T’Challa doesn’t realize what has happened, not at first.

How can he, when the very ground is crumbling under his feet? Erik Stevens–Killmonger–appearing on Wakandan soil with Klaue’s body to wreak havoc and claim the throne, W’Kabi’s defection, the revelation of his own father’s crimes, and all of it culminating in T’Challa having to fight for his throne, again, and there is nothing about Killmonger to suggest he’d consider anything but death–T’Challa’s or his own–as an option.

Is it any wonder that he can’t take his eyes away from Killmonger as he paces and seethes, stripping down as he tells T’Challa of his years of delivering out death everywhere he goes, all for this one opportunity to strike T’Challa down. All that anger and hatred focused on T’Challa, gold flashing as he bares his teeth and points his spear right at the center of T’Challa’s chest.

T’Challa can feel his family, his guards, his council–his people–all of them silently willing him onwards, and yet–

And yet all he can do is look at Killmonger, his cousin and now his enemy, who will either kill him or die at his hands.

“Let the challenge...begin,” Zuri says heavily, and T’Challa steps forward to meet his fate.

It’s unlike any battle he’s ever fought before. Not just the ferocity of it, but the strange, almost savage grace in it, where each punishing blow is parried, each step on the slippery rocks is matched. Pace for pace, blow for blow.

Through the pounding of his heart, T’Challa hears his sister cry out, “Focus, brother!”

He sees Kilmonger jerk at the sound of her voice, ever so slightly–just the way that T’Challa wanted to at the sound of Shuri’s voice, at the reminder of everything he has to lose–but Killmonger is the one that jerks at the sound, and T’Challa takes the tiny opening, lashing out with his spear, and Killmonger rears back, grunting in pain at the cut blooming on his cheek.

But in the exact same moment, T’Challa feels a bright line of pain across his own cheek.

Snarling, Killmonger moves to attack, and then pauses mid-lunge, his face shifting from rage to bafflement.

T’Challa already somehow knows what he’ll find, even before he lifts up his hand and it comes away slick with his own blood, from the cut on his cheek that is a perfect match to the one he’s just given Killmonger.

Stunned, speechless, T’Challa lifts his gaze up from his blood-stained fingers to look at Killmonger, who’s staring at him in horror before his face hardens. He tosses down his spear and his shield, striding forward and before T’Challa can even think of protecting himself, Erik claps his hands around T’Challa’s throat, dragging him in until they’re pressed in flush together, the noises of dismay from the onlookers muted in T’Challa’s ears over the roaring sound of his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears.

Because the second that Killmonger touches him, the second that his hands are on T’Challa’s bare skin, wrapped around his throat–T’Challa can feel him, every inch of him, Killmonger’s rapid heartbeat, his too-quick breathing, the adrenaline coursing through his body, the fear and rage and confusion, all of it running through T’Challa’s mind like a spark of fire along dry grass.

“No, no, no,” and T’Challa thinks it’s his own voice speaking until he feels the puffs of air against his face, until he realizes that it’s Erik speaking, his own face inches away from T’Challa’s as he says, “Not you, not you.”

“T’Challa!” Nakia calls out. “T’Challa, what’s happening?”

“Let me go,” T’Challa hears himself say in a low voice to Killmonger. “I have to tell them, now let me go.”

Killmonger’s mouth curls in another angry snarl, but he lets go at last. T’Challa’s skin feels cold where his hands were, and he swallows, squaring his shoulders as he turns to face everyone.

He knows the cut gives him away immediately, and he sees it on all their faces–on his mother’s face, which goes from alarm and confusion to recognition and horror.

He’s their king. He has to say it out loud.

“The challenge is over,” he says, each word clear as a bell in the silence. “We are bonded.”

*

“There must be some mistake,” Okoye hisses under her breath. “Perhaps it’s some foreign trick.”

T’Challa shakes his head. “This is no trick, Okoye,” he says wearily, gesturing to his now-healed cheek. Zuri has pressed the heart-shaped herb on him, insisting on it even in the midst of the chaos–no time for the burial, no time for tradition, but T’Challa was still king, and still the Black Panther.

“It could be,” Okoye says, stubbornly. “And in any event, it’s not something that can be allowed to continue–”

As she keeps talking, Shuri is frowning at the readout from T’Challa’s kimoyo beads. She hasn’t spoken for nearly five minutes, and T’Challa watches her with worry, before gently saying at last, “We could get another healer in, if you prefer.”

Just as he’d feared and expected, Shuri bristles at the question. “Are you saying I can’t do it?”

“No, I just…” He just doesn’t want to make his little sister confirm what they already all know in their hearts to be true.

The unhappy downward tilt of Shuri’s mouth confirms it, as she mutters, “I need to run more tests anyway,” and steps back to poke at her own holo display.

“There must be some other option,” Okoye insists.

T’Challa looks at her, and then he asks Shuri, “What level is the bond at, Shuri?”

Shuri looks stricken, before stammering quickly, “I–I haven’t run all of the tests yet, not for you or for–” She stops, and continues with difficulty, “Or the American.”

