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Edge of Everything

joaquin torres x fem!witch!reader

You don’t know who picked the movie, but it’s been playing for an hour and you haven’t processed a single frame of it. You’re sitting on one end of the couch, legs curled under you, a blanket thrown lazily across your lap.

Joaquin’s on the other side. Or, at least, he was.

At some point—somewhere between your third eye-roll and your fifth shared laugh—he’d ended up a lot closer.

Now his thigh is flush against yours. Warm. Steady. Comforting.

His arm is resting across the back of the couch. Not quite touching you. Just… there. The kind of closeness that feels accidental but you know damn well isn’t. His fingers graze your shoulder whenever he shifts. And he shifts a lot.

You pretend not to notice.

Your eyes flick to the TV. Some romantic subplot’s unfolding—two characters slow dancing in the rain. You feel Joaquin glance at you.

“That’s you, isn’t it?” he says under his breath.

“What?”

“The dramatic magic-wielding heroine. Only you’d bring someone back to life and scold them for making you do it.”

You snort.

“Please. You’d be the one making out with someone on a rooftop in a thunderstorm like it’s a Nicholas Sparks novel.”

He grins. Shrugs. Doesn’t deny it.

“Not denying it,” he says. “I’d make it look good.”

He reaches for the popcorn bowl in your lap. His fingers brush yours. Neither of you move.

You clear your throat. Look away.

The silence stretches—comfortable and unbearable all at once.

Then Sam walks in and stops in his tracks.

He stares for a long moment, arms crossed, head tilted like he’s tired.

“You two…”

“What?” you ask, too quickly.

“Nothing. Just—at this point, I’m assuming you share a toothbrush.”

Joaquin gives him a lazy smile.

“Only when she’s out of toothpaste.”

You elbow him hard. He huffs out a laugh, grabs his chest dramatically like you broke something.

“We’re not a thing,” you mutter, but even you hear how thin it sounds.

Sam just stares.

“Right,” he says flatly, and walks off.

Joaquin leans a little closer. His voice low, teasing.

“You sure we’re not a thing?”

Your heart stutters. Your magic simmers.

You don’t answer.

———

Your fists fly, your magic crackles, and the reinforced training dummy is begging for mercy.

You blast it with one last hit of red chaos energy and pant through a crooked grin as it sparks, smokes, and stumbles to the floor in defeat.

Joaquin’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching like he’s thoroughly enjoying the show. You’re sweating, breathing hard, hair clinging to your neck and forehead.

“Okay, well,” he drawls, “remind me never to piss you off in close quarters.”

You shoot him a sharp look, but your chest is still rising and falling fast. You’re flushed. Overheated. Magic humming hot in your skin.

He walks over, a towel in one hand and a water bottle in the other. You narrow your eyes.

“That for me or are you just flexing your hydration awareness?”

“Both.”

He presses the cold bottle into your hand, but instead of handing you the towel, he lifts it and gently pats the sweat from your forehead.

Your eyes flutter, caught off guard by the softness of it.

“You missed your calling,” you mutter. “Could’ve been a very aggressive spa technician.”

He grins, still toweling off the back of your neck.

“Nah. You just looked like you were seconds from combusting.”

“I am combusting. That’s kind of my whole thing.”

“Yeah, but this version looked a little less magical and a little more meltdown-on-the-mat.”

You roll your eyes and take another sip of water. He steps back—barely—and watches you like he’s memorizing something.

Then he says, quieter:

“I like when you let yourself get messy.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Messy?”

“Yeah. All powerful, untouchable chaos witch and still out here sweating like a mortal. It’s… grounding.”

You huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh. Toss the towel back at him. He catches it without looking, too busy watching your mouth.

You smirk.

“You gonna keep staring or are you gonna fight me?”

He steps closer.

“You want me to pin you down that bad?”

Your magic flickers behind your eyes. He notices.

“Careful,” you whisper.

“Always,” he murmurs.

And then you’re both just standing there, chests nearly brushing, heat rolling off your skin—and not a damn thing happens.

Because you step back first.

Because you always step back first.

———

Your room is quiet. Dim. The moonlight filters in across the edge of your bed, silver and cold.

You’re curled under a blanket, scrolling through missions and notes, pretending your chest doesn’t feel tight after today’s debrief.

The knock comes soft.

Once.

Then twice.

You don’t even have to ask who it is.

The door creaks open slowly. Joaquin peeks his head in like he’s expecting to get yelled at.

“You still up?”

You raise your phone.

“Aren’t you always?”

He grins and slips inside, closing the door behind him. His hoodie sleeves are pushed halfway up his forearms and his hair’s messy—like he’s been running a hand through it for hours.

He walks over and holds up his phone.

“I found three videos I know you’re gonna hate but laugh at anyway.”

“Only three?”

