Chapter 6
M’Baku shifts, uncomfortable. He jumps slightly as a pointy finger jabs into his ribs, and he shoots his beloved a glare. Shuri grins at him, all teeth.
“Stop that,” she tells him. Her finger against his ribs turns into her looping her arm in his. “You look handsome, my King.”
He huffs and looks away, mostly so she doesn’t see the pleased flush on his cheeks. It has the added effect of allowing him to catch their reflection in the glass panels beside them. His Panther may have a point, even if he feels profoundly uncomfortable without his traditional armor and staff. He takes in their appearance together while Shuri fiddles with her beads to arrange their ride.
Shuri is stunning as ever. M’Baku would be glad to stare at her forever. It doesn’t hurt that she’s showing a considerable amount of her flawless skin. Her jumpsuit juts out over her shoulders but leaves her toned biceps and tattooed forearms exposed. The deep purple fabric shines when the light catches it, particularly over the curve of her chest and around her hips.
The legs of the jumpsuit are dramatic; they flare out in such a way that makes her look tall, despite only coming up to his shoulder. Under the crisp hem of her pantlegs, he can see a tease of her favorite sneakers. Around her neck, as always, is her gold necklace; her fingers are adorned with jewelry as well, but M’Baku only has eyes for the leather band around one wrist.
He had it made for her a few months prior. He’d presented it nonchalantly as a belated birthday gift—she was off-world for her birthday, of all things. M’Baku doesn’t like thinking of her so far away. It had helped to see her gleefully accept the bracelet, as mundane and simple as it is. The leather is stained black with traditional Jabari artwork carved into the supple skin.
It goes nicely with the cuff around his own wrist. He’s had his since childhood, as most Jabari members have. Similarly, his shirt is the same shiny material as Shuri’s pantsuit but black in color. He has a purple handkerchief tucked into the front pocket—and oh how his ancestors would laugh to see him with a pocket square of all things. He should be glad, he supposes, that Shuri has allowed him to keep some semblance of his furs.
The jacket is black as well, matte rather than shiny, a looser fit than he’s used to, but he takes great comfort in the fur collar that keeps tickling his neck. The pants are a smidge too tight, something he suspects his lover has done intentionally. His feet feel strange in sneakers, but he can’t deny he enjoys the look of them: all purple, black, white, and gold. They remind him of Shuri. Another intentional move, he’s sure.
A soft noise draws his gaze from their reflection, and he looks to Shuri instead. She’s worrying her bottom lip gently. He reaches up and thumbs at her chin until she stops.
“We don’t have to go,” she says softly. She has lined her gaze in metallic purple ink; it reminds him of her mourning paint, but much more pleasant. The lines are sharp, exact, mesmerizing. “We can do something else. Stay in the hotel, watch bad television.”
M’Baku flicks her in the forehead. She squawks at him indignantly.
“We are going,” he tells her. Then, because she clearly does not understand, he adds, “I want to go.”
Her eyes widen fractionally.
He looks away; her gaze, as usual, is too intense. He is weak under it. She reduces him to a stumbling mess, especially here and now. They are so far from their homelands; he cannot hide behind tradition or snow. He is laid bare, despite his modest outfit, all at the hands of his beloved.
“If you’re sure,” she says.
“I am.” M’Baku nods to the door. “Lead the way, my Panther.”
She brightens and adjusts her grip to take him by the hand. Her hold is firm and strong and she pulls him along easily. As they slip out of their extravagant hotel room and wander down the hall to the elevator, she regales him with their plans for the evening. A nice dinner at a restaurant recommended by that colonizer they saved, a show in a small club afterwards with the promise of numerous drinks, and a little bit of sightseeing later at night when they won’t be followed by prying eyes.
“You are the one who will draw attention our way,” he says. He unsubtly rakes his gaze down her form where she leans against the elevator wall. She preens under his stare. “The world does not know my face as well.” Even those who do know his face—namely those in the United Nations—are more used to seeing him in wood and fur, not all these synthetics.
“I don’t know,” she drawls, tilting her head and leering at his ass just as classlessly as he looked at her. “I think you’ll draw plenty of curious eyes, my King.”
“Shuri.” The elevator is beginning to slow. “Not tonight.” He smiles at her. “We are not a king and panther, here.”
Her eyes are bright and her grin wide. “Oh?”
