WAKANDA
13 DAYS LATER
Sooner (yet somehow much longer) than he thinks, the still-dazzling landscape of the Wakandan empire is on the horizon.
Steve stands on the Quinjet behind Nat in the cockpit, admiring the breathtaking scenery.
Even after all this time and all he's seen in his life, he's still bowled over by the vision of the kingdom of uniquely shaped towers fusing ancient African architecture with ever-evolving technology. He takes his time admiring the vast, lush green lands peppered with grazing animals, villages, and gorgeous clusters of forestland. The vibrant, constantly moving bizarre, stretching from the palace to the end of Central Wakanda, where locals and travelers from all over come to buy and sell unique wares that can only be found here. The sight of the mountainscape and Warrior Falls overlooking the majestic land surrounding the Great Mound, capped off by the powerful figure of the forever roaring panther goddess, Bast, will never, ever get old.
The kingdom is still recovering after losing half its citizenry and Thanos's attack, but it is still mighty and gorgeous. Washington is an ash heap compared to Wakanda.
Funnily enough, it all just reminds him of Bucky. He wonders what Bucky's life was like here all the time and, despite himself, he usually finds a little envy creeping into his musings.
"You know, I'm still kind of in shock that we're doing this."
Nat's smooth voice interrupts his thoughts. This is the first time she's spoken more than two words since they took off. She puts the Quinjet on autopilot now that they've been granted access through the border dome. Steve looks down to see her leaning back in the pilot seat with her arms crossed, watching the jet glide its way toward the palace landing zone in the distance. He can tell she's not really seeing the gorgeous Wakandan scenery, though.
He knows Nat is looking forward to seeing a few other familiar faces again. But she's opted to give him shit about this since he asked her to change her mind about coming. Mostly by questioning his motives between bouts of the silent treatment.
"You didn't have to come, Nat." He says quietly for what must be the thousandth time.
He's starting to regret asking her. Part of him is amused to think letting Shuri set him up and facing his awkwardness on the dating scene would be better than this.
Thinking of seeing Shuri again, even if she's just teasing him, makes him smile impulsively.
Natasha frowns, shaking her head as he eases into the seat next to her. "What's going on with you, Rogers? You've been grinning like a preteen all day. Don't tell me you're actually looking forward to this."
"I - weren't you the one who told me to get a life a few weeks ago?" he exhales impatiently, avoiding her probing gaze.
"You think wading into shark-infested waters was my idea of…?"
"Oh, come on, Nat. It's our friends," he snaps, losing his patience with her bitterness for the first time since she slipped into this unbreakable funk, "not some trap."
Natasha closes her eyes and rubs her forehead, her steely expression softening for the first time since they took off.
"Sorry," she relents under her breath. "It's not you. It's not even here," she gestures at the majestic land beneath them. "I'm just not looking forward to all those people with all that hope in their eyes and all their questions. Like what's left of us has any goddamned answers…"
He watches the painful reality of their failure darken her eyes as they finally meet his. She smiles softly, but there's no trace of cheer there at all. The super spy with steel in her veins and a thousand personas; who could work any room she entered with a flutter of her lashes; has suffered too long under the stress of living in the dust leftover from the decimation of half her chosen family. She's nervous. This is the first time Steve has ever seen her like this.
"Four years, Steve. And we're still lost."
Empathy coursing through him, Steve reaches over and squeezes Natasha's hand.
"No one's expecting you to have any answers." He offers her an encouraging smile. "Maybe just to do some dancing, sit through a few speeches, make some small talk…" he's relieved to see a smile forming despite the eye roll she tosses at him. "Best part is, we get a little break to see some familiar faces I know we both miss."
"Like the Queen's?" Natasha raises a perfectly-shaped eyebrow, not missing a beat as the jet begins its final decrease in altitude, homing in on the last stretch of their landing. Her sharp eyes study him discerningly.
