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Chapter Text

"Ordinarily the king's siblings do not have children," his dad tells him one evening. The heater in their apartment has broken down for the third time that winter so the two of them are sharing the bed. Erik doesn't think it's so bad. He doesn't have nightmares when he's curled up next to his dad. "It tends to make inheritance into a messy business."

"But it's okay with me, right?" Erik asks.

"It can be. In certain circumstances." N’Jobu looks up at the ceiling, one hand brushing Erik's head. "It's easier with girls usually, since they challenge for the throne less often."

"Could the Black Panther be a girl?"

"Certainly. If they won it."

Erik giggles. "No way."

"It's happened in the past. Some of our greatest warriors are women. Have I told you about the Dora Milaje?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Ah, that explains it. You would not doubt that a woman can be the Panther if you'd seen one of them fight. They're truly terrifying."

Erik laughs again.

"I'm not kidding," N'Jobu's voice is grave but he can't hold back his smile. "I once saw one of them throw her spear through a woman's earring and then the earing of the woman standing behind her to kill a spider. Ripped both of their ears clean off but the king was not bitten."

"Really?"

"No, not really." N'Jobu smiles bigger. "It was three women's earrings and a mosquito."

They both dissolve into laughter after that, N'Jobu squeezing his shoulder. Their next door neighbor punches the shared wall and tells them to shut the fuck up. N'Jobu switches accents to tell them to fuck off. He winks at Erik, as he often does when pretending to be an American around him.

"So if girls can fight for the throne then doesn't it mean it's bad if they're a boy or a girl?"

"Alright, maybe," N'Jobu says with a shrug. "But more often the girls can be married into the main family so they're usually easier to handle. Besides if one of our girls were to run off and marry an English prince or something then he could very well challenge us for the throne."

"Uncle could kick his ass though, right?"

N'Jobu laughs. "They don't raise their kings to fight, they raise them to sign papers and sit still for paintings. He would certainly not win. But all the same it isn't something we want to happen."

Erik shifts under the covers, an uneasy feeling settling into his stomach. "What happens if they can't marry into the family?"

N'Jobu goes still for a moment. Years later Erik will come to the conclusion that the familiar much too broad smile that his father put on is the same one he'd worn after telling him that the cops sniffing around the apartment were there because of a misunderstanding, and that his mother was going to get better.

"They are your family," N'Jobu says, smiling. "Once they know you I have no doubt that they will love you as I do."

Outside Erik hears a police siren go off. The people in the apartment above theirs are playing their music too loud and yelling over it. His father's hand is warm and heavy against his cheek and in his dreams he sees Wakanda.

He still believes after his father dies, and it takes a long while for that fairytale to leave him. Erik doesn't think he was stupid, but he was young and he was naive. Strange as it sounds to say it, he'd had things too easy. He’d watched too many Disney movies and spent too many nights learning about lives that weren't, and would never be, his. He’d had hope.

He isn't the first of his friends to lose a father. Shaun's dad has been in prison since he was four, and Jayden's was shot a couple years back. For a couple days his friends are a little nicer than usual but Erik doesn't really like it. He isn't the same as his friends, even if it looks like it. He's a prince, he reminds himself. Just because they grew up in the same neighborhood doesn't mean he is the same.

He doesn't say that out loud when his friends try to comfort him. He's not trying to get his ass beat talking about secretly being an African prince.

The way he sees it the rest of his family is coming back for him one day. They're going to take him home, and even though he's lost his dad, he'll have a new family. He'll meet his cousins. He'll see Wakanda.

After his cousin stabs him in the chest, Erik figures that his view of the sun setting over his father's homeland is the only one he's ever gonna get. At 11 he couldn’t have imagined the technology that Wakandans took for granted, and what his homeland would look like. His father had been a good storyteller, but there really weren't words that fit the moment. His dreams had been pretty far off.

Still, he doesn’t think it’s a bad way to go.

When he wakes up some time later, and sees the same sun rising outside of a large open window he isn't sure what to think.

The first conclusion that his sleep addled mind comes to is that he's dead. For some reason it doesn't quite feel like the ancestral plane. It doesn't have that same eerie sense of perfection to it that he'd felt when visiting his dad. There's a crick in his neck and the blankets he's under are a little too warm. He sits up.

The wound on his chest doesn't hurt anymore and he's breathing normally. Someone has dressed him in a soft tunic that reminds him of the texture of the black robe he'd stolen from his uncle's room. He's alive.

Erik clenches his fists. His body doesn't hurt but the abnormal strength that'd come to him when he'd taken the heart-shaped herb is gone. He can tell he's no longer invincible. He looks around and sees no chains or bars, nothing to indicate that he's anything but a welcome guest.

Laughter bubbles up in his throat. T'Challa was a lying sack of shit.

A few people come by after he wakes; a woman who says she's there to double check his wounds, and then later a girl there to bring him food and another with fresh clothes. They all keep their distance when they can and keep the Dora Milaje at their heels. For all the discomfort he feels coming from the maids there’s as much anger and disgust from them.

He tries to talk to the Dora Milaje, or rather taunt them, to see if he can get a rise out of them but gets nothing. They're well trained, but from the raw hatred Erik gets the one time he asks for the name of the woman who's throat he cut, he assumes they're holding back only because they've been ordered not to hurt him.

