Work Text:
Shuri’s holed up in the lab on a Thursday afternoon, puzzling over improvements for Riri’s suit when she gets your call.
Without looking up from her work, she tells Griot to accept it. “What’s good?” she greets.
“Shuri!” your voice, bright with contagious enthusiasm, filters seamlessly through. “How are you?”
“Busy with work, as always. You?”
“A little stressed, but good. Did you eat today?”
Shuri rolls her eyes. “You sound like Riri.”
“Riri cares for you,” you correct with only the gentlest note of reproof in your tone. “I do, too.” A short pause. “Granted, somewhat less than she does—”
A flush threatens to heat her cheeks. “Yes, thank you.” Riri and her are… new, still. Your relentless teasing is less so. (She’ll never admit it to you, but it warms her to the core.) “What do you want?”
“Oh, you’re no fun.”
“I’m plenty fun,” Shuri grumbles, closing out the schematic on her screen in favor of another.
“Uh-huh. Anyway, listen. I called ‘cause I wanted to ask you about something.”
“Mm?”
“Ramonda and I have plans in Wakanda this weekend. It’ll be our six month anniversary!!”
Shuri nearly chokes on air. “What ?”
“Oh. Um,” you pause, sounding taken aback. “Six months since we started dating?”
“That’s not an anniversary,” she protests weakly. She has finally looked up from her work to give her full attention, staring incredulously up at the screen display as though she’ll be able to see you if she looks hard enough.
“I guess not technically,” you concede, “but to me, it kind of is?”
“That’s the gayest shit I’ve ever heard.”
“I want to do something nice for her. I want it to be a surprise,” you prattle on as though you didn’t hear. “So I’ve got a gift and everything, but I need your help.”
Shuri blinks. “Right…”
“I know she’s got her schedule cleared for Friday at least, but could you move some things around to clear up her Saturday, too? Without telling her, that is. I want her to have as relaxing a weekend as possible. She’s earned it!”
Well. Shuri can’t very well argue with that. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“God, you’re the best,” you enthuse. “I owe you one.”
“Nah.” Shuri waves the comment away, feeling a fond grin tug at her lips in spite of herself. “We’re straight.”
A snicker from the other end. “Good one.” Then: “Alright, I’ve gotta run. Don’t work yourself too hard, yeah?”
“No promises.”
“See you this weekend!”
“See you.”
The line disconnects with a gentle noise, leaving Shuri alone in her laboratory, her brain working a hundred miles a minute.
“‘Six-month anniversary’?” she mutters to herself incredulously, then heaves a quiet sigh. “Lesbians.”
— —
Shuri goes straight to her mother’s quarters.
“Mother!” she calls upon entering the royal wing.
“Yes?”
The curtains are open when Shuri arrives, allowing her to stroll right in. Mother sits at her vanity, reading through a document projected onto the mirror in glowing blue script.
Mother has just barely disabled the projection with a tap to the beads encircling her wrist when Shuri announces, “Clear your schedule. And start working on a gift, while you’re at it. It’s your anniversary this weekend.”
Mother turns to look at her, features mild but incredulous. “My what?”
“Your anniversary. With Y/N.”
Mother blinks. “It has not been a year.”
“It’s your six-month anniversary.”
“The whole point of an anniversary is that it happens annually,” Mother articulates slowly, like Shuri’s an imbecile.
Shuri sighs. “This is just what gay people are like, Mother,” she explains dismissively. “They called me just now. They have plans, a gift, the whole deal.”
Silent panic flits across Mother’s face, though she’s quick to smother it—there one moment, gone the next. “Bast,” she murmurs to herself quietly, so quietly that Shuri nearly misses it.
“It’s not too late. We can still make this work,” Shuri assures her, beginning to pace. “Now. I’ve got Griot compiling all activity on their Etsy, Depop, and favorite shopping sites over the past three months. If they’ve so much as looked at anything, we’ll know. Also—” She cuts herself off at Mother’s raised hand.
“Thank you, Shuri, but no thank you,” she defers, an inscrutable look on her face. Shuri hasn’t the faintest clue what she’s thinking. “I will handle it.”
Shuri stops mid-step and turns to give her a look. “What does that mean, you’ll ‘handle it’?”
Mother doesn’t waver. “It means that I will handle it.”
“You are very confident all of a sudden,” Shuri observes, gaze narrowed. “Is it jewelry?”
“Thank you for the offer,” she reiterates firmly, turning back to her vanity and appraising her reflection with renewed (read: feigned) interest. “But I am more than capable on my own.”
As cues to leave go, this one’s not terribly overt, but Shuri gets it. She begins inching towards the door, eyeing the woman up and down all the while. “You are not the best team player, you know?”
Mother slants her a stern look. “It’s my anniversary.”
Shuri smirks. “I thought you said it wasn’t an anniversary.” She’s nearly halfway out the door now, which she thinks is probably for the best. She’s pushed her luck enough for today.
(Or has she? )
“It’s not,” Mother calls back without looking.
Shuri lingers for a moment longer, long enough to say, “If you’re thinking engagement beads, I’d dial it back a notch.”
