.
"… course, my King."
Hunched in one of the looming balconies and half hidden behind the thick drapery of the curtain, Prince T'Challa of Wakanda does his very best to breathe quietly, all the while pushing aside the awkward sensation of feeling like a child once again. It has, after all, been a very long time since he dared to try eavesdropping on Baba. However… however he'd heard the words 'prince' and 'soulmark' and hadn't been able to help himself. Not when the information was clearly (surely?) pertinent to him alone. It doesn't stop the thundering of his chest over the concept of being caught which is utterly ridiculous, he's the Black Panther now, the protector of his people. Yet, the nostalgia of childhood mischief (and the slime-like sensation of guilt) still persists. Senses straining, T'Challa listens to the fading footsteps of his father and the unexpected War Dog leave the room. While the chances of his… spying being discovered are decreasing, should his heartrate not be following the same pattern? Yet, even when he is sure the room is empty, it takes a fair while longer for his pulse to settle. Flipping over the edge of the balcony, T'Challa lands on the tiled floors, the suit taking most of the impact and allowing only the slightest sound to accompany his descent. The papers are still out on the desk (not unusual, given the technology available in the outside world, the War Dogs cannot go around brandishing Kimoyo Beads at their targets) and he not quite hurries over but doesn't waste any time to begin snooping about. There's several pictures, the images clearer than anything T'Challa knows the outside world can produce but not on Wakanda's level. Several close-ups of a pale forearm and the dark, ink-like marks scrawled across it. Some T'Challa doesn't recognise (which is odd for soulmarks imprint and evolve in languages that those involved consider a pivotal point of their identity) but the others he most certainly does. It's Wakandan writing, markings he recognises all too well. It's his mother tongue and there is, without question, 'prince' scrawled downwards, near the centre of the mark. For a second, T'Challa seriously considers the fact that he may quite possibly be in one of those incredibly rare triad pairings. It's an imbecilic thought; the design does not match his or Nakia's in the slightest and he feels foolish for even considering it. Almost as stupid as remaining in this room to be caught. T'Challa shuffles through the papers swiftly, copying them onto his Kimoyo Beads before scampering from the room. He needs to get the suit back before Baba notices he's finished his training for the day but not yet returned it.
.
He doesn't get to look at his stol… borrowed images until later that night. He spends three hours babysitting Shuri while their parents attend a meeting with the tribe elders. Shuri who's consuming physics and mathematics books that T'Challa hadn't touched until he was twice her age. Maybe even older than that. There's nothing more daunting that a younger sibling that's turning out to be smarter than you. He's positive the little menace will be causing him all sorts of trouble in the future and T'Challa grins at the thought. Still, when night has fallen, Shuri has been tucked into her bed (and he's retrieved what he's relatively sure is the entirety of her stolen goods; a soldering kit and chip-board, along with all sorts of other technology she's started playing around with recently) with no chance of her not sleeping, he finally falls back onto his own mattress and brings up the images. The War Dog, whoever it was, has been efficient. However, there is a clear gap in information that will undoubtedly make Baba nervous. Especially when she has a Wakandan mark. They have accepted outsiders before, but only ever those with a soulmark and the secrecy of what Wakanda truly is has always been kept. But there's never been an outsider with 'prince' in her marking.
"I am Wakanda's only prince," T'Challa states but even as the words leave his lips, the strength behind them is shaky at best. Soulmark do not lie. Prince is the male terminology, a title, and the woman (Hariel Potter) had been born female. The birth certificate is there in the War Dogs reports. But T'Challa has no brothers. The only other prince would have been prince N'Jobu but he had disappeared on a War Dog assignment in America. He can remember the funeral they'd had recently when he had been declared dead in absentia; there'd been no body. Besides, he recalls his uncle's soulmark, remembers the English script that had been on it. Whatever these squiggly lines are, they are not English. Flicking through Wakanda's database yields no results; only an ancient stone tablet in India that boasts the same markings. No one has ever deciphered them. Lips purse,d T'Challa returns his attention to the words he can understand. There's Prince, of course, but some of the others are… peculiar. What could 'Master of Death' possibly mean? A quick search comes up with old English folk-laws, passed down through families. Something to do with a 'Peverell brothers. It all means nothing to him.
The night wears on and the more time that passes, the more time T'Challa becomes convinced he is not Wakanda's only prince. There are two discomforting conclusions. One; his own father has another son out there somewhere. That one is the least likely. Option two… Uncle N'Jobu had a child. It's not outside the realm of possibility, it's fairly obvious now. The only question is why N'Jobu never brought his child to Wakanda. Something isn't adding up, something is wrong and T'Challa needs answers. Another quick search on Hariel Potter yields no known soulmate, so either she has yet to meet his relative or they have not yet gone public. However, her charity does have a mailing address. It has been a long time since T'Challa has written a letter and it's certainly a first for him to be writing one to an outsider. None the less, he quickly sources a pencil and paper, scrambling to recall how to begin.
