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He didn’t know how he’d gotten there. How he was back there already. So soon.
Too soon.
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see for the clouds of smoke and sand that burned his eyes and tore his throat when he tried to call for help.
But there was no help.
No one was coming.
There was nothing but sand and fire and blood for miles and miles.
Sand.
Fire.
Blood.
And him. Left holding the broken body of his best friend, feeling shattered bones pressing at all the wrong angles against his own skin. In the dark, without a functioning weapon, without anything other than the pack on his back and tears crawling down his face.
He couldn’t be here, he told himself as the blood started to seep from one uniform to another. This wasn’t right—he wasn’t here again. They wouldn’t have sent him back.
He was done.
He was out.
He was—
Another explosion erupted from beside him, deafening even his thoughts as he threw himself over Riley’s body and prayed there would be enough left of both of them to send home to bury.
Sam bolted upright in bed, soaked in sweat and gasping for air. His eyes felt raw as he squeezed them open and shut, driving the darkened room into focus. He forced his breathing to slow, his heartbeat to steady. He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes and let them slide to prop up his damp forehead as leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
“Kermit the Frog,” he said, his voice hoarse and hesitant to go above a whisper as he recited his grounding list. “Miss Piggy. Fozzie Bear.”
Inhale.
“Animal. Beaker. Scooter.”
Exhale.
“Rizzo the Rat. Pepe the Prawn. Rowlf the Dog.”
Inhale.
“Bunsen Honeydew. Statler. Waldorf.”
Exhale.
“Swedish Chef.”
Inhale.
“Sam Eagle.”
Exhale.
You’re not in Afghanistan, he told himself as he heart rate returned to normal. You’re in Wakanda. You never have to go back to Afghanistan.
You’re safe.
You’re out.
You’re okay.
He raised his head and took in the room again. It was the same small, efficient room in which he’d fallen asleep. The guest room in Darcy Lewis’ apartment in downtown Birnin Zana. Locked door. Big window. View of the rooftop gardens and solar farm of the building next door. He stopped his deep breathing long enough to log the sounds of the rest of the apartment--the hum of appliances, the occasional drip from the sink in the kitchen. The unmistakable sound of Steve snoring from the living room. Evidence that--as of yet--those two idiots were still dancing around the elephant in the room.
Sam smiled faintly to himself and threw off the covers. If he distracted himself by thinking of how obvious Darcy had been when handing out sleeping arrangements the night before, he could get the feeling back into his hands and stretch his fingers from their instinct to remain clenched in fists.
“Sam,” she’d said cheerfully as she’d cleared the last of the plates away after a very late dinner, “I put fresh sheets on the bed in the guest room and there are extra towels in the hall closet if you need them.” Her blue eyes had slid from Sam over to Steve and Sam hadn’t missed the way her teeth had pressed into her full bottom lip. “Which gives you the option of cuddling or the couch,” she’d said to Steve before she glanced around the apartment. “I’m a little short on space here.”
“Uh,” Steve had eloquently replied, with a look that confirmed Sam’s suspicions that Steve had occupied the guest room all the times he’d visited Wakanda alone. “The uh,” he'd coughed. “The couch is fine.”
“Kay,” Darcy had agreed with a swift, decisive nod. “Cool. Yeah, super comfortable. I’ll get you some blankets.”
Sam had waited until she’d retreated to her own bedroom on the opposite end of the apartment before he’d cleared his throat. “Tell me you at least picked up a little of what she was just putting on the table,” he had demanded, keeping his voice low.
“Enough to know that it's none of your business,” Steve had said without looking up from the bag of clothes he'd started digging through.
Sam had shaken his head. “Come on, man,” he'd said, having decided long ago that Darcy needed a wingman in this endeavor. “Don't play dumb.”
“I don't know what you're complaining about,” Steve had countered, keeping his eyes firmly on the dirty clothes he was rifling through. “You're the one who ended up with a bed.”
“He says like he didn't just get offered one too if he wasn't such a damn idiot.”
At that, Steve's head had snapped up and he'd glanced furtively in the direction of Darcy's bedroom. “I thought you said you were tired.”
Sam had scoffed at that. “Yeah,” he'd agreed and had rolled his eyes. “I'm tired. I'm going to bed. Tell Darcy I said goodnight.”
He was tired. Tired of running. Tired of hiding. Tired of people not taking the very limited opportunities to be happy that the universe kept dangling in front of them.
But Steve, despite his own obvious feelings toward their host, had apparently missed yet another hint she’d thrown his way and had spent the night snoring on the couch. And Sam, no matter what he’d said, was at least partially grateful for the distraction and the chance to do something as normal as playing wingman for a change.
He crossed the room and took in the view. Birnin Zana was peaceful at night in a way no other major city could be. While there was no shortage of lights and sounds of a bustling metropolis, the barrier that protected the small country reflected the night sky back down on them. No light pollution. Just stars and swirling galaxies as far as he could see. If he craned his neck a little, Sam could see a patch of the star-studded velvet expanse from the window. It was lighter than he expected--not quite pre-dawn, but not far off. He checked his watch, surprised that it was almost four.
He stole another look back at his sweat-soaked sheets and knew if he went looking for any peaceful repose among them, he ran the risk of another nightmare. Sam blew out a heavy breath and ran his hands over his face.
Almost four. Darcy was an early riser. Steve was even worse. Neither would mind if he had coffee going when they woke up. With a cup of coffee and a sunrise to watch from the tiny balcony off the living room, Sam thought he might be able to chase the memories of Riley’s broken and bloodied body from his mind for another few weeks.
He stopped at the mirror above the dresser and stared at himself for a long moment, logging the darker wells beneath his eyes, the three-day beard he wanted to shave, the dryness of his lips from gasping for breath. He met his own gaze and reset his count with a sigh of resignation. The highest he’d gotten was 142 days.
Zero days, he thought, like an addict in recovery. It’s been zero days since my last flashback.
--
Barnes appraised them with a lifted single brow, unimpressed by what he saw when they convened after breakfast. “You both look like hell,” he said plainly, shifting his eyes from Steve to Sam and back again. “Rough night?”
“I slept on a couch built for someone half my size,” Steve said, stretching his shoulders with a grimace.
Bucky rolled his eyes. “Well, you wouldn’t have to do that if you weren’t such a pantywaist.” His gaze moved back to Sam. “What’s your problem?”
It was such an unnecessary question; Sam felt his hackles rise. After fourteen months as a fugitive, he had a list of problems as long as his arm. Least of all were his increasingly common flashbacks and setbacks, and none of which were anything he felt like airing.
“I’ve got a buggy suit with a busted wing, a family I can’t contact without putting them in danger,” he reminded with a snap before he could stop himself. “And--currently--a hundred-year-old man who can’t mind his business.”
He considered feeling bad. While none of his problems were Bucky’s business, the reasonable side of his brain reminded him gently, they also weren’t his fault.
But to his relief, Bucky didn’t even blink before he jerked his head in Steve’s direction. “How obvious was Darcy last night?”
“Buck--” Steve warned, swiping a hand over his face.
“She was a goddamn billboard,” Sam assured him, happy they weren’t actually going to talk about what was wrong with him. “And so was he.”
“Of course he was,” Bucky agreed with a heavy sigh.
“I’m standing right here,” Steve reminded.
“Yup,” Sam nodded. “Right here. Alone. When you know damn well that girl would happily share her bed with you if you’d just man up and tell her you like her.”
“Look, I know this is everyone’s favorite topic,” Steve grumbled. “And it’s not like I haven’t thought about it--it’s just not as easy as you’re making it out to be.”
“What’s not as easy as they’re making it out to be?” The voice of the woman in question tore the attention of all three around to where she stood behind them, dressed for the office and looking expectant.
They shared a single palpitation of panic before they spoke at the same time.
“The harmonica,” Bucky said.
Just as Steve said, “Nothing.”
And Sam blurted out, “Parasailing.”
Darcy blinked and let them marinate in a sticky, awkward moment before she nodded. “Oh,” she said slowly. “Um, Steve, Shuri asked me to come get you--she wants to show off her new prototypes.”
“Great,” Steve said immediately. “Let’s go.”
Her forehead creased in confusion when he stepped away from the two of them. “You guys can come too,” she assured them with a smile.
“No, they’re busy,” Steve answered for them. “They’re not coming.”
Giving him a wary eye, Darcy shrugged and started walking backward. She pointed to Bucky. “Let me know about Tula,” she said. “I made baby sweaters.”
Although this sounded like absolute nonsense to Sam, Bucky laughed and rolled his eyes. “They’re African goats, Lewis,” he said patiently. “They don’t need sweaters.”
“Too bad!” she insisted. “I expect a call as soon as there are baby goats to spoil and swaddle in tiny sweaters.” She kept her finger pointed in his direction. “Don’t let me down, Barnes.”
“Don’t you let me down,” Bucky challenged as she turned around and followed Steve down the stone path to Shuri’s lab. “You’re gonna record, right?”
Darcy grinned over her shoulder and held up her wrist where she wore a set of kimoyo beads. “For research purposes.”
Sam looked warily between Bucky and Darcy’s retreating back. “Research purposes?”
“You’ll see,” Bucky assured him, cryptically. “Honestly, though, did you sleep at all?”
He shook his head and moved his shoulder in a shrug that he could tell Bucky didn’t buy as careless. “Just hard getting used to a bed after six weeks on the ground,” he said. His usual bullshit excuse.
Bucky nodded and gave him another once-over. “You might get the chance to get used to it again,” he offered lightly. “If Darcy gets her way and convinces T’Challa to give you asylum.”
“I’m not gonna hold my breath,” Sam muttered. He sounded even more cynical than he felt. In truth, he’d love to be able to stay for more than a few nights while Shuri repaired his wings and Natasha’s billy clubs while she concocted new cloaking technologies to keep them under the radar. But the idea that he’d get to call this magical place home--get to do normal things again like go grocery shopping and watch movies while at the same time surrounded by brilliant, peaceful people who all looked like him--and not live in constant fear of ending up back on the Raft (or worse) just felt like a little too much to hope for.
A cluster of women walked past them, all lean muscles and shaved heads—Dora Milaje, he reminded himself, though none were in uniform--and Sam was surprised to see one of them swat at Bucky’s arm on her way past. “Class in five minutes,” she said with an admonishing look at his jeans and t-shirt. “You can’t go like that.”
“I have to skip today,” Bucky said, actually sounding regretful. Sam was struck again by how easily Barnes had adjusted to life in Wakanda. For months, even though Steve had told him otherwise, he’d assumed that Bucky was just existing on the outskirts of town, hiding from everyone, doing his best to be invisible. It was hard to acclimate to the fact that he’d been so wrong in his assumption. “I’m meeting the vet in twenty minutes.”
The soldier’s eyes lit up and her face was transformed by a radiant smile. “For Tula?” she asked. Before Bucky could answer, she turned back to her unit and said something Sam didn’t understand. The women all reacted the same way and the team of stoic, unyielding bodyguards shifted with a ripple of excited chatter. “Do you think it will be today?”
Bucky shrugged. “I don’t know, but either way, he’s due to take a look at everyone. Figured now’s as good a time as any.”
“Well, we’ll miss you,” the first woman said, sounding genuine. “Come back on Friday.”
Bucky crossed his arm over his chest and closed his fist. The Dora responded with nods and smiles and arms that crossed in x’s over their chests before they departed as a group. Sam waited until they were gone before he turned back to Bucky. It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. “Dude, is this whole city obsessed with your pregnant goat?”
He smiled easily. “Not the whole city,” he relented. “But Shuri did already claim naming rights and she’s got a countdown on her blog.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes while Sam tried to wrap his brain around this information. They’d made their way into town before he realized that he had nothing to do and nowhere to go and was apparently accompanying Barnes to the vet. Vaguely, Sam reminded himself to stay detached. There was no way he was going to allow himself to get wrapped up in the frenzy of Tula, the pregnant goat.
“What class was she talking about?” he asked suddenly, trying to rectify another piece of the puzzle.
“Yoga,” Bucky answered without hesitation. “The docs prescribed it as part of my recovery.”
Sam glanced over his shoulder in the direction the Dora had gone. “You’re doing yoga with the palace guard?” he asked trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice. “That’s just like a thing you do now?”
Bucky moved his good shoulder in a shrug. “Shuri thought I’d be more comfortable in a smaller class,” he admitted. “So, Okoye agreed to let me practice with her and the rest of the Dora—she’s good with soldiers.”
He nodded and accepted a change of topic as they made their way further into town. It was easier to let it drop than to admit he was jealous of the peace Bucky had found.
***
Sam hadn’t expected to be able to stay in Wakanda for more than another night or two. He didn’t expect Natasha and Wanda to request more time for their raids of Nat’s safehouses in Turkey and Bulgaria. Nor had he expected that between Darcy and Shuri’s needling, T’Challa would let them extend their stay for another week. Or that Bucky’s goat giving birth was so exciting to a seventeen-year-old genius that she threw a party at the palace to celebrate Jemison and Uhura—the girl kids she’d helped deliver and immediately fallen in love with.
And he really didn’t expect to have been invited, at that party, to yoga class with Steve, Barnes, and the Dora Milaje the following morning.
Yoga in Wakanda was not like yoga in DC—not that he’d been a frequent visitor of the yoga studio by his house, despite sending many vets there as a form of therapy. The Dora practiced in a room near the top of the Tranquility Temple behind the palace. No mirrors, he noticed from a cursory glance around, but floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides. They had decided as a unit to allow him and Steve to join the class for the day and as such, had to be escorted by the guard themselves, making Sam feel a little less like a guest and more like a prisoner than he would have liked. Okoye handed them a small vibranium disc to affix below their ears. It offered real-time English translation so she could teach her class in her usual IsiXhosa.
“I’m sure you understand,” she said as she offered the discs on a slate gray dish. “This class is where we come to rest and reset ourselves—I won’t make my troop speak English unless they choose to.” She gave a tight smile and motioned on her own neck where they should be attached.
“Of course,” Steve said quickly before he offered a similarly brief smile. “We’ll try not to disrupt anything--probably set up closer to the back of the room. I’m not sure this is going to be pretty.”
At this, Okoye brightened, and Sam was disarmed a brilliant smile and a sparkle to her dark eyes. “It is called a practice for a reason, Captain,” she reminded kindly before she turned her gaze to include Sam as well. “And if the White Wolf can learn…”
“Oh, don’t make them live up to my skills, General,” Bucky said casually as he walked past, barefoot with a mat rolled under his arm. “It’s not fair.”
Okoye snorted half a laugh through her nose and motioned for them to set up in the studio. Sam followed Steve’s lead and tucked himself into one of the far corners, his back to the wall, exits clearly in sight. He did his best not to think about how logging those requirements had spiked his heart rate for a second. He unrolled his mat and closed his eyes in a long blink, forcing his head clear.
Clear enough, he settled, when his thoughts wouldn’t stop racing, to try and get some benefit from this exercise.
He was fine at first, albeit annoyed when it became clear that this was just one more thing Steve’s super-soldier serum made easy for him. The translation devices activated with a warm, centering pulse on his neck and Okoye’s instructions were transmitted loud and clear and as easy to follow as if she was speaking English to the whole class.
He made it through the sun salutations and into the lunges and warrior poses just fine. It wasn’t until the third time he pushed himself up into a downward facing dog that the edges of his vision started to darken. He shook it off and flowed as best he could into a plank and then down on his stomach for a cobra stretch. It was only when he tried to look up and let his head hang back, exposing his throat, that he realized he could barely breathe.
His heart was speeding up again. His brain logging threats where there were none. He felt his mouth run dry and the overwhelming need to run. To get out of that tiny space. Away from all those people. Anywhere he could breathe.
“Move back to downdog and hold.”
As if on autopilot, Sam did as Okoye said and pushed himself back up to an inversion before he could realize what a bad idea that was. As soon as he was upside down, the darkness that had been lingering on the corners of his vision swept over him and he was back.
Back in the desert. Back in the dark. Watching helplessly as the lights of Riley’s pack plummeted straight to the ground.
He was upside down still, but because he was flying. Racing as hard as he could to grab his friend in time. To break his fall or at least slow him down.
But maybe it wasn’t Riley he was trying to catch this time. Maybe it was Rhodey as he plummeted to the earth. Rhodey, who was only picking up speed as he dropped like a stone. And maybe he didn’t have a chance to save Riley, but he could still save Rhodey. If he could get there in time. Move faster. Stop this idiotic fighting and keep one more soldier out of the dirt for another day. If he could just--
A hand flattened firmly on Sam’s back, yanking him out of the sky, out of the desert or the airfield or wherever he’d been, back to the present. He was still inverted on quaking, trembling limbs, sweat rolling down his face. The hand didn’t move. He saw the legs of someone kneeling beside him.
“You are safe here, Sam,” a voice said softly, kindly, just above him. “Take a breath.”