Erik doesn't try to escape, but he doesn't sit still. There isn’t so much as an ache from the mortal wound in his chest while he works out, which is freaky. He really didn't know shit about Wakandan tech. Apparently being stabbed in the heart was only fatal outside their borders.

A few hours later T'Challa stands at his door, out of breath. Erik continues doing pushups and doesn't acknowledge him yet.

T'Challa says something to the two women behind him and they fall back, leaving them in the room alone.

"You know," Erik says casually, “here I was appreciating the chance to die at the Black Panther's hands just like my old man, and you had to go and take that away from me."

He hears T'Challa take a few steps into the room.

"Not really sure what I was expecting. Your old man was a lying shit so why would you be any different?"

"N'Jadaka."

Erik freezes. He gets to his feet and faces T'Challa, muscles tight. "I thought we had an understanding."

T’Challa looks exhausted. Erik would bet money that he's been out on a mission and didn't get much sleep the previous night. The days before then hadn't been too kind to him either. The king wasn't used to that kind of hardship.

"We did," T'Challa says. His voice is steady and his hands are clasped behind his back. "If the choices were death or imprisonment then you would choose death."

"There wasn't an asterisk after that. I didn't say 'unless it's a real cozy prison, in which case I'm down' I said death over imprisonment!"

"I've not imprisoned you."

"What do you call the War Dogs outside then? A welcome party?"

"The Dora Milaje insisted on watching over you until I returned and we could speak. If you had bothered talking to them outside of antagonizing them, they could've told you as much."

"Bullshit."

"I wouldn't lie to you about this. I am not..." he trails off.

"Not what? Not your daddy?" Erik flexes his fingers. He wishes they weren't having this out as a conversation. He wants a weapon in his hands. Even if the odds were uneven. "What am I then if I'm not a prisoner?"

"For now you are a guest while I work through some formalities."

"No offense cuz, but whatever celebrity rehab bullshit you think you're gonna put me through won't work. You'll regret not killing me."

"I may be a warrior but I'm not a soldier. Regardless of what was a more rational choice I feared I would regret killing you more than I will regret keeping you alive."

Erik bears his teeth. "You say that now because I only got the chance to kill Zuri! You gonna feel the same when mama and your baby sister get the same treatment?"

Anger suits T'Challa more than kindness, he thinks, as T'Challa grabs his collar and yanks him forward. Much more than mercy. Anger he gets.

"As much as I'm sure you enjoy digging your own grave," T'Challa says tersely, "I do not intend to let you off that easily."

"Oh yeah? Whatcha got then?"

Slowly T'Challa lets go of his collar, though his expression remains icy. "I didn't save you to offer you a life of bondage. If I thought that was the only option apart from death I would've honored your wishes and let you die."

T'Challa reaches into his pocket. In his palm is his father's ring, still on its chain.

Erik snatches it from him. "Where the hell were you hiding this? I looked everywhere."

"Yes, I noticed what you did to my room." T’Challa brings his hands together, stroking his own ring with his thumb. "I came to the waterfall in Okoye's ship and left it aboard when we fought. I thought perhaps I would return it to you after we fought but clearly that did not work out."

Erik turns away. He slides the chain back over his head.

"My father left you in California because he believed that in order to maintain the line we could not have more than one potential male heir in Wakanda. Doing so was the greatest mistake of his life."

"Nah, your daddy was being pragmatic," Erik mutters. "The mistake wasn't leaving me there, it was leaving me alive."

"I want to believe that he did so as a mercy but I cannot see any mercy in abandoning a child.”

Erik stares and waits for him to continue. The anger doesn't fade from T'Challa's features but he lowers his voice.

"The royal family usually discourages the birth of extended family members."

"'Cause they can do shit like kill your friends and throw you off a waterfall," Erik says. "I get it."

"Yes, but things did not have to end up this way. If you'd been brought home that day—" Erik feels a sharp pain in his chest "—we wouldn't have come to this."

Erik shakes his head. "Just...get to the point."

"What I'm saying is that these children can be married into the main family."

Erik blinks. "Married into the main family?"

"It's an arcane practice, done mostly with the intent of keeping the royal family in line. Usually the siblings of the sovereign do not have children specifically to avoid this. But yes, this is something that can be done for you as well."

"I tried to kill you. I damn near started a civil war."

"You defeated me in a fair fight and upset the kingdom for a few days."

"What, you wanna hand over the princess to me?" he asks, laughing. "Let bygones be bygones?"

T'Challa holds his gaze. He doesn't smile. "I would sooner die than have you touch my sister."

"Then who's the blushing bride huh? You?"

"Yes," T'Challa says instantly. "Me."

The two of them stare at each other; T'Challa with his gaze never wavering in its strength. Slowly, Erik's face falls.

His father's ring digs into his palm as he squeezes it. The vibranium is already warm from the heat of T'Challa's pocket. In front of him T'Challa stands patiently, nothing but certainty in his eyes, even in the face of Erik nearly shaking with poorly suppressed anger and grief.

"So instead of killing me, you're proposing?"

"I am."

"You can't marry me."

"I assure you, I can."

"What about maintaining the line?"

"Shuri's children will inherit. It’s of no concern to you."

"Okay, try this on for size, your highness. I hate you, and you aren't all that fond of me."

"Ours wouldn't be the first marriage to start that way."

