Keep your friends close
We're back! >_< the length of this monster should appease yll some. As always mind the tags. Much love to our lovely beta galaxiaa7 YouTube Playlist Spotify Playlist Come talk to us! https://bloodywatersbts.tumblr.com From mal: chapter-specific content warnings CW: panic attack, flashbacks to rape, unwanted close contact, victim blaming, character death.
-:- Shuri -:- Accompanying track: Feels like summer by Childish Gambino Shuri leaves Efi’s clan home in the afternoon. The timing of her departure is a bit unfortunate because more than a few people come to see her off. Chief among them Efi herself. Shuri thanks the clan home’s matriarch for hosting her and presents her with the token gift her mother had given her for the esteemed mining tribe woman. Then she’s face to face with Efi and everything around them becomes background noise. “You’ll come again? I hope Auntie’s curry didn’t scare you off.” Efi teases and Shuri feels so flustered but happy to be so wanted. “No, of course not. It takes more than some spice to drive me away. Though I should warn you, if you are so welcoming the next time I visit, I may never leave.” Efi’s laughter emboldens Shuri and before she can lose her resolve, she leans in, ignoring the gathered well-wishers and the clan home matriarch present. Shuri closes her eyes at the last second, and their lips touch. A part of her freezes after, she hasn’t done a lot of kissing in her very short dating life. But before she can pull away, Efi pulls her closer, thick arms wrapping around her shoulders. Later, Shuri will feel embarrassed by how much she melts with actual proof that Efi wants her. But in that moment, she can’t think beyond the pounding of her heart and the press of their lips, Efi’s body so solid against hers. When they separate, Shuri hears someone in the crowd whistle and she freezes, reminded once more of their audience. Efi doesn’t seem to mind, her expression pleased. “Message me when you arrive at the capital?” Shuri nods and they hug one last time. She tries not to run up the short distance between the clan home and her passenger vehicle. She hopes no one has been recording her farewell. Once aboard, she nods to Vi, the Dora Milaje her and her mother contrived to have assigned to her today. Vi smirks back before setting their destination. They travel in silence. Shuri’s thoughts oscillate between the oh so lovely kiss and the reality of what she is now about to do. If things went according to plan she would be back in the capital in a few hours’ time. If not... well, it would be in Bast’s hands then. The two cryogenic tanks, disguised as time-sealed containers, are already loaded onto their small passenger vehicle. All that’s left is navigating to the agreed location without alerting Border Patrol. The trip is mostly uneventful and Shuri finds herself pondering the unusual situation. James Barnes was implicated in the murder of her father and then exonerated but is still a wanted man. As is Captain Rogers and the people with him. Agent Ross, on the other hand, is a foreign intelligence operative, and would under any normal circumstances never have been allowed on Wakandan soil. Except for the fact that Nakia pled that he be healed after he took a bullet, shielding her. So, her brother allowed not one but two white men into Wakanda within the span of 2 weeks. Perhaps, if her brother were still King, the situation wouldn’t be so serious. Now the things he had done out of goodwill or supposed necessity were coming back to haunt them all. Shuri isn’t pleased with the situation. She’d been looking forward to working on the famed “Winter Soldier.” And now she was being asked - or rather the circumstances demanded - to relinquish him, after he was given to her care. As for Ross, she hadn’t interacted with him beyond a few words before the situation with N’Jadaka had... developed. Vi has been mostly silent for their trip, leaving Shuri to her thoughts. The Dora hasn’t even teased Shuri for the kiss she so boldly gave, and she probably wanted to, her earlier smirk said as much. Vi is not one of Shuri’s usual guards, rather one of her mother’s. Which makes sense considering what Shuri is presently doing. Vi’s loyalty to her mother is absolute. None of this would get out, providing things went to plan. When they arrive at the location, she checks again on both tanks, then confirms the Captain’s estimated arrival time. Shuri stares for a while at Barnes’ missing arm. She drew some sketches days prior on possible replacements. Now she wouldn’t get to work on any of it. Pushing thoughts of lost opportunities aside, she sets about getting the two tanks off the ship and into the clearing. The tanks were still masked by a device of her own creation and she begins the process of decoding the resilient and physical disguise off the two canisters. Shuri sends a video comm request to Captain Rogers once the unmasking process has begun for Ross. When he answers, she’s greeted not just by him but another person. She recognizes Sam Wilson from some of the footage she’s seen of Rogers while on the run. The man is wearing oddly tinted eyewear and outfitted partially in his flying suit. “Princess Shuri—” The Captain greets her and nods to Vi. Shuri interrupts him mid-greeting, mind focused on unmasking the camouflaged canisters so she can start defrosting both white men. “I am sorry for calling you here after we already agreed but my brother is no longer king, and Barnes is no longer safe here.” “Wait, what’s going on?” This time it’s Sam Wilson who speaks. Shuri looks up from her kimoyo display, in time to see Wilson take off the tinted glasses. His expression is serious. She is not sure how much she should say, but she needs to make them understand the urgency. “We have a new King, a stranger to Wakanda. He is a former intelligence operative in your United States who went by the moniker Killmonger. We don’t know what will happen if he finds out about the decisions my brother made as king, so we need you to take Barnes and another person out of our borders.” “Is Bucky alright? What happened to T’Challa?” Rogers sounds bewildered, but Wilson has an even odder expression. “Did you say ‘Killmonger’?” It seems her cousin’s reputation precedes him. “Yes. Do you know him? My brother is fine, but I can’t say the same for any outsiders in Wakanda right now. You need to leave as soon as they defrost.” This time Roger seems to parse the information faster. “We’ll be ready to extract them both as soon as we arrive. But what about T’Challa? What about you?” Shuri pauses her work on the canisters, halfway done. She has Ross’ canister completely unmasked and the accelerated defrosting process underway. Now she just has to do the same for Barnes. She considers both men through the display comm. How could she condense all the things that happened into something that would be understandable to outsiders? “Our cousin, Erik Stevens, challenged T’Challa for the throne. T’Challa accepted his challenge and then yielded to stop him from killing a priest who interfered. So now he is King.” “Killmonger’s the king of Wakanda?” Wilson sounds incredulous and Shuri sighs and nods. “What happened to T’Challa? You said he’s fine.” Shuri pauses briefly at the concern in the Captain's tone, saying simply, “The king married him.” Wilson exclaims, “Wait, what?” At the same time Rogers asks her, “Will you be fine?” Shuri starts to answer when Vi calls, “Border Patrol Incoming.” Then she starts to panic. “How close are they?” Shuri asks Vi at the same time the Captain asks her, “What’s going on?” Vi’s response makes Shuri’s heart speed in trepidation. “They’re moving quickly, less than five minutes away.” Shuri groans. There was no way the Captain on his much slower aircraft would reach them and carry the two tanks off before Border Patrol arrived. She doesn’t even want to think of what would happen if they were within 10 miles of the clearing and Border Patrol caught wind of them. She knew what they did to outsiders. “Border Patrol is heading to where we are. You need to turn around now.” This time she doesn’t get an immediate response and Shuri looks to the canister containing Agent Ross. The unmasking is now complete and the defrosting already past the halfway point. Her heart sinks even further when she realizes Ross would be waking any second and it would take too long to freeze and mask him. Once Border Patrol arrived, he would be exposed and at their mercy. Shuri’s mind stumbles over the possibility that someone at Efi’s clan home realized where they were headed or perhaps, they somehow alerted Border Patrol on their way here. They weren’t professional smugglers, after all. “Princess, we should leave.” Vi’s expression doesn’t give much away and Shuri’s heart falls at the thought of returning to her mother, mission unfinished. But they had very few options. “No. We