T’Challa tells himself it’s a kindness to press on, to force them both to face this new reality. “You can tell what’s happened already, Shuri. The bond is at the highest level, isn’t it?”

Shuri’s face crumples, which is an answer on its own, even before she slowly nods.

“So,” T’Challa says, in an even voice that doesn’t reveal any of his inner turmoil. “I am bonded to Erik Stevens, at the highest recorded level,” Shuri makes a small noise of protest that T’Challa makes himself ignore, “–and no healer in Wakanda would put my chances of breaking the bond over 50 percent, and even those odds would depend on both Stevens and I agreeing to dissolve the bond. Yes?”

Shuri is silent, and Okoye takes a deep breath before saying, “My king…think of what this means. To take a man like this as your consort? To put him a heartbeat away from the throne?”

“Okoye,” T’Challa says softly, “Do you honestly see any other option left?”

Her silence is the answer.

*

The throne room is in open chaos when T’Challa returns, flanked by Okoye and Shuri on either side of him.

The council, of course, are arguing, most of them on one side of the throne, barking at W’Kabi, and–T’Challa’s stomach sinks–his mother is facing off against Killmonger, against Erik.

But the second that T’Challa walks into the room, Erik’s gaze snaps over to him, fierce and dark.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he demands of T’Challa, not caring–or most likely relishing–the affronted looks from everyone at his use of profanity, directed at the king no less.

T’Challa doesn’t react himself. Not outwardly, even when he feels a foreign rush of agitation, the muscles in his body wanting to twitch with an excess of energy, rage beginning to coil low in his belly–

This is not him.

He imagines a blanket being wrapped around his shoulders, a soft weight shielding him, covering him up. Keeping his voice soft, T’Challa folds his hands together and says, “Elders. As you can see, the challenge has ended.” And I am still king, he does not add. “As for the rest, I ask for time to handle it privately.”

Erik sneers at this, but doesn’t openly protest–yet–and T’Challa takes full advantage to press on, saying, “Believe me, the next steps for Wakanda will be taken in full accord with the council. But for now, allow me and my family some time to…adjust to this new state of affairs.”

It falls to Rania, leader of the Merchant tribe, to state the obvious. Leaning heavily on her staff, she asks the question. “So it is a soulbond then.”

T’Challa can feel Erik’s burning gaze on him as he nods.

Over the low gasps and murmur–everyone had known, from the second T’Challa’s cheek had started bleeding at Warrior Falls, but it’s another thing to have T’Challa confirm it–Rania shakes her head. “Then all I will say is may the blessings of Bast fall upon you.”

T’Challa’s throat goes tight at hearing the traditional blessing. “Thank you, grandmother,” he offers up in gratitude.

For just a second, he senses a flicker of honest confusion that can only be from Erik, and has to fight back an entirely inappropriate smile.

Everyone files out after that, with T’Challa getting muttered avowals of support from every Elder there–except for W’Kabi and his uncle Mpilo, who walk past T’Challa without a word. Although T’Challa doesn’t miss the long look W’Kabi gives Okoye–or how she refuses to meet his eye.

Once they have all departed, however, T’Challa has no more excuses left to put off the confrontation that has been coming.

“So you got rid of the gawkers,” Erik says, looking down at T’Challa from the dais.

It could be worse, T’Challa admits. He could have had the gall to sit on the throne. Although if he had, T’Challa has every confidence that his mother would have torn him to shreds, and not figuratively.

T’Challa takes a breath. “I was not lying when I said that this is a private affair,” he says, and Erik’s mouth twists.

“So now what?” he asks, taunting. He slowly starts to approach T’Challa again, with the gait of the predator that he is, and T’Challa can see every one of the Dora Milaje bristle as he comes closer. “You gonna use that privacy to lock me up? Pump me full of drugs and keep me in a cage while you try to carve me out of your brain?”

T’Challa doesn’t flinch at the open show of hostility. “Even if I wanted to, it would be pointless,” he says. “The bond,” he pauses before correcting himself, “our bond is at the highest level, any attempt to sever it would likely result in failure, most likely with permanent damage to one or both of us.”

He has an eye on his mother as he says this, and he can only watch as Ramonda absorbs the blow–expected, for sure, but still painful.

“Particularly when one of us is unlikely to give consent,” he adds.

Erik snorts. “Yeah, you can forget that,” he says immediately. “You think I’m here to make things easier for you? Fuck that shit.”

“You can’t possibly want this,” Shuri says, repulsed.

As T’Challa expects, Erik explodes at this. “I want that throne, little girl. I want this country. And I’ll be damned before I let any of y’all cheat me out of what’s mine. Not again.”

Shuri is practically vibrating with tension next to him. T’Challa gently touches her shoulder, squeezing it in reassurance, before letting go.

“So,” he says to Erik, quietly, “–you do have a sense of self-preservation.” Erik just glares at him for this, and T’Challa offers up a cold smile. “It’s a relief to know I won’t be negotiating with a total madman.”