'Dear Miss Potter,'
.
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He's not on a mission this time. Instead, it's in the dining hall, listening to one of Stead's mates natter on about his vacation that he's enjoyed (no doubt with obvious embellishments but Erik can't be fucked to analyse the conversation to figure out just what is truth and what isn't) when the pain tears through his chest. Erik chokes, one hand digging into the material of his shirt, clawing at his chest while the other curls into the table-edge.
"-rik! Erik!" Fuck. He knows what a bullet feels like, knows how a gunshot wound forms on the body. He's had a slug dug out of his thigh before, had that one that skimmed his hip. Sure as hell he ain't had one through the chest before and when his hand comes away dry as a bone, it becomes obvious this isn't his pain in the slightest. Shoving himself back and away from the table (fuck, it can't be happening again, it can't), Erik snatches the hem of his trousers and forces them down on one side, enough to expose his thigh and the fading top of a soulmark. Fading. The fuck's it doing, fading like that.
"Don't you fucking dare," he hisses out, the phantom ache of a bullet wound in his chest (left side but it's too far left to be a heart shot, too high to have hit a lung unless there's something fucked up with Harrie's biology) and the withering ink of a soulmark against his fingers. It waivers for a moment and then blooms, darkening once again until back to the usual solid black, stark even against his dark skin. He watches as one of the squiggles mutates, twisting until it settles into the new design; Harrie's shitty indistinguishable language offering no clue as to what the fuck just happened. Why the fuck she's just been shot.
"Bloody hell, that's a close call." Erik tears his pants back up, shooting an acidic glare Finner's way before he twists on heel, storming out of the cafeteria. Is this his life now? He tries getting on with his shit, only to be interrupted by Harrie almost dying. At least this time he'd felt the pain, you know, like you're supposed to when you have a strong soul connection. He'd hated that fact at the start, that they were part of the ten percent to have access to a meeting place, that they'd feel the other's life-threatening injuries. Hell, he still hates it. But at least now he's got some idea of what she's doing, even if it is only that she's endangering her life. Fucking hell, this blows.
.
It takes three hours for it to come up on their system. The Black Ops keep track of their operatives' soulmates and once they'd had Erik's soulmark on record and Harrie had decided to go frolicking about in high society, the computers would have been following her. Three hours and ten minutes later, Erik's commanding officer (not for long, he'll be getting his own team soon, he's just too good at this) tracks him down and imposes leave on him. 'Parently a soulmate recovering from a near fatal gunshot wound warrants four days of leave when said soulmates know each other. He has Stead to thank for informing the Ops of that and he will thank him. Next time they spar, Erik'll make it abundantly clear just how 'thankful' he is.
Consequently, fourteen hours from the incident finds Erik standing outside a hospital room in mother-fucking Zuckerberg San Francisco General Hospital and Trauma Center. Because of course she managed to get shot so close to (not) home. Why would he ever expect anything else of Harrie? Rolling his eyes, Erik stalks into the room and does his damn best to ignore the fact they've slotted her in a private room. Of course they have; she's been spotted cosying up to the likes of Stark and all the other rich assholes (though, admittedly, Stark's at least tryna do something about all his shit, what with the whole Ironman lark he's got going on; probably pales in comparison to what Wakanda could do though and that's what has Erik's innards burning). Of course they put her in a private room; they know she can pay for it, after all. Dropping into the seat by her bed, Erik's pack hits the floor by his feet, legs stretched out. He's been awake for too fucking long and hadn't been arsed to bother with the hospital staff. Instead he'd snuck in right under their noses, stalking down the corridor and evading the gaze of healthcare professionals with ease. A quick look at Harrie's charts shows no-one will be coming to check on her until oh-five-hundred and by that time it'll be visiting hours for the rich and privileged. Not that he'd be going anywhere if they tried to turf him out. He checks her over, taking note of the cheap ass hospital gown and its utter failure to hide the fat bandage that undoubtedly covers Harrie's wound, exposed by the low neckline's wide collar. There's an IV in her right arm, pumping the good stuff into her veins. The left is free, skin paler than Erik's ever seen it (and that's saying something). Fuck, it almost matches the white of the bedsheet. Slouching forwards until his forearms are resting on the cheap-ass mattress (posh ward or not, why bother with quality supplies if they're probably only gonna get soiled, right?), he works one hand around her wrist, fingertips finding the pulse-point. It's strong. Though he wants to know why the fuck she even let a bullet get anywhere near her. Ain't she capable of magicking it out of existence or some shit like that? Those fucking dark smudges are under her eyes again. She's supposed to have got rid of them when that shit war of hers ended. Grumbling, Erik lays his head in the cradle of his arms, Harrie's pulse still thrumming up from the pads of his fingers. Just a quick nap.
.