He steps to her and takes her by the waist. He pulls her firmly against his chest and leans down until their lips nearly brush. “Indeed. Tonight we are simply two lovers spending a night out on the town. We are just M’Baku and Shuri, hm?”
She nods eagerly, nuzzling against his nose. “Thank you for this.”
The elevator is stopping; he does not pull away. “Anything for you, Shuri.”
She shivers against him and kisses him once, chaste and tasting of cola of all things, before hurrying out of the elevator. He follows quick at her heels despite the apprehension still pulling at him. He trusts her, he loves her. He can force himself out of his comfort zone for her yet again.
Tomorrow, though, they will in fact be spending the day in their room watching the absolutely worst television possible. It will be glorious.
But, he thinks as Shuri slides into the backseat of their ride and he follows suit, so will tonight.
Shuri makes conversation with their driver and M’Baku turns his attention to the cityscape racing by outside. He has spent some time out of Wakanda, of course. Mostly diplomatic meetings and the like, but a few leisure trips with Shuri. She is smart and started him off small and simple. Trips into less populated areas, letting him acclimate to a lack of Wakanda rather than overwhelming him with the rest of the world.
They’ve never stayed in a city together before. They’ve never gone on a date in cities other than Birnin Zana before. It is thrilling, and terrifying. He isn’t scared of danger—he greatly doubts any real threats lurk in Virginia besides the government—but of himself. He has changed so much in so little time, it seems. Sometimes it’s as though he no longer knows himself. Occasionally it is hard to recognize the man he’s become.
He blinks at his reflection, marred by the lights of the city against the rainy window. He knows, logically, that he is the same man. He has not been changed in his DNA; the qualities that make him M’Baku are the same. His beard is the same cut, his hair the same faded sides. There’s a bit of gray there, now, but he finds he quite likes the look.
He is still a vegetarian. He still, by and large, abhors technology. He is stubborn to a fault and strong as an ox.
But he is older, wiser, kinder. He has more knowledge than he ever expected and he is weighed down with the burdens of running the most powerful country in the world. He has tried cuisines he previously couldn’t have imagined. He has escaped assassination attempts and foiled a few coups.
A hand lands on his thigh and he glances at Shuri again. She raises an eyebrow at him. He lays his hand over hers and squeezes.
“You are quiet tonight.”
M’Baku smiles. He nods at the driver, who is currently intensely focused on the rainy road. “You talk enough for the both of us.”
Shuri rolls her eyes. “Perhaps I will strand you at dinner, leave you to figure out the bill for yourself.”
M’Baku brings her hand from his thigh to his lips and kisses her palm. She smells of a woodsy perfume. She smells like home. He takes a deeper inhale before linking their fingers. “Your trick would fail, Shuri. I am a diplomat now. I am no stranger to picking up the check for dinner.”
It’s not even a fib. Granted, the so-called training from Nakia to improve his social skills had been extremely frustrating and tiresome. But it worked. M’Baku can be positively civil at a dinner table, now. Oh, how his tribe would laugh at him if they could see him flagging down a waiter and slipping a flimsy piece of plastic into a billfold.
Shuri scoffs. “Some hot shot, hm?”
“Absolutely. I believe I’ve rightfully earned the title of city slicker, in fact.”
Shuri laughs and shoves at him. “I don’t know why I love you,” she mutters, shaking her head fondly.
M’Baku’s breathing catches in his chest and he can’t help the way he grips her hand a little tighter. He loosens his hold instantly, but it doesn’t escape Shuri. Her eyes narrow. Her eyebrow arches again, daring him.
He does dare, because she has never said those words to him before. Not so plainly. She has shown her love in many ways: gifts, touch, comfort. But she has never said it so simply, and his heart thuds heavily. Happily.
“I am a catch,” he says, kissing her knuckles again, “of course you love me.”
Her cheeks are pinking and she can’t hide her grin. “Is that so?”
He nods, very serious. “I am a prized specimen, you’d be a fool not to love me.” He lets their entwined hands land on the seat between them.
Her thumb brushes along his skin. “I’m no fool,” she agrees. He watches the tension leave her shoulders and her grin turns back to the driver, as he lets them know they’re approaching their destination.
He knows she does not love easily, not anymore. Loss does that to a person. M’Baku is not naive. His heart still pounds, heavy with the knowledge that the crown princess, Wakanda’s protector, the most incredible woman he knows, loves him. He feels lighter, to have heard the words, and yet infinitely heavier too. He cannot be careless with Shuri’s heart.
He won’t.