“Oh, what’s what you call this, huh? A negotiation?”

“Of course,” T’Challa says smoothly, and makes a point of walking past Erik to stand in front of the throne–his throne still, despite all of Erik’s plotting.

T’Challa doesn’t sit down in it, despite the temptation. Instead he turns back to face Erik, and he says, “You say you want Wakanda. You want to take our resources, our weapons, our knowledge. But you can’t have any of that without me.”

Erik cocks a skeptical eyebrow. “What, you’re just going to give me what I want so long as you stay on the throne?”

“No,” T’Challa says immediately, heated, and bites his tongue when Erik smirks, pleased at having goaded a response out of him. “I would not stoop so low, simply to keep my position.”

“Sure you won’t.”

T’Challa can feel himself bristling now. He takes a step forward, towards Erik, and says softly, “You were willing to die–to kill–to sacrifice everything for your aims. Do you really think there is anything I wouldn’t give, to keep my country and the rest of the world safe from you?”

Erik’ jaw is set, and he looks at T’Challa with disdain–and with not nearly enough belief in what T’Challa is saying. “Sounds bold,” he says, dismissive. “But I know a coward when I see one.”

He can hear the outraged inhalations at that, but T’Challa doesn’t flinch.

“Look at me,” he says, soft, and waits until Erik’s furious gaze is fixed directly on him before he continues, in a voice so soft it’s almost a whisper, “Before I let you destroy my home and turn the world to ash, I will jump off the highest tower in the city and dash my brains out, and I will take you with me.”

Stevens goes very still at this, and in the silence, T’Challa leans forward and takes the last, biggest gamble.

“Check for yourself,” he offers. “And then try and tell me I lie.”

He’s expecting it this time, when Erik’s hands wrap around his throat, and his mind is broken wide open once more.

T’Challa still isn’t prepared for how it takes him apart–the hot, overwhelming rush of Erik being there, right there in front of him, touching him, inside his head, an inferno of pain and fury, and deep in the heart of that storm, a vast heartbreak, deeper and more overwhelming than T’Challa could have dreamed, and to know it was his father that was the cause of it all, that small boy weeping over his father’s body, lost and alone–

Baba, what have you done?

Dimly, he’s aware that he is gasping for breath against the tight grip of Erik’s fingers, and he can feel Erik shaking, trembling as he fights for control, and T’Challa can only hold himself upright and offer up what he knows to be true–that for all his sympathy and horror for Erik’s past, he will fling both of them down as sacrifices for Wakanda if he has to.

And then, in a flash, it’s over–Erik stumbling back as his hands drop from T’Challa’s throat, his eyes wet and his expression lost.

T’Challa gulps in deep breaths of air, steadying himself, before he wipes his own face free of tears.

“There will be no more destruction here today,” he says, hoarsely, and when he sits in his throne at last, it’s not a show of strength–it’s just that his knees are threatening to give way beneath him.

*

“What happens now?” Erik asks him.

They’re all back in Shuri’s lab, but this time with a healer running the tests on Erik, and her professional demeanor cracks just enough to send wary looks Erik’s way as she scans him.

Honestly, T’Challa can’t blame her. Or be that surprised. And it’s not as though the news of this hasn’t already started spreading throughout the entire country.

T’Challa watches Erik as he sits on the examining table, and asks, “Did you have a plan for when you came here in pursuit of my throne?”

His mother inserts herself coolly into the conversation from where she’s glowering at Erik, asking archly, “Or did you just think you’d kill my son and then…wing it from there?”

Erik glares at the both of them. “My plan was to save the people that Wakanda’s abandoned for centuries. I’d take all the knowledge and weapons you’ve been hoarding to yourselves and use it to help oppressed people around the world rise up and defeat their enemies, with Wakanda ruling over them all.”

T’Challa is appalled, both at the plan and at Erik’s unwavering belief in its righteousness, but Ramonda just scoffs. “You’d have been dead within a year.”

“Mother,” T’Challa says mildly, and she gives him a look.

“Oh, well, if you want this one to continue clinging to his delusions,” she says, shrugging as if to say, who am I to stop you?

T’Challa can feel an explosion coming, and so he asks his mother as quietly and kindly as he can, “Would you give us a moment?” he asks his mother and the healer quietly, and Ramonda presses her lips together before walking out without a word, the healer following her quietly.

Once the sound of their footsteps up the stairs have receded, T’Challa says quietly, “My mother is...blunt.”

A layer of skepticism rests over him, even before Erik raises an eyebrow. “Bruh, she hates my guts.”

For one second, T’Challa wonders if this will be the rest of his life, playing intermediary between Erik and the rest of his family, trying his best to balance everyone out, avoid open conflict, and all the while concealing his own emotions–

“How are you doing that?” Erik asks.

“What?” T’Challa asks.

“That...mental block you’ve got up right now. I can hardly read anything off you at all.”

