Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel's "Black Panther" or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: This is an Everett x T'Challa fic, inspired by the following prompt: "He woke up with a headache, two pairs of broken glasses, and one shoe. He didn't wear glasses, and the shoe wasn't his, so this presented him with something of a conundrum."
Warnings: canon appropriate violence, memory loss, drama, angst, blood and injury, mature language, established relationship, romance.
A heart shaped gun (so don't miss)
He woke up with a headache, two pairs of broken glasses, and one shoe. He didn't wear glasses, and the shoe wasn't his, so- this presented him with something of a conundrum.
He groaned, shaking his head. Mildly alarmed to realize his hand was loosely wrapped around the stock of a Glock. Empty casings littering the floor around him in an uneven spotlight. Catching the early morning sun as it filtered through the broken windows.
It was dawn.
And a beautiful one at that, he was sure.
If he could stop seeing double, that is.
He pulled himself up to his knees, sending shells and broken glass spinning in every direction. Wincing as the sound carried strangely. Ears whining with dying frequencies as he tugged at the ruined slash of his tie - red, Armani, expensive - letting it flutter to the ground as he checked the clip on the Glock with a practiced movement.
Empty.
Damn.
Every part of him ached as he pulled himself to his feet. Shaking the sleeves of his suit over his wrists as a fresh rivulet of blood trickled down from his hairline. Threatening to blind him before he wiped it away.
He felt almost-
He stumbled to the nearest window, catching a glimpse of a city skyline. Hong Kong? Seoul? Yes, Seoul. He wavered away again, wondering how he knew the difference. Mind painfully blank as he searched for a name - his name - and came up empty.
He didn't know who he was.
How was that possible?
He hissed under his breath, feeling the grate of broken ribs. Only just realizing he was missing the nails on three of his fingers. Each of them had been ripped right from the nail bed, oozing red. Fuck. He looked down, head pounding, calmly taking stock of the rest of his injuries before he caught sight of a body in some sort of black and silver uniform crumpled down the hall. Large and unmoving.
Distantly he was surprised at his calm.
Compartmentalizing everything as it came to be examined later.
Had he done this before?
It did seem rather familiar.
He approached the figure wearily. Empty gun trained on him as the shallow rise and fall of the man's chest indicated he was still alive. Realizing with a start that what he'd taken for a uniform was actually a costume of some sort. Almost cat-like. A panther.
What the hell was going on?
He prodded the figure with his toe. Barely a nudge, but the man lurched in surprise anyway. Jolting awake like he'd stuck a cattle prod to his spine. Curling away, then up to his feet with a clear stagger. Better off than he was, but clearly not by much.
"Everett? Oh- thank god. You're alright."
He blinked, surprised when the man's mask melted away to reveal dark skin, dark hair and dark eyes. Every line handsome, kind and maybe even a bit familiar.
"Everett?"
The man was looking at the gun. Confused. And that's what made it interesting. Because the man wasn't alarmed or angry. He wasn't even afraid. He was just confused. Like-
"You're hurt," the man said, taking a step towards him. Forcing reflexes he didn't know he had kick into gear. "My love?"
"That's enough," he ordered, gun trained on him with barely a waver. Head pounding like it was about to split open. What had he said? "If you come closer, I'll shoot."
He wouldn't.
He couldn't.
He also...didn't want to?
If it had been safe to blink, he would have done it. Stomaching churning painfully as the thought grew equally dangerous roots. The gun was empty, but the man didn't know that. Which meant he had the advantage. So, why was he stalling? He should be demanding answers, at the very least.
The man let go of a soft, foreign sound curse. Popping his shoulder back into place with a sickening crunch he seemed to take in stride as he looked him up and down. Taking in his ruined finger-tips, the blood and whatever else was left to see that he hadn't had a chance to take in yet.
"What did those bastards do to you?"
He swallowed hard. It was a fair question, but low on his list in terms of priorities right now.
"Who are you?" he asked instead, spitting a mouthful of bile off to the side as vomit surged up his throat. Suddenly feeling unsteady as the man wavered in front of him like a mirage. "...who?"
The gun slipped from his fingers.
Clattering to the floor.
Hollow.
Dead.
"Who-"
He kept his eyes on him as the stranger's lips parted and sounds dripped down them like blood. But he couldn't hear them. He couldn't hear anything. Anything. Anyth-
The color of the words were red.
