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He was the one who found her, half-conscious on the floor of a safe house that apparently wasn’t that safe anymore since he seemed to have no problem finding her. He bent down over her, gentle fingers probing the already-forming bruises all over her body as well as her ankle that was swollen to twice its normal size, the pressure, as light as it was, causing a very undignified whimper to leave her lips.
She struggled to keep her eyes open as he studied her, waiting to see what he would do. She had known they were going to come after her — she would have known even without Tony’s warning, and she had expected them to come for her long before they really did. She’d been back in New York for two weeks, lying low or so she thought, before they found her — but she hadn’t really been prepared for the knock-down, drag-out fight that had ensued. She thought they would just try to arrest her — she even thought maybe she would let them — but when they showed up with high-powered rifles and awful smirks and sneering eyes, she changed her mind in an instant.
She didn’t escape unharmed though. Far from it, and at one point she had almost thought she wasn’t going to make it out of there alive, but even when she was injured, she was still fast, and she had been taught how to work through the pain, she had been taught how to be stealthy. So she did what she did best, and attacked as many of them as she could before slipping away, keeping to the shadows and the back alleys until she made it to her nearest safe house, hoping desperately that no one had followed her. She’d collapsed to the floor the second after she’d bolted the door, too exhausted and too much in pain to do anything else.
Now, as she blinked up at him, she felt fear brewing in the pit of her stomach. She wasn’t getting away from him. That much she knew. And the thought of what was going to come next was not a pleasant one.
She hadn’t expected them to send him to capture her, but maybe she should have guessed he might volunteer. He probably took it as a personal betrayal what she had done to him at the airport, and why shouldn’t he? It was the first time she had ever turned her widow’s bites on someone she had thought she could maybe one day come to consider a friend.
She wanted to ask him to please, just leave her, to let her disappear on her own terms. Part of her even briefly considered pleading with him to understand, but she had too much pride to do that, and even if this had never been the outcome she’d wanted — not even close to the outcome she’d wanted. She’d wanted the Avengers to be together, not prisoners and fugitives and torn apart — she accepted the role she played in what happened, and she was prepared to face the consequences.
No matter how bad things were going to get for her, she had been through worse than The Raft or wherever he was going to take her (and if he was going to kill her, then so be it. Dying a perceived traitor was probably the legacy she deserved), so instead of protesting, all she did was whisper, “I’m sorry”, her voice, despite her best effort, coming out so quiet she wasn’t even sure if he heard her. But she felt his hands slip underneath her, and as he lifted her into the air, she felt her eyes close as if on their own accord, and the last thing she remembered was his voice, soft but stern, whispering, “I’ve got you now,” into her ear.
•••
She wasn’t sure how much later it was when she began to seep back into consciousness, but before she even opened her eyes, she knew something was off. She was lying on something much softer than she expected, more like cushions and less like the cots she knew were in the cells of The Raft. This seemed to be more like a bed, and she was covered with something too, soft and heavy like a blanket. The smell in the air was more flowers and mist than stale and sterile.
She kept her eyes closed as she tried to take stock of her surroundings, listening to everything around her, but it was quiet. No voices in the distance, no patter of footsteps, not even the soft sounds of breathing apart from her own.
She opened her eyes carefully. She wasn’t in a cell at all. That part she had suspected, but she hadn’t been prepared for the bedroom she was in instead. It was huge, larger than all the bedrooms back at the Avengers base put together. The entire wall in front of her was composed of windows, and though them, she could see the tops of thousands of trees, a dense fog sitting over everything.
She was lying in the middle of the biggest bed she had ever seen in her life. All the bedding and sheets and pillows were gleaming white. Carefully she raised the blanket that was covering her and looked down.
She was still in the black dress she had been wearing when she’d tried to escape from the men who had come to capture her, but there were bandages on her wounds and the ankle she had twisted when one of the men chasing her had grabbed her by the foot was wrapped in a brace.
