Chapter Text
It takes Sam nearly two weeks to realize he’s being followed. And that means whoever is following him is very good at their job, because Sam is trained, okay, he knows what he’s doing. And if they’re good enough to last two weeks, it’s possible he’s only noticing now because they’re letting him.
It makes him twitchy.
He realizes he’s being followed, but he doesn’t know who it is following him. That makes him very twitchy. It was not long ago at all that he was being held underwater in a super-villain prison.
So. Twitchy.
Barnes is back to being unfrozen and un-murderous (most days), so Steve is back to making gooey eyes at him and lovingly insulting him. The three of them train together, every morning, and now Sam has to deal with two assholes lapping him. Barnes frequently trips him on top of just kicking up dust. It’s rude, and Sam usually retaliates by messing with the fancy shampoo T’Challa gave Barnes.
They’re running, but Sam is twitchy again because he knows that person is back. Steve is running his little (big) heart out, but Barnes is sticking suspiciously close to Sam, like at any moment a “tree root” is going to pop up and lay him flat.
“You know you’re being followed, right?” Barnes says, voice low and barely audible over the screaming of the monkeys and birds in the jungle around them. Sam nearly trips anyway, no outstretched foot necessary.
“Uh, yeah,” he says. “I noticed. But I don’t know who it is.”
Barnes clenches his jaw. “I’ll find out,” he says resolutely. Sam’s starting to feel fond of him until he speeds up, making sure dirt and mud fly up behind him and at Sam.
“Thanks, asshole!” Sam calls after him.
“On your left!” Steve chirps cheerfully, voice coming from behind him, then next to him, then ahead of him. Sam swears. Supersoldiers are the literal worst.
There’s an intense commotion from the trees, and Steve is heading straight toward the blob that is Barnes wrestling with someone. Even down an arm, Barnes is no easy mark. Sam puts on a burst of speed in time to see Steve launch himself at the other person, literally barreling straight into them. He used to that with his shield in front of him. Now he just uses his body.
“Stop!” The person commands. Steve holds up a hand, standing between the attacker and Barnes.
“Buck, what’s going on?” He asks.
“Why are you following Wilson?” Barnes snarls. “Who do you work for?”
“I work for no one.” Sam is finally close enough to see his tail’s face. It’s a woman, tall and formidable. She’s got a split lip, most likely thanks to Barnes, but she’s holding her head high.
“You’ve been following him for weeks,” Steve says, making Sam start a little in surprise. Steve never said anything about it, so Sam had figured he didn’t know. He should’ve known better. Steve didn’t survive a war and everything else he’s been through by being unaware of his surroundings.
“Aren’t you one of T’Challa’s people?” Sam asks. He recognizes her, he thinks. Her lip curls a little, but she doesn’t look angry.
“I am not one of his people,” she counters. “I am his advisor.”
“Why are you following me?” Sam asks. He feels a little calmer, now that he can see who it is. Not a lot calmer, considering anyone in T’Challa’s inner circle can probably snap him like a twig, but at least he has a face to put with the rustling sound in the bushes.
“His highness is…” She pauses. “His highness would like to speak with you.”
“His highness speaks to me every day,” Sam points out.
“And you’ve been following Sam for weeks,” Steve repeats. “Why would T’Challa send you to follow him for weeks just to give a message?”
“He did not send me,” she says, eyes flashing. “I am not a messenger.”
“Then what—” Steve starts, losing patience, but Sam cuts him off.
“Let’s take it to T’Challa then.” He raises his eyebrows when everyone turns to look at him. “He wants to speak to me, fine. Let’s go.”
She purses her lips, but inclines her head. “You should wash first.” Sam looks down at his sweaty shirt and sees the mud splattered across his chest. He glares at Barnes, who shrugs blithely.
After a quick shower and a change of clothes, Sam is waiting outside T’Challa’s board room, Steve and Barnes flanking him on either side.
“If he wants us to leave…” Steve mutters. “I don’t know where we’ll go.”
“Natasha can find us something,” Barnes says confidently.
“That’s if he lets us go,” Steve shoots back. “Maybe he doesn’t want us in his palace anymore but he doesn’t want us in the world at large.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” Sam argues. “Why would he let us stay here this long if he was just going to hand us over?”