Steve nods, wary of her curiosity. He's never opened up to Nat about his friendship with the queen. To be honest, he's been purposefully keeping it to himself. He admits to himself silently that it's this exact attitude of...skepticism...that he's been avoiding. The inevitable implication that his intentions are anything but pure. Or hers.
"Yeah, like Shuri."
"Hm."
He gathers his patience. "'Hm,' what, Nat?"
That familiar, barely-there smirk of hers. She always acts like she knows. Does she? There's nothing to know, Rogers. You're just keeping Shuri close to the vest because...because...why? Because you just want one thing...one good, pure, untainted thing to yourself.
Nat shrugs, staring him down. "She called...we're here."
Right. She definitely knows. That doesn't stop him from instantly resenting the implications of her tone. Or denying them. He doesn't think about whom he's really trying to convince, here.
"She's a friend. One of the only ones we have left." He emphasizes 'we', ignoring his annoyance and her irritating ability to read him like a book missing its cover. "If you stopped being so skeptical of what's waiting for us, you'd see she probably reached out because she's feeling the same way we are. We may not have all the answers, but we still support our friends, Nat."
That does it, diffusing her last bit of resistance. She blinks back her emotion. He takes that as his in to put her suspicions about his intentions or the queen's feelings to bed.
"You know, I tell people every week they should move on? Some do. But not us." He sighs deeply, the Wakandan sunset bringing out the shards of green in his normally azure eyes. "Actually, everyone who means something in my life has told me that at one time or another, including you. 'Sometimes the best we can do is start over...get a life.' I think it's time we listen. And lighten up for once, huh?"
Nat raises her eyebrows, impressed. "Pretty decent pep talk, Cap."
He chuckles, relieved that he won't have to fight both hers and his own uneasiness while they're here. "Good to know I haven't lost my touch."
The jet pings loudly, announcing that they're landing. Steve straightens up, watching the sprawling palace rise to meet them as they touch down onto the landing pad.
Nat follows him down the ramp, out underneath the pink sky and towering palace structures, letting her Shuri line of questioning drop. Steve concentrates on the kind eyes of the Queen Mother, Ramonda, and warm greetings from the Dora general, OKoye.
The Black Widow is already starting to relax by the time they've been welcomed back. She's even laughing and practicing her Xosha with OKoye as they're escorted through the palace.
"Shuri sends her greetings, Captain," Ramonda says quietly, falling behind with him as OKoye explains some of the changes they've made since the Decimation to Nat. "She regrets not being able to welcome you back herself."
Steve smiles again, the anticipation of seeing her in person after so long having only grown since he boarded the Quinjet this morning. If he's being honest, it's been growing since she invited him.
"Steve, please ma'am. What's she getting up to on her big night, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Checking and rechecking that her new designs are perfect for the hundredth time, I'm sure... " Ramonda waves a hand with an almost otherworldly elegance (he sees where Shuri gets her gracefulness from) and reaches out to take his arm.
He manages to hide his surprise. This is something she might never have done had they not both suffered through one of the most traumatic events of their lives together. The Queen Mother has always stood as an elevated, sovereign figure hovering just in his periphery, watching her son defend his kingdom and support the Avengers. Steve realizes he's never been this close to her before. It almost feels like a rite of passage. He keeps her supported respectfully as they walk.
He can't help marveling at the grandeur of their surroundings as if seeing it for the first time, every time. Every impeccably selected detail of this place - from the floor-to-ceiling oil paintings of generations of Wakandan tribe leaders, kings and queens, and their children, to the ornate sculptures and antique furniture, the fabrics, the murals on the ceilings, the looming, exotic plants, all of it a feast for the eyes - never ceases to amaze him. With each visit, the palace always manages to make him feel like that scrawny kid walking into the Stark expo for the first time.
"She's been working so hard, poor thing. Always off in her lab, at times for days, leaving me with all the gala planning."
Steve chuckles quietly at his feet as Ramonda clucks her tongue in mild exasperation with her daughter's nigh-superhuman work ethic.
"I've been trying to encourage her to rest," he replies, feeling her pain. "She's stubborn, though."
