The Four Seasons
It was late in the evening and T’Challa’s stroll had returned him back to the entrance to the hotel.
His suite at the Four Seasons Hotel George V on Champs-Elysees was an indulgence, one he’d enjoyed on previous trips to Paris.
He stood now, hands stuffed into the pockets of his dark trousers.
Arriving at the front he found the way obstructed.
An elderly couple just in front of him were stopped in the recessed entrance to the building and were clearly engrossed in their conversation with another couple.
T’Challa was deciding whether to clear his throat or to wait patiently. He was glancing at his watch when a soft voice spoke up beside him:
“Bonsoir.“
He turned to find that the airy, feminine voice at his elbow belonged to Dr. Jacqueline Beaulieu, the distractingly attractive professor from the university of Paris-Sorbonne.
She’d emerged from a small group of socialites near a counter. One member of her party, a trench coated man with a pencil mustache stared openly.
Dr. Beaulieu was smiling fondly, or maybe mischievously, and tiptoed to faire la bise.
The usual formalities: How have you been? How long are you staying? You look good.
Each knew what the other was remembering. Four months ago? Five? This very hotel.
She leaned forward again and T’Challa was surprised when her whispered room number ghosted over his ear. She squeezed his hand and stepped away, back toward her little group, and took the arm of the staring man.
T’Challa made a mental note to send flowers to her room. Red ones he supposed.
The bottleneck in the entranceway had disbursed and so, smiling at the memory of their last reunion, he made his way to the elevators.
Onward to the top floor and the suite of rooms over looking the city. It was one of his favorite places to stay when he visited Paris.
Something began to tickle at his awareness as he exited the elevator and strode down the hall.
And even before the door to his room was fully opened it was clear to him that someone else was already inside. Inhumanly keen senses picked up a wealth of interesting details. Not entirely unexpected and not at all unwelcome.
One silent step inside confirmed his suspicions: Natasha. Natasha Romanov was here. He didn’t need to see her clothing draped over the furniture or her signature take-out order unfinished on the table to know she was here.
He’d already recognized her unique scent lightly in the air around him. T’Challa had detected her the moment he entered the hallway.
All thoughts or intentions toward the lovely professor downstairs were immediately forgotten.
A part of him thought of Natasha Romanov as his somehow even though he was aware it wasn’t true; Natasha belonged to no one. He wasn’t sure how he actually felt about that. However; tonight she was here. She had come to him as she had done many times before. In from the night, in from the cold. A day. Three. And she would disappear.
The visits were becoming increasingly frequent and of longer duration. He did know how he felt about that.
The scratch of sliding shower curtain pinpointed her location.
He listened to the muted sounds of the shower as he slipped out of his sport coat, toed off his shoes, and loosened his tie. After a while the shower stopped and a moment later her voice floated out to him - in conversation. T’Challa turned up the volume on the television to provide her with more privacy before settling into a chair.
Dr. Beaulieu’s flowers. Maybe yellow.
The creak of the bathroom door drew his attention from the dreary news program and Natasha padded barefoot into the room, a pistol in one hand and the phone clutched in the other. Her hair was wrapped in a towel and she wore his bathrobe. She was here. The world’s deadliest former spy was standing in his hotel suite wrapped in his bathrobe, looking achingly adorable.
She stood still a moment scanning the room, a rogue curl of red hair hanging past her left eyebrow. Holding the robe closed with her gun hand she stalked the room, clearly in search for something and all the while upholding her end of the conversation. With Ms. Potts, he assumed. Or, maybe Maria.
T’Challa smirked when she paid him no mind and remained focused on her conversation. Whatever she sought continued to elude her.
He watched while she moved round the room talking until she paused, glanced at the tv, and then looked over at him with a soft, appreciative smile. Not all of Natasha’s smiles reached her eyes. The ones she shared with him always did.
After another pass around the room Natasha gave up and padded barefoot directly over to him. She handed him her gun and leaned to tug at his necktie before gesturing toward her own waist. T’Challa chuckled and reached to wrap the tie around her, securing the robe.
She pointed at the phone and mouthed “Maria” to him by way of explanation, picked up her leftovers, and disappeared back into the bathroom.
Light from the bedside lamp glinted off the weapon in his lap. She’d placed it firmly in his hands rather than just set it down somewhere. She didn’t always do that. He wasn’t certain it was conscious on her part but it was another aspect of her visits he’d always found humbling.
It signified that the former spy intended to fully relax now. Was quite literally disarmed and wasn’t protecting herself. Wasn’t looking over her shoulder. She had entrusted her safety to him and he knew she would never, ever, discuss that directly.
He also knew that when she slept tonight she would sleep deeply. Would lose herself fully in conversations. She would allow herself to relax because she trusted him with her life. Knew that he would protect her.
Natasha, he understood, had demons. Some were flesh and blood and lived on the dark fringe of society. These were ones she was hunting these days. He had joined her on occasion, lending a heavy hand, guarding her back, whatever was asked. Other demons lived only in her dreams and these ones hunted her and haunted her nights. This, as much as anything, led up to her visits.