can’t outrun Talon Fighters.” “We cannot outrun them yes, but your own cloaking will shield us, we don’t need to cross the border.” Shuri’s mind races at the possibilities. She wishes she’d looked more into how Wakandan smugglers did their business. It seemed simple enough to her a week ago to sneak past Border Patrol. “The cloaking is experimental, and I don’t think we will be able to get past the defenses on the border to come back in, if we leave now.” When she turns back to the video comm display, the Captain and Wilson seem engaged in some sort of argument. Wilson is gesturing with his hands and the Captain looks very unhappy. “Please!” Shuri waits until they stop their conversation and focus once more on her. “Please, you need to leave, and do not come back unless I or T’Challa tell you to. Border Patrol will easily catch up to you if you come any closer. I will take care of Barnes, I promise.” She carefully does not think about Ross. The man shouldn’t have been brought to her, what had her brother been thinking? When the Captain nods, she closes the video comm link then waits. The disguised tank containing James Barnes stands not too far from the one containing Agent Ross and its innocuous appearance taunts her now. What was the point of creating such a useful cloaking device if it took several minutes to activate? Already she can hear the hum of the oncoming Border Patrol and all too quickly, a Talon Fighter flanked by Dragonflies descend into the clearing. Border Patrol march out and she catches sight of N’Jadaka himself among them. He’s the only one not in uniform, and he’s looking straight at her. They’re all armed. Shuri steps away from the cryo-tanks and Vi steps in front of her. There’s a moment of silence and then her cousin raises one hand calling the assembled Border Patrol to halt. “Princess! What’s going on here?” Her cousin strolls forward toward her and the two canisters, a hint of a smile playing on his face. Shuri is frozen, unable to think of anything to say. “See, we got word about an unidentified foreign aircraft near the border. W’Kabi thought it was smugglers, so I decided to tag along, but then I find you. What type of science are you doing all the way out here?” Steam is rising from the tank already defrosted, and she watches, belly twisting, as N’Jadaka peers through the window giving him a clear view of Everett Ross. “Were you trying to smuggle this guy? Outside of Wakanda? Did you have outsiders in Wakanda?” He sounds unusually loud in the clearing, the accusations undeniable. Neither Shuri nor Vi answer and the assembled Border Patrol is equally silent. Her cousin’s gaze slides away from them and onto the still camouflaged tank holding Barnes. “And who’s in this one?” There is no doubt in his inflection. ‘He knows’ repeats in Shuri’s mind as the door to the rapidly warming tank slides open and Agent Ross’s body unceremoniously slides out. There is no one to catch him and he’s still unconscious and unresponsive: he hits the ground like a sack of potatoes. N’Jadaka turns from Barnes’ tank and approaches Agent Ross’ inert body, peering down at him for a moment. Then he motions to two of the Border Patrol closest to him. They lift Ross off the ground by his armpits, dragging him efficiently towards the Talon Fighter they’d arrived in. N’Jadaka’s tone brooks no argument when he turns to Shuri and Vi and says, “Ok, I think I’m taking all of you with me.” They’re both corralled behind the two Patrolmen holding Ross. As they are escorted to the transports, Agent Ross begins to stir from his unconscious state and Shuri hears him ask, slurring, “Wha- happening?” She can’t help herself from responding then, fear for herself and for the two outsiders now caught in her cousins’ grasp. “I’m sorry, Ross!” -:- Sam Wilson -:- “We shouldn’t have left Bucky.” Steve’s looking particularly stubborn and Sam fights his own irritation when he answers. “Two against several trigger happy Wakandans presumably armed with vibraniuim weapons.” Steve’s expression doesn’t change and Sam sighs. “Look, you trusted T’Challa to take care of Bucky, right? So, you gotta keep trusting him and his sister when they tell you to get out and stay back.” Steve’s expression finally changes, and he asks, “Who’s this Killmonger person?” Sam thinks about how to answer. He doesn’t know Stevens personally, but he’s certainly heard about the heavily decorated lieutenant and none of it was good. He even crossed paths, going in on rescue missions while the man was on his way out. It was never pretty. The man was stone cold, and a mercenary trained by the best. And apparently that guy is now king of a whole super advanced African nation. “Not someone you wanna meet, but here's what I know.” -:- Shuri -:- Accompanying track “Paper Love” "About Agent Ross—” "We'll come back to him, Princess. First, tell me. Who’s in the other tank?” Shuri doesn’t look up. They were already in so much trouble, would her silence now incriminate her further? Barnes and Ross were brought in on T’Challa’s say so. She knows he had good reasons for both, what she didn’t know is whether anyone would want to hear them past the part about not one but two white men being allowed on Wakandan soil. She opens her mouth to speak and then stops. Her cousin doesn’t seem particularly angry, only amused. Which is a jarring contrast to the serious faces of everyone else. Her head is still down when she responds, “That would be James Buchanan Barnes, formerly known as ‘The Winter Soldier.’” Her cousin’s expression changes to thoughtful. “The guy that murdered your dad?” Shuri answers before she can really think, “He was framed. The real murderer has been found.” Towards the end she falters under N’Jadaka’s stare. “So, what’s he doing here? I thought Wakanda is anti-outsiders.” Shuri replies hesitantly but truthfully. “He’s broken. The people that had him before, they brainwashed him. I promised to fix him.” Her cousin tilts his head, as if considering. “You can do that? Just go in and fix some traumatized soldier’s mind?” The question surprises her, but she recovers quickly. “Yes. There've been several prolific cases over the years, different techniques and different mind workers but it can be done.” “And you would do that. For this white guy?” N’Jadaka sounds skeptical, and Shuri is reminded of some of the more disparaging comments on her age and accomplishments. “I am certified in psychological reconditioning. I’ve handled several cases before Barnes. I’m very confident he can be healed.” Her cousin raises his hands in a placating manner, eyebrow quirked. “I’m not doubting your abilities Princess, just wondering why of all people, this guys who you’re working on.” Shuri thinks very carefully on her next words. “His mind profoundly broken. What his captors did to him over the course of so many years? It’s incredible, like no other case I’ve seen or read about before. But it is fixable.” “Interesting. I’ve read a little bit on what mind workers do, it’s up there isn’t it? With unique vibraniuim working. Complicated stuff for sure. How’d you get into it?” N’Jadaka’s curiosity seems genuine and Shuri finds herself opening up about it, speaking with more confidence on her first vocational concentration. When she finally winds down, she sees some of the eyes of Border Patrol sitting nearby appear a bit glazed. N’Jadaka’s in contrast are sharp despite his grin. “I’ve seen what torture does to a person. And the mental trauma you’re describing. To exponentially decrease the effect of that would be... I don't even have the words.” Then her cousin goes quiet for a moment, Shuri herself held speechless with his gaze intently on her. “If I let you start this on Barnes, you have to keep it contained. He’s still a security risk and an outsider. But I wanna be updated on your progress. I’m interested to see what you could accomplish.” Shuri barely processes the words before she responds exuberantly. “Yes! Of course! Any findings I make would be available for peer review and containing Barnes is not an issue.” N’Jadaka nods decisively. “Okay, then. You can keep your pet project.” Shuri’s shock wars with her elation. She could keep Barnes? Wasn’t she in trouble? It couldn’t be too much trouble. Not if N’Jadaka is going to let her keep Barnes and wants to see her actual research! "And Agent Ross?” "That is more sensitive, why don't you leave that to your brother and me to work out?” It sounds like a dismissal, and she opens her mouth to speak but N'Jadaka is still speaking. "He shouldn't have been your problem in the first place. Whose idea was it anyway, to have you sneaking them across the border?” Her mother's but Shuri isn’t saying that aloud. She hadn't been happy about the situation, but she had done her best. Now it is out of her hands. "You're a scientist, not a smuggler. You have better things to do." Privately she agreed but she