What happens after Erik wins the challenge and marries T’Challa.
This is part 2 in a series, you don't need to read part 1 to understand part 2. An exercise in world building with the backdrop of family drama. Reviews are appreciated lol, even if it's to say, blah blah makes no sense (then I'll respond with my own mental gymnastics). Trigger Warnings: Reference to past marital rape, assault, mentions of bodily fluids and vomit. Spotify Playlist | Youtube Playlist Come talk to us! https://bloodywatersbts.tumblr.com You can find references for OCs, worldbuilding notes and an inside view on the writing process!
-:- T'Challa -:- T’Challa wakes up slowly, disoriented by the dark. When he checks his kimoyo beads, the time reads 2am. He went to bed earlier in the day after they’d arrived in ... His thoughts trail off then. So, the last few days haven't been some fevered dream. He considers going back to sleep but decides to get up. He goes to the bathroom first, it’s different from the rooms in the palace— more space, more plants, more natural light. Moonlight bleeds through the stained-glass walls. It might have been romantic even, for the last royal couple who used these rooms. His mind feels as if it is under water and the static doesn’t dissipate even after he’s relieved himself. When he passes the wall-length mirror he pauses. He looks the same. He feels different, however. Beyond the cotton balls in his head and the enforced mute on his thoughts. The attendant who served him yesterday gave him something herbal— he assumed it was for pain. Which partially explains why his mind is so foggy. She had given him other things as well, though he’s left those items in the nondescript container she’d brought them in. He hadn’t been able to talk to his mother or Nakia before leaving for the royal Honeymoon suites. The tradition and rush around the wedding ceremony was partly why, but T’Challa wonders if Nakia hadn’t simply been avoiding him. His stomach reminds him then that he hadn’t eaten much before falling asleep. He walks towards the central part of the suite where he remembered seeing a food pantry. The suite is understated in its beauty, designed for comfort and leisure. The theme is warm gold and soft whites, the occasional purple peeking through curtains or miscellaneous furniture. It functions as intended because by the time T’Challa reaches the kitchen area he feels a bit less unsettled. The kitchen area is fully stocked for their stay and he rifles through the cupboards and cabinets. He finds mostly dry foods, dry fruits, and some other snacks. The people who stocked these rooms did not expect its inhabitants to spend much time cooking if at all. The large refrigerator yields better results. He takes some pineapple slices, debates using a fork, but gives in to his hunger and eats it straight from the container. He’s still staring at the contents of the refrigerator, deciding if there’s anything he wants, when he hears a door opening. His heartbeat speeds up, but he doesn’t turn around. He reaches for one of the palm wines on the top shelf— he recognizes the bottle, but his mind is too intent on his cousin’s arrival to focus on why. He turns, setting the wine on the island table, eyes focused on the half-eaten pineapples. The silence stretches and he reaches once more for the sticky fruit. “So, that’s where the fridge is?” Erik's voice breaks the silence. T’Challa pauses then continues eating. The man brushes past him, walking towards the still open refrigerator. The brief touch sends his heartbeat into overdrive and he stops eating all together. He doesn’t know what to focus on. Killmonger’s blasé attitude or his odd words. Why wouldn’t he know where the refrigerator— It starts to make sense after a while and T’Challa finally turns to face him. Erik has changed from his earlier travel clothes to a loose shirt and a dark pair of the dhoti-style pants. T’Challa’s eyes trail unbidden over the curve of his shoulder, then down. He is not wearing kimoyo beads, though T’Challa knows he’d been given a set. Kimoyo beads typically synced with most things in a household and were important not just for interacting with temperature or other controls but in accessing different parts of the living area. Erik had not grown up in Wakanda, therefore would not know all the things even a small child knew. Like what a Wakandan style refrigerator looked like, or how to open it. The realization is both humorous and terrible. When Erik turns away from the fridge, his arms are laden with different food items. He is not the only one unsatisfied with the selection found in the food pantry. Erik sets the food down on the island bar next to T’Challa’s pineapples. They eat in silence. Out of the corner of his eye, T’Challa sees he’s also found the eating utensils. When T’Challa finishes the pineapples, he reaches for the wine. It was one of his favorites when he was younger, he