Powerful, primal feelings surged through him at that thought and he strove to tamp them down. A night. Two days, maybe three and she’d be gone.
T’Challa stripped down to boxers and climbed into bed. He reflected on their unconventional arrangement again as he had so many times before. He and the Black Widow. Rogers had once asked what was going on between them but he really hadn’t known what to say. They weren’t together and whatever they were to each other was not entirely clear.
They were not, for instance, dating. Rogers had seemed skeptical of that but had respected T’Challa’s denial and hadn’t pried further.
The truth was that Natasha, at some point, had simply begun claiming access to his time and personal space. She did it as though it was perfectly natural and it was never actually discussed.
Their teammates had noticed of course, gradually, but didn’t tease.
This was Natasha after all. She, who’d been through so much. Who’d had so much taken from her at such a young age. Her relationships were sacred to her and they were so few.
No one on the team would tease her. Or, so much as address it for fear of disturbing her privacy.
Once, a while back, after a team mission, T’Challa had gone to the hanger to check something on his personal aircraft and when he’d returned to the kitchen, Natasha handed him a coffee.
It was a simple thing but Scott Lang noticed the gesture and commented to Maria Hill about Natasha having a “work husband” and joked about filing an HR report. Maria had abruptly escorted Scott from the room and he’d returned looking chastised.
It was as though Natasha was experimenting. Had privately made the decision to try something out, to allow herself moments of vulnerability, self care, connection.
Only Rogers knew about the impromptu sleepovers. Possibly Nick Fury. Probably Fury.
T’Challa was scrolling through the movie listings when she came out. “Got room for me in there?”
It was rhetorical. She could have anything she wanted. She slid under the covers and held out her hand for the remote.
“You smell like Pad Thai and toothpaste.”
“Those Panther senses wouldn’t have liked me a few hours ago.” She was focused on the screen.
“Hard to imagine.”
Natasha didn’t reply to that. She did snuggle closer until they were pressing shoulders.
She selected a familiar movie about a family on vacation driving to the Grand Canyon, and, satisfied with her choice, set the remote on his chest and snuggled under the covers.
She fell asleep shortly into it, curled into his side with her head on his chest and his arm around her.
Saturday
She was wearing one of his t shirts and propped up with pillows watching a horror movie when he returned. She’d merely gestured in acknowledgment and shushed him without looking away from the screen. T’Challa accepted that his room had been hijacked for the weekend.
T’Challa was awoken to the shifting and shuffling of his “roommate.“ The glow from the tv revealed she’d kicked her covers off. His tshirt had ridden up revealing her panties and bare legs. She was half sprawled across him. Shifting herself slowly, rhythmically against his thigh. T’Challa lay quite still.
This was new.
“Tasha.” He spoke softly.
At the sound of his voice she seemed to press more urgently, breathlessly. “Tasha, honey.” This time she lifted her head and he could feel her come to full awareness.
“Tasha, I think you were having a bad dream.” He offered respectfully, and was surprised when she didn’t pull away and didn’t respond but instead brushed the hair from her face and simply snuggled back against him.
and he lay there intensely aware of the heated press of his friend’s body and somehow knew that this was not going to be an awkward thing between them.
Natasha’s breathing was still elevated and she didn’t respond but brushed strands of hair out of her face and settled back.
“I think we both know that’s not entirely true.” She spoke into the crook of his neck. T’Challa gave her a gentle squeeze and held her in his arms. She lay quiet in his embrace and he could feel her body slowly relaxing and when she finally spoke again her breathing was back to normal. She surprised him with her next words.
“T’Challa, .. do you want...us?” The question was whispered, and soft, even for his hearing. This too was new: Talking about their friendship. After a beat he answered truthfully. “I want as much of you as you care to share.”
She lay quietly for a moment, trailed a finger over the muscles of his chest.
“I’m pretty sure I shared some of me with your leg.” Prompting his low chuckle.
Alright then.
“What about you, do you want ‘us’?”
Her reply came sooner this time.
“I think that’s been obvious for a while now.” She replied wryly.
“Well, obvious for the past couple minutes anyway.” He teased.
“‘A couple minutes?’ She groaned. “You let me sleep-hump your leg for a couple minutes?” She pressed her nose into his neck. Breathing him in.
“It seemed rude to interrupt.”
She bit him, lightly. “Very gallant of you. Was I loud?”
T’Challa ran his hand over her back. “Would you like to be?”
Natasha exhaled and melted against him and T’Challa felt her answer. She was loud, and very enthusiastic.
Monday.
Breakfast on the terrace.
The late April morning blossomed to a golden hued view of the city. A view which T’Challa believed could not be improved upon. Until Natasha arrived and seated herself and did exactly that with the Eiffel Tower over her shoulder and strands of red hair faintly stirred by the midmorning breaze. She was gazing off into the distance, over the rim of her coffee cup and her profile with the blue sky and wispy clouds behind her was breathtaking.
“You’re staring T’Challa.”
He couldn’t help but smile.
“Bed-head suits you.”
“Ass.”
See you later.
They stood together on the balcony looking out over the Paris night.
