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She waited until it was over.
Until the swirling of green, yellow, black and red passed, and the people along with it. Until the streets became empty and the sky darkened.
That was when she made her way towards the royal cemetery, pink carnations in hand, to stand before the freshly-covered grave.
It was simpler than she had expected, though it was still drowned in flowers and Wakandan flags. Just a simple, dark marble headstone, as tall as she was, with a name, dates and a commemorative statement below.
She set the carnations on top of the edge of a flag that was flapping in the wind. And stood, wringing her hands together for a moment before finally deciding to settle onto the grass cross-legged.
And she remembered. The instant respect she had acquired for the man she only got to know for a couple minutes. The depth of the relationship between father and son, and the ache it had put in her chest for a moment. How the ache only grew when she realized that man had died.
She didn’t remember her parents. And not very many of the Avengers had fond memories of the ending of those relationships. To actually see another one of those relationships torn apart only hit the assassin harder.
“I thought you’d never show up.”
She almost jumped at the voice speaking up behind her. Almost. Instead Natasha turned around slowly and replied, “Shhh. I’m still off-grid, still in the mysterious unknown,” she could only see his silhouette, the moon eerie just behind him.
T’Challa was silent all the way until he was settled next to her on the ground, legs-crossed as well. “I expected the others more than you Ms. Romanov.”
She scoffed, “I knew your father. Not them. Even if it was for a moment. They’re hidden in your basement anyway, not like they could come out.”
He nodded once, “Which ones are from you?” and gestured towards the piles of flowers before them.
“Pink carnations,” she gestured towards the bouquet sitting on the flag, fairly far away.
“Is there a meaning?”
She nodded, “Remembrance.”
T’Challa gave a small, understanding smile and leaned back on his hands. “And yet you only knew him for a moment.”
“Are you okay? You didn’t get back home right away after he died,” and no, she didn’t feel like reaching for him.
The king shrugged, not speaking for a long moment before finally sighing, “I didn’t want to go back home after he died. That would have involved thinking about it, planning the funeral. I decided to push it all down and replace it with anger,” he shook his head, “never a good idea. I was bound to have to come back eventually. Right now though? Better than what I would’ve felt had I come back before. There is no need for an angry child to take the throne here.”
Natasha couldn’t help but smile. Yes, much better than before.
And she wondered, when would she be able to be better? To accept what Clint and the others had always said to her, "it all wasn’t ever your fault". To stop pushing it all down and replacing it with the need to wipe out a ledger that was probably never dripping to begin with? To accept the fact that she could never have a life other than that of a spy?
“Come inside. There is plenty of room here and you can leave early tomorrow if you’d like. Though I am not against you staying longer. It’s safe.” T’Challa tilted his head as he spoke, his tone quiet and his expression slightly shy.
She wanted to decline, she wanted to. Natasha could find herself a safe place for the night and for a while forward easily.
Something niggled at the back of her mind though, and instead, the assassin nodded. T’Challa dipped his head in response and climbed to his feet, offering her a hand.
And Natasha took it, not even bothering to wonder why at the moment.