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The city was a warzone, smoke curling from shattered concrete as Joaquín Torres, the new Falcon, soared above the chaos. His wings, sleek and mechanical, courtesy of brand new Wakandan tech, cut through the air with precision. Below, Crossbones unleashed havoc, his enhanced strength tearing through SHIELD barricades in a raid on a covert weapons facility.
Joaquín’s HUD pinged, highlighting Brock’s position: a hulking figure in a skull-painted mask, his black tactical gear scarred from countless battles. Sam had warned Joaquín about Crossbones, a supervillain with a rap sheet longer than the Hudson River, loyal only to chaos and Hydra’s remnants.
The facility’s core destabilized, explosions rippling through the structure. Brock was inside, pinned under a collapsed beam as flames licked closer. Joaquín dove, ignoring Sam’s voice crackling in his comms. "Joaquin, do not engage alone!” He landed hard, wings folding, and sprinted to Brock’s side. The villain’s mask was cracked, revealing half his scarred face, his dark eyes narrowed but not hostile.
Joaquín braced against the beam, his suit’s servos straining as he lifted it just enough for Brock to roll free. “What?” Brock rasped, coughing through the smoke, his voice rough but lacking its usual venom. He didn’t swing, didn’t draw a weapon. He just stared, like Joaquín was a puzzle he couldn’t solve.
Joaquín met his gaze, steady despite the heat. “Because you’re still human” He grabbed Brock’s arm, pulling him toward an exit as the ceiling groaned. Brock didn’t resist, following through the inferno until they stumbled into the night, collapsing as SHIELD choppers roared overhead.
Brock vanished before Joaquín could say more, but at that moment, no attack, no betrayal, it stuck with him. He was convinced: Brock could be redeemed.
Weeks later, they clashed again, this time in a derelict shipyard. Brock was after a cache of experimental tech, Joaquín there to stop him. The fight was brutal—Brock’s raw power against Joaquín’s speed and wings. A grenade misfire caught them both, shrapnel tearing through Joaquín’s side and Brock’s leg. Bloodied and staggering, they stumbled into a rusted freight elevator, the only shelter as the shipyard burned. Brock, limping, dragged Joaquín inside, slamming the gate shut.
He could’ve finished Joaquín then, but instead, he propped him against the wall, his hand pressing against Joaquín’s wound to slow the bleeding. “Why don’t you just kill me?” Joaquín gasped, pain clouding his vision but not his resolve. His wings were crumpled, one motor sparking, but he reached out, trembling, and pressed his forehead against Brock’s. The gesture was intimate, vulnerable, and Brock froze, his breath hitching.
For a moment, the villain’s mask slipped, revealing a man caught between who he was and who he might’ve been. “You’re an idiot, kid,” Brock muttered, but his voice was soft, his hand steady on Joaquín’s side. “I should.” He didn’t. The elevator creaked upward, and Brock stayed close, his own blood pooling on the floor, until SHIELD breached the shipyard. He slipped away, leaving Joaquín alive.
Joaquín recovered in the Avenger's medbay, his side stitched, wings repaired. Sam visited, shield on his back, concern etched into his face. “You’re chasing a ghost, Joaquín. Rumlow’s too far gone.” “He didn’t kill me,” Joaquín said, staring at the ceiling. “He could’ve, but he didn’t. There’s something left in him.” Sam sighed, clapping Joaquín’s shoulder. “Be careful, kid. Hope’s dangerous with guys like that.” But Joaquín couldn’t let it go. He tracked Brock’s movements, piecing together sightings from every network.
When he was cleared for duty, he slipped away from New York, heading to a small coastal town where Brock was rumored to be hiding. He found him in a dive bar, mask gone, scars exposed, nursing a beer under dim lights. Joaquín slid into the booth across from him, dropping a manila envelope on the table. Brock’s eyes flicked up, wary but not surprised. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”
Joaquín pushed the envelope forward. “New ID, passport, some cash. Enough to start over. No strings.” Brock stared at the envelope, then at Joaquín, his expression unreadable. “Why the hell would you do this? I’m the bad guy, remember?” “Because I believe in you,” Joaquín said, voice steady, eyes locked on Brock’s. “I saw it, that night in the elevator. You’re not just Crossbones. You can be more.” Brock’s laugh was low, almost bitter, but his hand reached for the envelope, fingers brushing the paper. “You’re gonna regret this, Torres.”
“Maybe,” Joaquín said, leaning closer, his voice soft. “But I don’t think so.” The air between them thickened, charged with something unspoken. Joaquín moved first, closing the distance, his lips brushing Brock’s in a tentative kiss. Brock stiffened, then melted into it, his hand finding Joaquín’s jaw, the kiss deepening with a quiet desperation.
It was brief but real, a promise in itself. When they parted, Brock’s voice was rough, barely above a whisper. “I’ll try, kid. No guarantees, but… I’ll try.” Joaquín smiled, small but bright. “That’s enough for now.” Brock stood, tucking the envelope into his jacket.
He glanced back once, his eyes softer than Joaquín had ever seen, before disappearing into the night. Joaquín stayed in the booth, heart racing, believing: hoping Brock would keep his word.