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It had been an infuriatingly long and difficult mission and Tony only gave his best to the Avengers and this couch was T’Challa’s favourite. Everything from the material, the way his body sunk into it, the warmth it absorbed and gave back – it was a couch worthy of the name and T’Challa would claim it in the name of Wakanda if he had any energy left to attempt humour.

He didn’t.

The Avengers all collapsed on various furniture in the communal room, having stumbled zombie-like from the hangar and sought out the first sturdy thing to take their weight. Most of them sprawled over the couches, while Black Widow sat cross-legged on the island in the open kitchen, eyes tired but alert, unable to switch off. T’Challa, from where he was laying on the couch, eyed Hawkeye who had just folded himself onto the floor and lay there in silence ever since. The carpet was plush enough to make T’Challa absently wonder if Tony simply expected these things and made everything comfortable just in case: they didn’t call him a Futurist for nothing. The man himself and the Falcon were the last to enter, frowning at the wings that had malfunctioned part way into the mission.

Tony tapped a pattern out on the device and it whirred before the right wing shot out and smashed a vase, the artificial flower arrangement thrown about, long Pampas grass landing on top of Hawkeye.

It spoke volumes of how tired they were when all the team could manage was a turn of their heads or a blink of their eyes.

“Sorry Tony, I’ll –”

“Hey, it’s fine, tech malfunctions have a positive causal relationship with broken furniture, it’s why I’m such a minimalist in the workshop,” Tony reassured him, nudging him towards the couches as he eyed the damage. “FRIDAY, draw up a line so no one stabs themselves off the clock. We don’t want anyone to go to Medical after debrief, it’s just embarrassing.” He said, picking up a stalk of the fluffy Pampas grass and stepping over Hawkeye’s prone body.

“Yes, Boss.” An orange hologram line appeared in a senseless shape wherever the glass had scattered and to T’Challa’s amusement, Hawkeye was smack in the middle of the space, looking like a corpse in a murder scene.

Falcon scoffs, “Anyone got any chalk?”

Widow doesn’t hesitate, the wry smile audible in her voice, “FRIDAY?”

The couch dips as Tony throws himself on to it, his thigh by T’Challa’s head, sighing as he melts into the cushions, arms thrown over the side and the back, while the rest of the team laugh at the outline FRIDAY casts around the archer’s body.

The camaraderie is safe and T’Challa feels his body sink through the cushions, lying straight on his back he feels gravity weighing down on him, exhaustion dragging him down into a slumber that’ll leave him stiff and hurting more when he wakes but he doesn’t have the energy to care.

He wonders if his eyes are as tight and flighty as Widow’s so he closes them, he tries to relax but his muscles still tense from the arduous fight which he knows he’ll be reliving in his unconsciousness.

“Hey.”

Tony’s voice is like a beam through the muddying mist in his mind, soft, clear and warm, “Sure you don’t wanna get out of the Vibranium mesh before you have your catnap, Whiskers?” he asks. T’Challa tells him the suit is comfortable enough, but the words leave his mouth in a mumble that has Tony respond with a huff of laughter. It’s warm, he’s warm and, gods, T’Challa misses the warmth of his home desperately (the sounds of the canopy, the watchfulness of the panther statues, the strength of the Dora, the connection of the people) he is due back there soon, but soon is too far for now, so he pushes himself up and nestles his head onto Tony’s thigh.

Tony jolts in surprise, then instantly stills his body, trying consciously to relax. T’Challa feels a twinge of guilt which lasts until he blinks up at Tony to find him smiling bemusedly at him.

“What?” T’Challa manages through a yawn.

Tony’s smile only gets bigger, “You know, if you put the helmet on, you’d just be an overgrown cat. I could stroke you behind those ears if you like.”

The king stared blankly at the man who pressed his lips together to fight a snicker. He wishes he didn’t, he likes it when Tony laughs. “It is Vibranium, I would not feel it if you had the gauntlet on, let alone if you pet me with your hand.”

This obviously wasn’t the answer Tony expected (T’Challa had given him, and pretty much the entire team, the Symbol and Mantel Speech about the suit before when Tony asked if he could upgrade it) because Tony blinks those huge eyes at him then, and keeping eye contact, he runs his fingers through T’Challa’s hair, carding his nails from his forehead to the back. T’Challa’s eyes flutter shut and he hums his approval, turning his head to the side so Tony could reach behind his ear, as he said he would.

