friday night dinner | joaquin torres
summary: your roommate ambushes you in your own home with congressman bucky and captain america sam. chaos ensues as joaquin convinces you to let them stay for dinner.
warnings: joaquin burns his hand very mildly, a little jealousy, and there’s cursing but overall it’s just fluff. also sambucky is real ! they are canon to me !
wc: 2.3k
-
“Quino,” your voice echoes through your entryway. “There wasn’t any blue gatorade. I know you said the red one is for losers who aren’t real athletes, but they were having a sale and I…” Your words trail off after you toe your shoes off, your sock clad feet halting to a stop as you step into the living room, bags of groceries in either hand.
“Evening,” a closed lip smile is tossed your way, accompanied by a casual hand wave from an unfamiliar figure on your couch.
“How are you doing today, ma’am?” Another voice has your head snapping to the left, near the mantle where several pictures of you and Joaquin are placed.
“‘Ma’am’?” You respond, head jerking back in offense. “I’m not a ‘ma’am’—” Cutting yourself off, you redirect your attention away from the two strangers in your home. “What…the hell is happening? Joaquin!” Your shout echoes through the walls of the house. Not even a second goes by before a loud hasty crash could be heard, followed by frantic footsteps against the wood.
“You’re home,” Joaquin lets out breathlessly, rushing into the living room, nearly tipping over from his speed. “Did you get my texts?” he rushes the words out, taking in your expression before shaking his head fervently. “You didn’t get my texts.” Joaquin rambles as he walks towards you, grabbing the bags from your hand. Turning his puppy dog eyes on, he looks over at Sam and Bucky, then back at you. “We, um, we have guests. Coming over. Today.” Joaquin stutters, “Right now. We have guests over right now.” His voice is sheepish as he takes in your look of wrath.
One Friday, you think to yourself, shaking your head at your roommate. Just one Friday where I can come home to something normal so I can watch my damn baking show in peace.
The two of you communicate with your eyes and through microexpressions, having an entire conversation spanning the course of fifteen seconds as Sam and Bucky stare intensely. After the two of you came to a conclusion, your gaze snapped over to your unexpected guests as you plaster on a smile. “Welcome to our house.”
Joaquin facilitates brief introductions before you invite the duo to ‘make themselves at home.’
Your eyes flicker to their empty hands and the equally empty coffee table. Turning to Joaquin with a tight smile, you ask through gritted teeth, “You didn’t offer them anything to drink?” There’s a clear threat in your voice. All surprise aside, if you were raised to be one thing at all, it was to be hospitable, and you’ve always forced Joaquin to be the same.
Sensing his impending danger, Joaquin shrinks on himself, and turns to Sam and Bucky with a weak, “Would you guys like anything to drink?”
Had it been any other guest, they would have respectfully declined or asked for a simple water, given the clear tension in the air. But it’s Sam. And Bucky. Watching you ridicule Joaquin.
“You know what, I’m actually really parched,” Bucky starts, placing a hand to his throat, “What about you Sam? You feeling thirsty?”
“Now that you mention it, Buck, my throat is, like, super dry,” Sam says hoarsely, turning to Bucky with a look of concern on his face.
“Quino.” You chastise, look on your face turning murderous.
“We have water, juice, wine,” Joaquin laughs nervously, avoiding looking at you as he wrings his hands in front of him. “Sounds like we just got some gatorade, too!”
“I’ll do a glass of red, if you don’t mind,” Bucky looks at Joaquin, finger on his chin as he fakes inquisition.
“Same,” Sam smiles widely, placing his hands into his pockets.
Joaquin announces that he’s ‘on it,’ but just as he turns around to rush into the kitchen, he pivots. Dashing towards his torturers, Joaquin grabs Sam and Bucky into an impromptu huddle against their will. “Take your shoes off before she notices, hurry, do it now!” he whisper-shouts, before pushing them away. Joaquin gives you a wide smile as he passes, now heading for the drinks.
The duo both look down towards their feet, then the deceptively sweet smile on your face. The three of you follow the same visual path, landing back at the dirt-clad boots Sam sprouted and the polished brown loafers Bucky had on. They watched as the smile slowly slid off your face, and before you even managed to open your mouth, their shoes were flying off.
