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sillygoose067 · 3 months ago

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Crash Landing Into You

Joaquin Torres x female reader

Joaquin wasn’t exactly Avengers-famous. Not in the “signs autographs” or “front of the mission briefing” kind of way. He was the support guy. The gear-up-and-back-up guy. But when Sam had tossed him an invite to a low-key rooftop party—“Not a gala, just a hangout. Some shield folks, some old Avengers. Come chill”—he didn’t hesitate.

He needed a break. A night without a harness digging into his shoulder blades. Somewhere he could eat something not freeze-dried and actually talk to people without background gunfire.

And anyway, Sam said there might be cake.

So here he was, solo in a sea of mostly-familiar faces, warm light strung overhead, a breeze skimming through the city like it was taking a victory lap of its own.

He made his rounds early. Said hey to Torres from Intel—no relation, but they always fist-bumped. Talked up a couple of tech specialists from the DOD about neural interface updates. There was a guy from the Air Force talking propulsion systems, and that sparked a half-hour tangent where Joaquin completely forgot to blink.

“Wait, you actually linked a HUD visual to sub-vocal muscle twitch?” he asked, eyebrows climbing. “Man, that’s insane. You got numbers on latency?”

He was glowing—body buzzing in that familiar rush of overlapping tech-talk, theory, mechanics, potential. He loved it. It felt like flight even when he was on solid ground.

But even golden retrievers need water breaks.

He slipped away when someone mentioned deep-space communications (not his thing), grabbed a drink, and headed to the edge of the rooftop to catch his breath. From up here, the city hummed like a living organism—windows glittering, headlights threading down avenues.

And for once, he felt still.

Then, without meaning to, his eyes scanned the party again.

He wasn’t looking for anyone. But some instinct pulled his gaze toward the far corner of the patio, just beyond the heaters and tables—where a few kids were parked with juice boxes and crayons. He might’ve looked away immediately… except someone else was with them.

You were seated on a bench, cross-legged, shoulders loose, completely unbothered by the party around you. You were wearing a navy wrap dress, simple and modest, the kind of thing someone wore when they didn’t know if it would be weird to dress up or down.

…And entertaining three kids who were talking a mile a minute. You were listening— nodding along, asking questions, smiling like this whole event had been thrown just for them.

Something about it made Joaquin’s heart stumble.

He hadn’t seen you around HQ or during missions. Which meant…you probably weren’t SHIELD or military. And judging by the way you looked at those kids, the easy warmth behind your laugh…

“You’ve been staring,” said a voice to his right.

Joaquin jumped. Sam Wilson was holding a glass of lemonade and smirking.

“No, I haven’t,” Joaquin lied immediately.

“You definitely have,” Sam replied. “What, she got a laser on her forehead or something?”

Joaquin cleared his throat. “I just—I was wondering who she’s with. She doesn’t look like she’s part of the team.”

“Yeah…,” Sam said simply. “Normal. That’s not a bad thing.” He nudged Joaquin lightly. “Besides, I saw your face, Torres. You looked like someone just handed you a puppy.”

Joaquin let out a short laugh, shook his head. “I dunno, man. She’s probably someone’s cousin. I’d rather not interrupt the coloring summit going on over there.”

Sam grinned. “Sounds like an excuse.”

Joaquin didn’t answer. But he kept sipping his drink a little slower, glancing over again.

He lingered by the drink table a few minutes longer, trying to be casual about it. But his eyes kept drifting—back to you, still surrounded by those kids, still lit up in a way that had nothing to do with the party lights.

He didn’t overthink it this time.

Crossed the patio and told himself it wasn’t a big deal.

You were mid-discussion with a wide-eyed little girl about whether or not Thor had ever been to space on a goat. (“Definitely yes,” you were saying, “but I think the goats get travel sick.”)

Joaquin crouched beside your bench, resting one arm across his knee, voice light and warm.

“Excuse me, sorry—I think I’m interrupting an intergalactic livestock debate?”

You blinked, surprised, turning to look at him.

The little boy next to you gasped. “It’s the new Falcon!”

Joaquin gave a humble shrug.

