation, nothing like last night. It’s as if you have all the time in the world to drown in each other’s company, quenching the parchness from two years’ worth of distance. He swallows your little whines and presses his fingers deeper into your hips.
When his phone beeps, it’s like a cold splash of reality. He curses quietly against your mouth, reluctantly drawing away to yank his phone out and look at it. A deep sigh escapes him. “I have to go, darlin’.”
Oh.
It’s bound to happen. You know this. So you nod quietly. “Yeah, let me get dressed and drive you over.”
“Rooster’s picking me up.”
Right. “Oh, okay.”
Of course, he wouldn’t want an awkward drive with you, not after last night. His training is probably coming to an end soon, and he’s going to be deployed elsewhere, far away from the island.
You avoid his eyes as you busy yourself putting things away. You hear him sigh again before he comes creeping back up behind you, his arm slipping around your waist again. There’s the feel of his mouth against the back of your head. “I’ll catch you later at the bar, hm?”
Unlikely. “Yep.”
“We need to talk.”
No, we do not. You do not need to rehash this conversation again. You’re a grown woman and you know when it’s time to let go. This is one of those times. Instead of saying this, you say, “Okay.”
He pauses for a moment, waits for something that never comes. Another sigh. You feel his lips on top of your head before he draws away from you, leaving a chill in his absence. The front door opens and closes, and you hear the crunching of tires on gravel growing distant by the second.
You slump against your kitchen counter, releasing a deep breath. This is fine. You have a lot to do today, so what’s an early start to the day?
Somehow, you keep your mind mostly off that dread that’s sitting in the pit of your stomach. You tell Andy not to come in too early so you have more to do to keep your hands occupied. Your arms are throbbing by the time you finish the prep work, and the real grunt work of running the bar hasn’t even started.
Right as you’re fixing up the final touches on the bar before you open, the door swings open and you’re about to tell whoever it is that you’re not open for another… 5 minutes. It’s been a long day. However, your words vanish when you see it’s Nat by the door.
She pulls her sunglasses up on top of her head as you round the bar to greet her.
“Nat! It’s been too long!” You wrap your arms around her in a deep hug. She laughs and returns the embrace. “What are you doing here? Where have you been? Tell me everything.”
Nat left long before Jake did. It’s been years since you properly saw her. She is your favorite person from the crowd of Top Gun graduates so far. Fierce, fearless, and fucking fabulous.
She grins, “Slow down, crazy. I am here for fun, I have been in a confidential location abroad that I will personally never return to. And yes, I’m doing great, how are you? How was sex with Hangman last night?”
“That’s great! And—” You freeze. “What? How do you—”
“I fucking knew it,” she hisses, laughing and clapping to herself. “I just knew when I saw him and his distracted ass that it was you again. It’s always you, isn’t it?”
You scowl. This reunion is no longer welcome at your bar, at least not with this topic of conversation. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come on. I walk into base today and Hangman’s fumbling over a guide he’s been teaching for fucking years? His recruits are convinced that the legendary Hangman is losing it and finally ready to retire.”
You ignore the pinch in your heart at the mention of him. “I don’t want to talk about him, I want to hear about you.”
Nat offers a sympathetic look and it makes you feel shittier. “Alright, fine. Let’s sit and chat if you have time. I know you’ll get your crowd soon.”
That gets your spirits up as you two settle down. “First of all, who comes here for fun?”
–
Nat decides to abandon you when you can barely get two words out to her before a customer is flagging you down at the bar. The evening rush picked up fast and you can only send her apologetic looks that she waves off. She drifts over to the pool table where the recruits she met earlier are hanging around.
Surprisingly, you haven’t yet spotted Jake in the crowd. It’s bitter to realize that, but it also comes as a relief because you’re not ready for the “I have to go and leave you again and cannot commit to you” conversation. This would be the third time – fourth if you include the tragic rejected “I love you” two years ago.
You would think a girl would learn her lesson.
You’re grateful that the groups keep you busy. Plenty of familiar faces – some coming in from out of town for a new assignment or training, and others, like Nat, who are apparently here for “fun.” You’re still not entirely sure what that entails when there’s barely anything to do around here.
By the time the last customers leave and you’re wiping down the last table clean, you’re exhausted down to your bones. It is the kind of exhaustion you needed so you wouldn’t wallow in your self-pitying, woe-is-me thoughts before sleeping tonight. You had even sent Andy home early, preferring to do the grunt work yourself. That man’s been having a great week with your misery.
When you hear the front door creak open, you automatically say, “Sorry, we’re closed.”
“Even for a regular like me?”
Your head whips up to see Jake standing there, weariness evident in the shadows under his eyes. “Oh, you’re here late. What are you doing here?”
“Told you we needed to talk.”
Crap. Your heart drops to your feet at the thought. You drop the dishrag on the counter and cross your arms. It’s a small thing, but you feel more protected. A fence that separates the two of you. “Look, I don’t really want to have this conversation again. It’s fine. I’m an adult, I don’t need you to give me the talk every time you fuck me and leave. I get it.”
He grits his teeth and sighs. “That’s not why I’m here. I mean, that’s not what I was going to say.”
You tilt your head in question.
“Can you just come over here so we can properly talk?”
Chatting with him from this distance when he’s about to “break up” with you again is safe. Chatting with him with zero space for you to break into an escape between you feels like another incoming regret.
“I’m good.”
He closes his eyes for a second, exasperation radiating off him in waves. “Please don’t be difficult tonight. I just want to talk.”
Part of you wants to be difficult, just to show him how hard it is to be with him when all he does is push you away. But you see the desperation in his eyes and you cave. You cave so easily.
You go around the counter, maintaining a good two feet of distance from him. He looks at you, pained again, but lets it slide.
“I’ve been thinking about us.”
Frowning, you look at him in confusion.
Jake stops, seeming to mull over his words. “I’ve been thinking about what to say to you, but I don’t think anything I say could make up for all the time I’ve hurt you.” He swallows thickly. “This time—it’s not like last time. I’m not here to fuck around and leave.”
You take a deep breath. “Jake, you really don’t have to. Look, I’m a big girl and I can take care of myself.”
He quickly interjects, “That’s what I’m trying to say. I don’t want you to take care of yourself. I want you to let me take care of you.”
Uncertainty only sinks deeper into you.
“I’ve left you behind so many times before, sweetheart. It’s been a fucking miserable two years, you know. I’ve been trying to avoid coming here because it feels like all my mistakes are rooted here—”
Tears prick the corner of your eyes. You’ve always known that he has regrets, but you never thought he’d look at you and see a mistake.
“That came out wrong,” he huffs, running his fingers through his wind-swept hair. “My mistakes are not you. You— you’re the best thing to happen to me. My mistake is that I let you go time and time again. When you told me you loved me two years ago, I ran. When I’m in the air, I feel fucking invincible. But that time, I couldn’t even say the words you wanted me to say back. I was scared shitless. I didn’t want to disappoint you. We had a good thing, I thought that it was the only way I could satisfy you. I couldn’t guarantee that you would be happy with me. So I ran. I ran from what could’ve been a great thing between us.
“And being back here now, it just made me realize how much I miss all this, you. You’re all I ever wanted, and all I did was push you away because I was a coward. I want you to know that I want to try this time. I want to do right by you. I’m not leaving you again. I want to wake up every morning with you and go to sleep knowing you’re the last thing I see. I want to make you smile and laugh, but I also want to challenge you and tease you. Fucking highlight of my day when I get you all red and annoyed.”
You roll your eyes at him but can’t help the smile on your lips. That elation that’s been concealed so far deep is climbing up your chest and curling around your heart.
“When I came back here, I thought you would’ve… found someone else. Someone better. But there you were – same as always. Even after I hurt you all those years ago, you still smiled at me and welcomed me back. I want to say that you’ve always been my better half, but let’s be honest. You’ve always been a whole – you’ve taken up the entirety of my mind all this time.
“I wanted to wait until everything was settled before you know, we slept together again. I wanted to take you out to dinner and treat you right. Court you properly. Then you went ahead and showed me what I was missing, what I could lose when all those guys were flirting with you. God knows I’m a fucking asshole but I’m an asshole that loves you.”
Your breath hitches in your throat. It was implied in his words, tucked hidden between the vowels and the consonants. But there’s something about hearing it for the first time. The words that you’ve been waiting for so long, words you didn’t think you would ever hear. Your heart is in your throat as he goes on.
“I confirmed my full-time position as an instructor at the station here. It’ll be mostly for special detachments, and I’ll be mostly here. I might be deployed from time to time, but this will be my home base.”
“You’re saying–”
“I’m saying that I’m staying, darlin’. I’m staying for you.”
All the words you had planned to say remain caught on your tongue. Your mouth is opening and closing, but nothing you say could even begin to express how you feel.
Jake smirks, “Are you going to stand there all night or are you going to give me a kiss? Thank me for all the hard work I did?”
Even in the most romantic moments, he proves to still be an insufferable piece of shit. But you laugh, roll your eyes, and come up to him.
“I’ll give you a kiss and a kick to your ass for putting me through all this. God, you owe me a really nice, expensive dinner. I know a good place in the city for that. Actually, maybe a lot expensive dinners for the years you put me through hell.”
“Whatever your heart desires, sweetheart.”
“You said you love me?”
“That should come as no surprise to you. You’ve always been the smarter one.”
“Yeah, all that time in the air probably sucked all the oxygen out of your brain.”
He laughs, kissing you deeply. “God, fucking love that smart mouth of yours, even better when it’s wrapped around my–”
Let’s end it there and say that you lived happily ever after.
Or at least, as happy as you could be with Jake and that unbearable mouth of his.
The one you love most, of course, when it’s telling you he loves you.
This Isn’t What It Looks Like - Hangman x Bartender!reader
summary: Hangman is totally, 100% over his ex … he just needs a fake girlfriend to prove it.
WC: 5.2k
a/n: let’s take every cliche romance trope and turn it into a Hangman fic, shall we?
warnings: mentions of sex, swearing
“No, absolutely not.”
“What?! Why?” Hangman’s leaning over the bar, staring you down intently while you finish up the closing tasks of the Hard Deck. You ran the last call bell awhile ago, happy to see everyone closed out promptly. Everyone except Hangman, that is. No, Hangman continued to linger until you said goodnight to the last patron. Then he approached, marched right up to where you’d been cleaning with that charming grin spread across his lips. You knew you were in for it.
“Do you know how ridiculous this sounds?” Hangman just shrugs. “You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend to prove to your ex that you’ve moved on … which by the way you so clearly have not.”
“I have. And … yes?”
“You think we can act like we like each other enough to convince her we’re in love?”
“I don’t see it being a problem.” His eyes flicker across your face before dropping to your body, giving it a quick once over. Heat rushes to your cheeks, despite the fact that it’s not the first time Hangman has looked at you that way.
summary: your ex is back in town and that might be the kick in the ass Hangman needs to change the parameters of your situationship.
readers call sign is “stinger”
WC: 7.4k (yeah, that’s my bad)
a/n: the death grip Hangman has me on these days …
warnings: swearing, mentions of sex
If there was a body capacity limit set for the Hard Deck, a number of people allowed in before the windows, doors, and walls break open, it surely would have been long passed by now. The bar is packed to the brim with civilians and officers celebrating the safe return home of a handful of aviators. You were not included in that dagger team but, Hangman was and you’d gladly honor his safety with a cold beer and his close proximity. Every time he came back in one piece, it felt like the iceberg of dread that settled in your chest when he was gone broke into pieces and melted away.
You used the excuse of bodies being jammed too tightly together to wiggle your way in between Hangman’s legs as he sat at the bar. Both of knew that even if you were the only two people there, you’d still end up in that position. So close to each other, your faces only inches apart, with your head angled down and his angled up to hear each other over the loudness of other conversations and the steady stream of music.
These days, it felt like the closer you could get to Jake Seresin the better. It was much easier to give into the gravitation pull between you two than fight it. This magnetic force had always been there, since the day got stationed in North Island. There was a competitive spark between you that eventually caught and bursted into flames made up of equal parts admiration and attraction.
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each fic will feature a symbol representing what they include, or eventually will include, but individual parts on this list will not -- you are responsible for your own media consumption so please read the warnings on each post.
A letter from you to your best friend read by the wrong pilot leads to a new connection and a surprising mail-based friendship.
one / two / three
✩ new perspectives ♢ ♡ ⚤ (ongoing)
You and Jake Seresin have been inseparable since age ten... somewhere along the way you fell in love and when college and flight school rolls around you have to make the hardest decision of your life.
prologue / one / two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten / eleven / twelve
new perspectives universe one shots + drabbles
match ♡
Jake surprises you at your match day ceremony.
j&j wedding moodboard
easier ♢ ♡ (ongoing)
You secure your first confirmed air-to-air kill on your first mission as team leader... only no one told you how difficult it would be to process and the only person who can understand what you're going through steps in to help.
one / two
move on ♢ (ongoing)
The love of your life vanishes in the middle of the night leaving you reeling and leaning on the only person you can still trust.
one / two / three
✩ real friends ♢ ♡ (on hiatus)
One day your competitive working relationship with Jake Seresin takes a hit and results in a pact between the two of you that you never saw coming.
one / two / three / four / five / six / seven
shot through the heart ♡ / and you’re to blame ♡ ⚤ / you give love a bad name (mini-series)
Pushed together planning your best friends wedding your forced to notice someone you'd previously overlooked.
one-shots/requests:
✩ flygirl ♡ ⚤ (one-shot)
The Dagger Squad, and more specifically Jake Seresin, decide it's time their favorite bartender experience life in a Super Hornet.
✩ late ♢ ♡
A delayed period forces you to have a conversation you've been putting off with your boyfriend.
mistletoe ♡
Jake comes home to find you amidst a winter wonderland and can't help but fall more in love with you and your spirit.
✩ sunshine ♢ ♡
You and Jake are recalled to Top Gun... only problem? Jake has no idea you're in the Navy.
before he cheats ♡ (request)
While drinking away your breakup at the bar, Jake finds out about your extracurricular activities and steps in.
worry ♢ ♡ (request)
Stressed and overworked, your husband steps in to remind you to take care of yourself before taking care of others.
birdstrike ♢ ♡ (request)
Jake grapples with the thought of losing you after an accident in the air leaves him rattled.
family dinner ♢ ♡ (request)
You and Jake attend dinner with your parents, a diligent homemaker and retired Navy hotshot, and when your parents have their own ideas about your trajectory in life, Jake steps in to stand up for you.
into you ♢ ♡ (request)
Forced to watch the man you want and your best friend getting closer, you push them both away without bothering to clarify the situation.
NATASHA 'PHOENIX' TRACE
boyfriend ⚢ (one-shot)
Phoenix steps in to give you the attention you deserve when your boyfriend spends the night neglecting you.
at your pace ♢ ♡ (request)
Your relationship with Natasha has remained a secret as long as you've been in North Island, until her backseater puts the pieces together and gives her the nudge she needs to come out to her team.
BRADLEY 'ROOSTER' BRADSHAW
firecracker ♢ ♡ (on hiatus)
When you and your childhood best friend are recalled for the same high stakes mission you have to navigate ever-changing relationships along with keeping your familial name a secret.
one / two
✩ longshot ♢ ♡ ⚤
A series of unfortunate events lead you back to your hometown and straight to the professor that's been on your mind ever since you graduated.
one
unexpected ♡ ⚤
An educational trip to the waterfront for Fleet Weeks ends in a handsome naval aviator asking you on a date.
one
DAGGER SQUAD
make the friendship bracelets ♡ (one-shot)
On a whim you decide to surprise the squad with a token of your appreciation.
content warnings: fem!reader, swearing, mentions of sex, reader gets drunk (i'm sober idk what it's like to get drunk, it will be inaccurate, sorry), awkward peter, reader has been having dreams of peter (but they're actually real and her old memories), ex's to lovers, but she doesn't remember him, amnesia trope i suppose, reader should need more convincing but let's be real, this is fanfiction, its supposed to be unrealistic
summary: you've been having dreams about this man for the past year... why does it all feel so real. and... wait, how the hell is this guy at this party your friend forced you to?
word count: 6k
author's note: so... i'm not back! probably. uni has been a bitch, i thought I killed my laptop today and I have an exam tomorrow but fuck it we ball have a fanfiction about peter parker because brand new day comes out soon and I'm so excited
JUNE, 2024
"Do you think that dreams are alternate realities?"
The question kind of came from nowhere. Well — it had been on your mind a lot, and especially recently. Especially on patrol, especially when you were sat, legs dangling off the edge of the high risers in lower Manhattan, with him sat next to you. You don't know why you thought about it more when he was around, you just did. And you could barely even explain yourself without giving everything away.
Spiderman turns to face you, mask covering his face because you don't know who he is, but you can still tell — he's got his eyebrows furrowed at you. He's confused. The two of you had been sat in silence for the past ten or even fifteen minutes and then suddenly you blurt that out. You couldn't even help it. It just… happened. And now you would be forced to explain yourself.
You don't know Spiderman. You know him in the sense of you fight crime together, you meet up on rooftops in the middle of the night and scout out people doing wrong and sort it out, save people from danger, etc.
But you don't know him. You don't know his favourite colour, or what he does for work, or hell, even school. You don't know his likes and his dislikes. You don't know who his friends are, what motivates him to get up in the morning.
You don't know who he is.
So then why do you feel like you do? It doesn't make any sense. It keeps you up at night, trying to figure it out. You don't know who he is and he doesn't know who you are, so why does it feel like you've been friends for years and years? Why does it feel like he knows you like the back of your hand? How you manage to work so smoothly together as heroes if you've only been doing it a month or two — it didn't make sense.
"What?" He asks, perched on the edge of the building next to you, literally on the edge, not worrying about falling because well — the spider thing, you know.
You shrug, stumbling over the beginning of your sentence, trying to figure out out exactly to word it without sounding crazy because if you were being honest… it was crazy. "Well… you know the theory, surely? That when we dream, we're just experiencing other realities in the multiverse that different versions of us are actually living. I mean — we know so little about the unconscious mind that I reckon it's pos—"
Spiderman chuckles a little, shaking his head but still not letting his eyes leave you. "Alright, okay. Yeah, I know the theory. What's brought this on?"
Here we go.
Because there's been this guy. That's all he is. You think. You don't know and — that's the problem. Around 85% of the dreams you've had in the past year or so (you know, you've done the maths), there's been this guy in your dreams.
Holding your hand, kissing your cheek, taking you on dates to the movies and sitting next to you in class. Laughing along with you, hell — even meeting your parents. And it all feels so real. It all feels like something you've experienced before. It all feels like something that has happened to you before and somehow your brain has just forgotten.
But how could you forget something like that? Something so incredible, so real, so full of love and care and everything you wish you could have.
You explain it to Spiderman, making sure not to look him in the eye because you think you would die of embarrassment if you saw his reaction. But who else were you supposed to tell? In fact, it was probably best for you to tell someone that had no idea who you were, because if you were ridiculed for this, made fun of by Spiderman — which would be crazy but you're ready for any reaction — you had no obligation to stick around with him.
Once you've finished, your voice calms, having rambled on for quite a bit, only stopping once you realised you've probably said a bit too much. You don't tell him everything. You don't tell him what this guy looks like, you don't tell him about the more… explicit dreams. You don't tell him about how whenever you wake up it feels like part of you has just been ripped away.
You keep it as… normal as this situation could possibly be.
Spiderman stays quiet for a moment. You're considering just getting up and leaving, never coming back, that whole ordeal. But something in you begs to stay and hear him out. Just for a little. Just to see what he thinks.
Then he speaks, just like normal. "And you're saying this guy is in like, 85% of your dreams?"
You nod, simple. "Yeah, I, uh… I did the maths. It's like 84.567% but rounding, you know." You stutter, blabbering on again. Fuck.
"Do you know his name?"
"No."
"You don't refer to him in the dreams?"
You shrug, finally looking at Spiderman. "Not really. If I do it's with some cringy petname or something. Like baby or sweetheart. Something sickly sweet, you know."
Spiderman hums, nodding slightly. He stops perching, instead sits down properly, not closer to you, exactly the same distance, but there's something different about it. Like he's less on watch and more interested in this conversation now. Then softly, he turns to you again, and you wish now more than ever that you could see what he looked like under the mask. "Do you know what he looks like?"
You blink, head whipping up from his hands to his face, so fast you would nearly have given yourself whiplash. "What?"
"Well sometimes people in dreams are just like… faceless blobs. Is he a faceless blob?"
Swallowing thickly, you turn away, gaze darting across the New York skyline, following as lights from different apartments turned on and off, the car lights driving down the streets. Anything but looking at him. "No. He's not a faceless blob. I— I know what he looks like."
"And?"
"Brown hair, brown eyes. Nice smile but I'm probably bias." You laugh your way through describing this mystery man, acting as if you thought it was so stupid as well, and that it was all bullshit.
Spiderman goes quiet. Just nods along.
Then you hear police sirens and you're both up and following the noise. The cars are on a street a block or two down and are heading towards a bank a mile or so out from your house. Spiderman is already moving so you follow, quickly and swiftly, just like you trained.
You shouldn't, but you're thankful for the distraction. Part of you regrets telling him anything.
SEPTEMBER, 2024
Peter didn't realise that you would be here. In fact, you were the last person he expected to be here. Sure, MJ and Ned, they were supposed to be here, it was an MIT building that the landlord rented out to students for a cheaper rate and without ever knowing Peter Parker, they had gotten into MIT with flying colours. But you?
You'd never showed interest in going to MIT. Did you know someone going to MIT? Who were they? Why had you even moved to New York? He supposed your dad still got ill, you still came here to live with your mother. Had you still been involved in everything with Thanos? Had you still known Tony?
Peter still had all his memories, the ones with you in them, the ones where you noticed him, where you liked him hell— even loved him. You didn't have those memories.
Peter didn't know if he was willing to relearn you. Not with the memory everything before.
Because there you were, in that gorgeous black dress, that fit you perfectly, that made his heart soar. You'd put make up on, a rare but brilliant occasion, with his favourite coloured eyeshadow, the specific shade that made your eyes pop, even in the darkness of the apartment. And— were you looking at him?
You're talking to MJ and Ned. You shook their hands, smiled and laughed at something Ned said, and Peter can only think of the first time he introduced you to the two of them. Then there's a glance, to your left, directly in his direction.
It happens as quick as it stops. Peter doesn't know what to do with himself.
When you finish the conversation with MJ and Ned, Peter watches you head straight towards the alcohol. Since when did you..? You never drank before. You refused, never went near even a drop of the stuff. Peter watched you b-line for the table, pour yourself a nice big glass of whatever you've chosen, take one more glance towards him before taking a big gulp. Peter can't figure out what the hell is going on. There has to be a reason you keep looking at him, he can't just be going crazy.
Now, Peter needs a drink. He's not stupid. He waits until you leave the table before heading over to it. He doesn't even know if he can ever work up the courage to talk to you again, especially this early on.
Courage. And what have you both just given yourself? Liquid courage.
It doesn't take long for the alcohol to kick in. An hour, maybe two. You've had a couple drinks by now, someone you've only just met dared you into a shot, and now you're sipping a lovely glass of wine. Not only have you had a lot, but you've been mixing, too. Bad idea.
Peter, on the other hand, isn't as bad. He's had a bit, he's slurring his words, attempting to talk to someone he didn't know previously, avoiding you, MJ and Ned like the plague. He's still not well-minded though. He's still glancing at you every time you walk into the kitchen and back out again, and he's definitely still noticing every time you stare at him. Spidey senses, or whatever. That's what he tries to tell himself it is, but Peter thought both then and now, that even if he had never been bitten, he would have found you either way.
Then suddenly, even though he's been avoiding you so much it's been killing him, you pop up behind him, and Peter realises just how drunk you really are.
"You're cute." You say, the first half of the sentence so slurred that Peter has to take a second to figure out what you said. Cute, yeah, he's fucked.
Peter's lips part, eyebrows furrowed as he looks down at you. "Uh—" Fuck, what does he even say?
You hiccup, leaning against the doorframe like if you didn't have something to hold, you would be on the floor instead. "M'sorry, I don't even know you, y'just, cute. Had to say something."
"Thanks." Because, what else is he even supposed to say. If he even tries to string a sentence together, it'll come out all jumbled and while you certainly don't care about that, he doesn't want to risk spilling anything at the moment. Perhaps never.
"I've actua'y been avoidin' you al'night."
What?
"Didn' wanna say somethin' I shouldn't've." You shrug, smiling up at him with big eyes and Peter can almost feel his insides melt. It's the exact same look you used to give him when you'd convince him to do something he knew was a bad idea. Fuck. "But, then I stop'd caring'. Dunno why."
"Maybe the alcohol?" Peter squeaks.
Then you're gasping, the gleeful glint in your eyes only getting brighter as in your drunken haze, remember the existence of alcohol, even though it's running through your system like crazy. "Oh m'god-! Yes! Alcohol! Love it s'much. Need some more…"
Peter can't help himself then. He's so used to lending you a helping hand, comforting you when you need it, being by your side and doing anything for you that the second you mention more alcohol, he protectiveness kicks in. He grabs your hand as you attempt to run off towards the kitchen and you pause in your hastiness.
"Woah, maybe we should get you some water instead, hey?" Peter says, keeping his voice soft and trying to push through the less alcohol in his own system in order to help you.
You look up at him with those big eyes again and sigh dreamily. "Y'cute and carin'? Are y'single? There's no way you're single, right, cutie? Someone has to have… you know, ugh. I can never find the right guy."
Peter rubs a palm against your shoulder, doing his best to ignore your question. Of course he's single, he would never be able to be with anybody else. "Come on, towards the kitchen."
Carefully, Peter guides you towards the kitchen, grabbing an empty cup from the side and heading towards the tap. He makes sure it's cold but not too cold and hands it to you. He tries not to take notice of the way you can't stop staring at him. How he managed to get into this situation, he doesn't know, but all he knows now is that he can't just leave you, drunk out of your mind, with no way home.
It's late into the party now. A couple people have gone home but it doesn't look like it's going to quieten down any time soon. Peter takes a glance at the clock and is shocked by the time, any other day and he'd be perched on a rooftop beside you — without you even knowing it was him.
Still, you're here. Somehow, still with him. It was a joke you always used to have. You said it from the beginning of your relationship and it was the last thing you ever said to him, knowingly. We find each other in every universe. No matter what. And you were right.
Once you'd finished the water, you chucked the cup into the bin next to the sink and turned back around to Peter, a pout on your face that was going to be the death of him. You're leaning against the counter, but this time not out of drunkenness but instead with how tired you are. The hyper-ness of the alcohol has been very quickly replaced by sleepiness.
"I'm gonna go t'sleep." You murmur, leaning further towards Peter, your eyes fluttering shut.
Peter stops you, holding you up by the shoulders. "Can't sleep here, I'm sorry. Do you have a way to get home, sweetheart?"
You shake your head, the pout reappearing at both remembering how your friend abandoned you and how Peter didn't let you go to sleep. "M'friend was gonna drop me off, but she's gone home with a guy, I don't know."
"Okay, where do you live? I'm more than happy to walk you home."
"Upper Manhattan." You grumble, beginning to lean into Peter, rather than the counter and not realising that that was much too far away to walk and Peter couldn't afford you an Uber. He also didn't trust you on the other end of a taxi. "But, s'okay, right? Can just sleep at yours. Don't you live in th's buildin' cutie?"
Peter furrowed his eyebrows at you, genuinely concerned. "You don't know me."
You shrug, smiling up at him, trying to stay awake. "I dunno, feel safe around you. Feels like I've known y'longer than I actually have. And if you try anything, I'm a fantastic archer."
Yeah, he knows, Peter smiles at that. You were fantastic at everything but you always found most pride in the archery thing. Always looked up to people like Hawkeye, always helped as many people as possible with a skill so mundane, in your eyes. In Peter's eyes, it was the least mundane thing ever. He thought you were so cool, and he was so proud of you. Even if you had no idea anymore.
"Okay, sweetheart, let's go." He says, not bothering to say goodbye to anyone as he guides you towards the door. He only lives downstairs, so it doesn't take very long until you're standing in his apartment. You've never been in here before, it's weird. Though Peter always imagined that you had been. That you'd been here countless times, that he'd cooked you dinner, that you had your own drawer of clothes and your toiletries were in the bathroom.
Peter heads towards his drawer, grabbing some sweatpants and a spare shirt, a stupid nerdy one that has some dumb physics joke on it. When he reaches you again, he finds you looking at a photo on the mantle of a canal in Venice, it's bland, it's boring, but anything else would have to have had you in it. He only had one of them, and it wasn't going to leave that in his apartment.
"Here, go into the bathroom and change, there's a spare toothbrush in there. I, uh, don't have any make up wipes or cotton pads, I'm sorry." Peter stammers, letting you take the clothes he folded just to give to you.
You smile, still drunk, still tired, but something more real settled behind your eyes. "Thanks, this is more than enough."
Peter watches you stumble off to bathroom, unable to take his eyes off you. Even with everything that went wrong, you were still here with him. Different, and you didn't really know him, but you were in his apartment and you felt safe around him, even if you didn't know why, and Peter felt something settle in him. You'd be here. He'd be here. Always.
He drags himself to the bedroom, grabbing his favourite pillow (leave one for you) and the blanket he left draped at the edge of the bed, and headed back towards the sofa. By the time he had set everything up, you had come back out of the bathroom, make up a little cleaner with simply water, and in his clothes.
In his clothes.
Peter almost burst into tears in that exact moment. In another universe, you would be his. You would be wearing his clothes because you liked the smell, not because you were drunk and had nowhere else to stay. You'd be in his apartment because you would practically live there, not because you bumped into Peter at a party.
It dawns on Peter just now weird this situation actually is.
His heart aches, but he puts on a smile, and nods in your direction. "Bedroom's just through there. I'll be out here, if you need anything."
"Thanks." You mumble, eyes all cute and droopy. "See ya in th'morning."
And just like that, you're gone, off to sleep in his bed, without him.
When you wake, it's to a headache, and an apartment that isn't your own. It's to the sunlight streaming in through the window and bedsheets that smell like home, even though they aren't yours. It's that familiarity, like in your dreams, and suddenly you're sat up, looking around the room you find yourself in.
It's somewhat decorated, the walls are a simple cream but there's the odd poster, a corkboard with post it notes scattered on it, and the flooring is a dark wood with a simple rug half underneath the bed.
Then you start remembering everything.
It comes back in waves, it always does. First seeing him when you first arrive, introducing yourself to the host, MJ? You think. It's still blurry. Then seeing him throughout the night, watching him watching you. Why was he watching you so much?
And then… oh fuck. You've actually gone and fucked it now, for definite. Is this his fucking apartment?
Oh my god, did you sleep with him?
No, because where is he? You woke up in the middle of the bed, so he couldn't have slept in here with you. And you still had clothes on, not yours, true, but not the type you put on after sex. Proper clothes.
So where is he? You drag yourself out of bed, feet dangling over the edge of the bed while they adjust to the cold flooring. It's a particularly cold September.
As you swing the bedroom door open, a great weight is lifted off your shoulders as you spot the pillow and blanket made up on the sofa. The man is still nowhere to be seen, which scares you a little bit, but then you spot the piece of paper left on the kitchen counter.
His handwriting is messy, cute, all of that. Its a short message, scrawled onto an open page in the notebook he's left out and reads the following.
Morning, hope you're okay. Make yourself at home, there's painkillers in the bathroom if you need them and help yourself to some breakfast. It was nice meeting you last night, I would have stayed to meet you properly this morning but work calls. — "Cutie" as you called me.
You reckon you're actually going to end it. I mean, obviously you're not but you might as well. You've embarrassed yourself in front of this guy who you don't even know, but you've been dreaming about for the past year. Now you're sober and he's not even in the apartment.
It would be easy to leave, right now, it would. You could just get up, go, and it would mean nothing. You'd never have to see him again and you could forget all of this.
But then you catch it by the door. A worn leather wallet, on the counter by the door, left in a bowl. Jackpot.
Because even after last night, you didn't know his name. You didn't know who he was, but now you could find out.
You hesitantly step over to the door, picking up the wallet and letting it sit in your hand for a bit before opening it. This is a big moment, this isn't just a guy you met last night, this is a guy you've actually, non-metaphorically been dreaming about for the past year.
Slowly, you open the wallet. The first thing you see is his ID, perfect. Slipping it out of the folder, you scan through the information.
Peter Benjamin Parker. Born August 10th, 2001, Queens, New York. Aged 18.
After all this time, you had his name. Peter, of course. It made sense. He looked like a Peter.
But there was more. Something you had noticed immediately, too impatient to find out his name. All wallets had that little clear folder, made for a little photo. Usually loved ones, if you were a parent, it had a kid in it, or grand-kids, or just partners.
In that little folder, was a photo of Peter, next to you.
Not just a photo of you, a photo booth photo, with your lips pressed against his cheek, a grin on his face. It must have been a while ago, you only look 16, he looks a similar age too. And the worst thing wasn't even the fact that you were in this photo.
The worst thing was that you had this memory too.
You had dreamt about it. Last May, it must have been around the. He'd taken you on a date to the movies, and they'd just put in a new photo booth at the theatre and he insisted on getting a set with you, even though it was five dollars and he didn't have a job yet.
Oh, you need to sit down. You reach for the nearest chair, a single wooden, uncomfortable chair by the table, and you practically collapse into it. You can't stop looking at the photo, why does he have it? Why do you remember it? Have your dreams been real this whole time?
Then there's a jangling of keys on the other side of the door, and it swings open. There he is, in a jumper with his shirt collar hooked over the wool, backpack on one shoulder, cheeks heated and eyes stressed.
"Hey I forgot my wallet—" He cuts himself off when he sees you with his wallet. You stand from your seat.
"You're Peter Parker?"
He nods. "Yeah. Can I have- my wallet back?"
"Too late." You shake your head, turning it around. "Explain this photo to me, now."
Peter chuckles nervously, holding his hands out as be shuts the door completely. "Uhh, it's a photo?"
You blink, unfazed. "Why do you have a photo of me in your wallet?"
"Its complicated"
"I've got nowhere to be." You shrug. Peter doesn't quite know how to deal with this. You've never actually been angry at him before. You've been disappointed before, you've been worried that has manifested itself as angry, but never properly angry.
So Peter nods curtly, removes his backpack and sits it by the other chair. He drags it out and takes a seat, urging you to do the same.
You sit, sliding the photo out of the folder and chucking the wallet back to him. He's not getting that photo back unless he's got a completely valid reason.
"Okay, just under a year ago I made the biggest mistake of my life got into a lot of trouble. At first, everyone I loved was in danger and then the whole world was. So, a friend of mine, a sort of… sorcerer, had to bail me out, majorly. I owe him my life and he doesn't even know." Peter explained, eyes dashing between your gaze and where he hands were clasped on the table. "It was difficult, but he had to make everyone forget who I was. Everyone forgot the name Peter Parker."
You furrow your eyebrows at him, frowning. "Everyone?"
He nods. "Everyone. It was the only way I could save everything. So everyone forgot me."
"That sounds… lonely."
"It has been… well, there is someone but, again, complicated." Peter shrugs, and you have no idea who he is referencing, but for some reason, it makes your stomach twinge with jealousy. "Anyway, before he made the spell, I asked him one thing. Just one thing."
Your features have softened, no longer full of anger but instead just warmth. You couldn't be angry at him. "What was it?"
Peter sighed, looking down at his hands. "I asked him to keep this one photo, the one I kept in my wallet. That it would be enough and would get me by without anyone else. The photo of my and… my girlfriend."
"Your…"
"Girlfriend." Peter nods, finally looking up at you. "You were my girlfriend. For 3 years. I'm so sorry. I swear, I had no idea you would be at that party, I wasn't even planning on talking to you, and then you spoke to me and couldn't get home and I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if I didn't help you."
"Peter." You speak, voice soft as you struggle to find the words. You don't know what a normal person would even say in this situation. There's nothing that makes enough sense, nothing that could help your brain process all of this. And you still haven't taken those painkillers. "You said there were painkillers in the bathroom?"
He furrows his eyebrows, but then nods. "Yeah, cabinet above the sink, help yourself."
"Thank you."
Swiftly, you get up and head to the bathroom, making it clear you don't want Peter to follow. There's nothing you can even conjure up that would even make a bit of sense. Hey, you know me really well but I don't remember much of that, only a couple moments, but you're still cute and we clearly get along so I'm willing for this to be a thing again?
What kind of nutter were you. Not only did you stand in the bathroom for ages while taking the painkillers, you also stood above the sink, splashing your face with water. You thought that maybe this was some form of dream, but it wasn't. It actually wasn't. This was real.
So, where to start? All of the dreams you've been having over the past year have been real. You haven't made them up, and you in another universe experienced them for real. But that version of you is you, and now you've met the guy that you apparently forgot. How much of your relationship had you forgotten? Were they just the main moments? Were they the ones you held dearest to your heart or were they just random?
Peter's explanation hadn't exactly been direct. He had told you what you needed to know in order for him to explain the photo but you could tell it hadn't really been everything. Because now you had two following questions, worse than any prior questions:
Why did he need everyone to forgot him?
How was he friends with a sorcerer?
And you need an explanation for these. The only sorcerer that people really knew about was Dr Strange, but then how would this random dude know Strange? You'd met him a couple years ago during a run in with a couple bank robbers, but he'd handled that. The only way you would be able to know Strange well enough for him to bail you out like that was if you were a superhero.
You sighed, took one last look in the mirror and left the bathroom, praying that the painkillers would kick in sooner than it said on the box. When you stepped out of the bathroom, you immediately spot Peter with his forehead against the wood of the table. He looked a little stupid but you can tell he's attempting to regulate his breathing. Then quietly, you hear him murmur, over and over under his breath,
"Stupid, stupid stupid. Just tell her. She's gonna find out either way. I mean, she's a genius, she'll find out eventually. And if you don't tell her now, she's gonna be so mad when you do."
You scoff a little under your breath, then say, louder, "Peter?"
He jumps up, sighing as he sees you. "Christ, scared me."
"Sorry." You murmur, sitting back down in your seat and fiddling with your hands in your lap. "What were you mumbling to yourself there, huh?"
Peter shakes his head, an internal debate over whether he should tell you. He must decide quicker than you had expected because then his lips are parting and he attempting to form the correct sentence. The correct way to say whatever he's planning on saying. Jeez, how life changing could this be. "There's more. That I should tell you, about… well, us, I guess. Well, me."
You nod, curt, unsure. "Go on."
"I know about your dreams. About me." He says, and then realises that he must sound like an absolute creep, so he stammers, trips over his words a bit before finding the correct foot again. "I mean, you've told me about them, but you didn't even realise it—"
Of course. There was only one way he would have been told about your dreams, if you had told him yourself. That's why it felt like you knew him better than you actually did. It's why he didn't want to take the mask off, he was the one that implemented that rule, not you. That was why he'd asked if you knew what he looked like, or his name. It's how he knew Strange. Everything had come together, so easily, so perfectly. How you hadn't realised in the first place, you didn't know.
"Are you Spiderman? "
Peter looks up at you, that warm, hopeful look settled into the brown of his eyes, and he nods, soft and sweet. "You were always a genius."
You blink at him, leaning forward in your seat because of course, everything makes sense now. "So that's how you know Strange? And that's why it felt like I knew Spiderman better than I should, because I did."
"Yeah."
"I mean, what are the chances the one person I go to tell about my dreams, just so happens to be the exact guy I'm dreaming about." You laugh to yourself, sitting back in your chair, head in your hands, partly embarrassed, partly unable to process this information.
"Yeah." Peter chuckles a little this time.
"So."
Peter pauses for a moment, just looking at you, who doesn't seem to be thinking. You'd just stopped talking, sat with everything for a minute. Peter cleared his throat. "So?"
You shrug, lips parted and brows furrowed hesitantly. "I don't know… where we go from here."
"That's fair."
Slowly, you lean forward in your seat, looking towards Peter, then away, then back at him; like you can't decide what to say, what to do. Like everything is still so jumbled but you don't seem to know how to even start untangling it. Peter understands. It's a lot of information to take in. Even if you just wanted to leave forever and never see him okay, he would understand.
And that was what you had realised. From your dreams, from the way he acted as Spiderman, from even just your conversation with him now. Peter cared. Deeply. Unlike anyone you'd ever met before. Even when he was still in love with you (—okay, you're assuming here, but to him, everything still happened, so), he cared for you. He would do whatever was comfortable with you, no matter what. He'd disregard his own feelings completely if it meant you were okay.
Which means something, especially considering everything he's gone through.
"If you want, I'll give you my number, and if you are ever able to properly process this and want… something out of it, friends, more, I don't know, I don't mind, you text me." He offers, showing his maturity, showing his politeness, showing how much he cares. "You don't have to, it's just a suggestion."
You look up at him, and for the first time, your eyes are soft. You're looking at him like you look at him in your dreams, like how you look at Spiderman. "No."
Peter nods. "Whatever makes you—"
"Shut up." He purses his lips, holds in a laugh, which makes you laugh as well, even if you're trying to hide it too. You've got a finger held up to him, supporting your statement, but you're still giggling as you speak. "Shut up. I… am willing to get to know you again."
You can see the way Peter's eyes light up just from pure hope at your words, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. "Okay."
Lowering your finger, you swallow thickly, still not completely sure if you're making the right decision here but still going through with it. "You're cute, I didn't lie to you last night. And… clearly we get along. I don't have very many people, not that I'm close with. And you seem funny, and I'd like to get to know you."
"Thank you." Peter breathes. "Take as much time as you need, we're going your pace, whatever makes you most comfortable, okay? And… I'll try not to be weird about knowing everything about you already. Just habit. Things I couldn't really forget—"
"Peter." You breathe, stopping him mid-sentence, reaching a hand over to rest against his which gives him no choice but to look you in the eyes. "It's okay."
He nods, sheepish, it being obvious there's still something on his mind. "Okay. Yeah. Thanks. And uh… it's really nice hearing you say my name like that again."
You smile, then, soft and warm.
Because maybe he knows more about you than you do of him, but that doesn't matter. You can see the care. You can see the potential. You have some memories of what the two of you used to be like and you can relearn him. You're willing to relearn him, after all this time. Even if it's a rocky start, even if there are problems, or you get frustrated with the knowledge differences.