-
“Texting me ten minutes before I got home, really?” you keep your voice low, but harsh. The sound of your whisk slapping against the metal bowl fills the kitchen as you whip up some homemade mashed potatoes.
“They’re going through some sort of rough patch right now,” Joaquin whispers back from his seat on the counter. “In some sort of career, political disagreement. I just thought it’d be better for them to sit down and have dinner together to talk it out instead of some cold government facility of Sam’s choosing.” Your roommate leans in, “Between you and me, I’m pretty sure Sam’s the one pushing for separation, not Bucky.” He leans back, “But you didn’t hear it from me.”
Joaquin got lucky. Or maybe it wasn’t luck. Maybe it was premeditated. But regardless, your unexpected guests are in for a treat.
Baking you may have no luck at, but cooking. Cooking you can do. “It’s easy,” you’ve told Joaquin countless times. “Intuition. Just measure everything with your heart,” you’ve advised him. It’s always worked for you, and unlike baking, it wasn’t so scientific. Not everything had to be so exact.
So, yeah, baking is definitely not your style.
Unfortunately, neither of them seem to be Joaquin’s style.
The horror on your face when you walked into your absolutely wrecked kitchen after getting Sam and Bucky settled was unmatched. You had let out a small cry, hands covering your eyes as though it would somehow erase the mess as Joaquin had made while you were gone. His complacencies had gone in one ear and out the other, his attempts at being reassuring were worthless. You kept your eyes closed for as long as you could, and when you opened them again, all of the dishes and utensils Joaquin had destroyed were tucked into the furthest part of your counter in a mountain. In the middle of the space, your roommate stood there with a smile on his face as though he had solved the issue.
You hissed at him to just put one of the aprons on and to “try not to screw anything else up!”
That had been about an hour ago. Now, with the steaks resting and the sides nearly done your eyes shoot over to the clock. You ignore Joaquin’s tidbit of gossip, and with a pointed look, you tell him to go check in on your guests and set the table.
He frowns, clearly upset that you’re still upset with him. But nonetheless, Joaquin heeds your words and hops off the counter. Walking into his living room, Joaquin finds the brooding duo on opposite sides of the couch, still. You had turned the TV on for them, British Baking Show blasting across the screen, but neither of them seem to be paying attention. They’re so stiff.
“Dinner should be ready in just a bit,” Joaquin calls out. “We can head to the dining table now.”
Sam turns back to look at him, ready to say ‘thanks,’ but the words never make it past his lips as he takes in Joaquin’s attire. “What…is that?” he asks in genuine perplexity, brows furrowed. Reaching over, Sam slaps Bucky’s arm, drawing his attention.
When Bucky turns around, he can’t help that the same look takes over his face, jaw slack in shock.
Joaquin puts his hands on his hips, oblivious to the flour sticking to his cheek and hair. The pink apron dotted with hearts sits comfortably on his body, and he simply raises his eyebrows in confusion. The embroidered ‘Quino’ at the top left did not go unnoticed by either of their watchful eyes. “What do you mean?”
It’s clear that he’s serious, the hero not playing obtuse in any way, and Bucky is the only one who can manage an answer as he rolls his lips inward. Popping them, he shrugs, “Nothing. Nothing at all.” He pinches Sam behind the couch, a silent signal that says stop staring.
“Do you guys want more wine?” Joaquin offers, accepting the answer with a smile on his face.
“I…think I’m good for now, man,” Sam finally finds his tongue, Bucky’s insistent tapping not doing much to force him over his shock.
When Joaquin turns his back, heading towards the kitchen once more, he misses the way Sam turns to Bucky with a glare. “Did you see what he was wearing?” an accusatory point in Joaquin’s direction.
“What is he? Barefoot Contessa?” Bucky replies, in equal shock, a chuckle falling past his lips.
The two of them share a laugh at Joaquin’s expense, not moving away from each other afterwards as they turn their gazes back to the television.
-
“Wonderful meal,” Sam compliments, wiping his mouth with the fancy napkins you had Joaquin grab from the closet. “Really, thank you.”
“Truly delicious, doll,” Bucky sent a wink your way, and Joaquin suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, his own bite of food going bitter in his mouth.
It’s been like this all dinner.
