Chapter 1
She finds him before she leaves—in a state of undress, no less.
He does not chide her on impropriety; she’s gotten an earful from the council elders already for abdicating the throne to be the Black Panther full time. She doesn’t need a lecture from him.
Besides, he’s beginning to see what she means about tradition and its follies. Just as she’s no longer a child scoffing at tradition, M’Baku is no longer the leader of an isolated tribe that rejects technology. He’s come a long way, same as Shuri.
He doesn’t jump when her dainty yet callused fingers brush his shoulder, but he watches her carefully. She rounds him, her fingertips dragging over his bicep, his collarbone, his pectoral. Zawavari would have a lot to say about Shuri’s casual touch. M’Baku has a lot to say about it, too. He just hasn’t quite figured out how to put it into words yet.
Especially since she’s leaving soon. He does not see what good it would do to trap her in a conversation now. Not now, when all she wants to do is leave Wakanda. She’ll come back, he’s sure. They have time.
“Aren’t you glad,” she says as her hand lands in the center of his chest, “that I made such excellent under-armor for you and your tribe?” She doesn’t move her hand, holding it over the dip between his pectorals. The very space where the fish man’s hand had slammed into him, shattering his traditional Jabari chest plate.
It was only the vibranium plate beneath, a gift from Shuri shortly after the Jabari joined the council, that kept M’Baku alive. They both know it.
M’Baku lays his hand over hers. His is enormous comparatively, but their touch is equally rough. Hers from tinkering in her lab and training relentlessly with the Dora—his from hard labor around J'Abariland and training of his own. He wonders if both their calluses will lessen with him as King and her wrapped up in her beautiful suit.
“Where will you go?”
He’s known of her plans to leave for several days. She came to him the same night their warriors returned to Wakanda—the night K'uk'ulkan and his people returned to Talokan. In the same breath that she mentioned abdicating and going off to see the world as the Black Panther, she’d asked him to take the throne. She made him swear not to tell a soul of her request.
Hard to do, when she still hasn’t shared where she’s headed, but he agreed nonetheless. He’s found, in the years since Killmonger rocked Wakanda to its core (and even moreso in the year since T’Challa’s passing) that it’s increasingly difficult to tell the Black Panther no .
“I have some unfinished business,” she tells him quietly. At his arched brow, she laughs. “Nothing devious. Just a ritual, and some friends to visit.”
He hums. “You will find something devious along the way.”
“You’re probably right.”
Neither of them has moved. His hand still engulfs hers; his free hand twitches with the impulse to take her by the waist. His touch would engulf her there too, so slender and thin and his palms so large and broad. He is half-dressed in his usual uniform, the skirt of leaves and vibranium threaded underclothes. Impropriety, he thinks again, amused and unsettled in equal measure.
She’s dressed in layers, mostly casual. It’s the same clothes he’s seen her in for years: bright colors, fashion that confuses him, so many laces and textures. The only thing that’s changed is how she carries herself. Her back is straighter, her expression more determined. She was never weak, but she’s stronger now. War and grief have changed her; her time as the Black Panther will change her even more.
There is no vengeance in her eyes or bloodthirst in her grin. In just the scant few days since K'uk'ulkan first threatened them, she has already changed so much. He is so proud.
“Will you miss me?”
M’Baku rolls his eyes at her question instinctively.
“You will.” She preens, leans in close. She is short, a full foot below him, and yet she takes up his entire line of sight with her presence. “You’re going to miss me terribly.”
M’Baku finally moves. He grips her hand tighter and pulls it from his chest. He doesn’t let her go, though she clearly expects that. No, instead he carefully drags her hand up, up, until her fingertips brush his beard. He presses a kiss to her palm. Her fingers curl against his cheek and he pushes into her touch, his kiss lingering. Her touch is warm, her nails sharp and clean. He can faintly smell her perfume from earlier in the day, clinging to her wrist. There’s the faint scent of motor oil beneath it.
“Oh,” she breathes.
He hums again. He takes a deep inhale—motor oil, grassy citrus scent of her perfume, salt from her sweat—before slowly dropping his hand away.
She doesn’t move immediately. She leaves her hand against his cheek; her thumb brushes the apple of his cheek. Her callus scrapes rough against his facial hair. They both shiver.
“I am going to miss you too,” she admits softly.
It pleases him more than he’d care to admit. He’s not sure he’s ever been missed before, not really. There has never been a reason for someone to miss him.
“Where will you go?” He asks again, because he needs to know. Not to follow her or convince her to stay, but to know she is safe. He does not trust any of those so-called Avengers to watch her back. Especially not the one kids call White Wolf.
“Haiti.”
M’Baku blinks, surprised at her obedience and her answer. “Nakia,” he replies. Nods. “Good.”
“I can take care of myself, you know.” Her hand finally drops from his cheek—he is cold, without it—and she crosses her arms over her chest. She doesn’t look angry, at least. Mostly entertained. Oh, how he’s fallen. Once the great leader of the isolated Jabari tribe, now a jester for a beautiful young woman.
Hm. There are worse fates.
“I know,” he says. “But Nakia is a good backup.”