You're willing to relearn him. Even with no memory of before.
a/n: thanks for all the love! wish I could write more but uni is a bitch its assessment week, but summer holidays soon so fingers crossed? we'll find out, thanks for the support love you all!! <3
YOU WRITE FOR PETER????? ik academic rivals is like an ER series you do but i'd love to see him with the prompt
i wanted to do their dynamic a little different than i do it for john so they're quite friendly compared to my other series but i hope you enjoy this anyway!!! tasm!peter parker x academic rival reader <3 fem!reader, 1k words
1.5k follower fairy garden party celebration ⋆˚ʚɞ you're invited!
You have absolutely no idea how you used to do this in high school.
Sure, college is a step up academically from high school but you had way more on your plate just in terms of how much time you had to spend on everything. Now, you struggle to get up for your 9am inorganic chemistry lecture.
You don't remember what your high school self was doing to have to much energy, but now you're running almost purely on spite.
Peter Parker is a very kind boy, one of the kindest people you've met in college. It's been a little harder to make friends on campus than you had first thought coming to ESU, most people have headphones in all the time and one time you tried to talk to a girl sitting beside you in one of your classes and she looked at you like you'd just grown a second head.
Peter Parker is also your worst enemy.
The two of you share only two classes, with him being some sort of biology major you have one lecture and one lab together. Molecular chem is one of your lightest classes, you have quizzes fairly often but the answers are always on the slides. It's your instrumental analysis lab that's always giving you grief.
You're struggling to fit your textbook back in your bag and Peter stops on his way out. "Hey, your calibration curve was really solid." He flashes you a soft, earnest smile and reaches for your bag to help hold it open. "It was the dilution factor that I think tripped you up at the end."
Coming from one of the other guys in this class it would be condescending. Unfortunately, coming from stupid Peter Parker with his under his breath goofs and the way he always lets you use his pencil sharpener, you recognise it as purely an attempt to be kind.
"I just had a different approach," you say haughtily.
Peter's smile twitches like he's trying not to laugh. "Right, of course."
That's how the two of you have always been, really. The competitiveness had been immediate, sparked the moment he scored one percent higher on a prac and had the audacity to apologise for it. You push, he pushes back. You stay late in the lab after hours to perfect your results and when you get there in the morning he's already there.
He saves you a seat every time you share a class, has given you his laptop charger when you forgot yours in your dorm, and now here he is helping you with your stuff.
"Thanks for the notes from the experiment last week," he says genuinely. He'd missed morning lab last Thursday and hadn't told you why (not that he had to, you don't even care) and it's not fun for you to do so much better than him on a prac because he had to go to the doctors or whatever his excuse had been. "They were really helpful."
"No problem." The lab is mostly clear, but lab hours don't end for another three hours. Most of the equipment is kept under lock and your professor usually sits in her office, connected to the lab and made of glass for supervision. Some of the time the two of you sit there and run through hypotheticals with her or get her to supervise things, but most of the time it's just the two of you in the room.
You have your notebook and your laptop perched on the table and he seemingly has no intention of leaving. "Can you take me through your process?"
He offers you a spare pencil.
"I don't need help." You absolutely need help with it and unfortunately Peter is the only person you trust to actually get you results.
Peter rests his hand on his chin. "That's okay. I don't think you do need help. At least not my help. I'm a blank slate," he wipes a hand over his face. "Run me through the process, I'm not even here I'm some random guy."
You huff, flipping back through your notes. "You are some random guy," you mutter. "Who even invited you?"
"Student lab," he beams at you. "Swiped my card to get in and everything."
Annoyingly, going through your process with another person is your favourite way to fix your mistakes. You hate that he knows that.
"Don't interrupt."
He mimes a little zip motion over his lips.
You start talking and he nods along, eyes shining while he watches you mime with your borrowed pencil. Somewhere around the middle, you slow. "So when you plot the signal against the concentration it'll be stable but with mine deviating... wait."
Peter doesn't say anything, leaning down on the lab bench and swaying on his feet.
You groan, dropping your head onto the table. "Oh my god."
"Found it?" he asks, voice soft.
"I'm an idiot," you dispair. "I'm dropping out."
Peter leans down and drops his voice impossibly quieter. "I only knew that 'cause I made the same mistake on the prac a few weeks ago." That makes you feel a little better, you won't lie.
Last time the two of you had a quiz, you'd gotten three questions more than him. That smugness has well and truly worn off by now. There have been more than enough instances of you being the reason Peter passes things, both using your help and using your mutual competition as motivation that you can't bring yourself to feel embarrassed by him watching you flub. But you can't say you don't absolutely hate it whenever he gets something you don't.
"I like it when we're the last ones here," he says, almost offhand. The only noise in the room aside from your talking is the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
"You just like having fewer witnesses when I do perform better than you," You narrow your eyes, suspicious.
That does it - he laughs, bright and unguarded. "You really did figure me out."
You feel something twist in your chest, sharp and unfamiliar. Peter looks at you so softly, that you think he might have figured you out as well.
summary: though the post-haze of your last mission with joaquin has yet to settle and the storm between the two of you has barely started to form, you’re thrown into another battle front at the behest of bucky. thankfully, this time, you have a shield who goes by the name of bob. but…you might be the only one who’s grateful for his presence. between bob’s soft demeanor and joaquin’s tough exterior, you worry you might not make it through this mission.
warnings: non-canon stuff about bob’s background (i made things up for the plot…). angsty and broody joaquin (i refuse to infantilize this grown man), forced proximity!!, slow burn, mention of blood, science experiment gone wrong, description of gunfire and violence, no it’s not really a love triangle don’t worry (but joaquin doesn’t know that wink wink), probably excessive use of italics, lack of communication/interruption every time they try to communicate (it gets resolved, do not fret), they capture the villain fast asf cus…i dont curr i just need reader and joaquin to start hunchin, sambucky is real to me, joaquin is such a man like i hate to say it but he really is a man in a situationship, reader folds like a fucking pretzel bro he got her down real bad
smut warnings: they get really down and nasty tbh, unprotected sex, p in v, pleading!joaquin, switch!dynamics, nipple sucking, hickeys, overstimulation, thigh fucking, ass slapping, fingering, dirty talk, slight edging, he..talks to the coochie (like…posessively…), mention of addiction, creampie
a/n: i got it to post in one part yall! omg praise the smut gods
total w/c: 28.2k
“And that’s Bob.”
Bucky’s voice had cut through the hum of pre-mission chatter, booming off the walls and commandeering the space in a way only the Winter Soldier can. It came out tired, almost expelled as a sigh as his thumb pointed casually over his shoulder. Your eyes shifted over, fleeting and casual. It was an acknowledgement of Bucky’s words with as minimal attention as you can garner to avoid being accused of not paying attention. You hadn’t even lingered, flickering away from Bob as quickly as they landed.
But then your eyes shot back.
Because in the briefest of seconds that you had looked at him, Bob, whoever he was, smiled at you.
The realization of it had your interest piquing, but by the time your eyes reached for him again, Bob’s gaze had already shifted elsewhere (namely, to the ground in front of him).
The smile was small and polite. The kind that barely pulled at the corner of his mouth, but that was all it took for him to capture your attention. You don’t know what it was, maybe there was something about it—so quiet and sincere—but it held you for a second longer than it should have.
You really think that if that was all the situation had to offer, a quick quirk of his lips in recognition, things wouldn’t be the way they were now.
But then Bob had lifted his head again, and he caught your eye. Strangely enough, he was the one who had become flushed, as if he was the one caught staring when it so clearly should have been the other way around.
It made you smile this time.
It wasn’t much. Barely more than his own. A brief tug of your lips and a soft tilt of your head, but it was nice.
Like you had said earlier: in the moment, you hadn’t thought much about it. But now, looking back, you can see it—the way his expression held something quiet and hopeful, like he hadn’t expected you to smile back. That was the moment the thread had snagged, when something invisible hooked between you and tugged.
You remember how Bucky had kept rambling on, further explaining everyone’s roles in the mission in a no-nonsense cadence that you eventually learned to not be intimidated by, but it had shifted into somewhat of a persistent buzzing in your ear. You weren’t really listening anymore (not that you really were to begin with), and standing there, you found yourself oddly aware of the man tucked so subtly behind Bucky.
He wasn’t supposed to be there, that much was obvious. You could tell in the way he held his hands, fingers wringing nervously around themselves as he listened intensely to every word. You caught it in the way Sam raised his brows, just slightly, and the way Bucky had given a small shrug that sort of said “I know, but we need him” when he was first introduced.
Bob clearly wasn’t part of the usual lineup, and you had wondered if he would even be able to handle the rush of adrenaline or the direct line of danger you’d likely find yourselves in. Something odd, like a sense of worry, flooded you—for a stranger you haven’t even really met. But the longer you watched him, the more you realized that maybe he had advantages of his own. Bob moved carefully. Deliberately. Like someone who really thought before speaking, like someone who didn’t expect to be heard at all, really.
You remember the thought that plagued you in that moment, one that crept into the edges of your mind without your permission, how different he seemed from…
You had physically shook your head as the thought invaded you, forcing it out and effectively snapping your eyes away from Bob in the process.
God it’s ridiculous, the way you felt your body naturally gravitating towards another’s in the room. You hated yourself for it…but you couldn’t help the way you snuck a peek through your peripherals anyways.
There he was, standing off to the side with his arms crossed loosely over his chest, nodding along to Bucky’s briefing with that familiar crease in his brows—the one he always got when he was trying to commit something to memory. His mouth was set in a hard line, focused. Calm.
Your eyes had lingered longer than you meant them to, different in the way they lingered on Bob, because this stare wasn’t just curious. No. It was instinctive. You swallowed a bitter taste in your mouth. It was longing.
At that point, you and Joaquin still hadn’t spoken. With your bags hiked up over Joaquin’s shoulder and the townhouse door shut behind you, the two of you had left that night behind along with everything left unsaid with it. You barely looked at each other going through TSA, and exhaustion had crept up on the both of you once you were in the air. Landing in Washington made it easy to go your separate ways, back on the safe land of your home, and so you did.
You forced yourself to look away, and it took more effort than you’d like to admit. Refocused on the rundown for the upcoming mission and Bucky’s clipped voice, you strain your ears to listen in on the dull droning. God, you really hoped this wasn’t anything that serious, but you had pivot your energy into anything but the weight of silence between you and Joaquin or else you’d go insane.
But just as you managed to tune into the outside world again rather than the thoughts in your head, you came to the realization that Bucky had already wrapped up. The room had begun shifting: people moving and talking, the murmur of multiple conversations casting a hum across the small space. Your eyes glanced back at Joaquin, who was now in a professional conversation with Sam about whatever it was that you were supposed to be listening to for the past hour, before they flicker over to Bob.
Bob, who was standing patiently against the wall.
Bob, who was looking around strangely, with clear discomfort on his face.
Bob, who you still haven’t said a word to.
You moved before you could talk yourself out of it, catching his wandering gaze in the process. With his wide, shifting eyes, you could have sworn Bob pressed himself closer to the wall behind him. It made you laugh softly.
“Hi,” you offered quietly, with an intentional care to not spook him once planted squarely in front of him. He so clearly seemed like the queasy type.
He looked up, startled for a moment, before returning your smile with something just as gentle. “Hi,” you hear the hesitation in his voice. “I’m Bob.”
Taking his extended hand, you shook his palm. The warmth spread through his fingertips to yours. After sharing your own name, you told him, “Looks like we’ll be working together on this one. It’s nice to meet you, Bob.”
You didn’t think much of it in the moment. It was just another polite introduction, another warm hand.
But later, in hindsight, when you reflect on the way the air between you two shifted and things started meaning more than you could’ve realized—you’d remember the way Bob looked right here.
Like someone hopeful.
Like someone who would never take your attention for granted.
-
You were spending so much time at the Watchtower just to prepare for the upcoming mission, you swear. It had absolutely nothing to do with your new friend. Nothing to do with the fact that he’s nicer, more communicative, more outwardly happy around you than someone else who you’re still not speaking to.
No, it has nothing to do with that at all.
You were simply being a good teammate. Diligently covering all your bases to ensure the smooth sailing of finding and arresting this new-found villain—as is your job.
There’s no reason for anyone to be suspicious of you, right?
“Hey, there you are,” a soft voice snaps you out of your daze. You turn around to a face you’ve been all too familiar with this past two weeks, eyes zeroing in on the two cups he holds in his hands.
“Bob,” you greet cheerfully, hand already reaching out for the blue whale mug you’ve designated as your own, stolen from the kitchen cupboard, “Good morning.”
“You’re only being nice to me because I’m bringing you your coffee, freshly brewed,” Bob sighs as he takes a seat next to you, crossing his legs into criss-cross applesauce before swiveling his chair to face the monitor you’re seated in front of.
You let out a quiet gasp in false offense. “I’m always nice to you!”
Bob raises his brows in mock skepticism, holding the mug just out of your reach as a test of your friendship. The sight of your nose scrunching has him letting out a soft laugh, placing it squarely into your hands and you revel in the way the warmth seeps into both palms of your hands.
The chuckle he let out is more of a huff of air than anything, the corner of his lips quirking upwards before Bob takes a sip of his tea.
“Any news?” he asks, eyes tracing the side of your face before flickering to your screen.
You sigh, turning to him with a pout. “No. This guy is impossible to track down; it’s like he disappeared into thin air. Last Bucky’s heard, he was at some motel in Michigan, but he was gone before we even landed.”
“Oh,” Bob managed. When he looks down and begins to pick at the sleeves of his sweater, you can’t help but reach over, placing a gentle hand on top of his.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get him eventually,” you reassure.
All Bob can do is offer a timid, strained smile back.
A loud SLAM has you jumping, drawing your arm back in a flash out of sheer surprise. With a swift turn, you and Bob search for the source of the sound, leading you to be met with a frowning Joaquin who wasn’t even looking in your direction accompanied by a chirpy looking Sam.
The two of them move quickly into the room after making the door fly into the wall to announce their arrival.
“Morning lovebirds,” Sam calls out, his quick, steady steps making their way towards you.
The glare you shot at him was ineffective; all Sam does is laugh in satisfaction by your reaction. You turn to look at Bob with the same unamused glance only to be met with blushing cheeks. It’s so unsurprising of Bob to grow flush at such an innocent comment that you can’t help the smile that starts to build on your face.
Joaquin trails wordlessly behind Sam, shoulders tense as he fiddles with something on his touchscreen pad. It’s impressive, really, how he’s capable of looking so irritated just by being within the same room as you, before you’ve even managed to even say anything.
You’re so sure he was just chatting it up with Sam on the way up here. You just know it. Since your last mission, it’s become abundantly clear that Joaquin just has an aversion to you.
“Morning,” you reply brightly, bypassing Sam’s lame attempt at a joke. You can see Bob offer a polite nod from your peripherals.
“Get Bucky’s text?” Sam asks, not even bothering to give you a chance to answer before telling you anyways, “Briefing room in five, looks like we finally got something.”
It doesn’t mean much to you, but from beside you, you can feel Bob’s posture stiffen. His shoulders start drawing closer to his ears as he processes Sam’s words.
“Is it…did they find him?” Bob asked, quiet and tight, like he’s already bracing for an answer.
Something in the air shifts with his question, and you watch the way Sam’s expression softens. Not in pity, just understanding. “No.” He doesn’t sugar coat. “But we’ve got movement. Missouri Highway patrol saw someone matching our BOLO heading South.”
“Missouri?” Now you chime in, echoing in confusion. “That’s…far,” you frown before turning to look back at your monitor, checking to make sure you’re remembering the data right. “That makes four states in two days.” The nod of confirmation from Sam makes you sigh, hand coming up to rub against your forehead. A headache was already starting to form.
“There’s more,” Sam adds grimly. “They say he was cutting through the forest at about thirty miles per hour." He pauses. “On foot.”
When Bob lets out a sharp exhale, your hand reaches out and lands on his forearm in an attempt to be a comforting presence.
Joaquin’s eyes flicker to your movement, just for the briefest of seconds, before abruptly turning to address only Sam with his arms crossed over his chest. “Guess that Everford Serum’s more than some cheap knockoff.”
The comment makes Bob’s forearm flex underneath your palm, and all you can do is squeeze his arm as a reminder of your presence.
You watch as Sam gives Joaquin a chiding look, but no one says a word about Joaquin’s poor jest. Instead, he lets out a sharp exhale, announcing that there’s, “More details at the briefing. Let’s head upstairs.”
“I’ll go help Bucky upload the coordinates.” It’s all Joaquin offers before he turns sharply on his heel, breezing out of the room with much more speed than when he was walking in.
The room feels quiet after he leaves, and you know that it’s not just because there are fewer people in it.
Bob shifts from beside you, his arm flexing under your palm, but you don’t move right away. You pretend it’s because he needs the comfort. You pretend it’s not because you do.
The loud sound of Sam clapping his hands once is sharp enough to break the fragile stillness. “Alright. Five minutes means five. Move like you want answers.” With that, his sneakers squeak against the floor as Sam makes his exit.
The sound of your and Bob’s chair wheels rolling against the polished concrete floor fills the room, and as you straighten, your fingers finally loosen from Bob’s sleeve. You watch as his hand twitch, just a bit, like he was bracing for the loss of contact.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You shrug. “Not really. You?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
-
“Jesus, these stupid planes never get any more comfortable,” you complain, shifting dramatically in your seat. The military jet vibrates jolts beneath you, as if it was retaliating against you for your grievances against it. The dumb thing is probably held together by duct tape and prayers. “Bucky’s fancy government privileges couldn’t get us a nicer ride or did he just not care because he didn’t have to fly on this death trap?” you gripe, hand clutching onto the thin fabric they had the nerve to call a seatbelt.
“Could be worse,” Sam shouts over the loud engine, looking relaxed as ever, much to your chagrin. “You could be strapped to the outside,” he teases.
“That an option?” Joaquin grumbles, but it cuts through the noise loud and clear. His gaze is focused on the tablet resting on his thigh, but the implication of his words, and who they were directed at, was not lost on you.
You roll your eyes, but choose to bite your tongue. This bumpy plane ride was already giving you enough heart palpitations, the last thing you want to do is concern yourself where Joaquin Torres is involved.
Beside you, Bob sits rigid, hands tightly clasped between his knees with his gaze solely on the metal floor beneath him. His heel is tapping a nervous, rhythmic pattern and you’re not sure if it’s the ride from hell that’s getting to him or the mission ahead.
Leaning in, you murmur against his ear, “You okay?” A sense of deja vu hits you. It seems like that’s the question always being asked between you and Bob.
His eyes snap towards you, and for a split second his expression wobbles, like he wanted to hide the fear on his face but he wasn’t quite strong enough to do it. It makes your heart ache. Patiently, you wait for his answer.
“I, um…I just. I haven’t seen him,” he nods awkwardly, “In years. It’s been years, and…”
“You don’t know what you’re walking into?” you gently offer.
Bob looks up at you, nodding in appreciation. “Yeah.” He averts his gaze, biting his lip as he admits, “He was nice before. Well, as nice as someone like that could be, I guess.”
“So…not the kind of guy that the government has to chase through multiple states?”
He laughs at that, “No. He was a lot of things, but…not this.”
After that, the two of you settle into a strained silence. You wish that there was more you could say, something perfect that might fix the distress that sits so clearly on Bob’s chest, but you can’t.
You’ve never really had a way with words.
Eyes flickering over to Joaquin, your heart sinks.
Across the aisle, Joaquin shifts, leaning his head back with his eyes closed. His head rests against the wall of the plane, exposing the smooth skin of his neck. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and you find yourself having to gulp yourself.
It’s so, impossibly evil—how attractive you still find him despite the fact that he hasn’t even spared you a glance in weeks.
Your eyes shamelessly trail the sharp of his jawline, the one he so infuriatingly keeps clenching around you. It falls to the soft supple skin of his neck, the same territory you’ve familiarized yourself with again and again and your mind grows hazy from the flashbacks. Your gaze slowly makes its way up to his strong nose and your finger twitches with the need to trace it, and just when you’ve begun to admire his long lashes—
Tug.
The abrupt interruption has you jumping, head whipping over to a timidly smiling Bob, whose brows were raised in blatant disbelief.
You flush, cheeks growing rather warm at being caught in such a compromising position. Sinking deeper into the uncomfortable seat, you groan. This plane ride is really going to be the death of you.
-
“Ugh,” you huff, foot sinking into the mushy mud beneath you. Fists clenched at your side, your teeth grit as you hold back another complaint. You were starting to get underneath everyone’s skin—you’re socially aware enough to know that much—but you don’t have enough self control to not bitch and moan.
You can’t help it. You’re uncomfortable. And sticky.
The Missouri Backwoods are disgustingly humid and you’ve been trekking through them for the better half of two hours with no definitive lead. It’s exhausting.
Normally, you’d be a much better sport. You’re a combat field operative for Captain America for God’s sake; you’re trained well enough to hold your own. The real reason you’re being so miserable was not just because mosquitos the side of your fist are tearing up your ankles.
Remembering the truth behind your sour mood makes you pause, eyes landing on the strong, rippled back in front of you.
The way he managed to make a sweaty, fitted green military tee look like a five course meal should be illegal. Forget the psycho you’re after, someone throw Torres in a jail cell now before you lose your mind.
The two of you had just landed back in Washington before Bucky called Sam (ergo calling you). The most you had was one much needed shower and approximately six hours bundled in your own comforter before you were dragged back to work. Talking to Joaquin wasn’t even an option, even if you wanted it to be.
Though, realistically, even if you had the time, you’re not sure if anything would have been said. You don’t know what you were hoping for, honestly. After all, you and Joaquin swore that what happened in Arizona “changes nothing.”
What a man of his word, he was.
You scoff out loud.
It draws the attention of Bob, who looks over at you with a curious glance, and you jerk your head away from his gaze, embarrassed by the idea of being caught thinking about something Joaquin-related again.
Tentatively, you sneak a gaze back to Bob to ensure his attention is facing forward once more before moving your eyes to Joaquin again. Striding ahead, he moves with purpose—like someone whose limbs aren’t aching and eyes aren't burning from lack of sleep.
He doesn’t look back. Of course he doesn’t look back. Joaquin Torres would be nothing if he wasn’t someone who couldn’t compartmentalize you into a neat, inconvenient little box. Which was fine at first, when the same could be said for you about him.
But that was at first.
And like you admitted to him the night before everything went sideways…you bit off more than you can chew.
Drunken nights and post mission celebrations turned into more, and much to your absolute horror, you actually started to like him in a way that was deeper than pure chemical attraction, more than just as a body to keep your bed warm at night. The thought makes your stomach twists painfully, and just when you’re about to expel another dreaded sigh—
Sam raises a closed fist, signaling everyone to slow. “The last thermal reading is here.”
You glance around, met with nothing but trees and buzzing insects. Wiping at your cheek, you brush away moisture that you’re unsure is sweat or the air itself sticking to your face. Whatever lingering thoughts you had on your pathetic love life evaporated as soon as Sam snapped you back to the reality of where you are.
Joaquin hums under his breath, “Drone picked up some body heat in this area about forty minutes ago.” He taps the tablet. “But nothing within a ten mile radius other than small animals now. Definitely no heat signature big enough for a super human.”
“Great,” you mumble, kicking a small rock underneath your foot. “We just hiked through the Amazon’s redneck cousin for a ghost.”
Sam shoots you a warning look over his shoulder. It’s not like he was particularly thrilled about it either—someone’s gotten particularly comfortable with flying instead, but that was an immediate no-go once you guys landed in this thick, dense blanket of trees. The only difference between you and Sam is that he hasn’t been constantly complaining about it.
“It wasn’t a glitch,” Joaquin continues, easily breezing over your words as though you hadn’t spoken up at all. “Somebody was definitely here.”
“But they’re not anymore,” Bob says quietly to verbally accept the results of tonight.
Everyone pauses, taking a minute to collect themselves after the strenuous effort it took to get here just to find nothing.
Taking a deep breath, you work on gathering your own thoughts. “Alright,” you start, eyes closed as your brows furrow to take in the bad news. “Let’s think about this. We know that he broke out of Everford two weeks ago with nothing but the clothes on his back. Like, quite literally broke down the door and ran. Science experiment gone wrong. Superhuman strength. Weirdly enough, not a first for us,” you shrug at Sam and Joaquin, who just nod in agreement.
You pause to look around, squinting through the canopy of trees as if it might give you a clue before continuing on your verbal puzzle. “So far he’s had minimal contact with the public, opting for back alley rivers and swamp trails instead,” you describe with distaste. “So we know his goal isn’t to hurt people.”
Gesturing at your surroundings, you continue to hypothesize, “He has no supply chain. No contacts. No tactical equipment. What the hell is his plan, what are we missing?”
Joaquin shifts his weight, propping one knee as he takes in your words. “To not get caught by the government, probably.”
You send him a deadpan look, not even having the energy to sarcastically thank him for pointing out the exceedingly obvious.
“He’s probably just scared.” Bob interjects, voice soft but certain. When all attention turns to him, he shuffles uncomfortably. Swallowing, he states, “I don’t…think he’s trying to be strategic. He’s just running to survive.” Bob looks away, staring off into the distance, as if he can see the man you’re after, escaping through these very trees. “Running from something he doesn’t understand.” When he looks back at your trio and sees everyone staring at him, he quickly tacts on with bumbling words, “Probably. I don’t—I don’t know. I’m just guessing.”
Everyone goes quiet, and something like sympathy twinges in the thick, humid air.
You may have only just met Bob, but something about his comment is so exceedingly him. It doesn’t surprise you in the slightest, that out of you four, Bob would be the one to empathize with a man on the run. The crazy scientist injected himself with some basement kit made serum and turned into an anomaly, but Bob can see past that.
You don’t have the heart to tell him that the man he knew all those years ago likely doesn’t exist anymore, that whoever he was then and whatever he’s become now are so entirely different that Bob’s memories of the scientist have become just that: memories. Still, you shrug, offering with as much kindness as you can, “Maybe.”
Looking back at you, Bob offers you a quirk of his lips that’s not much more than a strained grimace, seeing through your very poor attempt at humoring his theory.
A beat passes, and you turn just in time to see something in Joaquin’s expression flickers. He masks it as soon as it flashes across his face, instead choosing to turn his tablet towards the three of you before outlining your target the same way you were. “Everytime we get close, he disappears into terrain no normal human can get through. Marshes, storm drains, flooded creeks.”
“Yeah, but he’s not normal.” It slips past your lips before you mean for it to, and you guiltily shoot your eyes over to Bob.
Joaquin narrows his eyes at you, lips parting to expel what you have no doubt is some sassy remark, but Sam chimes in before he has the chance to.
“Bob’s right. He seems desperate,” Sam states simply. You tilt your head to the side a bit—not exactly what Bob meant, but sure. “Mercer’s managed to survive this long. We can only assume that whatever he juiced himself up with can be thanked for that.”
Everyone falls silent at the horrendous realization. It was a blatant reminder that you truly have no idea what you’re dealing with.
Looking upwards at the treetops, Joaquin announces with a defeated sigh. “There’s maybe twenty minutes of sunlight left until we’re hiking in pitch black.”
“I am not navigating this death zone by a battery operated flashlight. Some of us aren’t making it out of here if a bear decides it wants to hunt them for dinner because—” you snap a look over at Bob, “—some of us don’t have superpowers.”
He gives you a sheepish smile at that, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “I’d at least try to save you.”
Sam lets out a laugh, “Man, so forget the rest of us then, right?”
“You guys can fly,” you state plainly, defending Bob in a light hearted manner.
“So can Bob, technically” Sam raises a brow.
“Exactly, and he’s the only one who offered to heroically save my life,” you smirk, satisfied with your line of reasoning. Though light is limited, you can feel Bob getting redder with every passing second. “Isn’t that right, Bob?” It was just too easy not to mess with him.
Just as Sam parts his lips to offer a retort, Joaquin cuts him off. “Let’s fall back,” he proposes, loudly, effectively bringing a halt to the conversation in a way that makes you roll your eyes.
Someone obviously isn’t in a joking mood.
Conceding to him, Sam lets out a long and resigned exhale, any sense of humor dissipating. “Yeah, alright. There’s a town a ways over. If we move fast we can make it before sundown.”
That was all it took for everyone to fall in, trudging along without so much as another word.
-
If misery had a Yelp page, this place would have five stars.
From the peeling wallpaper that looks like it was last updated in the 70s to the fluorescent light that hummed quietly overhead like a white noise machine, you really have no choice but to rank this as one of the most bottom tier accommodations you’ve been forced into for a mission.
Feet digging into the carpet, you grimace at how stained it was. Even the air smelled stale; it’s incredible how they’ve managed to accomplish that.
Sam had left the three of you to idle in the dingy motel lobby while he walked up to the front desk to work on room arrangements, and to say the silence that fell over you was uncomfortable was a sheerly gross underestimate.
Still, you were too exhausted to care. For a second, you even considered collapsing into one of the armchairs they had set on the floor, but upon second glance at the mysterious brown splotches and fabric so faded you’re sure it was manufactured before you were born, you decided to pass. Just when you were contemplating what diseases you’d contract if you sunk into the carpeted floor, Sam comes back holding two keys.
“They’ve only got two rooms left,” he announces.
You blink. Surely the exhaustion of today’s events has you mishearing things. “...Two?”
From her place at the front desk, the older woman smacks her gum slowly and obnoxiously loud, as if daring one of you to say anything about it.
“They can’t possibly be booked out, Sam.” You argue. “Seriously,” you wave your arms around. “Look where we are.”
Turning back to look at the receptionist, your group watches as she files her nails. Not even bothering to spare your foursome a glance, she calls out, “Like I told him. Convention in town.”
“For what?” Joaquin retaliates, the long day leaving his patience thin, too.
Lazily, she glances over at him. With pursed lips, she looks at all of you impassively, “Tractors.”
“Oh my God,” your head falls into your hands.
“You heard the lady,” Sam looks back at your rag-tag team. “We got a room with one bed and the other has two. So I—” he exaggerates, before tucking one key into his jacket pocket, “—will be in Room 6. Which leaves you three—” he slaps the remaining key into Joaquin’s hand, “—in Room 7. Good luck and goodnight.”
It’s the last thing he offers before he starts breezes past you.
“Sam, wait, which room are you—” Joaquin shouts after him, only for Sam to hastily skittish out the doors, backpack on his shoulders as he exits through the lobby doors and toward the hall of rooms. With his actions speaking louder than any words could, Joaquin raises his arms outwards before dropping them against his thighs with a resounding clap, yelling after Sam. “Come on, bro! There’s no way!”
When Sam doesn’t bother to even glance back at your trio, Joaquin lets out a defeated sigh. Turning back, he offers you and Bob a quick glance before his eyes drops down to the brass key in the palm of his hand.
Silence.
Bob clears his throat and shuffles awkwardly on his feet.
You can’t help but react similarly, scratching your elbow as you direct your gaze toward an ugly painting hanging on the wall.
“Well,” Bob starts, brave enough to speak up first in his particularly humiliating situation. His lips roll inward as he offers a thinly amused smile, “Who’s ready to test the limits of human patience in a 200 square feet motel?”
No one attempts to answer Bob’s rhetorical question.
It’s the last of your exchange before the three of you wordlessly drag yourselves down the dim hallway. The patterned carpet crunching unpleasantly beneath your muddied boots like it’s been bathed in soda for several decades. Room 7 isn’t a far walk, as the motel itself isn’t exactly a grand resort. You do have to fight the urge to break down Sam’s door when you hear him snickering as you pass Room 6, though.
Joaquin unlocks your door with a sigh before pushing it open, but he stands in the hallway to let you and Bob in first.
Bob steps to the side, gesturing for you to enter the room.
With tentative steps, you move forward.
The room is…fine. A simple room with two beds, the space filled with a boxy old TV sitting atop a rickety dresser. There’s a door to your right and you’d bet all your cash that it leads to some cramped, questionable bathroom with awful yellow lighting.
You walk further in, instinctively drawing the curtains shut and flickering on all the lights possible. Amidst your inspection, the sound of the door locking and the chain sliding into place is the only other noise that fills the room and you know without looking that it’s Joaquin’s doing. You can’t help the huff of air that leaves your nose - such a well oiled machine, the two of you.
Once again it’s Bob who speaks up to break the tension. “Um,” he starts quietly, lifting a hand as though you were in a classroom, “I don’t mind the floor.”
Your head snaps toward him. “What? No. You’re not sleeping on the floor.”
He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “I mean, I’d probably be fine. I don’t…sleep much anyway.”
You exchange a look with Joaquin, and the two of you share some silent agreement that the man’s been through enough trauma as is and should definitely not be relegated to beige motel carpeting that smells faintly like cigarettes.
“No,” Joaquin says firmly. “Two beds, three people. We’ll figure it out.”
Bob smiles softly, appreciative and a little shy, and sets his duffel down near the foot of one of the unclaimed mattresses.
You toe off your boots and shrug off your bag, kicking them into one corner of the room without much care before testing out one of the mattresses with a cautious press of your palm. You shrug to yourself before turning back to look at the boys, who were already looking at you. “It could be worse.”
Joaquin lets out something that was almost a laugh. Almost. You try not to think so hard about the way your heart skips a beat at the sound of it. Then, matching your own movements, he kicks off his own boots into the corner near the door before shrugging off his backpack and dropping it at his feet with a loud thud. Shrugging off his jacket, he flings it onto the dresser carelessly.
Between the two of you, Bob just sits tentatively on the edge of the mattress that holds his duffel.
Clearing your throat, you finally concede and bite the bullet everyone has been deeply dreading. “Okay, so…logically, two people on one bed and one person on the other.”
Joaquin crosses his arm as he stands by the door and his biceps flex in a way that makes your mouth run dry, “Yeah.”
You force your eyes away from the way they strain against the sleeve of his shirt. Gaze flickering between the two men, you start to propose, “So…you two could just…”
Before you even finish that sentence, Joaquin and Bob’s heads turn sharply towards one another. They share a look.
One that’s immediate.
One that screams that’s absolutely not happening.
Bob’s eyebrows jump somewhere toward his hairline. “Oh! Actually…I really don’t mind the floor—”
Joaquin’s arms drop, hands starting to gesture as he half-heartedly explains, “I mean, the beds are pretty small. I don’t know. Just, I don’t think we’d fit—”
Your own sentence dies on your lips as the two of them overlap one another, eyes rolling at their childish behavior. “Alright,” you draw out.
The humor in your chest dies as quick as it flickers, though, because now…that only leaves you two options.
Your eyes slide over to Joaquin, who’s already looking at you. Humor in his eyes slowly shifts into something stormier, boring into your face as if he was trying to read you. You scan his features, trying to make something out of it yourself, only to be met with stoicism. Whatever amusement he found in sharing a bed with Bob was squarely gone as he expressionlessly stares at you in expectation, like you’re the one who holds all the power here.
God, since when was reading him so hard? It makes your stomach churn in a way that almost hurts, and you can’t help the frown that makes its way onto your face as you look at him. Quickly, you avert your eyes.
You’re not used to doing this with Joaquin.
It was always so easy before, back when the two of you were first introduced and you joined Sam’s team. Back when Joaquin Torres was just sunlight in human form to you. The worst parts of you start to ache, missing the way he used to smile at you and he’d crack jokes through the comms like you weren’t about to jump face first into the worst dangers.
He was someone who made everything so simple.
He was someone who was effortless to like.
You swallow a bitter taste in your mouth, still not brave enough to look back at him. Joaquin is someone who’s so easy to understand when you’re not on the receiving end of his ire. But now the distance between the two of you was impossible to cross.
Still, you know his heart hasn’t changed. You just wish he’d open it to you again.
“I’m g’nna hit the showers.” Joaquin announces, voice tight.
It snaps you out of your daze, blinking rapidly. You avert your eyes away from Bob, who accidentally became the victim of your stare as you daydreamed. That’s the third time Bob’s been tangled up in your Joaquin-induced trance today alone (not that he really noticed the latter two times), but you offer him a small apologetic smile anyways.
He returns the smile—tentative, and a bit confused, but still kind in a way that makes you feel guilty for dragging him into the crossfire of whatever you and Joaquin are. Or…aren’t, you suppose.
From across the room, Joaquin makes more noise than you think is necessary. Rustling through his backpack, he quickly pulls out clean clothes and hygiene supplies before striding into the bathroom and slamming the door shut so loudly it rattles the fragile infrastructure of the place.
It’s as if he couldn’t get away from you sooner, as if the idea of sleeping beside you was so awful that he had to run away from you. Again.
You huff, rubbing your eyes tiredly.
The tension doesn’t leave with Joaquin. If anything, it thickens, settling over the room like another layer of motel dust.
You sit on the edge of the bed beside Bob and another sigh escapes before you can stop it. Next to you, Bob hovers for a second. He’s awkward and very unsure, as he usually is. The foot of space between the two of you doesn’t do a great job at hiding Bob’s nerves.
He glances at the bathroom door before quickly looking back at you. Quietly, Bob asks with furrowed brows. “Is he…still mad?”
The confession about what happened between you and Joaquin came about three days after you first met Bob. One late night at the Watchtower going through piles of data and a plate of leftover lasagna that Bob made for dinner was all it took to have you unraveling.
Technically, Bob had been the one to initiate it; you imagine that it’s easy to be perceptive when you spend most of your time silently watching others as Bob often finds himself doing. So when he asked you what the deal was between you and Joaquin and why it was so damn uncomfortable every time the two of you were in the same room—you cracked.
You let out a small sigh, “Joaquin’s…complicated.”
Bob thinks about it for a moment. Then, with all the soft earnestness in the world, he asks, “...Is it something I did?”
You blink, stunned for half of a second, before you let a laugh escape. “No, Bob, trust me. It’s not you.” Your eyes glance over at the bathroom door, silently listening to the loud pattering of the water running. Biting your lip to stop them from trembling, you softly admit: “It’s me.”
-
You let out a soft groan as you stretch awake, yawning as your mind quickly works to pull you out of your sleep induced haze. Peering past Bob curiously, you frown when catching sight of an empty bed with nothing but the crumpled motel blanket and rustled pillows.
Joaquin is already gone.
There wasn’t much of a discussion last night after Joaquin took the first shower. The exhaustion had gotten to everyone, and physical fatigue had overcome emotional turbulence, forcing you all to just do what needed to be done to get to bed. All anyone cared about was getting clean and into comfortable clothes. Bob had been courteous enough to let you shower next, and it wasn’t as if you could go sit with Joaquin on his bed while Bob was busy scrubbing the grime and dirt out of his hair.
So…you opted for the empty bed. Which quickly became not empty once Bob came out.
The pillow barrier he had politely placed between the two of you was sweet, even though it now lays abandoned on the floor. You’d try to tell him it wasn’t necessary, but Bob insisted anyway.
Beside you now, he lays still, fast asleep. Curled toward you on his side with one arm tucked under his pillow, Bob looks the most peaceful you’ve ever seen him. His breaths come out soft and steady, and you have to bite back a smile at how endearing he looks like this. Unburdened.
Glancing toward the pillow on the floor, you sigh quietly through your nose. Bob had been apologetic almost, ears blushing faintly red as he placed it between the two of you.
It’s all but dramatically discarded now—intentionally abandoned through the throes of sleep or by gravity naturally, you’re not sure, and against your better judgement, your thoughts flicker to Joaquin.
Your mind flashes with the way he looked last night when he realized you and Bob would be sharing a bed. You may have imagined it. You probably did imagine it. But when Bob came out of that small bathroom, steam trailing behind him in a curl of smoke, and he took a seat at the edge of your bed while towel drying his hair…you could’ve sworn.
You glanced over at Joaquin, morbidly curious and masochistically hoping for some kind of reaction. He froze. For a fraction of a second, something had flickered in his eye like he was reading too far into the space between you and Bob. His lip had twitched, as if about to form a scowl, and his brows had dipped, just a fraction of a centimeter. Joaquin’s eyes had flickered over to you, and you caught his gaze, unbashful in your staring due to exhaustion hazing your judgement. There was a moment, just a fraction of a moment, where it looked like he would actually say something.
But it disappeared.
And Joaquin parted his lips just to call out a strained goodnight to you both before laying down and tugging the blanket over his head as he turned to face the wall, away from you.
Quiet rustling has you snapping out of your flashback, and your eyes rest on Bob again. The faint smell of motel soap is clinging to his skin, probably in the same way it’s clinging to yours. His hair is still damp from when he went to bed, and now curls slightly towards the ends. Not a deep of a curl as Joaquin’s—
You grit your teeth in frustration.
Just as you’re about to chastise yourself for your constant delusion, Bob shifts slightly, breath catching before his fingers brush against your forearm in the smallest unconscious movement. It makes you feel bad about having to wake him.
Still, the morning’s been long enough for you, and you still have a job to do.
Reaching over, your hand lands on his warm bicep, squeezing slightly. “Hey,” you whisper, “Time to get up.”
He blinks awake slowly, soft and harmless, before looking up at you with a sleepy smile.
Morning affairs move as quickly as the two of you can manage, and by time you both got ready for the day, got all your things packed, and stepped outside, Sam and Joaquin were already in an intense deliberation in the parking lot. Though, intense might be an understatement.
You and Bob surely couldn’t have slept in for that long, rays of sun were barely starting to peak through the horizon. Something must have gotten Joaquin riled up, quick.
His shoulders are coiled tight, brows furrowed as he speaks rapidly. His hands wave animatedly, and you can’t help but trail along the vein on the back of his hand towards his long nimble fingers. Even though his head is tilted, eyeline landing below the brim of his cap, you could feel the conflict brewing in his eyes.
You’re not close enough to hear words, but their tone certainly carries through the pavement and across the parking lot that’s made up of exactly one rusted pick up truck, your rental vehicle, and a vending machine that hums loudly in the corner. Tractor convention your ass. Their conversation floats, with Joaquin frustrated and Sam patient.
But by the time you and Bob step up to them, the conversation snaps shut.
Despite the thin fog and slightly chilly morning setting quite an ambient mood, Sam turns and flashes the two of you the biggest grin you’d ever seen. “Well how did you two sleep?”
Bob, ever polite, nodded at him. “Really well, actually. Thanks.”
Before you can ask the two of them what was going on, the lights on the car flash and a loud beep fills the air as Sam unlocks the doors. “That’s great, Bob.” He acknowledges him before turning to Joaquin with the same, wide smile, “Breakfast anyone?”