She turned her head to the side to better take in her surroundings. There was a small silver table next to the bed on the right, and sitting in the center of it was a glass vase full with what must be at least three dozen white roses. She could just make out a small envelope nestled amongst the buds.
She still couldn’t hear any noises coming from outside the room, so keeping as silent as she possibly could, she used her hands to slide herself to the edge of the bed so she could grab the envelope.
It was plain and unmarked, but she had a suspicion it was meant for her. She carefully peeled back the flap and slipped out the card that was inside. The writing on it was done in a decisive hand, the letters neat and bold and definitely directed to her.
Natasha. Do not be afraid. You are safe here.
She slid the card back into the envelope, placed it back where she found it and laid back again on the bed. Her mind was working overtime, and she wasn’t sure where to start.
She had a feeling she was in Wakanda, in T’Challa’s palace to be exact, but why? Why had he brought her here when he was the one who had turned her in? Why not just hand her over? Unless he was planning to punish her himself, planning to make her pay. And his note was to trick her into being at ease …
But no, that couldn’t be.
Granted, she did not know him that well — she had only known what was written in SHIELD’s files before she met him at the United Nations that day — but she had seen enough in their few days together, in tense enough times, to know that torture and coercion weren’t how he operated. Revenge, yes. Intense anger, perhaps. But if he wanted to make her pay, he would have just killed her back in the safe house.
He had brought her here for something much different, but she wasn’t sure yet what is was.
•••
She didn’t have much time to ponder what it could be. Just as she was contemplating getting out of bed and trying to see what she could find, the noise of footsteps could be heard echoing down the hall.
Quickly, Natasha leaned back into the pillows, letting her body go limp, closing her eyes. If she pretended to still be out of it …
“Hello, Natasha. Good to see you awake.”
Damn it. There must be security cameras.
She opened her eyes. T’Challa was standing at the end of the bed, hands in his pockets, smiling almost warmly at her. The same unease she felt on the floor of the safehouse where he was leaning over her quickly returned, settling once again into her belly.
“King T’Challa,” she said, keeping all hint of emotion out of her voice.
“How are you feeling?”
“Where am I?”
“Where do you think you are?”
“Wakanda.”
T’Challa nodded, a small smile on his face.
“Why?”
The smile grew just slightly. “Why do you think?”
She studied him. Nothing about his body language indicated he wanted to hurt her, and his first question, when he’d asked her how she was, seemed genuine. But he had turned her in, he had wanted her to face justice. It didn’t make sense.
She settled for as much truth as she would allow herself to give him. “I’m not sure. I expected to wake up in prison.” She waited a beat. “Or not at all.”
He gave no visible reaction to her comment, just continued to look at her with that almost smile. Underneath the covers, her fingers curled into fists. She wasn’t sure how well she could fight right now, and she couldn’t be at all sure he hadn’t drugged her, although she didn’t feel drugged, but she was prepared to do whatever she had to do.
“You’re not here so I can kill you, Natasha.” T’Challa finally answered her.
“Okay,” she said.
“I am not going to hurt you either.”
“So you’re going to …. What?” She frowned. She hadn’t meant to let him see this was bothering her, but nothing was making sense. “Make me feel comfortable and then turn me over to the authorities, who can lock me up like the rest of my friends?”
“I was not planning on that, no.”
“Then what?”
“Then nothing,” he answered. “I brought you here because here you will be safe. No one can get you here unless I say so, and I do not plan to say so. Whether you stay or not is up to you. You are not a prisoner.”
This wasn’t making any sense. She frowned more.
“But you turned me in.”
“I did.” T’Challa lowered his eyes for a second, but then he raised his head once more and seemed to pierce her with the intensity of his stare. “I was upset that you attacked me and turned your back on the Accords. But I, too, have done things that have been wrong because I felt they were the right thing to do. And I know now you were only protecting your friends.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, breaking into his words. “For what I did.”
“You do not owe me an apology.”
