all the info for this story is at the end of the chapter

"Where are you? Our flight leaves in an hour, and Oxford won't take you into the program if you are late," an angry, deep voice with a Xhosan-like accent and great authority reminded him over speaker phone as he threw three weeks worth of clothes in an old suitcase and as much spare change as he could possibly find. He'd need to do laundry often, with his schedule.

"Uhh," uttered the Oxford-bound young man intelligently, "I'm at Sutter and 150th, I should be there in 15 minutes."

"Peter," the man said bluntly, "you are at home. You're throwing things in your suitcase like you're robbing yourself."

Peter smiled nervously. "What? No, I'm not, I-"

"Turn around," he said.

Peter glanced back, doing a double take as a blue hologram of an imposing man with thick, extremely short but curly hair wearing a suit and a beaded bracelet appeared hovering over his phone on his desk with his arms folded. He stayed bent over and froze in a mixture of embarrassment and shame. "King T'Challa," he said weakly with his bullshit smile, seeing not the slightest change from the man's stern expression. "You can do that," he said, continuing to pack as many socks as he could into the suitcase.

"The Kimoyo Beads," T'Challa said, tapping on his bracelet. "Full AV control through any device, revealer of lies, scolder of the tardy."

"You're very funny," Peter said dryly, opening his backpack and ever so gently sliding his red and black laptop with the charger inside, "but you know me, I'll be over there in no time."

"Well 'no time' is running short," T'Challa said, "I'll be waiting by TSA." He flashed a smile. "See you soon." He cut the transmission, putting Peter in an even greater panic.

"Peter?" an elderly woman's shaky voice called from downstairs. "You need to leave right now or else you're going to miss your flight!"

Peter scanned his cluttered room for anything else he'd need for his trip like a police dog sniffing for drugs, deciding to throw in a couple extra pairs of underwear just in case. He stuffed his phone in his pocket and patted the other one for his wallet. "Yes, Aunt May! I'm coming down!"

He darted for the door but like a fly futilely fleeing the spider's web he ended up at his closet instead. "I can't believe I almost forgot," he grumbled under his breath, pulling the doors open and reaching for a thin box on the top shelf, about the length of his arm and stuffed to the brim based on the lack of shuffling items inside. He slid it in the secondary compartment of his hiking-sized backpack, compensating for his smaller suitcase. He felt around the top shelf of his closet again, patting himself on the back for a job well done. He took a look at himself in the closet mirror, thinking that he should probably comb his hair. He was tall and lean with fair skin, brown eyes and short, straight brown hair which, at the moment, was sprawled all over his hair. He wore a pair of blue jeans, white sneakers, a white tee shirt with "Stark BioTech" slanted in black across the chest, a red zip-up hoodie with white drawstrings, and finally, a pair of black-rimmed glasses that he didn't need, at least not anymore.

"Peter!" Aunt May called out again.

"I'm just looking for my passport," he lied, but patting his front pocket just to be sure, "I'm walking out of the door right now!" He quickly rummaged through his desk, closing it again before throwing his backpack on and running out with his suitcase. The Christmas decorations were still up, with the light decor wrapping around the outer handrail to the wooden staircase leading straight down against walls painted yellow. He dashed down the stairs, seeing a short, frail woman with long, white hair in a bun wearing a pink dress stand on a stool as she picked ornaments off the Christmas tree that sat in a small living room next to the kitchen in their apartment one at a time. He ran up to her, tapping her on the shoulder. "Aunt May-"

"Oh!" May exclaimed, fumbling with a red glass ball ornament that Peter caught out of the air and handed back to her. She giggled at her fright, slapping his free hand. "You startled me, Peter, you know I'm hard of hearing now." She stepped down from the stool, hugging him tightly and kissing him on the cheeks and the forehead.

"I'll call you when we're about to board," Peter said.

"Stay safe," May said with a motherly concern. "And call me once you land too. I need to make sure you get there in one piece so I can go to bed. Now get going!"

Peter laughed warmly, pulling his bike helmet from the coat rack and a black, dented skateboard from the front closet. "I'll miss you too, and I'll let you know as soon as I activate the international plan."

"Oh, you're going to have such a wonderful time," May said dreamily, waving her young nephew off. "Go and have yourself an adventure you'll never forget."