Steve shrugs. “He still supports the Accords.”
That’s true, and it does rankle under Sam’s skin. Before anyone can say anything else, the solid mahogany door swings open and the same woman is standing there. Her lip is swollen.
“His highness will see you now,” she announces. The three of them start to move in, but she holds up a hand. “Only you,” she tells Sam.
“Uh, why?” Sam asks.
“King T’Challa wishes a private conversation with you.”
Steve is starting to get that mulish look on his face that means he’s gearing up to fight. Barnes elbows him. “Fine,” he says. “We’ll stay out here.” It’s a reassurance and a threat in one. Steve glares at Barnes and Barnes looks unimpressed. “We know by now we can trust T’Challa,” Barnes says quietly. “And if we can’t, Wilson can handle himself until we get through the door.”
Steve’s nostrils flare, but he doesn’t argue. “Okay,” he agrees. “Sam?”
“Yeah,” Sam assures him. “I’ll be fine. T’Challa’s not going to hurt me.” If nothing else, T’Challa is reasonable. And if any of them have reason to be wary of the guy, it’s Barnes, thanks to the whole T’Challa trying to kill him thing, so if Barnes thinks it’s safe, it’s probably okay.
She lets him pass and, surprisingly, closes the door behind him without following him in. Sam walks into the room and sees T’Challa out on the balcony.
“Hello, Sam,” he says.
“Hi,” Sam answers cautiously. “You want to tell me what all this secrecy’s about?”
“I am sorry Shuri was following you,” T’Challa says right away. “I want you to know that I did not ask her to do that.”
“Yeah, she made that clear,” Sam tells him. T’Challa looks apologetic.
“Shuri is…protective.”
“Okay,” Sam says. He doesn’t know what that has to do with anything. He doesn’t think he’s the highest threat to T’Challa, so he’s not sure why she singled him out to follow.
“Sam, I wanted to talk to you because…” T’Challa stops. “I have things that I wish to…” He rubs his hands on his pants and Sam realizes, with a start, that T’Challa’s nervous. Something’s going down.
“Are you kicking us out?” Sam asks bluntly. He doesn’t know what number Natasha’s using these days—she ditches her phone so often it’s impossible to keep track—but Barnes will find her somehow. It’s some kind of scary Russian spy shit, the way those two communicate. Smoke signals or something; Sam doesn’t know.
“No!” T’Challa reaches a hand forward but stops before he actually touches Sam. Sam stares down at the space where T’Challa’s hand was a second ago. “The opposite, actually.”
“You’re asking us…to stay?” Sam asks confusedly.
T’Challa takes a deep breath. “Sam, I would like to court you,” he says. “If you are—if you want that.” He’s blushing, Sam realizes with a funny little drop in his stomach. T’Challa, the Black Panther, the king of Wakanda, is blushing as he…asks Sam out?
“Court me?” Sam parrots. He feels like he’s missed a step going down a staircase. His brain is desperately trying to keep up, but it got lost several sentences back.
“Yes,” T’Challa says, chin high despite his blush. “I was waiting to make my intentions clear until I knew you better, but Shuri.” He rolls his eyes. “Shuri followed you. I know that Barnes did not take that well.”
“He doesn’t like being followed,” Sam says dazedly.
“He does not like you being followed,” T’Challa corrects quietly. It takes Sam a second, brain still spinning away like it’s loading, but he realizes what T’Challa’s implying.
“Nuh-uh,” Sam says quickly. “Nope, not me and Barnes.”
“And Rogers?” T’Challa asks.
Sam hesitates a little, because—well. “No,” he says. “Not—not for real.” There was a kiss, once, when they were running around after Rumlow and Barnes and whatever robots the world saw fit to throw at them. But Sam had been drunk and weepy and Steve had been sad and weepy and it ended up being a little bit terrible. And Sam wasn’t really looking to get into a relationship with a guy who was chasing ghosts that hard, not even if it was Steve. It took Sam long enough to get rid of his own ghosts.
“Hang on,” Sam says. “Were you not making a move because you thought I was with one of them?”