He’s warm, he’s relaxed and it feels good, and while he misses his home, he feels content and it’s staggering. T’Challa wonders what his father, and his father before, would think of him, lying on this man’s lap, far from Wakanda, the Panther suit removed from its original purpose to defend her. But he calms that rise of anxiety that takes the form of the voices of his tutors and father who trained him for this role. He is the Panther now, the suit is his, Wakanda is his and if it is time for Wakanda to enter the world and work with it, then the Panther must do the same.

As must T’Challa.

He feels himself ease the feeling of Tony’s warmth and touch and restful sleep takes him by surprise.

It’s a short while later when he is woken up: the air is different to what he fell asleep to, his awakening senses tell him the room is emptier. Something tickles his nose. He bats it away.

His pillow shakes before the tickling on his nose is back.

T’Challa swats at the air.

His pillow snorts.

He groans, not wanting to open his eyes, but when he does, his vision is white and… fluffy?

It comes closer and the tickling sensation is made clear. T’Challa goes to grab it when it's pulled away and Tony’s laughing face takes its place.

“Morning Kit-Kat, how was your stay at Stark Quadriceps?”

T’Challa can’t help the chuckle at the ridiculous man whose eyes light up at his reaction before smothering the king with the feathery plant. T’Challa bats it away from his face so he can see Tony’s.

“I think I would find your Gluteus Maximus branch much more accommodating.”

There is a beat before Tony curls around him in laughter, his whole body shaking. T’Challa likes seeing this freer version of Tony, seeing the joy course through his body, free from his iron control, his conscious attempts to suppress his own happiness, as if afraid to feel it. The laughter bleeds out of him slowly, slowing into snickers, leaving him glowing in its after-effects, cheeks red and eyes lit and smile wide.

“I’ll see to it you get a transfer soon, your Smoothness,” Tony says, teasing him with the soft plant again, T’Challa shifts to attempt a new tactic to grab the annoying thing. Tony only raises it higher, making T’Challa reach up to swipe at it.

It becomes a game: Tony tries to outsmart T’Challa, holding the plant high, then to the side, up close, laughing as T’Challa persists at pawing at the plant and missing it, humouring him and letting him have his fun.

“You know this would be even better with your helmet on, King Kitty,” Tony says, twirling the furry plant over his head as T’Challa goes after it with quick satirical swipes.

Then Tony plants it in front of his own face, and T’Challa waits for the game to continue, for Tony to move it as he did before.

Tony peeks out from behind the fluff, eyes mirthful, and hides again.

And like that the game changed. Unless this had been the game all along. T’Challa doesn’t care, this is a game he is happy to win.

He pounces.

With one hand he grabs the back of Tony’s head and with the other, the hand holding the plant. Pulling the plant aside, he brings Tony’s face down and presses his lips against the giddy grin, swallowing Tony’s surprised laughter, their hands threading together around the stalk of the plant. The kiss is sweet, gentle but no less passionate and it sends tingles starting from his lips down his spine that has T’Challa arching up into Tony’s mouth. They explore each other languidly, happiness quivering through their bodies, bouncing back and forth between them and only growing.

T’Challa pulls away, wanting to look at him but Tony leans forward with a whimper, chasing after him and moaning when he has T’Challa’s lips back against his, nipping at his full lips, pressing kisses on the curve, tongue tracing the seam, driving T’Challa to crave more. They pant, sharing the air between them, hot air blowing against their faces and into them and T’Challa’s surging up, stealing another kiss, tasting Tony and wanting everything can get. He wants to know the difference between Tony’s private and public kisses, wants to kiss him to sleep and kiss him awake, wants to kiss Tony lazily and drive him to desperation and see how Tony tastes when he’s on the brink of pleasure.

Right now, he tastes of bliss, the happiness shining in his eyes when T’Challa pulls away and it’s a taste he wants forever.

“Hey,” T’Challa whispers.

“Hey,” Tony replies, breathlessness a beautiful look on him, pupils blown wide strikingly and lips so red that T’Challa feels that pleasant, familiar warmth spread down and curl deliciously at his groin.

“Hey!” They both look up, T’Challa tensing while Tony jumps.

Hawkeye is standing there, arms wide and exasperated, gaping at them, “How could – I fell asleep on the floor and you all just left me there?!”

“Uh...” Tony replies.

“Yes,” adds T’Challa, sitting up, tone the right side of sarcastic that the unsaid ‘obviously’ makes Barton twitch.

“I can’t believe the A-grade dicks I live with. No-one appreciates me. You even drew a line around me? What am I contagious? I can’t bel- ow!”

Tony winces, lips wobbling as he tries to stifle his laugh, “Mind the broken glass!”

“Hey Cat, get his tongue!” Barton shoots back, hopping away clumsily, swearing under his breath.

Tony snorts and T’Challa joins in, before pressing their foreheads together.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

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