"I'll send pictures!" he said excitedly, running out the door and toward the staircase of their building. He casually jumped down twelve steep steps, doing that for two more flights before sheepishly running past a woman in a suit carefully stepping down the loud, metal stairs in heels. She probably heard the noises from upstairs. He rushed out the door and looked up at his city, taking the smell, sounds, and sights of the magnificent skyscrapers and the public train running just under the skyline they made for the last time in a while. It was cold, freezing, actually, with snow and frost turning his cheeks and nose bright red. "Should have worn a jacket," he said to himself, not wanting to bother opening his suitcase to pull out his coat. He looked at his phone, nearly dropping it in shock. "45 minutes," he said, shivering as he looked unfavorably upon the half-shoveled sidewalks riddled with ice patches. "I can make it." He took a running head start and pushed off on the skateboard, holding his suitcase to the side as he slipped around each ice patch and around a stadium connected to a nearby college campus. He leaned forward slightly to increase his speed as he came upon a hill going straight down to a pile of snow at the edge of the block. "Oh," he muttered, crouching apprehensively as he gathered speed, "this might not end well."

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he fumbled to pull it out, hastily pressing it to his ear. "They have begun boarding," T'Challa warned him, "you need to hurry up- are you taking a cab?"

Peter approached the snow and ollied over it, along with the people at the stop sign. "Duck!"


"Sorry, sorry," Peter said, landing hard in the middle of the street and barely missing a van that would have flattened him, "nine foot vertical leap over a family of five, it's been a crazy day, Your Highness."

"Where are you now?" he said, sounding a bit annoyed.

Peter sped down four more blocks faster than a man on a skateboard with a backpack probably should safely. "115th and Brewer, I'm gonna take a shortcut through the park and I'll be there in 10." He took a sharp turn and jumped onto a rail dodging a woman and her dog. "Excuse me!"

"You're going to break that skateboard," T'Challa said plainly.

Peter stuck the landing. "No I won't," he said, continuing through the park and sailing around a pond. "This skateboard has seen some of New York's toughest battles, and the most rigorous search for a nearby port-a-potty to change in-" He gasped as a curve around a tight corner to dodge a slow-walking group of teenagers slid him onto a patch of ice. His board rocketed out from under him, hitting a tree and splitting in half. Peter had a better fate, rolling to his feet to the mocking laughter of a flock of sophomores. He stared broken-hearted at his ride, snapped in two under a pile of snow by the tree. "I'll be there soon."

"You broke the skateboard," T'Challa said.

Peter turned toward his course and started running like his life depended on it, silencing the taunts behind him with distance. "Technically the tree broke the skateboard."

"If you were as fast at running as you were at making quips, you would be here already."

"I can see the airport now- terminal 2?" He ran into the parking lot, quickly scanning the map and dashing into the nearest closing elevator. "Wait wait wait-" He wedged his foot in the door, making the man whose pudgy finger nearly crushed the "door close" button roll his eyes impatiently. It didn't work, for the doors opened in Peter's favor.

Peter nudged his way into the elevator, filling it like the last sardine in the tin and spilling out of it into the long walkway with tall glass windows on either side. He checked his phone again, feeling cold sweat run down his forehead. "3:15," it read.

"Five minutes to boarding," he told himself as motivation, clearing that half a mile stretch in just under a minute and skidding in front of the check-in kiosks. His fingers were fire, flashing through screens and printing out tags like no tomorrow.

"Could you hurry up?" the pudgy-fingered man said spittily down his neck.

Peter counted four open kiosks with a quick glance. "Chill out!" Peter snapped, printing out his boarding pass and carefully placing his suitcase on the belt. He frantically looked at all the signs, dashing forward toward the security gates where hundreds of people were stuck in a long, winding line, all looking bored, impatient, or just annoyed. He pushed his way through the crowd, emerging victorious on the other side and smiling at the patient man waiting for him with the same expression earlier by a special security gate. T'Challa was a tall and well-built man with a perfectly trimmed, curly black beard that thinned into a neat goatee and vibrant, dark amber eyes. He wore a black and white suit without the tie that gave his upper body a nice "V" shape, leaving top button open as if the casual look would offset his intense stare. For Peter, it didn't.