realizes, recognizing the green and white wrapper as he turns the bottle in his hand. Then he stops, remembering why he hasn’t seen this type of wine in more than four years. He looks up to see Erik is watching him. He raises an eyebrow slowly, and T’Challa notes the resemblance to their grandmother, Azzaria. It’s the nose. Erik doesn’t speak and T’Challa, in turn, doesn’t look away. The man is still eating rice cold, since he doesn’t know where the food warmer is or how to use it. The absurdity of Erik Stevens being Wakanda’s king hits him once more and he fights the urge to laugh. The anger comes after. This is wrong. Everything about this situation is wrong. But it is happening. “Would you like some?” The question is an afterthought. T’Challa is already looking for cups, when he passes the food warmer, he turns it on, even if his cousin didn’t know how to use it, he would probably recognize it now. Or if T’Challa used it, at some point during their stay. How had his mother gotten this specific wine to the suite so quickly? There is little doubt in his mind this is her machination. The wine wasn’t particularly popular, and some of its ingredients were imported, making it even more expensive and not worth the hassle for most. There were certainly better wines, locally made and much better tasting. He finds the cups, and his hands shake a bit when he brings them back to the table. Erik has finished the rice, and what T’Challa assumed was grilled lamb. He must have been hungry or just a fast eater. T’Challa cracks open the seal and carefully twists off the cap. Without preamble he pours a shot, then another. He looks up to see Erik watching him intently now. Once done pouring, he slides the cup over to Erik. T’Challa watches him handle the cup, and his heartbeat which slowed down after he realized what the wine would do, races once more. If the man did not drink the wine— Impulsively, T’Challa closes his eyes and downs the alcohol. It tastes just as bad as he remembers. His husband drinks after watching him drink. Shot for shot, each time. Several double shots later, he closes the bottle. T’Challa discovered years prior that this wine interacted very badly with the heart shaped herb. It was a very painful lesson, one that may have killed him had he not received prompt medical attention. He confirmed the wine’s effects months later with much reduced doses and still felt the effects of the wine for days after. His mother banned the wine since, and then bought out the proprietor who sourced it anyway. There is the possibility the wine would have no effect on the man. Bast willing, it would kill him. Or kill them both. It has only been a few days since the herb was removed from his blood stream. T’Challa reopens the bottle and pours another shot for himself. He’s still hungry. The pineapples would not be enough, so he turns back to the refrigerator. Whoever stocked it, had not done so with his preferences in mind. He gets some of the skewer-meat, impaled artfully on long wooden sticks from the refrigerator, and re-warms it. He doesn’t know if Erik is watching, the buzz of alcohol so much more potent than it had been since before he first took the heart-shaped herb settling in fully. He checks his kimoyo beads while he waits. 2:23 am. Time seemed to be passing slowly. He fights the urge to glance at Erik as he waits for the wine to take effect. When he pulls the warm meat out, Erik has come to stand beside him. When he reaches for one of the sticks of meat, T’Challa doesn’t stop him, taking one for himself. He eats slowly, savoring the flavor. The meat is spicy and tender, the seasoning even all around with grilled onion and sweet pepper. The other sticks of meat quickly follow, till the plate is empty but for the sticks themselves. When T’Challa goes to the sink to wash his hands, Erik follows him again. The motion of washing his hands feels almost ritualistic with his growing buzz. He takes a long time. It reminds him of their shared bath two nights prior. The watching and the waiting. The discomfort is almost normal. Almost. He leaves the kitchen after he’s dried his hands. Taking the wine and his cup with him. He walks through a connected hallway and enters the main parlor. The room is warm, almost too warm; T’Challa is still wearing the dark long sleeves and thick pants he’d traveled in. He sits gracelessly on the large reclining lounge. As he balances the bottle in his lap, the cup tumbles onto the carpeted floor. He ignores it. He didn’t need it anymore. He wishes suddenly and fiercely that he were home, in his own rooms, asleep. He wishes the past week was just a very vivid dream. Something to wake up from. The lounge dips and T’Challa is no longer alone. He ignores Erik, listening intently for any sign that the wine is taking effect. Before, he would have known. With the herb, if he’d concentrated, most sounds, even minute ones, could be