He means through the bond, and T’Challa’s stomach momentarily cramps with alarm. Erik’s expression doesn’t change, and T’Challa wraps himself even more tightly in that hard-won calm and says, “It seems...easier, to manage things this way. Unless you object?” he adds, doubtfully.

Erik’s mouth tilts in that sneer that is already too familiar. “This ain’t no love story, man.”

“Believe me,” T’Challa says, “I know.”

“So how does this shit work?” Erik asks, abruptly.

T’Challa pauses. “You mean the soulbond?”

“Yeah. How do y’all handle it in Wakanda?”

T’Challa collects himself. “Much the same as elsewhere–the bond can be a platonic or romantic one, but it’s--” he falters briefly before carrying on, “–always considered significant. Everything that I have, everything that I am…” Erik’s eyes are sharp with interest, and T’Challa grimly pushes onward, “–is now yours.” And the same for you.”

Erik gives him a smile without a speck of warmth to it. “All your worldly goods, huh?”

T’Challa fixes him with a steady look. “I thought you said this wasn’t a love story.”

“Oh, trust me, this right here,” Erik hops off the table and gestures to the space between the two of them, space that is quickly decreasing as Erik approaches, “This is some fucking bullshit. But that doesn’t mean it can’t be useful.”

T’Challa lifts an eyebrow. “Oh? Am I supposed to find a use for your arrest warrant from Interpol?”

Erik just chuckles grimly. “Cute. But if you think I’m just going to let you keep your throne and not get anything back in return, you’re out of your mind.”

“Trust me,” T’Challa says, “I don’t expect you to make anything easier.”

Erik lifts his head up at that, like a predator smelling blood, and T’Challa deliberately wipes his mind clear and waits for whatever Erik’s about to propose next.

“I’m your soulmate, right? Your other half,” Erik says, slow and deliberate. “You’re not going to hide me off in some corner and try and forget that I don’t exist.”

T’Challa bites back his first response, and says simply, “So you’re insisting then on receiving everything that you’re entitled to?”

“Damn right?” Erik says.

“Fine,” T’Challa says. “Then that is exactly what you’ll get.”

*

“My king,” Ayo says in a low whisper, “–do you really think this is wise?”

“You heard what the healer said,” T’Challa says. “The more long-term exposure we have to each other, the more that the bond will stabilize. And he wants his rights as the soulmate of the king of Wakanda.” T’Challa watches as Erik warily looks around T’Challa’s private quarters. “It’s not as though I am in any position to refuse him.”

Okoye’s gaze is pinned on Erik, even as she says with gritted teeth, “You have known him for less than a day and he has already tried to kill you once. And now you want us to leave you alone with him? To leave him unattended in your bedchamber where you sleep?”

Without looking over at any of them, Erik calls out, “Y’all know I can hear you, right?”

Okoye doesn’t even pause before retorting, “I wasn’t trying to be discreet.”

“Okoye,” T’Challa says, unable to hide his weariness any longer. “Enough. He can’t try to kill me without injuring himself. By all means, put a guard by the door, monitor all communications from the palace, but I am–”

Exhausted. Weary to the bone, and with no idea of what tomorrow will bring.

He can feel Erik’s attention snapping back to him and finishes, “I am in need of rest, as all of us are.”

Okoye looks as though she’s bitten into something sour, but she inclines her head, conceding the argument. She sends Erik a dark look, and says, “We’ll be outside the door.”

“I’m not planning to smother him with a pillow,” Erik says sardonically, and Okoye just shoots him another furious look before repeating, pointedly, “Right outside.”

But at last they leave, and T’Challa is left alone with his bonded.

Erik’s watching him with a gaze as wary as the one T’Challa is giving him. From him, T’Challa can sense everything–agitation, a weariness that nearly matches T’Challa’s own, and always that banked rage, threatening to boil over at just a word. And also–bewilderment?

“You worried I’m going to strangle you too?” Erik asks after a moment, frowning at him.

“It’s hardly in your own interests,” T’Challa says. “So no, I’m not.” He starts to shrug out of his own robes, looking away as he says, “For now, we both need rest. Unless you’d prefer your own quarters–”

“Nah, I’m good,” Erik says, and when T’Challa looks back over at him, Erik deliberately holds his gaze as he starts to strip out of his own clothes, shrugging out of his tactical vest before pulling his shirt over his head.

His entire chest and arms are covered in scars, and thanks to the bond T’Challa knows what each one stands for.

A sour taste is in his mouth, strong enough that Erik looks up, alert. “Feeling a little squeamish, huh?”

“Let’s just get to bed,” T’Challa says, in no mood to spar further.

For all of his forced calm, T’Challa’s heart is racing. He’s been pushing the horror to one side all day, focusing on the people that need him–his mother, his sister, his council and his guard–but now there are no more distractions to shield him, just him and this stranger who he’s tied to, who tried to kill him just this afternoon, who–

Erik’s chuckling now. “So you are human,” he says, smugly, and T’Challa forgets himself enough to glare. “What? If I’m stuck like this, I’d rather not be tied to a robot for the rest of my life. I can’t kill you, you can’t kill me. That’s what we got to work with and we both know it, so let’s just sleep.”

