joaquin torres was losing his mind.

he was not one to feel sour after losing a spar, but he believed he deserved some credit. ever since he had been recruited as falcon, sam took it upon himself to help improve his combat on the ground. joaquin had a skill for brawling mid-air with his wings, but he was clumsy and uncoordinated on land. so, sam had hired you.

you were one of the most skillful combatants joaquin had laid his eyes upon. you also happened to be one of the most intriguing people he'd ever met. the fluid but accurate way you poised yourself in a battle--joaquin aspired to be as talented as you.

unluckily for him, joaquin could never top you in a spar. there was not a tactic he hadn't tried or a punch, kick, jab that he hadn't mastered in order to beat you. but ultimately, every single time, you would come out on top.

really, his ego was bruised. with a capital B. joaquin had three important morals in his life: 1. to protect and serve his country at all times, 2. to respect people, pase lo que pase (in his mother's words), and 3. to maintain his ego and pride. your training had taken a toll on him. the first few losses were bearable, after two weeks, his spirit was low, and now it had been three months and joaquin would do whatever it took. and last night, he was up staring at the ceiling, plotting your demise.

he showed up to training next morning, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a smirk on his face, ready to win. he lazed through warm-ups, per usual, threw a few punches on the bag, adjusting to your critique, until it was finally time to spar. still, he fell into routine, blocking kicks and uppercuts, returning them.

until you were halfway through the battle, pausing to catch your breath, joaquin pulled his shirt off over his head in one fluid motion. he faced you, a knowing grin on his face. "let's continue?"