“Or both of them,” T’Challa admits, and that’s…something. Sam blinks a few times to clear that mental image away. He might revisit it later. But maybe not, the way this conversation’s going.
“Well, I’m not,” Sam tells him slowly. “So…”
“So,” T’Challa agrees. They stare at each other for a minute, and then T’Challa reaches a tentative hand out and rests it on Sam’s arm. Sam looks down at T’Challa’s fingers, at the rings adorning them, feels the callouses and the warmth, and his heart starts beating a little faster.
“What exactly does courting entail?” Sam asks. He doesn’t remember giving his vocal cords the okay to go all low and husky like that, but they went ahead and did it anyway. T’Challa doesn’t seem to mind. His thumb starts to stroke Sam’s arm a little and it makes goosebumps rise up on Sam’s skin.
“Well,” T’Challa starts. “Dinners together. Walks in the gardens. Getting to know one another. You have been here some time, but we have not been alone much.” He’s blushing again. Sam is delighted. The king is shy. And he is bad at flirting.
“That sounds good to me,” Sam says. His stomach flutters a little. He feels like he’s fifteen again, working up the nerve to kiss Suzanne Ingram for the first time. He raises his free hand and puts it on top of T’Challa’s. T’Challa smiles at him and Sam’s stomach drops. Oh, yeah. He’s definitely feeling it. But then T’Challa’s smile drops.
“There are complications,” he says apologetically. “I am the king.”
“I noticed,” Sam says. T’Challa doesn’t laugh.
“There are certain expectations of whomever a royal is courting. I do not want—I would like privacy, as we get to know each other. But eventually it will be known.” T’Challa almost gulps. “If…we get to an eventually.”
Holy shit. Sam feels like he just drank four glasses of champagne in a row or something. His blood is buzzing.
“Uh,” he says eloquently. “Uh huh.”
T’Challa smiles faintly and puts a hand on Sam’s face. Sam’s eyes flutter closed like he’s a damn Disney princess. “I want you to know, I am very glad you are amenable to this courtship.”
Sam can’t help it. He cracks up laughing. He laughs harder when T’Challa’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “That’s a really formal way of putting it,” Sam explains through his laughter. “I am quite amenable.”
T’Challa still looks a little confused, but he soldiers on. “But I do not want you to think you are obligated,” he says earnestly. “You and your friends are my guests. I do not want to take advantage of that.”
“You’re not,” Sam assures him. “I’m a big boy.” His face floods with heat as he realizes what he just said. And then it gets worse when T’Challa smirks.
“Well, well,” he says. “Getting more amenable by the second, I see.”
Sam huffs. “Yeah, okay, don’t be getting cocky.”
T’Challa smirks again and Sam thinks he might combust. T’Challa is a good looking man, and though Sam can’t say he consciously thought about climbing him like a tree previous to this meeting, his mind is making up for lost time now.
“But Sam.” T’Challa turns serious again. “When I said expectations, I meant it. Appearances, ceremonies, customs that must be followed. It is a lot of pressure. And I understand if you do not want that.”
That’s an actual concern. It was something that Sam thought about with Steve, because the man gets a lot of press. Sam doesn’t even want to think about how much that would be amplified with a literal monarch of a country.
But he’s looking at T’Challa’s hopeful face, T’Challa’s thumb sweeping across his skin, and before he really means to he blurts out, “I want to try.”
The smile that breaks across T’Challa’s face makes Sam’s mouth go dry. He’s gone from zero to sixty in the course of one conversation. Well, okay, not zero. He does remember checking T’Challa out a few times over the two months they’ve been in Wakanda. That Black Panther suit doesn’t leave much to the imagination. Now Sam’s blushing.
“May I have dinner with you?” T’Challa asks. “Tonight?”
Sam gives him a look. “T’Challa, we eat dinner together every night. It’s a communal table.”
“I meant just us, in a private room. There are some perks to being king, you know,” T’Challa teases.
“Yeah,” Sam says with a smile. “I’d like that.”
“Good,” T’Challa murmurs, putting his hand back on Sam’s cheek and brushing his thumb across Sam’s cheekbone. “I will look forward to it for the rest of the day.”