"Tuh! Who are you telling? I suppose she gets that from me. I can't say that I blame her..." he watches a grim cloud pass over her expression. He sees how much she's lost weighing her down just then, but she smiles radiantly anyway and continues, "at least she has something to take her mind off her sadness. Some of us only have our dreams to comfort us."
Steve feels for her deeply, but he can't find the words to comfort her either. So he stays quiet as they move on.
"It's good to see you both. I am glad you decided to come back this year," she confides, petting his arm, her rings glinting in the setting sunlight as they pass the windows overlooking one of the garden sitting areas.
"Me too, ma'am…"
She looks up at him, studying him. He politely endures it, though he's wondering why she's taking such an interest in what he looks like. "So is Shuri."
"She kinda made it sound like I'd never hear the end of it if I didn't."
Ramonda chuckles, which sounds like bells. "What she's been working toward...all of the stress she's put herself under to get this right...I know it will mean a lot to her to have your support. Especially yours."
Steve gazes down at her, frowning as he tries to understand what she's telling him. "Thank you, your Majesty. I'm glad to support the queen and Wakanda in any way I can."
She smiles warmly in answer. They drop Natasha off at her lavish three-room suite first, then Ramonda excuses herself to handle some issue with the catering. "I look forward to at least one dance with you tonight, Steve."
"I would be honored, ma'am." He bows his head graciously and watches her glide off. OKoye takes her place at his side with a somber smile. "How are you?"
"Not looking forward to the nightmare of securing the queen at the gala, or the long hours of mindless political chatter, but other than that…" she tips her perfectly round head from side to side, shrugging. "Better. We rebuild. We honor our lost ones. We find ways to press forward."
"Yeah…" Steve hangs his head as they close in on his side of the guest wing. "Why does it feel like we're constantly running in place, though?"
They stop at the double doors to his suite, which he's been in before, once. He nods firmly at the guard posted a few paces away, establishing eye contact, memorizing the face.
"You and Nat, doom and gloom, all the time." OKoye gives him an exasperated look and he laughs again, letting her ease his tension a bit more. "The queen - quite dramatically, I might add - made me swear I'd remind you not to be late. You'll be escorted to the ceremony from the gardens in one hour, sharp. Your tuxedos are waiting. See you soon."
Steve's face folds inward with embarrassment. "Tuxedos? Plural? Jeez."
"She trusts you with the choice between her commissions, apparently."
Commissions? Flabbergasted, his eyebrows rise to meet his hairline. So she does know my measurements.
In answer, OKoye merely winks at him, her eyes gleaming with amusement at his expense. She taps her spear twice in quick succession and his room is opened for him from the inside.
She's turned on her heel and is striding away in a few lythe moves, followed by the porter who'd dropped off his bags and had been making sure everything was in order inside. He watches her go, remembering the look on her face when they lost almost everything four years ago. When she lost her king. A far cry from where she is today.
She'd been absolutely devastated - as if she'd lost a child. It was the one and only time he'd ever seen General OKoye lose her poise. And it was much more than that. The woman had dedicated her life to protecting T'Challa. Losing him in such a cruel way just...thinking about it makes the tension return in full force, so he stops. He can only admire her resilience. He wishes he was holding up half as well as she seems like she is.
Realizing that he's just standing there staring after the general (who is out of sight by now), Steve finally enters his guestroom.
The large, vibrant two-room suite greets him like sunshine breaking through a long drought of cloudy skies. The pink sunset outside the floor-to-ceiling balcony windows gives the room a lush glow. The light in Africa simply hits the world differently than anywhere else he's seen.
He takes his time exhaling, letting the full weight of his body settle into the floor, feeling tranquility for the first time in such a long time.
He loves it here. He really does. Steve mentally kicks himself for not returning here more often as he makes his way further into the spacious suite and lets his jacket fall to the king-sized bed.
Before he can do much else, he spots a pristinely preserved, bright red, vintage Radio Flyer wagon parked in one corner of the room.