The younger hero just looks away.
-
The four of you manage to squeeze into a corner booth at the back of the diner. Early morning sunlight filtered weakly through the large windows. Thankfully, the only other patrons were a couple of long haul truckers who were nursing black coffees and a waitress who looked like this shift would be the one to do her in.
“So what’s the plan?” Joaquin asked around a mouthful of pancakes and sausage. It should be disgusting. It is disgusting. But stupidly enough, you find it awfully charming in a way that makes you frustrated with yourself.
Bob traces the rim of his tea mug. “Are we going back to New York now?” He’s hardly touched his own stack of pancakes, and you briefly wondered if he’d let you have a bite.
“I don’t know,” you shake your head, fork reaching over to tear a piece of blueberry pancake before even asking. Not that he cares. Bob pushes the plate closer to you and you flash him a cheeky, grateful smile. “It feels like a waste of a trip,” you continue, “He might still be in Missouri.”
“I agree,” Sam added.
You glance at him when he replies to you and almost miss the way he elbows Joaquin in his side. When you look over, Joaquin’s eyes meet yours for a split of a second. Just barely, like you were one second too late, before they snap down to his own pancakes which he’d suddenly abandoned.
Your brows furrow, curious, but Sam moves forward quickly, leaving you no time to analyze. “We should try to stay close to him. Flying back to New York and waiting for his next move will just get us further, not closer.”
Bob exhaled, slow and tolerant. “Another night in that motel. Fun.”
Bumping his shoulder, you ask half-jokingly, “Bet you wish you were with your actual team in Lithuania right about now, huh?”
He huffs out a chuckle, before responding with equal sarcasm, “And miss out on the great state of Missouri with you? Not a chance.”
You both knew it was a cover—humor, thinly masking the fear twisting in Bob’s stomach about facing Dr. Mercer again. It was the most support you could offer, and selfishly, trying to help Bob feel better gave you something to distract yourself from your own personal dilemmas. You could only hope it’s actually doing something to make Bob feel better.
“Alright,” Sam says, pushing his empty plate aside. “Let’s regroup. Chat up some locals, maybe someone’s seen something.”
When your face twists into a scrunch of hesitation, Sam quickly assuages your concerns. “I know,” he admits, “He’s been evading public spaces. But who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Why don’t we split up?” Joaquin chimes in to suggest. “Maybe some of us should look at the forest trail again, he might’ve left something behind yesterday that we missed.”
Sam perks up at the idea, turning slowly to Joaquin with a sly grin, “That is a great idea.” When his eyes glance towards you, your stomach sinks in anticipation. “Why don’t you two go together?” Sam suggests, tone light and casual, though you can deduct that it’s anything but. “Bob and I will hit up the locals.”
You don’t dare to look at Joaquin.
You don’t have to.
The tension in the booth shifting tells you everything that you need to know.
-
The woods are quieter than what you remember from yesterday. You wish you could blame it on the late morning, with the sun just beginning to cut through the canopy in thin, uneven ribbons, but you know it has nothing to do with the time and everything to do with your company for the day.
Damp leaves cling to your dirty boots as you follow Joaquin along the narrow trail. It’s obnoxious how considerate he was being despite everything, going out of his way to hold large branches and wave giant spiderwebs out of your way as you cross.
His kind actions were a sharp contrast to his words. Which, namely, were none. It infuriates you how easily he avoids your gaze and commits the two of you to silence whilst playing the gentlemanly role that he self-committed to.
It’s about twenty minutes into your stifling tranquility before Joaquin manages to say his first words to you. “Watch out for that poison ivy.”
You grind your teeth. God, he’s so frustrating! You step over the batch that you saw long before he commented on it without a word before following him over a rotting log.
Stupid Sam and his stupid idea to pair the two of you up.
A sharp huff is exhaled through your nose, fist clenching at your sides. You’re clearly projecting because, technically, it’s not a new idea. The two of you have been partners for the better part of some years now, but you know that Sam knows that you and Joaquin are not on speaking terms right now, so…Sam’s in the wrong. Figure that mental puzzle out.
It’s defensive of you, you’re well aware, to morph your deep sense of embarrassment into anger towards Joaquin. Despite that, you don’t intend on changing your behavior. There was only so much patience you could practice before you started to retaliate against Joaquin in your own way.
You were about halfway through your list of ways you could incapacitate him and leave him in the woods by his lonesome when the sound of Joaquin’s throat clearing snaps you out of your daydream.
“I asked Sam to pair us up today,” Joaquin says without looking back. When your eyes furrow in confusion, he rushes to continue, as if he could feel how your gaze changed behind him. “This morning. Before breakfast.”
The confession makes you recoil in surprise, brows furrowing. Stupidly, your body reacts before you can stop it and your heartbeat stumbles in your chest, filling with something silly like hope.
“Oh…?” It comes out like a question, and you wince at how uncomfortable it sounds.
“Yeah,” Joaquin replies, equally as awkwardly. “I just,” he kicks a wooden stick out of your path, “I figured we’d have to learn to work together again eventually. It shouldn’t be weird forever, right?”
Oh.
Whatever expectations you conjured were squashed as rapidly as they appeared. You quickly swallow your own words about the annoyance of Joaquin’s silence, because you certainly felt a lot better stewing in your anger and being left in the unknown.
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you wet your lips before letting out a quick, forcefully light-hearted, “Yeah.”
You hate how small your voice feels, but there isn’t enough gusto in your spirit to rectify it, not when Joaquin’s so casually slid a knife right between your ribs.
The two of you continue down the path in tense silence again after that. There was no other invitation for conversation, not when his words are weighing so heavy on your shoulder. You wonder if this was Joaquin’s way of saying this was it between the two of you. That whatever existed between you—whatever you had clung to in plain, stupid optimism—it all lands squarely in Joaquin’s past.
You picture him pushing all of it—all your almosts, the heated moments after missions, the quiet confession in the dark of his room—into a neat little box to the back of his brain just to gather dust.
Maybe you deserve it. It’s your own fault, after all, for being the idiot that wants anything more than what you both silently agreed to.
Still. You wish it would hurt a little less.
Only two minutes pass before Joaquin speaks up again. “For what it’s worth…” you hear him swallow. “I wasn’t trying to make things weird.”
For a second, something in your heart aches. Because of course he wasn’t. Everything about this was cruel, but Joaquin wasn’t purposely trying to be. He never is. Still, you can’t help the small humorless laugh that escapes.
“‘Weird’?” you quote sarcastically before pushing past him. “Why would it be weird?”
It takes annoyingly little effort for Joaquin to catch up to you, his shoulders brushing yours as he falls into step next to you. “Don’t be like that. I just want us to be functional again.”
“Well. You’re doing a great job,” you sarcastically applaud. Whatever walls Joaquin managed to tear down while in between your sheets those few weeks ago were slowly coming right back up.
You feel his shoulders tense beside you before he glances over, briefly, just enough for you to see the frown on his face before he turns back around. “That’s not—” he huffs. Joaquin drags a hand through his hair before it falls back down in anger. “That’s not fair.”
You stop dead in your tracks, whipping over to stare directly at him. Fist clenched tightly by your side, you tilt your head toward him with narrowed eyes. Your voice is deep, filled with rage as you seethe. “‘Fair’?”
The nerve of him! You can’t tell if it’s the frustration, hurt, or humiliation boiling under your skin that makes you ball your hands into fists at your side. You put yourself out there, made yourself vulnerable in more ways than one, and now he’s standing in front of you, telling you that you’re not being “fair”?
You step forward until you’re toe to toe with him. Pressing a stern finger into his chest, you declare to him. “You don’t get to say that! You shut me out.”
Joaquin freezes, stumbling back for the briefest of seconds before quickly recovering, as if it was the surprise of it all that had him tripping over himself and not the pressure from your push. That only made you more annoyed. Shoulders squaring, he steadies himself, keeping the two of you toe to toe.
Undeterred, you stay rooted where you stand, looking up at him defiantly with a glare on your face.
When he finally manages to reach your eyes again, his jaw is clenched. For a moment, neither of you say anything. All he does is look—at the finger you have pressed against his chest to the frown on your face—Joaquin just stares. It shouldn’t make you angrier, but it does, his silence.
Still, you don’t back down. Your pride is getting the better of you, and you don’t know truly what you two are standing off for, but you’d be damned if you stepped away first.
When Joaquin continues standing there saying nothing, you can’t help the way you grind your teeth together.
It’s too much. You drop your hand with a frustrated huff when—
Warm, strong fingers grasp your wrist in a flash.
Your breath gets stuck somewhere in your throat when Joaquin holds you in place. Glare faltering, your expression morphs into something softer when he slowly, deliberately, loosens curls his fingers around your wrist. Not enough to let go.
Firm.
Just enough to keep your hand pinned to his chest.
“God, you don’t make anything easy.” He finally speaks, controlled through grit teeth. The words hit harder than you expect, and your chest tightens the same way his grip on your wrist suddenly does. “I know I’m not handling this the way you want,” Joaquin continues, slower and much more careful this time.
Your heart is in your throat when his thumb lightly traces over the side of your wrist. His eyes are downcast now, and he ducks his head, lips almost brushing against your skin and you feel him breath the words, aching and soft, “But I’m trying.”
Trying.
You swallow, pride evaporating into the dense forest air. His touch is familiar in a way that still knows exactly how to undo you. For one dangerous second, you almost let yourself believe him. Almost let yourself lean into the warmth of his grip, into the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm, into him.
Almost.
“You’re trying,” you echo quietly, eyes flickering up to his face. Your eyes meet him now, as he lifts his head high enough for you to see a sliver of warm, honey brown, just underneath the brim of his cap. The same eyes that always just look at you, never saying anything more, never saying what you need.
Jaw clenching, you break your gaze away from him. Abruptly, you tug your wrist away from his hold. It’s sharp and jarring, like stepping off something solid you didn’t realize you were standing on. “I didn’t realize my feelings were something that needed to be ‘handled’.”
His brows furrow immediately, “That’s not what I—”
“Oh, no?” you snap, already turning away from him as you start down the trail again. Your boots crunch louder now, steps uneven, betraying how unsteady you feel. “Because from where I’m standing, it kind of sounds like you’re apologizing for how inconvenient this has been for you.”
“That’s not what I said!” Joaquin says angrily, footsteps hurrying to catch up with you. You can hear it in his voice now—tight and strained—like it always gets when you’re in the field and he feels like he’s quickly losing control of a situation. Matching your pace, you feel his stare on the side of your face, hands waving as he shouts, “You’re doing it again—”
“What?” you cut in, voice raising despite wanting to remain cool in appearance. “Not being fair?”
“Yes!” Joaquin fires back, seething through grit teeth. He looks stunned, genuinely stunned, like he didn’t expect this to explode the way that it has. “You’re mad, I get that! But you’re the one who started talking to other—”
CRUNCH.
The sound is sudden and unmistakable underneath his boot. You both come to a grinding halt. A hand swings over to steady you instinctively with an irritatingly protective touch. You slap him off of you, and he just looks over with his lips pressed in a thin line and eyes that are screaming at you to be cautious. Slowly, he lifts his foot and the two of you take a step back in sync.
Broken glass.
Whatever Joaquin was about to say hangs unfinished between the two of you, swallowed by the quiet of the woods, heavy and unresolved as you both stand there, breathing hard like you’ve finally hit something neither of you knows how to navigate.
Your pulse spikes for a different reason now as adrenaline climbs up your spine.
Joaquin looks around carefully before pulling out his phone with stiff posture. He makes quick work before confirming in a low voice, “No thermal heat signatures.” Other than yours—you fill in the unsaid.
You nod. “Okay,” you let out quietly, eyes scanning your surroundings with the utmost surveillance, “That’s…good.” Your eyes look at the trees, every rustle and shifting shadow. You hate how aware you are of Joaquin beside you—of the calm, steady presence he always becomes in moments like this. You wish he didn’t make you feel so…safe.
“Hold on,” Joquin starts before crouching low, inspecting a patch of disturbed soil with light fingers. “There’s footprints. Fresh ones.”
You step closer towards him despite the warning nudge he gives you, a poor attempt at holding you back. “Are they human?”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, “But…the stride’s uneven. Like whoever left these were limping.”
“Or dragging something,” you pessimistically contribute, though you know that’s not something to be truly concerned with, as there were no other tracks to indicate such suspicions. Your stomach flips naturally in suspense, just for a second, but then…Joaquin stands and takes a step back, invading your space much closer than necessary. You don’t know if it’s intentional, but soothes your worries regardless. “You think it's Mercer?”
Joaquin nods once, eyes scanning the treeline with sharp, focused eyes that you’ve seen more times than you can count on the field. He’s focused. Closed off. Wearing that same look that he always has on missions—one that leaves no room for anything personal. “Probably.”
Without another word, the two of you begin to track the footprints left in the dirt, off of the pathway.
The silence is different now.
Wherever you and Joaquin were heading before this new development arose remains unsaid, placed on the backburner as the two of you try to shift into a more professional dynamic. But it lingers. Tight, coiled in suspense, because the two of you know that it doesn’t end here. Just on pause, because something more dangerous demands your attention.
Work mode takes over, but the tension doesn’t disappear. It’s just waiting.
-
Trailing the new set of footprints doesn’t take long, and it’s only a few minutes later when Joaquin stops abruptly. “There,” he points.
Following his finger, your eyes find a structure half-hidden by overgrown vines. The wood looks like it’s been consumed entirely by moss. It holds up a collapsed tin roof and a door barely hanging on by its hinges.
A shiver skims down your spine that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with intuition, a certainty that something behind that door will lead you to Mercer.
The two of you exchange a wordless glance.
Your steps are quick as you move in, Joaquin reaching the door first and shoving it open with a strong tug. The wood lets out a groan of warning as he swings it open, but the two of you heed it no mind as you disregard the large “NO TRESPASSING” sign.
It’s the smell that hits you first.
Rot, wet wood and old, rusty metal. It’s enough to make you recoil and enough to confirm that the place hasn’t been touched in years. But there’s something else, faint enough to go unnoticed by the untrained nose. But you’ve done this long enough to know better. The distinct scent of copper: fresh blood.
You step in right after Joaquin, boots silent on the warped floorboards. You do your best to squint, forcing your eyes to adjust since the only light available were slivers of sunlight peaking in through the cracked wood walls.
Click.
A faint yellow light fills the small shed. You turn to Joaquin on your left, and you catch him just as he’s lowering his hand. A singular camping lantern strung on top of the metal roof swings precariously from his disturbance from when he yanked the thin chain to turn it on.
With the shed now dimly lit, the full state of the place becomes painfully clear.
Shelves overturned. Wooden crates split open. Dust and dirt scraped aside in chaotic, uneven streaks.
You hum, “Sam was right. Someone was definitely desperate.” You drag a finger across a shelf, frowning at the dust before rubbing your fingers together to flick it off. Eyes gazing through the small space, your head tilts curiously when you notice a trail of red dots. Few short steps lead you to a bench holding a first aid kit that’s been ripped wide open with its contents nearly empty.
“Desperate and hurt apparently,” you whisper to yourself. Moving closer, you move carefully to not disturb whatever pattern the blood left behind. The kit’s metal hinges are twisted, like someone pried it open with more urgency than strength. Gauze wrappers are shredded, antiseptic bottles are drained, and bandage rolls are unraveled into sad, limp ribbons. “He was bleeding pretty bad,” you murmur absently.
“Yeah,” Joaquin replies, from the other side of the shed. “But he treated it. At least, he tried to.” The last part is offhanded and you nod absentmindedly in agreement. This rinky old shed isn’t exactly a level five trauma center; there was only so much Mercer could do here.
Your gaze drifts across the space again to find another bench on the far side where Joaquin was standing. Bypassing the dusty jars of mysterious liquid, boxes of unknown content, and fishing equipment that looks like it's been around longer than you have, you manage to find what Joaquin is referring to. A strip of several pieces of gauze lie crumpled in the corner near the wall. Some of them were heavily soaked in a dark liquid you can only assume is more blood. You continue observing, scanning across until you see other pieces, soaked but not fully saturated. Until you land on the last piece: clean. Only its edges speckled.
You exhale through your nose. “With an injury like that, he can’t have gotten far.”
Continuing to compartmentalize your findings, you continue around to seek for anything else disarranged. Other than some tools he knocked over, a stack of old magazines scattered out of place, and a box of bait, there was not much else to note.
It seemed clear enough. Mercer tore through the place with one objective and ignored everything that wasn’t directly useful.
Taking another step, your foot nudges something thin and shiny beneath an old box. Instinctively, you crouch down and pinch the corner, sliding it out with ease. You trace the piece of paper cautiously, delicately touching its waxy surface.
A folded map.
“Joaquin,” you call out.
“What is it?” he crosses the room in two quick steps before he even finishes asking his question, beside you immediately with his posture alert.
“Not sure.” Flipping the paper over, you notice how crisp it is. Other than some slight wrinkles from being handled, there were no untorn corners, no stains. Definitely not coated in the same dust that’s now in your lungs.
This was recently dropped here.
You and Joaquin share a look, coming to an understanding.
Joaquin’s eyes narrowly watch as you unfold it, and you smile in satisfaction when you realize your assumption was right. Light from the lantern sways, creating patterns over the highways, borders, city names until your eyes reach something.
Your eyes start to scan the page before they automatically draw to a thick red circle carved around a single point with such force that the ink bleeds through the back. Large and unmistakable and so criminally-predictable in a way that almost makes you laugh, you stare at the giant clue Mercer left behind. Seems like the mad scientist tied up his end goal in a giant box and placed a shiny bow on top for you to find, and Missouri isn’t his last stop.
You turn to Joaquin slowly, holding out the map. “He’s not running from us.”
Joaquin exhales through his nose, slow and steady before lowly concluding with grim realization, “He’s running to something.”
You can’t help the wide smile that makes its way on your face. It’s the first real lead you’ve had on the deranged scientist in weeks. “Looks like we’re checking out of that motel afterall.”
-
The sound of gravel crunching underneath your feet starts long before you see Sam and Bob, the crumbly pavement of the street leading to the motel parking lot and excitement coursing through your veins makes it difficult for you to keep steady.
You don’t look at Joaquin as you move, but you’re painfully aware of him anyway. His stride matches yours, close enough that you can feel the shift of air when he moves. It’s distracting. And irritating. But you force yourself the shove that thought aside, the excitement of moving forward with this godforsaken mission doing wonders to quell the nerves.
When you round the metal gate, you find Sam leaning against your rental vehicle with his arms crossed and sunglasses perched on his nose in a way that makes him seem all-too casual. Strikingly contrasting him is Bob, who sits on the edge of the trunk with his shoulders hunched over, hands folded in his lap.
“You were right,” Sam shouts from across the parking lot as the two of you approach. “Talking to the locals was a bust. No one’s seen or heard anything matching our guy.”
Bob stands, hopping off of the trunk when the two of you had made it close enough. Relief brightens his features before he masks it with a small, polite smile. “You’re both safe,” he says gently.
The knot wrapped so tightly around your chest loosens a bit. You offer him a small smile in thanks, his concern filling you with warmth despite the rest of the turmoil you feel.
Turning to Sam, your adrenaline reasserts itself as you disclose what made you text the ‘911’ to meet back here. “We found something.” It comes out a little breathless from the brisk walk of anticipation you took.
Sam’s brow raises, eyes sparkling in interest. You feel Joaquin shift beside you and you glance over just in time to catch the way his head tilts, sharp jaw clenching.
“It’s a map,” Joaquin says, short and clipped.
You don’t let his attitude deter you and the sound of rustling fills the air as you pull the piece of paper from your back pocket. As soon as you manage to unfold it, the sunlight disappears—Sam stepping closer, Bob leaning in, and Joaquin angling just enough that your shoulders almost brush. Your skin tightens at the proximity, bracing yourself for his touch in a way that you refuse to unpack right this moment.
“There was a shed,” you explain, words rushed. “Off the path we took. He was looking for medical supplies and dropped this.”
Lifting the sunglasses from his face, Sam reads out-loud to himself, “El Paso, Texas?”
You nod excitedly. “El Paso, Texas.” Looking around, you note the lack of enthusiasm on everyone’s faces. The map slaps against your thigh in exasperation, “Guys, really? Nothing? If we leave now, maybe we can get there before Mercer. Come on, let’s hit the road.”
You turn toward the car, already mentally calculating the drive time, contingencies, what you’ll do when you finally get him—
You only make it two steps towards the car before Sam’s spinning you back around to face everyone again. “Hold on, slow down.” He raises a hand in surrender, like he was declaring peace before you’ve even said a word. Flickering over to Bob and Joaquin first before he turns to you, Sam says with a sigh, “We need to think about this.”
“What is there to think about?” you ask genuinely, confused by his interruption.
Sam lets out a small chuckle, crossing his arm across his chest. “For one, how do we even know that the map is Mercer's?”
You mirror his stance without thinking, arms folding tight in a similar manner. You don’t offer Sam a true answer, the deadpan look on your face does it for you.
Rolling his eyes, Sam concedes with a half-smirk, “Alright, fair point. But even if that is his, there’s no way we make it there before he does. He’s had, what, a twelve hour head start?”
“He was injured.” Joaquin chimes in with a short declaration.
You point at him exaggeratedly, as if to say ‘exactly!’ without a word at all. “Who’s to say we can’t make up for lost time?” you state with raised brows.
Sam raises his brows back, rocking on his heels. “Okay. Say we make it to El Paso. Then what?” He pauses for a split second, and you don’t even attempt to answer the clearly rhetorical question. “It’s a big city. Mercer’s proven that he can hide pretty damn well.”
“We can figure it out once we’re there,” you argue in frustration, unable to comprehend Sam’s disagreement. “Like you said this morning, we should try to stay as close to him as we can.” Admittedly, Sam does have valid points, but it could all be resolved later, so long as you’re in the same city as the guy.
“It could be a trap,” he responds. “Maybe he dropped it on purpose, wanted us to find it.”
“I doubt it,” Joaquin steps forward, standing next to you in a way that was almost instinctive, but he stood far enough to signal just support, not personal alignment. “He was injured pretty bad. He’s erratic. I don’t think he’s thinking straight.”
“You’re underestimating him. That’s a weak assumption,” Sam shakes his head. “We can’t speak to his sense of mind. With the super serum—”
“This is the only tangible piece of evidence we’ve found in weeks. We finally have something more than just catching a glimpse of this guy through some blurry CVV cam. Why are you so adamant against following this lead?” you push.
“I’m not saying I’m against it. We need to be logical, figure something out before we run to El Paso, guns blazing.” Sam retorts.
“I mean, it’s not really guns blazing if we take hours to get there,” Joaquin shrugs.
Voices start to raise as you, Sam, and Joaquin all start to overlap one another. Contention about the next steps start to spill over, words stacking on top of each other until none of them mean anything at all.
“It’s just a little bit reckless—” Sam starts.
The words were so eerily similar to what Joaquin said to your last mission, you can’t help but snap, “‘Reckless’? Really? Take that one from Joaquin, did you? This is bullshit, we can’t just sit here and wait idly for this guy—”
“Woah, what’s with the driveby?” Joaquin turns to you with a glare, “I’m on your side here—”
“We shouldn’t underestimate him, he might be smarter than we think—” Sam insists.
Everyone continues to spiral, each sentence sharper than the last. The motel parking lot was already small in and of itself, but with the words that you throw at each other, it feels suffocating. Almost as if the open space isn’t able to hold it all.
You grip the map in your hand, gesturing wildly as the paper crinkles under your grip. “This is so dumb! Let’s just go to Texas—”
“We will, I’m just saying let’s take a beat—”
“Come on, Sam. Do we really need to? This is the first time Mercer’s directly left us any sort of clue. I think we should go—” Joaquin prompts.
“No, I don’t think—”
The map starts to tremble in your hand, though you don’t realize it until Joaquin reaches out, steadying your wrist. It has you swallowing your next words, hand dropping in defeat. Just when you start to turn your back, away from Sam and Joaquin, a quiet voice speaks up for the first time since the argument began.
“I think we should go,” Bob whispers.
The strife comes to an immediate halt.
You turn back around to look at him.
He stands a little apart from the rest of you now, seemingly rooted in the same spot as earlier whilst the three of you migrated away in the midst of your quarrel. Though he’s standing, Bob’s shoulders are still rounded, hands tucked into the sleeves of his jacket as if he was trying to make himself smaller. His voice wasn’t loud. You’re not sure Bob is even capable of being loud. But he cut through to all of you so clearly that all attention lies on him.
For a reason unbeknownst to you, Sam doesn’t seem to want to argue against Bob, leaving all three of you just watching him in silence, waiting for his next words.
The parking lot still hums with distant traffic and the buzz of the vending machine, but none of it seems to touch this space that Bob’s carved out with just a single sentence. You scan his face, and though he doesn’t meet your eyes, you can see it: something heavy swimming inside them.
You feel your grip on the map loosen as you wonder how long he’s been thinking about this before speaking up.
Suddenly, the debate that was so heated feels smaller than it did before.
“I think,” Bob starts before stopping himself, eyes squinting as though he recalled a bad memory. Shaking his head, he continues with more confidence. “I know why he’s in El Paso.”
“How?” you’re the only one who dares to ask, gently, as you step closer to him.
Bob’s fingers tighten around his sleeve. For a second, you think he might shut down and retreat back into himself.
But he doesn’t.
Bob slowly exhales. Looking up, he meets your eyes as he admits. “He used to talk to me. At night. When he used to observe me he’d…ramble. There were these ideas that he just couldn’t let go of.” You watch as he swallows the lump in this throat, but he never looks away from you. “El Paso was one of those things.”
You can hear Sam shift his weight from behind you, but he stays silent. Joaquin is impossible to miss, the way he’s watching your back instead of looking at Bob. Still, no one moves or speaks.
“There was a lab there,” he continues. “It was his first one. Where he started—” Bob gestures awkwardly to himself, like he was making a poor attempt to bring humor to the situation, “—this whole experiment.”
You part your lips, ready to offer some sense of comfort, but Bob strives forward before you can.
“The antidote.” Bob clenches his jaw, snapping his gaze from you and choosing instead to look in the far distance. His arms wrap around himself as he finishes, “It’s there. I know it.”
Everyone falls into complete silence.
A car passes somewhere beyond the motel.
The hallway light flickers.
A soft breeze sweeps through the four of you.
Sam lets out a long tired sigh. “Well why didn’t you just say so?”
-
The highway stretches out in front of you, long and dark. Its yellow lines blur together as mile after mile slips by. The dashboard clock glows, illuminating some ungodly hour of the night, and the inside of the car is dim except for the occasional wash of white from passing streetlights.
No one said much after Bob’s grand reveal; everyone quietly slipping into the car without a word. It wasn’t out of anger, not at all, but truly because Bob’s confession left everyone’s minds reeling. There was just too much to think about—the reality of what’s in El Paso, the darkness of Bob’s backstory, all the unknown that’s waiting for you in this unregulated lab.
It drained you so deeply that you didn’t have the strength to slip into that protector role for Bob. Though, you’re not sure he would even be receptive to it, with the way his face clouded and he tucked into himself the second he hit the backseat.
Now, Joaquin’s hands are steady on the wheel and his stare is fixed solely ahead, which you only know by glancing at him through your peripherals.
You don’t look for long. You think you’d die of mortification if he caught you actually staring. So, gaze averting, you look through the rearview mirror only to be met with Sam dead asleep in the back. Your lips press into a thin line, unamused by the way his head is tipped back against the window, mouth slightly open, one arm flung awkwardly across his chest. He looks ridiculously comfortable for someone who was putting up quite the commotion only hours prior.
Somehow, Joaquin notices your look.
For a second your heart lurches in your chest as you wonder if he’s going to say something about earlier, the almost argument.
But he doesn’t.
“It’s kind of impressive,” he starts, voice low as his eyes stay on the road. “Guy had an entire room to himself last night, probably got the best sleep out of all of us and somehow he still roped us into driving.”
You snort before you can stop yourself.
The sound feels strange—a bit too loud in the quiet car—and Joaquin’s eyes flicker towards you. Then a corner of his mouth lifts. It’s small. Careful. But it’s there.
His words came at you in surprise, and his comment landed softer than you except. It was lighthearted, almost…casual. You can hear it in his voice, a careful balance he was treading, like if he said one word wrong, the two of you might go spiraling again. Joaquin is testing the waters with you. Reluctantly, you lean back in your seat, letting him. Like he said: he’s trying. Maybe you’ll let him.
A small pause follows.
Joaquin clears his throat as he shifts in his seat.
The air between you now is certainly not uncomfortable, but it’s definitely uncertain.
Matching his movements, you also shift in your seat again, pretending like you’re trying to settle when really you’re just moving around awkwardly. Looking away from Sam with a roll of your eyes before focusing on the crinkly plastic bag in your hand. The family sized bag of sour candy was quickly heading towards empty, much faster than you’d like to admit, and a flicker of hesitation flashes through you as you stare at the small, circular treats.
Swallowing your nerve, you tilt the bag towards Joaquin in a silent offer.
It feels strangely intimate for something so small, and for a split second you consider pulling back.
He glances over at you when he catches your movements.
Streetlight and starlight catch on the side of his face, softening the exhaustion etched there, and for a second, your breath catches in your throat. The harsh lines you’ve grown so used to seeing the past few weeks seem to melt away in the quiet. Dim lights smooth him out, turning him gentle again, the way you really remember him.
You lick your lips when they suddenly feel much drier than they did before. It’s like this version of Joaquin only exists now, in this briefest of moments, when the world’s narrowed down to just the two of you in the front seat of this random car with nothing but the low whirl of road flashing by you.
Joaquin’s lips curve into a small, crooked smile as he reaches into the bag, his fingers brushing against yours through the plastic in a way that makes your skin burn.
It’s nothing. Barely even there.
But still. It’s enough to send a quiet jolt up your spine.
“Thanks,” he quietly murmurs as he pulls out a handful.
Instinctively, your brows furrow. “Take the whole damn bag, why don’t you?”
Joaquin stares at you with wide eyes, shocked for a second before throwing his head back as he lets out a loud laugh, the sound cutting clean through the quiet of the car.
For the first time in a long time, Joaquin sounds unguarded around you. Easy in a way that you haven’t heard from him in what feels like forever. It startles you just as much as it warms you.
“Hey,” he grins, eyes flickering to the rearview mirror just in the briefest of movements when he remembers the two sleeping bodies in the back. “I need it. I have another six hours ahead of me. How are you going to justify going through half that bag just sitting in the passenger seat?”
You huff, shaking your head as Joaquin resettles comfortably in his seat and shaking the fistful of candy in his hand so it rattles.
“I don’t need to justify anything,” you retort. “I had the insight to pick a good roadtrip snack. Unlike some people.”
He gives you a sharp glare. “Beef jerky is a perfectly respectable roadtrip snack.”
“Whatever,” you roll your eyes, popping another candy into your mouth as you turn to face forward again. “Enjoy gnawing on your raccoon meat.”
Joaquin scoffs, shaking his head, though you know there’s no bite behind it because it quickly morphs back into that smile, because Joaquin still gets you. The realization has your heart beating just a little too quickly in your chest.
This conversation feels dangerously good. Like it isn’t weighed down by guilt or the unspoken frustration that’s lingered so insistantly between the two of you for weeks. For the first time, it was like you were really talking, in a way that isn’t in arguments or the pressure of the mission.
Just the two of you, side by side. You can almost pretend that this is how it used to be, back when silence didn’t mean tension just…you and Joaquin.
You glance at him again, catching the lingering smile at the edge of his mouth.
“Thanks for having my back earlier,” you faintly confess.
He turns to look at you, eyes sparkling as he says back just as quietly, “Always.”
The word shouldn’t mean so much. You try to tell yourself not to reach for it, not to read in between his lines. Still, your chest tightens the way it always does around him.
For the briefest of moments, the two of you settle into this strange rhythm between you.
One that almost feels normal.
-
The gas station comes into view way before you actually pull up to it, the bright white fluorescents cutting through the dark like an artificial sun. It’s the first real break in the drive in hours, and given the unusual time, the building sits alone, humming against the emptiness around it.
A soft click-clack click-clack fills the car as Joaquin turns his signal on, despite there being no one else on the road for miles, and the pebbles from the pavement crunch beneath the tires as he parks near the pumps.
A sudden quiet fills the car as he cuts the engine.
Joaquin exhales slowly, one hand lingering on the steering wheel like he hasn’t quite decided what to do with himself yet. You just watch him without a word.
For a moment, it feels like the car is holding its breath with the two of you, windows quickly fogging up now that the ignition is off.
He swallows, opening his mouth for the briefest of seconds before pressing them into a thin line, his tongue briefly pressing to his cheek like he’s rehearsing something in his head and he isn’t sure if it should be said out loud.
Heart beating loudly in your chest, your fingers tighten around the edge of your seat in anticipation.
Just when Joaquin parts his lips, Bob shifts suddenly, a soft grunt leaving him as he rolls against the door.
It makes the gentle atmosphere snap.
“I’m g’nna grab gas,” Joaquin hastily announces, already unbuckling his seat belt, one hand on the door handle.
You nod once, stiffly, reaching for your own door. “Bathroom.”
For a split second, both your hands hover over the center console, Joaquin reaching for his wallet and you for the empty bag of candy to dispose of.
You both freeze.
With messy, quick movements, Joaquin swiftly snatches his wallet from beside your bag and rushes out of the car with a clear of his throat. The driver side door shuts behind him with a loud thud, the sound echoing in your ears.
Lingering in the passenger seat for a moment, you watch him through the windshield as he starts pumping gas. He moves almost automatically, arms crossing across his chest as he stares as the numbers rapidly increase on the screen.
He’s distant again.
You frown before sighing quietly to yourself. Pushing the door open, the chill bites at your skin and the scent of gasoline hangs thick in the air as you head toward the 24/7 convenience store, not daring to look back at him. You wonder if that version of him in the car was real, or just something the dark road tricked you into believing.
The bell chimes above your head when you step inside, the place empty save for the teenager behind the counter who doesn’t even bother to look up at you.
You don’t spare it a second thought, heading straight for the bathroom.
The lock clicks behind you, loud in the too-small space. Bracing your hands against the sink, you stare at your reflection. Fluorescent lighting has never been kind to anybody, but it seems especially cruel to you now, washing you out in a way that makes it difficult to recognize yourself. The bags under your eyes are deep, but your eyes shine like they’re too awake.
Your mind hasn’t caught up to the fact that you haven’t slept all night, too high strung from the energy of just sitting next to Joaquin, delighted in the almost camaraderie you shared.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
It’s stupid. So stupid to let a quiet drive and a handful of sour candy undo weeks of carefully maintained distance. As if one quiet laugh and brush of finger can change anything at all.
Except it did.
For you, at least. Because that’s all it takes from Joaquin to have your walls come crumbling down again.
Splashing cold water on your face, you force yourself to be grounded. The sink creaks as you lean harder into it.
Get it together.
When you step back into the store, you start sweeping snacks off the shelves and pluck drinks from the fridge into your arms, both absentmindedly and hurried.
Something chocolate. Another bag of jerky. Sour candy again because who cares if the inside of your mouth is already blistering. Some energy drinks.
Your arms fill quickly, and you drop the mountain of junk in front of the cashier who still doesn’t bother to look up at you. Finger tapping impatiently against the counter, you count down the agonizing seconds between each beep of his scanning. After paying, you let out a quiet thanks before scooping up the bags he hands you.
When you open the door to exit, the cold hits you sharply.
You find Joaquin leaning against the car despite the gas pump already nestled neatly into its respective home. One shoulder rests against the driver’s side door, arms crossed loosely over his chest with his gaze fixed on the concrete beneath him like he’s stuck in thought.
The harsh station lights carve him into something sharper, much sharper than the way he looked in the car. Here, his edges are defined again and his posture is stiff. Whatever softness that managed to slip through on the highway has been tucked away again, locked up tight.
You try to convince yourself that it’s easier to see him like this, that it’s easier to breathe around him this way if anything else. But the way the air constricts in your lungs tells you that you’re just lying to yourself.
Your footsteps crunch softly against the gravel as you approach, and he straightens when he notices you. Pushing himself off the car, his eyes flicker to the bags in your arms.
Before he has the chance to say anything, you riffle through one of them. Holding up a bag of jerky, all you offer is a slight shrug before tossing it over the car for him to catch.
He catches it easily, muscle memory taking over, and for a split second his eyebrows knit in surprise as he stares down at the bag in his hands. “...Thanks,” he says quietly.
You nod once, noncommittal, before reaching for your own door.
“Wait,” Joaquin calls out just as your fingers grasp the cold metal. “About before,” he starts, looking at you.
Your chest tightens despite what you just told yourself to do in the bathroom mirror. Keeping your expression as neutral as you can, you wait for Joaquin’s next words.
“Not just now but…” You watch his brows furrow, frustration etched on his face. “Before Arizona,” he stumbles over his words. A loud huff escapes him, wisps of cold air blowing out of his mouth. “Look, I’m just having a hard time with—”
A car door creaks open loudly.
“Oh,” Bob groans, voice thick with sleep. “I thought my legs were going to cramp permanently.” He stretches as he steps out of the backseat, one arm braced on the roof of the car while the other presses into his lower back. He squints at the station lights like they’re personally offending him.
You watch as Joaquin’s shoulders visibly tense, snapping tight like a reflex.
Behind Bob, Sam stirs, peaking his head out from Bob’s side. Blinking blearily around the lot, he calls out, “Why are we stopped?” Sam is halfway out of the car before anyone can answer. “Please tell me there’s coffee involved.”
You look back at Joaquin, who’s looking anywhere but you now. The moment collapses in on itself, whatever he was about to say clearly already gone.
The sound of movement has you looking back over at Sam as he fully steps out of the car, rubbing his hand over his face with a stretch.
Bob lets out a small, breathy laugh from beside him, already shuffling toward the entrance with his jacket pulled tighter around himself. “I think I see a machine inside,” he offers.
“Thank God,” Sam mutters, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder as the two of them steer toward the door.
Once the two of them disappear inside, bell chiming peacefully behind them, you and Joaquin are left alone again.
Silence envelopes the two of you, except it’s heavier now, thick with unsaid words.
Joaquin stays by the driver’s side, eyes fixed somewhere past the pumps like the answer to whatever stands between the two of you would be written out in the dark. He drags a harsh hand against his jaw, rubbing the tense muscle thoughtfully before it drops uselessly to his side.
You shift your weight, plastic bags crinkling softly in your arms. Words are crawling up your throat, but they stay stuck there, because you don’t know what to say to him. “So,” you start, not exactly knowing where you’re going, “Coffee crisis averted, I guess…” You glance away from him, cheeks starting to grow warm despite the cold air in sheer embarrassment at your pathetic attempt at starting the conversation.
You hear him exhale through his nose, that soft almost-laugh that he’s been doing. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “Lucky us.”
Another pause ensues.
You shouldn’t push; you remind yourself of the pep talk in that small gas station bathroom. But then you look at him.
The way his shoulders are still tight, the way his jaw keeps clenching like he’s biting something back, sharp and honest. It’s just so unlike him, and despite your better knowledge, you sigh through your nose.
You just want the old him back. So quietly, too quietly to take back, you push. “You were saying something. About Arizona…?”
Joaquin turns to you, and for a second you see it, his walls slipping. It’s in his eyes, the same unsettled look from the woods. One that screams he’s standing on the edge of something dangerous. His gaze lingers on you, unguarded, searching like the words are right there—
He swallows.
“I just—” he starts. Then stops. Joaquin lets out a deep breath of his own, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jackets as he turns to fully face you. “I don’t want to mess this up more than I already have.” He shakes his head slightly, a small bitter smile on his face. “That’s all.”
Your chest tightens painfully, like you’ve swallowed something too big to breathe around. Whatever this is between you, is or was or threatens to turn into, is already fragile. Lump forming in your throat, you wonder what his words mean, when you’ve already put yourself out there.
Searching his face for something more, you wait for him to crack, give a confession that he doesn’t know how to give.
The station lights are getting more painful by the second, and you can only imagine what your exhaustion looks like underneath them, but Joaquin’s eyes are fixed on you now. His gaze is soft, much softer than it has been for the better part of half a month. You’d recognize that change in him anywhere. It’s so subtle, you don’t think you would notice it if you didn’t know him the way that you did.
And suddenly, you realize he’s waiting.
Your throat tightens, unable to give him the reassurance he’s seeking, because Joaquin keeps looking at you like you’re the one who has the answer here. Like you’re the one with the power. But you’ve done your part. You confessed. And he turned you down.
You don’t owe him anything.
A small shrug. “We’re fine.”
Something flickers across his face—disappointment, maybe—but you can’t tell.
You hate how badly you want to close the space between you, how natural it feels to want him close.
Your fingers curl tighter around the plastic bags in your arms, grounding yourself after the clear lie you told.
“Right,” he murmurs, a quiet concession.
You think to yourself: ‘This is it. This is the end.’
But then you watch the way Joaquin’s hand flexes in his pocket. Then he stills. “No.” He suddenly shakes his head, laughing in clear disbelief. “I’m sorry, that’s just,” he looks up at you with a shrug. “That’s just not true. I can’t accept that answer. I know you—”
“The coffee here is disgusting,” Sam announces to no one in particular as he screams from across the parking lot. “I didn’t know it was possible to burn coffee, I mean,” he let out a loud scoff.
Both you and Joaquin flinch at the sudden interruption.
You respond as casually as you can, forcing your voice to be steady as you tell Sam, “I bought some Red Bulls.” Your eyes stay on Joaquin. It’s weird how you feel as though you’ve just been caught doing something wrong, when you and Joaquin are doing nothing more than barely having a conversation across the expanse of an entire vehicle, but the feeling is there.
Still, you don’t look away from Joaquin. And he doesn’t look away from you.
The world narrows again, impossibly, to just the two of you standing opposite one another. His eyes search yours for something, but for what, you can’t tell.
“Isn’t that stuff, like, really bad for you?” Bob mumbles before tumbling into the car, the entire thing shifting underneath his weight.
This time, no one bothers to respond.
“We should get going,” Joaquin finally murmurs, almost reluctantly.
“Yeah,” you reply, just as quietly.
