T’Challa stood outside Wakanda Florals, nearly overcome with memories of his childhood. When he was a small boy and his mother was ill, he would spend hours watching his father create complicated bouquets for her. T’Chaka would explain the meaning of every flower, how combining them added layers of meaning, and then the two of them would bring his mother their messages of love. They still did so, to the cemetery. Her resting place was never without declarations of how much they missed her.
Wakanda Florals was where his father had started, this very shop even - a small boy making bouquets, working his way up to managing, then owning, and finally buying up several floundering businesses in the city and creating a competitive economic empire. T’Chaka was very firm on the idea that in order to properly run a company, one must learn every facet of the business. A person would never understand how their employees felt unless one actually experienced their trials. T’Challa was working hard to prepare for the day when he would succeed his father and run Wakanda Incorporated.
So here he stood, at 5pm on a Thursday afternoon, ready to look over the books and discuss the daily workings of the shop with the manager. T’Challa straightened his deep purple tie, made sure it was tucked neatly into his deep charcoal suit jacket, and pushed through the door. A small bell tinkled above his head, another strong reminder of spending summer afternoons here, learning flowers from his father.
“-i know Clint, but I can't just… of course I do but I have… dammit Clint! Part of being a grownup is keeping my grown up job! I will get there as soon as I can but we don't close for an hour, and… I'm the assistant manager! I know but Ward called out on me with no excuse and... I can't close early that's… yeah. I know. I'll get there when I can.” A young woman was slumped next to the register, her dark hair covering her face, her mobile phone barely hanging from limp fingers. T’Challa stood next to one of the flower stands quietly, waiting for her to acknowledge him, but she didn’t seem to be aware of his presence.
He took a moment to look around at the store. Little had changed. The walls had been repainted, but still the same color. The refrigerators updated, but in the same places. There was even the picture of him and his father standing in front of the shop on the day the window had first borne the sign “Wakanda Florals.”
“Is there a problem miss?” She had apparently missed the sound of the bell, as the woman startled violently and sent her phone flying across the countertop. T’Challa snatched it before it could fall to the floor, and held it out to her.
“Yes! I mean, no! I mean-” She took a deep breath and pasted a smile on her face, “Welcome to Wakanda Florals. I’m Kate, how can I help you?”
“I am T’Challa. I have a meeting with the store manager?” Kate’s smile got significantly more brittle, and her shoulders tensed.
“I’m very sorry, but he was unable to come in today. Is there something I can help you with?” She was hiding her anger and frustration fairly well, but T’Challa had spent a lot of time in boardrooms across from people with years more experience at concealing their emotions.
“I don’t know. I am here to go over the financials with Mr. Ward and discuss the daily operations of Wakanda Florals as part of a system audit.” Kate looked pained for a moment.
“Mr. Ward called in earlier and said he would be away for the next few days. I can cover his shifts but I don’t know-” She was interrupted by her phone buzzing loudly in T’Challa’s hand. He held it out and motioned for her to answer it. She smiled tightly and spun half away from him while jabbing at the screen. “Clint, I can’t-- What? Is he okay? No, I’m at work. I’ll get there as soon as I can, Nat.”
“Is everything alright?” T’Challa spoke softly, trying not to startle Kate who was gripping her phone tightly, staring at the screen.
“My best friend is on the way to the hospital. I don’t… I can’t…” T’Challa knew that look; that helpless feeling that grew under your ribcage when someone you loved was injured, and there was nothing you could do.
“Go. I will close the shop for you.” Kate looked at him wide eyed as he walked around the counter, unbuttoning his coat and pulling at his tie.
“I can’t-- You aren’t…” Kate looked near tears. He could see her internal argument - leaving a stranger in her place involved more trust than she was willing to extend. T’Challa smiled at her and nodded to the photograph behind her.
“This part of the job, I am very well versed in. Go.” He handed her a business card from his jacket pocket. “Call my office if you need to find someone to manage the shop. I will get it settled.”
Kate looked at the photograph, then back at T’Challa in confusion and disbelief. He watched her expression turn to understanding, then relief and gratitude, and she nodded firmly at him.
“All the orders for today have been picked up, and everything called in for the morning is already finished in the back cold room. The only thing left is walk-ins before closing, and any calls. My cell number is on the orders book if you need me. I can't… I don't know how to thank you.”
“Go. Take care of your friend.” T’Challa gave Kate a small smile. She returned it tentatively before half running for the door. She nodded at him again from the doorway, then was gone.
T’Challa hung his suit jacket over the back of the chair behind the counter and tucked his tie into the inside breast pocket. He walked past the register and into the back room, carefully folding over his sleeves so they stayed tucked above his elbows. The cold room in the back was filled with the next day’s orders. Kate’s work was very good, the compositions and proportions were lovely.
He walked back into the prep room, looking at the manager’s desk. He could sift through things and find the financials, but the prospect of rifling through someone else’s desk was unsettling. Instead he headed to the front counter, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his dress shirt. It was a bit like a vacation really; a return to before his life was filled with board meetings and spreadsheets and executive decision making.
T’Challa leaned his elbows on the counter, eyes unfocused; half his mind on the room as it was, the rest remembering how it was decades ago. The scent of flowers and tissue paper was the same, and it eased a pain he didn’t realize he was feeling. He could feel the tension slipping out of his shoulders. He pulled out his mobile and send a message to his office that he was done for the day, and to forward him any messages from the assistant manager of Wakanda Florals.
There were only fifteen minutes left before the shop was due to close when the door flew open. A man in a battered leather jacket strode into the room and threw a fifty dollar bill onto the counter without appearing to actually look at anything in the room - including T’Challa.
