A/N - Considering I came out of Civil War with T'Challa as one of my new favourite Marvel characters, I guess I had to write for him eventually. Hopefully I haven't done too badly. As always, I hope you enjoy this :)
It had taken until three in the morning for T'Challa to accept that he would not fall asleep that night. Had the peaceful silence of the palace and the rhythmic ticking of his watch been enough to lull him to rest he knew that he would have drifted off already, but despite his exhaustion, his mind refused to quieten. He clenched his eyes shut in one final attempt to grab some sleep before sighing and lifting his legs off the bed.
His first months as king had been a long trek. Though it was rewarding to know that he was trusted and accepted by his people, settling into his role had occasionally been draining. This had, in part, been due to having to deal with the lengthy aftermath of the events following the bombing of Vienna and his continuing efforts to return Wakanda to its secure, secretive state rather than a country with the eyes of the world upon it.
Acting as a guardian for the rogue Avengers had been the least of his concerns; most of them were non-demanding and merely grateful to have a safe place to stay as opposed to cold cells. Natasha had started enthusiastically training with the Dora Milaje, grateful for the tough challenge, and Sam had fallen in love with the vibrancy of the local city. He hadn't seen much of Steve as the man was away on secret missions more often than not, although he'd promised to return soon as Bucky had recently been awoken from cryo.
As much as T'Challa wished that his doctors had found a miracle cure for the triggers in Bucky's mind, his awakening had been ordered due to a mechanical failure of the cryo tube. T'Challa could still remember the disappointment in the man's eyes when he'd been told this, as well as his initial panic upon waking, where he'd thought he was still in the clutches of his old handlers. It had only been when he'd heard T'Challa's promise that no harm would come to him that he'd been able to stop thrashing and slip into a light doze while the remaining effects of the ice wore off.
That had been a week ago. Between then and now, T'Challa had been caught up in meetings and official visits to the point where he'd only been able to see Bucky once or twice. Sam had spent more time with him, and had assured T'Challa that the man was fine (as well as a pain in his ass with a habit of cheating in poker matches) but seemed to have placed himself on a self-imposed exile if Sam's attempts to show Bucky around the city were any indication.
If T'Challa had any free time in the foreseeable future then he supposed he could extend an invitation to show the old soldier around the city on the promise that he'd be able to step in if there was a chance anyone could come to harm, although he sincerely hoped that that would not be the case. He had made a promise to Bucky that he would be safe here and he intended to keep it.
Free time seemed like a distant dream for now, however. He was still settling into his duties as king, and despite lifelong preparation, each day he realised that there was so much more to learn. Between a stubborn fear of failure and growing concerns over a small faction of his trusted advisors who disapproved of him harbouring American fugitives, his sleep had been restless of late, and that was when he was lucky enough to get any at all.
Accepting that he would likely not get much in the way of rest tonight, he stood up off the bed and stretched before changing out of his bedclothes and into some casualwear. The palace would be quiet at this hour while its many occupants slept; he could wander around as he pleased without fear of bumping into anyone.
He had always loved wandering around the palace at night. During the day, the corridors were constantly filled with noise and people, while the bustle of the outside world permeated the air like smoke. Such liveliness was pleasant in its own way, but as a child he had always loved the freedom of crawling out of bed in the dead of night and roaming the empty halls with his every step echoing through the large spaces. His father had disapproved whenever he'd found his son wandering by himself at night, though only mildly, as it was likely that he too had indulged in the same activities as a boy. He would give his son a stern talking-to about waking up everyone in the palace, before letting the façade drop and laughing while he and T'Challa raced each other back to the bed-chambers.
In spite of his raw grief, T'Challa found that it was easy to smile as these memories returned to him. He had been lucky, he knew, to see the warm father that T'Chaka had become along with the great king he had been to so many others. If he ever became half the man his father was, T'Challa knew that he could be proud.
His wanderings took him to the one room he must have spent most his teenage years; the library. The room had always seemed grand yet intimate; the vast space was filled floor-to-ceiling with books written in a multitude of languages, and any attempt at organisation had floundered years before. In spite of the impressive technological adaptations other areas of the palace had received over time, this room had remained relatively quaint; T'Challa could almost pretend that he was still a thirteen-year-old prince seeking a quiet retreat from his duties. In the past, he would gather a small pile of books and sit by the large, circular window in the centre of the room, and when he found he could no longer take in the words he would look out to the forests beyond and the impressive black statues that guarded his home.