heard. Like another person’s heartbeat, the flow of blood. But now, he doesn’t hear them. He can’t even hear the man breathe. He wonders if that’s on purpose. Probably. Killmonger is a serial murderer after all. A trained killer. Killmonger; Erik Stevens; his cousin. N’Jadaka sounded much better. Killmonger. The name is ridiculous. Fitting, but ridiculous. T’Challa takes a swig from the bottle. The motion puts N’Jadaka back into T’Challa’s line of sight, and their eyes meet. He is still watching T’Challa. That’s not a surprise. N'Jadaka is obsessed with him. He almost laughs at the thought but stops himself before he chokes. He wipes the corner of his mouth and offers the bottle to his husband. An offering of death. Or not. The way things were going lately, N'Jadaka would walk away from tonight slightly hungover instead of dead; like T’Challa would have been if he’d tried this during the years he’d lived under the herb’s influence. N'Jadaka takes the bottle and sets it down. His eyes don’t leave T’Challa and it makes his heartbeat race. Surely this - and his mind pushes the thought of what ‘this’ is away, far away - surely it could wait for another time—when they were both dead perhaps? “Come here.” T’Challa’s heart sinks. He didn’t even sound buzzed. Then he puzzles over what ‘here’ means. There is not much distance separating them. He doesn’t want to be any closer. The thought of moving closer is repulsive. T’Challa decides to ignore him. If he wanted something, then he would have to take it. T’Challa gets up to leave the room. Maybe he would find more of the wine to drink. He would leave this bottle to N'Jadaka. He hopes Killmonger chokes on it. As T’Challa moves away from the lounge, he listens for whatever the man would do. He hears the movement before he feels it and twists quickly out of the way, though not before he’s caught by the elbow. T’Challa pushes his full weight into his other arm and swings. He’s not trying to get away now, he wants to hurt the other man. The impact is satisfying, if short lived. Pain travels up the arm not in contact with N'Jadaka's face from being wrenched and T’Challa feels dizzy, nausea increasing as the arm in his husband’s hold is twisted back. His other hand falls to his side. N'Jadaka does not know his own strength, however gently he might have been with his maneuver, because T’Challa feels the muscle sprain as it happens. The arm would be dislocated soon. He can’t see N'Jadaka's face and the position hurts the longer it’s held. Slowly, he forces himself to untense. Waits to be released. He’s very flexible; he could probably wriggle away or try something else that would truly enrage N'Jadaka . His husband does not release him, instead pulling them both down to the carpet, maintaining the hold as he maneuvers them so T’Challa is in his lap. T’Challa’s whole arm burns and he fights tears, remaining quiet but for his own harsh breathing. The hold is surprisingly effective. Even if he isn’t already buzzed. When he is finally released, T’Challa doesn’t roll away. He fears N'Jadaka would realize he’d been poisoned, another part of him hopes the man might be pacified if he did not fight for once. T’Challa rearranges himself in N'Jadaka's lap, feeling resigned. They’re of roughly the same height, T’Challa a bit taller. It is an awkward position. He faces away from the man. “The beads. You use them to open different things. What sign language does it use?” T’Challa is expecting several things, and the burst of pain shooting through his arm serves as caution and a distraction. He imagines he is speaking to a child, an evil child. “Wakandan sign language. The kimoyo beads come with a tutorial for the basic commands.” He shifts to stretch his legs and he feels the younger man tense underneath him. “Show me.” T’Challa lifts his dominant hand to obey, the one he’d used to punch N'Jadaka earlier. He uses a shorthand command to pull up the main menu. “That’s not a standard sign.” T’Challa pauses, he couldn’t see his N'Jadaka's face, seated as they are. He goes over the implications of the statement. So, N’Jadaka did know how to use the beads, or at least had standard knowledge on how to use it. Then why is he asking T’Challa? What is the point of all of this? He responds feeling more annoyed, “You can change command signs as you like in your personal settings.” He demonstrates this by flicking to the general tutorials. “Your beads are different.” T’Challa waits for any more observations from N'Jadaka. Who apparently used the beads, enough to know what was standard and what isn’t and now questioning T’Challa about his being different. “They are built to be customizable.” It's true technically. There were all sorts of add-ons for style or accessibility. Within reason usually and used frequently by most Wakandans. But T’Challa has a growing suspicion the man already knew that. “Go back to your home screen.” T’Challa frowns and