“Hey,” he calls out, just as you look away. There’s something tentative in his voice that has you glancing back up at him. “We’ll talk later?” It comes out hopeful. Cautious.
Your chest tightens again. Nodding once, you agree. “Sure.”
A small promise for now. But maybe one that gets the two of you in the right direction.
-
Exhaustion still plagues you when you step out boots first onto El Paso soil. The few hours of sleep that you got did nothing to undo the weeks of all-nighters you’ve been pulling, and coupled with the non-conversation you had with Joaquin, your rest wasn’t particularly restful. You thank your lucky stars that you didn’t actually have to sit next to him for the remaining hours, Sam jumping in to take the wheel after his busted coffee break. Still, despite the increased distance, you got little respite from Joaquin’s stares as he constantly flickered to the backseat where you were trying to get some rest beside Bob.
You look over at the disheveled, aforementioned man. Despite seemingly getting more sleep than you, Bob somehow looks worse. Not that you’re surprised. This mission has done nothing but open Pandora’s box for him and after weeks of turbulence and uncertainty, you’re now only minutes away from finally confronting the villain plaguing him.
There was a moment, in the car, when you leaned in close and tried to check in on him. But the space was small, cramped in a way that made it feel too suffocating, too intimate of a thing to discuss with Sam and Joaquin within arms reach. Bob had stiffened the second you came close, his gaze flickering to the window like he was bracing for impact.
So you backed off.
Now, standing under the relentless Texas sun, you regret it a little.
Bob rubs his face with the heel of his palm, deeply, before letting out a shake of his head. He hasn’t said much since you arrived, and what he has offered came out so quiet and measured.
“Almost there.” Sam looks back at Bob for confirmation, and the nervous man just offers a small nod.
The lab sits a short distance away, low and nondescript against the desert stretch. Its concrete exterior is cracked and mossy, like it's been abandoned for a long while. No signage. No movement. Just a building that feels wrong in a way that settles deep in your gut.
Your fingers tighten against the gun on your waistline.
Joaquin steps closer, instinctive, his presence sliding into place at your side like it always does in times like these. You don’t need to look at him to feel him there, solid in a way that’s maddening.
“Same pairing,” Sam murmurs. “You and Joaquin take point. Bob, with me.”
Joaquin shifts besides you just slightly, but you beat him to answering. “Copy,” you confirm, voice firm and professional. It lands like a closed door, with no room for dispute.
Moving quickly, you advance toward the building with Joaquin falling into step beside you without argument. The air changes the closer you get, and heat presses heavier against your skin, the wind drops until everything feels unnaturally still.
From your peripherals, you watch as Sam and Bob move slyly toward the back of the building, Redwing on their sixes.
Pulse loud in your ears, you roll your shoulders once, just to loosen the tension that’s been living there for days—to roll off the unbecoming silence between you and your partner.
It doesn’t work. But at least you tried.
Reaching the entrance, you and Joaquin share a silence look with each other. The metal door hangs crooked on its hinges, scarred and rusted, as if something heavy tried to force its way through.
Leaning in close, Joaquin hovers in your space just enough that you can hear him over your own breathing. “Slow and steady,” he encourages you.
Nodding, you shift your weight as you angle your body toward the doorway with your weapon raised. Taking the opposite side, Joaquin’s shoulder brushes yours for the briefest of seconds before he moves. The contact is light, accidental, but it sends an unwelcome spark up your spine in a way that forces a sigh from you.
Focus.
Joaquin counts down from his fingers. Three. Two. One.
He slams the door open with his shoulder and the two of you push inside, cold air slapping against your sweat-damp skin. The temperature change is jarring, enough to make your breath hitch for half of a second before you force it steady.
The lab smells like chemicals and dust, sterile and rotten all at once. Some fluorescent lights flicker overhead, others dead, a few buzzing weakly, all casting uneven shadows down the hallway.
Your footsteps echo despite your care.
You and Joaquin move in practiced meticulance; you sweeping right while he takes left, movements perfectly synchronized. Old equipment litters the floor from bare metal carts to scattered paperwork that are now yellow with age. Doors line the corridor with small windows granting views inward that you observe carefully, scanning for any potential threats.
“This place is giving me the creeps,” Joaquin mutters.
You can’t help but smile at his commentary. “Eyes up, Torres,” you reply, rolling your own.
It wasn’t so unsafe to engage in work banter—that the two of you could do.
As you pass the rooms one by one, something catches your eye. Slowing just a fraction, you peer through cracked glass. Inside, a metal gurney bolted to the floor with restraints hanging loose. Dried blood stains the dark surface. Dark, but not dark enough.
Deeper inside, the air hums faintly, electricity running somewhere in there.
Stomach turning, your grip on your gun tightens.
“Do you hear that?” Joaquin asks quietly.
Before you can answer, a crash rings out from somewhere ahead, and you and Joaquin whip toward the source. The sound echoes down the hall, metal against concrete, followed by a sharp strangled noise that raises every hair on your body.
“Sam,” you press a finger to your comms. “Status.”
Static crackles for a second too long when suddenly—
“Contact,” Sam snaps, voice strained. “Mercer’s here. He’s—shit!” Another loud crash. “Shit, he’s not right!” his voice yells.
Joaquin turns towards you, eyes blazing with motivation before he calls out, “Go.”
Matching him instantly, the two of you break into a run, boots pounding down the path you just took as adrenaline floods your veins. Every argument, every unsaid word between you and Joaquin disappears under the weight of the moment because there’s only one mission now.
But somewhere, in the back of your mind, uninvited and unwelcomed, a single thought lingers: What if you don’t get a chance to say what you’ve been avoiding?
-
Multiple sharp turns lead you to what used to be the lab’s main testing floor. You recognize it immediately—not because you’re that good, but because it’s clear. Large, overturned metal tables littered all over the space like discarded bones. Equipment smashed beyond recognition. Monitors cracked and blinking with dying lights.
At the center of it all: Mercer.
He’s on his knees, hunched over like his own body has betrayed him. With one hand braced against the floor, the other claws uselessly against his chest. Vials lie shattered all around him, green liquid spilling all over the floor. One syringe still dangles from his fingers, empty.
“No,” he chokes, voice raw and cracking. “No, no, no.”
His body convulses.
You don’t hesitate, moving in closer. “Mercer! Hands where I can see them, now!”
He lets out a laugh. Or maybe a sob. The sound is twisted enough that you can’t tell the difference.
From the corner of your eye, you see Sam and Bob at the opposite entrance—Sam with his weapon raised, Bob frozen behind him. “Bob, stay back,” you hear Sam whisper to him.
Mercer looks up then, and you see how whatever is left of him completely fractures.
“You,” he gasps, staring straight at Bob. “I—” His eyes are bloodshot, wild, veins standing out violently along his neck as his face contorts into something like horror. “You were there. You were the first! You—”
Before anyone can react, Mercer slams his palm into the ground and the entire floor shudders. Everyone is thrown off balance, stumbling in the wake of his actions. He moves fast, too fast for anyone to truly realize what’s happening before it’s too late.
You hear Joaquin shout your name as Mercer launches himself toward your direction, body moving wrong, joints snapping into place with sickening precision. You fire instinctively, shots ringing out as Mercer barrels past, clipping a table hard enough to send it skidding into the wall.
“Take him down!” Sam yells.
And the room explodes into chaos.
You and Joaquin split without another word, flanking on opposite sides as Mercer slams Sam into a supportive beam with enough force to knock the air out of his lungs. Bob ducks instinctively, scrambling backward as debris rains down around him.
Mercer turns, locking eyes with you.
For a split second, you see something almost human flicker in them.
Then it’s gone.
He charges and you brace for impact, firing again. The shots stagger against him, but they don’t stop him. Colliding into you, you fly into a wall, hard. Pain blooms across your shoulder as your grip on your gun falters.
But then Joaquin is there.
He tackles Mercer from the side, the two of them crashing into a metal door at the far end of the room. Joaquin grunts as Mercer fights back viciously, punching and elbowing him hard enough to draw blood.
“No!” you scream, the adrenaline from watching him go down enough to snap you out of your daze. You raise your gun again, but the two of them are simply a blur of bodies as the two of them battle each other.
You stumble forward, vision swimming, forcing your focus through the ringing in your ears. Joaquin and Mercer are locked in a violent tangle of limbs—too close, moving too fast. Joaquin’s shoulder slams into the door again with a metallic groan as Mercer drives into him, teeth bared like an animal.
“Joaquin!” you scream again, voice cracking raw. He hears it. You know he does, because his head snaps just enough for his eyes to find yours through the mayhem. That’s all the warning he needs. “Down!”
He drops instantly—pure instinct, pure trust.
You fire.
The shot cracks through the room, deafening. Mercer howls as the onslaught of bullets tear through his side, the impact snapping him backward with a force that should have dropped him.
Except it doesn’t.
Instead, Mercer screams—an unhinged, furious sound—and something in him completely snaps. He roars, veins standing out violently as he surges forward again, grabbing Joaquin by the collar with impossible strength. He throws him, not away from you, but through you.
Joaquin slams into you just as you’re mid-step, the force knocking the two of you clean off your feet. You crash together into the adjacent room, bodies a mix of limbs as you hit the floor hard.
Then suddenly—
SLAM.
A heavy metal door crashes shut. You hear the locks engage immediately, one after another in sequence before the last one clicks like a final verdict. It resounds through the room.
You gasp, breath punched from your lungs, sprawled beneath Joaquin as alarms scream somewhere beyond the walls. Dust rains down from the ceiling as the building shudders again and you can hear Sam shouting at Mercer whilst Bob yells out your names. It’s all muffled, distant.
From above you, Joaquin groans, bracing one arm beside your head as he tries to push himself up, only to hiss sharply and freeze. “Shit—”
“Don’t,” you exhale, hand coming up to automatically steady him, fingers gripping his jacket, coughing out the words. “You’re bleeding.”
He exhales, hard, forehead dropping briefly toward your shoulder before he forces himself to shift just enough so he’s not crushing you anymore. You’re still close, legs tangled, with his weight warm and solid against you.
His eyes find yours in a way that’s wild and intense, still brimming with adrenaline.
“You okay?” he breathes, like nothing else matters.
Chest heaving, your heart tries to claw its way out of your ribcage. “Yeah,” you manage. “Yeah I—” you swallow. “Are you—”
Another violent impact slams into the door from the other side, Mercer’s roar reverberating through the metal. Joaquin’s hand comes up to shield you without thinking. He angles his body instinctively, like he can still put himself between you and the danger even with a metal door in the way.
The sound fades, footsteps pounding and voices shouting orders, but it all starts to feel distorted, swallowed by thick steel. Whatever is happening out there, it’s no longer something you can reach.
Your ears ring as alarms continue to wail, red lights flashing overhead in frantic pulses that make the room feel smaller with every second.
Sucking in a breath, you try to move, only to be answered with immediate pain. A sharp, protesting ache blooms through your side as you shift beneath Joaquin, forcing a quiet gasp from your throat. He feels it, instantly.
“Hey,” he murmurs, tension snapping through him as he stills. “Easy.”
He moves off you carefully, easing more of his weight away as he rolls just enough to brace himself on his good arm. The space between you widens by inches, but it feels too far, when you’ve gotten so used to his warmth atop you. Almost as if he can sense your thoughts, Joaquin chooses to keep close, your knees still brushing and your shoulders barely apart.
You blink harder this time, vision finally starting to clear as you fully take in the room. It was a simple four concrete wall space, no windows. A control panel is by the door, its screen glowing a dark red. Thick locking mechanisms are embedded into the frame, unmoving and unresponsive.
Sealed.
“Okay,” you breathe out, pushing yourself upright despite the protest from your entire body. “Okay, let’s move. We need to get that door open.”
Joaquin nods once, already scrambling his feet and you try not to let his wince of pain go straight through your heart. Adrenaline is still rushing through your veins and you have to put it to use.
The two of you hobble over to the door and Joaquin grabs the handle before attempting to yank with all of his body weight, letting out a loud groan of effort. You think his efforts are futile, so you focus on the panel instead, tapping insistently on the screen that just flashes at you in disamusement.
Joaquin tries again, harder this time, muscles in his forearm standing out as he throws everything he has into it. “Fuck,” he grunts, nearly slipping backwards. When the door doesn’t budge, he turns to you with a boyish look, already knowing that he’s going to be stating the obvious. “Yup. Definitely locked.”
Another crash echoes from somewhere beyond the wall—voices shouting, boots pounding, chaos so clearly spilling through the lab.
Frantically, the two of you begin to look around the small room. Other than a bunch of overturned equipment and a set of cabinets built into the wall that contains God-knows-what with a countertop covered in nothing but debris, the room offered no help.
Scanning the walls, you try to find something, anything that can lead you out to the next room. Maybe you and Joaquin can climb some vents again, for old times sake.
Quickly, you process that you and Joaquin are stuck in some glorified supply room, which could only mean one thing.
“Damn,” Joaquin curses, coming to the same realization at the same time.
There was no way out.
“Sam!” you yell, fist pounding against the door as a last resort. “Bob!”
Joaquin joins you, the two of you yelling for attention as your fist rap desperately against the metal.
The sound of greater commotion, one that seems much louder than when you two were in the room trying to take Mercer down, has the two of you turning to each other with a grim look.
Several minutes go by with the sound of doors being broken down, gunshots, and horrific shouts, all of them drowning out the sound of you and Joaquin calling out for help. Just when you’re about to give up and try to find another way, footsteps skid to a stop on the other side. “Hey! Hey—are you, are you two good?” A shaky voice calls out, cutting through the door loudly and urgently.
“Bob!” you shout in excitement, hope radiating through you at the sound of his voice. “Yes! Yes, we’re okay. Are you—”
“Where’s Mercer?” Joaquin cuts in, unintentionally, as he panics breathlessly.
“Don’t worry. He’s down!” Bob manages to stutter out, like he had to look around the room to confirm first. “Backup,” he attempts to explain, “And Bucky. Bucky’s here, too, now.”
Relief floods you first—sharp and dizzying at the confirmation that Mercer is down, that the immediate threat is over—but it quickly morphs into guilt, hot and heavy in your gut. You weren’t there, not when it mattered most. You can only imagine how Bob feels.
“Bob,” you call out softly, voice dipping unintentionally. “Are you okay?”
There’s a pause on the other side of the door. You can hear fabric shifting, sneakers scuffing against the tile like he doesn’t quite know where to stand. You hear it all, focused only on Bob on the other side.
“Yeah,” he answers, a little too quickly. Then, quieter, almost more honestly, “Yeah. I think so.”
You shut your eyes, forehead resting briefly against the cold metal. You try to ignore Joaquin watching you from just one step away, close enough to notice the way your shoulders sag and the way your hand curls into itself at your side.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur, not even sure if Bob can hear it through the door. “I should’ve—”
“No.” Bob cuts in, hurried. “No, it’s okay.” Another shuffle. “I’m just glad you guys are okay.”
The sigh you let out is resigned.
Before you can settle into the silence, begin unpacking between the lines, footsteps approach the door. Much faster than Bob’s, swift with purpose.
“Everyone okay over there?” Sam pounds on the door once, in solidation.
You push away from the door slowly, arms folding across your chest like you need something to hold you together. Joaquin steps in without hesitation, positioning himself closer to the door, between you and whatever's coming next.
“We’re…” you can feel Joaquin’s eyes flicker to the side of your face. “Stable. Some minor injuries. What’s going on out there?”
“You sure?” Sam asks.
Joaquin glances you another look before answering with false confidence. “Yeah.”
“Alright,” Sam accepts. “Listen, I’ve got good news and bad news. Good news is we got Mercer. Bucky got Joaquin’s message when we were on the road and sent some guys down. They’re taking him to a secure facility just a few minutes from here.”
Your shoulders loosen just a smidge, the weight of stress diminishing just a bit.
“And the bad news?” Joaquin presses.
When you hear Sam let out an audible exhale, you tense back up, suspicion creeping up your spine. Slowly, you step back up to the door. “Sam…?”
Cautiously, Joaquin asks in slow words, “What’s the bad news?”
“So…look—”
You and Joaquin let out loud, painful groans, your partner even going as far as slamming his forehead against the door in fake anguish, dramatically.
“Some security override kicked in when Mercer tossed y’all in there,” Sam tries to explain. You can imagine him now: with a twisted smirk on his lip, finding the situation funnier than he should. “And we’re a bit preoccupied right now.”
As Sam has the universe on cue, a loud slam echoes through the building followed by the rustling of metal chains.
“So what does that mean for us, Sam?” Joaquin asks dreadfully beside you.
Your shared mentor takes longer than you’d like to answer that question. “It means,” Sam starts off strong, voice loud and clear initially before slowing down in a way that you did not like. Quiet and rushed, words almost slurring together, Sam spits out, “We can’t get you out of there any time soon.”
“Sorry, what was that?” Joaquin asks.
“Huh?” your voice overlaps his without meaning to, the both of you unable to hear him clearly.
“I think Sam’s trying to tell you,” you hear Bob gulp, “Get…comfortable.”
“‘Comfortable’?” Joaquin questions, brows furrowing in confusion. “As in—?”
“Through-the-night kind of comfortable,” Sam grimaces.
A moment of silence as you let the words wash over you, settling until your stomach drops. “You’re kidding,” you breathe out in a near-whisper.
“Wish I was, kid.” He doesn’t offer any other comfort, just a straightforward, “Try not to kill each other. We’ll be back in the morning.”
“Wait, back in the morning?” Joaquin clings to the door desperately, as if Sam could see him through the inches of steel.
You hear Sam let out a chuckle because even though he can’t see Joaquin, he can definitely hear the sheer despair in his voice. “Relax. You two are safe. Blueprint shows that the room you’re in is isolated. It was just used as storage.”
“Are you sure about that?” Joaquin yells out, brows raised as he looks around the room. “I don’t know, man,” he expresses, shifting around you to jab at the now locked screen that was previously flashing. “These locks are, like, pretty excessive for just a supply closet.”
“Well, he did store some pretty valuable stuff in there,” Bob chimes in sheepishly.
“His serums,” Sam cuts in with an efficient explanation. “He stored his test serums in there.”
You and Joaquin meet each other’s eyes in mutual panic before slowly turning around to take in the room, as if another botched Super Soldier was hiding behind the red biohazard trashcan.
Instead, you were met with an overturned mini fridge in the corner, toppled over on its side with its sad extension cord laying limply beside it. The front glass of the door gave you insight to the empty fridge. Eyeing the thick layer of dust covering the entire thing, you know that its position on the floor wasn’t a consequence of the fight.
“That thing looks like it’s been here longer than Mother Time,” you deadpan, only meant for Joaquin to hear.
“There aren’t any more,” Sam explains, oblivious to your comment. “Obviously.” A small pause before he resumes, “Alright, well, have fun you two. Locks aren’t lifting anytime soon, so try not to get jabbed with any mysterious liquids in the meantime. Bob and I gotta go; gotta keep an eye on Mercer.”
Frustrated, you groan. “We survived Mercer just to be defeated by a glorified panic room.”
“We’ll be back before you know it,” Bob attempts to assuage.
“See?” Sam piggybacks. “You’ve got it.”
“Sam,” Joaquin starts, exasperated.
“Goodnight,” Sam cuts him off much more cheerfully than you think is warranted.
It’s the last you hear from the pair before footsteps retreat down the corridor.
Time passes in a blur after that. The sound of voices, boots, radios—all of it fades slowly until there’s nothing left but the low hum of the facility and the ringing quiet that often follows after a storm.
You can’t tell how long it takes for everyone to clear out. All you know is once everyone’s truly gone and the flashing lights in the room finally shut off, leaving just a cast of red light, you and Joaquin share one unified, knowing look.
It’s going to be a long night.
-
“Maybe…another month?” he answers after some careful consideration.
Raising a brow, you don’t hesitate to point out, “Sam’s held longer grudges for much less. Remember when you took Redwing for a joyride, broke both his wings, and Sam didn’t talk to you for two months?”
Joaquin’s head tilts, hand coming up to rub his jaw in lighthearted inquisition, “Yeah, you have a point.” You watch as he shudders before murmuring to himself, “That was rough.”
You hum, head tilting to stare at the wall in thought. “I think he’ll give Bucky hell for another year before he even considers getting back together.”
He gives you a horrified look, “A year?”
Shrugging, you lightly double down. “Minimum.”
The conversation comes to a dwindling stop as the two of you fall into a comfortable silence again, the same way it’s been picking up and falling back down for the better part of an hour.
From across from you, Joaquin presses his back into the metal door, head dropping back as he lets out a tired sigh.
After the hustle and bustle had settled down, the two of you found yourself in a mirroring position, only with your back pressed against the counters. In between the constant radio chatter and aftermath silence, you and Joaquin had come to a mutual, unspoken agreement. The night would be too long if the two of you continued on the way you were before, and for the sake of a relatively peaceful night, you came to an armistice.
Your legs are outstretched in front of you, same as Joaquin’s, and you try to not let the proximity get to you. You don’t know if the room is just small or if Joaquin is big, but your boots almost brush against each other, so close you could nearly touch. For your sanity, you’ll pretend it’s the room size.
A couple minutes pass where neither of you say anything, and for the first time in a long while, neither of you feel like you have to fill the silence.
The red emergency light casts everything in low contrast, softening the sharp edges of the room that it almost makes you forget that you’re stuck in some deranged scientist’s facility. Suppressing a shudder, you force the thought away.
Joaquin exhales slowly. “So,” he says after a beat, head tilted with lazy curiosity.
“So,” you copy, drawing out the word without much thought, focused instead on rolling your shoulders to alleviate some of the aches and pains while you await his query.
“How are…things?” he finally draws out.
You roll your head, chin tucked down as you stare at him through hooded eyes. “‘Things’?”
He chuckles, licking his lips. Adjusting his position, Joaquin’s boots scrape against the metal floor as one knee bends just enough for him to prop an elbow on it. The movement draws your attention much easier than it should. “Yeah,” he says easily. “Things.” Joaquin shrugs. “You know. Work, life, just…things.”
Casting him a look of hesitation that’s shrouded in humor, you don’t offer a real response.
When Joaquin catches your gaze, he shrugs an innocent shrug, corner of his lip lifting as he holds back a smile. “I’m trying.”
The words soften you in a way it shouldn’t.
You realized it when Sam said it, that you and Joaquin would have unbuffered, uninterrupted time together in a way that you haven’t even come close to in the past couple weeks, and it stirred up a nauseous feeling in your stomach. But now, in this moment with him, you feel…safe.
Almost like for the first time in a long while, you can breathe.
And maybe it’s the after effects of the adrenaline talking, or maybe it’s a foolish illusion, casted by how deeply you yearn for you and Joaquin to be okay again, but part of you can tell he feels the same way.
You flex your fingers once before letting your hands rest loosely on your thighs. “Things are…” you start, quietly, but honest. “Fine.” You shrug, not looking at Joaquin. “Same as always. Work has been a lot of this,” you gesture around.
“What? Getting locked in some decrepit building because Bucky sent us on a mission as an excuse to break ‘no contact’ with Sam?” Joaquin jests.
“Exactly,” you laugh.
He lets the moment settle, chuckling alongside you before it draws to an end.
There isn’t much else you’d like to add, but just when you thought the two of you would fall into the stillness again, giving you a chance to sink into your thoughts, Joaquin calls out—
“And Bob?”
His tone is casual. Almost too casual.
Brows furrowing, you look up at him with a confused frown. “What about Bob?”
Joaquin shifts, boots scraping again as he adjusts himself against the door. “Just asking.”
‘Asking?’ you wonder. You blink at him once. Then twice. Processing. If this was some kind of subtextual question, it’s sailing right past you.
“He’s…good,” you answer slowly, thinking through it as you go. “I think. This whole Mercer thing has been a lot for him, but,” you scratch your elbow as you give Joaquin another shrug, “It’s been a lot for all of us.”
Gaze drifting, you’re unfocused as you add, “He sounded okay earlier.” You glance back to Joaquin, searching his face for agreement, “Don’t you think?”
His jaw tightens, just enough that you notice. Nodding slowly, Joaquin gives you an unofficial answer, like he’s weighing something much heavier than the question you thought you were answering.
“Yeah,” he finally says after a moment too long.
Your heart sinks. Something in his voice feels off. Not like he’s upset, but it’s thinner. Less certain than it had been a few minutes ago.
Cautiously, you wonder, “Why are you asking me about Bob?”
Joaquin exhales through his nose, a half-laugh that doesn’t quite land. “No reason.”
His answer doesn’t sit right with you. You watch as he drags a hand down his face, fingers briefly catching at his mouth before it drops back to his lap. His knee bounces once, then stills once he realizes what he’s doing.
It clicks.
“Joaquin,” you say carefully. “If there’s something you’re trying to ask me—”
He looks up at you then, really looks at you, and his mask slips. “I’m just making sure you’re okay.” Joaquin looks right at you, deep brown eyes shrouded in a mask of red, but he still sees through you. “That’s all.”
A pit forms in your stomach. “I’m okay.”
“Okay.”
Joaquin tries to let the moment pass, you can tell by the way he looks away from you, fingers drumming against his propped up knee as he stares anywhere but your face, and for a second you think you just might let him.
But you can’t look away. You feel like this mission has aged you by years, and you can see it on Joaquin’s face. The dried blood dotting his hairline and the split skin at his knuckles crack you open in a way you know it shouldn’t. There’s tension in the slope of his shoulders that haven’t fully left since that night before Arizona, even now.
It’s not just awkwardness, or bad timing, or too many near-misses. The past few weeks have been a constant of both of you pretending like if you don’t name it, it’ll go away eventually. And you can’t do that anymore.
“Joaquin…”
“We should get cleaned up.” He cuts you off cleanly, efficient, as he hastily jumps to his feet from his seat. “Here,” he offers quietly, extending a hand out to you as he effortlessly pulls you from your spot in a way that was all too gentle for your liking.
Joaquin moves towards the cabinets behind you, the same ones you were leaning against just a second ago. The sound of hinges squeaking and wooden doors opening and shutting are the only noises that fill the room now. You watch him rummage, movements sharp and purposefully like if he keeps moving, he can brush off your words.
“Joaquin.” You try again, resound in the small room.
A cabinet slams shut as he straightens himself up to his full height. The muscles in his back ripple through the shirt, tense as Joaquin lets out a short exhale. “I know.” A hand runs across his face as he breathes out, “Just give me a second, please.”
You fall silent.
You offer no assistance as Joaquin continues to look through with little consideration for being methodical. Instead, he practically tears through the miscellaneous items until he finds whatever he deems useful.
A curt exhale and a slam on the countertop reveals a large medical kit that Joaquin quickly pops open.
Seems like this Godforsaken room is providing just everything you need. Gauze. Antiseptic. Decreased proximity between you and Joaquin.
“Here,” you say, finally moving forward and pushing him out of the way. “Let me.”
He doesn’t bother to resist, perching himself atop the counter without a glance your way, like it was safer to stare anywhere else than look directly at you.
You reach for the alcohol swabs, tearing one open with skilled fingers. “Take your shirt off.”
Joaquin’s head snaps upwards in a look of pure shock, making you roll your eyes.
“You’re bleeding.” You point with the wipe in your hand toward his stained suit, a patch of dark blood that had been slowly seeping through the fabric for the past few hours.
His eyes flicker down to his shoulder, as if double checking your statement before letting out a defeated sigh. He peels his suit jacket off slowly. Then his shirt follows, tugged up and over his head with a quiet grunt before he drops it somewhere near your feet.
It’s prudish, you know, but you can’t help the way your eyes avert up to the ceiling at his movements. It’s also illogical, given that you so selflessly offered to patch him up and you were seconds away from touching the skin you suddenly find yourself too shy to even look at. But there you were, analyzing the tiles above you as the stoic man sits patiently in front of you.
Joaquin calls out to you, your name coming out as a low whisper.
Before he can say anything else, you clear your throat and step into his space. You try to ignore the way he spreads his thighs, making space for you to stand between them as if it were a second nature.
“This is going to sting.” The words come out quieter than you mean for them to, and with mechanical movements you dab the wipe onto his wound.
If it hurts, Joaquin does a great job at hiding it, not even doing so much as flinching at your less than hospitable bedside manner.
The cut isn’t too deep, superficial at best, so it takes little effort to clean. Of the hundreds of wounds you’ve stitched for him, this one was certainly the least troubling.
So why were you moving so slow?
You’re sure time passes in a similar way, the seconds ticking by tediously as you gently tended to Joaquin. The silence that envelopes is different than the one from before—no longer comfortable, now charged with words that linger between the two of you. You try not to let the frustration get to you; the constant ups and downs with Joaquin these past few weeks was growing to be too much.
Joaquin calls your name softly, so quietly that you might have just missed it if it weren’t for the way his hand reaches up to grasp yours so gently it feels like whispers against your skin. His fingers wrap against yours, pulling your hand down, away from his chest, but almost as if he couldn’t bear to let go, he clutches your hand tightly in his lap. “Stop. I can’t keep doing this.”
Your heart hammers rapidly in your own chest, his words mirroring so closely to the thoughts in your head that for a second you wondered if he could see right through you.
His words come out steady. “I can’t keep pretending like I’m okay with this.”
A frown tugs at your lips, heart sinking at his words. You’re not sure how you’ll make it through the night with him if he rejects you once more.
“I want you to be happy. And I know…” He hesitates, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he tries to find the words. He shakes his head, as if to start over. “Bob—” His mouth tightens as he exhales the name, like it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “—seems nice. But I don’t know how to be this close to you when you’re—”
You yank your hand away from his like he’s just burned you. “Bob?” you ask in confusion. ‘What the hell is he bringing Bob up for?’
Joaquin flinches at his name, leaving you even more confused. “I get it. I messed up, okay?” the words come out almost pleading. “That night before Arizona when told me you—” he huffs, teeth biting into his bottom lip as he abruptly stops himself.
A beat of silence passes and something heavy settles in your chest.
“Is it so bad?” you can’t help but whisper, taking a step back from him. The words leave your mouth softer than you expect, landing heavy. “Accepting that I have feelings for you?”
His head snaps up, eyes widening in complete shock, his hand reaches out as his eyes search your face but you move just a fraction out of his reach. “Bad? What? No…that isn’t—”
“Then what is it?” You press, hating how small your voice is, but there’s nothing that you can do in the moment. You're tired, in every single way. Chest tightening, you try to ignore the sharp presses against your ribs. “Because you’re standing there acting like me having feelings for you is something so…awful.”
“It’s not! Hold on, wait. That’s not what I’m doing,” he says quickly, hopping off of the counter and stepping into your space. Joaquin’s hands find yours, gripping them desperately, but you pull back.
“You didn’t say anything,” you press, unable to hide your hurt as it bleeds through. “I told you how I felt, Joaquin. Yes, I know we said we’d keep things casual but it stopped being that way for me a long time ago and I thought you were owed the truth. Was that so wrong?”
“No!” he refutes, “It wasn’t!”
“Then why didn’t you say anything?” you shout, pushing him away from you. There was only so much misdirection that you can take from him before finally snapping.
“I didn’t have a chance to,” Joaquin pleads. “Let’s pause for a second, okay? You did nothing wrong. I messed up, I see that now. I shouldn’t have let you walk out that night and I regretted it the second I did, but then Arizona happened, and then Bob—”
“Bob?” you intercept. “Why do you keep bringing up Bob?” You resist the urge to scream! Are you going crazy?
He freezes, like he was confused about your confusion. “Because,” he exhales sharply, growing frustrated with himself. “You and Bob…after Arizona…” he lets the words trail off.
For a second you just stare at him.
Then it finally clicks.
And something in you snaps.
With your heart beating loudly in your chest, you can’t stop the disbelieved scoff you let out.
“You know what?” You start to stutter, shaking your head. It’s finally your turn to glance away, anywhere but Joaquin, “I changed my mind. I don’t want to talk to you.” You try to ignore the slight tremor in your hands as you turn your back to him, preoccupying yourself with tidying, though you don’t actually organize much, more like slamming things around. “I don’t want you,” a huff is let out, a lump forming in your throat as you brace yourself for the hard conversation, “I don’t want you to do this here. Now. Just because you’re stuck in here and you’re having some sudden guilt of conscience or something.”
“That’s not why I’m—”
“Isn’t it?” you shout, turning back to him with a sharp glare. Your eyes soften without meaning for them to, because they always do when you stare at Joaquin, you let the heavy silence settle over the two of you for a second that felt too long. “You never talked to me about it, Joaquin. That’s the bottom line,” you shake your head at him in defeat.
“But…there wasn’t any time…”
“Oh fuck off with that,” you scoff. “Message received, okay? I don’t need you to say this just because you think I’m seeing someone else, which I’m not—”
“You’re not?” Something like hope twinges his words and all it does is makes you angry.
“You are unbelievable, Torres!” you shout. “I put myself on the line for you and you gave me nothing. And now you’re standing here like a kicked puppy because what? You think I moved on?”
For once, the talkative man is stunned into silence. The expression on his face is truly nothing short of looking like a kicked puppy as you’ve said, brows furrowed as his lips turn downward into a deep frown.
You pay it little mind, needing to get it all off of your chest. Glare sharp, you throw out the words that have been weighing heavy in your chest. “I’m the one who put myself out there. I’m done humiliating myself for you. You want to be normal? Fine, I can be normal. Just partners, like the past few years never happened. Just like you want—”
“I’m scared! Alright?” his words cut through like a blade. “All the time!” he screams, not at you. No—Joaquin would never. But his words bounce off the walls, voice bleeding in a way so desperate and unlike the usual confident, carefree man that you have no choice but to recoil backwards, taking his words in.
“Since the day I’ve met you,” your name falls off his lips with a cracked voice. “I’m The Falcon, I’m supposed to be brave. But you…you’ve plagued me, every part of me. God you’re so intoxicating, you’re in me. Every time we get in the field, do you know how terrified I am that something will happen to you? Do you know how it feels to see you walk into something I know I can’t control?” He chokes out, hands flexing by his side like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “Out there, if I’m one second too slow, make one bad call. You’re—”
He cuts himself off, like even saying it out loud would be too much for him.
“And if that’s how you make me feel, just as partners. Just as professionals, I—” Joaquin shakes his head, a humorless smile on his face as he recalls, “And that one drunk night happened a few years ago and I thought ‘maybe I can do this. Maybe I can have you at arms length because’…”
Your anger falters, something else taking its place instead.
“If I love you…if I love you—I’ll never stop,” Joaquin pants, locking eyes with you. His expression is dark, his usually soft brown eyes a shade much darker, much more dangerous. His next words come out breathless, in a whisper that rushes out, “But I guess it’s too damn late for that now.”
With that, he surges forward and before you and blink, his hands are in your hair, pulling you into him with such desperation, as if he doesn’t feel you on him now, right now, he won’t make it.
He presses his lips to yours, breathing in your air like it’s the only thing he needs to keep him alive.
For a split second, you’re frozen and you know he feels it too in the way Joaquin hesitates. But you’ve never been good at pushing him away, it's what got you here in the first place. The idea of him pulling away sends you into a panicked spiral and before you can think, you’re kissing him back.
He exhales into your mouth, a moan and sigh of relief all into one.
You tell yourself it’s not because you want it, it’s because of how much he does, but the way your stomach flips and an oh-so familiar tingle begins to build tells you otherwise.
It all crashes into you all at once, the force of it. His desperation is undeniable. Weeks and weeks of restraint and distance snap clean in his grip as one hand tightens its hold on the back of your head while the other glides down your body like he just needs to feel you, squeezing anything he can before it settles on your waist. He tugs your body into his with one sharp pull, pressing you flush against him so that you can feel just how much he means what he’s confessed.
He anchors you to him, and you’re sure you need it, convinced that without him holding you upright you’d sink straight to the floor. But Joaquin doesn’t mind, not at all, with the way he groans into you, biceps flexing as he keeps you up and against his limber body.
The kiss turns sloppy quick, and you try not to let the sound get to your head when Joaquin whines at you pulling away, just so you can take a breath. Your chest heaves, his scent already clouding your mind and making all rational thought go out the window.
He doesn’t let you get far, breaking the string of saliva between the two of you as he trails his lips down the side of your throat. The heat of his mouth makes your heart thud loudly in your chest.
It’s a familiar dance, the two of you like this. Joaquin knows your body in a way that’s infuriating, his lips hovering over the junction of your neck and shoulder, just the way you like it.
But this wasn’t your usual hookup.
And you both knew it.
The air was charged with something far more sinister than it usually has, the guise of “no strings attached” no longer protecting the two of you from your very real, very unfiltered feelings.
No more hiding. Not this time.
“Just let me make it up to you. Please,” his voice cracks as he begs, the breath tickling over the one spot he knows makes you weak. He wets his lips, and he’s so close to your skin that his tongue touches the curve of your neck in a way that makes you shudder. Warm and wet, he continues. The choice is yours. It always is. “I can make it up to you, I promise. I can’t lose you, I—”
“Shut up,” you gasp, finally snapping out of your daze. Your hand comes up to his cheeks, grabbing his face in both of your hands as you smash both of your lips back together. It’s aggressive, bruising almost. But neither of you mind.
It doesn’t take long before his lips are gliding past your lips and takes even less time for you to let him in, no permission needed. His tongue is hot and heavy in your mouth, swiping inside before he takes your tongue into his mouth and sucks.
The moan you let out is involuntary, and he lets go with an obscene smack, pulling his tongue back before he kisses you over and over and over.
He moves faster than you can think, leaving you a hot mess. The patch of wetness in your panties only continues to grow when he hikes you upward, forcing your legs around his waist.
Before you can process it, Joaquin has you pressed against the cold metal door. He’s angled you just so, his bulge brushing right up against you, but not enough so that there’s real pressure, just the subtlest of skims, so that you know he’s there. It drives you crazy, and you can’t help the displeased whine that you let out. But he just shushes you.
“I know, pretty girl, just let me…” his words trail off, his lips preoccupying themselves with your collarbone instead.
The cool door is a stark contrast to the blazing heat that your bodies were letting off, so you throw your head back against it, trusting him to take over as you breathe through this.
You don’t even smack him away like you usually do when you feel his teeth come out to nibble on your skin, and you feel his lips curve into a smile when he realizes. No marks, you had always said. But this time isn’t like the rest.
He takes the opportunity you give him, sucking and biting, leaving evidence of himself all across any skin he can reach before Joaquin decides he needs more.
Pulling his torso back, he props you up against his knee. With quick movements, Joaquin peels off your shirt with mechanical practice. His lips press against your exposed skin in appreciation, kissing any spot he sees before licking a long strip from the dip of your cleavage to the base of your neck.
It’s obscene.
You're slick with sweat and grim from your mission but Joaquin doesn’t care, letting out a loud moan at the taste. Pressing into you again, he presses his face between your breast, leaving hickies all across the exposed swell while his nimble fingers back quick work of unclasping your bra.
“Joaquin,” you pant from above him, fingers digging into his thick curls as you try to pull him back, the sensation growing to be too much.
“Please,” he just begs, letting you pull his head back. His lips are swollen and red, pupils blown wide as he stares up at you. Joaquin’s eyes grow teary, like being away from your skin for this long is wrecking him, like he needs to be back on you. Both of your chests are heaving, your bra straps being held up by the crook of your elbows. It barely covers your chest anymore, but Joaquin doesn’t care. He needs more, because it’s not enough. It’s never enough when it’s you.
The way he looks up at you has your blood rushing to your head, a sick sense of power taking over when you come to the realization that Joaquin really does need you in the way he said he does.
His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, but you can see that he doesn’t have the words right now. Eyes half lidded, staring down at him, you swipe your thumb over his bottom lip, pressing down, appreciating how red and puffy they’ve become.
It doesn’t help your power trip when Joaquin’s lips part silently, taking your finger into his mouth, sucking on the appendage like he has something to prove. You draw your thumb out, his lips letting go with a pop!
Not breaking eye contact with him, you slowly drop your arms. Your bra falls to the floor in near-silence, but it’s loud to the both of you. You watch as Joaquin’s breath grows heavier, not daring to look away from you and toward your chest like you know he wants to.
Taking mercy on him, the hand that grips the back of his head slowly guides him to the place you know he wants to be most. It takes nearly no effort from you at all, his head moving on his own accord once Joaquin realizes that you’ve given him permission. It’s all he needs, the slight nudge of your hand, before his lips wrap around your left nipple and he lets out a loud moan.
One of his hands comes up to massage your other breast, rolling the nub between his pointer and thumb whilst his tongue swirls circles around the other nipple.
It makes you moan right along with him, arching your back into his face as Joaquin buries himself into his chest. His hips buck upwards like he can’t help himself, pressing his thick, aching cock right against your clit. You feel it, feel him, even between all your layers of clothes.
He doesn’t stop, can’t stop, his tongue flicking over your nipples again and again as he sucks like his life depends on it. It doesn’t take long before he’s switching sides and your entire chest glistens with his spit.
Hands clasped on his shoulders, your head is thrown back in pleasure as he ravishes you. The damp spot on his pants quickly mixes with yours, and after only a few minutes you’ve decided you’ve had enough. You need him now.
It takes more effort than you had in you, to pull him off your chest. But after a few weak shoves, Joaquin finally gets your message and pries himself off of the spot above your breast that he had been sucking a hickey into.
His lips don’t stray far from your skin, though, as he trails it back up towards your face and envelopes your lips in his as Joaquin slides you down until your feet meet the floor again. If he notices the way your knees buckle, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he rasps against your lips, “Sit on my face.”
It was a demand, not an ask, and any other day you’d be more than happy to comply. But not today.
Maybe it was the weeks without feeling his touch, or maybe it was the words he said to you earlier that ignited something in your stomach, but you needed him now. And you told him as such.
“No,” you whisper in between kisses, hands pressed against his chest to push him away from you. You try to ignore the whimper he let out, trying to stay strong in your own pursuit. “I need you, Joaquin. I need you in me now.”
The words trigger something in him, Joaquin freezing for the briefest of seconds before he lets out a choked, “Okay, yeah. We can do that, baby. That’s not a problem.”
With little regard for the catastrophic room you’re in, you and Joaquin quickly make work of taking off your remaining fabrics. Normally you’d wince at the way your panties stick to you, so wet in a way that almost makes you feel embarrassed, but when your eyes flicker to Joaquin and the way his thick, heavy cock slaps against his stomach, tip dripping in precum, you can’t find it in yourself to care.