"Marriage." Erik listens to the word on his tongue. "What the fuck? And if I say no?"

"Then you go on trial. I won't be able to offer you a pardon without tying it to a proposal."

"I'm not going on trial."

"Then you're accepting, because those are your two options."

"I'm not taking either."

"Then we can continue where we left of previously, and you die!"

They both fall silent. At last the anger fades from T'Challa. He sighs. "I'm sorry. I couldn't let you die until I knew there was nothing else to be done. And since there is something to be done I'd like to do it."

Erik sits down on his bed, tucking the ring under his shirt. T'Challa stands his ground.

"You can do so much if you choose life,” T’Challa says, “especially the life of a Wakandan royal. But if you tell me in earnest that you would prefer to die I won't challenge it again."

Erik feels his rage cooling, his muscles relaxing and his heartbeat slowing. He's trying to form an image of what T'Challa's thinking in his mind but it's still vague. He doesn't know the man yet, despite how many years he's been waiting to meet him. And until he does he won't understand the situation that they're in.

"You didn't learn from your dad's mistake?" Erik asks.

T'Challa returns his smile somewhat bitterly. "I'm afraid not."

Chapter Text

"The official title of Prince N'Jadaka," the Merchant Tribe elder says in Xhosa, "will be Consort to the King."

Erik stares at her from across the table, chin in his hand. "The royal prostitute,” he says in English.

There’s a long silence in the council room as the eyes of the other elders fall on him. Between the scathing looks and all the armed Dora Milaje Erik half expects the meeting to go south. Especially since T’Challa isn’t around. It'd be more interesting and he stole a portable spear from one of the Dora Milaje earlier. Unfortunately it’s only been a long, slightly patronizing explanation of how Wakandan political marriages work given by the oldest of the elders. Erik’s got some views on gerontocracy that he plans to share later.

"Consort to the king," she repeats. She turns to Ramonda who says it in English. She’s at his right at the head of the table, as though she’s on his side.

"No I heard you, grandma” he says. “It’s the same shit."

"N'Jadaka, please," Ramonda says firmly.

"Keep your mouth shut," the Mining Tribe elder says. Her hand is pressed to her forehead.

"My bad." Erik leans back in his seat.

"In the event of the king’s death, his Royal Consort will not inherit the crown. It shall pass to princess Shuri. Her children will be first in the line of succession followed by any children the king may sire out of wedlock."

Figures.

"In the event of the king’s untimely death," the Merchant Tribe elder says with emphasis, "The Royal Consort shall stand trial just as any other Wakandan would, and he shall be charged with regicide."

The elder pauses like she's waiting for Erik to threaten the king aloud. When he does nothing she continues. "The king has never been married to an outsider before—"

"He ain't gonna be married to an outsider now," Erik interjects.

"Shut your mouth, American," the River Tribe elder says.

"I was your king a couple days ago, you forget that?” Erik asks. "Cause I still got royal blood last time I checked."

"If blood was all we cared about do you think we would make our king fight for his throne?” the River Tribe elder asks. “We know what kind of man you are, Killmonger. And you are not worthy of our respect."

Erik stares at the elder, still smiling. He casts a quick glance at the two closest Dora Milaje in the room—they're both paying attention and not nearly far enough away—before he hums and settles back in his seat.

"As I was saying, once the wedding has past N’Jadaka will be granted Wakandan citizenship,” the Merchant Tribe elder says, “and free reign in the country, as per the king’s orders."

There are a couple muted whispers among the elders. Erik doesn’t blame them. That was plain irresponsible on T’Challa’s part.

The rest of lecture is about what Erik expects. He's roughly got the same level of authority as a low ranking elder, minus a tribe to support him. Meaning that his opinions on political matters will be heard and respected, but as always the final word goes to the king. The concept of a Royal Consort made enough sense to him if T'Challa just wanted to make sure Erik never took the throne again.

He's lucky that the elder speaks slowly, clearly, and as formally as possible but he doesn't catch everything she says. After all it's politics in a language he doesn't have practice in hearing out loud.

He refuses to ask for a translator or for the elder to repeat herself. There are kimoyo beads all over the palace and it didn't take much effort for him to grab a couple. If he replays the conversation for himself later he can figure out what he missed.

"This is a farce," the Mining Tribe elder says. "There's no reason not to marry him off to Shuri to at least ensure a proper heir."

"The king was explicit in his orders,” Ramonda says. “Shuri is too young and certainly not suited for a man like N'Jadaka. The king will marry him."

The River Tribe elder sucks his teeth. "It's not as though it'd be the first time a king had children out of wedlock."

Erik would kill them, and their mother. "Exactly!" he says. "No need to sweat it, grandpa."

"Perhaps T'Challa can teach the American some respect," the River Tribe elder adds.

Erik laughs. "Call me an American like that one more time, old man. We'll see who's gonna learn some respect."

"I think this is enough for one day," Ramonda says. Erik stares down at the firm hand she places over his. "The king can explain any other details himself, should the Royal Consort ask."

Erik crosses his arms over his chest, dislodging his aunt's hand. "I didn't agree to be anybody's royal anything."

"Very well, Queen Mother," the Merchant Tribe elder says, completely ignoring him. "Then we are done for the day."

The elders get up first, whether because it’s traditional or because they hate being around Erik, he isn't certain. He hangs back.