felt a sense of responsibility for Ross now, after she had gone through the trouble of healing him. She must still look unconvinced because her cousin tells her, "Don't worry. We just need to debrief him, make sure he won't spill anything about his visit before we send him home.” It did make sense. Her mind goes back to something he said from before, “You mentioned unique vibraniuim working earlier. Have you been to the mining and design center at the bottom of the great mound? Most of our best specialists work there.” Her cousin shakes his head, his grin turning rueful. “Feels like I should be taking notes, Princess. Tell me more.” -:- Erik -:-Accompanying track “Arsonist Lullaby” Erik drops the princess off at her lab with a few instructions. He also takes note of the Dora who accompanied her for her little trip to the border. He would be keeping tabs on her; she obviously isn’t loyal to him. He debriefs the men and women of Border Patrol on keeping what they saw under wraps and makes a note to have W’Kabi do the same. If this information somehow got out without his say so, he’d know who to blame. Once he agreed to leave her fugitive alone and gave some vague promises on Ross, the princess was quite talkative. A lot of it went over his head with the sheer scope but the parts he could follow were really cool. His cousin is a bonafide genius. She is also very young. It’s something he noted after the challenge and then during the wedding. There is an 18-year age gap between her and T’Challa. Erik distantly remembers being 17 and too smart for everyone around him. He wonders what he would have been doing at Shuri’s age if he had the opportunities she had. One thing is for sure however, the princess is naive. Growing up the way he did, hadn’t allowed him such luxuries, but the princess... it’s obvious how easy he’d been able to win her over. However temporarily. Erik watched, with half his attention, the expressions her Dora Milaje made once he got her going. He also now understood why his auntie was so protective of her daughter during the wedding proceedings. Beyond parental instinct, he knew now that Ramonda was protective of Shuri because she could be turned to see things his way. Especially if he spent some time with her regularly, encouraged her research, kept T’Challa in line, and didn’t kill her pet fugitive. And Barnes was a pet to her. Important only because of the challenge he posed. Erik liked that. It’s an honest reminder of how many Wakandans, past their xenophobia, felt towards the world. If Shuri showed any real concern for her pet white guy Erik might have applied pressure, taken him along with the CIA agent her brother apparently allowed in. But she’d been meek as a mouse in the face of his questions. Till he brought up her research anyway. She hadn't even asked about Ross till he was about to leave. “This man is an intelligence operative from another country,” he told her, “He’s a risk to Wakanda's security. I’ll keep him with me.” “He is not.” Shuri replied, emboldened by their recent conversation “My brother can vouch for him.” “Don’t worry, I’ll be speaking to your brother about it.” -:- Now he is back at W’Kabi’s office after an enlightening trip and a windfall of potential leverage. They clasp hands in greeting and then both get seated. “What was the disturbance about? Our own smugglers, I’m guessing. That region is a grey area they like using. We look the other way sometimes, depending on what they bring in.” Erik takes in the information and wonders once again about Wakanda’s conditional xenophobia. “Nah. Not smugglers. You know, I think I’ll show you.” W’Kabi raises an eyebrow in question and Erik makes to call his dear husband. “Just stay outta sight till our conversation’s over.” W’Kabi nods and moves away from the range of view of Erik’s kimoyo beads. When T’Challa finally answers, Erik is greeted brusquely by the man’s avatar. “Good afternoon, Erik.” T’Challa looks less than pleased to see him, but Erik doesn’t care. This is mainly for W’Kabi’s benefit, but it would be interesting to see how his cousin would defend his decisions. “Good afternoon, T’Challa. I hope the day’s been treating you well?” Feeling a little giddy, he continues, “There was a disturbance at the border some hours ago. Unidentified aircraft. Would you happen to know anything about it?” T’Challa’s expression, already less than pleased, goes totally blank and Erik smiles wider in response. “Cause I do. And I have a few questions on what type of things you had going on before I came along.” Out of the corner of his eye Erik watches W’Kabi’s expression. The man’s gaze is attentive. Waiting for whatever Erik would reveal. “See, I found your sister loitering out at the border today, and before I arrived an unidentified non-Wakandan aircraft approaching the border, heading straight for where she was, turned around and ran in the other direction.” Erik waits, giving T’Challa room to respond. When he doesn’t, Erik continues. “T’Challa, why was your sister trying to smuggle two white men out of the country?” Erik doesn’t miss the sharp movement of W’Kabi reacting to this information. “Where is Shuri now?” Erik notes, with savor, the edge of panic in his cousin’s voice. “Why would I do anything to Shuri? I’m a man of my word. Now you, on the other hand, I’m beginning to have some doubts.” “Put Shuri on the call now.” Erik sighs suddenly bored with T’Challa’s concern. “The princess is at her lab now, I dropped her there myself.” Naturally, that’s when T’Challa’s kimoyo beads chime indicating an incoming call. “Don’t answer that,” Erik warns, sharply. “You end this call and I won’t give you any more chances to explain yourself.” From the obvious conflict in T’Challa’s expression Erik guesses it’s either Shuri or his mother. Grimacing, T’Challa dismisses the call. Erik nods his approval and asks again. “You mind telling me why you’re harboring a former fugitive and a CIA agent?” He supposes he is curious as to how all this happened. Though he knows it doesn’t matter. W’Kabi’s current expression of disgusted outrage says it all. “Those men were contained. Neither pose any risk to Wakanda’s security or safety.” That doesn’t answer his question at all, but it certainly sounds suspect. “I dunno, I think having a foreign Intelligence operative is a pretty big no-no for you guys. On top of bringing anyone in that didn’t go through your robust asylum-seeking appeal process.” He can’t help but joke by the end. After all the shit T’Challa told him about immigration procedure and he apparently has been allowing non-Wakandans into the country on a whim. With all the hoopla around Erik’s arrival and whether or not he should even be allowed to stay let alone challenge for kingship, his do-goodie cousin allowed not one but two fucking white men into Wakanda, one a member of the American Intelligence apparatus, and presumably only a few people even knew about it. “So, who was your sister trying to pass them on to? I have a few guesses, but it’d be nice to know for sure who you’ve been consorting with.” T’Challa doesn’t respond and Erik sighs. “Considering all the news surrounding your dad’s assassination, I’m guessing one of the people on that unidentified aircraft was Rogers? ‘Captain America?’ Not much of a Captain now that he's a wanted man.” T’Challa doesn’t confirm or deny, but Erik takes his non-answer as the admission it is. It didn’t really matter now, he had two men in custody and the potential for much more. “Your sister told me a bit about Barnes, but what’s Agent Ross doing here? Besides scoping out the place?” Erik knows whatever T’Challa says is gonna be actual bullshit. He turns a little to focus on W’Kabi again. The man looks like someone who’s definitely thinking through the implications of what he’s hearing, his mouth twisted in distaste. “Look, I’m sure you have a great reason for letting these two white men in and keeping it secret. I bet we could even test that reasoning with the council and the Wakandan public, but something tells me, it won’t go over very well.” Understatement. Maybe T’Challa would have gotten away with this as king, explained his reasoning with an extra dose of goodwill. Or kept it a nice little secret, using his authority to enforce that secrecy on any who found out. Now, well. Things were different. Finally, T’Challa answers, “You are not blameless here. Agent Ross was brought here for medical treatment after he took one of the bullets you shot in Busan, when you stole Klaue from our custody.” This is news to Erik, and he places the new piece of information into the jigsaw of knowledge surrounding the situation. “So, how does that translate to bringing him into the country? Pretty sure one less CIA agent kicking around is good for Wakanda.” “He took the bullet for one of our own War Dogs. Healing him was a matter of honor.” Erik’s eyebrows rise at that. W’Kabi