Before you’ve even managed to fully step out of your pants, boots discarded somewhere in the room, Joaquin is on you again. He’s being helpful, he’ll claim later, as he nearly rips the remainder of your dangling clothes off of you to press your naked body against his.
Like it was instinct, your thighs part, letting his weeping cock slide between them. His beads of precum act as lubricant, pushing in between your thighs like it was made for him. The groan Joaquin lets out is pornographic, all from the feeling of your plush legs wrapped around him, and he thrusts before he can stop himself.
It makes you moan too, the feeling of him between you, tip nudging against your clit when he pulls back.
His hands are back in your hair, lips on yours in an instant, your moans mingling together as Joaquin fucks your thighs.
“I missed this,” he pants, biting your lower lip. “I’ve missed you,” he grunts, “So, so much.” Joaquin emphasizes each of his words with a thrust. “So perfect for me,” his curious hands trail down to your waist, squeezing you there in a way that makes you yelp. He swallows the sound, smacking your ass with a strong palm before massaging the cheek in apology.
“Joaquin,” your nails dig into his back. Pathetically, you whine. You’ve had enough of his teasing, “Need you now.”
He lets out a low chuckle, pressing a kiss into your neck. “Alright, baby. Alright.”
Joaquin maneuvers you until you're flat on your back, laid on top of your pile of clothes that he managed to push all together in between your heated moments. He’s quick to climb on top of you, barricading your head between his thick biceps.
Quick, flushing movements turn into something softer with the weight of him on top of you and you on your back like this. As if it were second nature, your legs wrap against his waist, arms coming up to circle around his shoulder, playing with the hair on the back of his head. You softly twirl his curls in the way you know he loves, and love it he does as he bites back a choked groan.
With a steady hand, Joaquin softly brushes your hair out of your face, revealing yourself to him in your entirety.
Gazing down at you, chin dipped, Joaquin whispers, “You’re so beautiful.” His lips come down, pressing sweetly against your cheek and his face nuzzles against you, “Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” He trails, slowly, to tell you the words soft and slow against your ear before playfully biting the lobe.
It shouldn’t be so easy—him making you melt like this, but you can’t find it in yourself to resist him. Despite everything, you trust Joaquin. He might not have all the right words all of the time, but he’ll never tell you a lie. So you let him whisper sweet nothings against your skin, growing warm and wet as he says all of the right things.
One of his hands softly finds purchase against your outer thigh, supporting you and pulling you flush to his waist, as if he needed all parts of you pressed against him. It makes his tip nudge against your entrance, and all you can do is let out a quiet moan, arching into him.
Joaquin lets out a quiet chuckle, the hand on your thigh coming up to press your hips back down. “Not yet, pretty girl,” he mumbles. “Been a while since we’ve done this. Gotta get you all ready for me, yeah?” he asks. It’s rhetorical, you know it is, the way his voice is teasing, but you nod helplessly anyways. “Yeah, I’m g’nna get you nice and ready for me.”
It’s the last thing you hear before his warm, calloused palm slides toward where you need him most. With experienced fingers, he spreads your lips apart with such ease that you’re almost bashful. But that thought quickly dissipates when his finger nudges itself against your tight, wet hole.
When he finally slides his middle finger in, both of you let out a loud moan.
“So fucking wet,” Joaquin comments, the feeling of you gripping against just one finger alone enough to send him into a frenzy. “She missed me, huh?” he asks, and you don’t have the energy to give any response this time, moaning as he makes quick work of thrusting that single digit in and out. His hand curls, palm coming up to rub against your clit as his middle finger works you open in a way that has you preening against him.
The sound of it is absolutely obscene, the squelch of your wetness against him as he silently adds another finger. You roll your hips, needing more. It felt so good, your mind is growing hazy until all you feel is Joaquin.
“Look at that,” Joaquin mumbles against your throat, sucking on your skin in a way that’s dizzing. “This pretty pussy’s made for me, fucking dripping all over my hand right now.”
You have to ground yourself, so your nails dig into his shoulders, but Joaquin doesn’t care one bit, too preoccupied with the way you pulse around him and the way your tits bounce with every thrust of his fingers.
Your body hums with pleasure as he skillfully works you open. Eyes shooting open, you gasp when you feel his lips wrap around one of your nipples. Instinctively, your hand grasps the top of his head and yanks his hair by the root. He lets out a pained grunt but truly pays no mind, continuing his ministrations.
“Joaquin!” you moan, the onslaught of him fingering you within an inch of your life and suckling at your tit was just too much.
With a loud gasp, you announce, “G’nna cum, g’nna cum—”
That seems to get his attention and he quickly pulls his fingers out without another word, detaching from your breast with a displeased hum. Just when you’re about to pout in protest, he cuts you off with a kiss that takes your breath away.
“None of that, baby.” He declares, voice husky with need. “Need you to come around my cock, need you to cream all over me, yeah? Been too long,” Joaquin’s nose nudges against your cheek, like he’s asking you for permission, when in reality he’s already decided for the both of you.
With that, one of Joaquin’s hands grips the back of your knee and presses it deep into your chest. He slides his pulsing cock into you with one slow, smooth thrust. It enters with much more ease than you’re willing to admit, but it fills you so well that any complaint dies in your throat.
Buried to the hilt, Joaquin drops his head against your knee as the two of you let out a simultaneous groan.
“Fuck me,” he mumbles under his breath. “You’re g’nna be the death of me.” His blunt nails dig into your knee before he sets a brutal pace. He pulls all the way out before slamming back into you again in a way that makes your breath catch in your throat.
It takes only a handful of thrusts before Joaquin finds his rhythm, his balls slapping against your ass again and again and again as he sets a consistent pace. The tip of his cock hits that spongey center inside you each time, and all you can do is lay beneath him, letting out a gasping moan whenever his hips connect with yours again.
Your thighs shake, stomach tight as he turns you to putty in his hands. One hand grips the clothes beneath you, twisting the fabric as you grapple onto it for dear life. The other finds his hair, sadistically pulling on his curls.
Salicious sounds fill the room and the air in the room turns humid as your wet slick and Joaquin’s precum creates the best lubricant, making each of his movements slip with ease.
“God,” Joaquin throws his head back, teeth biting into his bottom lip as he pounds into you. “I’m so sorry, baby,” he groans, words coming out hurried but no less sincere. “I’m so, so sorry.” Each word enunciated with a thurst. “I fucked up, yeah? Such an idiot,” Joaquin groans above you.
He drops your knee and you don’t realize just how much it was aching until he shifts you. Dropping so either of his elbows bracket your head, his sweaty forehead meets yours. The two of you huff, moaning as Joaquin continues to pistol into you.
“Forgive me,” he pants into your mouth. His lips come crashing into yours as his movements start to get more sloppy. “Please,” Joaquin moans into your mouth. “Don’t know what I’d do without you. Need you so fucking bad,” he practically chokes.
The kissing is messy, saliva dripping down the side of your face as you’re too slackjawed to truly say anything.
His large palm finds itself on the top of your head, pushing any hairs that stick to your sweaty forehead away as he anchors himself on you. With every slap of his hip, Joaquin applies slight pressure to the top of your head, forcing your body down to meet his cock halfway as he sets the brutal pace.
“Joaquin,” you call out, clenching down tightly on him.
“Say you forgive me,” he asks of you, sounding so debauched you nearly lose your mind. It’s as if he needs to hear you say it.
Fingers finding themselves back on his shoulders, your nails dig into him as he bounces you on his cock. “I—” you start before being cut off by a loud moan crawling up your throat. “Fuck,” you cuss, eyes squeezed shut when his thumb finds itself on your clit.
“Say it,” he demands, panting above you.
“I—” You feel it now, the familiar coil in your lower stomach, and your hips move on their own accord, trying to chase that high. He’s mean with it, making consistent circles against the sensitive button while he continues to thrust into you with a brutal pace.
“Please!” he begs you, moving faster as if he has to prove something to you.
“I forgive you!” you all but shout. You’re going to leave scars on his shoulder, surely, with how tight your hold is on him. You come with a startling gasp, waves of shock tingling from the tip of your head all the way down to your toes. You’re loud, so loud with it as Joaquin continues his brutal pace.
“Shit!” Joaquin comes right after you, just as loud as you are as he fucks you through both of your orgasms.
It leaves you delirious, the feeling so all-consuming that you practically see stars. You get addiction now, because here? Coming on his cock like this? God, you don’t think you’ll ever get enough.
His shoots thick, warm ropes of cum into you, you can feel it. It fills you in a way that leaves you speechless, even more so in the way he continues at his quick pace.
It’s almost too much, letting out a whine as you try to pull back.
But Joaquin doesn’t let you. Instead, he grips your waist with both of his hands, pulling you back onto his cock as he fucks you through it. It’s good, too good. You moan and gasp as he fills you up, mercilessly thrusting into you.
After however long it takes for him to finish cumming, Joaquin finally begins to slow.
The sound of him finally pulling out of you is filthy, and even though it was so overwhelming, you can’t help but frown when he’s out. God, you’re aching, but you wish that he was still inside you, filling you in a way only he can.
Joaquin’s chest is heaving as he planks on top of you. He lets out another string of curses, as if he’s still feeling the aftermath, as his head finds its home in the crook of your neck.
Gently, he places a kiss there, making you shudder.
Rolling over so he was also on his back, Joaquin let out a loud breath, needing to fill his lungs with air.
In a condition not much different than him, you lay still there, catching your own breath.
For a second, fear flashes through you, but then Joaquin’s hand finds yours. Without a word, he interlocks your fingers in his…and it grounds.
And when he brings your interlaced fingers up to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand in a way that can only be described as sweet, you know that there was truth to it: you forgive him.
-
The sound of loud machinery and heavy grunting was the last thing you heard before the giant metal door swung open with a groaning creak.
On the other side, you’re greeted with a heaving Sam and behind him, a timidly peaking in Bob.
“Well, good morning, you two,” Sam greets, stepping into the room. “Glad to see you both alive and well twelve hours later. Not so bad, I assume?”
You and Joaquin had already been awake, not that the two of you had gone to sleep in the first place, really. After everything, the two of you had sat and talked for what felt like hours about it all. Where you would go from here, what it would mean for the team—in the span of a few hours, you resolved what the two of you had avoided for weeks. Just two idiots, the both of you came to realize. After all, it was so simple. You love each other. What more was there to it?
“Sure. You could say that,” Joaquin retorts as he lends you a helping hand, pulling you up.
You only offer him a coy smile, Joaquin’s eyes sparkling at the inside joke the two of you were hiding.
“Wait,” Bob speaks up quietly. “Is that…” he squints at you, head tilted inquisitively. “Are you wearing Joaquin’s jacket?”
All you can do is cast Joaquin a knowing look, only for him to shrug at you in response. Too wrapped up in gazing at each other, neither of you can hear the loud groan that Sam lets out, nor do you see the bright blush that coats Bob’s face.
But none of it matters. Not at all. All that mattered was him.
I decided to write a Joaquin Torres mini series after I got an idea that was too detailed to be a single one-shot.
Each part is inspired by a Taylor Swift song (because to me Joaquin is just so TS coded) and takes place during different stages of the MCU (from Post Infinity War to Doomsday)
A note to those in the future: I wrote this series in February of 2026 before Doomsday was even released in theatres. If you’re confused…I’m sorry 😂
(Key: 💋= Smut, 💓 = partial smut 🦋 = mental health warning, angst = 💣, no happy/resolved ending = 🩶)
Part 1: Safe and Sound 💋🦋🩶
It was rough during the blip. At least you had Joaquin to protect you and keep you company.
Part 2: I Almost Do 🦋🩶
A year after the blip, the world is still in chaos and what used to be the most important part of your world is still absent.
Part 3: Begin Again 💓💣
Even tragic endings deserve new beginnings and the universe decided to give you one.
Part 4: Holy Ground {part 1} 💓🦋
{part 2}
Once again, the world is in chaos but you know exactly who you’re loyal to and where your heart lives.
summary: though the post-haze of your last mission with joaquin has yet to settle and the storm between the two of you has barely started to form, you’re thrown into another battle front at the behest of bucky. thankfully, this time, you have a shield who goes by the name of bob. but…you might be the only one who’s grateful for his presence. between bob’s soft demeanor and joaquin’s tough exterior, you worry you might not make it through this mission.
warnings: non-canon stuff about bob’s background (i made things up for the plot…). angsty and broody joaquin (i refuse to infantilize this grown man), forced proximity!!, slow burn, mention of blood, science experiment gone wrong, description of gunfire and violence, no it’s not really a love triangle don’t worry (but joaquin doesn’t know that wink wink), probably excessive use of italics, lack of communication/interruption every time they try to communicate (it gets resolved, do not fret), they capture the villain fast asf cus…i dont curr i just need reader and joaquin to start hunchin, sambucky is real to me, joaquin is such a man like i hate to say it but he really is a man in a situationship, reader folds like a fucking pretzel bro he got her down real bad
smut warnings: they get really down and nasty tbh, unprotected sex, p in v, pleading!joaquin, switch!dynamics, nipple sucking, hickeys, overstimulation, thigh fucking, ass slapping, fingering, dirty talk, slight edging, he..talks to the coochie (like…posessively…), mention of addiction, creampie - smut in pt. 2
total w/c: 28.2k
a/n: i did have to split this into two parts bc it was way too long for tumblr </3
part one | part two
“And that’s Bob.”
Bucky’s voice had cut through the hum of pre-mission chatter, booming off the walls and commandeering the space in a way only the Winter Soldier can. It came out tired, almost expelled as a sigh as his thumb pointed casually over his shoulder. Your eyes shifted over, fleeting and casual. It was an acknowledgement of Bucky’s words with as minimal attention as you can garner to avoid being accused of not paying attention. You hadn’t even lingered, flickering away from Bob as quickly as they landed.
But then your eyes shot back.
Because in the briefest of seconds that you had looked at him, Bob, whoever he was, smiled at you.
The realization of it had your interest piquing, but by the time your eyes reached for him again, Bob’s gaze had already shifted elsewhere (namely, to the ground in front of him).
The smile was small and polite. The kind that barely pulled at the corner of his mouth, but that was all it took for him to capture your attention. You don’t know what it was, maybe there was something about it—so quiet and sincere—but it held you for a second longer than it should have.
You really think that if that was all the situation had to offer, a quick quirk of his lips in recognition, things wouldn’t be the way they were now.
But then Bob had lifted his head again, and he caught your eye. Strangely enough, he was the one who had become flushed, as if he was the one caught staring when it so clearly should have been the other way around.
It made you smile this time.
It wasn’t much. Barely more than his own. A brief tug of your lips and a soft tilt of your head, but it was nice.
Like you had said earlier: in the moment, you hadn’t thought much about it. But now, looking back, you can see it—the way his expression held something quiet and hopeful, like he hadn’t expected you to smile back. That was the moment the thread had snagged, when something invisible hooked between you and tugged.
You remember how Bucky had kept rambling on, further explaining everyone’s roles in the mission in a no-nonsense cadence that you eventually learned to not be intimidated by, but it had shifted into somewhat of a persistent buzzing in your ear. You weren’t really listening anymore (not that you really were to begin with), and standing there, you found yourself oddly aware of the man tucked so subtly behind Bucky.
He wasn’t supposed to be there, that much was obvious. You could tell in the way he held his hands, fingers wringing nervously around themselves as he listened intensely to every word. You caught it in the way Sam raised his brows, just slightly, and the way Bucky had given a small shrug that sort of said “I know, but we need him” when he was first introduced.
Bob clearly wasn’t part of the usual lineup, and you had wondered if he would even be able to handle the rush of adrenaline or the direct line of danger you’d likely find yourselves in. Something odd, like a sense of worry, flooded you—for a stranger you haven’t even really met. But the longer you watched him, the more you realized that maybe he had advantages of his own. Bob moved carefully. Deliberately. Like someone who really thought before speaking, like someone who didn’t expect to be heard at all, really.
You remember the thought that plagued you in that moment, one that crept into the edges of your mind without your permission, how different he seemed from…
You had physically shook your head as the thought invaded you, forcing it out and effectively snapping your eyes away from Bob in the process.
God it’s ridiculous, the way you felt your body naturally gravitating towards another’s in the room. You hated yourself for it…but you couldn’t help the way you snuck a peek through your peripherals anyways.
There he was, standing off to the side with his arms crossed loosely over his chest, nodding along to Bucky’s briefing with that familiar crease in his brows—the one he always got when he was trying to commit something to memory. His mouth was set in a hard line, focused. Calm.
Your eyes had lingered longer than you meant them to, different in the way they lingered on Bob, because this stare wasn’t just curious. No. It was instinctive. You swallowed a bitter taste in your mouth. It was longing.
At that point, you and Joaquin still hadn’t spoken. With your bags hiked up over Joaquin’s shoulder and the townhouse door shut behind you, the two of you had left that night behind along with everything left unsaid with it. You barely looked at each other going through TSA, and exhaustion had crept up on the both of you once you were in the air. Landing in Washington made it easy to go your separate ways, back on the safe land of your home, and so you did.
You forced yourself to look away, and it took more effort than you’d like to admit. Refocused on the rundown for the upcoming mission and Bucky’s clipped voice, you strain your ears to listen in on the dull droning. God, you really hoped this wasn’t anything that serious, but you had pivot your energy into anything but the weight of silence between you and Joaquin or else you’d go insane.
But just as you managed to tune into the outside world again rather than the thoughts in your head, you came to the realization that Bucky had already wrapped up. The room had begun shifting: people moving and talking, the murmur of multiple conversations casting a hum across the small space. Your eyes glanced back at Joaquin, who was now in a professional conversation with Sam about whatever it was that you were supposed to be listening to for the past hour, before they flicker over to Bob.
Bob, who was standing patiently against the wall.
Bob, who was looking around strangely, with clear discomfort on his face.
Bob, who you still haven’t said a word to.
You moved before you could talk yourself out of it, catching his wandering gaze in the process. With his wide, shifting eyes, you could have sworn Bob pressed himself closer to the wall behind him. It made you laugh softly.
“Hi,” you offered quietly, with an intentional care to not spook him once planted squarely in front of him. He so clearly seemed like the queasy type.
He looked up, startled for a moment, before returning your smile with something just as gentle. “Hi,” you hear the hesitation in his voice. “I’m Bob.”
Taking his extended hand, you shook his palm. The warmth spread through his fingertips to yours. After sharing your own name, you told him, “Looks like we’ll be working together on this one. It’s nice to meet you, Bob.”
You didn’t think much of it in the moment. It was just another polite introduction, another warm hand.
But later, in hindsight, when you reflect on the way the air between you two shifted and things started meaning more than you could’ve realized—you’d remember the way Bob looked right here.
Like someone hopeful.
Like someone who would never take your attention for granted.
-
You were spending so much time at the Watchtower just to prepare for the upcoming mission, you swear. It had absolutely nothing to do with your new friend. Nothing to do with the fact that he’s nicer, more communicative, more outwardly happy around you than someone else who you’re still not speaking to.
No, it has nothing to do with that at all.
You were simply being a good teammate. Diligently covering all your bases to ensure the smooth sailing of finding and arresting this new-found villain—as is your job.
There’s no reason for anyone to be suspicious of you, right?
“Hey, there you are,” a soft voice snaps you out of your daze. You turn around to a face you’ve been all too familiar with this past two weeks, eyes zeroing in on the two cups he holds in his hands.
“Bob,” you greet cheerfully, hand already reaching out for the blue whale mug you’ve designated as your own, stolen from the kitchen cupboard, “Good morning.”
“You’re only being nice to me because I’m bringing you your coffee, freshly brewed,” Bob sighs as he takes a seat next to you, crossing his legs into criss-cross applesauce before swiveling his chair to face the monitor you’re seated in front of.
You let out a quiet gasp in false offense. “I’m always nice to you!”
Bob raises his brows in mock skepticism, holding the mug just out of your reach as a test of your friendship. The sight of your nose scrunching has him letting out a soft laugh, placing it squarely into your hands and you revel in the way the warmth seeps into both palms of your hands.
The chuckle he let out is more of a huff of air than anything, the corner of his lips quirking upwards before Bob takes a sip of his tea.
“Any news?” he asks, eyes tracing the side of your face before flickering to your screen.
You sigh, turning to him with a pout. “No. This guy is impossible to track down; it’s like he disappeared into thin air. Last Bucky’s heard, he was at some motel in Michigan, but he was gone before we even landed.”
“Oh,” Bob managed. When he looks down and begins to pick at the sleeves of his sweater, you can’t help but reach over, placing a gentle hand on top of his.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get him eventually,” you reassure.
All Bob can do is offer a timid, strained smile back.
A loud SLAM has you jumping, drawing your arm back in a flash out of sheer surprise. With a swift turn, you and Bob search for the source of the sound, leading you to be met with a frowning Joaquin who wasn’t even looking in your direction accompanied by a chirpy looking Sam.
The two of them move quickly into the room after making the door fly into the wall to announce their arrival.
“Morning lovebirds,” Sam calls out, his quick, steady steps making their way towards you.
The glare you shot at him was ineffective; all Sam does is laugh in satisfaction by your reaction. You turn to look at Bob with the same unamused glance only to be met with blushing cheeks. It’s so unsurprising of Bob to grow flush at such an innocent comment that you can’t help the smile that starts to build on your face.
Joaquin trails wordlessly behind Sam, shoulders tense as he fiddles with something on his touchscreen pad. It’s impressive, really, how he’s capable of looking so irritated just by being within the same room as you, before you’ve even managed to even say anything.
You’re so sure he was just chatting it up with Sam on the way up here. You just know it. Since your last mission, it’s become abundantly clear that Joaquin just has an aversion to you.
“Morning,” you reply brightly, bypassing Sam’s lame attempt at a joke. You can see Bob offer a polite nod from your peripherals.
“Get Bucky’s text?” Sam asks, not even bothering to give you a chance to answer before telling you anyways, “Briefing room in five, looks like we finally got something.”
It doesn’t mean much to you, but from beside you, you can feel Bob’s posture stiffen. His shoulders start drawing closer to his ears as he processes Sam’s words.
“Is it…did they find him?” Bob asked, quiet and tight, like he’s already bracing for an answer.
Something in the air shifts with his question, and you watch the way Sam’s expression softens. Not in pity, just understanding. “No.” He doesn’t sugar coat. “But we’ve got movement. Missouri Highway patrol saw someone matching our BOLO heading South.”
“Missouri?” Now you chime in, echoing in confusion. “That’s…far,” you frown before turning to look back at your monitor, checking to make sure you’re remembering the data right. “That makes four states in two days.” The nod of confirmation from Sam makes you sigh, hand coming up to rub against your forehead. A headache was already starting to form.
“There’s more,” Sam adds grimly. “They say he was cutting through the forest at about thirty miles per hour." He pauses. “On foot.”
When Bob lets out a sharp exhale, your hand reaches out and lands on his forearm in an attempt to be a comforting presence.
Joaquin’s eyes flicker to your movement, just for the briefest of seconds, before abruptly turning to address only Sam with his arms crossed over his chest. “Guess that Everford Serum’s more than some cheap knockoff.”
The comment makes Bob’s forearm flex underneath your palm, and all you can do is squeeze his arm as a reminder of your presence.
You watch as Sam gives Joaquin a chiding look, but no one says a word about Joaquin’s poor jest. Instead, he lets out a sharp exhale, announcing that there’s, “More details at the briefing. Let’s head upstairs.”
“I’ll go help Bucky upload the coordinates.” It’s all Joaquin offers before he turns sharply on his heel, breezing out of the room with much more speed than when he was walking in.
The room feels quiet after he leaves, and you know that it’s not just because there are fewer people in it.
Bob shifts from beside you, his arm flexing under your palm, but you don’t move right away. You pretend it’s because he needs the comfort. You pretend it’s not because you do.
The loud sound of Sam clapping his hands once is sharp enough to break the fragile stillness. “Alright. Five minutes means five. Move like you want answers.” With that, his sneakers squeak against the floor as Sam makes his exit.
The sound of your and Bob’s chair wheels rolling against the polished concrete floor fills the room, and as you straighten, your fingers finally loosen from Bob’s sleeve. You watch as his hand twitch, just a bit, like he was bracing for the loss of contact.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You shrug. “Not really. You?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
-
“Jesus, these stupid planes never get any more comfortable,” you complain, shifting dramatically in your seat. The military jet vibrates jolts beneath you, as if it was retaliating against you for your grievances against it. The dumb thing is probably held together by duct tape and prayers. “Bucky’s fancy government privileges couldn’t get us a nicer ride or did he just not care because he didn’t have to fly on this death trap?” you gripe, hand clutching onto the thin fabric they had the nerve to call a seatbelt.
“Could be worse,” Sam shouts over the loud engine, looking relaxed as ever, much to your chagrin. “You could be strapped to the outside,” he teases.
“That an option?” Joaquin grumbles, but it cuts through the noise loud and clear. His gaze is focused on the tablet resting on his thigh, but the implication of his words, and who they were directed at, was not lost on you.
You roll your eyes, but choose to bite your tongue. This bumpy plane ride was already giving you enough heart palpitations, the last thing you want to do is concern yourself where Joaquin Torres is involved.
Beside you, Bob sits rigid, hands tightly clasped between his knees with his gaze solely on the metal floor beneath him. His heel is tapping a nervous, rhythmic pattern and you’re not sure if it’s the ride from hell that’s getting to him or the mission ahead.
Leaning in, you murmur against his ear, “You okay?” A sense of deja vu hits you. It seems like that’s the question always being asked between you and Bob.
His eyes snap towards you, and for a split second his expression wobbles, like he wanted to hide the fear on his face but he wasn’t quite strong enough to do it. It makes your heart ache. Patiently, you wait for his answer.
“I, um…I just. I haven’t seen him,” he nods awkwardly, “In years. It’s been years, and…”
“You don’t know what you’re walking into?” you gently offer.
Bob looks up at you, nodding in appreciation. “Yeah.” He averts his gaze, biting his lip as he admits, “He was nice before. Well, as nice as someone like that could be, I guess.”
“So…not the kind of guy that the government has to chase through multiple states?”
He laughs at that, “No. He was a lot of things, but…not this.”
After that, the two of you settle into a strained silence. You wish that there was more you could say, something perfect that might fix the distress that sits so clearly on Bob’s chest, but you can’t.
You’ve never really had a way with words.
Eyes flickering over to Joaquin, your heart sinks.
Across the aisle, Joaquin shifts, leaning his head back with his eyes closed. His head rests against the wall of the plane, exposing the smooth skin of his neck. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and you find yourself having to gulp yourself.
It’s so, impossibly evil—how attractive you still find him despite the fact that he hasn’t even spared you a glance in weeks.
Your eyes shamelessly trail the sharp of his jawline, the one he so infuriatingly keeps clenching around you. It falls to the soft supple skin of his neck, the same territory you’ve familiarized yourself with again and again and your mind grows hazy from the flashbacks. Your gaze slowly makes its way up to his strong nose and your finger twitches with the need to trace it, and just when you’ve begun to admire his long lashes—
Tug.
The abrupt interruption has you jumping, head whipping over to a timidly smiling Bob, whose brows were raised in blatant disbelief.
You flush, cheeks growing rather warm at being caught in such a compromising position. Sinking deeper into the uncomfortable seat, you groan. This plane ride is really going to be the death of you.
-
“Ugh,” you huff, foot sinking into the mushy mud beneath you. Fists clenched at your side, your teeth grit as you hold back another complaint. You were starting to get underneath everyone’s skin—you’re socially aware enough to know that much—but you don’t have enough self control to not bitch and moan.
You can’t help it. You’re uncomfortable. And sticky.
The Missouri Backwoods are disgustingly humid and you’ve been trekking through them for the better half of two hours with no definitive lead. It’s exhausting.
Normally, you’d be a much better sport. You’re a combat field operative for Captain America for God’s sake; you’re trained well enough to hold your own. The real reason you’re being so miserable was not just because mosquitos the side of your fist are tearing up your ankles.
Remembering the truth behind your sour mood makes you pause, eyes landing on the strong, rippled back in front of you.
The way he managed to make a sweaty, fitted green military tee look like a five course meal should be illegal. Forget the psycho you’re after, someone throw Torres in a jail cell now before you lose your mind.
The two of you had just landed back in Washington before Bucky called Sam (ergo calling you). The most you had was one much needed shower and approximately six hours bundled in your own comforter before you were dragged back to work. Talking to Joaquin wasn’t even an option, even if you wanted it to be.
Though, realistically, even if you had the time, you’re not sure if anything would have been said. You don’t know what you were hoping for, honestly. After all, you and Joaquin swore that what happened in Arizona “changes nothing.”
What a man of his word, he was.
You scoff out loud.
It draws the attention of Bob, who looks over at you with a curious glance, and you jerk your head away from his gaze, embarrassed by the idea of being caught thinking about something Joaquin-related again.
Tentatively, you sneak a gaze back to Bob to ensure his attention is facing forward once more before moving your eyes to Joaquin again. Striding ahead, he moves with purpose—like someone whose limbs aren’t aching and eyes aren't burning from lack of sleep.
He doesn’t look back. Of course he doesn’t look back. Joaquin Torres would be nothing if he wasn’t someone who couldn’t compartmentalize you into a neat, inconvenient little box. Which was fine at first, when the same could be said for you about him.
But that was at first.
And like you admitted to him the night before everything went sideways…you bit off more than you can chew.
Drunken nights and post mission celebrations turned into more, and much to your absolute horror, you actually started to like him in a way that was deeper than pure chemical attraction, more than just as a body to keep your bed warm at night. The thought makes your stomach twists painfully, and just when you’re about to expel another dreaded sigh—
Sam raises a closed fist, signaling everyone to slow. “The last thermal reading is here.”
You glance around, met with nothing but trees and buzzing insects. Wiping at your cheek, you brush away moisture that you’re unsure is sweat or the air itself sticking to your face. Whatever lingering thoughts you had on your pathetic love life evaporated as soon as Sam snapped you back to the reality of where you are.
Joaquin hums under his breath, “Drone picked up some body heat in this area about forty minutes ago.” He taps the tablet. “But nothing within a ten mile radius other than small animals now. Definitely no heat signature big enough for a super human.”
“Great,” you mumble, kicking a small rock underneath your foot. “We just hiked through the Amazon’s redneck cousin for a ghost.”
Sam shoots you a warning look over his shoulder. It’s not like he was particularly thrilled about it either—someone’s gotten particularly comfortable with flying instead, but that was an immediate no-go once you guys landed in this thick, dense blanket of trees. The only difference between you and Sam is that he hasn’t been constantly complaining about it.
“It wasn’t a glitch,” Joaquin continues, easily breezing over your words as though you hadn’t spoken up at all. “Somebody was definitely here.”
“But they’re not anymore,” Bob says quietly to verbally accept the results of tonight.
Everyone pauses, taking a minute to collect themselves after the strenuous effort it took to get here just to find nothing.
Taking a deep breath, you work on gathering your own thoughts. “Alright,” you start, eyes closed as your brows furrow to take in the bad news. “Let’s think about this. We know that he broke out of Everford two weeks ago with nothing but the clothes on his back. Like, quite literally broke down the door and ran. Science experiment gone wrong. Superhuman strength. Weirdly enough, not a first for us,” you shrug at Sam and Joaquin, who just nod in agreement.
You pause to look around, squinting through the canopy of trees as if it might give you a clue before continuing on your verbal puzzle. “So far he’s had minimal contact with the public, opting for back alley rivers and swamp trails instead,” you describe with distaste. “So we know his goal isn’t to hurt people.”
Gesturing at your surroundings, you continue to hypothesize, “He has no supply chain. No contacts. No tactical equipment. What the hell is his plan, what are we missing?”
Joaquin shifts his weight, propping one knee as he takes in your words. “To not get caught by the government, probably.”
You send him a deadpan look, not even having the energy to sarcastically thank him for pointing out the exceedingly obvious.
“He’s probably just scared.” Bob interjects, voice soft but certain. When all attention turns to him, he shuffles uncomfortably. Swallowing, he states, “I don’t…think he’s trying to be strategic. He’s just running to survive.” Bob looks away, staring off into the distance, as if he can see the man you’re after, escaping through these very trees. “Running from something he doesn’t understand.” When he looks back at your trio and sees everyone staring at him, he quickly tacts on with bumbling words, “Probably. I don’t—I don’t know. I’m just guessing.”
Everyone goes quiet, and something like sympathy twinges in the thick, humid air.
You may have only just met Bob, but something about his comment is so exceedingly him. It doesn’t surprise you in the slightest, that out of you four, Bob would be the one to empathize with a man on the run. The crazy scientist injected himself with some basement kit made serum and turned into an anomaly, but Bob can see past that.
You don’t have the heart to tell him that the man he knew all those years ago likely doesn’t exist anymore, that whoever he was then and whatever he’s become now are so entirely different that Bob’s memories of the scientist have become just that: memories. Still, you shrug, offering with as much kindness as you can, “Maybe.”
Looking back at you, Bob offers you a quirk of his lips that’s not much more than a strained grimace, seeing through your very poor attempt at humoring his theory.
A beat passes, and you turn just in time to see something in Joaquin’s expression flickers. He masks it as soon as it flashes across his face, instead choosing to turn his tablet towards the three of you before outlining your target the same way you were. “Everytime we get close, he disappears into terrain no normal human can get through. Marshes, storm drains, flooded creeks.”
“Yeah, but he’s not normal.” It slips past your lips before you mean for it to, and you guiltily shoot your eyes over to Bob.
Joaquin narrows his eyes at you, lips parting to expel what you have no doubt is some sassy remark, but Sam chimes in before he has the chance to.
“Bob’s right. He seems desperate,” Sam states simply. You tilt your head to the side a bit—not exactly what Bob meant, but sure. “Mercer’s managed to survive this long. We can only assume that whatever he juiced himself up with can be thanked for that.”
Everyone falls silent at the horrendous realization. It was a blatant reminder that you truly have no idea what you’re dealing with.
Looking upwards at the treetops, Joaquin announces with a defeated sigh. “There’s maybe twenty minutes of sunlight left until we’re hiking in pitch black.”
“I am not navigating this death zone by a battery operated flashlight. Some of us aren’t making it out of here if a bear decides it wants to hunt them for dinner because—” you snap a look over at Bob, “—some of us don’t have superpowers.”
He gives you a sheepish smile at that, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “I’d at least try to save you.”
Sam lets out a laugh, “Man, so forget the rest of us then, right?”
“You guys can fly,” you state plainly, defending Bob in a light hearted manner.
“So can Bob, technically” Sam raises a brow.
“Exactly, and he’s the only one who offered to heroically save my life,” you smirk, satisfied with your line of reasoning. Though light is limited, you can feel Bob getting redder with every passing second. “Isn’t that right, Bob?” It was just too easy not to mess with him.
Just as Sam parts his lips to offer a retort, Joaquin cuts him off. “Let’s fall back,” he proposes, loudly, effectively bringing a halt to the conversation in a way that makes you roll your eyes.
Someone obviously isn’t in a joking mood.
Conceding to him, Sam lets out a long and resigned exhale, any sense of humor dissipating. “Yeah, alright. There’s a town a ways over. If we move fast we can make it before sundown.”
That was all it took for everyone to fall in, trudging along without so much as another word.
-
If misery had a Yelp page, this place would have five stars.
From the peeling wallpaper that looks like it was last updated in the 70s to the fluorescent light that hummed quietly overhead like a white noise machine, you really have no choice but to rank this as one of the most bottom tier accommodations you’ve been forced into for a mission.
Feet digging into the carpet, you grimace at how stained it was. Even the air smelled stale; it’s incredible how they’ve managed to accomplish that.
Sam had left the three of you to idle in the dingy motel lobby while he walked up to the front desk to work on room arrangements, and to say the silence that fell over you was uncomfortable was a sheerly gross underestimate.
Still, you were too exhausted to care. For a second, you even considered collapsing into one of the armchairs they had set on the floor, but upon second glance at the mysterious brown splotches and fabric so faded you’re sure it was manufactured before you were born, you decided to pass. Just when you were contemplating what diseases you’d contract if you sunk into the carpeted floor, Sam comes back holding two keys.
“They’ve only got two rooms left,” he announces.
You blink. Surely the exhaustion of today’s events has you mishearing things. “...Two?”
From her place at the front desk, the older woman smacks her gum slowly and obnoxiously loud, as if daring one of you to say anything about it.
“They can’t possibly be booked out, Sam.” You argue. “Seriously,” you wave your arms around. “Look where we are.”
Turning back to look at the receptionist, your group watches as she files her nails. Not even bothering to spare your foursome a glance, she calls out, “Like I told him. Convention in town.”
“For what?” Joaquin retaliates, the long day leaving his patience thin, too.
Lazily, she glances over at him. With pursed lips, she looks at all of you impassively, “Tractors.”
“Oh my God,” your head falls into your hands.
“You heard the lady,” Sam looks back at your rag-tag team. “We got a room with one bed and the other has two. So I—” he exaggerates, before tucking one key into his jacket pocket, “—will be in Room 6. Which leaves you three—” he slaps the remaining key into Joaquin’s hand, “—in Room 7. Good luck and goodnight.”
It’s the last thing he offers before he starts breezes past you.
“Sam, wait, which room are you—” Joaquin shouts after him, only for Sam to hastily skittish out the doors, backpack on his shoulders as he exits through the lobby doors and toward the hall of rooms. With his actions speaking louder than any words could, Joaquin raises his arms outwards before dropping them against his thighs with a resounding clap, yelling after Sam. “Come on, bro! There’s no way!”
When Sam doesn’t bother to even glance back at your trio, Joaquin lets out a defeated sigh. Turning back, he offers you and Bob a quick glance before his eyes drops down to the brass key in the palm of his hand.
Silence.
Bob clears his throat and shuffles awkwardly on his feet.
You can’t help but react similarly, scratching your elbow as you direct your gaze toward an ugly painting hanging on the wall.
“Well,” Bob starts, brave enough to speak up first in his particularly humiliating situation. His lips roll inward as he offers a thinly amused smile, “Who’s ready to test the limits of human patience in a 200 square feet motel?”
No one attempts to answer Bob’s rhetorical question.
It’s the last of your exchange before the three of you wordlessly drag yourselves down the dim hallway. The patterned carpet crunching unpleasantly beneath your muddied boots like it’s been bathed in soda for several decades. Room 7 isn’t a far walk, as the motel itself isn’t exactly a grand resort. You do have to fight the urge to break down Sam’s door when you hear him snickering as you pass Room 6, though.
Joaquin unlocks your door with a sigh before pushing it open, but he stands in the hallway to let you and Bob in first.
Bob steps to the side, gesturing for you to enter the room.
With tentative steps, you move forward.
The room is…fine. A simple room with two beds, the space filled with a boxy old TV sitting atop a rickety dresser. There’s a door to your right and you’d bet all your cash that it leads to some cramped, questionable bathroom with awful yellow lighting.
You walk further in, instinctively drawing the curtains shut and flickering on all the lights possible. Amidst your inspection, the sound of the door locking and the chain sliding into place is the only other noise that fills the room and you know without looking that it’s Joaquin’s doing. You can’t help the huff of air that leaves your nose - such a well oiled machine, the two of you.
Once again it’s Bob who speaks up to break the tension. “Um,” he starts quietly, lifting a hand as though you were in a classroom, “I don’t mind the floor.”
Your head snaps toward him. “What? No. You’re not sleeping on the floor.”
He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “I mean, I’d probably be fine. I don’t…sleep much anyway.”
You exchange a look with Joaquin, and the two of you share some silent agreement that the man’s been through enough trauma as is and should definitely not be relegated to beige motel carpeting that smells faintly like cigarettes.
“No,” Joaquin says firmly. “Two beds, three people. We’ll figure it out.”
Bob smiles softly, appreciative and a little shy, and sets his duffel down near the foot of one of the unclaimed mattresses.
You toe off your boots and shrug off your bag, kicking them into one corner of the room without much care before testing out one of the mattresses with a cautious press of your palm. You shrug to yourself before turning back to look at the boys, who were already looking at you. “It could be worse.”
Joaquin lets out something that was almost a laugh. Almost. You try not to think so hard about the way your heart skips a beat at the sound of it. Then, matching your own movements, he kicks off his own boots into the corner near the door before shrugging off his backpack and dropping it at his feet with a loud thud. Shrugging off his jacket, he flings it onto the dresser carelessly.
Between the two of you, Bob just sits tentatively on the edge of the mattress that holds his duffel.
Clearing your throat, you finally concede and bite the bullet everyone has been deeply dreading. “Okay, so…logically, two people on one bed and one person on the other.”
Joaquin crosses his arm as he stands by the door and his biceps flex in a way that makes your mouth run dry, “Yeah.”
You force your eyes away from the way they strain against the sleeve of his shirt. Gaze flickering between the two men, you start to propose, “So…you two could just…”
Before you even finish that sentence, Joaquin and Bob’s heads turn sharply towards one another. They share a look.
One that’s immediate.
One that screams that’s absolutely not happening.
Bob’s eyebrows jump somewhere toward his hairline. “Oh! Actually…I really don’t mind the floor—”
Joaquin’s arms drop, hands starting to gesture as he half-heartedly explains, “I mean, the beds are pretty small. I don’t know. Just, I don’t think we’d fit—”
Your own sentence dies on your lips as the two of them overlap one another, eyes rolling at their childish behavior. “Alright,” you draw out.
The humor in your chest dies as quick as it flickers, though, because now…that only leaves you two options.
Your eyes slide over to Joaquin, who’s already looking at you. Humor in his eyes slowly shifts into something stormier, boring into your face as if he was trying to read you. You scan his features, trying to make something out of it yourself, only to be met with stoicism. Whatever amusement he found in sharing a bed with Bob was squarely gone as he expressionlessly stares at you in expectation, like you’re the one who holds all the power here.
God, since when was reading him so hard? It makes your stomach churn in a way that almost hurts, and you can’t help the frown that makes its way onto your face as you look at him. Quickly, you avert your eyes.
You’re not used to doing this with Joaquin.
It was always so easy before, back when the two of you were first introduced and you joined Sam’s team. Back when Joaquin Torres was just sunlight in human form to you. The worst parts of you start to ache, missing the way he used to smile at you and he’d crack jokes through the comms like you weren’t about to jump face first into the worst dangers.