He didn't-
His head.
He stumbled backward. Tongue thick in his mouth. Loose. Dumb. Head wound. Broken. Concussion. Exit. Stair-way. Five meters. He rebounded off the wall, fingers grasping at the pock-marked paint and bullet-flecked plaster. Almost there.
Strong hands grasped his shoulders from behind. Forcing him to whirl and whip his fist side ways into the man's solar plexus. Feeling something in his hand break when it slammed into the material of the suit. No, not suit. Armor. Fuck. He gritted his teeth, falling away as the material glowed purple. Seeming to redistribute what should have been a devastating blow - something that would have given him enough time to escape - down the lines of the suit instead.
Blackness edged his vision. Taking what happened next completely put of his hands as he vomited violently off to the side. Hand trembling as it came up to wipe his chin. Nail beds stinging as the hallway warped and tunneled. Falling. Aware on some level that the man caught him before he could hit the ground.
Then there was nothing.
"How is he doing?"
He woke up the second time without a headache. There were no broken glasses. No unfamiliar shoes. Actually, he wasn't even wearing shoes. And understood about the same as he had last time. Which was a big resounding nothing. He felt better, however, so he decided that as a start in the right direction.
"Better. It would probably be more time efficient if I told you what wasn't broken. Whatever they did to him, it wasn't pretty. Or civilized. Brother...they-"
He listened to the voices without opening his eyes, taking stock of the situation. Pretending to be asleep when they moved closer to where he was laying. Some sort of medical lab maybe? A high-tech hospital? Not a cell, anyway. And certainly not the building he'd woken up in. He couldn't explain it, but there was something about the air here that was completely different than Seoul. It was drier. Acrid.
"They tortured him," the male voice finished soberly, tone edged with rage. Familiar in the same way as the woman's voice was. Strange.
"I think the entire op was a set up. It was him they wanted. Not what the C.I.A was going after. I was able to salvage the security feed for the building before they wiped it. They wanted the shield codes for the city. The lay-out of the mines. How much mined Vibranium we have. Everything. He didn't give it to them. They didn't break him," the woman finished. Sounding almost proud.
It was strange to hear about himself and feel removed from it. Like it wasn't him. Like it was someone else and he was just sharing their skin. It was discomforting. Worse, it felt like a lie.
"Then what happened?"
He shivered. There was something about that voice. He couldn't put his finger on what. But it was there. Like a terminal itch burrowing deep inside his brain.
"He got loose- you see here? He spat something into his hand when they turned around. He must have known something wasn't right and hid it before they took him. He hid it between his fingers and jammed it into lock. He fought his way out, almost made it. Then that guy hit him with the fire extinguisher from behind. Coward. That was skull fracture number one, by the way. You basically got there in time to get knocked out by the gas. It's some sort of experimental nerve agent. You didn't get as bad a dose as he did, your mast filtered most of it out. I'm working on an upgrade by the way."
"He didn't know me," the man interjected like a stab, voice wounded. "I was a stranger in his eyes."
There was a pause.
Then- gently-
"T'Challa..."
His lips twisted at the name. Heart jumping for reasons he didn't understand. Finding it difficult to keep pretending he was asleep as his fingers twitched at his sides. Brushing at the wedding band around his ring finger like a guilty tell.
"It's been barely twenty-four hours. This could take time. The blow to the head was bad enough to cause some memory problems. But the gas? You can't push this. You said he tried to attack you? He'd never. You know he wouldn't. Not unless he didn't know you and thought you were one of the people who'd hurt him. I'm still breaking down all the chemicals but-"
He waited until they'd moved away before he opened his eyes. Blinking back the glare from the overhead lights as he slowly levered himself up. Balancing on his elbows before cautiously swinging himself down from the bed. If you could call it that. Everything from the machines to the architecture of the room was already ten times more advanced than it should be.
Where the hell was he?
He looked down at himself. Surprised to find he wasn't in a hospital gown or scrubs. Rather a long blue shirt with a white pattern stitched into the collar and soft pants of the same color and pattern below. His bare feet curled into the metallic floor. Shocked when he realized it was warm to the touch and not freezing like he expected it to be.