looks like he isn’t convinced, and neither is Erik. “I’m sure if you explained this all to everyone else, they’d totally understand. Along with whatever reason you let a former fugitive in for an extended stay in a cryogenic tube.” He knew more about that situation and it was honestly amusing. Foreign born Wakandan kids couldn’t get into the country despite being no real threat and related to or adopted by actual Wakandan citizens; meanwhile, T’Challa is running a halfway house for CIA agents and international assassins. Erik lets the silence stretch, waiting for any more gems from his dear husband. Then he gets an idea. Eventually T’Challa, if he hadn’t already, would realize they both had something to lose if this came to light. All the bad business with their dads obviously didn’t end there. Bad decisions definitely run in the family. Threatening T’Challa with engaging Wakanda’s xenophobia was a double-edged sword. Erik could already see the regular outsider hate mobilizing against him, ‘lost prince’ or no. But if they were going down, they were going down together. That, he would make sure of. “You know, this doesn’t have to come out. No one who doesn’t already know needs to. We could keep this all in the family.” T’Challa doesn’t respond at first. Erik isn’t surprised, the older man is at a disadvantage here and they both know it. They hadn’t actually agreed on anything during their negotiation at the honeymoon suites besides him not touching T’Challa, them not killing each other, and Erik not harming Shuri or his aunt. Now Erik could ask for more. T’Challa finally asks, obviously hesitant, “What will you do with Barnes and Agent Ross?” Erik makes a show of considering. “It would be best to kill them, wouldn’t it? But you let them in the country for a reason. So, what will you give me, for their lives?” This time, while waiting for T’Challa to respond, Erik makes as if to stretch and turns to see W’Kabi fully. The man looks... Erik keeps the same expression but if he could have, he would have laughed. When Erik first met the Border Tribesman, W’Kabi had been suspicious but curious. About how he got Klaue, about who Erik was, about what his intentions were. Now, after a successful challenge, wedding, council meeting and then this discovery? Erik could practically see the gears turning in W’Kabi’s head. W'Kabi is his. Whatever misgivings W’Kabi has for Erik, they couldn’t stand against the contempt Erik now sees in his eyes for T’Challa. Good. “Hmm, let me make it easy for you. We’ll go item by item here. If I don’t go to the council about what your sister tried to do today, I want you to...” He pretends to think about it, but he already knows what he wants, at least partially. T’Challa has been intensely passive aggressive the past few days. It was annoying but besides that, it was costing Erik time. Why read a whole database entry or several books on some random Wakandan factoid when he had a whole encyclopedia of knowledge with him all the time? “Play nice. If I ask you a question about daily living or why the River Tribe gets 3 more hubs than everyone else, you answer me fully and honestly. No more obtuse, minimal answers; you know what I need to know. We’re a team now.” “What of Barnes and Ross? Where are they now?” “Gotta agree to the first terms first. Keeping what your sister did today hush hush is one thing. Their lives and the secrecy of your involvement is another.” “Fine. I agree to ‘play nice’ within reason. I will try to answer your questions to the best of my ability. Now, where are they? How do I know you haven’t killed them already?” Erik shrugs. “I was kinda looking forward to parading them in front of the council. See their reactions. But I could do that with their dead bodies, too.” “What did you do with them?” “Spar with me. At least once a week.” At that, T’Challa looks taken aback. He may as well have scoffed when he finally says, “If my schedule permits.” “We’ll make the time work. Barnes is with your sister and Ross is detained. They weren’t dead the last time I saw them.” He thinks back to the asylum plea he read through two days before. “Join the foreign affairs sub-committee.” T’Challa looks confused now and Erik loves it. There were a few ways T’Challa being on the committee would play out but based on who his cousin is revealing himself to be - despite his insulting words from yesterday - and any of those ways would turn in Erik’s favor. “This is to keep the little charity you’ve got going on here under wraps. Your sister was only covering your ass today, but the mess she was trying to sweep away is yours. I’m not asking you to vote a certain way, do however you like, just be on the committee. Agree, and your questionable asylum choices won’t become a matter of public record.” T’Challa clenches his jaw. “That is agreeable. Now: I promised Barnes we would help him. He is not a security risk.” “And we still can. If...” Erik lets his words trail off and watches the way T’Challa’s throat moves. Waiting. His husband hadn’t mentioned Ross here. Had caught on to Erik's item-by-item approach to their negotiating. Bad move. Ross’s presence really is unacceptable. The man needed to go, regardless of whatever goodwill he inspired in T’Challa. Erik hadn’t spent years with the CIA to let one of their own operatives live to tell the story on his own fucking territory. And now, from the accident of T'Challa's wording, Erik could secure what he wanted most from his husband for Barnes' safety before T'Challa found out he couldn't also barter for Ross. “You give me time. In our bedroom. No conditions, no reservations. No holds barred. I get you alone and you only say yes. 3 hours.” T’Challa looks like he’s bit on something sour and Erik lets himself relax. He’s already promised the princess to leave her pet fugitive alone but T’Challa doesn’t know that and, well, if they couldn’t agree Erik could recover said pet fugitive easily enough. Put him in the ground. Give the princess some life lessons. Then his cousin surprises him for the first time during their conversation. “10 minutes.” Erik can’t help but laugh. Fuck, his cousin is haggling with him! He’s amused enough to let it stand. “two hours.” “15 minutes.” Erik catches W’Kabi’s eyes and he smirks. That curious look is back. Admittedly, this part of their negotiation wasn’t something Erik intended to show W’Kabi. “90 minutes.” “30 minutes.” Erik thinks about it. “45 minutes and I leave Barnes for your sister.” T’Challa gets that pinched look and Erik waits. “Okay. An hour and you do not hurt Agent Ross either.” This time Erik shakes his head. “Nah, I think I’ll take the 45 minutes and do what I want with Ross.” T’Challa frowns and the tick in his brow is back. “90 minutes. For both Ross’ and Barnes’ safety.” Erik bares his teeth, savoring this feeling. “45 minutes for Barnes. No promises for Ross. Take it or leave it and if you leave it, I’m taking Barnes, too.” T'Challa's jaw flexes. Erik can see him struggling with himself. Then he meets Erik’s eyes and agrees. The bitterness in his voice makes Erik smile a bit brighter. After ending the call, Erik crosses his arms, leans back for a moment, then turns to W’Kabi. Even if he hadn't been able to negotiate so much, this conversation would have been worth it just to see the Border Tribesman’s growing antipathy for T'Challa and growing esteem for him. “So, about your men. You mind talking to them, about keeping what they saw today to themselves? I’ve debriefed them but given the situation, extra enforcement would be best.” W’Kabi smiles and nods. -:- Everett Ross -:- Everett regains consciousness quickly. He had definitely been drugged because he feels what he can only assume are the lingering effects and he’s wet from cold sweat. His arms hurt and he has mud on his clothes. When he tries to get up, he finds that his movements are restricted to the wall he’d been leaning on. A thin, dark wire connects his left wrist to the wall with no obvious break points. When he tugs on the wire there is absolutely no give. Vibraniuim. He settles back down on the low bench adjacent to the wall. Something is definitely wrong; things had not gone to plan. He is someone’s prisoner. He tries to think. The last things he can remember were that he told T’Challa about Stevens, T’Challa and his sister had gone to the throne room where Stevens was being brought. Then ... Nakia? Had suddenly come for him, that they had to go, but Ross couldn’t quite remember why. He remembers he had to leave, they wanted to get him out of the country, and put him under to do so, but he doesn’t remember them administering anything, or what specifically they intended, or why it was both necessary and urgent. His mind can easily speculate and turns up nothing good. He closes his eyes and waits. He hears a quiet ‘sssh’ noise some indefinite time later, like a door sliding open and then closed. He