Chapter Text
The mission was going fine until the world was consumed by fiery inferno. The suit took the brunt of it and the kinetic energy discharge pushed back the swarm of men clad in tactical armour converging upon them.
The two of them fought back to back, needing no verbal cues to know each other’s next movement and between the two of them, it doesn’t take them long to subdue their enemy. It was easy enough for them to cut through the assailants, vibranium claws slashing through armours as if it were wet tissue.
That arrogance in his own skill and confidence in the suit’s ability to keep them safe is what brought them to this moment, N’Jadaka choking on his own blood as whatever poison that coated the bullet eat away at him from the inside.
T’Challa had been foolish enough to allow his guard down to dissolve the suit away after the battle and if it weren’t for N’Jadaka’s quick reflex to come in between him and the bullet, he doubted he would even be alive right now.
But that doesn’t mean things are fine because that bullet had managed to slip through a chink in the suit to get to the vulnerable flesh below it and T’Challa was frozen in horror as he watched his mate fell to the ground.
In a flurry of motion, he knocked out the shooter and fell to his own knees by N’Jadaka’s side to gather him in his arms.
“The next words out of your mouth better be ‘I’m sorry.’ and ‘Here’s the antidote’, cuz.” The words come out in short gasp, voice tight with pain and weariness.
And T’Challa doesn’t blame him for it because he could only imagine the pain wrecking his body. He himself is lucky enough the augmentation done by the Heart Shaped Herb had mollified the pain pulsing through their shared bond.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” T’Challa apologised, cradling him close to his chest as they waited for help to arrive.
N’Jadaka snorted, pale lips stretched into a shadow of the smarmy smirk that usually adorned his face and his eyes twinkled with amusement despite the pain clouding it.
“This sure brings back memory.”
And it does, the parallel of their current situation with the ending of their last fight is not lost to him and his heart clenched in fear at the thought of it.
No.
He can’t lose N’Jadaka now.
Not when he just got him back.
He will not allow N’Jadaka to die here, so far away from their home when the other had fought and bleed for his place in Wakanda.
N’Jadaka doesn’t deserve this cruelty.
He should be surrounded by the people that has come to love him.
He should have not brought N’Jadaka with him in the first place.
It is his own fault that he is here, cradling his dying mate in his arms.
“Remember your promise…….” N’Jadaka rasped, breath laboured and T’Challa can only wipe the sweats away from his face.
“I will. I always do.” T’Challa shushed him, smoothing out N’Jadaka’s scrunched up brow and kissing his forehead softly in hope of giving him some comfort.
He remembers his promise, he remembers it as if he had made it yesterday when in fact he had made it about a decade ago, sat atop the Vibranium mound with N’Jadaka cradled in his arms much like this.
In their culture, death is not the end. It is more of a stepping off point. They will reach out with both hands as both Bast and Sekhmet lead them into the green veld where they can run forever.
However, he had promised N’Jadaka that he will not bury him in Wakanda despite it being his birth right to be buried amongst the member of the royal line of the Panther. He had promised him that because N’Jadaka refused to be surrounded by the very people who had abandoned him and betrayed his father.
N’Jadaka has found his place in Wakanda and amongst their people but the old scars never healed even if he had made peace with his father’s murder.
Even if it hurts him at the prospect of not seeing his mate in the ancestral plane, he respects his wish to be one with his father, to be by his side in death even if it means being separated from the rest of Wakanda.
“Just hold on. Shuri is coming soon. She will be mad if you leave her hanging for that episode you promised her.”
N’Jadaka laughter sounds more like wheezing and T’Challa couldn’t help but smile despite the tears welling in his eyes.
Shuri and N’Jadaka had become fast friend after N’Jadaka had introduced her to the world of Japanese animation and the two of them had bonded over it like a house on fire. It is an endearing sight to see two of his most precious people cuddled up together to watch yet another episode of a tear-jerking animation.
“Well you will have to sit with her for the next one.” Because I can’t be there anymore went unsaid and T’Challa tightened his grip on him, beyond desperate to hold the other half of his soul close.
“We will watch it together as you recuperate. Now just stay awake.”
T’Challa patted the tight dreads that N’Jadaka had grown out over the years, fingering the many ornamental beads that had found home in the strands and T’Challa remembers the story behind each of the one N’Jadaka had chosen to wear.
Especially the violet bead encrusted with silver that formed his mark, a symbol that signifies N’Jadaka as the soulmate of Wakanda’s King, as his soulmate.
A wet hand touched his cheek and he didn’t have to look at it to know it is covered in blood but he isn’t able to support its position there because his own hands are busy keeping pressure on the wound and supporting N’Jadaka’s body against his own.
He silently weeps at the resigned look in his mate’s eyes, the awareness of the inevitable shining through the haze of pain.
“I love you.”
The words tear at him, hurting him more than anything ever had in his whole life. Words of endearment are rarely said between them, neither needing to verbally say it since their own action speaks louder than the words that went unspoken but whenever it was said, it rang true and resonate deep within their shared bond.
“I too. I love you. I love you, Ubambo lwami. So please, stay with me.”
T’Challa begged him because he doesn’t think he would be able to survive it if he loose N’Jadaka so soon after losing his own mother. He will not survive the heartbreak of losing his other half, not like this.
Not when it is his own fault.
N’Jadaka gurgled, his chuckle mixing with the blood in his throat and he smiled a bloody smile as his hand slipped away along with his fleeting strength, leaving behind a red handprint on T’Challa cheeks.
T’Challa’s anguished keen are swallowed by the sound of the jet’s engine.