An impressed eyebrow rose in spite of himself. Feeling almost luxurious as he stretched and the soft material of the clothes seemed to move with him. Keeping an eye on the two of them as he cased the room in a slow, shallow circle. Noting what looked to be exits or at least entrances to other rooms he could possibly escape down if need be. But somehow, he wasn't getting the impression he was in danger. He knew it wasn't wise to assume or even speculate at this point, but- that was his gut feeling. For what it was worth.
He did a double take when he realized his hand and nails were almost completely healed. The nails had been regrown somehow and were only a bit tender. Even his ribs seemed healed. He felt- good, save for his memory. He had no idea who he was, or what'd happened, but hell if he didn't feel like he'd gotten the best sleep since, well-
How long had he been here anyway?
It couldn't be twenty-four hours.
That was impossible.
Healing wounds like that would take weeks. Longer.
He eyed them warily from where they were talking on the other side of the lab. Running a careful hand down his cheek, surprised to realize there was only a half-day of stubble. Neither of them appeared to be carrying weapons. But it was the same man from earlier. The one who'd been wearing that strange suit. Only this time around he was wearing a striking, burnt-orange sash against plain pants and a long black shirt that looked almost identical to his.
He'd called him something before.
Everett.
Did he know him?
Was that his name?
Why couldn't he remember?
Not anything?
He cleared his throat, determined to get answers. Making the woman - young, very young - jump, startled, as the man she'd called T'Challa whirled around. Regretting it almost instantly as he forced himself not to shy away from the man's eyes. Searching. Hopeful. Everything about it made it hard not respond. Catching himself before the corner of his lip crooked up in a tenuous smile. Pushing down the part that wanted to sooth and reassure in favor of cold detachment.
He didn't know these people.
He had to be careful.
He needed information.
And then he needed to get out of here and get his memory back.
"Ayi!" the girl complained, pressing a hand to her chest. "Every time! You need a bell sown into your clothes, colonizer."
His eyebrow rose at the word.
"Every time? Do we do this often?" he remarked instead, tone smooth and almost nonchalant despite the fact that the man was still staring at him. Smiling softly but clearly worried. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage."
The man's lips twisted, looking strangely pained. Almost like he'd said something wrong.
"You don't know us?" T'Challa asked softly.
"No," he replied firmly, cocking his hip against the counter and leaning back. The very picture of calm and controlled. Not letting them see how rattled he was as the events of the last few- hours, days, weeks, threatened to curdle on his tongue like a canned howl. "Afraid not."
"What is the last thing you remember?" the man asked, handsome and earnest. But not enough for him to miss the fact he was asking first without giving anything up.
"You need to go slow," the girl cautioned. Grabbing a data pad and scanning down the screen. "He might look okay, but he's going to need time to adjust. His neuro-chemicals signals are-"
"He needs to know who he is," T'Challa broke in. "You were on a mission, you're part of the C.I.A. When we first met, years ago, you were a Deputy Task Force Commander of the Joint Counter-Terrorism Center. You've been promoted significantly since. You're a special envoy, amongst other things, to my people and my Kingdom. You were assigned to a mission for the Avenger Initiative for the past three weeks, only something went wrong. You were captured, injured. When your tracking device came back on we were able to locate you. I'm sorry to say I got there too late, by far. Forgive me."
He absorbed everything like a sponge, committing it to memory before disregarding what would be a distraction. Sticking to the facts and only the facts. Ignoring the little voice in the back of his head that whispered the explanation actually made sense.
"The C.I.A," he echoed, liking the way it rolled off his tongue. Even the way he said it pinged familiar. Remembering the moments after he'd woken up. The capability that'd existed despite the memory loss. And how he was sure if someone put a gun in his hand, he'd shoot a bulls-eye until the clip clicked empty. Somehow, he just knew. "Alright."
"Your name is Agent Everett Ross, and I am T'Challa, and this is my sister Shuri," the man informed him, gesturing to himself and the woman behind him in time. T'Challa. It rolled off the tongue just like the C.I.A did. Tasting pleasant in a very dangerous sort of way.
But he let none that show. Instead he crossed his arms and nodded politely. Aware they were watching him expectantly. Like his name and title might spark something. When he didn't say anything, the disappointment was almost palpable.
"How long have I been here?" he asked eventually, wondering how far his questions would get as he judged the mood of the room wearily. Frowning, before-
Hold on.