He was someone who made everything so simple.
He was someone who was effortless to like.
You swallow a bitter taste in your mouth, still not brave enough to look back at him. Joaquin is someone who’s so easy to understand when you’re not on the receiving end of his ire. But now the distance between the two of you was impossible to cross.
Still, you know his heart hasn’t changed. You just wish he’d open it to you again.
“I’m g’nna hit the showers.” Joaquin announces, voice tight.
It snaps you out of your daze, blinking rapidly. You avert your eyes away from Bob, who accidentally became the victim of your stare as you daydreamed. That’s the third time Bob’s been tangled up in your Joaquin-induced trance today alone (not that he really noticed the latter two times), but you offer him a small apologetic smile anyways.
He returns the smile—tentative, and a bit confused, but still kind in a way that makes you feel guilty for dragging him into the crossfire of whatever you and Joaquin are. Or…aren’t, you suppose.
From across the room, Joaquin makes more noise than you think is necessary. Rustling through his backpack, he quickly pulls out clean clothes and hygiene supplies before striding into the bathroom and slamming the door shut so loudly it rattles the fragile infrastructure of the place.
It’s as if he couldn’t get away from you sooner, as if the idea of sleeping beside you was so awful that he had to run away from you. Again.
You huff, rubbing your eyes tiredly.
The tension doesn’t leave with Joaquin. If anything, it thickens, settling over the room like another layer of motel dust.
You sit on the edge of the bed beside Bob and another sigh escapes before you can stop it. Next to you, Bob hovers for a second. He’s awkward and very unsure, as he usually is. The foot of space between the two of you doesn’t do a great job at hiding Bob’s nerves.
He glances at the bathroom door before quickly looking back at you. Quietly, Bob asks with furrowed brows. “Is he…still mad?”
The confession about what happened between you and Joaquin came about three days after you first met Bob. One late night at the Watchtower going through piles of data and a plate of leftover lasagna that Bob made for dinner was all it took to have you unraveling.
Technically, Bob had been the one to initiate it; you imagine that it’s easy to be perceptive when you spend most of your time silently watching others as Bob often finds himself doing. So when he asked you what the deal was between you and Joaquin and why it was so damn uncomfortable every time the two of you were in the same room—you cracked.
You let out a small sigh, “Joaquin’s…complicated.”
Bob thinks about it for a moment. Then, with all the soft earnestness in the world, he asks, “...Is it something I did?”
You blink, stunned for half of a second, before you let a laugh escape. “No, Bob, trust me. It’s not you.” Your eyes glance over at the bathroom door, silently listening to the loud pattering of the water running. Biting your lip to stop them from trembling, you softly admit: “It’s me.”
-
You let out a soft groan as you stretch awake, yawning as your mind quickly works to pull you out of your sleep induced haze. Peering past Bob curiously, you frown when catching sight of an empty bed with nothing but the crumpled motel blanket and rustled pillows.
Joaquin is already gone.
There wasn’t much of a discussion last night after Joaquin took the first shower. The exhaustion had gotten to everyone, and physical fatigue had overcome emotional turbulence, forcing you all to just do what needed to be done to get to bed. All anyone cared about was getting clean and into comfortable clothes. Bob had been courteous enough to let you shower next, and it wasn’t as if you could go sit with Joaquin on his bed while Bob was busy scrubbing the grime and dirt out of his hair.
So…you opted for the empty bed. Which quickly became not empty once Bob came out.
The pillow barrier he had politely placed between the two of you was sweet, even though it now lays abandoned on the floor. You’d try to tell him it wasn’t necessary, but Bob insisted anyway.
Beside you now, he lays still, fast asleep. Curled toward you on his side with one arm tucked under his pillow, Bob looks the most peaceful you’ve ever seen him. His breaths come out soft and steady, and you have to bite back a smile at how endearing he looks like this. Unburdened.
Glancing toward the pillow on the floor, you sigh quietly through your nose. Bob had been apologetic almost, ears blushing faintly red as he placed it between the two of you.
It’s all but dramatically discarded now—intentionally abandoned through the throes of sleep or by gravity naturally, you’re not sure, and against your better judgement, your thoughts flicker to Joaquin.
Your mind flashes with the way he looked last night when he realized you and Bob would be sharing a bed. You may have imagined it. You probably did imagine it. But when Bob came out of that small bathroom, steam trailing behind him in a curl of smoke, and he took a seat at the edge of your bed while towel drying his hair…you could’ve sworn.
You glanced over at Joaquin, morbidly curious and masochistically hoping for some kind of reaction. He froze. For a fraction of a second, something had flickered in his eye like he was reading too far into the space between you and Bob. His lip had twitched, as if about to form a scowl, and his brows had dipped, just a fraction of a centimeter. Joaquin’s eyes had flickered over to you, and you caught his gaze, unbashful in your staring due to exhaustion hazing your judgement. There was a moment, just a fraction of a moment, where it looked like he would actually say something.
But it disappeared.
And Joaquin parted his lips just to call out a strained goodnight to you both before laying down and tugging the blanket over his head as he turned to face the wall, away from you.
Quiet rustling has you snapping out of your flashback, and your eyes rest on Bob again. The faint smell of motel soap is clinging to his skin, probably in the same way it’s clinging to yours. His hair is still damp from when he went to bed, and now curls slightly towards the ends. Not a deep of a curl as Joaquin’s—
You grit your teeth in frustration.
Just as you’re about to chastise yourself for your constant delusion, Bob shifts slightly, breath catching before his fingers brush against your forearm in the smallest unconscious movement. It makes you feel bad about having to wake him.
Still, the morning’s been long enough for you, and you still have a job to do.
Reaching over, your hand lands on his warm bicep, squeezing slightly. “Hey,” you whisper, “Time to get up.”
He blinks awake slowly, soft and harmless, before looking up at you with a sleepy smile.
Morning affairs move as quickly as the two of you can manage, and by time you both got ready for the day, got all your things packed, and stepped outside, Sam and Joaquin were already in an intense deliberation in the parking lot. Though, intense might be an understatement.
You and Bob surely couldn’t have slept in for that long, rays of sun were barely starting to peak through the horizon. Something must have gotten Joaquin riled up, quick.
His shoulders are coiled tight, brows furrowed as he speaks rapidly. His hands wave animatedly, and you can’t help but trail along the vein on the back of his hand towards his long nimble fingers. Even though his head is tilted, eyeline landing below the brim of his cap, you could feel the conflict brewing in his eyes.
You’re not close enough to hear words, but their tone certainly carries through the pavement and across the parking lot that’s made up of exactly one rusted pick up truck, your rental vehicle, and a vending machine that hums loudly in the corner. Tractor convention your ass. Their conversation floats, with Joaquin frustrated and Sam patient.
But by the time you and Bob step up to them, the conversation snaps shut.
Despite the thin fog and slightly chilly morning setting quite an ambient mood, Sam turns and flashes the two of you the biggest grin you’d ever seen. “Well how did you two sleep?”
Bob, ever polite, nodded at him. “Really well, actually. Thanks.”
Before you can ask the two of them what was going on, the lights on the car flash and a loud beep fills the air as Sam unlocks the doors. “That’s great, Bob.” He acknowledges him before turning to Joaquin with the same, wide smile, “Breakfast anyone?”
The younger hero just looks away.
-
The four of you manage to squeeze into a corner booth at the back of the diner. Early morning sunlight filtered weakly through the large windows. Thankfully, the only other patrons were a couple of long haul truckers who were nursing black coffees and a waitress who looked like this shift would be the one to do her in.
“So what’s the plan?” Joaquin asked around a mouthful of pancakes and sausage. It should be disgusting. It is disgusting. But stupidly enough, you find it awfully charming in a way that makes you frustrated with yourself.
Bob traces the rim of his tea mug. “Are we going back to New York now?” He’s hardly touched his own stack of pancakes, and you briefly wondered if he’d let you have a bite.
“I don’t know,” you shake your head, fork reaching over to tear a piece of blueberry pancake before even asking. Not that he cares. Bob pushes the plate closer to you and you flash him a cheeky, grateful smile. “It feels like a waste of a trip,” you continue, “He might still be in Missouri.”
“I agree,” Sam added.
You glance at him when he replies to you and almost miss the way he elbows Joaquin in his side. When you look over, Joaquin’s eyes meet yours for a split of a second. Just barely, like you were one second too late, before they snap down to his own pancakes which he’d suddenly abandoned.
Your brows furrow, curious, but Sam moves forward quickly, leaving you no time to analyze. “We should try to stay close to him. Flying back to New York and waiting for his next move will just get us further, not closer.”
Bob exhaled, slow and tolerant. “Another night in that motel. Fun.”
Bumping his shoulder, you ask half-jokingly, “Bet you wish you were with your actual team in Lithuania right about now, huh?”
He huffs out a chuckle, before responding with equal sarcasm, “And miss out on the great state of Missouri with you? Not a chance.”
You both knew it was a cover—humor, thinly masking the fear twisting in Bob’s stomach about facing Dr. Mercer again. It was the most support you could offer, and selfishly, trying to help Bob feel better gave you something to distract yourself from your own personal dilemmas. You could only hope it’s actually doing something to make Bob feel better.
“Alright,” Sam says, pushing his empty plate aside. “Let’s regroup. Chat up some locals, maybe someone’s seen something.”
When your face twists into a scrunch of hesitation, Sam quickly assuages your concerns. “I know,” he admits, “He’s been evading public spaces. But who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Why don’t we split up?” Joaquin chimes in to suggest. “Maybe some of us should look at the forest trail again, he might’ve left something behind yesterday that we missed.”
Sam perks up at the idea, turning slowly to Joaquin with a sly grin, “That is a great idea.” When his eyes glance towards you, your stomach sinks in anticipation. “Why don’t you two go together?” Sam suggests, tone light and casual, though you can deduct that it’s anything but. “Bob and I will hit up the locals.”
You don’t dare to look at Joaquin.
You don’t have to.
The tension in the booth shifting tells you everything that you need to know.
-
The woods are quieter than what you remember from yesterday. You wish you could blame it on the late morning, with the sun just beginning to cut through the canopy in thin, uneven ribbons, but you know it has nothing to do with the time and everything to do with your company for the day.
Damp leaves cling to your dirty boots as you follow Joaquin along the narrow trail. It’s obnoxious how considerate he was being despite everything, going out of his way to hold large branches and wave giant spiderwebs out of your way as you cross.
His kind actions were a sharp contrast to his words. Which, namely, were none. It infuriates you how easily he avoids your gaze and commits the two of you to silence whilst playing the gentlemanly role that he self-committed to.
It’s about twenty minutes into your stifling tranquility before Joaquin manages to say his first words to you. “Watch out for that poison ivy.”
You grind your teeth. God, he’s so frustrating! You step over the batch that you saw long before he commented on it without a word before following him over a rotting log.
Stupid Sam and his stupid idea to pair the two of you up.
A sharp huff is exhaled through your nose, fist clenching at your sides. You’re clearly projecting because, technically, it’s not a new idea. The two of you have been partners for the better part of some years now, but you know that Sam knows that you and Joaquin are not on speaking terms right now, so…Sam’s in the wrong. Figure that mental puzzle out.
It’s defensive of you, you’re well aware, to morph your deep sense of embarrassment into anger towards Joaquin. Despite that, you don’t intend on changing your behavior. There was only so much patience you could practice before you started to retaliate against Joaquin in your own way.
You were about halfway through your list of ways you could incapacitate him and leave him in the woods by his lonesome when the sound of Joaquin’s throat clearing snaps you out of your daydream.
“I asked Sam to pair us up today,” Joaquin says without looking back. When your eyes furrow in confusion, he rushes to continue, as if he could feel how your gaze changed behind him. “This morning. Before breakfast.”
The confession makes you recoil in surprise, brows furrowing. Stupidly, your body reacts before you can stop it and your heartbeat stumbles in your chest, filling with something silly like hope.
“Oh…?” It comes out like a question, and you wince at how uncomfortable it sounds.
“Yeah,” Joaquin replies, equally as awkwardly. “I just,” he kicks a wooden stick out of your path, “I figured we’d have to learn to work together again eventually. It shouldn’t be weird forever, right?”
Oh.
Whatever expectations you conjured were squashed as rapidly as they appeared. You quickly swallow your own words about the annoyance of Joaquin’s silence, because you certainly felt a lot better stewing in your anger and being left in the unknown.
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you wet your lips before letting out a quick, forcefully light-hearted, “Yeah.”
You hate how small your voice feels, but there isn’t enough gusto in your spirit to rectify it, not when Joaquin’s so casually slid a knife right between your ribs.
The two of you continue down the path in tense silence again after that. There was no other invitation for conversation, not when his words are weighing so heavy on your shoulder. You wonder if this was Joaquin’s way of saying this was it between the two of you. That whatever existed between you—whatever you had clung to in plain, stupid optimism—it all lands squarely in Joaquin’s past.
You picture him pushing all of it—all your almosts, the heated moments after missions, the quiet confession in the dark of his room—into a neat little box to the back of his brain just to gather dust.
Maybe you deserve it. It’s your own fault, after all, for being the idiot that wants anything more than what you both silently agreed to.
Still. You wish it would hurt a little less.
Only two minutes pass before Joaquin speaks up again. “For what it’s worth…” you hear him swallow. “I wasn’t trying to make things weird.”
For a second, something in your heart aches. Because of course he wasn’t. Everything about this was cruel, but Joaquin wasn’t purposely trying to be. He never is. Still, you can’t help the small humorless laugh that escapes.
“‘Weird’?” you quote sarcastically before pushing past him. “Why would it be weird?”
It takes annoyingly little effort for Joaquin to catch up to you, his shoulders brushing yours as he falls into step next to you. “Don’t be like that. I just want us to be functional again.”
“Well. You’re doing a great job,” you sarcastically applaud. Whatever walls Joaquin managed to tear down while in between your sheets those few weeks ago were slowly coming right back up.
You feel his shoulders tense beside you before he glances over, briefly, just enough for you to see the frown on his face before he turns back around. “That’s not—” he huffs. Joaquin drags a hand through his hair before it falls back down in anger. “That’s not fair.”
You stop dead in your tracks, whipping over to stare directly at him. Fist clenched tightly by your side, you tilt your head toward him with narrowed eyes. Your voice is deep, filled with rage as you seethe. “‘Fair’?”
The nerve of him! You can’t tell if it’s the frustration, hurt, or humiliation boiling under your skin that makes you ball your hands into fists at your side. You put yourself out there, made yourself vulnerable in more ways than one, and now he’s standing in front of you, telling you that you’re not being “fair”?
You step forward until you’re toe to toe with him. Pressing a stern finger into his chest, you declare to him. “You don’t get to say that! You shut me out.”
Joaquin freezes, stumbling back for the briefest of seconds before quickly recovering, as if it was the surprise of it all that had him tripping over himself and not the pressure from your push. That only made you more annoyed. Shoulders squaring, he steadies himself, keeping the two of you toe to toe.
Undeterred, you stay rooted where you stand, looking up at him defiantly with a glare on your face.
When he finally manages to reach your eyes again, his jaw is clenched. For a moment, neither of you say anything. All he does is look—at the finger you have pressed against his chest to the frown on your face—Joaquin just stares. It shouldn’t make you angrier, but it does, his silence.
Still, you don’t back down. Your pride is getting the better of you, and you don’t know truly what you two are standing off for, but you’d be damned if you stepped away first.
When Joaquin continues standing there saying nothing, you can’t help the way you grind your teeth together.
It’s too much. You drop your hand with a frustrated huff when—
Warm, strong fingers grasp your wrist in a flash.
Your breath gets stuck somewhere in your throat when Joaquin holds you in place. Glare faltering, your expression morphs into something softer when he slowly, deliberately, loosens curls his fingers around your wrist. Not enough to let go.
Firm.
Just enough to keep your hand pinned to his chest.
“God, you don’t make anything easy.” He finally speaks, controlled through grit teeth. The words hit harder than you expect, and your chest tightens the same way his grip on your wrist suddenly does. “I know I’m not handling this the way you want,” Joaquin continues, slower and much more careful this time.
Your heart is in your throat when his thumb lightly traces over the side of your wrist. His eyes are downcast now, and he ducks his head, lips almost brushing against your skin and you feel him breath the words, aching and soft, “But I’m trying.”
Trying.
You swallow, pride evaporating into the dense forest air. His touch is familiar in a way that still knows exactly how to undo you. For one dangerous second, you almost let yourself believe him. Almost let yourself lean into the warmth of his grip, into the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm, into him.
Almost.
“You’re trying,” you echo quietly, eyes flickering up to his face. Your eyes meet him now, as he lifts his head high enough for you to see a sliver of warm, honey brown, just underneath the brim of his cap. The same eyes that always just look at you, never saying anything more, never saying what you need.
Jaw clenching, you break your gaze away from him. Abruptly, you tug your wrist away from his hold. It’s sharp and jarring, like stepping off something solid you didn’t realize you were standing on. “I didn’t realize my feelings were something that needed to be ‘handled’.”
His brows furrow immediately, “That’s not what I—”
“Oh, no?” you snap, already turning away from him as you start down the trail again. Your boots crunch louder now, steps uneven, betraying how unsteady you feel. “Because from where I’m standing, it kind of sounds like you’re apologizing for how inconvenient this has been for you.”
“That’s not what I said!” Joaquin says angrily, footsteps hurrying to catch up with you. You can hear it in his voice now—tight and strained—like it always gets when you’re in the field and he feels like he’s quickly losing control of a situation. Matching your pace, you feel his stare on the side of your face, hands waving as he shouts, “You’re doing it again—”
“What?” you cut in, voice raising despite wanting to remain cool in appearance. “Not being fair?”
“Yes!” Joaquin fires back, seething through grit teeth. He looks stunned, genuinely stunned, like he didn’t expect this to explode the way that it has. “You’re mad, I get that! But you’re the one who started talking to other—”
CRUNCH.
The sound is sudden and unmistakable underneath his boot. You both come to a grinding halt. A hand swings over to steady you instinctively with an irritatingly protective touch. You slap him off of you, and he just looks over with his lips pressed in a thin line and eyes that are screaming at you to be cautious. Slowly, he lifts his foot and the two of you take a step back in sync.
Broken glass.
Whatever Joaquin was about to say hangs unfinished between the two of you, swallowed by the quiet of the woods, heavy and unresolved as you both stand there, breathing hard like you’ve finally hit something neither of you knows how to navigate.
Your pulse spikes for a different reason now as adrenaline climbs up your spine.
Joaquin looks around carefully before pulling out his phone with stiff posture. He makes quick work before confirming in a low voice, “No thermal heat signatures.” Other than yours—you fill in the unsaid.
You nod. “Okay,” you let out quietly, eyes scanning your surroundings with the utmost surveillance, “That’s…good.” Your eyes look at the trees, every rustle and shifting shadow. You hate how aware you are of Joaquin beside you—of the calm, steady presence he always becomes in moments like this. You wish he didn’t make you feel so…safe.
“Hold on,” Joquin starts before crouching low, inspecting a patch of disturbed soil with light fingers. “There’s footprints. Fresh ones.”
You step closer towards him despite the warning nudge he gives you, a poor attempt at holding you back. “Are they human?”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, “But…the stride’s uneven. Like whoever left these were limping.”
“Or dragging something,” you pessimistically contribute, though you know that’s not something to be truly concerned with, as there were no other tracks to indicate such suspicions. Your stomach flips naturally in suspense, just for a second, but then…Joaquin stands and takes a step back, invading your space much closer than necessary. You don’t know if it’s intentional, but soothes your worries regardless. “You think it's Mercer?”
Joaquin nods once, eyes scanning the treeline with sharp, focused eyes that you’ve seen more times than you can count on the field. He’s focused. Closed off. Wearing that same look that he always has on missions—one that leaves no room for anything personal. “Probably.”
Without another word, the two of you begin to track the footprints left in the dirt, off of the pathway.
The silence is different now.
Wherever you and Joaquin were heading before this new development arose remains unsaid, placed on the backburner as the two of you try to shift into a more professional dynamic. But it lingers. Tight, coiled in suspense, because the two of you know that it doesn’t end here. Just on pause, because something more dangerous demands your attention.
Work mode takes over, but the tension doesn’t disappear. It’s just waiting.
-
Trailing the new set of footprints doesn’t take long, and it’s only a few minutes later when Joaquin stops abruptly. “There,” he points.
Following his finger, your eyes find a structure half-hidden by overgrown vines. The wood looks like it’s been consumed entirely by moss. It holds up a collapsed tin roof and a door barely hanging on by its hinges.
A shiver skims down your spine that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with intuition, a certainty that something behind that door will lead you to Mercer.
The two of you exchange a wordless glance.
Your steps are quick as you move in, Joaquin reaching the door first and shoving it open with a strong tug. The wood lets out a groan of warning as he swings it open, but the two of you heed it no mind as you disregard the large “NO TRESPASSING” sign.
It’s the smell that hits you first.
Rot, wet wood and old, rusty metal. It’s enough to make you recoil and enough to confirm that the place hasn’t been touched in years. But there’s something else, faint enough to go unnoticed by the untrained nose. But you’ve done this long enough to know better. The distinct scent of copper: fresh blood.
You step in right after Joaquin, boots silent on the warped floorboards. You do your best to squint, forcing your eyes to adjust since the only light available were slivers of sunlight peaking in through the cracked wood walls.
Click.
A faint yellow light fills the small shed. You turn to Joaquin on your left, and you catch him just as he’s lowering his hand. A singular camping lantern strung on top of the metal roof swings precariously from his disturbance from when he yanked the thin chain to turn it on.
With the shed now dimly lit, the full state of the place becomes painfully clear.
Shelves overturned. Wooden crates split open. Dust and dirt scraped aside in chaotic, uneven streaks.
You hum, “Sam was right. Someone was definitely desperate.” You drag a finger across a shelf, frowning at the dust before rubbing your fingers together to flick it off. Eyes gazing through the small space, your head tilts curiously when you notice a trail of red dots. Few short steps lead you to a bench holding a first aid kit that’s been ripped wide open with its contents nearly empty.
“Desperate and hurt apparently,” you whisper to yourself. Moving closer, you move carefully to not disturb whatever pattern the blood left behind. The kit’s metal hinges are twisted, like someone pried it open with more urgency than strength. Gauze wrappers are shredded, antiseptic bottles are drained, and bandage rolls are unraveled into sad, limp ribbons. “He was bleeding pretty bad,” you murmur absently.
“Yeah,” Joaquin replies, from the other side of the shed. “But he treated it. At least, he tried to.” The last part is offhanded and you nod absentmindedly in agreement. This rinky old shed isn’t exactly a level five trauma center; there was only so much Mercer could do here.
Your gaze drifts across the space again to find another bench on the far side where Joaquin was standing. Bypassing the dusty jars of mysterious liquid, boxes of unknown content, and fishing equipment that looks like it's been around longer than you have, you manage to find what Joaquin is referring to. A strip of several pieces of gauze lie crumpled in the corner near the wall. Some of them were heavily soaked in a dark liquid you can only assume is more blood. You continue observing, scanning across until you see other pieces, soaked but not fully saturated. Until you land on the last piece: clean. Only its edges speckled.
You exhale through your nose. “With an injury like that, he can’t have gotten far.”
Continuing to compartmentalize your findings, you continue around to seek for anything else disarranged. Other than some tools he knocked over, a stack of old magazines scattered out of place, and a box of bait, there was not much else to note.
It seemed clear enough. Mercer tore through the place with one objective and ignored everything that wasn’t directly useful.
Taking another step, your foot nudges something thin and shiny beneath an old box. Instinctively, you crouch down and pinch the corner, sliding it out with ease. You trace the piece of paper cautiously, delicately touching its waxy surface.
A folded map.
“Joaquin,” you call out.
“What is it?” he crosses the room in two quick steps before he even finishes asking his question, beside you immediately with his posture alert.
“Not sure.” Flipping the paper over, you notice how crisp it is. Other than some slight wrinkles from being handled, there were no untorn corners, no stains. Definitely not coated in the same dust that’s now in your lungs.
This was recently dropped here.
You and Joaquin share a look, coming to an understanding.
Joaquin’s eyes narrowly watch as you unfold it, and you smile in satisfaction when you realize your assumption was right. Light from the lantern sways, creating patterns over the highways, borders, city names until your eyes reach something.
Your eyes start to scan the page before they automatically draw to a thick red circle carved around a single point with such force that the ink bleeds through the back. Large and unmistakable and so criminally-predictable in a way that almost makes you laugh, you stare at the giant clue Mercer left behind. Seems like the mad scientist tied up his end goal in a giant box and placed a shiny bow on top for you to find, and Missouri isn’t his last stop.
You turn to Joaquin slowly, holding out the map. “He’s not running from us.”
Joaquin exhales through his nose, slow and steady before lowly concluding with grim realization, “He’s running to something.”
You can’t help the wide smile that makes its way on your face. It’s the first real lead you’ve had on the deranged scientist in weeks. “Looks like we’re checking out of that motel afterall.”
-
The sound of gravel crunching underneath your feet starts long before you see Sam and Bob, the crumbly pavement of the street leading to the motel parking lot and excitement coursing through your veins makes it difficult for you to keep steady.
You don’t look at Joaquin as you move, but you’re painfully aware of him anyway. His stride matches yours, close enough that you can feel the shift of air when he moves. It’s distracting. And irritating. But you force yourself the shove that thought aside, the excitement of moving forward with this godforsaken mission doing wonders to quell the nerves.
When you round the metal gate, you find Sam leaning against your rental vehicle with his arms crossed and sunglasses perched on his nose in a way that makes him seem all-too casual. Strikingly contrasting him is Bob, who sits on the edge of the trunk with his shoulders hunched over, hands folded in his lap.
“You were right,” Sam shouts from across the parking lot as the two of you approach. “Talking to the locals was a bust. No one’s seen or heard anything matching our guy.”
Bob stands, hopping off of the trunk when the two of you had made it close enough. Relief brightens his features before he masks it with a small, polite smile. “You’re both safe,” he says gently.
The knot wrapped so tightly around your chest loosens a bit. You offer him a small smile in thanks, his concern filling you with warmth despite the rest of the turmoil you feel.
Turning to Sam, your adrenaline reasserts itself as you disclose what made you text the ‘911’ to meet back here. “We found something.” It comes out a little breathless from the brisk walk of anticipation you took.
Sam’s brow raises, eyes sparkling in interest. You feel Joaquin shift beside you and you glance over just in time to catch the way his head tilts, sharp jaw clenching.
“It’s a map,” Joaquin says, short and clipped.
You don’t let his attitude deter you and the sound of rustling fills the air as you pull the piece of paper from your back pocket. As soon as you manage to unfold it, the sunlight disappears—Sam stepping closer, Bob leaning in, and Joaquin angling just enough that your shoulders almost brush. Your skin tightens at the proximity, bracing yourself for his touch in a way that you refuse to unpack right this moment.
“There was a shed,” you explain, words rushed. “Off the path we took. He was looking for medical supplies and dropped this.”
Lifting the sunglasses from his face, Sam reads out-loud to himself, “El Paso, Texas?”
You nod excitedly. “El Paso, Texas.” Looking around, you note the lack of enthusiasm on everyone’s faces. The map slaps against your thigh in exasperation, “Guys, really? Nothing? If we leave now, maybe we can get there before Mercer. Come on, let’s hit the road.”
You turn toward the car, already mentally calculating the drive time, contingencies, what you’ll do when you finally get him—
You only make it two steps towards the car before Sam’s spinning you back around to face everyone again. “Hold on, slow down.” He raises a hand in surrender, like he was declaring peace before you’ve even said a word. Flickering over to Bob and Joaquin first before he turns to you, Sam says with a sigh, “We need to think about this.”
“What is there to think about?” you ask genuinely, confused by his interruption.
Sam lets out a small chuckle, crossing his arm across his chest. “For one, how do we even know that the map is Mercer's?”
You mirror his stance without thinking, arms folding tight in a similar manner. You don’t offer Sam a true answer, the deadpan look on your face does it for you.
Rolling his eyes, Sam concedes with a half-smirk, “Alright, fair point. But even if that is his, there’s no way we make it there before he does. He’s had, what, a twelve hour head start?”
“He was injured.” Joaquin chimes in with a short declaration.
You point at him exaggeratedly, as if to say ‘exactly!’ without a word at all. “Who’s to say we can’t make up for lost time?” you state with raised brows.
Sam raises his brows back, rocking on his heels. “Okay. Say we make it to El Paso. Then what?” He pauses for a split second, and you don’t even attempt to answer the clearly rhetorical question. “It’s a big city. Mercer’s proven that he can hide pretty damn well.”
“We can figure it out once we’re there,” you argue in frustration, unable to comprehend Sam’s disagreement. “Like you said this morning, we should try to stay as close to him as we can.” Admittedly, Sam does have valid points, but it could all be resolved later, so long as you’re in the same city as the guy.
“It could be a trap,” he responds. “Maybe he dropped it on purpose, wanted us to find it.”
“I doubt it,” Joaquin steps forward, standing next to you in a way that was almost instinctive, but he stood far enough to signal just support, not personal alignment. “He was injured pretty bad. He’s erratic. I don’t think he’s thinking straight.”
“You’re underestimating him. That’s a weak assumption,” Sam shakes his head. “We can’t speak to his sense of mind. With the super serum—”
“This is the only tangible piece of evidence we’ve found in weeks. We finally have something more than just catching a glimpse of this guy through some blurry CVV cam. Why are you so adamant against following this lead?” you push.
“I’m not saying I’m against it. We need to be logical, figure something out before we run to El Paso, guns blazing.” Sam retorts.
“I mean, it’s not really guns blazing if we take hours to get there,” Joaquin shrugs.
Voices start to raise as you, Sam, and Joaquin all start to overlap one another. Contention about the next steps start to spill over, words stacking on top of each other until none of them mean anything at all.
“It’s just a little bit reckless—” Sam starts.
The words were so eerily similar to what Joaquin said to your last mission, you can’t help but snap, “‘Reckless’? Really? Take that one from Joaquin, did you? This is bullshit, we can’t just sit here and wait idly for this guy—”
“Woah, what’s with the driveby?” Joaquin turns to you with a glare, “I’m on your side here—”
“We shouldn’t underestimate him, he might be smarter than we think—” Sam insists.
Everyone continues to spiral, each sentence sharper than the last. The motel parking lot was already small in and of itself, but with the words that you throw at each other, it feels suffocating. Almost as if the open space isn’t able to hold it all.
You grip the map in your hand, gesturing wildly as the paper crinkles under your grip. “This is so dumb! Let’s just go to Texas—”
“We will, I’m just saying let’s take a beat—”
“Come on, Sam. Do we really need to? This is the first time Mercer’s directly left us any sort of clue. I think we should go—” Joaquin prompts.
“No, I don’t think—”
The map starts to tremble in your hand, though you don’t realize it until Joaquin reaches out, steadying your wrist. It has you swallowing your next words, hand dropping in defeat. Just when you start to turn your back, away from Sam and Joaquin, a quiet voice speaks up for the first time since the argument began.
“I think we should go,” Bob whispers.
The strife comes to an immediate halt.
You turn back around to look at him.
He stands a little apart from the rest of you now, seemingly rooted in the same spot as earlier whilst the three of you migrated away in the midst of your quarrel. Though he’s standing, Bob’s shoulders are still rounded, hands tucked into the sleeves of his jacket as if he was trying to make himself smaller. His voice wasn’t loud. You’re not sure Bob is even capable of being loud. But he cut through to all of you so clearly that all attention lies on him.
For a reason unbeknownst to you, Sam doesn’t seem to want to argue against Bob, leaving all three of you just watching him in silence, waiting for his next words.
The parking lot still hums with distant traffic and the buzz of the vending machine, but none of it seems to touch this space that Bob’s carved out with just a single sentence. You scan his face, and though he doesn’t meet your eyes, you can see it: something heavy swimming inside them.
You feel your grip on the map loosen as you wonder how long he’s been thinking about this before speaking up.
Suddenly, the debate that was so heated feels smaller than it did before.
“I think,” Bob starts before stopping himself, eyes squinting as though he recalled a bad memory. Shaking his head, he continues with more confidence. “I know why he’s in El Paso.”
“How?” you’re the only one who dares to ask, gently, as you step closer to him.
Bob’s fingers tighten around his sleeve. For a second, you think he might shut down and retreat back into himself.
But he doesn’t.
Bob slowly exhales. Looking up, he meets your eyes as he admits. “He used to talk to me. At night. When he used to observe me he’d…ramble. There were these ideas that he just couldn’t let go of.” You watch as he swallows the lump in this throat, but he never looks away from you. “El Paso was one of those things.”
You can hear Sam shift his weight from behind you, but he stays silent. Joaquin is impossible to miss, the way he’s watching your back instead of looking at Bob. Still, no one moves or speaks.
“There was a lab there,” he continues. “It was his first one. Where he started—” Bob gestures awkwardly to himself, like he was making a poor attempt to bring humor to the situation, “—this whole experiment.”
You part your lips, ready to offer some sense of comfort, but Bob strives forward before you can.
“The antidote.” Bob clenches his jaw, snapping his gaze from you and choosing instead to look in the far distance. His arms wrap around himself as he finishes, “It’s there. I know it.”
Everyone falls into complete silence.
A car passes somewhere beyond the motel.
The hallway light flickers.
A soft breeze sweeps through the four of you.
Sam lets out a long tired sigh. “Well why didn’t you just say so?”
-
The highway stretches out in front of you, long and dark. Its yellow lines blur together as mile after mile slips by. The dashboard clock glows, illuminating some ungodly hour of the night, and the inside of the car is dim except for the occasional wash of white from passing streetlights.
No one said much after Bob’s grand reveal; everyone quietly slipping into the car without a word. It wasn’t out of anger, not at all, but truly because Bob’s confession left everyone’s minds reeling. There was just too much to think about—the reality of what’s in El Paso, the darkness of Bob’s backstory, all the unknown that’s waiting for you in this unregulated lab.
It drained you so deeply that you didn’t have the strength to slip into that protector role for Bob. Though, you’re not sure he would even be receptive to it, with the way his face clouded and he tucked into himself the second he hit the backseat.
Now, Joaquin’s hands are steady on the wheel and his stare is fixed solely ahead, which you only know by glancing at him through your peripherals.
You don’t look for long. You think you’d die of mortification if he caught you actually staring. So, gaze averting, you look through the rearview mirror only to be met with Sam dead asleep in the back. Your lips press into a thin line, unamused by the way his head is tipped back against the window, mouth slightly open, one arm flung awkwardly across his chest. He looks ridiculously comfortable for someone who was putting up quite the commotion only hours prior.
Somehow, Joaquin notices your look.
For a second your heart lurches in your chest as you wonder if he’s going to say something about earlier, the almost argument.
But he doesn’t.
“It’s kind of impressive,” he starts, voice low as his eyes stay on the road. “Guy had an entire room to himself last night, probably got the best sleep out of all of us and somehow he still roped us into driving.”
You snort before you can stop yourself.
The sound feels strange—a bit too loud in the quiet car—and Joaquin’s eyes flicker towards you. Then a corner of his mouth lifts. It’s small. Careful. But it’s there.
His words came at you in surprise, and his comment landed softer than you except. It was lighthearted, almost…casual. You can hear it in his voice, a careful balance he was treading, like if he said one word wrong, the two of you might go spiraling again. Joaquin is testing the waters with you. Reluctantly, you lean back in your seat, letting him. Like he said: he’s trying. Maybe you’ll let him.
A small pause follows.
Joaquin clears his throat as he shifts in his seat.
The air between you now is certainly not uncomfortable, but it’s definitely uncertain.
Matching his movements, you also shift in your seat again, pretending like you’re trying to settle when really you’re just moving around awkwardly. Looking away from Sam with a roll of your eyes before focusing on the crinkly plastic bag in your hand. The family sized bag of sour candy was quickly heading towards empty, much faster than you’d like to admit, and a flicker of hesitation flashes through you as you stare at the small, circular treats.
Swallowing your nerve, you tilt the bag towards Joaquin in a silent offer.
It feels strangely intimate for something so small, and for a split second you consider pulling back.
He glances over at you when he catches your movements.
Streetlight and starlight catch on the side of his face, softening the exhaustion etched there, and for a second, your breath catches in your throat. The harsh lines you’ve grown so used to seeing the past few weeks seem to melt away in the quiet. Dim lights smooth him out, turning him gentle again, the way you really remember him.
You lick your lips when they suddenly feel much drier than they did before. It’s like this version of Joaquin only exists now, in this briefest of moments, when the world’s narrowed down to just the two of you in the front seat of this random car with nothing but the low whirl of road flashing by you.
Joaquin’s lips curve into a small, crooked smile as he reaches into the bag, his fingers brushing against yours through the plastic in a way that makes your skin burn.
It’s nothing. Barely even there.
But still. It’s enough to send a quiet jolt up your spine.
“Thanks,” he quietly murmurs as he pulls out a handful.
Instinctively, your brows furrow. “Take the whole damn bag, why don’t you?”
Joaquin stares at you with wide eyes, shocked for a second before throwing his head back as he lets out a loud laugh, the sound cutting clean through the quiet of the car.
For the first time in a long time, Joaquin sounds unguarded around you. Easy in a way that you haven’t heard from him in what feels like forever. It startles you just as much as it warms you.
“Hey,” he grins, eyes flickering to the rearview mirror just in the briefest of movements when he remembers the two sleeping bodies in the back. “I need it. I have another six hours ahead of me. How are you going to justify going through half that bag just sitting in the passenger seat?”
You huff, shaking your head as Joaquin resettles comfortably in his seat and shaking the fistful of candy in his hand so it rattles.
“I don’t need to justify anything,” you retort. “I had the insight to pick a good roadtrip snack. Unlike some people.”
He gives you a sharp glare. “Beef jerky is a perfectly respectable roadtrip snack.”
“Whatever,” you roll your eyes, popping another candy into your mouth as you turn to face forward again. “Enjoy gnawing on your raccoon meat.”
Joaquin scoffs, shaking his head, though you know there’s no bite behind it because it quickly morphs back into that smile, because Joaquin still gets you. The realization has your heart beating just a little too quickly in your chest.
This conversation feels dangerously good. Like it isn’t weighed down by guilt or the unspoken frustration that’s lingered so insistantly between the two of you for weeks. For the first time, it was like you were really talking, in a way that isn’t in arguments or the pressure of the mission.
Just the two of you, side by side. You can almost pretend that this is how it used to be, back when silence didn’t mean tension just…you and Joaquin.
You glance at him again, catching the lingering smile at the edge of his mouth.
“Thanks for having my back earlier,” you faintly confess.
He turns to look at you, eyes sparkling as he says back just as quietly, “Always.”
The word shouldn’t mean so much. You try to tell yourself not to reach for it, not to read in between his lines. Still, your chest tightens the way it always does around him.
For the briefest of moments, the two of you settle into this strange rhythm between you.
One that almost feels normal.
-
The gas station comes into view way before you actually pull up to it, the bright white fluorescents cutting through the dark like an artificial sun. It’s the first real break in the drive in hours, and given the unusual time, the building sits alone, humming against the emptiness around it.
A soft click-clack click-clack fills the car as Joaquin turns his signal on, despite there being no one else on the road for miles, and the pebbles from the pavement crunch beneath the tires as he parks near the pumps.
A sudden quiet fills the car as he cuts the engine.
Joaquin exhales slowly, one hand lingering on the steering wheel like he hasn’t quite decided what to do with himself yet. You just watch him without a word.
For a moment, it feels like the car is holding its breath with the two of you, windows quickly fogging up now that the ignition is off.
He swallows, opening his mouth for the briefest of seconds before pressing them into a thin line, his tongue briefly pressing to his cheek like he’s rehearsing something in his head and he isn’t sure if it should be said out loud.
Heart beating loudly in your chest, your fingers tighten around the edge of your seat in anticipation.
Just when Joaquin parts his lips, Bob shifts suddenly, a soft grunt leaving him as he rolls against the door.
It makes the gentle atmosphere snap.
“I’m g’nna grab gas,” Joaquin hastily announces, already unbuckling his seat belt, one hand on the door handle.
You nod once, stiffly, reaching for your own door. “Bathroom.”
For a split second, both your hands hover over the center console, Joaquin reaching for his wallet and you for the empty bag of candy to dispose of.
You both freeze.
With messy, quick movements, Joaquin swiftly snatches his wallet from beside your bag and rushes out of the car with a clear of his throat. The driver side door shuts behind him with a loud thud, the sound echoing in your ears.
Lingering in the passenger seat for a moment, you watch him through the windshield as he starts pumping gas. He moves almost automatically, arms crossing across his chest as he stares as the numbers rapidly increase on the screen.
He’s distant again.
You frown before sighing quietly to yourself. Pushing the door open, the chill bites at your skin and the scent of gasoline hangs thick in the air as you head toward the 24/7 convenience store, not daring to look back at him. You wonder if that version of him in the car was real, or just something the dark road tricked you into believing.
The bell chimes above your head when you step inside, the place empty save for the teenager behind the counter who doesn’t even bother to look up at you.
You don’t spare it a second thought, heading straight for the bathroom.
The lock clicks behind you, loud in the too-small space. Bracing your hands against the sink, you stare at your reflection. Fluorescent lighting has never been kind to anybody, but it seems especially cruel to you now, washing you out in a way that makes it difficult to recognize yourself. The bags under your eyes are deep, but your eyes shine like they’re too awake.
Your mind hasn’t caught up to the fact that you haven’t slept all night, too high strung from the energy of just sitting next to Joaquin, delighted in the almost camaraderie you shared.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
It’s stupid. So stupid to let a quiet drive and a handful of sour candy undo weeks of carefully maintained distance. As if one quiet laugh and brush of finger can change anything at all.
Except it did.
For you, at least. Because that’s all it takes from Joaquin to have your walls come crumbling down again.
Splashing cold water on your face, you force yourself to be grounded. The sink creaks as you lean harder into it.
Get it together.
When you step back into the store, you start sweeping snacks off the shelves and pluck drinks from the fridge into your arms, both absentmindedly and hurried.
Something chocolate. Another bag of jerky. Sour candy again because who cares if the inside of your mouth is already blistering. Some energy drinks.