The kids immediately launched into questions—what it was like flying, had he ever raced Sam, did his suit come in red—and he answered every one like it was the most important mission briefing of his life. But every so often, he’d glance at you again. Noticing how you stayed quiet, just smiling, not trying to insert yourself or redirect.

Finally, when a parent called the kids over for cake, Joaquin was left standing in front of you. You straightened slightly, brushing your skirt smooth as you rose.

“They love you,” you said softly. “You made their whole night.”

He shrugged, a bit sheepish. “They started it. I just followed their lead.”

There was a beat of silence. He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets.

“You, uh…you work with kids?”

You nodded. “Pediatric surgeon. Emergency and trauma.”

His eyebrows lifted, impressed. “That’s intense.”

You gave a small smile. “It has its moments. But the kids make it worth it.”

There it was again—that same glow he’d noticed earlier. Not just kindness, but a whole-hearted presence.

“And you?” you asked, meeting his gaze for the first real time.

He hesitated—not because he didn’t know, but because for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like listing off flight metrics or suit specs.

“I guess…I’m still figuring it out,” he said. “I help out where I can. Mostly flight support, recon. Backup wingman.”

You tilted your head. “That sounds important.”

He smiled at that.

After a pause, he leaned in a little, dropping his voice.

“So. Be honest. Did you come here willingly, or did someone bribe you with cupcakes?”

You laughed. “Roommate dragged me. Said it’d be low-key.”

“And how’s that working out?”

You looked around—lights, buzz, clink of glasses—then back to him. “Pretty sure she and I have different definitions of low-key.”

That made his heart skip, just slightly.

He let the moment hang for a beat, then nodded toward the rooftop stairs.

“Wanna sneak out? Grab some real food? I know a diner a few blocks from here. No one will ask you to explain a single acronym.”

You hesitated—surprised, maybe, or just caught off-guard by how fast this all felt.

But something in his eyes made it feel safe.

You smiled. “Sure. Just let me grab my bag.”

———-

The neon hum of the sign outside buzzed faintly through the window. You were halfway through a milkshake, and Joaquin was telling a story about the time he accidentally activated his wings in a hardware store.

“And I swear, this poor old guy thought I was a drone attack. Dropped his wrench and bolted.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “How are you not a walking headline?”

“I am, I just keep getting pushed below the fold,” he joked, nudging his fries toward you.

The conversation moved easily—his time in the military, your worst overnight shifts, both of you tossing stories back and forth like a tennis match you didn’t want to end.

Somewhere between your third refill and your fry count getting dangerously low, the table fell quiet.

He was watching you. In a way that made your skin feel warm under the fluorescent lights.

And then—

“Can I ask you something?”

You looked up, surprised. “Yeah?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Can I take you out sometime? Like…a real date.”

You blinked, stunned by the sincerity.

Then your lips curved. “This one wasn’t?”

He grinned, cheeks pink now. “So that’s a yes?”

You nodded. “That’s a yes.”

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sillygoose067 · 2 months ago

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Crash Landing Into You pt.2

Joaquin Torres x Reader

Joaquin stood outside the bookstore café, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. He’d changed his shirt twice before coming—settled on a dark green button-up he hoped looked cool but not too try-hard.

When you walked out, he straightened, caught off guard by how nice you looked in your sweater dress, hair down, a small crossbody bag slung at your hip. You had this slightly nervous smile, the kind people wore when they weren’t totally sure if this was a good idea.

“Hey,” he said, hands slipping into his pockets. “You look…great.”

You ducked your head, warmth creeping up your cheeks. “Thanks. So do you.”

There was an awkward moment, the two of you trying to figure out if you should hug, shake hands, or just wave. He opted for a slightly dorky half-hug, arm barely touching your shoulder, and you both laughed as you walked in.

The conversation over coffee started cautious, a little stilted. He asked you about your job, you asked him about his, both of you trying not to sound rehearsed.

“So,” he said, stirring his cortado, “ER work. That’s gotta be intense.”

You nodded, wrapping your hands around your mug. “Yeah, it is. I mean… I like it. It’s chaos, but it makes me feel useful. You have to be quick, but you also have to be kind.” You shrugged. “Keeps you human, I guess.”