"Glad you could make it," he said, gesturing toward the security line for them. "I'm certain you had a lot of last minute preparations the night before as well."

"Please, I am so sorry," he said remorsefully, following T'Challa through the separate security line where he simply flashed a completely black card to the two security agents who waved him through without a second thought. "I was out early this morning 'sweeping up' after a 'big bug' that kept trying to 'sting me,' I didn't get back home until one o'clock.'"

"The boy is with me," T'Challa said. The security agents hurriedly waved him through, except for a quick pat down by the agent who stepped aside for the king. Peter joined him again as he picked up his black, thin briefcase from the X-ray belt, heading toward the gate another quarter mile away, according to the map on the wall in the center of all the flags. Peter threw his backpack over his shoulder and kept walking, trying to keep up with his long, fast strides. "I understand, Peter, but you have forgotten what I've told you, even for the smallest situations."

Peter sighed. "I should have started packing three nights before, rather than the hour."

"Always have a contingency," he said, quickening his pace from a jog to a full sprint as the clock hit 3:19 on the dot. "The smart man may carry a shield but a living man knows it can only block one attack at a time. You?" He turned back to look at the young man staying just behind him. "You wear a backpack."

"How does that affect the proverb?"

"You dodge everything unexpected, but get slapped in the face by procrastination."

Peter laughed, finally stopping at a short line of the last few passengers getting on the plane. "We made it."

"The airport cannot fly," T'Challa quipped, strolling in with a regality in his step. Peter swiped in next, following him down the ramp and into the plane. They grinned at the flight staff and turned toward the front, with Peter's jaw dropping at the luxury before him. "We are seats 1A and 1D, you get the window seat," he said, letting Peter into a row just behind the cockpit with his own lounge chair, leather armrest, personal television, dining menu, and a raisable divider between his seat and the well-dressed, pale old woman already resting in the chair next to his. Finally, there was not just one window seat, but two.

"This entire thing is mine?" Peter said, pointing suspiciously at the seat.

"I would have put us together, but your aunt asked me to return the favor of you 'helping me to the Embassy' at the last minute. We would have "

"Oh, no, thank you so much, I can't- I-" he said, thinking this was overkill for helping him keep New York safe again, "I'm legitimately angry at how nice this is." Peter looked up at the king, seeing a smile flash across his face. "The ball's in my court, isn't it? I owe you a favor now?"

He chuckled warmly, turning to the other end of the row. "Enjoy," he said, sliding into his window seat and glancing out the window at the falling snow for a moment before picking up the menu to thumb through it.

"All passengers now boarded, all doors closing," the pilot with a light, British accent announced softly over the intercom. "Hello all, my name is Liam and I'm your pilot today. The time is currently 15:35, flight time is currently at six hours and fifty seven minutes with an average altitude of about 9000 meters and an incoming temperature at Heathrow of negative two and overcast so pull off those winter jackets and plan yourself a trip to Dover's beach while it's still warm." He waited for a few chuckles in the back. "Today is the seventh of January, 2017, please strap yourselves in and turn your attention to the stewards and stewardesses who will instruct you on proper aircraft safety procedure. Thank you for choosing British Airways."

The team of flight attendants walked up from the back of the plane and T'Challa turned to pull up the divider. He briefly looked at the woman next to him, reading a book with one white earbud in her ear in the shape of an angel wing. She was a slim and curvy woman with platinum blonde with light skin, prominent and rosy cheeks, pouty lips, and bright blue eyes. She wore white jeans that showed off her long legs and a red blouse with a pair of tall brown winter boots. Her shoulder-length hair was kept in a braided ponytail she played with nonchalantly as she read her book with a caduceus on the back cover. "Excuse me," he said, drawing her side glance. "Do you mind if I pull this up?"

"Not at all," she said with a Swiss-French accent, looking down at his suit and back at his face as he slowly pulled up the beige plastic wall between them. "Pouvez-vous me comprendre maintenant?" she asked quickly.

T'Challa stopped pulling, peering over the wall inquisitively. "Come again?"

She smiled, turning back to her book. "Nothing, it's not important."

T'Challa smiled back courteously and finished pulling the divider up, leaning back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other. He tapped his bracelet. "Stark," he said, bringing up another hologram of a middle-aged man wearing tinted glasses and a white lab coat. He was floating upside down with his arms outstretched, slowly spinning around.

"Head of state," Stark said. "It's been awhile."

"I am on the way to London with Peter right now, seeing him off while taking care of some PR with the prime minister on Monday," he said, "I was planning on making this a quick trip but it's been a minute since I've visited so I might stay for a week or so- I was hoping you and Banner were in your London office so I could observe the progress of our 'integration.'"

"What are the chances of me- wait a minute." Stark spun slowly, keeping eye contact with the King the whole time until he was vertical. "Much better. It's less awkward talking to someone sideways like that. Anyway, what are the chances of me spinning around in an anti-gravity chamber in London out of all the other places in the world?"

"You tell me-"

"Wait a minute."

T'Challa waited in amused silence, watching the scientist wait with his arms folded as he turned upside down again.

"100 percent chance," Stark said, making the king chuckle.

"When will it be a good time for me to visit, Tony?"

Tony turned to someone out of the camera's range, giving them a thumb up. He dropped from the floating state he was in to his feet. "Come by at eleven tomorrow morning, I'll let you test out a couple of the new toys at the facility."

"I'm looking forward to it, see you soon," he said, giving him a quick smile and wave before tapping the beads again and ending the call.

"All flight attendants must prepare for takeoff," the pilot said, starting the engines with a loud, high-pitched whirring.

T'Challa looked out the front window again, watching the city leave him as the plane soared into the sky and above the grey clouds. The monotonous white, rolling sight under him turned him to his briefcase, pulling out a sleek, white, unmarked laptop and opening it to the last page of the CLR James novel he was reading for the third time. He tapped his beads again after finishing the book fully content, bringing up Peter's hologram frustratedly clicking away at his laptop screen with his mousepad on the wide armrest. "You look like you're losing," he said bluntly.

"Yeah, thanks," Peter said dryly, throwing up his hands and taking a deep breath.

"Maybe you should take a break?" T'Challa suggested.

"This one player called has been sitting in the lobby ever since we reached peak altitude," Peter said in an agitated tone, "I think she used to be the world champ, now she's in the game reminding me why I think that."

"Don't let it get to you, Peter," T'Challa said with a chuckle, "it's just a game."

"You're right, you're right," Peter said with a laugh, "I just didn't expect to get thrashed 40 times in a row. Alright, I guess I'll read."

"Remember that clear card I told you to bring? You still have it, right?"

Peter's eyes widened and he felt around in his jacket pocket. "Yes, it's here."

"Good," he said. "Activate it as soon as we land, in case anything happens. I'm sure, since you'll be here until May, you'll want to keep up your hobby."

"What we're up against doesn't have a nationality," Peter said, "but they all want your stuff."

"Let them come," T'Challa said, "maybe putting it on will help you beat this woman at the game."

"No, then I'd be a loser in spandex."

"Go back to it later," T'Challa suggested, "if you want, I can give you a thumbdrive of my digital library for the rest of the flight."

"Oh, I have a couple things I've been meaning to read on my laptop already, but thank you."

They ended the call and Peter returned to the screen of his red and black, glowing gaming laptop, seeing the StarCraft logo haunt him mockingly as his record sat at 11-42. A small, red arrow popped up over the mail icon in the corner of the screen and he clicked on it, pulling up a small white box with the message, "R u ready?" from .

Peter resisted the urge to start another match with her over his pride and responded. "I'm actually going to take a break, might be back tomorrow."

Almost immediately she answered him. "It's ok to rage quit sometimes ;) ."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Fun playing with you too." He closed his laptop entirely and sat there for a moment in a simmering, angry silence. He was rage quitting, but she didn't need to know that. He heard the elderly woman's soft snoring in the seat across the divider and started to yawn. "Good idea." He leaned back in his chair, feeling the seat warmer and soft massage of first class lull him away from the gamer rage until the captain notified them of their descent four hours later. Half his hair was plastered to the seat, now sticking out in all directions, and his glasses were crooked.

"Local time is 3:35," Liam said, "temperature of negative three, you may now turn off airplane mode but keep your seatbelts on until the sign turns off, and thank you again for choosing British Airways. Enjoy your stay in London."