navigates back. He notes the time again, it is 2:36 am. “What’s that icon in the corner for?” N’Jadaka raises an arm and points to a black icon the shape of a cat’s head. T’Challa stares for a moment too long. It is one of Shuri’s modifications and functioned mainly as a security feature. “A personal modification.” N’Jadaka shifts a bit under him and T’Challa goes very still, till the shifting stops. “How many of these do you have? Tell me what they do.” And so, it goes. T’Challa tries to be as vague as possible, waiting for the wine to take effect. N'Jadaka unfortunately is not easily misguided and realizes most of the modifications on T’Challa’s kimoyo beads are for increased security. He also makes the connection that T’Challa was not the one to make all of these modifications. “How old is your sister?” The question comes after T’Challa’s beads notify him of a new message from her. He does not open it. Going back to the general search page. “Why do you ask?” T’Challa can't keep the annoyance out of his voice. If N'Jadaka is even a little buzzed, he couldn’t tell. He is yet to show any of the signs T’Challa had, within an hour of ingesting the special wine. His heartbeat at T’Challa’s back remains steady, his mind sharp and making connections T’Challa really didn’t want him to be making. “Just curious. She stuck pretty close to your mom.” T’Challa’s not sure what bothers him more, the fact that Killmonger has been watching his sister and mother or that he is curious at all. “So... fourteen? Fifteen?” He seems unbothered by T’Challa’s growing reticence. “Hey.” His hand moves closer to T’Challa’s face, making T’Challa reflexively turn his head away. Unfortunately, the motion shifts his position and he finds his back is now all but resting against the man’s chest. He can feel the man’s heartbeat more clearly now. It is not as steady as it was before. T’Challa’s own heart races with it. His arm twinges and he wonders distantly where he put the remaining medication the attendant brought to him the day before. If N'Jadaka blacked out or suffocated, it would be easy. If he struggled and T’Challa was within his reach, it could end badly. Thinking about all the ways things could go wrong does not however dispel the newfound relief T’Challa feels. He wonders what his father felt when he killed his own brother. N’Jobu betrayed Wakanda. He gave an outsider information to successfully invade and steal away with some of their most precious resource after killing several Wakandans in the resulting explosion. Among them W’Kabi’s own parents. Who now, ironically enough, sided with the son of the man responsible for his parents’ death. T’Chaka killed N’Jobu and then covered up the whole affair. If N'Jadaka died tonight, would anyone know the actual cause? Beyond him and his mother? Would anyone care? Surely it is insanity to allow this man to govern a whole country? An outsider and a glorified serial murderer. Now Bast’s own avatar: Damisa-Sarki, the Black Panther. His uncle certainly faded into obscurity easily enough. His son forgotten— for a while anyway. The reminder of how they’d gotten into this mess makes T’Challa tense, waiting. It would be as Bast willed it. The familiar platitude is not as comforting now. Was it Bast’s will that N’Jobu’s son return to his father’s home in search of destruction and revenge? Was it her will that he become king? T’Challa watches N'Jadaka’s hand lower back to the ground from the corner of his eye. He imagines that once the man’s blood begins to burn, he would be free to leave. He could make amends after. “Do you think your father would have wanted this?” T’Challa grows tired of waiting, but it is as if he’s frozen, for the moment. His voice sounds odd in his ears, he wishes he’d stayed in the bathroom. He can hear the man’s breathing now. It sounds labored. Did he realize he has been poisoned? N'Jadaka shifts again. This time both hands wrap around T’Challa’s torso, his movements are slower but T’Challa doesn’t react beyond tensing further at the embrace. His heart sinks with the embrace. Even weakened, getting out of the man’s grasp would be difficult. “He thinks we’re lost.” His husband’s lips are at his ear. T’Challa parses the words slowly. N'Jadaka was probably referring to the vision after his coronation. T'Challa doesn't know how to respond. N'Jadaka’s lips move lower. T’Challa speaks again, when those lips meet the back of his collarbone. “Are you lost, cousin?” T’Challa speaks calmly, knowing the man can hear his racing heartbeat. His husband bites gently at the skin of his neck. The action makes T’Challa feel nauseous and an unfamiliar weight settles in his lower belly. The man’s touch stirs up something raw that T’Challa refuses to examine. N'Jadaka wished to hurt him, that’s all this is . “I’m right where I wanna be. T’Challa.” He says T’Challa’s name like an afterthought, almost lovingly. Then he begins to