“How do I passive-aggressively say ‘fuck you’ in flower?”
Sam was beyond irritated. The saran wrap on his bike was forgivable. The pollution of his orange juice with cheese powder was within reason. Switching out all of his basketball shorts and jogging pants with spandex running gear was pushing it. But sending a sing-o-gram to his office? Having them sing some freaking Harry Potter “eyes like a fresh pickled toad” levels of awkward poetry? At work?! That was the last straw. It was on. James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes was going down.
Things had been escalating for weeks. Steve had decided after the first incident that he would not be getting involved. He told his boyfriend and his best friend that they could continue with their nonsense as long as no one got hurt, and no one lost their job - if they pushed it too far he would involve Natasha, and that would end poorly for everyone.
This required retaliation, but Sam had no idea what. He left his office and stormed through the city, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, barely noticing the people dodging out of his way. He needed something drastic.
Sam was forced to stop at an intersection, and his eyes were drawn to the ‘Open’ sign on the door of the flower shop across the street. It was like a sign. He would send Barnes flowers. Huge flowers. Huge ugly ostentatious meaningful flowers. Flowers had a language, right? A big bouquet of flowers left by his gear, and he’d give Rogers a note with the flower meanings. Let him explain to Barnes, and let Barnes explain why he was getting flowers from someone other than Rogers. Prank or not, the rest of the firehouse would be mocking Barnes for at least a week.
He pushed through the door of the shop, not really paying attention to the interior as he pulled a fifty from his wallet. He tossed the money onto the counter.
“How do I passive-aggressively say ‘fuck you’ in flower?” Sam finally registered his surroundings, and his field of vision was immediately narrowed to the man in front of him. All the air rushed out of his chest. He would blame it on the pollen, but in all likelihood it was the strong forearms and the edge of collar bone visible on the completely stunning man behind the counter. Sam swallowed hard and tried to muster a charming smile. The other man had a faintly amused grin on his face.
“Ah. Lover, friend, or foe?” T’Challa found himself hoping it was not the first. He did not often get to meet people outside his work. Shuri had always been the more social sibling, and their father had given her more leeway when she showed little interest in taking over the family company. She would occasionally introduce her older brother to potential dates, but he found that most were predominantly interested in his money or his business contacts. T’Challa rarely spent more than an hour with any of them.
This man though, with his brash demeanour and absurd request, to say nothing of the way well worn leather stretched across his broad shoulders and the small smile blooming on his face. This man who had no idea that T’Challa was anything but a florist.
“My best friend’s boyfriend, actually. There’s this… there is a whole thing. It’s war. He’s winning. He can’t win.” Sam was almost shocked into silence when the man behind the counter lit up when he explained. The smile on his face needed a warning sign. He was beautiful.
“I see.” T’Challa could not help but grin. While he was more than proficient in board meetings, this was his passion. He walked around the counter and began pulling together a bouquet. “I know something of war. Let us see if we can even the score.”
T’Challa started with yellow carnations, for disappointment, and orange lilies, for hatred. Then he bundled in meadowsweet, for uselessness; the white flowers looked almost fuzzy, and added some visual height. Next was foxglove, for insincerity, the tall stalks of pinkish-purple bells clashed visually with the carnations and lilies.
He held the bouquet at arms length consideringly. It was good, but it needed… more. T’Challa moved toward the geraniums, and snickered quietly. He pulled both scarlet geraniums, for stupidity, and abrasively pink fish-geraniums, for disappointed expectations. The final product was striking. Brash. Aggressive. And very clear in its message of disappointment and disdain.
T’Challa explained the meanings to the to the other man as he walked back toward the counter. He wrapped the arrangement in black tissue paper and looked up at the other man.
“Right now its message is very much a ‘passive-aggressive fuck you,’ as you said.” T’Challa paused, considering the man in front of him. “Would you like it to truly be a gauntlet thrown at his feet?”
“If you’re gonna do a thing, do it right. Y’know?” Sam nodded without hesitation.
T’Challa went into the back room and pulled out a stalk of yarrow and a small bundle of bitter buttons. He tucked them into the ribbon binding the tissue.
“Wild tansy, for resistance and antithetic declaration. Yarrow, for war.” T’Challa gestured at the bouquet. “What do you think? An effective return of fire?”
“What are the little red ones for again?” Sam was having trouble focusing on the flowers, and not the man behind them. He’d tried to pay attention to the explanation of the flowers, but his head was fuzzy with the sound of the man’s voice and the clever grin on his face. Sam didn’t even know his name.
“Geraniums. For stupidity. To engage in battle with you seems the height of foolishness, so I thought it appropriate.” T’Challa felt his face warm a bit at the admission, and fought to keep his smile controlled.
“How much more do I owe you…” Sam let the pause linger while he dug out his wallet, hoping it would encourage the man to fill the silence with his name.
“T’Challa. And you can consider the bill settled… although-” T’Challa hesitated, nervous. “I would ask for your name. Perhaps a way to maintain contact with you, should you require further reinforcement in your battles.”
“Sam. Sam Wilson.” Sam couldn’t help the almost manic smile on his face. “Here is my card, and lemme put my cell number on the back. You can text me if you think of anything.”
T’Challa handed him a pen, and they exchanged another set of jittery smiles. Sam snatched up the flowers and walked backward toward the door.
“It was nice to meet you. Thank you. T’Challa.” Sam kept eye contact up until he bumped into the door. He had to turn far enough to grab the door handle, and gave T’Challa another grin as he walked out the door. “I can’t wait to hear what you come up with next.”