hears steps coming closer. When the steps stop, he opens his eyes. Erik Stevens stares back. Ross opens his mouth then closes it. The word ‘fuck’ plays on repeat in his mind. Stevens is no longer wearing the non-issue mercenary garb he had been wearing on the holographic footage Everett watched however long ago. Now he’s dressed in what Everett assumes to be Wakandan high fashion. An Afro-futuristic mix of odd textiles in vivid dark colors. ‘They sow it into their clothing,’ Klaue’s words in Busan come to him again. He’s starting to feel a bit sick. He licks chapped lips and greets the former agent. “Stevens. Long way from Afghanistan.” Stevens doesn’t react and Everett waits. It’d been years since they met in person and he had only ever visited the Middle East on short trips. Stevens had not only served multiple tours there--among other regions--but stayed after his deployment ended. When Stevens finally speaks, it turns Everett’s blood cold. “That bullet you took, in Busan. The reason you’re here. You realize that was me, right?” He hadn’t made that particular connection just yet. “You also realize the person you took it for. She would have been just fine.” Everett also hadn’t made that realization yet either, but of course the information is all there. His actions in Busan were instinctual, simply autopilot to get down and away from fire while taking the closest person with him. But in this case such heroism was unnecessary. In the face of... the kind of medical technology that would have healed her as easily as it had him. If she would have even needed medical attention, with clothing reinforced by vibraniuim. An actual country filled with vibraniuim. Such a country now presumably destabilized by a man nicknamed ‘Killmonger.’ He didn’t know what the situation is with T’Challa or Shuri or any of the other Wakandans he interacted with previously, but he is now chained to a wall, in a foreign country and only being spoken to by a former CIA operative. He would assume the worst and go from there. Everett switches gears. “A man at my level in the international intelligence community would be useful to someone in your position.” Stevens smiles at that. “That may be true. Do you even know what ‘my position’ is, now? I’m not just the king of Wakanda. No, you’re looking at the ruler of the future Pan-continental Wakandan Empire.” Everett’s stomach turns at the casual use of the word “King,” and that only gets worse as Stevens keeps talking. He does the math. Stops, tries again. “Empire is a strong word.” Stevens smirks and gestures, blasé. Everett notices a slight artificial glow from one of the beads around Stevens’ wrist. “It’s an accurate one.” Because Everett obviously has nothing but time till Stevens does what he will, he says, “Somehow I don’t think anyone’s going to let some secret African nation become an empire.” Stevens snorts and tilts his head. “Half the world’s economy is supported by exploiting key countries on this continent alone. What do you think will happen when they can’t anymore?” Ross parses the information and immediately thinks oil. But then he also thinks about copper, diamonds and, oh God, rare earth minerals. Let alone coffee. He still has some Ethiopian coffee from his last visit to the country. “So, what, you’re going to march into regions that we can barely control and tell them to follow someone from a country they’ve never even heard of?” Stevens chuckles, “You’ve got jokes, huh?” He makes another gesture and this time a display appears. It startles Everett a bit. He’s seen T’Challa and Shuri do similar things but seeing Stevens, a former soldier and operative, using the same tech with obvious familiarity and understanding, it’s scarier somehow. He doesn’t get how anything in this strange country functions. How odd sign language translated to commands that control not just whatever Stevens is wearing on his wrist but their entire environment. “What would happen if those mines down in DRC stopped. As in, the country stopped exporting, stopped selling and outside business got put out.” Everett considers the question. “They can’t just stop the export; they need the money it brings. That’s people’s survival.” Stevens shakes his head and some diagrams and pictures appear on the display between them. “It is.” He pulls up something else and Ross starts to recognize names. Some from the international commerce bureau and some from the UN’s own African Committee. “So, let’s say... some of these mines get bought out. Then that buyer ends trade agreements with China and a couple others. Maybe some close down, maybe some stay open but only trade locally. Then all sorts of infrastructure projects and social programs happen to pop up. What happens when people can regularly get the basic things they need? They get interested in how shit’s being run.” Various news outlet reports on fraudulent elections and rioting mobs flash on the display. “People start to demand better from their governance. Opportunistic expats get expelled. The local highwaymen find they aren’t welcome anymore. Suddenly all those radicals who talked about fair wages and not making shady deals with countries like the U. K. get elected. Then they actually renege on some of those shady deals that've already been made.” That sick feeling is back, and Everett watches the diagrams cycle as Stevens speaks. It all sounds hypothetical but already he knows, the same way he knows he probably won’t get out of this without some serious promises. He only caught a glimpse of Wakanda through the windows of the lab he’d woken in, but what he’s seen is amazing. How did one hide a whole African country? How did they get so advanced? And he could only imagine what type of technology they had if they could heal a spinal injury that should have been fatal. How rich is Wakanda? What type of weapons did they have? They couldn’t have spent all this time just studying medicine. In light of all that, supporting a small third world country till its own inhabitants pushed out foreign interest is probably small change. Supporting a country like the DRC and inserting your own agents and puppets into leadership positions is probably even easier. Stevens continues, “Now imagine that happens again and again. Different regions, same takedown. Oil, minerals, raw materials, cobalt. Now that doesn’t mean they stop exporting entirely... no.” Another diagram for rising oil prices, in part due to increases uniformly across sellers in the Middle East. “That just means it’s more expensive. For everyone else.” If Wakanda could shorten the world’s supply of lithium or cobalt without them catching on soon enough it would double the cost of electronics. Which would cripple multiple arms of the world economy. And that’s not even considering oil. This plan, it could work. It would work. Even with the few details he had been given of what would have to be a massively complex undertaking, he could already extrapolate the rest. The world’s economy depended on regions in which they had nearly unlimited access to criminally cheap resources and labor. And it would collapse if that access was throttled. In turn, nation after nation could be made vulnerable enough in such a situation to be conquered in one form or another. Everett knew the economic and political fine details better than most and could easily imagine how it would unfold. He knew Stevens could as well, from his education and his experience. Both of which he received partly at the hands of the United States government. He would know exactly which strings to pull, and he certainly had the resources now to pull them. Killmonger could and would succeed. But surely someone would notice, would put it together and raise some alarm. “They aren’t just going to allow you to do that.” Stevens smiles. “The thing about that: if you have enough vibraniuim, it’s not a matter of being allowed to do anything.” Everett wants to deny the statement but he’s honestly at a loss. What vibraniuim could do, what Wakanda is capable of. The world didn’t know it. And it very likely wouldn’t. Not until it was too late. With Stevens’ training and Wakanda’s vibraniuim… What they couldn’t achieve ‘peacefully’ through potentially devastating market manipulation, they could very possibly achieve militarily. As floored with this information as he is, Everett is just as overwhelmed with an urgency to get this information out. He has to get this information out. To the US, its allies, anyone in the intelligence community. He realized his own survival was unlikely as soon as he opened his eyes to king Killmonger, but now he is desperate to maneuver a way to live even just long enough to get the word out. “So? What do you think about that?” Everett’s mind is racing to try and poke some kind of hole in this plan, but he couldn’t find any. Mouth dry, he swallows and licks his lips. “That’s a... pretty solid plan you