At his side Ramonda straightens out her dress as she gets up. She and Erik are the last to leave. "My son has been insistent in this matter," she says. "And though I do not agree with his decision he is the king and I will trust him and his heart."

"You got better instincts than him."

Ramonda shakes her head. She places a hand against Erik's cheek.

"This the part where you threaten me?" Erik asks.

"No N'Jadaka," she says softly. "This is the part where I ask you to remember that my son is not his father. And that T'Chaka's sins are his own, just as all of ours are." Her eyes fall to the exposed scarification along his chest. "Good day."

The door closes leaving Erik in the council room, sprawled across his chair.
"How about you?” Erik asks, not turning around. “My favorite traitor got anything for me?"

Behind him Okoye takes a few steps forward. She stands at his shoulder as though she's there to protect him, not keep him in line. "It's not my place to question the king."

"Unless y’all don't see eye to eye."

"I never questioned you, Killmonger, I simply learned that your claim to the throne wasn't legitimate. I wouldn't threaten my king's fiancé."

As Erik starts to leave Okoye shifts her spear to block his path. "However," Okoye continues, "I would remind him that his position does not protect him from me. It's only the king who does that."

"Ain't you welcoming?"

"You have something that doesn't belong to you." She stares at him expectantly. "The spear."

"You wanna try taking it from me?" Erik says, smiling slowly.

The way Okoye's eyes go hard makes Erik thinks she might actually do it. "My duty is to protect my king. And I assure you that I'm much better with a spear than you are."

"I don't mind double checking." Erik pulls the vibranium spear out of the back of his shirt. He unfolds the weapon suddenly and the metal tip stops right at Okoye's chin. Okoye's left hand is on his, having shoved the weapon away from her face before Erik could finish unfolding it. A thin line of blood runs down her neck.

"You are evil, sadistic, and in my opinion incapable of fulfilling whatever hopes the king has for you," Okoye says coldly. Her hand tightens over his before releasing. "But hating you did not stop me from serving you before and it will not stop me now."

Okoye does nothing to staunch the bleeding. With her chin tilted up under the spearhead all she can do is look down her nose at him.

He drops the spear into her hand

"Okay. You win," Erik says, hiding his surprise. "You Wakandan girls go hard as fuck."

Erik expects body guards on some other kind of security when he heads to T'Challa's room. He finds nothing but the Dora Milaje who are posted by the palace entrances and exits. There's no one outside of the king’s room. He takes that as an invitation to make himself at home and walks straight in.

T'Challa lifts his head at the sudden noise but, probably confirming the fact that Ramonda has better instincts than him, goes back to rifling through his wardrobe once he confirms Erik’s identity. He's half-dressed from a recent shower and has a towel around his neck.

"Good morning," T'Challa says mildly.

Erik leans back against the wall and watches him. Ignoring what he'd said about pardons, and even assuming he was making an effort to meet Erik halfway, it took a ridiculous amount of arrogance to just stop regarding a man who'd almost killed him as a threat. The Black Panther wasn't invisible. Even without the heart-shaped herb Erik could kill him.

He's out of his mind to give Erik free reign, otherwise he's testing him in some way. He's got something that he thinks will make Erik not kill him and not just run either. He has no idea what it is.

"Have you made a decision?" T'Challa asks.

"Have I decided if I wanna die or be married off to my male cousin? Gonna be honest, I'm still working on that one."

"If it helps you are under no obligation to like me or be attracted to me if we are married," T'Challa says, buttoning up his tunic. "We won’t be having children anyway."

It's not as though it'd be the first time a king had children out of wedlock. "Ain't I lucky?"

"It depends on how you look at it. Personally I can—"

Both men turn at the sound of the door opening. Even if he wasn't looking he could guess who it was just by the pained expression that crosses T'Challa's face.

"Nakia," T'Challa says.

"T'Challa." Nakia crosses the room to touch T'Challa’s arm. Eirk hadn’t know they were together but it’s glaringly obvious now. "What is—"

She freezes when T'Challa's gaze flickers over to Erik and she turns around.

Erik raises an eyebrow at her."Y'all don't believe in knocking?"

The soft, confused expression that'd covered her face when she'd first entered vanishes quietly beneath a colder mask. She lets go of T'Challa's arm. Unlike her ex, who's showing Erik a series of brand new expressions that he's happy to be indirectly responsible for, Nakia has herself under control.

"Pardon me, my king," she says. Though she’s speaking to T’Challa her eyes are locked with Erik’s. "I should not have barged in."

"Probably just gonna get more awkward if you're doin' that in a couple weeks," Erik says. "What with the marriage and everything. Is that why you're here? Gonna congratulate your man for getting hitched?"

It probably says something about T'Challa's priorities that he's more focused on Nakia than Erik's obnoxious comments. He makes a small sound like he’s going to speak but nothing comes out.

"Excuse me," Nakia says. "We will speak another time."

She leaves swiftly but without any of the urgency to suggest that she's upset. T'Challa's entire body loosens up when she's out of sight but he still isn't looking too happy. He places a hand over his face

"You not going after her?" Erik asks, gesturing towards the door.

"Nakia does not like to be seen when she is upset," he says, his voice nowhere near as even as her's had been. "And it is not as though I can tell her that she's misunderstood the situation. She has the right to be angry."

