Chapter Text
Everett Ross was in trouble, capital T size trouble, and she was a 5"3', dark skinned African omega princess. Everett had made peace with the fact that he would not mate with an omega in his life. He had dedicated his life to the Air Force and then to the CIA knowing he would give up having a home and a family.
He had made that sacrifice knowing it was the kindest one he could make. Sure, he saw other career Alphas who said, “they had it all;” work and a family but all Everett could ever see were miserable or cheating spouses, children who barely recognized their parents, and too much dysfunction to yearn for both.
So, when he had put himself in front of Nakia during the safe house bust and received a bullet for his trouble his last thought was, “all in a day’s work” because he knew the omega had the heart of the King. Who was he to live when he could save a Queen?
Waking up had been a surprise, being able to move more so, but the beautiful, young woman who had saved him; a one, two punch in the face. She smelled of everything that reminded him of his Nan, the woman who had raised him. She smelled of life, and she smelled of every dream he had given up the day he signed his soul to Uncle Sam.
She reminded him of a bunny; all grace and smarts with a little sass to boot. Her hair, in what she would later tell him were called micro braids, trailed regally down as she typed, her feet moving along to an unheard melody. And when he had startled her and she dared to call him colonizer, his alpha side had stood up and taken notice.
The more he noticed the more entranced he became; she was smart, brave, inventive, driven to save people, and loyal to her brother; and not just because they were related but because she respected her brother as a man, protector, super hero, and King. She was the brain to T’Challa’s brawn, a bit of a rebel, and a flouter of tradition in ways that even at her age got her ears boxed.
He wanted her, not just in the bedroom, but in the throne room, the international stage, and the science arena where she loved going head to head against Tony Stark and Peter Parker. Shuri was confident in her status as an African woman and took no prisoners when someone tried to bring her down in anger or jealousy.
She was a joker, a teacher, a leader in her own right, and more importantly she was a healer. She had healed him in more ways than he could ever articulate or repay. She had given him hope. But she could not be his; for one he was white, for another he was American. She was a princess, and he was just a nobody. They were friends, and he respected T’Challa more than he could ever voice, so he could never give into the demands his alpha side made to make her his.