have there.” “I was trained by the best.” He had been. The CIA had an unfortunate history of training future enemies. “And when you- when Wakanda rules the world, what then? You really think everyone is going to go along with that?” “No.” he says lightly, shrugging. “Some will have to die. Some of the imperialists. Their children. Those who fight with them.” Everett reels, eyes wide and seeing nothing, “Oh my god. That’s mass murder.” “Well, … yeah.” Stevens gestures, and the display disappears. He takes a step closer and Everett lets his rising panic show by leaning away. “Look, I could help you.” “I don’t think you understand. I don’t need you.” Stevens is so calm. Everett’s heart is beating like a jackrabbit, and Stevens looks so calm. It occurs to Everett, Killmonger would only tell him all of this for one of two reasons. One: he needs something from Everett, like information or access that required Everett to know these details, after which Stevens would probably kill him. Or, two: because he is gloating, didn’t need anything from Everett, and is just going to kill him anyway. That’s when Ross also realizes there’s no bargaining with this man, no manipulating him, no talking him into or out of anything. And that’s when Ross breaks. He’s done. All desperation leaves him, and he lets the tension in his body go. He looks back up at Stevens and asks, calmly and seriously, “What do you want from me?” Stevens’ eyes gleam. “I just got it. I’ve never been able to talk freely about all this, without the hypothetical. To someone who knows the players and the stakes involved like I do.” The former operative looks almost gleeful. Everett can see Stevens is clearly savoring the moment. “I finally got to tell my plans to someone who understands.” And Ross does understand, and it’s terrifying. “It feels good.” Then Stevens pulls out a gun, points it at Everett’s head, and fires. Smirking, and bearing almost no blood splatter - he is an expert, after all - Erik hands off Ross’ weapon to the guard at attention outside the holding cell. “Incinerate this, along with all the rest of the effects we found with him. And the body, too.” The guard nods in acknowledgment and walks away. Erik watches the retreating figure with a smile on his lips. A CIA agent killed with his own weapon. Just like the entire agency, the entire system, would be destroyed by theirs. -:- Accompanying track “Showbiz Instrumental” -:- T’Challa returns to the Kings’ quarters late in the evening. He had gone in search of Shuri immediately after his negotiation with N’Jadaka and the conversation that followed was enlightening. Shuri was the one to call at the beginning of his ‘talk’ with N’Jadaka. Immediately after he called her back and what she told him, his mother in the background, hadn’t reassured him at all. Apparently, N’Jadaka already promised her Barnes would remain unharmed, and he had indeed taken Ross into custody. T’Challa knew this information didn’t change anything, N’Jadaka could have taken Barnes into custody as well no matter his promise to Shuri, but he still feels like he’s been played. As if he has failed. He oscillates between anger at himself for agreeing to anything and fear for what is to come. N’Jadaka knows too much. Maybe not everything, but enough to make life very hard for everyone involved. T’Challa was especially careful to leave Nakia’s name out but he isn’t sure N’Jadaka hasn’t already guessed her involvement. It certainly wouldn't be difficult to deduce. The man in question hasn’t arrived yet and T’Challa takes a moment to summon his resolve. The negotiation, if anything, has bought him time. Time to manage and contain the situation. Time for things to go back to how they should be. It has also given his husband time. With him. T’Challa had done his best given the situation. Rogers, Wilson, and Barnes were safe. His sister and his legacy as king were safe. Whatever transpired tonight, he would endure. And it was only 45 minutes. What could happen in 45 minutes? As if prompted, his own mind provides gut-churning answers, concocted out of the memories of their wedding night and nightmarish dreams he’s had since. “Keep on screamin', kitten, ain't nobody gonna help you— I’mma kill any motherfucker who even tries—“ He knows all too well a kaleidoscope of options N’Jadaka could choose from that would fit in just 45 minutes. Then his husband enters the room and T’Challa’s heart freezes. The man is whistling. When he catches sight of T’Challa he pauses. “Why the long face? If you wanna back out of our arrangement, you still can.” “No. Our arrangement still stands.” The words practically fall out of his mouth. N’Jadaka shrugs, “Okay. Then don’t look so down. You got what you wanted, didn’t you?” N’Jadaka’s smirk taunts him. “When does the time start?” T’Challa asks, resolute. “I’m gonna wash off the day. You can too, if you want. Then we’ll start.” N’Jadaka heads for the bathing area, whistling once more, but T’Challa doesn’t move. T’Challa would not make this easier for N’Jadaka by undressing before the 45 minutes started. If N’Jadaka wants T’Challa freshly bathed, he could use up some of his 45 minutes for it. Of course, this left him alone with his thoughts… His husband said many things on their wedding night. Things he wanted to do in the future. T’Challa wonders which one of those things would be happening tonight. “I’ll be gentle,” Suddenly T’Challa feels the ghost of the impulse to flee that he felt throughout that night. That he even acted on a few times, pointlessly. He reminds himself that he has agreed to the terms of their negotiation. He would give N’Jadaka 45 minutes of his time, of access to his person, for whatever N’Jadaka had in mind. For the sake of the people he promised to protect, for them he would endure. Whatever N’Jadaka wanted, T’Challa would do it, or let it happen, and he would endure. ”I’ll be gentle,” his husband said, and those words had been a mockery. T’Challa can still see the malicious smirk his cousin wore as he taunted T’Challa with his own body’s responses. “Damn cuz, so fucking wet for me.” ”Yeah, just let it happen. Just go with it.” ”You make such pretty noises.” The memories send chills down T’Challa’s arms, down his spine. “You like that? I'mma show you just how good it is— don't give a fuck if you let me.” He is struck again, more sharply, by the impulse to flee. But he knows he has to go through this, he has been raised to be a king and whatever N’Jadaka did to him, he would endure. At one point, Erik stops what he’s doing to T’Challa and T’Challa moans at the loss. Then he moans again, internally, not in need but despair. How could he forget even for a moment he didn’t want this? His stomach is starting to churn, twisted like sheets. Erik seemed to know what T’Challa was thinking, but instead of responding with compassion, he merely shushed him and told him, “Don’t think too hard, just feel. Lemme take care of you.” And Bast help him, he had just let him. “It’s happening anyway, just go along with the ride.” He is distantly aware his breathing is becoming shallow and uneven. Erik’s hands stroke T’Challa inside and out, overwhelming him with sensations, none of them welcome, mercilessly bringing him toward climax as tears stream down his face. Moisture pricks his eyes. The foul mixture of arousal and nausea T’Challa felt then is suddenly with him now. The confusion of his senses, of his body ‘liking’ something that was so repulsive, is just as incomprehensible now as it was then. This incomprehension is an entity unto itself, so strong it is a flavor in his mouth. “This is all you're ever gonna be good for now. My fucking cum dump.” T’Challa remembers, vividly, the moment he realized it was going to keep happening, and that he would never be safe as long as his cousin is king. I'm ya king now, cuz. I own you. You're mine.” Intellectually, T'Challa knows N’Jadaka is still in the bathroom, he can hear his whistling, muted, drifting from the other room; but he also has the creeping sensation that N’Jadaka is next to him, whispering those words in his ear. He can practically feel N’Jadaka's breath on his neck. He feels electrified now with the urge to get away. The urge is stronger even than it was at any point last time, but it is as if he is rooted to the floor. He’s not sure he could move if he wanted to. More and more sensations from that evening come through as though they’re happening to him now. He can feel it on his skin just as clearly as he can hear it in his ear. A hand is brushing down his side, is squeezing his neck, is gripping his cock. T’Challa’s nausea increases as memories continue to wash over him, unbidden. They are too vivid, and he can’t seem to make them stop. T’Challa doesn’t know how much time has passed when N’Jadaka returns, towel wrapped around his waist and looking as cheerful as before. When he takes in T’Challa, still