Erik steps to his side. "You really didn’t warn your girlfriend that you were dumping her.”

T’Challa shakes his head slowly. “Nakia and I weren’t currently dating. She left the country once things calmed down here. I couldn’t get in touch with her and I needed to act quickly.”

It was probably true but the coldness of the answer was likely just for Erik. “You're in love with the spy girl," Erik says.

For his part T'Challa doesn't bother lying. "I am."

"And what? You just give that up to marry me?"

"Plenty of kings marry for political reasons. Most of them in fact."

"Political reasons my ass. I don't want your pity."

"I cannot let you be as you are in Wakanda," T'Challa says, his voice evening out. "There are doubtless those who believed you'd rightfully earned the throne and you did nothing that was not within your power as king. Given the discontent during your brief reign and the fact that you're..."

"The son of a traitor?"

"A man with a severe attitude problem," T'Challa says, “you cannot exactly walk the streets. Not without sowing discontent. Things with M'Baku have calmed for now but the next time the throne is threatened you will be pulled into it, whether that is your intention or not."

"Either that or somebody with a grudge comes after me."

"Exactly."

"Pity and mistrust," Erik says, nodding. "That's real thoughtful of you, cuz."

T'Challa takes his hand in both of his and squeezes it tightly. "You're right, N'Jadaka, I do not trust you. But I don't want you by my side because I trust you, I want you here because, even if I will never approve of your methods, there is much that I believe we can learn from each other."

Erik is tempted to pull his hand away, but he won't let himself show that kind of weakness.

"Wakanda's history is one of mistakes. I cannot correct the wrongs done against you but I can ensure that we do not make the same mistakes again."

"How?" Erik asks. "Why the hell should I think you're gonna be any different?"

"Tomorrow I will be attending a UN conference where I will formally announce that Wakanda is opening her borders." Erik's hand flinches between T'Challa's, but he only holds on tighter. "You wanted to be our king? To prove that you belong here and that you're truly a Wakandan? This is your chance. Follow our customs and lead our people into a new era with me because I do not want to accept your death."

Silently, Erik pries himself out of T'Challa's hands. His head is spinning from his words, skepticism and hope and cynicism taking him out of the moment. Unwilling to let T'Challa see him rattled, he pushes the words aside to deal with later. One thing at a time.

He pulls the chain off his neck, watching the surprise on T'Challa's face as he slips on his father's ring.

"Alright then cuz," Erik say. "I'll play along."

Chapter Text

Okoye searches him twice before she lets him onto the ship and then again once he gets off. Erik calls her paranoid but since he'd ditched several weapons he doesn't blame her. He promised to be on his best behavior before so the weapons were more of a habit than anything else.

Erik recognizes more people than he expected outside the General Assembly, not just famous political figures but people he knows from his old "work". In his formal Wakandan clothing he isn't recognized.

"So," T'Challa says to Okoye, "have you heard if..? Is she..?"

"Nakia is coming," Okoye says. "She said she would be in the crowd."

"Ah. I see." T'Challa adjusts his already pristine collar. "Good. If that is what she wants."

"She's here to support you," Okoye says patiently.

"Of course she is. I broke her heart a few days ago, why wouldn't she come support me?"

"If it makes you feel any better the dress she picked out isn't particularly nice."

"Don't be ridiculous Okoye, she looks beautiful in everything."

"Honestly she looks like a 9 at best. Maybe a 9.5. But no higher."

"This is not helping me focus." T'Challa looks down. "Where is she?"

"I'll find her," Erik says casually. Okoye and T'Challa both turn to him with alarm. "What? You want this standing next to you?" Erik tugs down his sleeve. "The king and his best buddy Killmonger?"

T'Challa and Okoye exchange glances.

"I got nothing better to do. Might as well find the lady of the hour, huh?"

"You won't get far if you try to run," Okoye says.

"Stay out of trouble, please," T'Challa adds.

Erik winks at him. "It's just a building full of influential politicians. What's the worst I could do?"

"What's up, spy girl?"

Nakia doesn't look up but she places her bag on the seat next to hers. "Find another seat."

"You sure? It'll be your fault if I kill somebody on the way to the men's room."

"You are lucky not to be watching from a jail cell," Nakia says. "Do that and T'Challa won't leave your leash with so much slack."

She was probably right about that. In lieu of a response he lifts up his left hand, showing off his father's ring. Nakia continues staring straight ahead, face flat. Erik wiggles his fingers.

Nakia sucks her teeth and finally move her bag. "Sit. But keep in mind that of the two of us, I am armed."

Erik sits down, an arm across the back of Nakia's seat. She looks just as calm as before he arrived.

"Your king and the general were bad mouthing—“

"Keep your poison to yourself Killmonger," Nakia snaps.

His fiancé is an eloquent speaker. He throws out lots of safe rhetoric guaranteed not to startle anyone too bad. Erik knows the sound of appeasement and ass kissing, he's spent years living among his enemies, but he's still impressed that T'Challa can sing kumbaya without sounding like he really is spouting bullshit.

He keeps his face straight when T’Challa gets to the opening of borders. This wasn't how he wanted this to go but it's happening. Wakanda is opening up.

T'Challa casts only a casual glance at Nakia and him. His voice goes slightly more firm, hiding any wavering beneath volume.