Okoye. Speaking to him in English, not moving her hand from his back. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, not trusting her until he was sure he was still staring at his hands digging into a yoga mat. Not a barren swath of desert and Riley’s dead body. Not a battletorn airport full of people he used to trust.
Slowly, his shaking knees lowered to the ground.
Her voice came through the transmitter again. “Sink back to rest in child’s pose for a moment,” she said to the class as she coaxed him to do the same. “Deep breath in,” she commanded, not moving her hand until he pulled a deep inhale through his nose and his forehead touched the mat. “Deep breath out.”
His heartbeat was slowing down, his breathing normalizing. Kermit the Frog, he said to himself, breathing deeply at Okoye’s command. Miss Piggy. Fozzie Bear.
He rose up to rest on his knees with the rest of the class. Was able to roll his neck one way and then the other.
Animal. Beaker. Scooter.
Okoye was back at the front of the room, straightening the posture of one of the younger Dora before she led them to sit and moved into seated poses.
Rizzo the Rat. Pepe the Prawn. Rowlf the Dog.
There was little risk in a flashback when he was seated upright, Sam realized as he drew one knee close to his chest and hugged it in a twist.
Bunsen Honeydew. Statler. Waldorf.
When they turned the other way, Sam noticed Steve hadn’t. He caught the concern on his face and focused back on his breathing and finishing the grounding list he was working through in his head. “You okay?” Steve asked, his voice so low it was barely audible.
Swedish Chef.
Sam nodded. “I’ll tell you later,” he replied, not sure if he was lying.
Sam Eagle.
The rest of the class was seated and reclined poses, and no less difficult. He couldn’t help but wonder if Okoye had switched her routine to no longer include any inversions, or if it was just coincidence that he’d had a flashback during the last of them. Class concluded with a five minute meditation, during which Sam tried to settle his mind once and for all and devise a quick escape from the room when they were finished.
Steve was hitting him hard with his Look of Concern as they rolled up their mats amid the friendly, relaxed chatter of the Dora. Sam shook his head and managed a smile. “Man, you’re gonna have to turn those Sweater Eyes elsewhere,” he said. “I’m fine.”
“Hey, Steve,” Bucky broke away from the quick conversation he’d started with their instructor and crossed back to them. “I need to get back and finish fixing the fence around the paddock,” he jerked his head toward the door. “Wanna give me a hand?” The corner of Bucky’s lips twitched into a self-deprecating smile as he glanced down at his one remaining arm and realized his own joke.
Steve fought his own smile before he nodded and glanced over at Sam. “Feel like wrangling some goats for the rest of the morning?”
“Actually, Captain,” Okoye joined them as the class began filtering out. “I need to escort your friend to the lab. The princess just informed me that her patch on his equipment is ready for testing.” She looked at Sam expectantly, no hint of motive in her expression. “Unless there is somewhere else you need to be?”
She had him there. Despite her neutral tone and expression, Sam got the impression that Okoye rarely asked for anything twice and that he was going with her no matter his plans. Plans he didn’t have, of course, which she knew. He cleared his throat. “Not unless you guys really need me for goat wrangling,” he said with a shrug toward Steve and Bucky.
Steve’s smile was more relaxed now as he reached over and squeezed Sam’s shoulder. “We’ll manage,” he assured him. “But come find us when you’re done.”
The sun was high in the sky when they made their way outside the temple. Everything was hot and bright and Sam found himself wishing he had sunglasses. Absently, he rubbed at the spot on his neck where the translator had lived for the last hour and followed Okoye’s lead up the path. They walked toward downtown in silence that wasn’t quite uncomfortable for a few minutes before she glanced sideways at him. “This is your first visit to Wakanda, correct?” He nodded. “Have you tried bissap yet?”
“Uh,” Sam hadn’t been expecting that. “No, I don’t think so. What is it?”
Okoye motioned to the clusters of shops and vendors. “On the way,” she said without answering.
The vendor where they stopped was a few blocks in, giving Sam another chance to soak in the spark and crackle of unfamiliar language, the shock of so many colors and smells. Bright displays of products and menus were projected on the sides of booths and storefronts. Children zoomed past him on hoverboards and played with toys that made Tony Stark’s best equipment look like cheap plastic. He was transfixed by the hologram shimmering from a bead in the hand of a potter, surrounded by a booth of painted clay dishes and pots, when Okoye returned to his side and offered a cup of bright pink liquid with a straw.
“Bissap?” he asked, taking it hesitantly.