A proper one. He instantly recognizes the white 1920s version of the logo.
Smiling broadly, Steve strides slowly toward it, crouching down to sift through the gifts piled into it. There's no note. He supposes the wagon is commentary enough.
He has to laugh, picking up a jade-accented shaving kit, bundles of spices and a bottle of Wakandan rum from the Merchant Tribe, a beautiful cashmere robe with the Wakandan royal crest hand-stitched across the back, slippers in his size with the same gold stitching, shea butter, aftershave...and much more. The wagon is full.
Steve stands upright again, wondering if she'd done all this for Natasha. He thinks, perhaps not quite with such a personal touch. He tugs on the wagon by its black metal handle, seized with an over eighty-year-old memory of the first time he saw one of these as a little boy and how badly he'd wanted one.
Bucky's uncle had one in his garage. It had a bent handle, but the wheels worked. They used to take turns pulling each other as fast as they could until they felt like they could fly - or they crashed. Or both. If he closes his eyes, he can feel the wind in his hair as a knobby-kneed kid crouched in the back of the wagon, his best friend Bucky running like hell in front of him, pulling him so far and so fast that he truly felt like he was flying. That was the magic of the little things back then. Empty stomachs, but full imaginations.
He focuses on the mint-condition Flyer in his palace suite. This gift is Shuri's way of teasing him, of course, but it's also her way of telling him how much it means to her to have him here. And, honestly, a welcome trip down memory lane. He hasn't felt this kind of pleasant nostalgia in...gosh...ages.
Shuri...you are something else.
Steve makes a mental note to both thank and tease her about her extravagant generosity later.
As he gets settled, he opens the windows fully, letting the fragrant evening breeze flow in. He avoids checking the closet for as long as he can, choosing to unpack his things onto the spacious bed, and just concentrate on grooming himself properly for now.
A life as a soldier has trained him to clean himself with the utmost efficiency, but tonight that economy is somewhat out the window.
Even though he barely has enough stubble to cast a shadow, he shaves himself smooth again.
He showers, taking extra care in places he normally only gives mild attention.
He makes sure to moisturize his skin with a small helping of the shea butter from the wagon, something he hopes she'll appreciate. He also tells himself that they might have to shake a lot of hands tonight.
Once done, he finds he very much enjoys how he smells. There's a subtle undercurrent of teakwood that he catches fragrant whiffs of as he moves about, as if he was walking through the Wakandan forest a few hours after a fresh rain.
He combs and re-combs his hair until it does what he wants it to do.
He takes unnecessarily extra care making sure everything underneath whatever he'll be wearing is in as perfect condition as he can. He doesn't allow himself to think about why he's doing this with any sort of depth or effort. If he does, he will feel ridiculous, and the memory of Nat's suspicions will start picking apart his resolve.
He needs to think of this as mission prep. A smooth operation depends on it, always.
He's going to be here for Shuri tonight, in any way she needs him. That might entail being dragged around a royal ballroom full of people neither of them want to talk to. The remaining powers and elites left in the world; the ones funding the global recovery efforts, the ones investing in Shuri's humanitarian STEM projects. He knows she'll be the star of the show. That's just the way things are when Queen Shuri is in any room. Captain America isn't the hero the world looks up to anymore, she is.
He knows how much pressure that spotlight can put on a person, so he's going to stand in the shadows and silently exude pride and confidence in her, or he's going to dance with her to keep her away from the insatiable press, or tell a few wry jokes to lift her spirits. Whatever she needs.
And he's determined to look good while doing it. Good enough to be worthy of her approval at least, since she seems convinced that he's incapable of mastering any sense of contemporary style. Or swagger, as she calls it.
Once he's spent as much time as he dares preening, he finally opens the massive onyx-colored closet doors and peers inside the walk-in.