He tilted his head, genuinely impressed. “I get that. I mean, my whole thing is about quick decisions, too, but usually it’s more… ‘don’t crash into that building’ and less ‘save a tiny life.’”

You laughed, your shoulders relaxing a bit. “Both important. I think the building people appreciate you.”

The date got easier from there. You found little overlaps—shared shows, mutual fears of public speaking, the same guilty pleasure for really bad pop songs. By the time the café closed, you were leaning in toward each other, forgetting to check your watches.

He walked you home, hands brushing once or twice before he finally took yours, and when you reached your door, you lingered there, suddenly self-conscious again.

“I had a really good time,” you said, looking up at him. “Thanks for… this.”

He smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, me too. Can I… text you? Maybe plan something less caffeinated next time?”

You grinned. “Definitely.”

You parted with a soft, slightly awkward hug, and when you closed the door behind you, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

⸻

By your fourth or fifth date, you’d found a rhythm. You’d made him dinner at your place once—a slightly burnt lasagna he pretended to love, even though the edges were like roof shingles. He’d taken you to a street fair, where you’d nearly puked on a spinning ride but insisted you were fine.

It was after one of those casual, unplanned nights that you found yourself curled up on his couch, legs across his lap, half-watching a terrible reality show while he absently rubbed your ankle.

“I have a confession,” he said suddenly, eyes still on the screen.

You looked over, heart skipping a little. “Yeah?”

“I have no idea what’s happening in this show,” he admitted, looking at you with a sheepish grin. “I’ve just been nodding every time you comment.”

You burst out laughing, head falling back against the armrest. “You liar. I thought you were invested in this trainwreck!”

“Hey, in my defense, I just like listening to you talk about it. You get all fired up.” He poked your shin. “It’s cute.”

You blushed, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

But he was also leaning in, thumb tracing gentle circles against your calf, his face closer now, eyes flicking to your mouth.

And when he kissed you, it was soft at first, a tentative press of lips, like he was giving you time to pull away. But you didn’t. You leaned in, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, and he exhaled against your cheek, a quiet, contented sound that made your heart do backflips.

⸻

Eventually, he started leaving things at your place. A spare hoodie on your coatrack. His favorite phone charger coiled beside your bed. A toothbrush in the cup next to yours, like some quiet promise.

He’d stay over some nights, both of you too tired to make the trek to his apartment. You learned his little habits—how he hummed when he brushed his teeth, how he always checked the locks twice, how he stretched his arms over his head every morning like he was about to launch into the sky.

One lazy Sunday, you were curled up on the couch, his head in your lap, your fingers absently running through his curls as you read a book. He closed his eyes, a soft, sleepy smile on his lips.

“Is this weird?” he mumbled.

You looked down, brushing a curl off his forehead. “What?”

“This.” He cracked one eye open. “Us. Being this… domestic.”

You smiled, leaning down to kiss his temple. “Not weird. Just… nice.”

He squeezed your knee, eyes drifting shut again. “Yeah. Nice.”

⸻

It wasn’t perfect, of course. No couple is.

The first time you really fought, it was over something stupid—a last-minute mission that took him out of the country for two weeks without so much as a text, and you’d spent every night staring at your phone, convinced something had gone wrong.

When he finally showed up at your door, looking exhausted but relieved, you’d tried to brush it off, but he’d caught the tightness in your voice, the way your arms stayed crossed, shoulders tense.

“You’re mad,” he said, leaning against your doorframe, eyes dark.

You bit your lip. “I’m not mad. I just… I wish you’d said something. I worried.”

He exhaled, running a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I should’ve. I just… it’s hard to explain. I didn’t want to put that on you.”

You hesitated, then stepped closer, your tone softening. “I want you to put it on me. That’s kind of the point, right?”

He dropped his head, shoulders slumping. “Yeah. You’re right. I’m sorry.”

You reached for his hand, squeezing gently. “I just… care about you. A lot.”

He looked up, his eyes softening. “I care about you, too.”

And the hug that followed wasn’t perfect either—too tight, too desperate—but it was real. And that mattered more.