“So you brought me here to … protect me?”
“I thought they would arrest you,” T’Challa said. There was a note of bitterness in his voice. “I did not think they would try to kill you.”
Natasha thought back to those moments in the safe house, T’Challa leaning over her, examining her injuries.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You do not owe me thanks either.”
“What do I owe you?”
“Nothing.”
She wanted to tell him she didn’t agree with that, that she never let people do anything for her without her doing something for them back, but she had a feeling it was not an argument she was going to win right now, and on top of that, she could feel herself starting to lose focus, starting to feel the pain and exhaustion of her injuries still settling in her body.
“So what do we do now?”
“As I said, Natasha Romanoff, that is up to you. You will tell me when you decide.”
And with that he turned around and left the room, leaving Natasha alone once more, and more confused than ever.
•••
T’Challa was a perfect host, and with every perfect thing he did, Natasha found herself more and more unsettled.
He sent someone on his medical team to check on her that first day and fit her with crutches so she could explore the palace and the grounds. He made sure she had enough to eat and was comfortable, and he had someone on his staff come take her measurements so they could get her some clothes.
“You cannot stay in that same dress forever,” T’Challa told her when she protested. She gave in, but when the piles and piles of clothes — more clothes than she had ever had total in her life — arrived later that afternoon, she felt even more uneasy about the whole thing.
T’Challa kept saying the right things, telling her he didn’t want anything and he was just offering protection, but it still didn’t make any sense to her. If he had wanted her arrested, why didn’t he just let them arrest her?
Steve, who she discovered that first evening was also in Wakanda and had been since everything had happened in Siberia, had a different take. “There’s a difference between wanting you arrested and wanting you dead, Nat.”
“But why was he even there?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“I already tried that.” She sighed. “He wants something.”
Steve laughed softly and nudged her gently in the side. “I don’t think he wants you dead, Nat, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I think actually he might want a date.”
She scoffed. “Please, Rogers.”
“Oh, it’s Rogers now, since you don’t like what I’m telling you? I see how it is.”
“Steve …”
He laughed again and this time slung an arm around her shoulders. “I know you don’t trust anyone,” he told her softly. “But I think you can trust him.”
•••
A week after Natasha arrived, Steve and T’Challa left for a day to go rescue the rest of their friends from The Raft. She argued with them both to let her go, too, but for two people who had wanted to kill each other not that long ago, they were a very united front.
“You need to stay here and rest,” T’Challa told her. “You are not strong enough to fight.”
“I am fine,” she practically hissed.
“Really?” Steve joined in. “Are you planning to hobble in their on crutches and take down the guards?”
“If I have to.”
But in the end, they still refused to let her come, and she knew with her bad ankle there wasn’t a way she could actually sneak on to the plane without them catching her, so she stayed behind, worried and frustrated and annoyed.
Six hours later, the burner phone T’Challa had given her when she first arrived rang. She answered quickly.
“We have good news for you.” T’Challa’s voice, more upbeat that she had ever heard it, came across the line, before she heard the phone being passed around until it stopped.
“Really, Nat, you let a silly sprained ankle stop you from coming? I am disappointed in you,” Clint’s teased, and Natasha felt her eyes feel with tears.
At that moment she was glad T’Challa and Steve had left her behind.
•••
It was nice having everyone back. It was hard, too. The things they had all gone through on The Raft were unfathomable and made Natasha want to single-handedly kill everyone who had helped to put them there, but again, T’Challa was the perfect host. He got care for everyone who needed it, in all sorts of ways, including bringing in a few counselors for some of the team to talk to.
It was a comfort being all together, though. When she had left Germany and had gone back to New York, she had been resigned to the fact that they were never going to be a team again, that she was going to have to live her life solitary and underground. It was what she had been trained for, but the thought had still stung, so now, in Wakanda, being with everyone, seeing them smile through the pain, hearing them laugh, sometimes it was too much for her.