The Super Soldier may present himself as standoffish, but his personality seems to be shining through just moments after meeting you. He was charming, and confident, and apparently a ‘sucker for a homemade meal’ (Bucky’s words, not Joaquin’s), the usually cold man has been laying it on thick.
“If you cooked like this every night,” Bucky says with a low whistle, “you’d have a line of suitors wrapped around the block. Guys would be beggin’ for a seat at this table.”
You laugh as you collect the empty salad bowl, nudging Joaquin’s shoulder lightly as you make your way around the table. “Only if they bring wine and offer to do the dishes after.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Bucky grins. “In my day, a girl like you would’ve had proposals before dessert.”
Face shoved into his glass of water, Joaquin grumbles out, “It’s not your day anymore.” But between the laughter roaring around the table and the clanking of the dishes, no one hears him.
When you come back with empty hands, you stand behind Joaquin’s chair with your hands on his shoulder. He relaxes into your grip as you ask, “Who’s ready for dessert? The cookies aren’t homemade, but trust me, everyone is safer for it.”
“You could serve me cereal in a bowl and I’d happily enjoy it, doll.”
Joaquin pushes his chair back, cutting you off mid-laugh as the back of his chair collides with your midsection. “I’ll grab the cookies,” he looks back at the table with a fake smile.
The kitchen is still warm from your cooking, and Joaquin is glad for the excuse to be in the heat alone. His ears twitch in irritation as he hears another one of your laughs float in from the dining room, light and musical, followed by Bucky’s low voice.
Though he walks towards the oven, Joaquin’s body leans back as he tries to look out towards the table. He can just make out your and Bucky’s figure, and his lips turn downward into a pout at your close proximity.
Opening the oven door, Joaquin keeps his eyes trained on the two of you, occasionally flickering to a chuckling Sam as he reaches for the cookies. Blindly, he grasps one of the trays, reaching in barehanded.
“Shit!” he yelps, jerking back as the tray clatters onto the oven racks and falls against its door. “Ugh, fuck,” Joaquin groans, gripping his burnt hand with his non-injured one, face scrunched in pain.
“What happened?” you shout, hands grabbing Joaquin by the biceps to spin him towards you. “Oh my God.” He lets you grab his hand in yours, “You didn’t use a mitt?!”
“I was distracted!” he shouts, yanking his hand back in pain.
You blink at him, hands on your hips. “By what?” you shout back, matching his volume.
Joaquin turns his back to you in sass, hesitating as he says, “The…the tray.”
Narrowing your eyes at him, you tug him back in your direction. “You had one job, Joaquin!”
“Well! It wasn’t an easy job,” he resists as you snatch his burnt hand back towards you, dragging him towards the sink and submerging it under a stream of cold water.
“Taking cookies out of the oven wasn’t an easy job?” you lecture him. “You’re The Falcon!”
Ignoring you, Joaquin voices his grievances. “That hurts so bad. Oh God, I have a third degree burn, don’t I? We need to go to the hospital,” he whines when you turn the water off and press a clean rag to his palm.
“You’re The Falcon!” you emphasize again, opening the cabinet to grab your first aid kit. “Could you be any more dramatic?”
Joaquin lets out another noise of complaint when you apply Neosporin to his very minor wound, and you shake your head as you continue the lecture, “Joaquin, you were in the Air Force, you’ve been in war! Stop—” you hiss when he tries to wrench his hand back. “Stay still!”
“That hurts!”
“Stop being a baby!”
“Can’t you be gentle?” Joaquin complains, shouting.
“No!” you respond, knowing that you were being as gentle as humanly possible already and that your roommate is being overly sensitive.
The two of you continue your bickering, voices overlapping one another in a way that inevitably drifts into the dining room.
From the table, Bucky watches through the open kitchen doorway, sipping the remnants of his wine. Sam leans in, too, head tilted like he’s watching a soap opera.
In the kitchen, you’ve finally succumbed to Joaquin’s complaints as you blew air softly onto Joaquin’s burn, shushing him as he continued screaming in pain.
“Who would’ve thought…the kid has a healthier marriage than us,” Bucky mutters, nodding towards you both.
Beside him, Sam hums in agreement, not looking away from the oblivious couple.
-
the roommate chronicles continue <33
