i couldn't let your birthday end without dumping some unsolicited torres whump in your inbox XD. happy birthday. love ya! 😘
ahh! Abby!!! 😭this was such a nice thing to wake up to! I'm always so happy to get unsolicited (but AMAZING) Torres whump from you!
I'll always love that this is why we became friends originally aha nothing like bonding over scuffing up those perfect white shoes - you're such a wonderful person to have in my life I'm SO thankful for you ❤️
After the stifling heat of the packed ballroom, the November night air is refreshingly cool against Joaquin’s flushed face. He can’t stop grinning – high on the adoration of strangers, and more than a little buzzed from the champagne.
This is actually happening!
He still can’t believe it sometimes – that Sam gave him the wings, that he’s the fucking Falcon now. “Enjoy it,” he’d been told, at the start of this seemingly endless parade of galas and interviews and TV appearances. He hadn’t ever thought of himself as the kind of person to love the limelight, but yeah, he’s enjoying it.
He laughs to himself, loosening his burgundy silk bow-tie as he heads down the marble steps towards the formal gardens. It’s quiet out here, peaceful. He just needs a couple of minutes alone – to walk, breathe, ground himself, enjoy it. Then he’ll have to head back to the party; he’s the guest of honour, after all, and his adoring fans will be waiting.
Oh fuck, he really does have fans now. He laughs again, almost dizzy with the realisation, and his breath comes out in big, billowing clouds that drift up like smoke towards the stars. He tips his head back, watching them dissipate.
It’s a beautiful night, crisp and clear with a frosty full moon peeking out from behind a silhouetted row of bare poplars, and he wanders a little aimlessly, gravel crunching beneath his spotless dress shoes.
He’s not watching where he’s going, still staring at the moon, bright as a new dime on a dark navy bed sheet, when the path leads him around an immaculately manicured hedge and straight into the bulk of John Walker.
“Shit,” he hisses, shocked back to reality by the force of the collision. “Sorry, didn’t see you there. I...”
He recognises the guy almost immediately. He’s unmistakable, even dressed up in a regular black tux rather than the star-spangled supersuit he wore during his brief tenure as Captain America.
“Oh,” Joaquin says, “Hey, man.”
“Hey,” Walker replies, showing his palms as he takes a step back. “My fault. No worries.”
He’s slurring slightly, and Joaquin can smell the hard liquor on his breath despite the two feet between them. He looks like shit, golden hair dishevelled – eyes ringed with dark circles that somehow make his distinctive nose seem even more crooked. He’s aged about ten years in the two months since Joaquin last saw him, and there’s a vivid green and violet bruise blooming across his left cheekbone, yellowing at the edges.
“Shit,” Joaquin says again, taken aback. “What happened? You get into another fight with Barnes and Wilson.”
It’s the wrong thing to say; he knows it as soon as the words leave his lips. Walker’s gaze goes hard and furious, his stubbled jaw twitching as he clenches his teeth.
“The fuck did you just say to me?” he snarls.
“I...” Joaquin flounders. He lifts his shoulders in an awkward shrug, embarrassment filling the gaps left behind by his evaporating euphoria. “I was just joking, man. I didn’t mean...”
The punch catches him completely off guard. He hears himself make a weak yelping sound as Walker’s knuckles connect with the side of his face. Then he’s crumpling, left eye throbbing with a hot, immediate pain that puts another set of stars in the sky.
“Fuck,” he gasps, catching himself against the prickly hedgerow. “What the fuck?”
“You think that it’s funny?!”
Unnaturally strong fists grab at the front of his jacket, and he’s dragged back upright, his head spinning. Walker pulls him in close, close enough that Joaquin can feel the heat radiating off of his body. There’s something dangerous in his eyes, a barely restrained violence just begging to be let out. It sends an almost primal shock of fear down Joaquin’s spine.
“Am I a fucking joke to you?”
“No,” he mumbles. “No. I...”
Walker shakes him so hard that his teeth rattle. It feels like his brain is bouncing off the sides of his skull, like it’s going to liquefy and pour right out of his nose. He pushes hard against Walker’s chest, but he might as well be trying to move a mountain.
“I know what you meant,” Walker hisses.
A quick kick sweeps Joaquin’s legs out from under him, and he’s on the ground before he can react, the heavy impact reverberating through his body. He tries to sit up, but Walker’s suddenly on top of him, big hands curling around his biceps and driving him back down into the gravel.
“You think that you’re better than me, huh?” Walker demands. He leans in, grabs Joaquin by the jaw like he’s trying to break it. “You think you’re a real hero, don’t you, pretty boy?”
ALSO: this Torres and this Walker pls:
