Sam finally allows himself to cry, just breakdown in the middle of the bare room. No more being strong, no more coping mechanisms, no VA therapy lecturing that he had beaten in his head for years, nothing but the raw emotion he’s been holding on and compressing for months. He falls to his knees, burying his face in the carpet as The Accords and Tony Stark and the entrapment of The Raft and watching three evil flying ships fall into the Potomac and being thrust into war unexpectedly for another time. Watching Steve, in an all too real and brutal impression of Riley- blond hair shimmering and all- falling to what seemed to be his death. Everything happening in such rapid succession with no time to process or recover from the hits: save the world from Neo Nazis, find Bucky Barnes, save the world from insane robots, find Bucky Barnes, Save Bucky Barnes from the world. Not a moment to breathe. He hates himself, hates Barnes, hates the conflict over The Accords, and – he hates to admit it- hates Steve Rogers. He knows it’ll pass but right now the last thing he wants to see are contracts or taste the blood in his mouth that always comes with a fight or hear Steve’s overbearing, all for America/freedom voice or touch his wings or smell the ridiculous cucumber melon shampoo Barnes uses. He doesn’t want Wanda’s ‘I can do one better’ act or Lang’s cheesy jokes or any person at all.
“Sam,” He wants to throw up, mix his puke with the tears already staining the carpet. “How can I help you?” Sam is expecting a Brooklyn accent or something European. He can’t describe T’Challa’s. He goes to respond but his body fights against him and he spills the little content of his stomach on to the floor. “Hold on let me help you up. Shuri go get a medic!” Sam tries to shake his head, a medic isn’t the kind of doctor he needs right now. Instead he feels strong, steady hands clasp his arm and back then lift him up to his feet. T’Challa rubs Sam’s back leaving him enough room if he happens to throw up again but never letting go. Sam tries desperately to apologize- for all of the Prince’s kindness to just ruin his carpet- but he just ends up in tears again and T’Challa pulls Sam into his arms. The warmth and comfort emanating from the Prince leaves Sam craving so much two nurses have to finally peel him off of T’Challa’s chest.
They put him in the hospital like wing of the palace even after he fights them, arguing on how he’s fine. Admittedly, the minute his head lands on the pillow of the hospital bed-after being poked and prodded and checked out by at least three different people- he passes out. He’s dead to the world for a solid thirty hours and wakes to his friend and greatest doom at his bedside. “Hey man how are you doing?” Sam doesn’t answer, holding on to the petulant resentment he has for the small assed soldier who landed him in this place. He knows it’s really not Steve’s fault, Sam could’ve backed out at any time but the damn soldier in him won’t let any injustice go.
“Samuel how are you doing?” T’Challa’s smooth voice fills the room, followed shortly by the presence of royalty. T’Challa has a tendency of leaving the people around him- specifically black men with bird derived codenames- with a sense of awe and a major crush. His eyes are piercing from where he looks down, standing beside Steve. Sam couldn’t resist if he was trying.
“Well I won’t be ruining any more way too expensive, designer rugs so that’s one success. Guess everything just kinda hit me at once. Sorry about that.” Sam whispers, wanting to look down in embarrassment but failing completely at breaking eye contact. His heart flutters and Sam is faced once again with a feeling he’s been trying to hide since the king first invited the gang of wayward ex super heroes to his humble, secretive country. They’ve had conversations, where T’Challa amazed Sam with his country and T’Challa laughed at all of Sam’s cheesy jokes, and Sam finds himself slowly falling for the cat-suited man. T’Challa wraps a soft, warm hand around Sam’s wrist and circles his thumb against Sam’s palm soothingly. Sam blames his recent sickness and the peace of his room and the enticing cologne wafting off T’Challa and the overwhelming emotion of his recent life, all leading to him folding his fingers and grazing over T’Challa’s thumb. He expects the King to march away, leave Sam to the birds (also known as The Accords); and is more than a little pleasantly surprised when T’Challa slides his hand down into Sam’s and gives a light squeeze. Sam looks down at where their hands connect with wide eyes only to be taken by more surprise when he sees the mischievous grin dancing on T’Challa’s face. Sam can feel himself blushing, heat rising to his face and flowing down to parts he’s trying not to think about; the fabric of the bed is thin and, though T’Challa is being very inviting, Sam’s not trying to give too many implications. Plus Steve, who has fervently been looking out the window to give the two men their privacy, probably draws a line at being a foot away from his friend’s hard on.
“You should get some rest. I’ll see you later in the evening for dinner.” There are implications in those words. Sam hears them and they make his heart beat rise and skin crawl with excitement. T’Challa turns and walks out with Steve trailing behind after a quick goodbye given over his shoulder. Sam knows he won’t sleep; mind crowded by thoughts and ideas of T’Challa and what the royalty was capable of doing with his hands. So he floats instead, a practice he learned quickly in Pararescue, how to sleep while fully conscious.
Sam actually dresses nicely for this dinner- sleek slack, his best purple button up that emphasizes his biceps, and a black thin tie. King T’Challa is always well presented, wearing the traditional soft white linens of Wakanda and a million watt smile.
“Samuel so glad you’re feeling well enough to join me for dinner.” His voice resonates against the large dining hall that’s too ornate for the small group it’s hosting- more specifically the fact that the twenty seating grandiose table is currently occupied by only T’Challa. Usually the place would be full of noise and savory scents and life. The emptiness of it all almost seems solemn; what’s a table that isn’t full?
“Hey ‘Challa. Where’s the rest of the gang?” Sam asks into the silence, using a nickname he knew made the King chuckle.
“Wanda is in the courtyard with the Dora Milaje working on her craft, Captain Rogers is in the west wing updating himself on Barnes’ condition, and that just leaves us,” He clears his throat and looks away- the first time Sam has ever seen the King embarrassed, “I was actually hoping- if you didn’t mind- we could go to my private quarters for dinner. I really don’t like this place when it’s empty, it reminds me of…” Sam’s heart skips a beat for about the tenth time today and he has to bite his tongue to not immediately scream yes. He doesn’t need T’Challa to finish his sentence, he knows what empty rooms mean: responsibility, ostracization, separation, the could have beens. Not to mention quality time alone with the King he’s been fawning for, who sent him some pretty heavy hints earlier in the day, could be very advantageous.
“I would love that.” Somehow T’Challa’s smile manages to grow larger as he stands and guides Sam away from the large, hollow area. The palace is a maze of corridors and mysterious doors and ornate walls that has Sam giving up any chance of finding T’Challa’s room again. They finally end up in front of a set of large golden double doors T’Challa beckons him through; inside is a beautiful layout. The large room looks like the inside of a penthouse suite, all white and clean and elegant. But Sam can barely absorb the entirety of the room, too distracted by the spread in front of him. Beside the desk in the corner of the bedroom there is a small table with two chairs, a lit red candle, and a plethora of different drinks and foods. Sam turns to T’Challa, who is wearing an innocent look that screams guilty. “And if I had said no?” Sam jokes.
“But you didn’t.” T’Challa is wearing that cocky persona that matches royalty far too well. “Now should we eat?” T’Challa pulls out a chair and gestures for Sam to sit.
Dinner is delicious: citrus salad for an appetizer, diced meat potatoes and some sort of savory sauce over seasoned rice, and for dessert a native Wakandan fruit pureed with sweet cream on top of a spongy cake. By the time Sam finishes eating he feels almost tipsy.
“I hope everything was to your liking.” T’Challa says, voice as velvety sweet as the dessert Sam just finished. He stands and moves to Sam’s side with a sly dangerous smile. “Would you like anything else?” Innuendo and the gentle tips of his fingers running down Sam’s arms. He leans closer to the King and lifts a single eyebrow in challenge.
“What did you have in mind?” T’Challa cups Sam’s cheeks in his hands and kisses him deeply. The emotion that rushes up, so much tension snapping as their tongues meet and his body is awoken. Sam joins T’Challa on his feet only to get more purchase of the firm, beautiful body in front of him; Sam flattens himself against T’Challa- chest to chest, hands grabbing at each other hungrily, half hard ons rubbing against each other. Sam nibbles on T’Challa’s neck, licking up and down his artery as T’Challa nuzzles himself against the side of Sam’s head.
“Well it just so happens my bed is really close. So let me show you.” T’Challa grabs Sam by the elbows and leads him to the soft, inviting bed.