“I’m pacing myself.”

You scoot over. He climbs into bed like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal. Because it is.

This has become your thing. 3AM visits. Secret scrolling. Close proximity under the guise of shared memes and exhaustion. Neither of you talk about it. Neither of you have to.

You both know.

The side of his arm brushes yours as he tilts the screen toward you. Your legs stretch out beside each other, ankles nearly touching.

He plays a video.

You snort.

“I hate that you’re right.”

He glances over at you, and you’re too tired to hide the smile curling at your lips.

He shifts onto his side a little, propped on one elbow now. His face close. His breath warmer.

Your blanket is barely covering either of you. The silence stretches.

“You had a rough day,” he says softly.

You don’t respond. You don’t have to.

He watches you like you’re glass. Like he’s trying to read your mind. Like he wants to fix something.

“You can’t fix everything,” you whisper finally.

“I’m still gonna try.”

That does something dangerous to your heart. To your magic. To your restraint.

You swallow.

“Joaquin—”

“I know.” His voice is soft. Gentle. “I’m not asking for anything. Just… this.”

He shifts closer. Just enough to rest his hand lightly against yours on top of the blanket. His fingers don’t move. They just stay.

Connected. Unspoken. Real.

You both fall asleep like that. Barely touching. Dreaming the same thing.

———

Everything goes sideways in seconds.

You were supposed to move in from the north—take out the guards, secure the intel. Easy. Clean. You’ve done this a hundred times.

But someone tipped them off.

Gunfire rains from above. Chaos erupts. Sam goes aerial, shouting into the comms. Joaquin darts into cover behind a container, motioning for you to take the left flank.

You move—too fast.

That’s when the trip mine goes off.

A deafening boom explodes beside you. You don’t scream, but you do go flying.

Joaquin sees it happen.

He sprints through gunfire, bullets whizzing past his ears. He doesn’t care. Doesn’t think. He just runs.

You’re sprawled against a concrete barrier, coughing from the dust, your body buzzing with leftover magic that flared up to shield you on instinct.

“Y/N!” he shouts, dropping to his knees beside you, hands already on your arms, your face, your shoulders—checking for blood, for wounds, for broken bones.

“I’m fine,” you say quickly. Too quickly. Your voice is shaking. “I had it under control.”

You didn’t.

There’s a deep gash on your shoulder where a shard caught you. Your lip is split. Your hand is trembling.

“That mine was primed, you could’ve—”

“But I didn’t.”

Your magic pulses too hot around your fingers, unstable. You clench them into fists to make it stop. You won’t look at him.

“Y/N,” he says, lower now, more breath than sound, “you can’t keep doing this. You’re not invincible.”

You finally meet his eyes.

And the look on his face—pure terror, heartbreak, relief—it guts you.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispers. “Not like that. Not like that.”

You’re both breathing too hard. The fight is still going, but right now, this moment feels louder.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you murmur.

“You didn’t scare me,” he says. “You destroyed me.”

And you feel it—that awful, terrifying truth sitting in your throat like glass.

You almost died. And all you can think about is how it would’ve broken him.

⸻

Now she’s on the roof hours later, alone, trying to get her shit together, trying to breathe again.

———

The city is quiet.

Up here, above it all, the air is cooler. Quieter. The chaos of your thoughts doesn’t echo as loud.

You sit on the edge of the rooftop, knees drawn up, arms resting across them. Red energy flickers at your fingertips—nervous, uncertain, soft. Just enough to keep you company.

Footsteps.

You don’t have to look. You already know it’s him.

Joaquin settles beside you, legs dangling over the edge. His hoodie sleeves are bunched up again, and he smells like something familiar—clean and safe and warm.

Neither of you speak at first.

The silence is comfortable. Almost.

“You always come up here when you’re avoiding something,” he says quietly.

You smirk.

“You always follow me when I do.”

“Because I don’t like the idea of you hurting alone.”

That makes you glance at him. His jaw’s tense. His eyes are tired.

You swallow.

“I’m not hurting.”

He raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t say it, but you both know that’s a lie.

He shifts, turning toward you more. You feel the heat of him, the closeness. Your arm brushes his. You don’t move.

“You scared me today,” he says.

That makes your heart stutter.

“You got reckless. You took a hit you didn’t need to. You’re better than that.”

You glance down at your hands. The red glow pulses faintly. He reaches out and stills them—his hand gentle as it closes around yours.

Your breath catches.

“You can’t keep carrying all of it,” he says, his voice low, barely above a whisper. “Even chaos needs a break.”

You meet his gaze.

It’s a mistake.

Because he’s looking at you like you’re his whole world. Like he’s been trying not to love you for months and just… lost the fight.

His eyes drop to your mouth.

Your pulse skids. You don’t breathe.

