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T'Challa loosened his tie as the elevator climbed to the designated floor. A soft chime signaled its arrival and the doors quietly slid open. He lifted his head, eyes narrowing at the stiff stance and pinched expressions of the Dora Milaje he left to look after their guest. They were stationed outside of the lab where he and James Buchanan Barnes occasionally discussed the creation of a new vibranium arm. Today was supposed to be the first fitting of the prototype, but from the looks of things, something went amiss.
"Something happened." It was neither an accusation nor a question. It was a statement and he wanted an explanation.
The shorter of the duo took a short step forward, meeting her King's stare. "Our guest had..." She floundered, searching for the proper word to describe what happened inside the lab. "A panic attack."
T'Challa sighed softly, idly twisting the ring on his right finger. "Was anyone injured?"
"There might be some bruising," the second woman spoke. “A few of our doctors and assistants tried to run and fell into their equipment. Barnes attacked no one and just fled."
T'Challa nodded at the woman still closest to the door. "Sorry to ask this of you, but can you make sure no one has any serious injuries. I’ll send someone else up to take stock of anything that may need replacing.” After receiving an affirmative nod, T’Challa turned to the woman closest to him. "Where's Teela?" The leader of the Midnight Angels would definitely know Barnes's location.
"I'll take you to her, sire."
T'Challa offered her a small smile and led the way back to the elevator.
-x-x-
James doesn't want to be found—is what Shuri told him.
T'Challa wasn’t surprised to receive the message directly from his sister. She had been more forgiving than himself upon her first meeting with Barnes, and practically welcomed him with open arms after he woke from his stasis sleep. Of course the former assassin was wary of the woman, but that feeling turned to an amicable partnership.
When the silence stretched on between them, T’Challa realized that was the only thing she had to say on the matter. He ran a hand over his head, down the back of his neck, and sighed softly, “Well then, advocate of Barnes—” Shuri’s lips quirked into a faint and amused smirk. “Tell him I'll be waiting for him to join me for dinner. I'm quite hungry and I don't want to wait too long. You’re welcome to join us as well."
T’Challa only noticed because he knew his sister well. Her no-nonsense expression remained, but her eyes had softened. “Maybe you and I should enjoy that dinner together,” Shuri suggested. “Tell them to leave a plate for James.”
“As you wish.” T’Challa bowed his head, lifting it with a smile. “Shall we use this time to catch up?”
Shuri’s eyes narrowed and her hands on her hips told the King he was in for an earful. “How about we catch up on all the training you promised me?”
“I thought Teela was taking care of that.”
“She is, but you made a promise—”
“One that I fully intend to keep, once things have calmed down.”
The debate continued as the siblings headed into the palace.
T’Challa walked into the kitchen the following morning to find a steaming mug of coffee and one Bucky Barnes waiting for him, seated three chairs away from the coffee’s current position.
“Thanks for the invitation,” the former Soldier muttered, staring down at the table’s pristine surface.
“I trust Shuri’s judgement and she seems to trust you. You’re more than welcome to all the time that you need, James.” T’Challa lifted the mug, holding it carefully, but not taking a sip. “I was also a little too drained from yesterday’s meeting to spar with her in front of the palace if I had argued.” His guest let out a soft huff that T’Challa took to mean he was laughing. He took a sip of the coffee and hummed in approval. “Why haven’t you made this before?”
Bucky tilted his head, partially hidden behind long, unruly locks. He met the King’s eye for a second before quickly looking away. “’s my ‘apology’ coffee.”
T’Challa set the mug back down atop the table, pulled out the chair closest to Barnes, and gracefully settled into it. The other man tensed, shifting away subtly, but T’Challa was grateful he didn’t bolt. “You have nothing to apologize for, James.”
“The lab—”
“The only thing bruised was their pride—I’m sure. If I know them, they’ll probably try even harder to be more accommodating.” There was no left hand to take and Barnes kept his right hand clenched into a tight fist against the outside of his thigh, putting it out of T’Challa’s reach. He didn’t want to spook the man any more than he already had and leaned back, putting some distance between them. “How about I make an ‘apology breakfast’ to go with the ‘apology coffee’?”
Bucky’s eyes widened, but not out of shock. Over the year spent accompanying Barnes after he was released from his stasis, T’Challa knew what that look meant.
“Your Highness can cook? I thought your food was delivered on a golden platter, to your apartment-sized bedroom with the million-thread count sheets—” Bucky grinned as T’Challa rose from the chair and reclaimed his coffee mug. “Are you mad?”
“Thank you for sharing your feelings about my upbringing, Barnes, and no, I’m not mad. Do you think this kitchen is just for decoration?”
Bucky took an exaggerated look around the kitchen’s expanse. Chrome, with hues of gray and black. He opened his mouth, but the King beat him to it.
“It’s not,” T’Challa interrupted. “The Dora Milaje were not trained to be the wives you’re probably familiar with.” Bucky shook his head in agreement. He had seen the King’s “wives” in action. “There’s no one in this kitchen but you and I right now. Who else would make us breakfast?”
Bucky sifted through the jumbled images that were his memory and slowly realized that this was the first time the two of them were together for breakfast. Usually the King of Wakanda was already out and about, be it supervising his country in person or through the windows of his office. Other than that, they met when T’Challa had time to discuss his replacement arm. Dinner was as rare as breakfast, but more likely to happen. He eased the chair away from the table and stood. “I can make breakfast. Who d’you think kept Stevie so well fed?”
T’Challa gave him an appraising onceover before lifting a shoulder in a shrug. “You might have to make some more of this coffee to go with breakfast.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” A mock bow accompanied the three, snarky words.