T’Challa joined her outside on one of the palace’s large balconies during on of these moments. She was staring out over the lands of Wakanda but not really seeing anything. There was a lump in her throat that felt too big to swallow and her eyes were stinging.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she answered, but the way her voice cracked just slightly on the last word told them both she was lying.
“They are your family. It is understandable to be upset about what has happened to them.”
“It’s not that.” Natasha curled her fingers around the railing of the banister, suddenly needing something to hold on to. She took a breath. “I wasn’t raised to have a family. To have friends.”
“So you do not think you should have them then?”
She shrugged.
“Just because you were not supposed to doesn’t mean you don’t deserve them.” T’Challa put his own hand on the railing, right next to hers, his fingers brushing hers. She glanced up at him. The way he was looking at her …
“Would you have dinner with me tonight, Miss Romanoff?”
“We have dinner with you every night.”
“No,” he clarified. “Just with me this time. In my private dining quarters.”
She stared at him. “Like a date?” she said. Her brow furrowed. That couldn’t be what he was doing. No one had ever asked her — Natasha — out on a date before. Natalie Rushman had a lot of date offers, and so did her other personas, but never had she met someone who wanted to take her — Natasha — to dinner unless it was for reasons that had nothing to do with getting to know her.
“Yes, a date,” T’Challa said. “I believe that is what they call it in America.”
“Why?” she couldn’t help asking. “Why me?”
“Because you, Natasha Romanoff, are worth getting to know.”
•••
She put on one of the evening dresses that had been in the piles of clothes she had been given when she first arrived. It was floor-length and navy blue, with a neckline that dipped and set off her cleavage quite nicely. Wanda helped do her hair — it seemed to make her happy — curling it and piling it on top of her head, and the men all hooted and hollered when Wanda led her out of her room.
“So if you marry him,” Scott said, “do we have to start calling you Queen Natasha, because I’m not sure I can get behind that.”
“I am not bowing to you,” Clint said. “And I don’t care how many royal decrees you pass to try to get me to.”
“Shut up,” Natasha said, but she was glad she had long ago learned to control her blushing reflex. If she hadn’t, she was sure her face would have matched her hair.
•••
They had dinner at a table outside on one of the balconies she had never been on before. It overlooked the mist and the mountains, and the heat lamp next to them kept the temperature just right. The table had been set with candles and wine, and T’Challa handed her a bouquet of what must have been four dozen white roses when she walked in.
“You look beautiful,” he told her, kissing her respectfully on the cheek.
“I still don’t understand why you brought me here,” she said later that night. They had talked all through their meal, and then he had directed the staff to leave them, leading her to bench where they were sitting side by side. He had taken her hand when they first sat down, his thumb gently stroking over her knuckles, each movement sending a matching tingle down her spine.
“It was my fault you were attacked.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“I turned you in.”
“I made the choice to do what I did.”
“I thought they would arrest you, not try to kill you.”
“Wait.” Natasha frowned. “You were there. You were following me?”
“Not following.”
“You knew what was going to happen?”
“I have much information. Being a king is very helpful in that regard.”
“But why? Why would you try to help me?”
“Because I have never met anyone like you.” T’Challa’s thumb stopped moving over her hand but his fingers squeezed hers almost tightly. “You are something else.”
“Something else … good?”
“Something else amazing.”
She couldn’t help herself. She leaned forward, pressed her lips to his, not hard, not long, just enough to see what he would do, before she drew back.
The expression on his face hadn’t changed. She couldn’t read him. It unnerved her. She almost had the urge to get up from where they were sitting and run.
He tugged on her hand.
“I can do better,” he said.
“At kissing?”
“I am a king.”
The urge to run disappeared entirely. “Show me.”
(He did. Two weeks later, he showed her how good he was in bed. Two weeks after that, the rest of the team started calling her ‘Your Highness’ every time she walked into a room. But for once, she was happy, and she didn’t even try — that hard — to get them to stop.)