"Wait, did you say Kingdom?" he asked suddenly, something from before cycling back as his tone edged towards disbelief. "This is your Kingdom? So, you're what...the King?"
T'Challa inclined his head.
"Indeed."
He kind of just stood there for a moment. Stunned.
Huh.
Okay then.
Shuri hummed under her breath. It was a melody that rose and fell like a living beat. Like a distant sort of background music that was on the tip of his tongue when it came to recognizing it.
He hesitated for a long moment.
"I don't- I don't remember, that is. None of it," he told them finally. Deciding that if trust was going to be mutual he might as well keep things equal. Baby steps and all that. They seemed sincere. And they didn't seem like a threat. Maybe it was time to trust that. "The last thing I remember is waking up on the floor in that building with a splitting headache. Then, nothing. It's all gone. Blank."
Shuri frowned.
"Can I?" she asked, holding up a scanner. "It's a medical scanner. Like your x-ray but better, of course. It detects neural activity and might be able to see the problem in real time."
He nodded and let her get to work. Leaving him with nothing to do but watch T'Challa watch him as the moments dragged awkwardly. It was ridiculous, but it felt like T'Challa was actually nervous. Had they been friends?
"So, you said I'm a special envoy for your people?" he asked, breaking the silence with what he hoped was an olive branch. Pleased when the man ran with it with obvious enthusiasm.
"For Wakanda, yes. And you are my adviser as well. You have a permanent place in my court and on the council. And you are- well, perhaps now is not the right time. But I-"
"T'Challa," Shuri warned, looking up from the overhead screen with a clear: 'abort mission' expression.
"I am what?" he asked, curious now.
"You are the Royal consort and legal husband to the King," a tall woman in a red uniform and a shaved head remarked simply as she walked into the room. Making him freeze and turn wide eyes toward the King as the man shifted awkwardly and held up his hand. Highlighting his ring finger and the vibrainum wedding band on it. An exact match to the one on his own finger as his mouth dropped open and an embarrassingly strangled sound dribbled out if it.
"So much for going slow," Shuri winced, just before all hell broke loose.
"I apologize for General Okoye's bluntness," T'Challa told him later, joining him on one of the lower balconies. Giving him space as they leaned against the railing and watched the sun set. "I'll admit, I'm glad you know the truth. It would have been hard to hide it from you, even if I wanted too. Our lives are very intertwined here. "
He nodded, distant. Practically able to taste that particular truth as he looked down at his newly grown nails - now only slightly bruised. Making it hard to believe that not long ago they'd been missing entirely. Nerve endings screaming in pain.
Honestly, he was still working through it.
It had been a lot to process.
"It was a bit of a shock," he admitted with a half smile. Head still spinning about the whole Consort-husband thing. It was one thing to find out you're a C.I.A agent, but husband to the King of an entire country?
Why him?
How?
"A bad one?" T'Challa pressed, empathetic but also surprisingly vulnerable in a way he had a feeling would be easy to fall in love with.
"I don't know," he admitted heavily. "I'm sorry, but right now I don't know how to feel about any of this. I know things, events, but the rest is all nothing. A blank page. Everything else is going to have to wait for a while."
T'Challa nodded, lips tight
"I understand."
The King wasn't a good actor.
But the feelings behind the words were genuine.
"How did it happen?" he asked eventually. Curious in spite of himself. The skeptic in him increasingly warmed by the genuineness not only of T'Challa, but almost everyone he came across. People who greeted him and seemed to know him. Giving him blessings for a swift recovery and their ear if he needed it. Even the Dora Milaje who seemed stern and silently violent, seemed to be handling him with kid-gloves. Letting him have his space as he wandered around the palace, deep in thought.
T'Challa smiled. Like the memory was too good not to react to. Threatening to make him uncomfortable as he shifted warily. Caught between wanted to hear and not.
"How does anything?" T'Challa shot back with a grin. "Mutual interest and a meddling little sister. She locked us in supply closet for six hours until I confessed. You looked at me, and I swear to all the Gods, laughed. You told me I was an idiot and kissed me. Apparently it wasn't so one sided after all."
He couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him.
The mental picture alone was worth lingering over.