For all of Erik’s confidence as he speaks, there’s a sliver of unease as he nods at the bed, which perversely makes T’Challa feel better–his bondmate may be a trained killer with anger issues, but at least he can be thrown off-guard.

Much like Erik takes comfort from T’Challa’s own bewilderment.

What a beginning.

“All right,” T’Challa says before he can start worrying about it again, and climbs into the bed, sinking into the softness of the sheets and pillows with a nearly silent sigh of relief. Erik pauses by the side of the bed, hesitating, but as soon as T’Challa’s noticed, he’s decisively climbing into the bed himself, leaving a careful amount of space between their bodies.

The silence stretches, but it doesn’t matter. They’re never going to be alone again.

T’Challa can feel the panic threatening to clench around his heart again at the idea, but it’s fainter than before, the emotion dulled by exhaustion.

“Go the fuck to sleep, man,” he hears Erik grumble and T’Challa, too weary to argue or fight, yawns and falls asleep in less than a minute.

*

The nightmare wakes him up before dawn.

T’Challa jerks upright with a gasp, drenched in sweat and what feels like every muscle in his body tight with tension, fear and adrenaline running through him as he remembers the weight of a rifle in his hands, the heaviness of his uniform and the hot Iraqi sun beating down on his head, the crack of gunfire echoing in the empty streets, the enemy surrounding him and yet always out of sight–

Except none of that is him–not the nightmare, and not the memories it came from.

Still breathing hard, T’Challa looks over to see what he already knows he’ll find, Erik’s eyes shining in the dim light, his face as still as a mask. His hand is resting on T’Challa’s hip, warm through the waistband of T’Challa’s trousers, and T’Challa fights back a shiver as he realizes.

Not that it matters, because as soon as Erik realizes, he’s pulling his hand back–chagrin and annoyance coming through in spikes, drilling into T’Challa’s head.

T’Challa swallows and chooses his words with care “We’ll have to tell the healers. Dream-sharing is another measure of the strength of our bond, they’ll want to monitor it.”

Erik stares at him, his disbelief clear even before he says, “That’s it? That’s all you got to say?”

T’Challa meets his gaze. “Is there anything else you want to hear?”

He already knows the answer, but it’s another thing entirely to watch–and feel–as Erik closes up like a shell. “No,” he says flatly.

T’Challa nods and climbs out of bed.

*

Breakfast that morning might not be the worst ordeal that T’Challa has faced in the past few days, but it is excruciating.

At first he genuinely believes that it could just be him and Erik eating alone–which would be difficult enough–but it’s with mingled relief and apprehension that he sees his mother and Shuri waiting for them when he walks into the room, Erik close behind him. Even if Shuri is scowling at the tabletop, and his mother is wearing a look of grim determination, they’re still there to support him and it’s a relief.

But also he’s not entirely sure that if provoked, his mother can keep from stabbing Erik with the nearest utensil.

“Good morning,” T’Challa says to everyone as he takes a seat. Not the seat at the head of the table, the one that his father occupied for T’Challa’s entire life, but on the side facing his mother and sister. There’s an empty seat to T’Challa’s right, and after a moment of hesitation, Erik moves to take it, the chair legs scraping against the floor as he pulls it out.

“Good morning, my son,” Ramonda says, with a warmth in her gaze that disappears the moment she turns her attention to the man next to him. “Erik.”

For one alarmed moment, T’Challa genuinely fears that Erik will sneer and call her “auntie” again, but Erik’s apparently decided to be less provoking today, sticking to a mumbled, “Morning.”

Shuri says nothing, but the unhappy hunch of her shoulders speaks volumes.

“So,” his mother says briskly, pouring a cup of coffee and handing it over to T’Challa, “Today will be a busy day for all of us. News of your–your bond, and the challenge, will have spread, and the country will need reassurance.” She looks over at Erik, and adds, “And an explanation.”

T’Challa swallows, pushing his cup to one side without tasting it. “Yes, they will.”

Erik lets out a grim chuckle, picking up on T’Challa’s sense of dread. “So this is where the coverup starts, huh? Find a nice, palatable story to tell the masses?”

T’Challa looks at Erik and says, “We’ll be telling the truth.”

Across from T’Challa, Shuri lets out a soft gasp, but it’s Erik’s reaction that T’Challa is watching for, the bitter disdain starting to fade a little, but suspicion still as thick as tree sap. “What, even about your daddy and what he did to mine?”

T’Challa doesn’t look away. “Yes.” He turns to face his mother and his sister, meeting Shuri’s stricken gaze. “I’m sorry,” he says to her, softly. “But this is the only way. There is–no other alternative.”

His mother’s face shows no surprise, only weary determination. “Yes, I agree,” she says, placing a hand on Shuri’s arm in comfort. “The story will have already started to get out, and–” She falters briefly, before straightening her shoulders. “And we cannot face the whispers with more lies.”