T'Challa looked out the black window, seeing bits and pieces of downtown London's bright skyline in between the trees and the smaller buildings connected to the airport as the plane slowed to a halt. He pushed down the divider, exchanging another quick glance with the Swiss woman making a phone call before putting his laptop away in his briefcase.

"You are free to stand up," the pilot said, "have a good night."

T'Challa slowly stood up from the soreness of his long legs from sitting for so long. He flexed the muscles in his back and rotated his shoulders and neck; he would have opted for a more private way of traveling had Aunt May not specified she wanted it done a specific way. He respected her wish, but it took a toll on his knees. He looked across the aisle, seeing Peter up already in a black winter coat and gloves from his backpack, also seeming a bit sore in the legs from the stretches he was doing while standing up. "You will check in with the study abroad agent waiting for you at baggage claim," he said, walking around the aisle and patting his young friend on the back. "It is there that we will part ways, but I'll stop by before I leave. Oxford was my home for seven years."

"You were there for grad school, right?" Peter said.

"And undergraduate, for three years," he said, walking out of the plane and feeling the cold rush of English air ruffle his suit, "don't stay in your dorm all day. The campus alone will surprise you."

They reached the long line to customs, with a Heathrow agent passing declaration forms out to everyone in line. "Welcome to Heathrow, anything to declare?"

"Just the boy." T'Challa showed her the card in black and she opened the gate, letting him and Peter through. He glanced back, seeing the Swiss woman pull out a card with a white and blue caduceus on it. She skipped that line as well, following them toward baggage claim.

"What is that card?" Peter asked.

"It lets them know who I am without telling them my identity," he said, "it covers my entourage."

"Wow," Peter said, reaching a circular belt among the other people with similar privileges. His suitcase came down a chute and went straight onto the belt first. Peter looked at the line of agents with written signs, but only one had the coffee and the Oxford sweatshirt. He locked eyes with Peter, the two tall, lean young men exchanging smiles. "Well, I think that's my ride," he said, shaking T'Challa's hand. "Thanks for coming with me. Aunt May hates it when I fly alone, I don't know why, but I guess it's only natural."

T'Challa smiled. "It was no problem. Like I said, I was returning a favor. Keeping her mind at ease is important, no?"

"You have no idea," he groaned with a chuckle, waving him off. "I'll text you when I have my schedule, maybe we can hang out soon?"

T'Challa would be slammed after tomorrow, possibly for the next three days afterward. "We will see, but have a great time!" He watched him leave with the agent and took a deep breath, turning back to the belt in silence.

A phone rang next to him and he looked over, seeing the Swiss woman again answering her phone. She was a bit taller than he expected, about five foot nine with the boots, but still five inches shorter than him. "I'm at baggage claim now," she said, her voice very soft but easygoing. "Next to door 3A you'll see me, Lena." She looked down at the belt as it started filling up with the elite luggage, wrinkling her nose as hers was not included. "Oh yes, it was fine," she said, looking at the back of T'Challa up and down studiously, "mais pas aussi bien que certains passagers."

T'Challa flickered a frown as the belt loop came around twice without his one suitcase.

"Très grand, la peau foncée, beau, et sait comment porter un costume, et sa voix," she continued, turning around and taking a couple steps away. "Je pense qu'il a dit qu'il avait un doctorat d'Oxford?"

She came back around, locking glances with him briefly and looking away with her large, red suitcase pulled behind her. She gasped and covered her mouth to laugh. T'Challa smirked.

"No, I'm not going to ask," she said, "il semble être le type qui est toujours sérieux, un bourreau de travail."

T'Challa took his tall, thinner black suitcase off the belt and started walking toward door 3A, seeing a long, black, discreet SUV with tinted windows roll into the pickup loop. It was his, but he decided to wait a couple more seconds. The king walked toward the SUV with her not far behind as an orange Ford Mustang stopped in the loop behind it.

"I see you," she said, hanging up and walking toward the Mustang.

"Maybe it's different here," he said, "but it is considered impolite to talk about someone behind their back, especially if that person is right in front of you." She stopped cold and he turned around with a serious, natural smolder. "C'est vrai, non?"