standing stiffly in the same spot, N’Jadaka half-grins, amused. “You look like you’re waiting for a firing squad. Why so tense? You know I'll show you a good time.” “This doesn’t have to hurt. I could make it good for you.” Another wave of nausea turns in his stomach. T’Challa is frozen to the spot, can hardly move, but he manages to turn his head and meet N’Jadaka’s gaze directly. He will endure. This is what needs to be done. The precise details of why are becoming less immediate, but he knows he will face this, whatever happens. N’Jadaka rolls his eyes as if T’Challa’s trepidation isn’t deeply well founded and makes a gesture that throws a projection of a timer high in the air. It starts counting down from 45 minutes. T’Challa watches the seconds tick for a long moment, then turns to look at N’Jadaka. N’Jadaka lets his playfulness give way to seriousness, lifts his chin, and says without inflection, “Take your clothes off.” T’Challa sighs, expecting as much. He summons himself and through sheer willpower forces himself to move. Stomach in knots, he begins to undress. As he does, his cousin goes to the bed and pulls all the covers down to the floor. T’Challa tries in vain to reign in his thoughts, to not picture anything that happened on that bed the first night they shared it. “Wanna make you scream.” And T’Challa had screamed, and sobbed, and moaned. His cousin had taken everything he had wanted from him, and now T’Challa has given him the opportunity to do it again. “I’ll come all over your face next time.” And this is the next time. “I’ll even let you choke on my dick first.” “Come lie down.” T’Challa is startled out of the vivid replay of N’Jadaka’s voice from that night by the sound of N’Jadaka’s voice now. He takes off the last piece of clothing, feeling more aware of his nudity than all the days since the honeymoon when they’d reached that tepid truce. N’Jadaka, patient, gestures again to the bed, “Face down.” T’Challa summons his resolve once more, draws his shoulders back, stands tall, and walks to the bed. He lays down, head turned toward the side where N’Jadaka now stands. T’Challa puts his arms to his sides and watches the timer hanging in the air. N’Jadaka shifts, and T’Challa is suddenly very aware of N’Jadaka’s presence by his side. His cousin lets the towel drop and T’Challa’s stomach drops with it. N’Jadaka walks away toward the foot of the bed and, distressingly, out of T’Challa’s line of sight. T’Challa decides to stay where he is rather than turn his head to track N’Jadaka. He doesn’t know how much explicit obedience N’Jadaka expects from him and doesn’t want to risk throwing away their agreement because he violated the direct order to lie down. T’Challa can hear rustling at their dresser and tenses. N’Jadaka could have placed something in there for a moment like this. T’Challa gained an uneasy confidence over the past week, night after night of sleeping beside each other without N’Jadaka so much as touching him in their quarters. Living up to what they’d agreed to at the honeymoon. Now that confidence is gone, it evaporated some time since the moment T’Challa came to the bedroom. N’Jadaka would certainly be touching him tonight. He could even require T'Challa to touch him, and T’Challa would do it. He could feel the ghost sensations of N’Jadaka touching him last time as he waited, exposed. Far too exposed. N’Jadaka’s footsteps head off toward the bathing area briefly, then return to the side of the bed. T’Challa can see from the corner of his eye, N’Jadaka is now wearing light, loose pants. He is holding something in his hands -- lubricant? T’Challa can only imagine -- but immediately leans over T’Challa and puts it down somewhere on the bed where he can’t see. Before T’Challa can wonder what happens next, N’Jadaka is touching him. Hands are on his shoulders, pulling him up. He moves to put his hands under him, but everything is happening too quickly: N’Jadaka places several pillows under T’Challa’s chest and lowers him back down, torso now elevated. N’Jadaka puts another under T’Challa’s forehead so he can look straight down with his face still an inch over the bed. T’Challa moves his arms to place them back by his sides, but N’Jadaka must think he’s moving to push himself up because he places a hand lightly between T’Challa’s shoulder blades and says, “Just stay here. Adjust yourself until you’re comfortable, but you’re just gonna lie here.” T’Challa doesn’t move and doesn’t want to think about what that could mean. He waits for N’Jadaka to climb onto the bed with him. The endless replay of memories continues in his mind’s eye. Still standing, N’Jadaka reaches back over T’Challa, presumably to get whatever he put down, but then T’Challa feels the warmth and moisture of a damp towel lain across his back. N’Jadaka presses the towel down, and then drags it across his back. He is washing T’Challa’s back. The towel travels around T’Challa’s sides to where his skin met the sheets, as high up onto his neck as his hairline, and as far down as the top of his buttocks. At that he tenses, which prompts N’Jadaka to murmur, “Easy.” T’Challa would be taking nothing easy. The vivid memories of N’Jadaka touching him before only receded because of the more vivid reality of N’Jadaka touching him now. The towel is drawn away and then the hands return to their former position, but this time directly on T’Challa’s back. The sensation of skin on skin is invasive, even though N’Jadaka is touching him lightly, rubbing circles into his shoulders. There’s a pause, then another change in sensation: lotion. N’Jadaka spreads it liberally on T’Challa’s back, across all of the area he washed. When N’Jadaka’s hands go lower, spreading lotion across his lower back, T’Challa tenses up again, but N’Jadaka merely swipes over the top of his buttocks briefly again and then moves on. After a minute T’Challa realizes N’Jadaka has returned to his shoulders and is lingering there. He isn’t just lightly rubbing this time, though, he’s digging into the muscles. T’Challa expects, any second, for it to stop, but the seconds stretch, and the massage continues. T’Challa doesn’t know what to think. When N’Jadaka pauses, in what turns out to be putting more lotion on his hands, T’Challa thinks, this must be N’Jadaka’s way of justifying to himself what he is surely about to do, some twisted attempt at foreplay or seduction. Soon, T’Challa knows, N’Jadaka’s hands will drift lower, then grab his ass. He could practically feel it already. Grabbing, groping, probing. The feeling of being penetrated is so vivid from last time T’Challa feels tears prick his eyes. The fingers inside him, the hand around him, the tears streaming down his face, the anguish roiling in his stomach: it feels like it’s happening now. When, only moments after he stopped, N’Jadaka continues, the feeling of actual contact only on his shoulders banishes the phantom sensations on T’Challa’s nether regions and the resulting relief is so strong it helps settle his gut. He tries to take long deep breaths to slow his heartbeat and gain control of himself. “That’s right,” N’Jadaka says, “Take it easy. I’m just giving you a massage, nothing you need to get worked up about.” T’Challa reflexively tenses; he doesn’t believe N’Jadaka. He has him at his mercy. After last time, why wouldn’t he use him sexually? “Hey, now,” N’Jadaka says, feeling T’Challa tense up, “I mean it, relax. I’m just gonna give you a massage, work on the knots in your back, that’s all.” T’Challa doesn’t respond. He just wants it to be over. N’Jadaka's motions get increasingly intense as he circles his thumbs, then grinds his knuckles, then digs his elbow into various places in T'Challa's back. It is jarringly mundane for T'Challa to realize he is sore not just where N’Jadaka is working, but all over his back and all over his body. In fact, T'Challa is having a hard time thinking of the last time he remembers being so completely sore everywhere. Some moments later, T’Challa finds himself staring at the projected timer without really seeing it, but when he registers that several minutes passed, he realizes that all N’Jadaka has done in that time is actually massage his shoulders and back. T’Challa doesn’t know what to do with this information other than distrust it and try to keep himself distant from the undeniably positive sensations of his back being massaged. At some point N’Jadaka works firmly on a particular knot behind T’Challa’s shoulder blade and it feels good enough that T’Challa can’t suppress his breathing hitching in response. “That’s right, relax, you need this.” “That’s right, just feel it. Let it happen. Again, T’Challa’s reflex is to tense up, reject the words, even get up and run. He suppresses the response even as he scoffs internally at the blithe suggestion. He could imagine all too well the next thing N’Jadaka would be saying he needs. In the