Your arms fill quickly, and you drop the mountain of junk in front of the cashier who still doesn’t bother to look up at you. Finger tapping impatiently against the counter, you count down the agonizing seconds between each beep of his scanning. After paying, you let out a quiet thanks before scooping up the bags he hands you.
When you open the door to exit, the cold hits you sharply.
You find Joaquin leaning against the car despite the gas pump already nestled neatly into its respective home. One shoulder rests against the driver’s side door, arms crossed loosely over his chest with his gaze fixed on the concrete beneath him like he’s stuck in thought.
The harsh station lights carve him into something sharper, much sharper than the way he looked in the car. Here, his edges are defined again and his posture is stiff. Whatever softness that managed to slip through on the highway has been tucked away again, locked up tight.
You try to convince yourself that it’s easier to see him like this, that it’s easier to breathe around him this way if anything else. But the way the air constricts in your lungs tells you that you’re just lying to yourself.
Your footsteps crunch softly against the gravel as you approach, and he straightens when he notices you. Pushing himself off the car, his eyes flicker to the bags in your arms.
Before he has the chance to say anything, you riffle through one of them. Holding up a bag of jerky, all you offer is a slight shrug before tossing it over the car for him to catch.
He catches it easily, muscle memory taking over, and for a split second his eyebrows knit in surprise as he stares down at the bag in his hands. “...Thanks,” he says quietly.
You nod once, noncommittal, before reaching for your own door.
“Wait,” Joaquin calls out just as your fingers grasp the cold metal. “About before,” he starts, looking at you.
Your chest tightens despite what you just told yourself to do in the bathroom mirror. Keeping your expression as neutral as you can, you wait for Joaquin’s next words.
“Not just now but…” You watch his brows furrow, frustration etched on his face. “Before Arizona,” he stumbles over his words. A loud huff escapes him, wisps of cold air blowing out of his mouth. “Look, I’m just having a hard time with—”
A car door creaks open loudly.
“Oh,” Bob groans, voice thick with sleep. “I thought my legs were going to cramp permanently.” He stretches as he steps out of the backseat, one arm braced on the roof of the car while the other presses into his lower back. He squints at the station lights like they’re personally offending him.
You watch as Joaquin’s shoulders visibly tense, snapping tight like a reflex.
Behind Bob, Sam stirs, peaking his head out from Bob’s side. Blinking blearily around the lot, he calls out, “Why are we stopped?” Sam is halfway out of the car before anyone can answer. “Please tell me there’s coffee involved.”
You look back at Joaquin, who’s looking anywhere but you now. The moment collapses in on itself, whatever he was about to say clearly already gone.
The sound of movement has you looking back over at Sam as he fully steps out of the car, rubbing his hand over his face with a stretch.
Bob lets out a small, breathy laugh from beside him, already shuffling toward the entrance with his jacket pulled tighter around himself. “I think I see a machine inside,” he offers.
“Thank God,” Sam mutters, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder as the two of them steer toward the door.
Once the two of them disappear inside, bell chiming peacefully behind them, you and Joaquin are left alone again.
Silence envelopes the two of you, except it’s heavier now, thick with unsaid words.
Joaquin stays by the driver’s side, eyes fixed somewhere past the pumps like the answer to whatever stands between the two of you would be written out in the dark. He drags a harsh hand against his jaw, rubbing the tense muscle thoughtfully before it drops uselessly to his side.
You shift your weight, plastic bags crinkling softly in your arms. Words are crawling up your throat, but they stay stuck there, because you don’t know what to say to him. “So,” you start, not exactly knowing where you’re going, “Coffee crisis averted, I guess…” You glance away from him, cheeks starting to grow warm despite the cold air in sheer embarrassment at your pathetic attempt at starting the conversation.
You hear him exhale through his nose, that soft almost-laugh that he’s been doing. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “Lucky us.”
Another pause ensues.
You shouldn’t push; you remind yourself of the pep talk in that small gas station bathroom. But then you look at him.
The way his shoulders are still tight, the way his jaw keeps clenching like he’s biting something back, sharp and honest. It’s just so unlike him, and despite your better knowledge, you sigh through your nose.
You just want the old him back. So quietly, too quietly to take back, you push. “You were saying something. About Arizona…?”
Joaquin turns to you, and for a second you see it, his walls slipping. It’s in his eyes, the same unsettled look from the woods. One that screams he’s standing on the edge of something dangerous. His gaze lingers on you, unguarded, searching like the words are right there—
He swallows.
“I just—” he starts. Then stops. Joaquin lets out a deep breath of his own, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jackets as he turns to fully face you. “I don’t want to mess this up more than I already have.” He shakes his head slightly, a small bitter smile on his face. “That’s all.”
Your chest tightens painfully, like you’ve swallowed something too big to breathe around. Whatever this is between you, is or was or threatens to turn into, is already fragile. Lump forming in your throat, you wonder what his words mean, when you’ve already put yourself out there.
Searching his face for something more, you wait for him to crack, give a confession that he doesn’t know how to give.
The station lights are getting more painful by the second, and you can only imagine what your exhaustion looks like underneath them, but Joaquin’s eyes are fixed on you now. His gaze is soft, much softer than it has been for the better part of half a month. You’d recognize that change in him anywhere. It’s so subtle, you don’t think you would notice it if you didn’t know him the way that you did.
And suddenly, you realize he’s waiting.
Your throat tightens, unable to give him the reassurance he’s seeking, because Joaquin keeps looking at you like you’re the one who has the answer here. Like you’re the one with the power. But you’ve done your part. You confessed. And he turned you down.
You don’t owe him anything.
A small shrug. “We’re fine.”
Something flickers across his face—disappointment, maybe—but you can’t tell.
You hate how badly you want to close the space between you, how natural it feels to want him close.
Your fingers curl tighter around the plastic bags in your arms, grounding yourself after the clear lie you told.
“Right,” he murmurs, a quiet concession.
You think to yourself: ‘This is it. This is the end.’
But then you watch the way Joaquin’s hand flexes in his pocket. Then he stills. “No.” He suddenly shakes his head, laughing in clear disbelief. “I’m sorry, that’s just,” he looks up at you with a shrug. “That’s just not true. I can’t accept that answer. I know you—”
“The coffee here is disgusting,” Sam announces to no one in particular as he screams from across the parking lot. “I didn’t know it was possible to burn coffee, I mean,” he let out a loud scoff.
Both you and Joaquin flinch at the sudden interruption.
You respond as casually as you can, forcing your voice to be steady as you tell Sam, “I bought some Red Bulls.” Your eyes stay on Joaquin. It’s weird how you feel as though you’ve just been caught doing something wrong, when you and Joaquin are doing nothing more than barely having a conversation across the expanse of an entire vehicle, but the feeling is there.
Still, you don’t look away from Joaquin. And he doesn’t look away from you.
The world narrows again, impossibly, to just the two of you standing opposite one another. His eyes search yours for something, but for what, you can’t tell.
“Isn’t that stuff, like, really bad for you?” Bob mumbles before tumbling into the car, the entire thing shifting underneath his weight.
This time, no one bothers to respond.
“We should get going,” Joaquin finally murmurs, almost reluctantly.
“Yeah,” you reply, just as quietly.
“Hey,” he calls out, just as you look away. There’s something tentative in his voice that has you glancing back up at him. “We’ll talk later?” It comes out hopeful. Cautious.
Your chest tightens again. Nodding once, you agree. “Sure.”
A small promise for now. But maybe one that gets the two of you in the right direction.
Only one bed with Joaquin Torres part two... part_one
Morning came anyway.
And neither of you had moved.
At some point in the night, the careful space between you had disappeared completely. His arm was still around you. firmer now, less hesitant, and your hand was still tangled with his like it had settled there without permission.
Worse.
You had turned in your sleep. So now you were facing him.
Close.
Too close.
Your noses were barely inches apart, his breath warm and steady against your lips. You could see every detail.
Sleep-heavy eyes, the faint crease between his brows, the way his hair had fallen messily across his forehead.
You shouldn’t move.
You definitely shouldn’t think about how easy it would be to just....
His eyes opened.
Slowly at first. Unfocused.
Then they landed on you.
And everything stopped.
There it was.
That exact moment where he realized.
Where you realized he realized.
“…hi” you said quietly.
His voice came out rough. “Hi.”
Neither of you pulled away.
Not even a little.
His gaze flicked.
Your eyes, your mouth, back to your eyes. You felt it like a physical thing.
Your heart started pounding.
Loud enough you were sure he could hear it.
He swallowed.
“Did you—uh… sleep okay?”
You nodded, barely. “Yeah.”
“Yeah,” he echoed softly. “Me too.”
Silence.
But not empty.
Charged.
His thumb shifted slightly where it rested against your hand. Not pulling away, just… moving. Like he was grounding himself.
Or building courage.
You didn’t let go.
Didn’t move back.
Didn’t do anything except breathe and look at him.
That seemed to be enough.
Because something in his expression changed.
Uncertainty slipping into something quieter. Steadier.
Decision.
“Hey,” he murmured.
“Yeah?”
“If I—” He stopped, exhaled softly. Tried again. “If I do something stupid, you’ll tell me, right?”
Your lips parted slightly. “Depends what it is.”
A small, nervous smile. “That’s… not reassuring.”
“Joaquin—”
He didn’t let you finish.
Not abruptly. Not rushed.
Just… finally.
He leaned in slow enough to stop. Slow enough to give you time to pull away.
You didn’t.
So he closed the distance.
The kiss was soft at first—hesitant, like he was still asking the question he hadn’t quite finished out loud.
Warm and careful.
And then you kissed him back.
That was all it took.
His hand tightened slightly where it held yours, his other arm pulling you just a little closer.
The hesitation melted.
The kiss deepened. Not intense, not overwhelming, just certain now. Like something that had been building finally found somewhere to land.
Your fingers curled into his shirt without thinking.
He made a quiet sound. Something surprised and a little relieved, and tilted his head just slightly, like he was afraid of breaking the moment if he moved too fast.
You stayed there.
For a few seconds.
Maybe more.
Long enough that the world outside the room stopped existing.
Until...
A loud knock hit the door.
You both jerked apart.
“Breakfast!” Sam’s voice called from the other side. “And I swear if I walk in and—”
“DON’T,” Joaquin shot back immediately, voice cracking just slightly.
Silence.
Then, from outside:
“…wow,” Sam said. “That’s all I needed to hear.”
Your face burned.
Joaquin stared at you.
You stared at him.
You both started laughing.
Quiet at first.
Then a little more.
Because there was no undoing that.
No pretending it hadn’t happened.
He rubbed the back of his neck, still smiling, a little breathless. “So… that was—”
“Yeah,” you said.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Another pause.
Softer this time.
He glanced at your hand, still close to his, and brushed his fingers against yours again.
Not by accident.
This time, when he looked back up at you, there was no hesitation left.
“Breakfast?” he asked.
You smiled, even if your heart was still racing. “Yeah. Before Sam breaks the door down.”
He grinned. “Yeah… let’s not give him that satisfaction.”
Papasito | Joaquín Torres x Reader | One shot - 3896 words
Joaquín accidentally discovers some of your secret desires and, with a little coaxing, decides to fulfill your fantasies.
Warnings: 18+ adult content, sexual content, blind folds, oral, dirty talk, pet names "baby" and "nena", hint of orgasm contol, p in v, toys, dom/sub play, dom! Joaquín.
Masterlist | Marvel | Joaquín Torres
Joaquín kissed you at the door of the bar, "I'll see you later, yeah?" He stroked his hands down your sides, landing on your hips.
"Of course, Quino, have a good time with the boys." You gave him one last peck on the lips and then strolled down towards the cocktail bar at the other end of the street. You were meeting some friends for happy hour, as was Joaquín.
He could see them making kissey faces as he approached their booth, beer bottles in hand.
"Alright, alright, quit it." He grumbled, sliding into the booth beside Bucky and opposite Sam. He had enough on his mind right now without being teased as well.
"Come on, Torres, just messing with you." Sam reached out and ruffled his once perfectly combed curls.
"It's cute, she seems really sweet." Bucky said, sincerely, sipping his beer.
"I said stop." Joaquín picked at the label on his beer bottle, this was a mistake, he was in too foul a mood for beers and banter.
"What's got into you?" Sam's brow furrowed. Normally Joaquín was the first one to start making jokes, especially when it came to his relationship and Sam and Bucky's distinct lack thereof.
"Just — I don't know if I should talk about it." Joaquín's ears went a little pink.
"Oh, now you have to talk about it." Sam lent forwards across the sticky tabletop.
"No, you don't."
"I dunno, it's just, nagging at me, ya know?"
"Come on, Playboy, what could've got you so wound up."
"That's just it…"
"You cheated on her?!" Bucky sounded so angry Joaquín sort of wanted to see what would happen if he said yes.
But.
"No, god, no I would never, ever, hurt her like that, I don't want to be with anyone else. But, maybe, I sometimes wonder if maybe she might." Joaquín stared into his beer rather than looking at his friends.
He's not that much younger than Sam and Bucky, but he suddenly felt it. Inexperienced, out of his depth with someone like you.
"What makes you think that?"
"Oh god, Sam, don't use your counsellor voice." Joaquín groaned.
"Tell us," Bucky prompted and, despite the total body flush of embarrassment, Joaquín was really tempted to.
"I kinda saw something, she was watching, and then maybe I clicked the wrong button, and saw something else she'd been watching —"
Sam raised his eyebrows, Bucky looked completely lost.
"And those things, the things she was watching, weren't really like the things we've…acted out…"
Bucky blinked slowly and the realisation swept over him. "Torres, are you trying to tell us you watched your girl's porn?"
Sam barked a laugh, so shocked it left him in a whoop.
"Uh — yeah, yeah I am."
"Oh dude," Sam shook his head.
"What was it?"
"Buck! You can't ask him that!"
"Why not?" Bucky shrugged and nudged Joaquín with his elbow.
"It was…different, there was some ASMR stuff like voices and talking, and there was some stuff I really didn't think she'd be in to —" he looked up to find Bucky and Sam staring at him, rapt. "Man, I shouldn't be saying this shit to you, it's an invasion of privacy."
"Why's it got you so wound up though, you must know girls watch porn, even the thousand year old man isn't shocked." Sam gestured to Bucky who nodded along sagely.
"It's just, not what we do, I'm worried she's bored or something."
"Oh." Sam nodded. "Well, porn is just entertainment, maybe that's what she finds entertaining, doesn't have to be real life."
"Or —" Bucky leaned towards Joaquín, ignoring Sam's protests. "You should go talk to her…maybe she's just too shy to ask." He raised an eyebrow then turned back to his beer.
"Not everything is real, Barnes."
"How did you find it?"
"What?"
"How, was it on her phone, did you search something…"
"She left her laptop open on the bed last night, when I got home she was in the shower and I saw it."
"See." Bucky looked smug. "Why would she leave it out? Unless…"
"Unless she wanted me to see it!"
"There you go," Bucky clapped him on the back. "Now, why don't you go and get us another round."
Before he could get up, Joaquín's phone beeped.
Trish already drunk, taking her home, will order pizza and save you some! <3
"You okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, just — she's heading home, I might — uh —"
Bucky smirked behind his beer, "go and have a conversation."
"Yeah — I will. See ya."
Joaquín left the bar half dazed and hailed a cab, trying to work through what he was going to say on his way to your apartment. The lights were off, but he could hear you in your bedroom moving around, probably taking off that ridiculously sexy little dress you'd gone out in and putting your pyjamas on.
"Hey, baby." He shouted, loud enough that you wouldn't jump when he pushed the door open.
"Quino!"
You had taken the little dress off, leaving you in your bra and the lacey panties you had on underneath. You looked so good he worried he might start actually salivating.
"C'mere." Joaquín opened his arms and you threw yourself into them, warm and soft, extra pliant after a cocktail or two. "Good night?"
"Was before Trish threw up on the table," you laughed, "it was so disgusting, awful, couldn't have gone back."
"Well," Joaquín cupped your face and kissed you quickly, "I'm glad you didn't go back."
"Was boys night a wash out as well?"
"No…just, wanted to talk to you about something, that's all." Joaquín started moving you backwards towards the bed. If he was going to talk about this then he wanted you both to be comfortable, to be safe.
"Yeah?" You scrunched your brow and his stomach lurched.
"Nothing bad, don't worry."
You both snuggled down on the bed, legs and arms tangled together.
"What is it Joaquin? I'm worried I've upset you. We could've done date night instead?"
"It's nothing like that, it's just … I saw your laptop, the other night and…"
"Oh," he felt you get a little hotter, your leg rubbing against his.
"Yeah, and…is that…those things…something you'd like to do?"
"Uhm…"
It wasn't like you to hesitate, usually so decisive and confident, bouncing around Joaquin's life like a puppy, your energy well matched to bring you the most out of every single day.
"If you don't want to it's fine, I just wanted to check —"
"Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes. But I didn't want to put any pressure on you, everything's already very stressful what with your new role and literally saving the world."
Joaquin chuckled and snuggled closer to your neck, "only you'd describe it as saving the world. You know I'd do anything for you, right?"
"Yeah, I do." You looked up at him, wide eyed and wanting, your leg moving against his again, a slow movement he wasn't sure you'd even intended to make. But it had all the blood rushing south.
"Let me do this for you then." Joaquin's voice was lower now, but with a rougher edge you hadn't heard before, something new inside of him being discovered too.
"Yes, please." You nodded in agreement, suddenly hot in a very different way, needy and nervous.
"You've got to tell me what you want to do, nena," Joaquin asked, rubbing your back and watching you intently. But as soon as the opportunity was in front of you, you seized up, scared, what if he laughed? What if it wasn't fun What if what if what if?
"Okay, you don't have to say if you can't, I just want you to be happy." His hands slide down over your cheek, your shoulder, brushing your fingers together. "You liked those voices, right?"
You nodded again, burying your face in his neck so he couldn't see the mix of excitement and nerves on your face, but he moved away, searching in his bedside draw for a moment before pulling out an old eye mask from his last long haul flight.
"Put this on, baby, okay."
Joaquin helped you slip the mask over your eyes, and then lowered your head back to the bed gently. You could feel him rustling about beside you and, when he returned, you could feel the heat of his bare skin next to yours. Your breath hitched, you wished you could see him.
Squirming you tried and turned towards him, but his hand on your belly stopped you, rolling you onto your back.
"No, no, baby, you stay just there."
This is exactly what you wanted, his firm touch and gentle commands, you took a deep breath and, when you exhaled, you relaxed into the bed and focused on Joaquin's voice instead.
"Good girl, so proud of you for asking for what you want." He was close, you could feel his arm against you, his voice low and soothing in your ear and it sent tingles down your spine as you zeroed in on him. "You want to let go, huh, baby?"
"Yeah — yes — please, Quino."
"That's okay, we can do that, I couldn't wait to get back here, you know. Couldn't wait to see you in that dress again, you looked so good, could barely help myself, the way it touched you."
He brushed a finger down your shoulder, tracing the phantom lines left by the neckline of your dress, he shifted and you wait for his touch to leave, but it's replaced by his tongue instead, lapping the lace of your bra where your nipple is pebbled underneath.
"I loved watching you walk away, knowing every guy in that place would be looking at you, but you'd be coming home to me. Mine, my baby, my good girl."
Joaquin's voice hesitated, not sure how much to push this, the possessiveness, the want. But when your breath hitched, he couldn't help but press his hips against yours, his cock hardening in response.
"Yours, Joaquin, all yours." You gasped back, mouth falling open on a silent moan.
Joaquin was rapt, he'd seen you fall apart so many times, but this was different. He barely touched you and just the feel of his fingertip made you dance against the sheets, hands clenched in the cover to stop yourself from touching him back. He never said you couldn't, but he could see you wanted to give it to him, all of the control, all of the power, such a rush.
Joaquin's lips meet yours harder than he intended, lips and teeth clashing, his tongue pushing into your mouth, desperate to taste you.
"Fuck, you're so good for me baby, can see you trying so hard, you wanna touch?" He panted, pulling back enough to watch your body language for any sign of distress or hesitation.
"Please, please let me touch you I wanna —" you paused, hands grabbing at thin air and, so cute and sexy all at the same time, Joaquin's hips stuttered forwards again, seeking the familiar squeeze of your fingers.
"What do you wanna do, baby, you've gotta tell me. Wanna hear you say it."
You bit your lip and turned away, as if that'd stop him from seeing you, "can I taste you, please, just a little, I'll be good."
"Taste? Fuck, yes, yes, let me —" Joaquin climbed off the bed and, with gentle hands, moved you to the edge, your head hanging off slightly.
You took deep breaths, your mouth dropping open, tongue out, waiting, anticipating — excited. "Lookit you, god damn it, baby." Instead of his cock, you felt him kiss you, upside down and awkward, but sweet, and then just as suddenly there was the salty taste of him on your lips.
A bead of pre-cum on his tip, smeared like gloss over your bottom lip and then you were lapping at it, eagerly coaxing him into your mouth where he sank into your warmth, your tongue cupping the head of his cock as he slid in and out slowly.
It was bliss, this connected feeling, floaty and warm, there's not a thing you can do but give in to him and let him lead you through whatever blissful moments are coming. Exactly what you wanted. Freedom, safety, pleasure.
Joaquin moved gently, languidly, his own hands running down the length of your body as he bent over you, pressing deeper into your mouth, your throat, and you let him, opening up and giving yourself to him.
"Doing so good, baby, look so gorgeous spread out for me." His fingers teased down over your breasts, rubbing over your nipples and tickling at your sides, his thumbs moved over your belly button until he was cupping you between your legs, thumbs spreading you open.
You were wet, and you knew it, almost embarrassingly so. Everything about Joaquin makes you wet, from the way he scrunches his nose when his coffee isn't right in the morning to the way he slides between the sheets with you every night, holding you against his strong body. But, living out your fantasies, is even better.
"I want you to do something for me, okay baby?"
You'd answer, but your mouth was full of him.
"I want you to come with my cock in your throat, can you do that for me?" He said it so sweetly despite how dirty the request, it's delicious, you felt him enjoying his role too and that made it all the more fun.
"Uhmm -humm—" you hummed around him, earning an extra little thrust, and then his fingers were back, massaging your thighs and slipping between, allowing his thumbs to tease back your folds, nudge against your clit, building you slowly until you're whining for him.
"I know, baby, I know, feels so good, doesn't it, having someone play with you."
Not just anyone. Him, "you," you slurped around his cock, needing him to know that it isn't just an anyone moment, that it's him you trust and him you want in control of your body.
"Ohh — baby, you're so cute, fuck, I love you so much." He presses two long fingers inside of you and curls them, feeling for the soft little spot that had you shouting around him, choking on him in your pleasure.
His hand massaged your lower tummy, gently at first, but then he's pressing up from the inside, down from the outside and — oh fuck.
You thrash as your pleasure builds suddenly, like a firework you shot up and paused, muscles tight before clamping down on his fingers, squeezing him so tight, it almost hurt.
"Oh, wow, baby, you fuckin' squirted, that was so sexy, god you're so beautiful, I need to see that again." Joaquin's voice was awed, obsessed, his fingers teasing and playing over your too sensitive clit.
But you shook your head and, in a second, he pulled away, kneeling by you as you catch your breath, nuzzling into his cheek while he held you up.
"You okay, nena, didn't mean to go too far." Joaquin's concern is always written all over his face, his sticky fingers on your chin held you still while he checked in on you.
"I'm good, I'm good, just need a moment." You whispered, eyes squeezed closed.
"Think you can go again? Or do you want to stop?"
"More, please."
"Shall I take the blindfold off?"
"No, no, leave it on, then I don't know what's happening, it's fun." When you'd calmed down you shimmied back into a comfortable position. "Please, I want your cock, Joaquin, please?"
"God," Joaquin groaned, "you're such a good fucking girl for me aren't you?"
This time, unencumbered, you nod enthusiastically, "just for you, Quino."
"Okay, stay there baby, I've got you."
There was rustling on your side of the bed and then the feel of something cool and plastic between your legs, gently sliding between your folds. You've played with your vibrator before, but never like this, and the thought of all the different ways he could control your pleasure has your body rolling up to meet his touch.
"Think you can go again for me?" He asked, but the soft hum of the vibrator was already making its way up your inner thigh again, higher and higher with each pass until he teased it back down towards your knee.
Your mouth was still wrapped around his cock, slurping at his drooling head as you try to take him deeper and deeper.
"Please—" you begged the best you couldwith your mouth full, drooling around his delicious length, and Joaquin laughed again. It wasn't meant to be cruel but the hint of degredation only pushed you deeper into the submissive space you'd been craving. Your throat relaxed and suddenly your nose was pressed against the underside of his cock and he was making his own choked out sound.
"Fuck — fuck — babygirl you feel so good, doin' so damn good for me — shit — you want my cum nena?" He rambled, pulling back only a little to enjoy the tight clench of your throat as he slid in again.
You gurgled your answer, hands finding his thighs and sliding round to his ass, holding him close so he couldn't pull away.
"That's a good girl, my girl — fuck —" he pressed forwards, holding your chin lightly with one hand while the other cupped your breast, and your throat filled with his cum. Pulling away a little you swallowed and pushed your tongue out of your mouth. "You swallowed it all down? Good girl."
His praise made you want to do it all over again, but you could't ignore the throbbing of your clit between your legs that had you mewling and clawing at him.
"You definitely deserve a reward." Joaquin scooped you up and sat with his back against the headboard, draping your sex sticky body just as he wanted it. Tired, you tipped your head back to rest against his shoulder and allowed your legs to spread over his, his thighs spreading you wider.
Then the vibrator was back, more insistent this time but no less deliciously teasing.
"Oh shit!I" You tried to close your legs but he stopped you, one large hand on the inside of your thigh, pulling you open again until his knees were keeping you in place.
"Good girl," his voice was a low hum, focussed on the head of the wand between your legs, carefully parting your folds to reveal your clit before setting the head right on top. "Fuck, do you even know how pretty your pussy is? Spread open like this, swallowing your toys."
"Joaquin!" Your hands searched for comfort, one tangling in his hair, the other grabbing at his thighs.
"I know babygirl, I know, it's a lot isn't it. But I love watching you cum for me so fucking much." Joaquin mumbled the words into your cheek, at once loving and tender all while he pushed you towards another orgasm.
Your clit was so sensitive you weren't' sure if you were trapped between pleasure or pain, your body strung out, so tense you dug your nails into his skin.
Behind you Joaquin drew in a breath and you relaxed a little, easing your hand away, but he covered it with his own.
"Show me — show me how good it is, show me what I do to you, nena, leave a mark."
His voice was ragged and you turned your face towards his neck, breathing in his scent, cologne, shower gel, sweat, and sucked on the soft skin where his neck met his shoulder.
"I'm gonna come again, I don't know if I can but I think I will and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck."
You came hard, your muscles going taut in his arms, knees buckling in and your cunt weeping around the weight of the wand's head. Joaquin kissed your cheek, easing you through the after shocks and you felt his cock pulse against your lower back, hard again at the sight of your pleasure.
"Doing so good for me." He praised, petting your side, your breasts, thumbing your nipple as he passed. "You just lay here, nena."
He slipped out from behind you, settling you into the cushions, making sure you were comfortable, and then knelt between your legs. Your blindfold had slipped over one eye, granting you a slither of a view of his heaving chest, sweat dripping between the muscles, and his wide smile.
Joaquin slid his cock through your folds, "you're so wet babygirl." He held his cock down with his thumb, pushing the full length between your lips until the head nudged against your clit and made you jolt. "Could fuck you just like this, get myself off, cum all over your cute little tummy and you gorgeous tits. What do you think? You said you couldn't come again anyway."
He wasn't even looking, eyes locked between your legs while he toyed with you, and you let out a pitful whine.
"What was that?"
"Please, Joaquin, please."
"Please…what?"
"I need your cock, Quino."
"It's right there." He smacked it against you, making an embarrasingly wet sound. "If you want something, baby girl, ask for it."
"Fuck me, Quino, please, please fuck me, I need your cock so bad!" You cried out, reaching for him, tugging at his arm and his hair to get him closer, rubbing your thigh up and over his hip, lifting your body in an attempt to notch his cock at your entrance.
"You ask so nicely baby," he ran his nose over your cheek, breathing you in, "such a good girl, begging for my cock even after I gave you so many orgasms, greedy girl." His voice dropped lower, almost a growl, a sound you'd never heard from him before but you'd spend the rest of your life trying to tease out of him again.
You pushed the blindfold off and batted your lashes, crossing your ankles at the small of his back and applying pressure until he was covering you completely.
"I'd give you anything you asked for, nena, you know that." He kissed you slowly, pecking your lips before licking into your mouth and easing himself inside until you could feel him everywhere.
"Thank you, Quino."
He smiled as you went soft and pliant beneath him, your hips still rolling slowly, as if you couldn't control them anymore, and he met every move, slowly grinding against you while you keened beneath him. Your eyes were screwed shut, basking in the feeling of his movements, the way he always knew the right angle, the perfect amount of pressure. But Joaquín watched you, smiling indulgently, holding his weight on his elbows so he could cup your cheeks and kiss you, foreheads resting together breath mingling and then —
You were cumming again, arching into him, tight nipples brushing against his chest, your whole body tingling with bone deep pleasure. And Joaquín moaned, nipping at your lower lip and holding himself deep within you, exhaling his release with a shower of kisses.
"Fuck I love you nena." Joaquín rolled onto his back, tugging you with him until you snuggled into his side, slick with cum and sweat, but sated and happy.
"I love you too, papasito." You kissed his chest, wriggling closer, and he held you in even closer, smiling up at the ceiling.
| Authors Note! hiya!! this is a little mean at the begining.. there's missed expectations, emotional fallout and peter being an idiot. there will be fluff at the end trust. anyways enjoy <3
pairing : mcu peter parker x reader
genre : angst - fluff
warnings : emotional angst, miscommunication, neglect in a relationship, crying, hurt/comfort, temporary breakup
word count : 310K words
The apartment smells like buttercream frosting and the strawberry candles MJ brought over three hours ago, the ones she'd shoved into your hands with a flat "Happy birthday, don't make it weird." Streamers in dusty rose and gold curl from the ceiling fan that nobody can figure out how to turn off, so they flutter in lazy spirals above the kitchen island where a two-tier cake sits with your name piped across it in crooked purple letters. Ned's handwriting. He'd been so proud of it he took eleven photos from different angles.
Your phone screen stays dark on the counter.
"Okay, but I'm just saying—" Flash leans against the fridge in a jacket that costs more than your rent, one hand wrapped around a red Solo cup filled with what he swears is "artisanal punch" but is absolutely just Sprite and grenadine. His jaw is sharper than it was in high school, cheekbones catching the warm overhead light, hair gelled into that effortful-effortless swoop he's been perfecting since sophomore year. "—if Parker can't even show up on time to a birthday, how's he gonna handle, like, a mortgage? I'm just being realistic."
God, I'm so good at reading rooms. Somebody should be filming this.
"Flash." MJ doesn't look up from the book she's reading on your couchThe Bluest Eye, dog-eared to death, her dark curls falling across one sharp cheekbone. She's wearing an oversized flannel that swallows her narrow shoulders, legs tucked underneath her, and her voice carries the energy of someone who has been waiting for this exact disaster since breakfast. "Shut up."
He's not coming. I knew he wasn't coming. I should've said something this morning.
"No, no, he has a point," says Betty Brant from the folding chair near the window, and Ned physically winces from across the room.
Ned, sweet, broad-shouldered, nervous Ned, stands by the Bluetooth speaker with his phone in both hands with so much attention, thumb hovering over Peter's contact. His round face is doing that thing where he smiles with his mouth but his eyebrows betray absolute panic. He's wearing the birthday-party Hawaiian shirt, the one with little pineapples, stretched tight across his chest and belly.
Pick up pick up pick up pick up. Dude, PICK UP.
"He said he was coming," Ned announces to no one in particular. Third time in twenty minutes. "He literally texted me at four. He said, and I quote, 'Leaving soon.'"
"It's almost eight, Ned." Your voice comes out steadier than your hands. You set down the stack of paper plates. little holographic ones, because you'd thought they were fun when you picked them out last week. They catch the light and throw tiny rainbows across your fingers. Your nails are freshly done, a light baby pink. You'd gotten them done specifically because Peter once said he liked that color on you, offhand, months ago, and you'd remembered.
He couldn't remember today.
The playlist Ned built shuffles to something upbeat and it feels like a slap.
You pick your phone up. Lock screen: a photo of both you and Peter holding hands in Central Park, October light making everything amber. No new messages. You'd texted him at noon. At two.
At five-fifteen, a simple "Hey, don't forget tonight :)" with the smiley face because you didn't want to sound desperate, even though your chest was already tightening.
Read at 5:16 PM.
"I'm gonna—" You gesture vaguely toward the bathroom. "One sec."
The bathroom is small. Lavender hand soap, a crack in the mirror that's been there since move-in, and the muffled bass of whatever song is playing through the thin door. You grip the edge of the sink. The porcelain is cold and your knuckles go white around it.
He promised.
You'd reminded him two weeks ago. Then again last Monday. Then a sticky note on his backpack, an actual, physical sticky note, hot pink, with a little doodle of a cake on it. He'd laughed and kissed the top of your head and said, "Babe, I'm not gonna forget."
Your reflection stares back at you. The outfit you spent forty-five minutes picking, a light pink strapless dress that matches your nails and that sits just right against your collarbones, and the heeled wedges you can't really afford, all of it suddenly feels like a costume for a show nobody's watching.
You don't cry. Not yet.
When you come back out, MJ's eyes flick to yours for exactly one second. That's all she needs.
Yeah. She's not okay.
Flash is telling a story about his Audi and no one is listening. Background noise: someone's phone buzzing on the counter, the clatter of ice in a glass, Betty laughing politely at something, the fan clicking on every third rotation.
Eight o'clock.
Eight-thirty.
Ned stops checking his phone and starts cutting cake with the grim focus of a field medic performing triage. He plates a slice and brings it to you with both hands, like an offering. "It's really good. I used, um, I used the Swiss meringue buttercream this time. Not the American. There's a difference. The Swiss is—"
"Oh, I'm not hungry." You say rushed. He insists. You take it. You don't eat it.
Nine o'clock. People start doing that thing where they check their phones and mention early mornings.
Nine-fifteen. Betty hugs you goodbye. Flash salutes, which is bizarre, and then pauses at the door.
"For what it's worth," he says, and his voice does something unexpected, drops low, almost gentle, entirely un-Flash, "you look really pretty tonight. And Parker's an idiot."
Okay that was smooth. That was actually smooth. I should be a life coach.
He leaves. MJ squeezes your shoulder on her way out, no words, her grip firm and dry. Ned lingers the longest, hovering near the door with his jacket half-on, mouth opening and closing.
"I can stay—"
"Go home, Ned. It's fine."
It is not fine.
The door clicks shut.
You stand in your apartment with gold streamers and a half-eaten cake and a playlist still going and the cinnamon candles burned down to stubs, wax pooling on the saucers. The smell has gone from warm to cloying. You blow them out one by one.
Your phone lights up at 11:48 PM.
Peter: oh my god
Peter: oh my god oh my god
Peter: sweetheart
Peter: I'm coming right now
Peter: I am SO sorry
Peter: please don't be asleep
The buzzer goes off at 12:03 AM. You press the intercom without saying anything.
His footsteps in the hallway are fast, stumbling, and when you open the door Peter Parker is standing there looking like he lost a fight with the entire city. His brown hair is a wreck, curling in every direction, damp at the temples like he ran here. There's a scratch on his jaw he'll claim is from "a shelf" later. His hoodie is inside-out. Literally inside-out, the seams showing, the tag flapping against his collarbone. Those warm brown eyes, usually so steady, so soft, are wide and wet and terrified.
He's holding bodega flowers. Cellophane-wrapped carnations, half-crushed, obviously grabbed in a sprint. One of them is missing its head entirely.
She's going to kill me. She should kill me. I deserve to be killed. Is she—oh no. Oh no, she's been crying.
"Happy birthday," he breathes, and the words come out like an apology and a prayer stitched together.
You look at him.
You look at the decapitated carnation.
Something inside you, the thing that held all night, through Flash's commentary and Ned's cake and MJ's knowing glances and the bathroom mirror—cracks clean open.
"You forgot." It comes out quiet. Worse than yelling. "You actually forgot."
"I didn't—I got caught up with, there was a," His hands are shaking around the flowers. He steps forward and you step back and his face crumbles. "Baby, please, I know—"
"I reminded you seven times, Peter." Your voice splinters. Tears are falling now and you hate them, you hate every single one, warm and fast down your cheeks, dripping off your jaw onto the collarbone where the cropped top sits.
"I put a sticky note on your bag. A sticky note. Like you were a child. And you still—" A breath that sounds like it's been ripped out of you. "Everyone was here. Flash was here. Flash showed up to my birthday before you did. Do you understand how—" You press both hands over your eyes because looking at him hurts. "Do you understand how humiliating that is?"
He's standing in the doorway and his arms drop to his sides. The flowers hang limp in his fist, cellophane crinkling.
"I know," he whispers.
"You don't." You wipe your face with the back of your hand, mascara smearing across your knuckle. "Because if you knew, you would've been here. You would've," Your voice breaks entirely. What comes out next is small, fractured, barely a sentence: "I just wanted you here."
Peter's eyes are red. His throat bobs. He reaches for you.
"Don't." You pull your arms against your chest. "I think… I think you should go."
"No. No no no, wait."
"Peter. Go home."
"Can we just talk,"
"I don't want to talk to you right now." You say it to the floor. To the holographic paper plates stacked on the counter. To the cake with your name on it. "I don't think I want to talk to you for a while."
The silence that follows is worse than anything.
Peter Parker leaves your apartment at 12:11 AM on October 15th, still holding the crushed flowers, and the door shuts with a sound so soft it might as well be a gunshot.
He texts every day.
Not desperate essays. Not paragraphs. Just:
Peter: I'm sorry.
Peter: I hope you ate breakfast.
Peter: I'm so sorry.
You read every single one. You reply to none.
MJ brings you soup on Tuesday. She sits on your bed and reads aloud from her book while you lie face-down on a pillow and pretend you're not crying. She doesn't comment on the crying. She just reads. Her voice is low, steady, and she smells like eucalyptus shampoo and the library.
Ned calls on Thursday. "I'm not, like, taking sides," he says, "but he hasn't slept. Like at all. He's doing that thing where he sits on the ceiling and just… stares. It's really unsettling, actually."
"Good," you say, and then feel terrible, and then feel angry that you feel terrible.
A package arrives at your door. No note. Inside: a first edition of your favorite book, the spine slightly cracked from use, a pressed flower tucked between pages 113 and 114. You know Peter's been scouring every used bookstore in the five boroughs because Ned accidentally let it slip during a phone call he didn't realize was basically a hostage negotiation.
You put it on your shelf.
You don't text him.
Peter: I found that coffee place you mentioned in August. The one with the oat milk lavender thing. It's really good. You were right.
Peter: You're always right.
Peter: I miss you so much I can't breathe sometimes.
You stare at that last one for forty minutes in the dark of your bedroom, the screen light making your eyes ache, the sheets smelling like the detergent you both use, same brand, because you'd started buying the same one without discussing it, just one of those things couples do when they've grown into each other's routines. And now the smell of your own laundry makes your chest cave in.
Then Flash, of all people, DMs you on Instagram.
@flashthompson: okay I know this is weird but Parker literally showed up at my apartment to ask me what your favorite flowers are. YOUR flowers. He asked ME. I've never seen a man so down bad in my life. It was honestly disturbing. Anyway it's lillies right
You: How do you know that?
@flashthompson: you posted a story in june with lillies and the caption "obsessed" and I have a very good memory
@flashthompson: don't make it weird
You almost smile. Almost.
Peter shows up at the coffee shop where you study on a rainy Wednesday. You don't know how he knew you'd be there, Ned, probably, the world's worst double agent. You're tucked in the corner booth, laptop open, cold brew sweating a ring onto the wooden table, and the smell of espresso grounds and rain-wet pavement drifts from the propped-open door. You look up and he's just standing there by the register, soaked through his jacket, hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping from his jaw to his collar.
He looks thinner. Circles under his eyes dark enough to bruise, purple-brown, stark against his skin. His hands are stuffed in his jacket pockets and his shoulders hunch inward like he's bracing for impact.
He's here. Okay. Okay. Don't cry. Do NOT cry in a coffee shop. Be normal. Be a normal person.
He doesn't come to your table. He orders at the counter, quiet, and then walks over holding a cup, not for himself. Oat milk lavender latte.
He sets it down in front of you without a word.
Then he turns and walks right back out into the rain.
You watch the door swing shut behind him. The barista, a girl with blue hair and a nose ring, glances between you and the door and says, "Honey, whoever that is, he tipped forty percent and he looked like he was going to a funeral."
The latte is perfect.
You cry into it a little.
He sends a handwritten letter. Actual pen on actual paper, slid under your door. His handwriting is terrible, always has been, all sharp angles and inconsistent sizing, like a doctor raised by architects. But he tried. The paper smells faintly of his apartment, that specific blend of cheap bodywash and old wood and the faint metallic tang you've never been able to identify.
You read it sitting on the kitchen floor with your back against the cabinet.
I know I can't explain without telling you everything, and I know that's not fair. But I need you to know that there has never been a single second where you weren't the most important thing in my life. I just haven't been acting like it. And that's on me. All of it.
You reminded me seven times. I know. I counted after. I went back through every text and I counted and I felt sick.
I don't want you to forgive me because I showed up with flowers or books or coffee. I want you to forgive me because I'm going to be different. I'm going to be the person you already thought I was when you put that sticky note on my bag. The one with the little cake drawing. I kept it. It's on my wall.
I love you. I love you. I love you. I'm sorry I made you feel like that wasn't enough to remember a date.
— Peter
P.S. Flash says hi. I can't believe I'm at the point in my life where Flash Thompson is my emotional advisor. This is rock bottom.
You laugh. It's wet and shaky and it surprises you.
You pick up your phone.
You: Come over.
He's at your door in nine minutes. You know because you count.
When you open it, he's standing there in a clean hoodie, right-side-out this time, holding a bouquet of pale pink peonies wrapped in brown paper. His eyes are red-rimmed. His lip is bitten raw. He smells like rain again, and bodywash, and something warm underneath that's just him, that specific Peter-smell you've been missing like a phantom limb.