“Me too.” He will, Sam realizes. He’s already excited.
“Thank you,” T’Challa says, and then there’s an awkward beat where neither of them know what to say. Is Sam supposed to leave now? They made their dinner plans—is that the end of this meeting? T’Challa looks as unsure as Sam feels.
“I better get back out there before Steve and Barnes break that door down,” Sam offers. He doesn’t think he’s imaging the relief in T’Challa’s face.
“They would have to get through Shuri as well,” T’Challa reminds him. “Though there are two of them. Both enhanced with super-strength. I suppose it is a possibility.”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, okay, buddy,” he says, because he might have a crush on the guy but he’s not just going to listen to him doubt his best friend. T’Challa laughs a little.
“Anyway,” he says. “I will see you tonight.”
“Yeah, see you tonight,” Sam echoes. He thinks for a second T’Challa might kiss him, and he licks his lips in anticipation. T’Challa’s smile grows, but he just nods at Sam and takes a step back. Sam tries not to feel too disappointed.
He gets back out the door and finds Steve pacing in the hallway. Barnes is leaning against the wall. Both snap to attention when Sam comes out. Shuri gives him a long look before disappearing back inside the meeting room.
“Are you okay?” Steve asks.
“I am incredibly great,” Sam says. “And I think I’m dating the king.”
“Barnes, you better not use up all the hot water!” Sam yells.
“You already showered!” Barnes yells back, which means he’s absolutely using up all the hot water.
“It is like a thousand degrees here with a thousand percent humidity!” Sam points out. He bangs on the door. “Get out!”
“Oh my God, T’Challa’s not enough for you, now you need me too?” Barnes says, and Sam’s face catches fire.
“Shut up!”
Steve is laughing, somewhere outside the bathroom, and Sam’s going to make some kind of comment—he’s not entirely sure what about, but he figures if he opens his mouth something will come out—when the shower turns off. Sam snaps his mouth shut and waits impatiently.
Barnes comes out in just a towel, hair dripping everywhere, holding the towel around his waist loosely in his fist. It doesn’t look very secure, and he doesn’t look very concerned. Sam is torn on that particular subject. On the one hand, God, he doesn’t want to see Barnes’s balls, but on the other, he thinks it’s kind of nice that Barnes is so unself-conscious. Steve was worried he’d be embarrassed about the scars covering almost inch of him, but he doesn’t seem to care.
It could be tragic, Sam supposes, if they let themselves go down that path.
“Showering before your big date, huh?” Barnes says now, waggling his eyebrows horrifically. “Expecting something?”
“Buck, leave Sam alone,” Steve chides, far too seriously to be real. “You know he sweats a lot when he’s nervous.”
“Y’all are assholes,” Sam informs them both before closing the bathroom door. He can hear them laughing and then he can hear them murmuring and he’s pretty sure there’s no way that towel’s staying up much longer. They better be done when he’s out of the shower.
When he gets out, he can hear a woman’s voice in the room, which is weird. It’s not Natasha, so he doesn’t know who else it would be. He kind of wishes he’d brought some clothes in here with him. But he shakes his head at himself. He’s got a good body. It’s fine.
It’s Shuri. She looks him up and down and he suddenly feels a lot less fine. She raises an eyebrow. “Well, his highness always did like the soldiers,” she says. Her tone doesn’t sound very complimentary.
“Thanks…?” Sam’s completely confused.
“You are having dinner with the king tonight,” she tells him.
“Yeah, I know,” Sam shoots back. “He invited me.”
Steve and Barnes are caught in between the two of them, eyes going back and forth like they’re watching a tennis match. Steve looks concerned, but Barnes looks amused. Asshole.
“He is hoping you will have dinner with him for many nights to come,” she says. And Sam can’t help the way he blushes a little. Barnes’s eyes widen in delight. Great.
“I’m hoping that, too,” Sam admits. Steve gets this soft little smile on his face and it makes Sam blush even more.
“You are not who I would choose for the king.”
Well. That’s some nice cold water doused all over him. “Good thing you don’t get the choice, right?” Sam snaps.
“Sam is perfect,” Steve argues. “T’Challa’d be so lucky.”