cough. He doesn’t stop. Finally, he releases his hold and T’Challa takes the opportunity to pull away slowly. When he turns to face N’Jadaka, he can only watch the tears flood N’Jadaka’s eyes, and his face contort with exertion. T’Challa gets up then walks away towards the bedroom. It would be as Bast willed it. -:- The container is hidden among his personal belongings in the bedroom. The attendant who had given it to him earlier the day before also gave some vague direction for its contents. He opens the box again. The contents of the box are to the point. Efficient, like their giver. He sets the box down and takes the Assegai out from among the other, more lethal weapons. The walnut-sized device sits innocuously in his hand, but the shape is a little different than what T’Challa expected. It’s designed differently; perhaps one of his sister’s modifications even. On a whim, T’Challa pulls up the message he’d been notified of earlier on his kimoyo beads. Shuri’s message is brief. The Winter Soldier and Agent Ross were now secured elsewhere. She also sent her greetings. T’Challa re-reads the message several times. There were no new messages from his mother. The light on the Assegai blinks innocuously in his hand. Its design allowed for an easy grip, its sleek form and dark coloring mostly hiding the area from which would shoot a blast of matter-less percussive force in the form of 8-centimeter-long blades. N’Jadaka’s death would join T’Challa with his father once more. Kin slayer and king. If the council didn’t raise their champions to challenge him. If N’Jadaka’s own supporters did not cry foul play. What did W’Kabi see in N’Jadaka? Or the border tribe elders? What did his War Dog supporters? The man is a good fighter, yes, but that is not all a good king should be. What aims did he have that united Wakandan men and women under him? N'Jadaka is an outsider, in part due to his father’s own deeds but also by T’Chaka’s decision. To forget. To wipe clean. But T'Chaka failed. Failed to wipe clean the reproach of treason and betrayal. The slate is set once more, for dead fathers. T'Challa moves towards the bed, leaning at the edge, then tumbles fully unto his side. The nausea is back, and he is still holding the Assegai in his hand. Bast did not reject N'Jadaka from the gifts of the herb. The herb rejected champions before. It was something that happened. He hoped, along with his mother hours after the challenge, that the herb would not take. That Bast would reject his outsider cousin, like she’d rejected other champions. Zuri’s announcement for the new Damisa-Sarki, days after the one he’d made for T’Challa, had been a new level of pain. Then the final night of his wedding ceremony happened, and then the morning after. Now T’Challa has poisoned him, possibly in direct opposition of Bast’s will. He would finish what his father was unable to complete. The bedroom door slides open and T’Challa looks up, slowly from his prone position on the bed. His husband stares back. His face is dark, probably from the choking, and there are veins visible on his face. Beneath it all his expression is surprisingly calm. His chest heaves with exertion, and his breathing is labored, like he can’t quite breathe right. T’Challa steels himself, pushing himself up and away. Until his back hits the headboard. Out of the corner of his eye, the Assegai blinks a warm blue in the dark room. N'Jadaka stands further upright, leaning heavily on the open entryway. The light from the hallway bathes him in ambient yellow. When he smiles, T’Challa can see the gold caps on his incisors. The smile breaks and he begins to cough again. Then he vomits. There’s not much that comes out. T’Challa watches, equally curious and anticipating. He probably threw up in the main parlor. How he’d induced it so quickly was both terrifying and something T’Challa might have asked. That is, if he hadn’t been the one to poison him then walk away. When N’Jadaka stops vomiting, he wipes his mouth and looks back at T’Challa. “Aight. I deserved that, now where’s the antidote?” T’Challa doesn’t react outwardly, tense and waiting. He judged the man is incapacitated but not by much. And he was aware he’d been poisoned. His husband seems to run out of patience because his next words are louder, angrier. “Get that antidote out or I’m taking you out with me!” His shouting prompts another coughing fit. T’Challa lifts the Assegai, watching the way N'Jadaka’s eyes narrow even as he begins to choke once more. Then he moves. T’Challa presses the trigger, aiming for where he thinks the man will be in the next few moments. The force blades shoot out silently, and though T’Challa doesn’t see if they land home, he hears a grunt as N'Jadaka dives for T’Challa. He shouldn’t be shocked by the speed; he was once that fast. He’s prepared, however. He shifts, rolling off the bed and to the floor. N'Jadaka follows, tackling him. The other man smells like vomit and blood, T’Challa’s own nausea increases and he presses the Assegai meaningfully to his husband’s chest. He is collapsed mostly atop T’Challa, half of his torso pressed against T’Challa’s front. His head hovering below T’Challa’s own and half pressed into T’Challa’s chest. His left arm is pressed to the ground holding himself up, the other holding T’Challa’s arm, the one he’d sprained earlier. Pain shoots up the arm once more, and T’Challa hisses in response. This time when N'Jadaka speaks it’s softer, labored. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m not gonna hurt your mom. I’m not gonna hurt your sister. You are not your daddy. You don’t have to do this.” The last part is muffled by the man’s own exertion, and T’Challa’s finger hovers over the Assegai’s trigger. N'Jadaka already hurt him, and he wouldn’t give him a chance to hurt anyone else. “You gonna finish what your old man started? Crying cause, I fucked you up?” His husband’s words are guttural now. T’Challa can’t see his face but he remembers the possessive snarl from that night. He did not want to ‘finish’ what his father started. T’Challa does not want to kill his cousin. He just wants him gone. He wants to forget. He wishes his father brought his nephew home. He wants N'Jadaka to disappear. He does not want to kill this man, but he knows he should. “Why are you lying now? Men like you only know how to hurt.” The words surprise him even as he speaks them. There is no point. Not now. But they are truthful and emotional in weight. His husband sought vengeance, nothing more. “Men like me know how to do a lot o’ things.” His breathing is getting less labored, the words less slurred. His heartbeat is slowing, however. “Men like you are supposed to be different though. Fair. Honorable.” His husband says the last part like a taunt. T’Challa imagines for a moment, a world where his cousin grew up in Wakanda. Where their fathers had not condemned them both. “You ask for honor now?” T’Challa’s voice breaks over ‘honor’ and his husband shifts till their faces are level. He is no longer holding T’Challa’s arm. His expression is goading, eyebrow raised in question. “No. Want me to say sorry for taking what’s mine?” T’Challa presses the trigger. He feels the man tense above him, the impact muffled by the body absorbing the force. Then N'Jadaka laughs, it’s choked, and he leans down to the left of T’Challa’s face to heave. The sound of his vomiting grounds T’Challa, as repulsive as it is. T’Challa smells blood once more, the scent is heavier this time. “Fuck. That hurt. Look, kitten give it up. You don’t wanna kill me. Not really.” N'Jadaka stands slowly, and T’Challa can see where the blade-like force has cut him. His shirt is ripped but there is little blood, the cut isn’t very deep. The man is wearing something under his shirt. Of course, it would have been easy enough for his husband to secure some sort of protective vest after the coronation. N’Jadaka gets on the bed, movements controlled and graceful. The man is in obvious pain, but he weathers it with minimal outward expression. When he settles on the bed he speaks again. “Good attempt though. Now, let’s talk. I need that antidote and you probably want some reassurance.” His voice has taken on a negotiator quality. It is horrifying. His audacity and belief that his ridiculous demands would be met. “Your reassurance is useless. I will be reassured when you are dead,” “Brave words but I know you don’t mean it. So, you can keep trying to kill me till I get annoyed enough to kill you. Or work with me.” T’Challa shifts, he doesn’t let go of the Assegai, but he rearranges himself so he’s leaning against the nearby wall, bringing N'Jadaka in sight. The man is sprawled on the bed. “What do you want? What is the point of all of this?” T’Challa finally asks the question he’s been wondering for days, but his husband is silent. No quick or crude response forthcoming. When N’Jadaka speaks, it’s long and to the point. “Your dad killed my dad because he wanted Wakanda to help. Not just hide away and ignore the rest of the world. Killmonger is a product of that isolation. What your dad was willing to do to bury my dad and his dreams. It created me, drove me to be what my daddy couldn’t.” N'Jadaka’s words are surprisingly genuine, frank and direct. T’Challa finds himself unwillingly dragged into an all too familiar debate. “Where does the helping end? Wakanda cannot be responsible for the rest of the world. Only itself.” Wakanda could not be expected to involve itself in every nation’s situation, particularly when it would endanger their own. “Not asking Wakanda to be responsible, asking that it prepares. What happens when the rest of the world comes to Wakanda?” N'Jadaka’s words are still a bit slurred, but his breathing is less labored. T’Challa considers what is unsaid. The ‘world’ already came to Wakanda. N’Jadaka, already