⸻

It came out one morning, long after the sun had risen, when you were both tangled up in your sheets, half-awake, still groggy from the night before.

You were draped across his chest, fingers absentmindedly tracing the faint scar on his shoulder, your head tucked beneath his chin. His arm was wrapped around you, holding you close, his thumb brushing the soft skin of your arm.

He yawned, stretching a little, then mumbled, “You know you’re my favorite person, right?”

You smiled, eyes still closed. “Is that so?”

“Mm-hmm,” he said, voice sleep-heavy. “I’m serious. You… you make everything feel… different. Lighter. Even the hard stuff.”

You blinked, waking up a little more, feeling the weight of his words.

“I mean,” he continued, a nervous chuckle in his throat, “I’m still a mess, obviously. But you make me want to be less of a mess.”

You propped yourself up on your elbow, looking down at him. “Are you trying to tell me something, Torres?”

He hesitated, eyes searching yours, his heart clearly picking up speed. “Yeah,” he said, voice softer now. “I love you.”

Your breath hitched. It felt like the air in the room shifted, the world suddenly sharper, brighter.

You swallowed, felt your heart pounding in your ears, then leaned down, pressing your forehead to his.

“I love you, too,” you whispered, your nose brushing his. “A lot.”

The relief in his eyes was immediate, his lips crashing into yours in a kiss that felt both urgent and deeply, deeply right. Like a promise sealed.

⸻

A few months later, he got hurt. Nothing critical, but enough to shake you both.

He’d been out on a mission, one of those chaotic, high-stakes ones that Sam swore would be quick and easy, and he came back with a gash along his ribs and a limp that made your stomach drop.

When he stumbled into your apartment that night, his uniform torn, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead, you froze.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, rushing to his side. “Joaquin, what happened?”

He tried for a reassuring smile, even as his knees buckled a little. “Nothing. Just… took a hit. It’s fine.”

But when you peeled back the fabric and saw the jagged, bloody line across his ribs, you felt a wave of nausea hit you.

“You’re bleeding,” you hissed, guiding him to the couch. “Why didn’t you go to med bay?”

“I’m fine,” he insisted, wincing as he leaned back. “I just… wanted to see you.”

Your heart twisted, both at the stupidity of it and the tenderness. You grabbed your first aid kit, kneeling beside him as you started to clean the wound, hands shaking slightly.

“Dios, this looks bad,” you muttered, biting your lip as you worked. “You can’t just… walk around with this.”

He let his head fall back, exhaling shakily. “I knew you’d patch me up. You’re surgeon, right?”

You shot him a look, half angry, half terrified. “Yeah, for kids.”

He reached for your hand, catching it even as you tried to swat him away.

“Hey,” he said, voice suddenly serious. “I’m okay. I promise. I’m not going anywhere.”

You paused, meeting his eyes, and felt your chest tighten.

“Promise me you won’t do this again,” you whispered, your voice cracking a little. “You can’t just… come back to me like this. It’s not fair.”

His grip tightened on your hand, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into your skin.

“I promise,” he whispered back, eyes softening. “I’ll be more careful. I swear.”

And when you leaned in, pressing your forehead to his, his free hand came up to cup the back of your neck, holding you there like you were his whole world.

⸻

Eventually, you stopped keeping track of which things were his and which were yours. His spare hoodie became a permanent fixture on the back of your desk chair. Your favorite blanket migrated to his couch. He started leaving spare socks in your laundry basket, and you stopped pretending you cared.

One morning, you caught him singing in your shower, a horribly off-key rendition of some old R&B song, and instead of being annoyed, you found yourself grinning like an idiot.

He came out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, hair dripping, and caught you staring.

“What?” he said, a little sheepish, grabbing for his shirt.

You shook your head, blushing. “Nothing. Just… you’re cute.”

He paused, then broke into a wide, teasing grin. “Oh, I’m cute, huh?”

You tossed a pillow at him, laughing as he ducked. “Don’t push it, Torres.”

But as he crossed the room, pulling you into a damp, soapy hug that made you squeal, you realized you hadn’t felt this happy in a long, long time.

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