A quick nap turns into a six-and-a-half-hour sleep rudely interrupted at oh-five-hundred-and-twelve (they're running late) by the surprised scream of a nurse. Erik jostles into a semi-state of alertness, hand reaching for a gun before his mind shifts into high gear, alert and ready.
"Naw, you need to calm down, Shawty's mine," Erik drawls out, tapping at the soulmark that's exposed on Harrie's wrist, "how else ya think I knew she was here?"
What follows is a piss poor interrogation of how he got in the building (some nurse with blond hair), how he knew where Harrie's room was (he was led there) and proof of his soulmate status (here he'd actually not had to lie, instead just peeling off trousers that he's been wearing for too long anyways. After that, they leave him alone, the nurses occasionally sending him wary looks as they top up Harrie's cocktail of drugs. Plus point that comes out of Harrie's undoubtedly expensive room; the en suite. A chance to shower after too long working out, followed by a meal in the mess hall then an eight-hour flight. The sweat is swiftly scrubbed from his form and Erik tries not to think too hard on the fact he'd woken up with his fingers curled around Harrie's wrist, forefinger still searching out for that sure pulse.
Upon returning to her room, Erik rifles through the new papers, inspecting the get-well card that's appeared on the bedside table with he huge bouquet of flowers. His snooping helps with his understanding of the event. Apparently a mugging Harrie hadn't been able to ignore; she'd gotten between the gun-slinger and a seven-year-old child.
"Stupid scrappy white girl," Erik huffs and it's not even got any malice this time. Just bone-tired weariness. How the fuck is he supposed to keep ignoring this girl when she's off risking her life for children, off sticking her nose in places and helping people? She's fucking ridiculous and undoubtedly knows it. A backstory that grates too closely to his own; murdered parents, fighting again oppression, an outsider to her own culture. Scowling, Erik lifts Harrie's hand, inspecting the barbaric carvings on the back; 'I must not tell lies'. He doesn't have a fucking clue why that's there, other than as a by-product of torture from her war. She's been through some shit. Barking out a rough laugh, Erik runs his thumb over the words, that dull, ever-present rage bubbling away. There's fuckers out there that still think it's acceptable to torture people, to torture children because, fuck it, that's what Harrie'd have been when she got this.
A nurse brings him a sandwich up from the cafeteria, the wetness to her eyes a clear indication they remind her of some couple she knows. That or she feels empathetic; to anyone looking in he probably does seem like a worried lover or some shit like that. He's too fucking tired to even bother tryna dispute that conclusion. He just wants Harrie to wake up so he can needle her into not doing that again.
.
His time comes soon enough, a whole thirty-two hours after she's been shot. Erik suspects visiting hours have been over for a while now but clearly no one's got enough guts about them to try turfing him outta here. Not that he'd let 'em. Her arm moves before the rest of her, fingers reaching down to graze against his own, her brow crinkling in confusion. Near translucent eyelids peel back and those green as fuck eyes hazily focus on him, sharpening up with ever breath she takes.
"Erik?"
"You expectin' anyone else, Shawty?" She huffs, eyes fluttering closed again and then her fingers are working their way between his, gripping tight. He could break her hold, could easily slide his fingers outta her grasp without much effort at all. He doesn't.
"Not really. Just surprised. Good surprised though." She grins, not a flash of teeth but a wide stretch of her lips, looking pleased as punch. It's irritating as fuck.
"Damn it, whatchu want me to do, carry you 'round in my pocket all the damn time? 'Cause you're always gettin' injured!" Harrie jostles at his sudden snap, swinging her head round to stare with those bright eyes deer in a headlights style.
"Of course not! That'd be ridiculous, It's just nice seeing you care."
"Care?" Erik numbly parrots. In response, Harrie squeezes the hand still in her grasp and Erik hastily extracts it. But, fuck it all, he does care. She's scrappy as fuck and this little firecracker that got hurt protecting a seven-year-old brat. If everyone'd been like her, sticking their noses it but helping, always helping… Shit might not be so bad. He can't say for sure. Harrie's hand snakes across the bed, catching his own, palm over his knuckles and fingers curling around to rest atop gun-grip-callouses. She's so fucking white and that just throws it all into contrast more. He still cradles the tips of her fingers with his own. He's not gonna think about this shit, not now. There's still people being oppressed, that's not changed since his Pops last wrote in his journal. Wakanda's still not out there helping their brothers and sisters. Just because he was born on the outside, Erik was forced to remain there, well aware of his homeland's capabilities but unable to benefit from there. Open to all the suffering that was occurring. Aware that the man who put panther claws in his Daddy was still out there. Is still out there, unaccountable for the murder he committed.
He wants justice, he wants his people to no longer be oppressed just 'cause their skin's dark.
He doesn't know what the fuck he wants when it comes to Harrie.
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T'Challa! His part was the easiest to write here. I must have rewrote Erik's part about 4 times before he begrudgingly let me settle for this.
Lots of love,
Tsume
xxx