“The truth is the only defense we can offer,” T’Challa says, his heart aching as he watches Shuri bite at her lip in an attempt at composure. “So we...will tell everyone.”

T’Challa can tell the exact moment that Erik realizes he’s in earnest, because he feels the impact of Erik’s shock, as though T’Challa has turned right into a stone wall.

“You’re actually serious,” Erik says, voice flat.

A flare of anger goes off in the pit of T’Challa’s stomach, and before he can check himself, he says in clipped tones, “Let’s not pretend you don’t already know I’m telling the truth. What you decide to do with it is your choice.”

Erik just looks at him, his gaze flat and his jaw rigid, a tangle of emotions so vibrant and chaotic that T’Challa could lose himself trying to untangle any of it.

Ramonda speaks into the silence. “So, while T’Challa is preparing his statement for the country, I thought I should begin in helping Erik adjust to his new role.”

“My new what?” Erik asks.

Ramonda gives him a cool smile. “Surely you don’t think you’re currently in any way prepared to act as my son’s consort.”

T’Challa fights to keep his face blank and his emotions in check as Erik repeats, disbelief rising, “His what?”

“Consort,” Ramonda replies coolly. “I realize you’ve been a bit busy these past few years, running around with your big American guns and shooting up everything in sight, but I assure you, no one in Wakanda will be impressed by your high body count and talent for blowing things up. If you’re going to become a fit partner for my son, some improvements will need to be made.”

At this point, Shuri is staring wide-eyed at them both, her astonished expression fully a match for any of those memes she loves to share, and T’Challa is just on the verge of giving up and putting his face in his hands.

At last, Erik speaks in a low growl, “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

Shuri squeaks, T’Challa puts his face in his hands, and Ramonda, as cold as the mountains, replies, “Trust me, Killmonger–I’m not ‘fucking kidding’ you, as you so charmingly put it.”

In retrospect, it seems inevitable that this first breakfast would end in shouting. Really, the only surprise is that it took as long as it did.

*

Nakia looks up from the holo read-out and turns to T’Challa with kind, sympathetic eyes. “It’s a good speech, T’Challa.”

“Good enough to make the people forget I am the son of a murderer?”

“Good enough to help people understand,” Nakia gently corrects. “Your country loves you, T’Challa. Right now people are alarmed and they’re worried, but when you speak to them–they will still see you. You are a good man who they have accepted as their king. Your father’s crime doesn’t change that.”

T’Challa swallows and stares down at his hands.

Nakia is quiet for a moment, before asking, “Is...is Stevens making things difficult?”

T’Challa looks at her. “He’s not interested in making anything easy.” He looks back down at his hands, chuckling grimly. “And my mother is determined to keep him in check. It makes for an...interesting family meal.”

Nakia is quiet, and T’Challa feels himself torn, between the need to speak to a sympathetic ear and the knowledge that it would be utterly unfair–both to her and to Erik. He can’t complain about his bond to his ex-girlfriend, and the idea of exposing Erik to a stranger, no matter how compassionate–

“It’s going to be a hard line to walk,” Nakia says softly. “Leading our country in a new direction, acknowledging the mistakes of the past without giving into vengeance. But if anyone can do this, T’Challa, it’s you.”

“I’ll need help,” T’Challa says, and Nakia gives him a smile that wavers only a little at the edges.

“Then you’ll have it,” she says, and presses his hand with hers...but only briefly, her hand gone as quickly as it appears. T’Challa flexes his fingers, and doesn’t say a word.

*

That night, after T’Challa’s statement has been broadcast live to the entire nation, Erik finds him in his office. T’Challa doesn’t look over to the open door, Erik’s presence in his mind like a gust of hot wind in mid-summer. “Hello.”

Erik doesn’t speak, not right away. “Smooth statement you gave,” he says. “Didn’t have a lot to say about me, though.”

“It said what it needed to,” T’Challa says. In truth, he had elided much of Erik’s history–the focus had been on his father and N’Jobu’s death, on T’Challa’s determination that the crimes of the past could not be hidden or repeated, that Wakanda had a duty to the world. For Erik, T’Challa had chosen to say little, other than he had served in the American military, and that he had a right to live in Wakanda regardless of his bond to T’Challa. “It won’t serve our cause to air all of our dirty laundry in front of the entire country.”

Erik has moved to stare out the window at the sunset, painting the landscape in pinks and golds. “Our cause now, huh?” He glances over his shoulder and looks at T’Challa.

T’Challa lifts his chin. “Yes. Our cause, now.”

Erik huffs, but doesn’t actually argue with that. “Yeah, okay,” he says, turning to stare back out at the city. “So we’re gonna paint this up, make it sound like you and me are some big romance?”

“We’ll have to act like allies,” T’Challa corrects him. “Which means you’ll need to do a better job of disguising your hostility.”