You both lean in at the same time—slow, tentative, like testing gravity.

Your noses brush. You feel his breath fan over your lips. His hand rises to your jaw, tentative, fingers grazing your cheek like you’ll vanish if he touches you too hard.

And god—you want it. You want it so bad it aches.

You tilt your head just a little, lips parted—

And then you stop. Frozen. Half a centimeter away.

Your heart is pounding. Your magic pulses between you.

You feel his breath catch.

“Don’t,” you whisper, barely audible. “Don’t care for me like this.”

He stills.

“Too late,” he breathes.

You pull back, slowly. Like it hurts. Because it does.

“I can’t give you what you want,” you say softly. “If I do… and something happens to you… I don’t know if I could survive that.”

He searches your face like he’s trying to memorize it.

“So what, we pretend this doesn’t exist? Pretend we don’t?”

You look away.

“We keep each other alive. That’s what we do.”

He nods slowly. But you don’t miss the pain in his eyes.

“Then I’ll keep pretending. If that’s what you need.”

You don’t speak. You can’t.

Because if you do, you’ll kiss him anyway.

———

The fluorescent lights are too bright.

The chairs are too cold.

And Joaquin is sitting too damn close.

You’re trying to breathe evenly, trying not to look at him, but his leg keeps brushing yours under the table and your mind won’t stop replaying what almost happened on the rooftop five hours ago.

His hand on your cheek.

His lips almost on yours.

That look in his eyes.

“Too late,” he said.

You haven’t slept.

Across the table, Sam Wilson drops a file onto the surface with a sharp thwap.

“This one’s high priority. We’ve got intel that a black-market transport vessel is moving refined adamantium off the Atlantic coast—”

Your stomach tightens.

“They’re skimming ocean territory just outside international lines, which means we need to get in fast, quiet, and untraceable.”

You nod, silent. Joaquin shifts beside you.

“The three of us go in aerial,” Sam continues. “Y/N, you’ll hang back until we ID the exact hold. I want you on overwatch until we breach. No showing off.”

He looks pointedly at you.

You smirk faintly.

“Define showing off.”

Joaquin snorts beside you. Sam sighs.

“Just stay alive. Both of you. The council’s already breathing down our necks about Wakandan metal, and I don’t need a damn rescue op on top of it.”

He looks between the two of you—like he knows something’s up but doesn’t want to deal with it yet.

“Wings prepped for launch at 0800. No mistakes. Questions?”

Silence.

“Good. Dismissed.”

———

The wind roars in your ears.

From your perch high above the vessel, you float just outside radar range, a shimmering red shield cloaking your energy signature. Your fingers twitch, ready. Watching. Waiting.

“Red, you copy?” Joaquin’s voice cuts through your earpiece.

“Copy.”

“You sure you’re okay up there?”

“You’re the one flapping around in open air like a glowstick, Torres. Maybe Ishould be checking on you.”

You hear him laugh through the comms. It softens the anxiety in your chest—but only slightly.

Then Sam’s voice comes in, sharp:

“Vessel identified. We’re breaching from the port side.”

“On your mark,” you respond.

Joaquin zips lower, wings slicing through the sky, and just as he banks left to take position—

A flash of light.

A missile screams from the hull of the ship.

You feel it before you see it.

“Joaquin—”

But it’s too late.

The blast hits him midair. His body spirals out like a comet, wings ripped, suit malfunctioning. You scream his name into the comms as he plummets toward the ocean.

“SAM, HE’S HIT—!”

Your body surges forward on instinct, red magic roaring from your palms as you dive. You feel your heart pounding in your throat. You won’t make it in time. You won’t—

Then you do.

You catch him mid-fall, slowing his velocity with a shockwave of pure energy. His body slams into your arms hard, but not fatally.

His breathing is shallow. He’s bleeding.

“Stay with me, Joaquin. Come on—look at me, look at me—”

You don’t know if he hears you.

Sam is shouting orders. Enemies are still firing. But you’re already rising with Joaquin in your arms, flying him toward the evac route. Every pulse of magic you burn hurts now, but you don’t care.

You’re not losing him.

Not today.

———

The med bay is quiet.

Too quiet.

Machines beep in steady rhythms. IV bags hang in still air. The scent of antiseptic clings to your skin like smoke.

Joaquin’s lying motionless in the hospital bed, chest bandaged, one arm splinted, a shallow gash across his cheek. The doctors said he’d live.

But they didn’t say when he’d wake up.

You haven’t moved in hours. Just sat there, unmoving, staring at him like if you blinked, he might disappear.

Your hand is wrapped around his.

Your magic hums under your skin, wild and aching, searching for something to do—something to fix. But it can’t fix this. Not really.

And that’s what breaks you.

You finally speak, voice raw, barely above a whisper:

“When I was sixteen, my brother died.”

