Delirium

Peter was there when it happened. Sick as a dog unfortunately with easily the worst case of the flu in human history. Ever.

He was laying in the hotel suite he shared with his teammates. Trapped in one of three adjoining bedrooms that opened to a common living room.

Tired, feverish, and in between bouts of nausea and explosive diarrhea, and entirely bored.

Some undercover operation this turned out to be. Finally, he gets the opportunity to shadow along on a sophisticated undercover op and he had to go and catch a miserable case of the flu. Which was why he was flat on his back, tucked into bed like a sick child.

It was also why he was present to witness the alarming incident as it unfolded.

The door to the main hallway burst open and immediately slammed shut. Natasha Romanov announced her return with an angry shout to T’Challa who’d yet to get back. Former International Spies apparently didn’t take flu headaches seriously.

It didn’t take a genius to realize she was agitated and Peter was deeply appreciative that he was not the reason for her present attitude. This was the legendary Black Widow after all. There was a rumor she’d once intimidated someone to death. Admittedly: that information had come from Scott Lang, still...

She stalked across his limited field of view past his open door and moments later stalked back across.

Watching her from beneath the cold compress on his head the rumor seemed entirely plausible.

She was entirely ignoring him and was standing with arms crossed, glowering at the door that opened to the hallway. Peter tried to melt into the mattress.

It was so hard not to stare. She was actually stunning. And he caught himself staring, again, at the swell of her ass before averting his eyes. She wouldn’t probably stab him for leering but she might hit him with a Widow’ bite. He didn’t want to think about what that might do to his bowels.

but couldn’t help imagining a splatter painting of the whole room. A Jackson Pollack in brown.

He was looking at her ass again when the door opened and their teammate entered.

Peter still struggled to believe this was his life now: The actual Black Panther. T’Challa. Was standing in the room. Peter didn’t fully know the man’s power set but “elegant cool“ was definitely in there. It rolled off of him in waves. And it currently seemed to set Natasha off.

“That waitress asked me to give you her number.” Natasha bit out rather icily Peter thought.

“Oh? How kind of her. She certainly seemed friendly.” T’Challa observed helpfully.

Peter actually flinched. Everything about this screamed ‘danger.’

This was going to become an incident. The ‘will they/won’t they’ question might get answered right here in this room. Confirmation that they had a ‘thing’ sort of. Peter knew, hell, everyone knew there was ‘something’ between them. It was obvious, but peter also knew that Natasha had denied it to Clint and Steve when they’d nervously asked. Never the less, everyone understood that there was some kind of ‘situation’ between them. And now, clearly, Natasha felt that someone had violated her expectations.

Peter momentarily forgot about his sickness; He was witnessing something epic.

The Black Panther and the Black Widow had a thing. Or maybe they were on the verge of a thing. Wasn’t the ‘verge of a thing’ actually, in fact, a thing? That was what Wanda had said. But so far neither one of them had stepped up.

Could T’Challa not see what was happening here? Clearly the man’s power set did not include a spider sense.

“So, would you like the phone number then?” Natasha had lifted her chin. She stood before him with her arms crossed and hip cocked and for a moment the silence stretched.

Peter wondered if she needed to blink. Probably not. Spies. Peter thought that rattlesnakes looked less threatening than this right before striking. Shit, Tchalla was about to die.

T’Challa regarded her warily. “Um, would you ‘like’ me to have the number?” He asked her with obvious uncertainty.

Natasha pointed an incredibly dangerous finger at T’Challa and Peter waited for a sharpened blade to shoot from her fingertip or Russian spy lasers to burst from her eyes but nothing happened. Instead, T’Challa simply stood before her in an open, entirely too relaxed, posture. Again with the ‘elegant cool’ thing.

“You..I..” she began and stopped, interrupting what ever she was thinking. Instead, she opted to recross her arms and glare at him.

And then she abruptly turned to leave and was almost into her room when it happened: T’Challa did ‘the thing.’ Peter wouldn’t be able to accurately describe the moment later. He would try of course, because it had been like something out of a movie only without the dramatic background music.

T’Challa’s bearing shifted and he was, all at once, commanding and alpha and royal. And even before he spoke Natasha appeared to sense it as well, and turned. Or maybe something shifted between them at the same time and they were reacting to each other, because suddenly all of her fierce, hard lines were gone and she was standing there in the doorway abruptly, infinitely soft, and quiet and waiting.

“Natasha...”

Peter actually flinched and couldn’t believe his ears. That had sounded like a command. But, no one. No. one. gave orders to the Widow. He couldn’t sink any further into the mattress and wished he could Antman himself into a speck and hide before the violence erupted before his eyes.

There would be bloodshed now. Could he intervene? Should he call someone?

And then the bizarreness continued: T’Challa opened his arms and spoke to her calmly, effectionately: “Tasha.” It was a low, confident rumble with a clear expectation.

And the energy in the room crackled.

And then blowing out a slow exhale Natasha walked back, reached for him, and stepped into his embrace.

Peter knew that his fever was bad if he was having hallucinations. He believed he was seeing Natasha Romanov standing there with T’Challa’s arms around her and he was rubbing small, slow circles into her back. And nobody was dying.

From his vantage point and peeking through folds in his blanket he watched Natasha slide one hand up T’Challa’s chest.

This was it: Soviet death grip. Poisoned nail throat slash. She would conjure a knife and drive it into his temple. But instead he heard:

“I don’t believe I want to give you her number...” Her voice was soft and muffled because she said it into his chest. “...and you’re an ass.”

And then, like a ridiculously cheesy scene from a lifetime flick; T’Challa bent and lifted her into his arms and Natasha actually went with it.

But Peter wasn’t fooled. She could kill from that position too.

Natasha curled herself into his embrace and T’Challa walked with her toward his room and quietly pressed the door closed behind them with a soft click. A moment later, giggling?

Peter let out the breath he’d been holding.

Scott was never gonna believe this.