Erik, a little to T’Challa’s surprise, doesn’t seem to take offense at this. “Yeah, so I’ve been told.” He chuckles, and adds, “Your moms is–”

“Think very carefully about the next words that come out of your mouth,” T’Challa says, pleasantly.

Erik eyes him up before grinning suddenly, and T’Challa unwillingly notices–and not for the first time–the dimple that peeks out in his cheek.

“Relax, man,” Erik says. “I’m not gonna get myself thrown into the palace dungeon over some “your mama” joke.”

T’Challa doesn’t say anything, but some of his surprise must bleed through, because Erik rolls his eyes and says next, “I am capable of thinking something through for longer than five seconds, damn.”

“Of course you are,” T’Challa says. “How else could you get here?”

An uneasy silence stretches between them at that, both of them remembering everything Erik has done to reach Wakanda, the evidence of it etched into his body.

Before one of them can speak, though, T’Challa’s kimoyo beads chime with an incoming communication.

When he answers, it’s Okoye’s face that emerges, her expression grave, even before she says, “My king, we are in need of assistance down in the lab, regarding Shuri’s latest...project.”

T’Challa realizes what–or rather who–Okoye is referring to, and schools his face into an impassive mask. “Of course, I’ll be right there.”

He disconnects the call and says, “If you’ll excuse me,” to Erik. Erik is watching him sharply, but waves him off with, “Nah, don’t worry about it. I can keep myself occupied.”

That is precisely what T’Challa is worried about, but he doesn’t say so.

After all, he has another American agent to deal with.

*

“Your Majesty,” Ross says, bowing a little at the waist as T’Challa comes down the last few steps into Shuri’s lab. “Thank you.”

T’Challa inclines his head, noting the way that Shuri isn’t quite meeting anyone’s gaze, or the grave looks on both Okoye and Nakia’s faces. “You saved Nakia, it was only right that we help you.”

“Hell of a way to help,” Ross says with admiration, glancing around Shuri’s lab, at the windows overlooking the vibramium mines.

T’Challa doesn’t let his expression shift. “My sister’s brilliance is unquestioned in Wakanda, we’re very fortunate to have her.”

Okoye’s face is easy to read in this moment→you see what happens when you let a colonizer into our country. But she’s not saying anything to put Ross back in his place, and Nakia and Shuri are silent as well.

Something is going on.

Ross gives him an odd sideways glance and says, in a tone more hesitant than T’Challa has heard from the man yet, “I understand that congratulations are in order?”

“Yes,” T’Challa says evenly. “I am bonded now.”

“To Killmonger,” Ross presses.

“To Erik Stevens, yes,” T’Challa says. A part of him is genuinely curious to see if Ross is going to force the issue, and if so, what tack he’ll try to take.

He doesn’t have to wait long. “Listen,” Ross says, his voice full of determination now, “I know you think there’s no way out of this for you, but you’re wrong.”

T’Challa pauses, noting both Ross’s earnest gaze and the stubborn set of Okoye’s jaw–whatever Ross is about to say, she has already heard it.

So has Nakia, if her unhappy eyes are any indication.

Slowly, T’Challa says, “My bond is not at the level where it can be easily broken. And even if it were, that still leaves Erik as–” A problem. A threat to everything T’Challa holds dear. “As my responsibility,” T’Challa finishes.

Ross steps closer. “What if I told you I had a solution to both your problems?”

Warily, T’Challa says, “Agent Ross–”

“The CIA has developed certain techniques for situations exactly like the one you’re in right now,” Ross says quickly. “I’m telling you, we can break this bond and you will be absolutely fine afterwards. I’d put your odds at 90, 95 percent.”

“And Erik?”

Ross pauses only momentarily before saying, “He’d be a vegetable. Likely brain-dead.”

T’Challa is already shaking his head before Ross has even finished speaking. “No. Absolutely not–”

“Your Majesty–”

“I understand that our ways are not your own,” T’Challa says, as steadily as possible, but even he can hear the revulsion in his own voice. “But what you suggest is an abomination, and I will not do it.”

Ross shakes his head, huffing out through his nose. “Your Majesty, with all possible respect, don’t let your compassion cloud your judgment. Killmonger is a threat.”

“Bold words,” T’Challa says, unable to stop himself any longer, “Especially coming from an agent of the same government that turned Erik into what he is.”

Ross takes the rebuke without blinking, just saying, “Yes, and that means I know, even more than you, what he’s capable of. If you give him a chance, he will rip your country apart, and neither one of us wants to see that happen. Look, I owe you, big, now let me help you–”

T’Challa stares at him. “This is not the kind of favor I ask for,” he says. “Nor is it the kind of act I would ever willingly agree to–”

“Do you have any idea of the body count he’s already racked up?” Ross demands, and T’Challa tries not to flinch, remembering the scars covering Erik’s body, Erik’s own words at the falls.

“You honestly think you can keep him in check?” Ross asks him. “Your Highness, believe it or not, what I’m saying now, I say out of respect and gratitude for you and your sister–you’re not going to be able to redeem him, and if you can’t hold him in check–”

T’Challa feels the brush of something against his mind, right before he turns just in time to see Erik coming through the doors to his office, flanked by two unhappy Dora Milaje.