“He is the king of Wakanda,” Shuri reminds them all. “You,” she says to Sam, “are not Wakandan.”
Sam doesn’t know how to respond to that. If it was illegal, T’Challa wouldn’t have bothered, right? But Shuri seems pretty mad about it.
“So?” Barnes finally asks. Shuri’s eyes flash.
“Typical American,” she mutters. “You think Wakanda should be happy to have you. We have never needed you before and do not need you now. He has much to learn about who he entertains while being king.”
“And you’re an expert?” Sam shoots back, anger flaring in his chest. It’s partially for himself, but it’s also, he realizes, for T’Challa. Isn’t that some kind of borderline treason?
Shuri takes a deep breath, composing herself. “I am not here to fight with you,” she promises. “The king has chosen to court you and I will not try to change his mind.” Sam figures she probably tried plenty before.
“So why are you here?” Steve asks bluntly. He’s Mr. Polite to little old ladies, but that doesn’t stick around long if he thinks someone has it out for his friends.
“You need someone to teach you to act appropriately,” Shuri tells Sam. “You need to be ready for the people watching you closely. We have customs, mannerisms, things that are important for you to get right. You must learn.”
Sam blinks. “That…doesn’t sound bad,” he admits. “We’ve been pretty sheltered from your culture while we’ve been here.”
“Yes,” she agrees, the look on her face telling him she’s not exactly happy about that.
“So how do I learn?”
Shuri purses her lips. “I will teach you.”
Barnes lets out a little guffaw and everyone turns to look at him. “You’re gonna give him prince lessons?” He asks, a little gleefully.
Shuri shrugs. “Well, if he and the king marry he would be prince consort.”
“Whoa,” Sam says. “Can we calm down?” His stomach dropped at her words. If they marry. Holy shit. They haven’t even gone on a date yet.
Steve has a crease between his eyebrows that never means anything good. “Can Sam be prince consort?” He asks. “If he’s not even a citizen of Wakanda?”
“He can legally,” Shuri says. “The people may not like it. But if he is married to the king, citizenship is not really a question.”
“If Sam wants to,” Steve reminds her. “He may not even fall in love with T’Challa.”
Barnes makes a considering noise. “Why wouldn’t he? I’m half in love with him already.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “Stop it.”
“I’m just saying. If Sam changes his mind, maybe I’ll have a chance.”
“You will not,” Shuri says, sounding bored. Steve and Barnes both look offended.
“Uh, okay,” Sam cuts in before Steve can wax poetic about Barnes. “Can I get dressed now?”
Shuri shrugs, unconcerned. “Go ahead. I will need to approve your attire anyway.” She tries to follow him into his bedroom and he shakes his head.
“Nope,” he tells her. “You are not who I want to see me naked today.”
“You cannot have sexual relations with the king of Wakanda until—”
“God, stop,” Sam begs. “I get it. Customs, requirements, yeah, yeah. But right now, I’m putting some clothes on and going to dinner with a guy I’ve barely had three private conversations with. Okay? Save the rest of your ideas for a time we may actually need them.”
Shuri narrows her eyes. “Fine,” she says. “But I will be in the hallway.”
Sam closes the door on her and leans his head against it. Holy shit. He knew there would be media considerations, but still. Holy shit. Talk about putting the cart before the horse. Marriage. Prince consort. Good God.
His mother would probably demand a tiara.
Maybe he should call this off. He doesn’t even believe in monarchy as a system of government. He can’t be part of that. Plus, wouldn’t that mean he’d have to live in Wakanda forever? Never go back to DC? This whole fugitive thing is temporary. Soon it’ll all blow over and they’ll get to go home. Right? Sam’s got some issues with the US of A, most of which can be summed up in the way he was held underwater and not given any kind of due process, but it’s still his country. He’s a bit ideological, underneath it all, and he thinks they can fix the parts that are broken. He wants to fix the parts of the US that are broken.
So he can’t get involved with T’Challa. He can’t.
He pulls on an undershirt and some boxers, scanning his closet. He’ll still go to dinner with T’Challa, because he said he would. And he needs to let him down. T’Challa’s a good guy; he won’t be weird about it. It’ll be fine.