T’Challa felt in his pants pocket for the small, hard disc. Weighed the decision again. How would she react? Was it presumptuous? Was it arrogant?
Screw it. Take the plunge.
T’Challa shoulder nudged her and when she glanced up at him he held out the little device. He watched her focus on the small, black and silver oval the size of a button. It was marked with the emblem of the Panther mask.
“You could spoil a girl, T’Challa.” She said, taking it from him and recognizing it as one of his tracking devices.
“It bears your brand” she mused, tracing its contours. She hadn’t looked back up and continued to play with it. She also didn’t toss it to the street below and leave.
“It is new. When you activate it,..if you activate it, I will be alerted to your location. And you can signal me from anywhere in he world. Shuri has one as well.”
She arched a perfect eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. She didn’t hand it back either. But did turn more fully to look up at him.
T’Challa knew she was studying him and weighing something within herself. Natasha’s face, unguarded, was wonderfully expressive. He decided it was her eyes. She was leaving herself open to him, allowing him to see her work this all through. What this, any of this, might mean for them.
T’Challa gambled on an assertive move and reached for her then, and without breaking eye contact, took the signaler, drew her closer and pressed the device to the inside of her belt. Natasha never looked away but watched him with softened expression. Studied his features. T’Challa released her when he was satisfied with the device’s placement.
They remained inches apart.
“It is a leash and a brand. I’ve never worn either.” She informed him.
He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and, resigned, gently reached out his hand to take back the device.
He’d been an idiot. Of course she would look at it that way. Of course she wouldn’t want to keep such a thing. He swore silently. Why would he think she would have wanted such a thing from him. He should simply apologize and hope he hadn’t insulted her too badly.
Seconds passed and the stunning woman before him remained in his space making no move to create distance or leave. She was merely watching him. The Paris lights were reflected in her eyes which were...glistening.
She studied him through several breaths. Took his open hand and drew it around behind her.
“You would have me on a leash. Yours. and wearing your brand. Like a horse.” It was softly spoken. Not a question. Light though, with the barest hint of humor in her eyes. And something more.
“I would have you able to reach me whenever you need.” He breathed out.
“Need?” So soft it was nearly a whisper. Her eyes stared deeply into his.
It was his turn to arch a questioning eyebrow.
“And what if I just want?” T’Challa spotted the soft smile slowly spreading.
He knew that he would always want to know that soft smile. Hesitant and warm with the promise of small, close moments.
Something sparkled in the small space between them. T’Challa placed his hands at her waist and drew her against him. He felt her softening, yielding and then she was in his arms and she was pulling herself tightly into him.
“I’m going to kiss you now and then I’m going to leave.” She leaned back to warned him.
“And then I’m going to come back here and you’re going to tell me more about this primitive need to brand me.” Her look was mischievous.
He knew he could get drunk on the look she gave him then. “And I’m going to want to eat something.” She turned to look at the bed. “Right there. While we watch tv.”
“Is that all?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”
She move then, all red hair and smoky eyes, and her lips, parted, slotted against his and he was lost in the feel of holding this woman.
A Teamwork
The pathway was too well lit. They’d both agreed. Their task was to observe the deal, record the transaction and then apprehended the targets. In this case two diplomats suspected of slave trading. Natasha had invited him along for amusement.
Several light posts ringed this area of the park, reflecting their glare on the central pond.
“If only we had a marksman.”
Natasha smirked and calmly drew her silenced pistol and, scarcely aiming, fired four bullets in the space of two breaths. Four puffs of air and four distant tinkles of glass as each light was doused.
“Show off.” T’Challa whispered .
Later.
The vehicle was parked atop the manhole cover where Natasha stashed her equipment. T’Challa scanned the surrounding area before stooping to grip the truck’s front bumper and lifting. Natasha couldn’t help but note the ease with which the truck lifted up and was moved over to the side.
“Show off” she replied.
................
The signaler on his watch went off bringing him to instant alert. He was returning from a diplomatic meeting with representatives from two Scandinavian countries.
The signal was from Natasha’s tracker. In milliseconds it pinpointed her location: back at the hotel. T’Challa activated the Panther suit and was instantly racing to her. Natasha was a formidable fighter. Devastating under any conditions. However he knew they were all ultimately vulnerable and the thought of her possibly hurt...
Clawed gloves hauled him hand over hand up 8 floors to the balcony of his suite. He sprang over the wall and across the terrace where...Natasha stood holding the tracker pensively.
No danger.
She was safe.
T’Challa retracted the suit and continued toward her warily.
“Tasha, I do not understand..are you..”
“You had a visitor a bit ago. A woman. A very pretty woman.”
T’Challa waited for the rest of it. Natasha stood silently however, chewing at her lip.
“Um, What did you do with her Tasha?” He asked slowly, worry creeping into his voice.
He was standing directly in front of her.
“I told her you’d be home in a short while and...” she looked out over the Paris night.
“...and?” He prompted.
“I asked her to please not come back.”
This was new.
T’Challa felt his tension drain away, replaced with a warmth swelling in his chest. Clearly they would have to discuss ground rules for the signaler.