T’Challa gave in and rolled his eyes at his guest’s cheekiness, but was glad for this side of the soldier than the blank stares and monosyllabic responses he got on most days. Leaning against the opposite end of the counter—hopefully out of Barnes’s way, T’Challa watched as Bucky made his way to the sink. He lowered the mug from his lips when he realized therein lay the first problem. Placing the container down, he walked over and started the water running. Barnes looked at him before averting his gaze to the sudsy hands, palm up and waiting for his.
Bucky took his bottom lip between his teeth, lifting his hand to place it in T’Challa’s. He screwed his eyes shut and bit down harder when the helping hands ran over his fingers in a thorough attempt to clean them.
“Try not to dwell on the past, James.”
I remember all of them. Bucky released his lip with a frustrated groan, his fingers curling around T’Challa’s, the warm water washing away the soap suds.
“Sorry. I believe that was the wrong thing to say.” T’Challa stared at the pale fingers sandwiched between his dark hands. “Think of the future. You’re giving me ideas for new advancements in our country. I obviously need to create sinks that will help one-armed veterans wash their hands.”
Bucky tipped his head back with a sharp laugh and eased his hand out of T’Challa’s grasp. He flicked water in the other’s direction before picking up the nearby hand towel. T’Challa’s hands returned to assist, but also to steal the towel away. “Let’s get ready to cook, King Highness!”
-x-x-
It took almost two hours for breakfast to be completed (“I think it’s ‘brunch’ now,” Bucky muttered as he dropped into a chair.) and T’Challa would admit, only to himself, that he’d never felt this relaxed in years. There was a soft voice in the back of his mind that told him this moment wouldn’t last.
At the end of the meal, Bucky pushed his empty coffee mug away, letting his right hand travel up to his left shoulder. T’Challa grew more alert, wondering if this was the “bad” to his former “good”. T’Challa and his scientists managed to construct a program similar to Tony Stark’s “Binarily Augmented Retro Framing” after the self-proclaimed billionaire philanthropist reluctantly gave them the barest of blueprints
“Are you in pain?”
Bucky’s lips twisted into a sneer. “That’s a loaded question.” His fingers dug into the scarred flesh and T’Challa made no move to stop him. This was the reason why Shuri chose to be Barnes’s advocate; she foresaw him coming around on his own. One day was a pretty fast turnaround rate for someone so guarded—so heavily shrouded in guilt—as Barnes. Bucky slid his hand over the cap that covered the end of his stub of an arm, clutching at air, at an invisible limb.
“I was back in the chair,” he whispered. “When the doctors tried to fit me with the new arm. And I, I panicked. I wasn’t strapped in, which was a surprise. ‘s why I escaped.” Bucky smiled, dropping his hand into his lap. “The prototype was strong. I used it to knock out a window and jumped out just as your bodyguards made it into the lab.”
“I won’t pressure you and say you need the replacement, but it will be very useful in your daily life.” T’Challa leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “And the Captain will be very glad to see you moving forward in your recovery.”
“Steve…” Bucky trailed off, his eyes darting back and forth as he tried to organize his thoughts. “I’m Bucky, but not the Bucky he—”
“Barnes,” T’Challa sighed, sounding bored with the conversation sudden change of direction. “Need I remind you of the fiasco the Captain caused in order to prove your innocence? You’re the only ‘Bucky’ he knows and would obviously break laws for. Children and their temper tantrums.”
Bucky snorted, tucking his hair behind his ear to better see the man at the head of the table. The King of Wakanda frowned as he recalled the events of the so-called “civil war”, but Bucky saw it as a petulant child pouting. Sometimes he woke up in the familiar, but still unfamiliar surroundings and wondered why someone as powerful as T’Challa would help someone as unworthy as him. Why would anyone care about a monster?
“James,” T’Challa warned. “I can hear your thoughts all the way over here. I already told you we’re looking to the future. If you want to prove your worth, please find the arm you threw out of the window.”
Bucky’s pinched expression slowly relaxed until he was smiling. “I used the arm to smash out the window. Should still be in the lab somewhere.” Bucky stood, hooking his thumb through the handle of his coffee mug. He collected T’Challa’s on his forefinger and took both to the sink.
“Leave them,” T’Challa said before the water could start running. “We’re going to the lab. I’ll fit you with the arm myself.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Condescending, yet teasing.
“Every time you say that…” T’Challa stared at the grinning man across the kitchen, expression pensive. Never once had Barnes addressed him or his sister by their names, as it should be unless given permission. “Call me T’Challa.”
Bucky’s eyes widened and his grin vanished. “I… I can’t.”
“Whether you can’t or you won’t—” T’Challa stood from his chair, making his way to the kitchen’s entrance. “You have permission to do so. I believe it will be a step up than having you sully my title every time you open your mouth.”
“’kay,” Bucky mumbled, combing his right hand through his unruly hair.
“No more dawdling, James. I expect you to be ready within an hour.”
Bucky followed after the man that left the kitchen with a regal grace. Teasing the King was more fun than teasing Steve—than when he used to tease Steve. Shaking his head, he caught up to T’Challa before they parted ways. “I’ll try to be ready within the hour, King Highness. Might be hard since I only have one arm, though.”
“Technicalities.” T’Challa threw an exasperated glance over his shoulder. “T’Challa,” he reminded his guest.
“Bucky.”
“Never.”
“Same here then, pal.”
T’Challa chuckled softly, “Forty-five minutes, Barnes.”
“What happened to the hour?” Bucky shouted, walking backwards to his hallway.
“Keep arguing and I’ll make it thirty minutes.”
Bucky lifted his hand and mimed zipping his lips. T’Challa looked away and Bucky spun around, both heading for their respective rooms.