"Joaquín. We talked about this."

He's a nightmare. A ridiculously pretty nightmare, but a nightmare all the same. And the kicker? You don't even get paid for this bullshit. PR manager isn't on your resume, no matter how often he throws the title around to Sam like it's your official job description. You stick around the compound out of friendship—or maybe masochism—but you'd still like him to, at the very least, listen.

The Avengers' reputation was already on thin ice after the whole… you know, half the planet gone for five years debacle. You're just trying to make sure your friend doesn't tank what little goodwill is left. Maybe even polish him into something resembling the beacon of hope Sam Wilson is working overtime to turn their public image into.

"That wasn't even that bad," Joaquín protests. One boot propped arrogantly on the side of a crate that's very clearly labelled DO NOT SIT—SERIOUSLY. He’s hopeless. A lost cause. Especially after his latest stunt: live-tweeting during a stakeout.

A fucking stakeout.

Sam nearly wrung his neck. Now he's looking at you oh-so-innocently, and you've never rolled your eyes so hard in your life. "Do you have any idea how many journalists picked up on that? Hashtagging yourself with #FalconOnDuty? You're supposed to be invisible on duty, not announcing your exact mission to every foreign government that might be watching!"

He only shrugs, all lazy grin and infuriating ease, like he hasn't just detonated three very hard weeks' worth of careful PR scaffolding. "Relax, sweetheart. Nobody's gonna complain about Falcon letting the people know he's got their backs."

"You’re not a neighbourhood watch Facebook group, Joaquín." You groan. God, he's just incapable of getting the point every time. "You're a symbol. Everything you do means something to someone. And every time you go rogue with your phone, you make my job—our job—impossible."

"Maybe people like me better unfiltered," he shoots back, too fast, too damn smug. "Maybe they want the guy behind the wings. The human part. Isn’t that what this is all about?"

And the worst part? You think he's right. Not about live-tweeting field missions—that's still so astronomically stupid you'll be yelling about it on your deathbed—but maybe the public does deserve to see the man behind the suit. The same one who cracks jokes until his friends are wheezing, who spins kids around at backyard cookouts like he hadn't just spent the morning tracking arms dealers across the border.

Which is how you end up here. At his kitchen table. With a scribbled page of ideas.

A TikTok. God help you both.

"So, I was thinking…" Joaquín leans in, all boyish enthusiasm and zero shame. The kind of look that makes you wonder how you ever let yourself get roped into this. Professional my ass. "Maybe I could, like, dance or something. Or do one of those lives. Or talk about my day. Or, y'know, share my training routine. Inspire the masses. Show everyone they could have a hot bod too, if they just put the work in—"

Thirst traps (to your deep, inner disappointment) are very firmly on the no list.

You stare down at the mess of scribbles on your page. Yeah. This is going to be a long afternoon.