"We first met under...complicated circumstances. But parted on good terms. The second time however, started it all. Despite everything, my feelings for you grew impossible to ignore. I didn't think you would reciprocate them, and instead kept them close to my heart until Shuri forced my hand. I had no idea that you might return them. Never in my wildest dreams. You are precious to me, and this time I thought I'd lost you."
His cheeks heated without his consent. Automatically looking up only to find T'Challa staring at him openly. The longing and fondness so naked on his face it made his eyes skitter away again. Like it was too private for him to see. Even though it was being directed at him.
No. Not him.
This was for Everett.
For the man who knew his husband.
Who knew his history, his past, present and future.
Not him.
It made him feel like a fraud.
And yet-
"Well, you know how to sweet talk," he finally managed, shaking his head as he allowed the small smile room to grow on his face. "I'll give you that."
T'Challa chuckled. A rich sound that shivered down his spine like something sweet.
"Why me?" he asked, frustrated when it came out tinged with more insecurity than he was comfortable with. "I mean, you're a King- the King."
T'Challa sobered again. Watching him. Hands posed over the railing in a way that called attention to the wedding band. Making something in his belly clench significantly when the man rubbed the skin around it idly.
"You asked me that once. Before our wedding day. I didn't know it weighed so heavily on your mind until I realized you were serious. I don't think you were satisfied with the answer at first, either. Because there was no one thing. No defining reason. It was everything. It is everything. It took me a while to understand that myself."
He exhaled shakily, shaking his head.
Well, he was right.
He wasn't exactly satisfied with the answer.
But at the same time, he had a feeling if it'd been cut and dry, he would have spent the next hour picking it apart, looking for holes. Lies. Anything and everything in order to break this fairy-tale down until he was left with the truth and only the truth.
He was still thinking about it when T'Challa straightened and cleared his throat.
"Perhaps we are going about this the wrong way," the man murmured. Nodding at a group of passing aids. "Could we start over?"
He cocked his head. Confused.
"What do you mean?"
A transport ship flew high overhead. Momentarily slashing through the sunset. A stark reminder that he wasn't in Kansas anymore. If he'd ever had been. Actually, he didn't know where he even lived- or had lived. Oh, never mind!
"First impressions are important," T'Challa replied earnestly. "And I fear those you have of me are less than positive. You woke up in an unfamiliar place, injured. With no memory of what happened or who you are. I don't think my appearance helped matters. Suit or not, you've always had a vicious right hook. I think this time I deserved it."
"So, what do you propose?" he asked, arms crossed over his chest. Unable to shake the phantom tug of a suit jacket pulling between his shoulders. Completely at odds with the soft clothes he was wearing. Suddenly remembering the way the man had reacted to the gun in the hallway, working through the backwash of muscle memory as he cleared his throat.
T'Challa hadn't been afraid.
Not because of his special suit.
Or because he knew the gun was empty.
It was because it had never occurred to him that he would actually pull the trigger.
It was that realization, more than anything, that broke him a little bit.
He let go of a hysterical sound as he shook his head. Something that'd started as a laugh but wound down like a sob. Realizing more and more that the truth might just be staring him in the face after all. He kept waiting for the punch line, for something to prove this was nothing but a con. But what if there wasn't one? What if this was the truth? What if this was his life?
T'Challa leaned over, worried.
"Everett-"
He held up his hand and stopped him. Pride like a cancer that threatened to choke him in the swell of his throat. Fighting the growing part of him that wanted the comfort. Drawn in like a magnet to all those impossible promises.
"An introduction sounds great," he managed. Clearing his throat awkwardly before finally turning to him. Hoping his expression looked better than it felt as T'Challa smiled encouragingly and inclined his head.
"In that case, I am T'Challa, son of King T'Chaka and Queen Ramonda of the Golden Tribe. King of Wakanda. Black Panther," the man hummed, expression playful as he inclined his head.
He huffed laugh and took his hand in his, shaking it warmly.
"Agent Everett Ross, C.I.A, apparently. Retired Air Force. Pilot. American. Not a King. Nice to meet you, your majesty," he returned. Finding something grounding in the firm of the man's hand until he relinquished it reluctantly. Enjoying the contact.
All in all, it seemed like a good start.
It took weeks to remember everything. And by then, he'd managed to fall in love with T'Challa all over again anyway. So when he woke up that last morning and really did remember, all he had to do was roll over and smile at the sleeping face beside him. Glad to finally be home.
A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – This story is now complete.