“Don’t let her hear you call her backup.”
M’Baku holds up a hand in surrender. “Of course not, my Panther.”
Shuri’s eyes glint and her smile widens. “Say it again.”
“My Panther,” he murmurs, obedient in return. There is so much he wants to say, but she leaves in the morning. He knows she needs space and wouldn’t dream of stopping her, but he wishes they had more time. Their days since the battle against Talokan have been stacked with shifting power, getting the scientist home, rescuing that damn colonizer. There has been tragically little time for the two of them.
Okoye told M’Baku, over a round of healthy mead and heavy whiskey, what she’d told the Queen Mother. That Shuri needed a break from Wakanda to heal, to grieve properly. It was true then, even if it wasn’t the best idea at the time, and it’s even more true now.
“I’ll be safe.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I am bringing my suit, just in case. I don’t have plans to cause an international incident.”
M’Baku arches a brow at her again.
Shuri throws her arms in the air, exasperated. “What do you want me to say?”
“There is nothing you can say,” he says softly, “that will keep me from worrying over you, my Panther. I would never ask you for such platitudes.” He raises his other hand, palms up, but hesitates in reaching for her. It’s not his place, not yet, no matter how much he would like it to be. “Trouble has a way of finding you in even the most improbable of times. Asking you to stay out of any conflict you find would be as effective as politely asking antelope not to graze in our kingdom’s gardens.”
Shuri makes a face at his reference. He has so much to teach her of J'Abariland. He looks forward to their lessons, eventually.
“I know you will be as safe as I can hope for. I cannot ask for anything else.”
M’Baku stumbles as she tackles him abruptly. Her twig-thin arms, though beginning to bulk with muscle, can barely fit around his chest. It doesn’t stop her from locking her fingers at the small of his back. She squeezes him tight. His hesitation from before finally lifts, and he wraps his arms around her as well.
She is so small in his grasp. Her face tucks under his chin perfectly. Yet she is not frail. She could lay M’Baku on his back if she felt so inclined. He shuts that line of thought down; his skirt does not leave much in the way of modesty, should his arousal get the better of him.
Her sigh against his collarbone sends shivers down his spine. She doesn’t comment on it. “I have a last gift for you,” she breathes into his skin. Her words sink into his veins and thud heavily along with his heart. “Will you accept it?”
It had taken him a while to accept Shuri’s gifts, when T’Challa first let the Jabari into the council. He rejected many of her gadgets and gizmos out of pride and tradition. Eventually, they’d found a balance. She stopped trying to force his tribe to accept things like weapons and suits similar to what the Panther and Dora Milaje used, and instead worked on improving existing Jabari items. Vibranium mixing with wood, layered under their furs, secret and strong.
He nods and buries his nose in her hair. That citrusy grass scent is stronger here, as is the sweat. He drinks his fill of her and is grateful that she lets this go without comment too. She just squeezes him tighter.
Eventually, they wordlessly break apart. Neither of them goes far. She reaches into the pocket of her baggy sweatshirt and holds out…
“Beads,” he says, flat and unimpressed.
She rolls her eyes. “You’ve seen Kimoyo beads before.” In her palm rests a bracelet of Kimoyo beads. M’Baku has seen them before, of course. Shuri wears them on her wrist and in her ears; all the Dora have them in some fashion. The other council leaders and many of Wakanda’s other warriors wear them regularly. Even some Jabari have taken to them—though not M’Baku. Not yet.
He holds out his wrist. They are silent as she slips the bracelet over his enormous hand. It is a perfect fit, not too snug and not too loose.
“They are… different.” He raises his wrist to his face to inspect them. They are not black like the other beads he’s seen. The carvings on them do not glow blue or purple or white.
These are a deep brown and the markings glow faintly gold. Gold, like the accents on her suit. Brown, like the strappings of his own armor. His breathing catches.
“I’ll feel better, knowing you’re wearing them.” She reaches for his hand and pulls his wrist close, her fingers dancing over the beads. “You’ll be able to contact any of the elders with them, or your tribesmen. Griot, too, if you want. Okoye and Nakia as well.”
“And you?”
Shuri ducks her head, cheeks pink. “And me,” she confirms.
“Good. Not that I expect to need it. The kingdom will finally be quiet with you gone. Why would I call you and subject myself to that again?” His voice doesn’t waver as he speaks but Shuri sees through him regardless. She’s always had a knack for that.
“I’ll call you tomorrow night,” she says instead. “After I land and take care of my business.”
“So cryptic.”
She smirks at him. “It’s the first lesson the ancestors teach you after taking the heart-shaped herb. Can’t have a protector who speaks in anything less than riddles, hm?”
“Of course not.”
He turns his hand and her fingers, still tracing his beads, fall away. He extends his palm to her in the same display he offered when she landed in Jabarland wearing her new suit. She clasps his hand just the same, but there is no struggle for power this time. Only warmth, a gentle touch, and the promise of more.
“Come back to me soon, my Panther.”
Shuri uses her grip to bring M’Baku’s hand to her lips. She brushes a kiss over his scraped knuckles. She tells him, “Of course, my King.”