There are shelves of shoes, watches and cufflinks, racks of both casual and formal clothes. All for a man about his height, build, and shoe size, he doesn't have to guess. He's going to be in Wakanda with Natasha for a week, but this is more than enough to keep him in three or four fresh outfits a day. Boy, when he was growing up, he couldn't even imagine owning this many things. Shaking his head and sighing like a disapproving old man, Steve walks in and finds a special wrack near the front, holding four brand new tuxedos.
He reaches up and runs his hands across the shoulders of the jackets, each of their textures feeling different to his touch.
He stops on the blue velvet. He has never in his century of existence thought of wearing something like this.
But there is something about the fact that this shade of blue matches his eyes that causes him to ignore the others. They all look very regal and he is sure he would look good in any of them, but he feels compelled to take this one down from its hanging place.
He has a hunch this one might be her choice, too.
The tux pants are black, which relieves him somewhat.
He takes the jacket off of the hanger and holds it out in front of him. Why did she choose this?
Frowning, nervous even, Steve slides his arms into the soft, surprisingly pliable fabric. It indeed feels like it was made just for him. It feels like a second skin, almost. It's not an exact color match, but similar enough that it accentuates his eyes pretty nicely.
Steve checks the time. He has twenty minutes.
The time goes by like a heartbeat. He gets himself fully dressed, secures his black velvet bow tie, and stares at himself in the full-length mirror at the opposite end of the walk-in. Mission accomplished. He looks damned good. He is tempted to call this teamwork.
As he stares at himself, he imagines Queen Shuri setting eyes on him when they're finally together in the same room. Warm blood rushes to the surface of his cheeks before spreading in a flash to the rest of him. His chest swells as his tension coils tightly, slowly, inside him, taunting him.
He wants her to love her handiwork, he admits to himself.
He scoffs at his reflection. Nat's hunch is obviously right.
Shuri's got him wrapped around her little finger.
How the hell did that happen? When did that happen?
Does it matter? You like it. You want it. You've wanted it for weeks. Months. Maybe all year. Admit it.
He stares hard at his own reflection, his jaw clenched. He says nothing; his self-deprecating thoughts cease. But he feels...and yes...he does like the idea of Shuri doting on him. Admiring his physique in the velvet blue tux she picked out. Smiling that beautiful sunny smile he's convinced himself she reserves just for him. Letting him sneak touches while they dance. Maybe even a chaste kiss at the end of the night...is that such a bad thing to want?
If she grants him those things, would she grant him more? The possibilities of 'more' start to manifest in his mind's eye in quick flashes.
He's going to get hard if he doesn't stop the direction his thoughts are steadily galloping.
Shit, Rogers. Fuck. What happened to pure? Untainted? Good and easy?
There's a soft knock on his door. His heart leaps into his throat.
The thought of seeing her in person right now, at the very moment he's having a mental come to Jesus about his true feelings for her, is enough to send him into a small panic.
Swallowing down the lump in his throat, taking a shallow breath around the brick of tension still sitting hard and heavy inside him, he strides out of the walk-in and to the door.
"Well, don't you shine up like a new quarter?"
It's Natasha. She looks amazing, as usual. Her gown is a form-fitting, floor-length, sleek black crepe with a halter neck made of lace applique that gives the simple silhouette a dramatic flare. Her dark red hair is pulled back, her makeup smoky, her lips bare but for a hint of rouge stain dead center. She is smirking at him again, very much impressed, but also very much still suspicious.
He rolls his eyes, smooths the front of his jacket, and steps out of the room to meet her in the hall.
"Thanks. You look beautiful." Steve leans down and gives her a peck on the cheek, hoping she won't continue with her probing from the Quinjet. Of course, his hopes are immediately dashed.
"The Queen picked this out for you?"
She accepts his arm and they start toward the hall leading down into the gardens, where they'll be picked up and taken to the black-tie event they are both dreading. He can feel the smug perceptiveness wafting off of her as she eyes the velveteen blue of his jacket.
"I mean, she had to. You'd never pick something like this on your own."
Rather than joining in her amiable teasing, he sighs hard and tries not to clench his jaw. "The Queen likes to fix. So, I let her fix. Trust me, I'd hear about it if I didn't."