Erik has imagined himself in T'Challa's position more times than he could count. Every night after a mission when he'd been raising scars into his flesh he'd thought about how he would address the world when they knew he was responsible for the new status quo.

Towards the end Erik thinks to look over at Nakia and is unprepared for the raw emotion on her face. Her expression is a complex mess of pride, joy and sorrow. The shining of her eyes and her sharp focus are mesmerizing. Erik pulls his arm back, faintly uncomfortable. T'Challa really was an idiot.

"What could a nation of farmers have to offer the rest of the world?"

Erik scoffs. "That is one lucky son of a bitch," he mumbles. "What country is that fool from?"

"I cannot tell from here,” Nakia says. She turns to him sharply. "Whatever you're thinking right now, stop it."

"I'm not about to kill the guy for one dumb comment." If this had been his show he'd slit the guy’s throat right in front of the cameras. "Maybe just leave his country out when Wakanda starts opening up."

"T'Challa is not petty enough to agree to something like that. He's a good man. I don't expect you to understand him."

"That's good, because I don't." He leans in closer. "You really wanna do this? Figured a War Dog woulda seen enough of the world not to be a blind optimist."

"That must make me quite the fool," Nakia says. "As I remain blind as ever."

"Half the people in this room think the same thing as that man. That our entire continent isn't worth a goddamn thing. Sure they'll change their tune once they learn about vibranium but you think they'd give two shits about us otherwise?"

"And that means their people deserve to suffer?"

"It means they don't deserve to be in power."

"Be that as it may, if we can ease the suffering of even one person on our continent isn't the danger worth it?"

Erik wants to call her naive, or accuse her of oversimplifying things but Nakia’s face is so open and earnest that he knows before speaking that she won't be convinced. He can tell what T'Challa sees in her, can imagine her ruling with all her strength and her kindness. A small part of him feels good about denying T'Challa her, and her the throne.

It's a long process of question answering before T'Challa is able to slip free from the media. He and Nakia find T'Challa soon afterwards. T'Challa looks like he's desperately trying to conceal a stab wound at the sight of her.

"My king," Nakia says first.

Okoye elbows him.

"Nakia." T'Challa clears his throat. "Thank you for coming. It's good to see you."

Nakia nods. Before T'Challa can continue she hugs him.

"You were excellent," she says in Xhosa.

He hugs her back. "Thank you."

The hug is soft and lingering. When it ends both T'Challa and Nakia look disappointed to no longer be touching each other.

"How sweet," says Erik. He nudges Okoye's shoulder. "Don't you just love 'em?"

Nakia excuses herself a short while after that and Erik follows T'Challa and Okoye back to the ship.

"I could probably be gone faster than it'd take for you to tie your shoes," Erik says.

"My laces were designed not to come undone by accident." T'Challa gives him a polite smile. Now that Nakia is gone he seems to have his head on straight. "I don't imagine there’s anything you want outside of Wakanda."

Before he can respond to that loaded statement T'Challa gets a call on his kimoyo bead. With a press M'Baku's figure appears above his wrist.

"M’baku," T'Challa greets.

"You should've killed that white man on the spot."

I'll be damned, Erik thinks.

"That is not how diplomacy works." T'Challa's tone is light and amused.

"We are better than them, we don't need diplomacy."

"Is that why you weren't at the last council meeting? Because you don't see the use in diplomacy?"

"Call me if we're going to war, otherwise you handle your own business." M'Baku crosses his arms over his chest. "I hear you kept the little American War Dog."

"He's not keeping shit," Erik says.

M'Baku hums. Then he addresses T'Challa again, switching to another language that Erik doesn't recognize. Probably Jabari. It's not too hard to recognize the intense sarcasm.

"No, M'Baku, I have not lost my mind," he responds in English. M'Baku starts to say something else but T'Challa cuts him off. "Thank you very much for your concern but I have the situation under control."

"As you wish, you majesty," M'Baku says. "But when he turns on you, you'd better call your white friends, not me."

"I will keep that in mind."

There are guards and various scientists in the lab when Erik arrives but no one says anything to him. They also don't cross their arms over their chests. The place goes quiet, papers being shuffled out of sight and screens turned off but apart from that he isn't acknowledged.

Erik keeps his hands to himself as he looks around. He isn't a thief, he's a prince: if he wants to take something he won't be sneaky about it. He remembers his way around well enough to find where the communication devices are and spends a few minutes looking through them. No one in the lab relaxes, but it's not as though they can do anything to him.

Or so he thinks. Erik ducks as a flyswatter is swung at his face.

"What do you think you're doing?!" Shuri holds the flyswatter up like a weapon.

"Good morning to you too, princess." He catches the flyswatter when Shuri swings it again and yanks it out of her hand. "Ida thought you royals had some manners but I guess not."

Shuri puts a table between them as though she expects Erik to lunge at her. "You're in my lab, Killmonger. I'm not letting you steal any more of my tech!"

"Your tech?"

"Yes, my tech! That I designed and built myself."

Erik eyes the mannequin that'd previously held the jaguar suit. "You build this stuff?"

"I'm an engineer and the head of the science division. If you go around touching stuff like an idiot you're going to blow something up."

"I'll be careful.”

"You already ruined one of my suits."

"Your brother is the one who stabbed me."

"If you try to leave this place with a weapon I will sic Okoye on you."