The words come like glass in your throat.

“I thought it was the end of my world. And it was—for a while. He was the only one who really knew me. I trusted him with everything. And then one day… he just didn’t come back.”

Your hand tightens around Joaquin’s.

“After that, I stopped letting people in. I thought… maybe if I didn’t love anyone else, it wouldn’t hurt like that again.”

You breathe out shakily. Blink away tears that sting and blur.

“And then you showed up. Loud. Relentless. So damn bright. Always sending memes at 3am. Always making me laugh when I didn’t want to. Always showing up.”

Your voice cracks.

“You made me feel again. You made me want. And it scared the hell out of me.”

You swallow hard.

“I’ve been keeping you at arm’s length because I didn’t want to lose you. Because I thought if I never let myself have you, I wouldn’t have to feel this again. But when I saw you falling out of the sky today—when I felt you slipping through my hands—”

You stop, breath hitching. The tears spill now. You don’t stop them.

“It made me realize… I don’t just want to be close to you.”

You lean forward in the chair, clutching his hand to your chest like a lifeline.

“I long to be close to you. I need it. I want everything with you, Joaquin. The stupid 3am TikToks. The rooftop mornings. The flirting. The falling asleep in each other’s beds. All of it. I want you.”

You press a trembling kiss to his knuckles.

Your forehead drops gently against his forearm. You stay there, eyes squeezed shut, letting the weight of it all sink in.

And then—

A low, hoarse voice breaks the silence:

“I knew you loved me.”

Your head snaps up.

His eyes are barely open—just enough to flash that smug little grin he always gets when he’s won something.

“You’re the worst,” you whisper through a half-sob, half-laugh.

“Nah,” he croaks, thumb brushing weakly across your hand. “You love me.”

“You were unconscious. That doesn’t count.”

“Didn’t stop you from confessing,” he murmurs, eyes falling shut again. “Gonna hold that over you forever.”

“Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

You shift carefully onto the edge of the bed, your fingers still laced with his, your free hand brushing his hair from his forehead. Your voice softens.

“Just… rest. Okay? I’ll be right here.”

And for the first time in a long, long time, you mean it.

———

The lights are dimmed now.

The machines are quieter.

And for the first time since the mission, he’s awake.

Really awake.

You walk in with a tray—nothing fancy, just soup, toast, and a drink. But it’s real food, and the way his face lights up when he sees it makes something in your chest ache.

“God, you’re perfect,” he mutters, trying to sit up.

“No,” you say, pushing his shoulder gently. “You are injured. Don’t be dramatic.”

“Me? Dramatic? Never.”

But he winces anyway, clutching his ribs, and you give him a pointed look. Still, he smiles as you help settle the tray over his lap and lower the bed slightly so he can eat.

You sit in the chair beside him, watching quietly as he takes the first few bites.

“Tastes like cardboard,” he says through a mouthful.

“You’re welcome.”

For a while, the silence is companionable. He eats slowly. You sip from a bottle of water. You think maybe this is enough.

But then he pauses.

Spoon halfway to his mouth, he looks at you—soft, serious, his voice quiet.

“I didn’t know about your brother.”

You blink.

“Yeah,” you say, looking down. “Most people don’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

You just nod, a small motion. Your eyes sting again, but you won’t cry this time.

Then he does it.

With a quiet grunt, Joaquin shifts over in the bed, wincing but determined. He pats the space beside him—his palm gently tapping the blanket just once.

“Come here,” he says softly. “Please.”

You hesitate only a second before you move. Gently, carefully, you slide onto the bed beside him, sitting up straight but close enough to feel his warmth.

Your shoulder brushes his.

He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for days.

“I’ve always known I’m a hopeless romantic,” he says after a moment, staring at the ceiling like the words are carved up there.

“Ever since I was a kid. I wanted all the cheesy stuff. Dancing in the rain. Fighting over who makes the coffee. Falling asleep on someone’s shoulder. All of it.”

He turns his head to look at you.

“But with you? It’s more. It’s so much more. I want everything, Y/N.”

His voice breaks just slightly.

“I want to hold your hand when you can’t sleep. I want to hear you rant about your day. I want to spar with you even though you’ll win. I want to protect you—even if I know you could obliterate the multiverse with a blink. I want to show up. Be there. All of it.”

His fingers brush yours.

“And I want it all with you.”

You stare at him—barely breathing, barely moving.

Then, quietly, like the world is finally giving you permission to want this too, you lean in.

And so does he.

Your lips meet like a whisper.

No fire, no chaos—just warmth. Softness. The promise of something real.

He exhales into the kiss like he’s waited his whole life for it.

When you pull back, he’s still smiling.

“You’re gonna be hell on my ribs, huh?”

You laugh, forehead pressed to his.

“You’re the one who scooted over.”