“Bissap,” she assured him and took a drink from her own cup.
Sam took a cautionary sip, surprised when greeted by the sharp hibiscus flavor. It was iced tea, he realized, feeling stupid for being so hesitant. Sweet and cold and a welcome treat under the late morning sun. He smiled and took another sip while they fell back into step. “Thanks,” he said after another minute.
Okoye nodded. “Do they happen often?”
He blinked and considered playing dumb for three whole seconds before Okoye turned her inquisitive gaze sideways to look at him. “Lot more often than they used to,” he admitted as his eyes dropped to the dusty, sunbaked street. He took another sip of bissap before he raised his chin again. “Sorry, if I was a distraction in class—”
Okoye held up a hand and stopped his apology before he could finish. “Let’s sit for a minute,” she suggested with a nod toward the nearest piazza with tables and chairs. She was quiet until they had pulled up a small spot closest to a garden wall, out of earshot for any nosy passerby, before she raised her eyebrows and looked at him expectantly. Her expression was open and kind and concerned in a way that made him want to open up to a total stranger as he no longer could with his friends. “You haven’t shared this with your team.” It wasn’t a question, or even an accusation. When he didn’t answer, she took a sip of her tea and smiled. “If you had, Captain Rogers would be knocking down Shuri’s door looking for a way to help you.”
Sam let out a huff of a laugh. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Maybe.”
“Your flashbacks,” she continued. “They are from your time in Afghanistan?” When his eyebrows lifted, surprised, she went on. “We don’t let anyone across our border without a thorough investigation. Your record is quite impressive.”
It was odd to sit across from someone who made observations instead of small talk. He opened his mouth to dispute her compliment before he stopped himself and shrugged. “I guess.” Impressive was never the word he used to describe his time in the military.
“So how is it that a man who has counseled over three hundred veterans has forgotten how to care for himself?”
Her question hit him hard in the chest. It was the one that had been haunting him. The one that had mocked him every time he had to run through his ground list and reteach himself how to breathe. “I had it under control for a long time,” he said before he could stop himself and wonder if he wanted to share this with her. “And yeah, counseling was a great way to keep myself healthy while I was helping everybody else. But then…”
He paused. He didn’t want to make it sound like he regretted befriending Steve. Nothing could be farther from the truth. But he couldn’t dispute that focusing on his own mental health and stability had taken a significant backseat since he decided to call after Steve that day on the mall.
“It just kind of snuck back up on me,” he finished quietly. “And it’s hard admitting you need help with something you had so under control.”
He looked up again and found recognition returned in her gaze. Understanding. Compassion. The kind of things he used to offer the people who came to him for help. “You are a soldier, Sam,” she reminded with a quiet intensity that made her dark skin almost glow. “There is no shame in these battles you’re fighting. Only in thinking you have to fight them alone.” She reached across the table and briefly set a hand on his arm; Sam felt an alarming rush of emotion crowd into his chest at her touch and it took all he had not to cover her hand with his own. “Let your team help you,” she suggested before she pulled her hand back. “Or if you’re not ready to talk to them, there must be someone else in your life you would want to talk to.”
The lump in his throat mercifully vanished as quickly as it had come, and Sam was able to clear it with a shake of his head. “You read my file,” he reminded. “Everyone I love is on a do-not-call list until this little matter of me being an international fugitive clears up. And,” he added with a half-smile, “while being wanted by the UN might sound like a great line, it’s not the best foundation for trying to make a connection with somebody new.”
To his surprise, Okoye nodded with understanding. “I can’t imagine,” she said. “It’s hard enough when you’re staying in one place.”
Sam sat up a little straighter. “Are you allowed to—” he stopped and coughed. “I mean, as a Dora Milaje, do you—”
“We’re allowed to date,” she cut him off succinctly. “We’re even allowed to get married if we want.”
“Yeah,” he nodded, hoping suddenly that he hadn’t offended her. “I figured. I mean, this place is progressive as hell, it’d be weird if you weren’t.” He cleared his throat again. “I just wondered—I mean, you said—”
The corner of her lips twitched in a half-smile. “Are you trying to ask me if I’m married?”