taken his pound of flesh from T'Challa. N'Jadaka sighs and leans back further on the bed. He’s looking up at the ceiling when he asks, “Is there an antidote to whatever you gave me?” T’Challa weighs his options. His husband expected this attack and would only be more vigilant after this. The man avoided the bedroom upon their arrival and apparently wore a protective suit the whole time. Which he should have expected but did not. He underestimated the man. He also does not want to kill his cousin. Despite everything. What that says about him is both saddening and freeing. He killed before, but he would not be killing tonight, it seemed. At the very least N'Jadaka would not be making it easy. “It should have killed you, earlier. If you can speak now, it is not working properly.” T'Challa's answer is more than a little bitter. He had been incapacitated for days after drinking the wine, yet N'Jadaka got off with vomiting and near suffocation. “Good to know, gonna get somebody who won’t benefit from me choking to death to confirm. Now what do I need to do to get you to play nice?” The negotiator’s voice is back and T’Challa hates it. “If I am not playing ‘nice’ It is because of your own actions.” T’Challa feels tired now. It is 3am and N’Jadaka is still not dead. He wants to get away from the smell of blood and sweat-tinged vomit. “I made it nice, didn't I? Not the first person to get raped won’t be the last. Now I’m willing to negotiate, instead of punting your ass for treason—" T’Challa cuts him off. “You assaulted me, that is a punishable offense. This is Wakanda, you are not beyond the law.” N'Jadaka laughs and this time doesn’t choke. “So instead of running to your council or whoever deals with that shit you tried to kill me? Not a very honorable move. You get points for style, but you still failed.” He shifts now in the bed to move closer to the side where T’Challa now leans against the wall. “I know a lot about restraint, I had twenty years to learn it. So, if I say I won’t touch your ass again, or your mom’s, or your sister, I mean it.” The man’s words are irritatingly genuine sounding. T’Challa thinks back to the profile Agent Ross gave them on Erik Stevens. He was foreign intelligence and military. He more than most should have had restraint. The fact that he chose to hurt T’Challa is personal. Was he even attracted to other men? He seemed to most enjoy humiliating T’Challa. Agent Ross’ continued presence in Wakanda is another problem, one he knew his mother is currently dealing with. Once again, he curses his own past impulsiveness. He created this mess at least partly and he failed to fix it tonight. After tonight he feared most of it would be outside of his control. They would be leaving for the capital in two days’ time, and N'Jadaka would still be king. “Any promises you make can be broken.” His husband should be dead, and his negotiation is a farce. “True, but the way I see it, we can keep doing shit like this every night, or we can have a friendly agreement to leave it be.” The words make no sense to T’Challa at first. Did he expect T’Challa to just go along with whatever he wanted? Understanding filters through in parts. “If you harm my sister or mother, there is nothing I will not do to see you dead.” This at least T’Challa knows with every fiber of his being. “Can’t guarantee their safety if we can’t come to some agreement. Someone got that poison for you tonight and you brought some weapons with you. Team effort.” N'Jadaka chuckles after the last part, coughs a bit then continues. “I’ll even sweeten the deal for you: veto rights. King consort and all that you get to say no two times on something important and I’ll listen, won’t even fuck with you again like I did.” His husband’s words are less slurred, and his natural accent is becoming clearer. He is probably just drunk still from the poisonous wine. He is also lying. How is T’Challa supposed to take promises from a man like this? Though his mental faculties appeared to be in order. When T’Challa speaks finally it is a demand not a request. “Swear on your father.” “Get on the bed and I’ll swear. Meet me halfway.” N'Jadaka’s response doesn’t surprise him as much as it would have before. As infuriating as it is , T’Challa finds he is willing to bend. The ramifications of tonight would come later. T'Challa stands and levers himself onto the bed. N'Jadaka is sprawled at an angle so T’Challa’s legs are in unfortunate contact and the other man makes no indication of moving. When he sees what T’Challa is still armed he says with clear exasperation, “You still holding onto that? Fuck what even is it? Impact was ridiculous.” His husband is whining about what T’Challa used in his attempt to kill him. The absurdity releases some of the tension that's followed him since their wedding. Then he pulls up a blank document on his kimoyo beads and waits. He wants the agreement and any