meantime, he resolves to put more effort into stifling any audible response to the massage. “Don’t get shy on me now, you were making such pretty noises.” He would not be giving N’Jadaka that satisfaction this time. The massage has effectively stopped his thoughts from devolving into graphic replay of that night. N’Jadaka’s hands ground him in the present. The memories are still very present, but the thoughts are less vivid across his senses. T'Challa waits for N’Jadaka's hands to move south. After a few more minutes N’Jadaka has worked up to really digging into T’Challa’s back. The action makes his breathing strained as he just feels it. It’s intense- his back is far more knotted than he would have guessed, and N’Jadaka is certainly strong enough to really dig in. The sensations consume more and more of T’Challa’s attention until he can think of almost nothing else. “You’re too tense,” N’Jadaka says after a while. “You don’t have the herb anymore. Not just the strength, the resilience. You gotta take care of yourself.” Through the increasingly pleasurable sensations of the massage, T’Challa again scoffs at N’Jadaka’s words. What would he know of the care T’Challa has taken with himself, as a warrior and as a prince, his entire life? And if T’Challa has been tense since losing the healing properties of the heart-shaped herb, whose fault is it? N’Jadaka continues massaging T’Challa’s back, finding a new knot and digging into it deeply before moving on to another. T’Challa finds himself holding his breath at the intensity in some moments, then feeling a wash of relief when the knot gives. “When we spar, you won’t have the recovery you’ve been used to. You gotta take care of yourself, make sure you’re stretching, make sure you keep yourself healthy. I want you in good condition.” T’Challa balks at that. N’Jadaka speaks like he owns T’Challa’s body, like T’Challa is an object to be maintained. Also, he didn’t need any reminder that they would be sparring in the near future. When would this be over? He looks over at the time. Over 8 minutes have passed, and N’Jadaka is still only rubbing T’Challa’s back. N’Jadaka has spent over 8 of the 45 minutes. Surely, he would move on to what he really wanted any second. Any second now. T’Challa tries to keep his guard up, but as the seconds turn into minutes, he can't focus on anything besides the sensations of the massage. N’Jadaka’s hands on him are strong, of course, but also deft. Later it will occur to T’Challa to wonder where N’Jadaka picked up his skills. Because he is skilled. He warmed up the muscles, attacked the most knotted muscle groups in just the right places, and put serious force, but not too much, into it until knots actually unknit. T’Challa has had kinesiological massage in the course of his physical training before he received the heart-shaped herb, and this is just as skilled and productively targeted as any of those. Once he became the Black Panther, of course, the constant rejuvenation of his muscles under the effect of the heart-shaped herb made massage irrelevant for anything other than pleasure. “I visited a garden, after the general gave me a tour. In the shadow of the palace’s south tower. You been there?” What? What is N’Jadaka talking about now? T’Challa responded irritably, “N'Yami’s Garden. Of course, I have been there.” Many times. Since he was a child. “Is that what it’s called? Huh. How old is the garden? The trees are huge, must be a long time.” This is even more irritating. ‘A long time?’ N’Jadaka came from a place where things were old for existing decades. In comparison Wakanda and many of its traditions and fixtures were ancient. It existed on such a different timescale as to render N’Jadaka’s notions of age trivial. And now, in total ignorance of the history of this beautiful nation, this man is king, is principal steward of its people, culture, and monuments. “It was -- ffff -- built by a queen, over eight hundred years ago.” T’Challa doesn’t remember her name, her dynasty was not particularly memorable. The garden is named presumably after the Queen's wife, maybe even daughter. N’Jadaka's massage interrupts his speech partway through his explanation. N’Jadaka draws T'Challa's elbow up his back; first on one side of his spine, then the other. “Wow.” N’Jadaka sounded impressed, and not playfully so, “Eight hundred years. That is wild, man. The oldest park I visited as a kid was built in the 70s. That’s amazing, what you can hold onto.” T’Challa doesn’t understand what N’Jadaka means by, “what you can hold onto,” but the intensity of the massage makes him inclined to pay it no mind. “The paths there were so beautiful.” N’Jadaka’s voice is softer, less antagonistic than at any time yet this evening. “Must be the most beautiful garden I’ve ever seen, right down to the little yellow flowers growing between paving stones. They looked like someone sprinkled yellow beads all over the path, that collected in all the cracks.” The description makes T'Challa smile despite himself. “Those are Sun’s Breath. It is a ground cover cultivated to take advantage of spaces between stones. You will also see them on the shaded sides of brick walls.” “Huh.” N’Jadaka says, but this time T’Challa could only hear wonder in his voice. Then thumbs pushing into his lower back take his mind off everything else. A few moments later, after strong hands have moved to another portion of his back, N’Jadaka says, “There were these trees that were dripping with flowers.” “Hmmm, the Wisteria.” “Wisteria,” N’Jadaka says, “I’ve never seen something like that- drooping purple crowned in white and gold.” “It is a kind of Wisteria unique to Wakanda, bred as a gift to the Panther Tribe.” T’Challa is still less mindful of N’Jadaka’s words than the knuckles digging intensely into the base of his spine and finds himself answering more and more absently. “I think I’ve heard of Wisteria. There are other breeds in Europe, right?” “All over the world... though they vary quite a bit.” Another knot gives way and T’Challa almost groans in satisfaction. He hadn’t realized he was carrying so much tension, but he is becoming more and more aware in its absence and it is flooding him with relief. His focus is on the sensation of his muscles under N’Jadaka’s hands, as well as, now, the imagery of the century-old Wisteria trees. “There are similarly impressive specimens in Japan, but even those are less bright... and their bloom does not last as long,” T’Challa says languidly. “Hmmm,” N’Jadaka acknowledges as he continues working. Some time passes without T’Challa thinking of anything at all. “And there were some trees dripping yellow,” N’Jadaka adds, like an afterthought. T’Challa hums in response, picturing them clearly. There was a pair with a bench between them that made an idyllic spot. He does not trouble himself to respond for some time. Eventually he says, “They are a cultivar... not unlike Golden Chain Trees known elsewhere, but they have no correct name in English.” “So, what’s its proper name?” T’Challa tells him, and then answers some other questions, and so it continues. He doesn't concern himself much with the details of their exchange, letting the words evaporate as soon as he says them, his attention mostly on his back. At some point N’Jadaka stops, which prompts nothing much in T’Challa, but then he pats T’Challa on the shoulder, saying, “And that’s about time.” Sluggishly, T’Challa turns his gaze to the timer. There were 23 seconds left. T’Challa blinks. He had lost all sense of time, and all of the tension he had before he laid down. He also forgot, however briefly the reason he had to be tense. Now, slowly rolling over and getting ready to sit up, eyelids still drooping, he wonders at N’Jadaka. He had T’Challa under his power, through T’Challa’s own agreement, and spent his 45 minutes without ever so much as climbing onto the bed. In fact, looking at N’Jadaka now, feeling relaxed and much lighter, T’Challa notes N’Jadaka is definitely aroused inside his loose pants, but he had not so much as fondled T’Challa, and doesn’t look remotely lascivious now. N’Jadaka looks calm and steady, at ease, for all that he is probably very physically frustrated. Strangely, it doesn’t trouble T’Challa. T’Challa stares at the ceiling as he gathers himself to sit up. In the meantime, N’Jadaka leaves and comes back with a glass of water in hand. T’Challa finally sits up, a labor only because he is feeling exceedingly lazy, a luxury he has not had in weeks. He takes the water N’Jadaka offers him but then pauses with it halfway to his lips when N’Jadaka leans toward him. T’Challa tenses as N’Jadaka’s face comes right up beside his, but then N’Jadaka turns and presses his lips briefly to T’Challa’s temple. T’Challa is surprised enough that he stays frozen as N’Jadaka stands and heads to the bathroom, calling out as he walks away. “See you in the morning.”