"A perfect gentleman, as always."
She lets that hang in the air. With gargantuan effort, Steve seizes control of his mounting annoyance, wrenching it back toward his mission to not let anything get under his skin tonight.
"It's just for tonight. Not a big deal. Besides…" he brushes a tiny piece of lint off of his arm, shrugging, "I kinda think it suits me."
"Maybe your fashion sense has hope after all."
He allows himself to relax, chuckling throatily at her joke. Natasha seems relieved that he's lightening up. He thinks about it as they make their way out through the palace gardens towards the glider waiting there for special guests of the royal family. She is trying, as he'd asked. He realizes now that it's kind of a lot to ask, the way she's been dealing with things.
"Hey…" He bumps his elbow into her gently, causing her to turn from admiring the thick plumes of gorgeous, colorful flowers, plants, and fruit trees to regard him curiously. "I owe you one. And you know what? Fuck it. We're gonna have a good time. I'll make sure of it."
Nat's expression softens. She smiles warmly at his use of a real, live dirty word. She squeezes his arm to her side, bringing her free hand up to anchor herself to his sturdy frame. He feels better now. He doesn't want to be at odds with Nat. He cares about her, too. They aren't on the same page all the time, but they've been through a lot together and he counts her as part of his chosen family. He deems it part of tonight's mission to make sure she won't regret agreeing to come.
Now that they've patched things up, his thoughts swing hard toward Shuri.
He'll be seeing her in person again after over a year in just a short while. He isn't sure how he'll greet her yet, but he is now almost one-hundred percent certain that the tension he feels deep down inside has turned into a different kind of beast. It is still as dense and unsatisfying as ever, but it no longer seeks the release of persevering in battle.
It seeks the one person left on Earth who might be able to tame it into submission.
They're escorted with a handful of other palace guests to a grand banquet hall just a few miles from the Great Mound. These are close friends of the Queen Mother and the elders. The small talk isn't that bad. The scenery and the relative mystery surrounding Shuri's announcement at the event do most of the talking for them. Nat is fluent in Xosha, of course. He's still getting his bearings, a little awkward with pronunciation, but he manages with her help.
As soon as they dismount the glider, however, they're swept into the dense waves of guests arriving at the gala with them. Into the lion's den. Albeit one that resembles an enormous modern art museum.
Steve and Natasha take care of each other well as they navigate a virtual maze of art and guests. All as they'd expected. Politicians, lobbyists, sovereignty from far and wide, international press. Veterans of the Decimation Battle. All here to collectively grieve and pick at each other's scabs. All here to see what one of the world's only surviving geniuses will reveal with great anticipation of either failure or triumph.
"I suddenly recall how much I hate this," he murmurs in Nat's ear and she laughs.
"No turning back now. The queen still hasn't seen how that tux brings out those gorgeous blues of yours."
He pretends not to feel the tension inside him clench with anticipation at her words.
Finally, they find a bar, and at that bar, they find Rhodey and Hill.
"Oh, thank Christ. You showed," Hill exhales with relief when they spot each other, gesturing for Nat and Steve to join them.
"Long time, have a shot," Rhodey hands Nat a drink, which she eagerly snatches up, and embraces Steve. He steps back from their long hug, letting out a low whistle. "Okay, Rogers. Who are we trying to impress tonight?"
"No one, I just…" Steve speaks up quickly before Nat can get a word in, catching her in the act, "thought I'd make an effort this year. Have some fun."
"Ha!" Rhodey barks with laughter, "The Captain of Propriety, crashin' a memorial event? I knew there was a reason I got on that plane this morning."
"Really brings out your eyes, Cap," Hill compliments him teasingly.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Thanks." He accepts a drink that he knows he won't feel from Rhodey and uses it as a prop to help him relax and enjoy himself.