"Wasn't looking for any weapons, princess."

"What were you doing here then?"

"Just looking around," Erik lies.

"Then look around somewhere else. Or the next time I hit you it won't be with that toy."

Erik glances through several glass cases. Nothing is labelled in English annoyingly, and he can't read quickly enough not to draw attention to himself.

"I don't know what you did to my brother to make him marry you but it won't work on me," Shuri says.

"Haven't done a thing, princess." Erik gestures at himself with a grin. "Your boy just really wants a piece of this."

"Ew," Shuri says.

"I'm glad to see you're getting along," T'Challa says firmly from behind them.

"Speak of the devil." Erik throws an arm around his shoulder and pulls him close, eyes still on Shuri. "He's a thirsty son of a bitch, ain't you boo?"

"Not particularly," T'Challa says without missing a beat. He doesn't try to pull away. "Shuri, this was not what I had in mind when I asked you to make him feel welcome."

"Your fiancé was the one barging in here and starting trouble!"

"I’m sure that's true, but all the same."

Shuri tsks and then drops an exaggerated curtsey. "Welcome to the family, Mr. Mass Murderer. Brother." She nods at T'Challa on her way out.

"Cute kid." He lets T'Challa go.

"Don't antagonize her, she built most of my weapons."

"I noticed. It's a real nice place she's got here. Princess is what? 16?"

He looks around the room again, taking it all in. Erik can't begin to imagine what he could've done if he'd had access to this type of stuff as a kid. Really, what any kid could do with an ounce of the resources the lab had.

"When I was 12 I lived in this shitty foster home that didn't have heating. It'd be the same temperature in my room as it was outside year round. I'd sleep in my coat for months." He shrugs a shoulder. "Good way to keep from getting your shit jacked."

T'Challa, mercifully, is silent.

It'd been on one of those nights when he was lying in bed, shivering his ass off because he wasn't worth an extra blanket, that he’d realized that there was nothing special about him. Princes didn't get left in the projects. 

"Growing up in a place like this did you ever think about how other people who looked like you were living?"

T'Challa takes several slow steps forward and then leans against the glass. His eyes are distant in his reflection.

"I was taught that I should value the lives of my people and I accepted that it meant secrecy and, unintentionally, complacency in the face others’ suffering." He casts his gaze downwards. "I am aware that I'm a fool who didn't think it was his place to change the status quo. My ancestors—our ancestors chose the lives of the few over those of the many. I can't say I was more enlightened than them."

Erik finds it in himself to laugh, though he feels nothing close to amusement. It's strange, Erik thinks, to want to belong to a people he hates so much.

Chapter Text

"Igama lam liyi N'Jadaka, " his father pronounces slowly.

"Igama," Erik says. He chews on his bottom lip. "Um. Igama..."

"Lam liyi N'Jadaka," N'Jobu says gently.

Erik groans. "I suck at this. It's too hard, Baba."

"Oh? You speak English, don't you? You only think it's difficult because we don't practice."

"And because it's hard."

"Don't complain. Your tongue can get used to it." N'Jobu's hard fatherly veneer breaks as he smiles. "Your father is a very clever man. I'm sure you will pick it up."

Erik smiles back.

"We'll practice," N'Jobu says, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

They do. Every night in between when Erik goes to bed and his father goes to work, they practice together. Often there are other people in the apartment so they stick to English. Erik wishes his father's origin wasn't a secret so they could speak together like other families in the diaspora. In lieu of that his father turns their private everyday conversations into lessons. He's making good progress, his father tells him. He'll be a natural in no time. His family back home will be impressed when they hear him speak.

He can't practice Xhosa for a long time after his father dies. His throat closes up around the words and tears come to his eyes when he imagines his father's voice.

As he ages he finds direction and the pain dulls into something more useful. He grabs every Wakandan dictionary he can but it's difficult when he never hears the language spoken. He looks for recordings of Wakandan TV media and finds nothing but English, no other media being available outside of Wakanda. He wonders for a while if his father's home country is North Korea.

In his rare televised appearances T'Chaka addresses crowds in English. Erik watches him speak and records over old VHSes to learn the flow of the language from his uncle's cadence. Every time he hears the accent he can't help the way his chest hurts. He wishes he'd recorded his father's voice.

"Utata ngu N'Jabu," he whispers to himself. "I am his son. Igama lam liyi Erik." He frowns at the hard switch between his choppy Wakandan accent and the American pronunciation of his name. "Igama lam liyi N'Jadaka."

It's well over a decade before he speaks Xhosa with another person: a Wakandan spy in disguise as a Somali migrant. As soon as he catches the man he combs through his gear, disposing of his communication and tracking devices before he bothers interrogating him. He asks about his mission.

The spy looks confused. Erik's hurt him enough to know the lack of understanding is real. Erik repeats himself, enunciating until he's understood. The shock on the man's face when he asks questions about Wakanda gives him more satisfaction than he expected. He doesn't get anything informative out of the spy since his role is limited. He keeps the guy alive for a while, promising to spare him if he teaches Erik everything he can. The language is so different from books when spoken and their conversations are stilted by the man's obvious fear. When he's learned what he can he kills the spy.

"N'Jadaka. N'Jadaka?" A small pause. "Erik?"

Erik curses under his breath and turns to T'Challa. "What?"