further clauses in writing. -:- The trip to the nearest medical center is quiet. N’Jadaka still smells like vomit and blood, but the smell is not as abrasive as it was before. T’Challa is wrapped in one of the blankets he found in the storage rooms and leans against the window of the transport. It is 4 in the morning now and N'Jadaka still shows no signs of imminent death. T’Challa is still trying to come to grips with the emerging fact that he never will. After N’Jadaka signed their “agreement” he insisted on seeing a doctor. Though whether that was for the wine poisoning or the newly open gash on the side of his face is to be seen. When they arrive, the medical center is empty and T’Challa signs them in. One of the Dora Milaje assigned to them for the length of their honeymoon stay stands at attention not far from where T’Challa sits. N'Jadaka walks around the area, curious and assessing. In another life, T’Challa might have looked forward to introducing N'Jadaka to Wakanda’s technology and culture. In this life he’s distinctly aware the man is much more aware than he lets on and a quick learner. He hadn’t forgotten the man’s line of questioning earlier. To underestimate him is dangerous, even if he is doing his best impression of ‘dumb outsider.’ When the medic on duty comes to attend to them, her eyes slide from N’Jadaka’s face to T’Challa’s. “My king, king Consort, how may I assist?” She curtsies as she says the words. His irritating cousin is silent, and the silence stretches till T’Challa speaks to greet her. Their distance from the capital made this the most prudent option, less fuss. It doesn’t reduce the oddness of the entire situation, however. “My husband has traces of a toxin in his system. Could you run an assessment to see if it’s mostly gone? He vomited most of it.” T’Challa’s words are calm and measured. Nothing of this visit would make it to the public sphere but they would be careful regardless. Confidentiality agreements worked best when less details were shared. The medic leads them to a private room. T’Challa sits once more and she asks N'Jadaka some general questions. It’s awkward. N'Jadaka sticks to monosyllables and some of the questions she asks, he just doesn’t answer. Others he answers partially. When she finally gets to questions about the toxin, T’Challa steps in. “We drank palm wine, sourced from outside. He had a very bad reaction to it.” The medic looks skeptical but asks no further question, smart woman. Then her eyes settle on T’Challa, “Are you unhurt?” He wonders what she sees. Besides their initial and humiliatingly brief struggle, he is fine. He tested the sprained arm and it isn’t dislocated, just tender. “I’m well, thank you.” When N'Jadaka looks away from the assessment hologram displaying his blood alcohol content, their eyes meet. In the new light the gash on his forehead stands out even more. It hadn’t bled much. The suit he is wearing underneath absorbed most of the impact, but the knives cut deep enough. The herb had done the rest. The gash on his temple is from T’Challa shooting him once more. Point blank in the face in response to one of his crude ‘jokes’ during their negotiation. N’Jadaka cursed for a long time after, clutching his head in his hands, his blood staining his hands and his shirt and the bed. It had taken several minutes for them to continue. T’Challa remains unrepentant. He knew the man’s vest would absorb most of the damage, and that the herb would heal the rest. He is also chewing over the realization that N'Jadaka didn’t seem to be particularly angry with him for his failed attempts to kill him and was in fact aroused. Which is both enraging and, he now realizes, normal for the man. T’Challa doesn’t understand how N'Jadaka rationalized his own actions, but if he kept his end of their agreement T’Challa would sleep easier. Unfortunately, the man had not agreed to separate quarters. After he’d signed their agreement, he told T’Challa, “Tonight makes us even. I fucked you up, you fucked me up, we move on.” T’Challa hadn’t agreed to or disagreed with the statement. So now they are both waiting for the all clear to return to the suite and… Ignore each other. The medic inquiries last about the gash on N’Jadaka’s face. They both give her a non-answer. It’s mostly healed now. N’Jadaka asks for stitches, which perplexes the medic since she originally offers nanites to knit the flesh. Her warning that it would scar makes the man snicker lightly, and demand she get on with it. When she’s done, the gash is neatly closed, the wound running down at an angle, from the left of his brow down to his cheek. The wound is dangerously close to his left eye. It reminds T’Challa of the man’s numerous scars on his torso and arms. This would be his first since coming to Wakanda. A gift from T’Challa. The irony makes him uncomfortable. N'Jadaka wanted it to scar. A reminder maybe? For who, T’Challa isn’t sure.