Her face went gaunt, her eyes wide and skin void of any color or life. She suddenly didn't know what to do with her hands. "I didn't think that you would-" She smiled, blushing and laughing at the situation. "I have to go."

He laughed as well, his voice rich and warm, reaching into his suit pocket. "I only joke. I think anyone would be flattered hearing any of that from you- what is your name?"

"Angela," she said, wiping her long bangs out of her face. "What's yours?"

"I'm here on business until Monday, but I'm staying a few more days to meet up with some old colleagues of mine." He pulled out a white business card with two separate phone numbers listed. "The second one is my cell," he said, placing it in her open hand with a suave smile. "Think about it. I might not be as big of a 'bourreau de travail' as you think." He turned around, walking away with a natural confidence and swagger in his step she'd never seen before.

"You never told me your name," Angela said, looking down at the card and back up at the man on the left side of the SUV.

He flashed his smooth smile again. "À bientôt, Angela," he said, climbing into the passenger seat. The driver was another tall and buff Wakandan man with a bald, shiny head and brown eyes.

"You are here for the women, your highness?" the driver teased.

T'Challa smirked. "What? I figured we could have dinner, walk around London, go our separate ways. I'm not going to be here for long."

The driver rolled his eyes with a disbelieving smile. "You never change."

"M'Yemu," T'Challa said, greeting his fellow countryman warmly. "It's been far too long, old friend."

"You came without your Dora Milaje," M'Yemu said curiously with a fatter, more prominent accent than T'Challa's.

"N'Baza and B'Tumba are traveling right now," he said, "and as you remember, with the lions' den, they are no fighters."

M'Yemu laughed heartily. "Yes, those cubs were terrifying," he said, "but you do not need to ball up your fists in Wakanda before lending every hand."

"They are great men, indeed," T'Challa said. "I hope all is well with you and your family."

"For me, my friend, yes," M'Yemu said, returning the hearty handshake. "But I'm afraid as of this morning, all may not be well for Wakanda."

T'Challa's smile faded into cold concern. He'd just finished saving the world, but he wasn't going to let his people fall through the cracks. "Has my absence been taken advantage of?"

"The Loki incident with the rest of the Avengers took up all your time in New York recently, I understand, but," M'Yemu said, taking a deep breath. "Akande Ogundimu has escaped prison, and he got help."

"Do you know who let him out?" T'Challa asked. "No, I suppose, Akande would not give that kind of connection away freely."

"And he has the gauntlet."

T'Challa looked over again at his friend and driver, letting his hands curl into bitter fists up on the shining dashboard. "Doomfist..." he hissed as they reached the center of London. Vibrant and colorful under the cloudy night sky with a breathtaking combination of modern skyscrapers and historic sites such as the Tower of London and Westminster Abbey that would make finding Akande a mess. "You will tell me everything you know."




FRENCH: Pouvez-vous me comprendre maintenant? = Do you understand me now?

mais pas aussi bien que certains passagers = but certain passengers were also foine

Très grand, la peau foncée, beau, et sait comment porter un costume, et sa voix = very tall, dark, handsome, knows how to wear a suit, dat voice thoooooo gurrrrrllllll

Je pense qu'il a dit qu'il avait un doctorat d'Oxford? = I think he said he got his PhD at Oxford?

il semble être le type qui est toujours sérieux, un bourreau de travail. = he seems like the type of guy who is always serious, a workaholic

C'est vrai, non? = It's true, no?

A bientot (no accents yeah I know shut up) = see you soon

A couple more things you probably want to know about this FANFICTION:

-All of Overwatch will get a buff to keep up with the Avengers bc let's be real here, T'Challa would beat all of Talon's ass then go home in a 70 minute direct to DVD movie called "T'Challa's Crazy Monday" with like a two percent on Rotten Tomatoes

-I would watch the hell out of "T'Challa's Crazy Monday"

-Tracer is bi

-I'm working on school + other projects atm but some of the projects are ending so regular updates will happen later down the line, just follow/fav and be patient pls :)

-No harem


-see above

-More than just the two ships listed will be in the story, if you want to know just send me a PM or suggest an Avengers X OW pair you think would be aesthetic in a PM/review.