But he's already totally distracted by the time his old friends fall into easy banter in their huddle by the bar. Nat and Hill work the room under their breath, identifying whom to avoid. Rhodey occasionally spots someone he hates and offers comment. Steve, however, is constantly checking for Shuri, or OKoye, or the Queen Mother, or any sign that might indicate the royal court has arrived. There are Dora Milaje at every corner, entrance and exit in the place, but no general and no royals so far. He's tempted to hail Okoye by kimoyo but swallows down the urge.
Nat can read him like a coverless book, but now he's not even trying to hide his anxiousness to see her.
This doesn't go unnoticed.
Rhodey trails off sending snide jabs under his breath about some press members who criticized him as the new Iron Man. He eyes Steve, who isn't paying attention and hasn't been for at least ten minutes. He's laughing when he thinks Rhodey is joking, nodding when he thinks he should agree with something, making noises in the back of his throat as some kind of commentary, but his real focus is actually on the very front of the large, open hall they're in. Rhodey's eyes roam from Rogers' distracted face in the direction of the super soldier's darting gazes.
The Wakandan crest adorns a throne on a dais at the head of the room. Just in front of it, there's a podium with holoprompters on either side of it for Queen Shuri's speech. There's a row of African and other international flags, and more gilded seats for her mother and the council members. No royal court yet, but then Rhodey thinks Steve will probably be the first to know when they arrive, he's eyeballing the empty space so damn hard.
"Are you kidding me?" Hill's sharp, indignant tone interrupts Rhodey's study of Cap's interesting fixation on the empty throne. "Rhodes, you hearing this? Nat and Cap got personal invitations to stay in the palace."
"Ouch. Damn. I feel a little hurt," Rhodey deadpans, still eyeing Steve as he sips his drink. "I thought the Avengers and the queen were close like that. We don't all get palace suites?"
Rogers drags his eyes away from the front and shifts on his feet, clearing his throat distractedly.
"Well, uh Shuri - the queen - invited me last minute," he supplies, now acutely aware that all of his friends are staring at him. "Just for support. I think all the hotels are booked up, anyway, right Nat?"
This isn't untrue. Shuri had insisted when he protested staying at the palace that he didn't really have a choice. So he assumed. Not a total lie. A good guess, more like. Except, he sounds like he's hiding something and it doesn't help that Natasha is leaving him hanging. She sips her cocktail, her signature little smirk dancing on the edge of her glass, before finally coming to his rescue.
"Yeah, total nightmare. Anyway, Steve's got connections with the royals. Remember?"
Her eyes glint with a challenge. He stands up flagpole straight, aware that the others are waiting for his rebuttal, and stares her down.
"Connections, huh?" Hill exchanges glances with Nat and then Rhodey, who cottons on.
"Okay, so what's a brotha with a spinal injury gotta do to get a night in some of those royal satin sheets, save the world?"
Steve can tell that Rhodey hadn't intended to sound so bitter just then but, all the same, it leaves a crater in their relaxed energy. Everyone awkwardly sips their drinks, including Steve, who really wishes he wasn't stone sober right now. He glances around at all the faces moving in and out of his view.
People stare; whisper to themselves about the battle-scarred Avengers; eyeball Rhodey with the words 'you're no Tony Stark' etched into their expressions; frown at Nat thoughtfully as if (like she'd been nervous about) she's been misleading the world in her position as Director of Avengers HQ. All of them with gigantic shoes (and an even bigger ego) to fill. Steve on the outside, with his 'connections'. He doesn't want to look closely enough to figure out what the sea tide of guests might be thinking about him, the Man (Who Is Always) Out of Time.
Steve smiles sadly and reaches over to clasp his friend by the shoulder. "Why don't ya just ask, pal? The queen loves you."
Rhodey scoffs, but his smile returns as well. "Whaaat? We've barely spoken."
Steve shrugs good-naturedly, taking another swig of his drink. It burns going down, but it won't bring him a buzz. Doesn't matter. His mission is to have a good time, so that's what he's going to do.
"Yeah, but she talks about you all the time. Specifically, getting her hands on the Iron Man suit."