She opened the door. She opened the door. Okay. Okay. Don't mess this up. Don't—
"Hi," he says.
"Hi."
Neither of you moves for a long, terrible, beautiful second.
"I read your letter," you say. Your voice is hoarse from three weeks of not using it enough.
His mouth twitches.
"And you misspelled 'remember.'"
"I know that."
"And you told Flash Thompson about our problems, which means I'll never hear the end of it."
"Yeah, that…" He exhales a sound caught between a laugh and a sob. "That was a low point."
You look at the lillies. At his bitten lip. At the circles under his eyes that tell you he hasn't been sleeping, that Ned wasn't exaggerating, that Peter Parker has spent twenty-six days drowning in the absence of you.
"Get in here."
He steps through the door and you reach for his collar and pull him down into you and his arms wrap around your waist so tight your feet leave the floor, actually leave the floor, heels lifting clean off the hardwood, and the lillies get crushed between your bodies, petals pressing soft and cool against your arm. His face buries into your neck and his breath comes out shuddering and hot against your skin. You feel the dampness of his lashes against your throat.
"I'm sorry," he whispers into your collarbone. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
You thread your fingers into his damp hair, those ridiculous curls, still cold from the rain, and hold on. The apartment smells like cinnamon again because you bought new candles without admitting to yourself why. His arms tighten. Your toes brush the floor. The lillies shed petals down your hip, pale pink falling soft onto the wood below, and Peter Parker presses his mouth to the curve of your shoulder and breathes you in like he's been holding his breath for a month.
You tilt his face up with both hands, thumbs tracing the bruised skin beneath his eyes, and kiss him, slow, salt-tinged, his lower lip trembling against yours. His hands slide to the small of your back and press you flush against his chest and a sound escapes him, low and cracked, somewhere between relief and grief, muffled against your mouth.
When you pull back, his forehead drops against yours. His nose bumps your nose. His eyes are closed and wet.
"I heard you tipped forty percent at that coffee shop," you murmur.
Peter chokes out a laugh, broken and gorgeous. "He told you about that?"
"He screenshots everything."
Peter groans and pulls you tighter, burying his smile into your hair, and you let him, fingers curling into the back of his hoodie as the ruined lillies scatter their petals across the entryway floor.
| Authors Note! if you read all of that THANK YOU 😭 i hope the ending made you feel a little better after all that pain 💗
hii can i request a joaquin x reader set at a party in joaquin’s apartment where the reader is in love with joaquin but he’s oblivious but everyone else knows? thank you <3
pay more attention | joaquin torres x reader
summary: everyone and their mothers know that you’re in love with joaquin ever since who knows when, yet the only one who hasn’t have a clue about it is joaquin himself.
content warnings: 3.1k, fem!reader, reader yearns too much, fluff, alcohol consumption, kissing, getting caught by poor bucky
FROM JOAQUIN @ 3:23 P.M. - are you still going to my party tonight?
When you watch that single notification pop up on the screen, your heart flips. Because of course it does. Every little thing that he does or is mentioned in makes your chest go nuts.
Yet you pick up the device with a sigh, opening the text feed and reply back.
FROM Y/N @ 3:25 P.M. - of course i am
FROM Y/N @ 3:25 P.M. - am i still able to come a bit early?
Joaquin's reply came as swiftly as you sent yours.
FROM JOAQUIN @ 3:25 P.M. - yeah for sure
FROM JOAQUIN @ 3:25 P.M. - sam and isaiah is gonna be there a bit early too if you're cool with that
FROM Y/N @ 3:26 P.M. - i'm good with that
FROM JOAQUIN @ 3:26 P.M. - alright, great
FROM JOAQUIN @ 3:26 P.M. - just let me know when you’re on the way :)
FROM Y/N @ 3:27 P.M. - okayy
You place your phone back down on the kitchen counter, letting a sigh escape. Three hours to get ready, or more like three hours to prepare your heart to jot have a heart attack.
Ever since you have met Joaquin during a mission two years ago, your body basically developed a liking for him, and then you started to like him a bit too much. It came to the point where with every mention of the name Joaquin—even if it wasn’t the Joaquin you knew—your body hummed in a way that you wanted to experience more of it. It was like an addiction you didn’t want to get rid of.
“Dude, stop daydreaming,” your roommate, Rebecca, snaps her fingers in your face, and you instantly glance back at her, rolling your eyes.
“Well, what do you expect me to do?” you ask a moment later, taking a step back from the counter as you raid your fridge.
Rebecca crosses her arms, hip resting against the counter. “Uh, to do something about it instead of just standing there and doing nothing?”
With a sigh, you look over your shoulder, finding her eyes. “I can’t,”
“Why?”
Looking back into the fridge, your hand reaches towards a bottle of water as you say, “Because it’s kind of obvious he doesn’t feel the same way.”
“Oh my God,” she groans, head hanging down.
“What, it's true!” You whip your head her way, slamming the fridge door shut. “I literally tried to make a move once, and he took it as a joke!”
“That’s because his oblivious ass doesn’t know the difference.” She retorts, then sighs. “Look, this has been happening for way too long, and I am personally sick of it, along with the hundred other people who know. So if you don’t do something about it tonight, I’ll do it myself."
“Wait, what?” Your eyes bulge out, and you take a deliberate step forward. “No, you can't. I won’t let you!”
“Well, too fucking bad.” Rebecca crosses her arms. “If you come back to this apartment with a frown on your face, I will walk down the street to his place and give him a big fat paragraph about how you like him and how he hasn’t noticed a single thing.”
You can only stare at her, standing incredibly still. Rebecca has always been the one to actually convince you to do these types of things. And honestly, you love it about her, because it gets you to realize that the world may not be what it seems like in your mind. Once in a while, it doesn’t go your way or hers, but at least you were given the guts to do it and not be a baby.
Pressing your lips together, your shoulders slump as you sigh. "I'll try to do something tonight."
The grin on her face is immediate. "Great," she nods her head toward the hall. "Now go get ready for your man."
With a roll of your eyes, a chuckle leaves you, and you shake your head. You walk past her, a soft fine coming out, and you make your way down the hall.
And hours later, you walk out like a different person.
Before you got ready, your hair was a mess, not a single piece of makeup stuck to your face, and you still had your pyjamas on. But now, you look stunning, with a pair of tight blue jeans cropped over your legs with a black tube top wrapped around your torso like it's meant to be there. You even styled your hair into slight curls that bounce with each step.
When Rebecca sees you, she audibly gasps. "Oh my God, you look so good."
A shy smile curls on your face. "Thanks,"
"What time are you going over?" She asks a second later.
You shrug your shoulders, looking over at the digital clock on the stove. "Probably around six,"
"Hm," she nods, picking up her phone and tapping on the screen. "Well, get ready to get munched."
That barks a laugh out of you. “Whatever you say,”
And with another hour passing, you exit your apartment, phone in hand as you quickly send Joaquin the message.
FROM Y/N @ 5:49 P.M. - im on the way now
FROM JOAQUIN @ 5:50 P.M. - okayyyyyyyyy
It didn’t take long for you to arrive to his complex, as it’s just a few minutes down the road. You did have to stop in and buy drinks for yourself and whoever else is showing up since Joaquin asked. And of course, you said yes because it was on the way, and you needed drinks for yourself anyway.
Your knuckles bang softly on the wooden door, and you take the tiniest step back from it. It swings open with ease, Joaquin on the other side of the door. When he sees you, drinks in hand and an easy smile on your face, he sighs, pulling you in.
“Thank god, you're here.” He groans and snatches the case of drinks from your hand. “Sam and Isaiah are ‘fighting’ again.”
You furrow your eyebrows instantly, slipping your shoes off and following him further into the apartment. “About what?”
He shakes his head and instantly lets go of your arm. “I don’t even know anymore.”
“I literally told you to stay back, and you did the complete opposite!” Sam barks out, voice echoing through the living space.
“Well, people were raiding my building, so I had to do something about it.” Isaiah retorts.
As you two walk over toward the kitchen, your eyes dart to Sam, his hands pressed against the marble countertop, and Isaiah standing across from him, arms crossed against his chest.
You spare a glance over to Joaquin, whispering to him, “Is this about those robbers breaking into his place while they were training?”
He looks your way and shrugs. “Pretty sure,” then, he gives you a double-take. “Wait, how do you know about that?”
“It was on the news, dummy.”
“Oh,”
As Joaquin walks past Sam, opening the fridge and storing the drinks on the shelf, Isaiah continues to give it out on Sam. “Seriously, it’s not a big deal—“
“Uh, yes, it is—“
“And I could have handled that myself because I have the serum, too. Remember?”
That draws Sam quiet, mouth opening and closing repeatedly, as if all the words were taken from him. Then, a second later, his shoulders slumping with a breath of air leaving him. “Yeah,” he says, “you could have. And I’m sorry about my lashing out.”
“Don’t worry about it, I get it.” His words carry understanding, a curt nod following his actions.
The silence that follows is loud, and with a quick glance over at Joaquin, who's now standing beside Sam, you begin to speak, “Okay, so now that this is over, can we actually get this place looking like a party?”
Joaquin finds your gaze, looking offended. “What’s wrong with it now?”
“Well, it’s not exactly party material.”
He scoffs, and Sam cuts in right as he was about to speak. “Nah, it’s true. It looks like a minimalist threw up in here,”
“And what's wrong with that?” Joaquin turns his way, hands propped on his hips.
“Nothing. But it’s not party material, like she said.” Sam points a finger in your way, and a playful smirk tugs on both of your faces.
He rolls his eyes, stomping past the three of you. "Okay, fine."
Time passes, and with a bit of bickering from all of you, the place is now looking more presentable for a night out. The kitchen counter had plenty of drinks snd cups displayed on the surface, colourful streamers dangling from the walls of the living room, and even the hallway has some as well. It may not be a lot, but it’s definitely better than it was before.
And soon enough, people actually started to show up. Bucky and his crew of the Thunderbolts are here, Sam’s sister and her friends, and a bunch of random people you have no clue who they are. But apparently, Joaquin knows them, so you’ll just deal with it for now.
Right now, you’re standing near the corner of the living space, a red cup filled with alcohol held in your hand. You cam barely hear a thing with the music killing your eardrums because it’s so loud. You seriously don’t know how anyone here isn’t deaf right now.
“Now why are you standing over here all alone?”
You recognize that voice immediately, and when you turn toward the sound, you’re thoughts are confirmed when Sarah, Sam’s sister, walks your way.
You give her a tiny smile, looking out to the crowd as she falls into a stop beside you. “Needed a break.”
She nods, following your gaze. “I can see why,” she pauses, then leans a bit closer to you, as if she’s sharing a secret, and continues on with, “Also, what’s up with you and Joaquin?”
You whip your head her way, shock evident kn your face. “You know about that?”
A snort comes out of her. “Girl, everyone knows except for Joaquin.”
"Well, yeah, that's true," you admit, a nervous chuckle leaving you.
Her hands cross against her chest, leaning against the wall beside you. “Of course it’s true.” Sarah starts, glancing over to where Joaquin is standing with Sam, a wide grin on his face as he sips from his drink. “That dude has been oblivious his whole life, based on what Sam had told me. Like, Jesus, he can’t take the hint.”
Sarah's words make you nod, eyebrows rising as if that fact is obvious. “Oh, I know.” Taking the tiniest sip of your drink, you swallow it down and say, “I tried to flirt with him the other day, and he thought I was joking.”
“Oh, god.” She groans, tipping her head back. “Why do men exist?”
A laugh falls right out of you. “Literally my same question.” When you look back out to the crowd, you find Joaquin instantly. And instead of him taking to Sam, he is starting right back at you.
His hair seems more defined with the curls since he always seems to smooth it out. And you finally notice what he's wearing, it's the beige button-up you had gotten him for his birthday a few months back, with the pants Sam had given him as well. When you glance up to meet his face, his gaze falls back on yours again, and the tiniest smile tips up on him, making your heart stutter. He takes a quick sip of his drink, all while keeping his eyes on you. That's when you look away, breath hitching in your throat.
"I think he likes you, too, by the way," Sarah murmurs into your ear.
Finding her gaze, you ask, "Really?"
She nods once. "Yup. I mean, the way he's looking at you alone is pretty obvious."
A shaky breath leaves you. "Yeah, it is." You look back over to Joaquin, but now he's gone back to talking to Sam, who glances over at you once in a while.
"Go talk to him," She suddenly says.
You find her eyes again. "Right now?"
"Right now."
At that, you sigh and reluctantly walk over, but when you lift your head, Joaquin is already walking your way. You stop in front of him, a shy smile on your face. He mirrors yours. “Hey,” he says, voice as soft as an angel.
“Hey,” you say back, glancing over his shoulder. “Could I talk to you for a minute?”
He nods immediately. “Yeah, of course,” then he glances down the hall and nods in its direction. “Let’s go to my room.”
Yeah, that’s definitely the place I want to talk about this. You think sarcastically, yet you follow him anyway, downing the rest of your drink and toss it in the nearby trash when you pass it.
When you both enter the room, he closes the door behind you, and the music is muffled from the other side of the door. His room never changed a bit. Beige walls with a bed tucked into the corner, and a nightstand placed beside it. The warm lighting from the lamp brightens the room, showing off a poster above his dresser.
“So, uh, what did you want to talk about?” Joaquin asks, taking another sip of his drink.
You only watch him for a moment, hands to your sides as you try to figure out what to actually say. It is hard because your heart is literally racing in your chest as you think. But you manage to confess it, anyway.
“I like you,” you simply say, voice filled with nerves.
Joaquin spits out the drink in his mouth, then turns around and begins to have a coughing fit, patting his chest to settle down his breathing. This was not the kind of reaction you were expecting. Sure, you knew he was gonna be shocked in some way, but not choke-on-his-drink way.
He turns back to face you, cheeks flush, his eyes wide and mouth agape. “You like me?”
You nod once, chest rising as you take a deep breath. “Yeah,” You murmur, voice soft yet shaky at the same time.
“How long?” he asks a moment later, voice filled with nerves.
You look away for a second, running a hand through your hair before shrugging, finding his eyes. “Almost… two years, I guess?”
He mutters something low in Spanish, head dipping down as he tries to breathe in deeply. Placing his now empty red cup on the dresser, he looks up at you, eyes still filled with surprise. “And you didn’t tell me until now?”
“Well, I have been trying to give you hints for the past year, but you didn’t do a thing about it.”
He grows silent, as if his brain short-circuits. Then, his eyes bulge back out. “Those were hints?”
A soft yet nervous chuckle leaves your mouth. “Jesus, you really are oblivious.”
He huffs out a breath of air, taking a step closer to you. “So, you're telling me this whole time, you were basically flirting with me?"
You nod again, raising your eyebrows as if you’re stating the obvious. "Yup."
He doesn't say anything else, standing still as his hand falls to his side. Nothing really happens for a moment, the muffled music from the living room being the only thing filling the space between you. Even though you're basically a foot apart from each other, you wish he could do something, anything, even if it was him rejecting you. It would be better than standing here in awkward silence, waiting for him to actually go for it.
But he didn't reject you. Instead, he takes another step forward, leaning in, and presses his lips to yours.
You were shocked at first, obviously, because you thought he would have just said I like you, too, and then do something about it. After a quick second, you pull away, watching with wide eyes as Joaquin opens his own and stares back at you, lips agape.
“What was that for?” You ask, breathless.
He shrugs his shoulders. “Doing the same as you did,” he says, a small grin pulling at his lips. “Giving you the hint.”
You were left speechless, brain processing what the hell just happened. Your chest is going nuts with it beating like crazy, and your cheeks flush a hint of red. Then, a grin appears on your face. Joaquin copies your smile, chuckling softly before you lean right back in and kiss him.
Now, with his hands on your waist, he pulls you closer, body against his. Your hands find their way to the back of his neck, sighing against his lips as you move your mouth against his. His hands soon wrap around your torso, keeping you closer than his fingers dig into your shirt.
Your fingers dig into his hair, and the groan he lets out makes you hum in pleasure, deepening the kiss by tangling your tongue with his. The kiss becomes so much that you two start to stumble around a bit, making a chuckle rise from your throat. He grins against his lips, walking you backward until you hit the wall behind you.
"Jesus—" you mutter to yourself once you bang yourself against the surface.
Joaquin laughs softly, lips pulling away as he stares down at you. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m okay.” You say with a grin on your face.
His grin grows soft, and he nods once. “Okay.” Then he leans back down to kiss you again. This time it’s softer, gentler, like everything you craved for so long.
But suddenly, the music grows louder. “Hey, do you know if—okay, never mind.”
You pull away just in time to see Bucky leave the room, eyes wide and full of awkwardness. The door slams shut, leaving you two back alone with the songs low in the background. A soft laugh leaves you, resting your head on his shoulder.
He chuckles as well, pressing his lips to the crown of your head. "I know he regrets coming in now," he murmurs against your hair.
You nod at him. "Definitely."
Both of you stay like that for a moment, just holding onto each other like you're the last thing alive. Joaquin pulls away first, hand rising to tuck a loose strand behind your ear. "Could you stay over tonight?"
The question takes you off guard, but you smile anyway. "I would, but I don't really have anything with me."
He shakes his head. "You can borrow some of my clothes for the night, and I also have an extra toothbrush with me."
SUMMARY: Both you and Joaquin think that you’re more than happy with whatever you have being undefined. And then, Joaquin is the first to crumble (quite pathetically) and confess everything when he sees you flirting with someone else at a party.
NOTES: College AU, situationship, very jealous Joaquin, mentions of alcohol, partying, flirting, some major uncertainty.
REQUESTED BY: Anonymous.
NAVIGATION | MCU MASTERLIST | KO-FI
The thing about Joaquin is that he has never once made anything clear.
It sits in your chest like something unfinished, like a sentence cut off halfway through and left hanging in the air for weeks. Months, even. You tell yourself you are fine with it, that you prefer it this way, that labels complicate things and expectations ruin them. That what you have is easy. That what you have is enough.
It is easier to believe that when he is close to you.
His hand brushing yours in lecture halls like it is accidental, like it happens every time without fail purely by coincidence. The way he leans in too close when he talks, voice low and warm and meant only for you, even when there is a whole room full of people. The way he always ends up next to you at parties, shoulder pressed against yours, like gravity works differently when it comes to him.
It is harder to believe when he is not. Tonight falls firmly into the second category.
You had not planned on coming out. The week has been long and your energy has been thin, stretched across deadlines and early mornings and the quiet, gnawing confusion that seems to follow Joaquin wherever he goes in your life. Still, your friends insisted, dragging you along with promises of cheap drinks and loud music and something resembling fun.
You agreed mostly because you knew he would be there.
That thought alone makes something twist in your stomach now as you stand in the middle of a crowded living room, music vibrating through the floor, someone laughing too loudly somewhere behind you. You have been here for nearly an hour. You have not seen him once.
It should not matter this much.
Your drink is warm in your hand, half finished and forgotten, condensation slick against your fingers. Someone is talking to you, you think, or at least standing close enough that it looks like they are. You nod along at the right moments, offering small smiles that feel just convincing enough to pass.
You catch yourself scanning the room again.
It is automatic at this point, the way your eyes move without permission, searching for a familiar face you pretend does not hold any more weight than anyone else’s. You tell yourself you are just looking for a friend. You tell yourself it is normal.
You tell yourself a lot of things.
“Hey.”
The voice is new, unfamiliar, and it pulls you back into the moment. You turn your head, finally focusing properly on the person in front of you. They are smiling, relaxed, clearly more present than you have been for the last ten minutes.
You apologise, something soft and quick, and they laugh it off easily.
Conversation comes easier than you expect after that. They are funny in a quiet way, the kind that sneaks up on you and makes you laugh before you realise it is happening. There is no pressure to be anything other than what you are in that moment, which feels like a relief you did not realise you needed.
You lean into it.
It feels good to be seen without the weight of uncertainty attached. It feels good to exist in a space where you are not constantly trying to read between the lines of someone else’s actions, trying to decipher meaning from things that should be simple.
You do not notice Joaquin at first.
That is what you will tell yourself later, at least. That you were distracted, that you were caught up in the conversation, that you had no idea he had arrived.
The truth is more complicated. You feel him before you see him.
There is a shift in the air, subtle but unmistakable, like something has tilted just slightly off balance. Your shoulders tense without your permission, your attention pulling in a direction you have not consciously chosen.
You look up. Joaquin is standing across the room, just past the doorway, eyes already on you. It is not a soft look.
There is something sharper in it, something you cannot quite place at first. His expression is unreadable in a way that feels deliberate, like he has put effort into keeping it that way. His jaw is set, shoulders tight beneath his jacket.
He looks like he is trying not to react. Your stomach drops.
You should look away. You know that. It would be the easiest thing to do, to pretend you have not noticed, to keep your focus on the person in front of you and let the moment pass without consequence.
You do not.
Something stubborn rises in your chest, something tired of pretending that none of this affects you. You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary, just long enough to feel the tension snap tight between you.
Then you turn back to your conversation. It is a small act of defiance. It feels bigger.
You laugh at something that is said, letting it come a little louder than it might have otherwise. Your body angles slightly, subconsciously or not, closing the space between you and the person you are speaking to. You let yourself be present in the moment, even as you can feel his attention lingering like a weight on the back of your neck.
You wonder if Joaquin will come over. Part of you hopes he will not. That part is quieter, buried beneath everything else.
He does. Of course he does.
You do not hear him approach, but you feel it again, that same shift in the air, the same sense of something changing. The person in front of you glances past your shoulder for a fraction of a second, their expression flickering with something like recognition.
Then Joaquin is there.
He does not interrupt immediately. He stands close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your side, close enough that it would be impossible to pretend he is not there. His presence is overwhelming in a way it has no right to be.
“Hey,” he says, finally, voice casual in a way that feels forced.
You turn your head slowly, like you have all the time in the world.
“Hi.” It comes out softer than you intend.
His eyes flick between you and the person you have been talking to, something unreadable settling there again. He offers a brief nod in their direction, polite but distant.
“Didn’t know you were coming tonight.”
You shrug, trying for nonchalance and not entirely succeeding. “Last minute thing.”
“Right.”
There is a pause.
It stretches longer than it should, filled with things neither of you are saying. You can feel the other person’s awareness of it, the way they shift slightly, uncertain whether to stay or excuse themselves.
Joaquin does not look at you when he speaks again.
“You busy?”
The question is simple. The tone is not.
You feel something twist in your chest, sharp and sudden. It would be easy to say no. It would be easier to fall back into the pattern you have built with him, to let everything else fade into the background the way it always seems to when he is involved.
You think about the way he looked at you from across the room. You think about the months of uncertainty, of almosts and maybes and things left unsaid.
You think about how tired you are of it.
“A bit,” you say, gesturing lightly towards the person beside you.
It is not a rejection. It feels like one anyway.
His reaction is immediate, even if he tries to hide it. His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing just slightly before he looks away, like he cannot quite stand to keep looking at you.
“Cool,” he says, too quickly. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
You want to laugh.
It bubbles up unexpectedly, caught somewhere between fondness and disbelief. There is something almost endearing about the way he is handling this, the way his usual confidence seems to have slipped just enough to reveal something softer underneath.
Something human.
You had not expected him to care.
That realisation settles quietly, but it changes everything.
He lingers for a second like he expects you to stop him.
It is almost painfully obvious, the way his weight shifts from one foot to the other, the way his hands hover like he does not quite know what to do with them. Joaquin has never been particularly subtle, but this feels different. There is an edge to it now, something uncertain threading through his usual ease.
You do not stop him.
It is not out of cruelty. It is not even intentional, not really. You just stay where you are, rooted in the space you have carved out for yourself tonight, refusing to bend immediately like you always seem to when it comes to him.
He nods once, sharp and short, like he has come to a decision you were not part of.
Then he leaves.
You watch him go.
That is your first mistake.
Your attention drifts after him without permission, catching on the way he pushes through the crowd with more force than necessary, the way his shoulders stay tense like he is bracing himself for something that has not happened yet. He disappears into the kitchen, swallowed up by a group of people you vaguely recognise.
The conversation beside you continues.
You try to follow it. You really do. You nod in the right places, laugh when it feels appropriate, respond with enough coherence that it should count as participation. It feels like you are slightly out of sync with everything, like there is a delay between what is happening and the way you are processing it.
Your chest feels too tight. It annoys you more than anything else.
You had been fine. You had been doing well, enjoying yourself in a way that did not revolve around him, and then he had walked in and shifted something fundamental without even trying. The worst part is that he does not even seem to realise he is doing it.
Or maybe he does.
That thought lingers longer than you would like.
“Do you want to get some air?”
The question pulls you back again. You look at the person in front of you properly for what feels like the first time since Joaquin walked away. Their expression is open, easy, like they are offering you something simple and uncomplicated.
You hesitate.
It would be easy to say no. To stay exactly where you are, to keep one eye on the doorway to the kitchen without making it obvious, to let yourself exist in this strange in-between space where you are not fully present but not entirely removed either.
You do not want to do that.
“Yeah,” you say, before you can overthink it. “That sounds nice.”
The air outside is colder than you expect.
It hits your skin sharply, cutting through the warmth that had settled over you inside. You inhale deeply, letting it ground you, letting it pull you back into your body in a way that feels almost necessary. It helps.
Conversation comes easier out here. There is less noise, less pressure, less of that overwhelming sense of everything happening all at once. You find yourself relaxing into it, shoulders loosening, thoughts settling into something more manageable.
You almost forget about him. Almost.
The door opens behind you with a force that makes you flinch slightly. You do not need to turn around to know it is him.
There is something unmistakable about the way Joaquin moves, even when he is trying to be casual about it. Tonight, he is not doing a very good job of that.
“Didn’t know this was where the party moved,” he says, voice carrying that same forced lightness from earlier.
You close your eyes briefly. Pathetic. The word slips into your mind without warning, but it is not as harsh as it should be. If anything, there is something almost fond about it, something softening the edges.
You turn to face him. He looks worse up close.
Not in any physical sense. He still looks like himself, still carries that easy confidence in the way he stands, the way he holds himself. It is the details that give him away. The tension in his jaw, the way his eyes keep flicking between you and the person beside you, the slight crease between his brows that suggests he is thinking too much about something he does not want to name.
“You following me now?” you ask lightly.
It is meant to be teasing. It comes out closer to the truth than you intend. His expression shifts immediately, something defensive snapping into place.
“Came out for air,” he says. “Not everything’s about you.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Sure.”
The person beside you glances between the two of you, clearly aware that something is happening here that they are not entirely part of. They take a small step back, giving you space without making a show of it.
You appreciate that more than you can say.
Joaquin notices. Of course he does.
His gaze sharpens, something like irritation flashing across his face before he can hide it. He crosses his arms, leaning back slightly like he is trying to appear more relaxed than he actually is.
“Who’s your friend?”
The question is casual on the surface. The undertone is not. You tilt your head slightly, considering him.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes,” he says, too quickly. Then, after a beat, “No. I mean, just asking.”
You almost laugh again.
There is something undeniably ridiculous about this, about the way he is trying so hard to act like he does not care while making it painfully obvious that he does. It is new, seeing him like this. You are used to being the one off balance, the one trying to read into things that may or may not be there. The shift is interesting.
You give him a name. He repeats it under his breath like he is committing it to memory, like it means something more than it should.
“Cool,” he says again.
He has said that word too many times tonight.
Silence settles over the three of you, awkward and heavy in a way that feels almost intentional. Joaquin shifts his weight again, gaze flicking towards you before darting away like he has been caught doing something he should not.
You decide to push. “You okay?” you ask.
It is a simple question. It lands harder than you expect.
He looks at you properly then, really looks, and for a second something real breaks through the carefully constructed indifference he has been trying to maintain. It is gone almost as quickly as it appears, replaced by something more guarded.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
You shrug, watching him closely.
“No reason. You just seem a bit…” You trail off deliberately.
“A bit what?”
“Off.”
The word hangs between you. He scoffs, shaking his head slightly like he cannot believe you have said it out loud.
“I’m not off.”
“Right.”
“You’re the one who’s acting weird.”
You blink at him. “I’m acting weird?”
“Yeah,” he says, gesturing vaguely in your direction. “You’re out here with—” he cuts himself off, jaw tightening again. “Just. Not how you usually are.”
There it is. Not quite a confession, but close enough to feel like one.
You take a step closer before you can think better of it, closing some of the distance he had so carefully put between you. His breath catches slightly, barely noticeable unless you are paying attention. You are.
“How am I usually?” you ask softly.
Joaquin hesitates. That is new too.
His eyes flick down to your mouth for a fraction of a second before he forces them back up, like he has realised what he is doing and is trying to correct it. His shoulders tense again, hands clenching slightly at his sides.
“With me,” he says finally.
The words settle into your chest, heavier than they should be.
There is a beat of silence where neither of you moves, neither of you speaks. The world feels like it has narrowed down to this one moment, this one conversation that has been building for longer than either of you have been willing to admit.
You should say something. You should probably be kind about it. Instead, you smile. It is small, soft, and entirely unhelpful.
“You’re being a bit pathetic, you know that?”
It is not meant to be cruel. If anything, it comes out almost fond, the edges of it softened by something warmer than you are willing to name just yet. His reaction is immediate.
“I’m not—” he stops himself, exhaling sharply. “I’m not pathetic.”
“You kind of are.”
“Wow.”
You shrug, still watching him. “It’s cute.”
That catches him off guard completely.
He stares at you for a second like he has misheard you, like he is trying to piece together how he has gone from whatever this is to being called cute in the span of a few seconds.
“You think this is cute?”
“Yeah,” you say simply. “I do.”
He runs a hand through his hair, clearly at a loss for what to do with that. “Unbelievable.”
There is no real bite to it.
Something shifts again, softer this time. The tension does not disappear entirely, but it changes, morphing into something less sharp, less defensive. He steps a little closer without seeming to realise he is doing it, drawn in despite himself.
The person beside you clears their throat quietly. Right. You had almost forgotten they were there. Guilt flickers briefly, quick and sharp. You turn to them, offering an apologetic smile, something small and sincere.
“I’m sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s alright,” they interrupt gently. “I think I’m going to head back in anyway.”
They glance at Joaquin briefly, something like understanding passing through their expression before they look back at you.
“It was nice talking to you.”
“You too.”
They leave you with a soft smile, slipping back inside and closing the door behind them.
You are alone with him now. The air feels different because of it.
He watches the door for a second after it closes, something unreadable crossing his face. Then he looks back at you, and whatever he sees there seems to settle something in him.
“Cute, huh?” he says.
You hum lightly. “Very.”
He shakes his head again, but there is a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth now, something reluctant but real.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“So you’ve said.”
There is a pause.
It is not as heavy as the ones from earlier. It feels more like a breath being held, like something is about to shift in a way neither of you can quite predict.
He takes another step closer.
You do not move away.
He stops just short of you, like there is still some invisible line he is unsure about crossing.
It would be easy to close the distance yourself. You think about it for a second, about stepping forward, about making this simple in a way it has never been before. Your body does not move. Something in you wants to see what he will do when there is no ambiguity left to hide behind.
His gaze flicks over your face, searching in a way that feels new. Joaquin has always looked at you like he already knew what he would find, like there was no need to question it. This is different. There is hesitation here, and something quieter underneath it that you cannot quite name without it feeling too real.
“You were laughing with them,” he says, like he is picking up a conversation that never properly ended.
You raise an eyebrow slightly. “I laugh with people all the time.”
“Not like that.”
The insistence in his voice makes something warm curl low in your chest.
“Like what?”
He exhales sharply through his nose, clearly frustrated with himself more than anything else.
“Just,” he gestures vaguely, words slipping out of reach. “You seemed… I don’t know. Into it.”
You tilt your head, studying him. “And that’s a problem?”
“Yes,” he says, and then immediately looks like he regrets it. “No. Not a problem. Just—”
“Just what, Joaquin?”
You say his name softly, and it does something to him.
You can see it in the way his shoulders drop slightly, in the way the fight seems to leave him all at once. Whatever he has been holding onto all night loosens its grip, leaving something more honest in its place.
“I didn’t like it,” he admits.
There it is.
It lands between you, heavier than anything else he has said tonight. He does not dress it up, does not try to soften it or pretend it means something less than it does. For once, he lets it be simple.
Your chest tightens.
“You don’t get to not like it,” you say, quieter now. “Not when you won’t even—”
You stop yourself.
The words hang there anyway, unfinished but understood. You hate how familiar this feels, how many times you have come close to saying something like this only to swallow it back down before it can cause any real damage.
He notices.
“Won’t even what?” His voice is careful, like he already knows the answer and is not sure he wants to hear it out loud.
You let out a slow breath, trying to steady yourself.
“This,” you say, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Whatever this is. You don’t get to act like it matters when you won’t even call it anything.”
The honesty feels sharp on your tongue. You watch it hit him. He looks away first, which is new.
His jaw tightens again, but this time it is not defensive. It looks more like he is thinking, like he is trying to sort through something he has been avoiding for longer than he would like to admit.
“I didn’t think you cared,” he says eventually.
The words are quiet, almost uncertain. You blink at him.
“What?”
“I thought you were fine with it,” he continues, glancing back at you. “With things staying how they are. You never said anything.”
Something in your chest twists hard enough to hurt.
“You never asked.”
“I didn’t think I had to.”
The frustration bubbles up before you can stop it.
“Right, because that’s how this works,” you say, voice tightening despite your best efforts. “You just decide how things are and I’m supposed to go along with it.”
“That’s not what I—”
“It kind of is.”
Silence falls again, but it feels different now. It is not heavy in the same suffocating way as before. It feels like something has been cracked open, like the air between you has shifted into something more honest, even if it is not entirely comfortable.
He runs a hand over the back of his neck, a nervous habit you have seen a hundred times but never quite like this.
“I messed up,” he says.
It is simple. It is enough. You do not respond immediately. Your emotions feel too close to the surface, too tangled to sort through in the space of a few seconds. There is relief there, sharp and sudden, mixed in with the lingering frustration of everything that led up to this moment.
“You think?” you say eventually, softer than before.
A small, self-deprecating smile pulls at his mouth.
“Yeah. I think.”
You huff out something that is almost a laugh. The tension eases, just slightly.
Joaquin takes another step closer, and this time there is no hesitation in it. The space between you shrinks until it feels almost insignificant, until you can feel the warmth of him again, steady and grounding in a way that makes your thoughts scatter.
“I didn’t like seeing you with someone else,” he says, more certain now. “It felt…” he pauses, searching for the right word. “Wrong.”
Your breath catches. “That’s pathetic,” you say, even though your voice lacks any real bite.
“I know.”
He does not argue with you. He does not try to justify it. He just stands there, letting the truth of it exist without trying to twist it into something more acceptable. It makes it harder to push him away.
“You could have said something,” you mumble.
“I am saying something now.”
You look at him properly then. There is no deflection in his expression this time, no easy charm to hide behind. He looks nervous in a way you have never seen before, like this matters enough to shake him a little. It does something to you.
“What are you saying?” you ask quietly.
He hesitates for half a second. Then, like he has made a decision he cannot take back, he reaches for your hand.
Joaquin’s fingers are warm where they wrap around yours, steady despite everything else about him suggesting he is anything but. The contact sends a familiar jolt through you, something you have tried very hard not to think too much about over the past few months.
“I like you,” he says. Simple again.
Your heart stutters. “You’ve always known that,” you reply automatically, because it feels safer to treat it like something obvious, something that does not change anything.
He shakes his head. “Not like this.”
The words settle differently. You swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is, of how easy it would be to close the last bit of distance between you.
“Then what?” you ask.
“Then I don’t want this to be nothing,” he says. “I don’t want to pretend I’m okay with you being with other people when I’m clearly not. I don’t want to keep…” he exhales, frustration flickering briefly. “I don’t want to keep acting like this isn’t something real.”
Your chest aches. It is everything you have wanted him to say, wrapped up in words you had almost convinced yourself you did not need.
“You’re a bit late,” you murmur, even though there is no real weight behind it.
“I know.”
“You’ve been doing a terrible job of hiding whatever this is tonight.”
A faint smile tugs at his mouth. “Yeah, you made that pretty clear.”
“It was embarrassing,” you add, unable to stop yourself.
“For you or for me?”
“For you,” you say immediately. “Obviously.”
He laughs then, properly this time, the sound warm and familiar and enough to ease some of the tension still lingering between you.
“Good to know.”
Silence settles again, softer now.
You look down at your joined hands for a moment, at the way his thumb is tracing absent patterns against your skin like he does not even realise he is doing it. It feels different now, heavier in a way that is not entirely uncomfortable.
“You’re still a bit pathetic,” you say, glancing back up at him.
“Wow,” he says, but there is no offence in it. “I just confessed to you.”
“And I’m still right.”
He rolls his eyes, but there is a softness to it.
“Unbelievable.”
“You like it.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah,” he admits. “I do.”
Something warm settles in your chest.
It is not perfect. None of this is. There are still things to figure out, conversations to have, edges to smooth out where you have both been a little too comfortable with uncertainty for too long.
For the first time, it feels like something you might actually be able to figure out. You squeeze his hand lightly.
“Alright,” you say. “We can try.”
His expression shifts immediately, relief flickering across his face so quickly you almost miss it.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He exhales, like he has been holding his breath all night. “Okay. Good.”
You smile, small and real. “Good.”
He lingers there for a second, like he is not entirely sure what comes next. Then, a little more confident now, he steps closer and nudges your shoulder with his.
“You’re still not off the hook for calling me pathetic.”
You glance at him. “You’re still not off the hook for acting like it.”
He grins, something easy and familiar settling back into place now that everything else has been laid out.
You lean into him slightly without thinking about it, the contact feeling natural in a way that it never quite has before. He does not hesitate this time, his arm coming up to rest loosely around your shoulders, pulling you in just enough to make the space between you disappear completely.
It feels different. Better.
Inside, the music swells again as the door opens briefly, laughter spilling out into the night before it closes once more. The world continues on around you, loud and messy and full of things that do not concern you right now.
For once, you do not feel like you are standing on the edge of something uncertain. For once, it feels like you are exactly where you are supposed to be.
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summary: peter’s heightened senses comes in handy at night.
warning: 18+ male masturbation , gender neutral reader , perv peter again lol, reader has a bad hook up, toys
pairing: peter parker x gender neutral reader
Peter has gotten used to the noises inside his apartment building. He’s been getting better at tuning his strong senses so that the noises couldn’t overwhelm him. Tonight he was deep into reading a lecture for one of his classes.
There were some banging behind the thin walls, yelling spouses, barking dogs, all seemed so familiar by now. He checked the time. 1 AM.
He cursed, he has been so stressed and tired lately he’s forgotten of the time. He set his books and pens away and got ready for bed, stripping to nothing but his shirt and a pair of boxer shorts before he pulled his blanket.
The ceiling stared back at him, plain and unassuming. The wall seemed to whisper behind his head in soft and low whimpers. To the naked ear it could mean nothing, but to Peter it was more precise. He could hear the bed creak and shake.
He knew that voice, that low and aching tune. It was you.
He heard another voice, a man whining and crying out as he quickly fucked you. He noticed the sounds you made didn’t feel genuine, like it was a chore for you to be with the man.
“Fuck, that was good,” The man said. “Think we can do this again next week?”
You murmured, an obvious lie this man didn’t have the sight to read.
Peter’s brows scrunched. He didn’t even ask you if you finished.
When the sound of your door shut, he heard you let out a sigh. “I don’t know why I do this to myself.” You rummaged the bottom drawer of your nightstand to look for the only thing that has been making you feel joy for the past weeks.
You whispered a long curse when the buzzing toy hit your sex.
Peter felt his cock stir. He could picture you under your sheets, legs quivering while you rubbed the toy over your crotch.
He closed his eyes, rubbing a hand on his growing erection as he focused on your sounds. Not only were his hearing heightened, but his sense of smell and taste too. He smelled your freshly washed sheets, the scent of your soap and shampoo, and the sweet taste of your arousal that clung to the air.
Peter pulled down his boxers. His hard cock got caught in the tight band. This was wrong.
He knew you. The neighbor that kept his packages from getting stolen and the one that would give him extra food and snacks. It would be stupid of him if he lied about having a small crush on you, but he didn’t even know your name.
“Peter—” you moaned. He shuddered, did he ever tell you his name? The sound of his name from your lips made his cock twitch, pointing high up north with the tip blushed pink. He wanted to silence your moans with the thickness of his cock, make you bob on it and get it nice and wet.
Peter took the bottle of lotion on his nightstand, spreading a dollop on his calloused palm. His fist was tight on his cock, carelessly stroking. He imagined things differently however, your touch would be soft and gentle, teasing his tip and making him leak.
He heard you open a bottle of lube, spreading it around the silicone toy before slowly pressing it in your hole. You drew out a whine as you pushed it deep. Your tight muscles curved around the ridges on the toy, tingling your senses.
You toyed with your nipples while you flicked your wrist. Peter echoed your curses, his cock leaking precum over his finger making each stroke slick and good.
I could treat you better, Peter thought. Make you come over and over again.
You cried out once more, your legs shaking as the toy’s vibration went harder. The images forming inside your mind consisted of nothing but your neighbor. You imagined his naked body you once saw on his balcony. His muscular arms pinning you down as he eclipsed the moonlight.
Your arousal dripped down your legs as you imagined the sharp contours of his abdomen flex as he fucked his cock into you. He would have been covered in sweat, his dark brown curls plastered over his forehead, lips moaning out your name.
“Peter, I need you so badly,” your words encouraged him more, hips rising as he stroked. Peter wanted to jump to your balcony and open your window, it took so much of his strength to control himself.
You pulled your head back to the pillow, shaking and squirming with the toy ceaselessly triggering your arousal. Peter was close, and by your erratic breathing he knew you were close too.
“Fuck—I’m gonna cum,” Peter gasped, shooting cum all over his shirt.
You cried out, digging your fingers into the sheets, your wetness dripping all over your legs and soaking the sheets.
The room was humid when you woke up the next day. Your bottom half, still naked from last night. You opened the windows to let in some breeze, a box hitting your foot when you stepped out into the balcony. Inside was a bottle of water and some snacks.
Hope you feel better. - Neighbor Peter.
end.
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