He doesn’t put too much effort into his appearance—he’s not cruel; he’s not going to bring his A game and then snatch it away from the dude—but he does but some effort. T’Challa’s hot, and Sam can’t help it if he wonders if maybe T’Challa will be down for a little casual fling. Sam’s not sure he’d be good at a casual fling, but he’s willing to give it a shot. If kings can even do that sort of thing. Back in the day, didn’t kings have concubines? Sam could be a concubine. Laying around eating grapes and then getting fucked. Sounds nice for a temporary gig.
Shuri doesn’t say anything about his clothes, but Barnes whistles at him and Steve contributes an embarrassingly dorky yowza to the ribbing, so Sam knows he doesn’t look bad. Shuri leaves him outside a room he’s never been to before and Sam’s not sure what he’s supposed to do. Does he knock? Does he just walk in?
The door swings open and saves him from making a decision. “Hello, Sam,” T’Challa says, smiling as he lets Sam in.
“Hi,” Sam responds, looking T’Challa up and down almost against his will. Goddamn can that man wear a suit. T’Challa leads him to a table and suddenly Sam finds himself saying, “I’m not so sure about this…all this.”
Not exactly how he’d planned to do it, but it would probably be rude to go through the whole dinner without saying it. A girl in college he’d dated for eight months had waited until after Sam had paid the check to break up with him, and he’s still a little miffed about how she’d been playing footsie with him under the table while she held the pin on that grenade.
“Oh,” T’Challa says. His face drops a little, but he nods. “I understand. It is a lot to ask.”
“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “I mean, I’m not even Wakandan.”
“True,” T’Challa concedes. “Well. We can still eat.”
Now Sam just feels bad. And it’s awkward. “It’s not that I’m not, uh, attracted to you or anything.” He cringes a little. Smooth, Wilson. Way to get rid of that awkwardness.
T’Challa smiles ruefully. “Thank you.”
They look down at their plates silently. A server brings out wine and T’Challa shakes his head minutely. Okay, no wine. The server gives Sam a dirty look, like he knows this is all Sam’s fault.
“Have you asked it of many people?” Sam blurts. Fuck, why is he such a mess? T’Challa’s hot, sure, but Sam’s been around beautiful people before. Maybe it’s the beauty mixed with him being king.
“What?” T’Challa asks. Sam can feel himself blushing.
“Well. You said you know it’s a lot to ask. So…” Sam trails off.
“Ah,” T’Challa says. “Well. Not many, no.” He won’t meet Sam’s eyes and now Sam feels even worse. T’Challa thought he was special or something. “It is…difficult,” T’Challa goes on. “People are not themselves around us. My family. They are very much on their best behavior.”
“And I insulted you the first time we met,” Sam realizes. T’Challa laughs.
“It was not an insult,” he assures Sam. “More…teasing. I have not had much teasing in my life. It was refreshing.”
Sam’s seen the way people stop what they’re doing when T’Challa walks by, not outright bowing but at least bending their heads a bit in deference. He’s never heard anyone raise their voice at him. He’s also seen more than one hungry look, and he can imagine being the prince—and now the king—means there are plenty of people coming after him solely for his title and his power.
And T’Challa’s come off as a bit shy, when he’s not chasing people around trying to murder them. He probably would’ve been shy even without being royalty, but that certainly doesn’t help him, never knowing who he can trust and who’s just hanging around because of his blood. He smiles at Sam again, a reassuring, steady smile.
“I hope we can be friends,” he says, and it doesn’t even sound like a cliché. Sam is suddenly the one with a pit in his stomach, even though he’d put the kibosh on the whole situation. He bites his lip. Is he really going to run just because of a little commitment scare? Is he going to prove T’Challa right about how he probably thinks everyone sees him? Is he going to prove Shuri right?
“I got a little freaked out,” Sam admits. “But…”
“But?” T’Challa echoes, eyebrows raising slightly. Is Sam imaging how hopeful he sounds? Sam’s got butterflies in his stomach.
“But I’m no coward,” Sam says firmly. “Tell your advisor I’m ready for my prince lessons.”