“Shuri.”
(There. Now she’s done. )
— —
Time seems to flow as molasses, making you feel like a fly encased in amber until Friday. You go through the motions of everyday living, barely present, and heaven help you but it’s not for a lack of wanting to be.
But, well—you can’t help it. You’re so very excited. And nervous. And excited.
But eventually, finally, Friday arrives.
When you clock out from work, Shuri’s waiting at the curb in front of a sleek black car with gold rims. You stop by the kitchens to grab the groceries you’d prepared over the weekend and bid your coworkers adieu before heading out. Bags in hand, you manage a wave, which Shuri returns with a shallow nod even as she continues speaking to someone in her ear. Riri, probably.
It’s a short drive to the warehouse, where you’ll board a Talon Fighter to fly the rest of the way. You know the drill; you’ve done it quite enough over the past 6 months. You’re content to tune out Shuri’s end of her conversation as she speeds down the freeway, wind in your hair and the sun on your face.
— —
When you arrive in Birnin Zana, it’s mid-afternoon.
You’re early. Ramonda will be in meetings for the next couple hours, but that’s all according to plan. You accompany Shuri to her lab to drop your things, chatting mindlessly all the while, before making your way over towards the kitchens.
The plan is clear in your thoughts, the recipes practically burned into your brain. You’ve been practicing for weeks, now—madombi and chicken groundnut stew. Ramonda’s favorite entrée alongside the flavorful stew she’s always professed to love. You’re no slouch at cooking, but you want it to be perfect. Only the best for her.
As you wash and rinse your hands thoroughly in preparation, you hail Griot. “Griot, bud, will you put my playlist on? The cooking one?”
Griot—bless him—obliges.
Falling into the motions is a pleasantly diverting task—browning the chicken, sautéeing the vegetables, kneading the fresh dough. The music is a constant aid, and the scents that permeate the air are immensely comforting in their familiarity. Minutes turn to an hour, then two; you hardly notice. You’re laser-focused on the task at hand, intent on making it all perfect—or as perfect as perfect gets, anyhow.
You don’t notice the clock striking 6:00pm, or the way Griot’s speakers lower their volume to accommodate—
A yelp leaves your throat as sure arms curl ‘round your waist and warmth presses into you from behind.
“S’thandwa,” Ramonda murmurs into your neck, her lips warm where they brush your thrumming pulse point. Gods above. “I’m sorry. Did I scare you?”
Willing your thundering heart rate to slow, you let out a breathy huff and allow yourself to melt in the familiar embrace. “A bit,” you divulge, inhaling deeply to catch her scent—shea butter and lavender incense and her, her, her. “I suppose I lost track of time.”
Ramonda’s arms tighten ever-so-slightly at that, her thumbs stroking the juts of your hipbones in something like apology. “Mm,” she hums. “You’ve been busy.”
Affection blooms in your chest, warm and big and true. “I wanted to do something special.” Your breath catches in your throat as you turn to face her.
She’s divested her isicholo for the evening, leaving springy, short-trimmed strands of platinum-blonde on display. A deep purple halter gown frames her elegant figure, its corset clinging to her like a second skin. Her makeup is light today—lips painted a deep, rosewood red; eyelids accentuated with black liner and dusky eyeshadow. It’s a simpler ensemble than those she’ll don on any other day; the diminished tension in her shoulders is evidence of that.
It matters not; the effect is the same. You are absolutely enamored of her.
“Darling,” Ramonda’s low, bemused voice draws your attention. “You’re staring,” she admonishes, guiding your gaping mouth shut with a gentle touch. The twitch in painted lips betrays her amusement.
You don’t have an answer for that—no witty retort, no comeback, nothing. You lace your arms around her shoulders until you can clasp your hands at her nape, voicing, “Can I kiss you?”
Ramonda presses her lips to yours in lieu of answer, all slow and gentle and mild until it’s not—until her kiss turns insistent and you’re parting your mouth to let her in, dragging your tongue against hers, nipping at her lower lip to coax forth a shuddering exhale. Arousal sparks a lit match in your belly, burning a fiery trail from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.
It takes all your will (and then some) to pull away, but you manage it. Heat prickles along your skin. “Right, so…” you trail off breathlessly, chest heaving. “I made dinner.”
Ramonda chuckles, dark eyes alight with mischief and want. Her lipstick is barely smudged, but you’ll take what you can get. “Is that madombi I smell?”
A broad, bashful grin splits your features at the hopeful lilt to her tone. “Maybe.”
— —
Dinner is everything you hoped it would be. The madombi comes out perfect; the stew is even better. With the table set, candles lit, you usher Ramonda over. She brushes a kiss to your cheek when you pull out the chair for her, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you, baby” that makes you choke on air.
Flustered beyond belief, you scurry back into the kitchen to whip up mojitos—one of two cocktails you can actually make—for the pair of you before taking them to the table. Ramonda accepts hers with a pleased hum.
With steam rising from both dishes and nothing left to fuss over, you take your seat, too.
“Shall we?”
— —