Erik narrows his eyes as he looks at the scene in front of him, before his attention finally settles on Ross. “Didn’t I shoot your ass two days ago?”

Ross has a faint smile as he looks Erik over, and it doesn’t disappear at the open show of hostility. “You did. Lucky for me, your cousins are better at putting things back together than you are at destroying them.”

“Says the man who helped tear the Avengers to shreds,” Erik says. “You really think I’m going to take a lecture from the likes of you?”

“I think,” Ross says deliberately, “–that the only thing you know how to do is destroy. Which is a hell of a shame, because I like these people, and this country is incredible. I’m not looking forward to seeing what it’ll be like once you get started.”

Erik’s face twists with rage, and he takes a step forward and without pause, T’Challa steps in front of him. “Erik.”

Erik seethes but doesn’t move any closer.

Ross, whatever else he is, is not a coward. He holds out his hand to T’Challa, in full view of Erik, and says, “Your Majesty, let me thank you for all your help. Let me know if you change your mind, my offer is still good.”

“Hold up,” Erik says, disbelieving, even as T’Challa can feel him clumsily prodding at his brain. “You’re letting him go?”

“I can hardly show him less mercy than I’ve shown you,” T’Challa points out, and Erik’s scowl, and his displeasure, is grating.

They can’t have this fight in front of an outsider, even if T’Challa doesn’t plan to lose it. “Nakia, Okoye,” he says, deliberate and calm, “–will you escort our guest to my office? We’ll need to arrange transport for his departure.”

Nakia, thank Bast, just nods and says to Ross, “Come with me, please.”

Ross’s sharp eyes don’t miss any of this, and Shuri looks to be on the verge of erupting, and Erik–T’Challa mentally flinches away from Erik, from the seething mass of bitter rage that is already far too familiar.

But Ross doesn’t push it, accepting defeat with a nod. “I meant what I said,” he says to T’Challa in an undertone. “My gratitude to you doesn’t come with a time limit, either.”

“Good luck to you, Agent Ross,” T’Challa says firmly, and nods to Nakia to escort him out of the room. Okoye follows them out, her face a stern mask.

Once they’re gone, Shuri erupts. “What is wrong with you?” she demands of T’Challa.

“Aw,” Erik says sarcastically, bristling in exactly the way T’Challa feared and expected, “Does your brother not have the stomach for assassinating his soulmate?”

And Shuri takes the bait. “Do you think we don’t know what you are?” Shuri demands. “Do you think we don’t know what you’ve done?”

“Shuri,” T’Challa warns, but his sister is too agitated to listen.

“You would do anything to get the throne from T’Challa–you’d kill everyone in this room and turn the world to ash–”

“Shuri, enough,” T’Challa barks, and Shuri falls silent. “That is enough,” T’Challa says in a thin voice, his pulse pounding in his temples. “We do not look to foreigners to solve our problems, that has not changed.”

“He’s not a problem, he’s a plague,” Shuri says, her voice thick. “He’ll destroy this country and you, and you can’t even see it.”

“No, he won’t,” T’Challa tells her, and he can see his sister doesn’t believe him, how can she? But it is true, because T’Challa will have to make it true. Nothing else is acceptable.

“You’re my brother,” Shuri says, her voice soft. “I love you, but you are a fool.” She storms off before he can answer.

Erik starts to speak, but T’Challa holds up one hand, exhausted. “Don’t. Whatever awful thing you are about to say right now, just…please do not.”

He takes a deep breath, and says what has to be said. “You are my consort. You are safe within these borders, within these walls. I am not going to have you assassinated, and certainly not by an American agent who I trust even less than I trust you.”

Erik is watching him with hard, suspicious eyes. He doesn’t accuse T’Challa of lying, he asks a harder question instead. “Why not?”

Because somehow, I have to save everyone in Wakanda and the world from you, and that includes yourself.

It’s the absolute truth, which is why T’Challa can’t say it, Bast only knows how Erik would take offense at the idea of needing to be saved, needing protection from himself.

So T’Challa says instead, “Because I’m not in the habit of having other people solve problems for me.”

Erik, a little to T’Challa’s surprise, doesn’t start bristling at the implication of being a problem that needs to be solved. “You’re a king, that’s all you’re supposed to do. Outsource shit to everyone else and make them deal with it.”

“Perhaps that’s how it works in other countries,” T’Challa replies. “Here, I will do things my way.”

Erik watches him for a moment longer, then says abruptly, “If you think I’m grateful, you’re dead wrong.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to be.”

Erik keeps watching him, testing him, like he is almost certain to do for as long as they both shall live. T’Challa is drained by the thought of it, and it’s only been two days. “I’ma give you hell, you know that, right?” Erik tosses out, a threat and a promise all in one.

“Yes,” T’Challa says, meaning it, knowing it won't change anything. He's made his choice. “I do.”