T'Challa nods at a projection in front of him. "We were trying to map out the best locations for our outreach centers. I wanted your input."

Erik looks at everyone else at the table. There are a good many eyes on him, most of which look away at his gaze. He has no idea what they've been talking about for the last ten minutes.

"Yeah, fine," he says, getting to his feet.

Every room in T'Challa's quarters is bigger than the apartment he grew up in. T'Challa's got a "small" private library and his bedroom has several smaller rooms connected to it. Erik only asks about them once.

"A king several generations back had them built for his mistresses," T'Challa says. He coughs into his fist.

"I was joking but you really got me sleeping in the royal prostitute’s room?" Erik leans against the door frame of the largest guest room. The meager collection of items that he'd moved into T'Challa's room during his reign has already been moved in.

"We can find other accommodations if you'd prefer but after the wedding it may be awkward to have my supposed partner in the opposite side of the palace."

"I'm not going anywhere." Erik watches a black cat hop down from the window sill and cross the room.

"Good. I'd hoped you would stay. Bast here is the only one who's been using these rooms as of late." T'Challa kneels down to pet the cat. "Infidelity isn't exactly encouraged among royalty these days."

He laughs sharply. "Like you aren't planning to see Nakia on the down low." 

"Ours is a political marriage. You're free to see whoever you like." 

"Hope Wakandan girls like their dick appointments with a side of treachery." T'Challa smiles briefly at that. "So what now? We play passive aggressive roommates till one of us dies?"

"I was hoping the passive aggression might be left behind after a certain point but yes. Essentially. Must you look at me like that?"

Erik doesn't turn away or school his expression. "Like what?"

"As though my every action is done with an ulterior motive."

"Isn't it?"

"Sure, in this instance it's making us friendly enough that you only consider killing me if I do something egregious."

"Don't tempt me, cuz. I did it once."

"See? We're already joking about your murder attempts. We've made excellent progress."

"Oh yeah, deff," Erik says with a dismissive shrug. "You know I once strangled a guy with his own pajama pants? Didn't have anything else on hand."

"How charming. Luckily I'm a very light sleeper."

Erik hums vaguely. "They always are. You said you could find me other accommodations, what if I wanna share your kingly bed?"

T'Challa raises an eyebrow. "Do you want to share my kingly bed?"

"Let's say I do."

"I'd consider it but probably refuse. I think things would be infinitely more peaceful if we didn't. At least for now."

"Good to know." Erik steps back and T'Challa picks up Bast before the door can slam on both of them.

"We can finish most of the paperwork now," the immigration lawyer says, holding a stack of papers out to Erik. "Your citizenship won't go through until after the wedding but at that point it should all go very smoothly."

Erik doesn't look at the papers. "By law the children of Wakandan citizens are citizens."

The lawyer frowns. "Well that's. Uh, yes but—"

"Regardless of where they're born. I wasn't that bad a king."

"Ah."

"Or was the fucking prince not a citizen?"

"Yes, of course he was. Of course. It's only that you're an American citizen which cancels out your Wakandan citizenship. Wakanda does not allow dual citizenship."

Erik picks up his passport, not breaking eye contact. He holds a lighter to the corner until the vinyl catches. "Not interested in dual citizenship." He drops the passport to the floor. The vibranium infused tiles don't burn.

"U-understood, my prince. If you want to complete your citizenship process before marrying we can cancel your American citizenship." He carefully pushes a stack of paper in Erik's direction.

"Shouldn't need to in the first place," Erik mumbles. He takes the documents and the lawyer visibly relaxes.

"You already have a War Dog tattoo, is that right?" the lawyer asks. Erik tugs down his bottom lip and the man makes a note on another sheet of paper. Erik picks up a pen and looks the top sheet over. He pauses before finishing the first sentence.

"This says my name is Erik Stevens."

The man flinches. "We are going by your birth certificate, and your passport."

"That passport?' Erik nods at the floor.

"Yes, its been destroyed—"

"My name is N'Jadaka."

"I understand but—"

"It's what my father named me."

"I understand, my prince. But from a legal standpoint."

Erik stands up.

"You-you can change your name here!" he says, throwing up his hands. "As soon as your citizenship has been processed. That's perfectly legal!"

He leans over and places the papers back on the desk. "Fucking pain in the ass. I'll be back after the wedding."

"Yes, my prince." The lawyer stands and bows. "Thank you, my prince."

"Yeah, shut it."

He goes back to T'Challa's rooms after. He finds T'Challa is sitting in bed, a book in hand.

He nods. "Good evening, Erik."

"Fuck off, your highness." 

"Sleep well." 

Erik pauses with his hand on the door to his room. "How long till we tie the knot?"

"A little under two weeks." At Erik's annoyed grunt he adds. "This is definitely an expedited wedding. Normally there's weeks of commingling among both sides of the family but we don't have to worry about that."

"Lucky us. Don't see why we can't just sign a paper and call it a night." 

"Bast, no. Haven't you ever been to a—"

Erik stares at him silently.

"That's right. You haven't." T'Challa puts his book aside. "The wedding is more for the community than it is for us, so a lot of work will go into it. If all the livestock in a twenty mile radius doesn't fear for its life then our ancestors will be sorely disappointed." 

"Great. Can't wait." He shoos T'Challa's cat out of his room and shuts the door behind him.