This piques Rhodey's interest. In Tony's wake, he's been doing his best, but he is no tech genius. The suit has regular (automated) repairs, but future improvements have been worrying him, Steve knows.
"Yeah? You think she'd hook me up?"
"I could ask if she'd have us at her lab before you go. Talk it over. What can it hurt?"
"Okay…" Rhodey looks thoughtful, but also a lot less bitter and a lot more relaxed. "Bet."
This seems to make up for the whole 'personal invitation to the palace' thing. More importantly, Steve has managed to change the subject from the nature of his relationship with Queen Shuri.
Natasha says nothing, watching him with keen interest as Hill and Rhodey accept the idea. They start chatting about what they could use Shuri's help with back at Stark Tower and Avengers HQ.
Real smooth, Nat mouths, her lips barely moving. It's his turn to smirk.
In an instant, the bright lights in the museum-style hall drop to cool darkness, hushing the crowd. The Dora surrounding them all tap their spears in unison, bringing up carefully curated mood lighting and cueing the drumbeat that announces the arrival of the royal court. Steve's heart leaps into his throat. He drops all pretense and turns from his friends to stare up at the dais.
First, Okoye, followed by the royal council and the Queen Mother. Ramonda looks stunning, of course, her towering, circular headdress a sparkling black that compliments her couture black and purple Ankara-patterned gown beautifully. The gown flares out around her just below her hips, making her look as if she's floating on air. Her eyes survey the crowd serenely, lighting up a bit when they pass over Steve, Nat, and the others.
OKoye taps her spear, again followed by her Dora surrounding them on all sides. Steve's heart is pounding so hard in his throat that it almost drowns out the vibranium reverberating through the room. "Her Majesty, the Queen, Shuri…" the General announces with great reverence and pride.
The drums and instruments playing the royal accompaniment get louder and change tempo. Applause rings out as Shuri makes her way onto the dais. All the blood in his body rushes through him violently when he sees her step into the ethereal lighting. He involuntarily holds his breath.
In the flesh, she looks every bit a captivating queen in a skin-tight, royal blue, lace mermaid gown.
Her hair is in thick twists that hang down over one elegant shoulder, almost hiding her face from him, topped off by an intricately weaved vibranium crown that looks as if it's part of her.
His keen eyesight focuses on every detail as she glides with grace and poise across the stage to the podium. Her skin sparkles, looking as lush as satin under the moody lighting. The crowd gives her a few minutes more of deafening applause as she comes to a stop and turns to face them all, her beautiful smile spreading when her eyes land on him.
All of the rest falls away, and there is only Queen Shuri standing there looking like a dream.
He remembers to breathe and exhales slowly. Damn.
She is truly beautiful. It pains him a little that it's just now really hitting him how absolutely gorgeous she is, a fully realized queen of one of the greatest nations left on Earth. There is no trace of the bubbly teenager he met on his first visit to Wakanda what seems like ages ago.
Their eye contact only lasts a few seconds, but she lights up somewhat when she sees he's wearing the blue tux. She gives him a tiny nod of approval and it's enough to make him blush like a schoolboy.
"Close your mouth, Steve," Natasha mutters, suddenly standing right next to him.
"You're hilarious," he quips, swallowing down more useless alcohol to cover up his gawking.
"And you are being completely obvious," there is an edge to her tone that causes him to force his eyes away from Shuri and look down at her. "World's watching. Just sayin'. Careful with that."
Her eyes swing toward the dais and back but he understands her perfectly. She's concerned about their floundering reputation. Concerned about the impression they make. But she has to know he wouldn't do anything to jeopardize their relationships with other nations or the cooperation with and autonomy they receive from the U.N. by admiring one of its more influential members too openly. Still, he puts on the best poker face he can and tries to pay attention to the proceedings as they get underway.
But the tension inside him has no intention of cooperating. It builds, solidifies, gnaws at him as he stares up to the front of the room. Counting the seconds until the queen can step down from there, wade into the crowd, and come to him.