“No,” he said quickly—too quickly. “Well, yeah, I guess,” he backpedaled. “But not like…” he stopped and resisted the urge to slam his palm into his face. He sounded like Steve. Didn’t he used to be good at this? How long had it been since he’d had a conversation with a woman that wasn’t about safe houses and tactical advantages and weapons checks? “I wasn’t hitting on you,” he clarified finally. “I just kinda thought—you being the general and all. It would make sense if you were more…” he coughed again. “Y’know, married to the job.”
There. That felt okay. Awkward, fumbling, but okay.
“I was married,” Okoye said after waiting a minute, seemingly to see if he’d keep stumbling over the question.
“Oh,” he nodded, unsure of the kind of reaction he was supposed to offer. He wasn’t happy to hear that, of course. But he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t unhappy to hear it either. “Sorry,” he said after another second.
“It’s fine,” she assured him in a way that told him that even if it wasn’t, she wouldn’t be admitting that today. “We had an irreconcilable difference of opinion.”
He nodded again, surprised she had revealed that much. “Something tells me it wasn't about whose turn it was to wash the dishes?”
She tilted her head to one side in concession. “Not exactly. My husband thought our duty to king and country should extend to helping a lunatic wage war against the entire world."
"And you disagreed?"
"You could say that," she shrugged again. "His complicity would have killed millions and it would have ripped Wakanda apart in the process. It took puting my spear to his throat to get him to change his mind."
Sam blinked. “Kinda hard to go back to date night after that, I guess.”
To his surprise, Okoye snorted and let a full giggle escape her lips. A light, feminine laugh that reminded him of bubbly champagne and made him wish again that they wouldn’t have to leave. Before she could say anything else, a bead on her bracelet hummed and she sat up straighter, the smile falling from her face as she held out her palm.
A fully formed projection of Shuri appeared in the center of the table. “General, have you seen Sam? I think I’ve locked down the patch on his wings.”
Sam frowned in confusion as across the table, his companion’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “Yes, Princess. I thought you might have. We’re on our way to you right now.”
The projection of Shuri looked pleasantly surprised. “Good,” she said with a smile before squinting at something on her side of the conversation. “Looks like there’s a bus on the launch pad a block away. If you catch that in the next ten minutes, I can meet him on my side.”
“It’s not a problem to escort him the whole way,” Okoye said evenly.
“I’m too excited to wait--I've never made someone fly before,” Shuri admitted with a bubbling energy that reminded him once again how old she actually was. “And it’s your day off,” she reminded, smiling again. “There are guards here--we’ll be fine. Take your rest.”
The projection turned to black sand and was drawn back into the bead as it slid into place on Okoye’s wrist. She stood up and cleared her throat, all business once more. “We’d better not keep the princess waiting.”
Sam stood too; he grabbed his juice and followed her back onto the street. He studied her as she walked slightly ahead, her back ramrod straight, her chin lifted. He waited until the launch pad and one of the sleek, silent hovercrafts that Wakandans used as transportation was in sight before he cleared his throat again. “So Shuri...didn’t want to see me when you asked me to come with you earlier?”
If possible, Okoye’s shoulders squared even straighter. “I thought you could use a tea,” she said simply, not looking at him. “And I assumed she would be ready for you by the time we got there.”
He found himself fighting a smile as they approached the hovercraft. Okoye spoke to someone who must have been the driver as she pointed him in the small gathering crowd before she returned. “They will take you to the tower,” she assured him. “Two guards will meet you on the landing pad and take you to the lab from there.”
He felt an unfamiliar sense of disappointment when she pointed him to the boarding line. “Well, uh, thanks again,” he said, holding up his cup. “For the tea.”
She nodded. “If something changes--” she said and then seemed to stop herself. “If the king grants you assylum,” she corrected herself. “Classes are on Tuesday and Friday afternoon.” She smiled. “You would be welcome to join us again.”
“Thank you,” he said, hoping she could hear his gratitude. “I think I’d like that.” Another thought occurred to him as he took his place in the boarding line. He turned back around, surprised to see that she hadn’t left yet. “Hey,” he called, capturing her attention again. “There’s not going to be a video of me getting my ass kicked by my own gear floating around later on, is there?”
Okoye’s full smile was just as disarming the second time. “She usually only does that to the white boys,” she assured him around a laugh. “I think you are safe.”
Sam’s smile was slow to fade as he boarded the hovercraft. You are safe. Her words echoed while he found a seat and watched the city shrink through the window. It wasn’t a sentiment he was used to hearing anymore.
But for the first time in a long time, he found himself believing it.