His space was occupied tonight, he found. It did not surprise him all that much to find Bucky sitting curled up by the window, his face turned so that he was looking out at the moonlit surroundings. T'Challa doubted the man had even noticed his arrival, and sure enough, when one of the floorboards creaked beneath his foot, the man jumped and turned in what looked like a defensive stance.
"What're you doing here?" Bucky muttered before the identity of his intruder had time to sink in, and T'Challa saw any apprehension melt into sheepishness in the space between heartbeats.
"It's my palace," he replied jokingly, and Bucky huffed a laugh before turning to look out the window again. T'Challa wandered over and took a seat of his own, glancing over at the other man while he did so. It struck him that this was as peaceful as he had ever seen the American; the moonlight painted a softness on his features that seemed to erase the trials of his hundred years. He thought of his wish to help the man find peace and hoped that this was a sign that he was succeeding. "What brings you here so late?"
Bucky turned to face him slowly, as if he hadn't expected the king to address him further, before shrugging. "I couldn't sleep," he said, the words soft as if he feared that someone besides T'Challa would hear him. The king half-expected him to leave it at that, considering it was an excuse they both shared, but after a few moments he spoke up again. "Every time I close my eyes, I see someone else."
T'Challa did not need to ask to know what he meant. He'd heard enough of the Winter Soldier's past to know of the nightmares that such an experience must carry with it. He also knew that the blame for such atrocities did not lie with the man before him.
"What happened to you is not your fault," he said, hoping the other man would believe him; though the small, sad smile that his words elicited in Bucky suggested that it had not been the first time he had heard those words.
"I know," he responded with a heavy sigh. T'Challa could see that despite the softness of the moonlight on the other man's features, his eyes betrayed a deep weariness. "That doesn't stop me from seeing their faces though."
T'Challa did not know how to respond. He remembered with shame the intensity of his rage following his father's death; a hatred aimed solely at the man before him and an unwillingness to listen to reason until it was almost too late. His regret at his actions in the immediate aftermath of the bombing still tore at him on occasion in spite of his efforts to help the man he'd once been so desperate to hurt.
He could only imagine the regret that Bucky must feel for those who'd died at the hands of the Winter Soldier. The knowledge that he hadn't done so of his own volition couldn't erase that those horrific things had happened and that they existed in his memory, and T'Challa knew there was little he could say to make anything about that better, so he settled for saying nothing at all.
Silence washed over them for a long while. T'Challa watched as the moon started to descend in the sky, signifying the coming dawn. At some point, he noticed that Bucky had closed his eyes and rested his head against the cool glass of the window, although he doubted that the man was asleep.
T'Challa welcomed the peace. As much as he would do anything to protect his people and fulfil the duties that were expected of him as King, amid all the politics and demands, he had missed the ability to simply slip away from the world and rest. Sleep did not come by him easily no matter how tired he became, but he found that simply sitting in silence in the room which held many beloved memories from his youth was enough.
"I too dream," he said eventually, when a thin line of sunlight started to creep over the horizon. The admission was one he'd almost intended just for himself, but he could see Bucky open his eyes and look over to him. "I dream of the moments where I could not save my father. The memory repeats itself every night, so much so I can remember every detail."
He could see the scene now. The activity surrounding the van; his intuition that something terrible was about to happen; his frantic yell for everyone to get down followed by the sheer force of the blast throwing him across the room. He could feel the impact of landing and taste the ash in his mouth; could feel tears tracking through the grime on his face when his father did not awaken despite his pleas.
"I'm sorry for what happened to him," Bucky said, and one look at him showed that the sincerity in his voice was genuine.
"Thank you," T'Challa replied with a small smile. In the weeks following his father's death, he'd started to grow weary of the constant flow of apologies from everyone he met. He did not mind it so much here though.
As he looked out the window, seeing the sprawling forests and imposing black panthers, and the stars which were beginning to fade to make way for sunlight, a memory came back to him which, without having to think about it, he started to share.
"When my father was a young man, he loved to run. He would set off from the palace at dawn so that he could run for miles through the fields before the sun was at its highest. Some days, when I was a child, he would take me with him as a way of showing me the more beautiful parts of our home. Wakanda became very advanced during his reign, and he was proud of that, but I think his favourite places were always those fields."
Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Bucky had turned towards him, but he didn't meet his gaze. Instead he remained fixated on the world outside his window, just as he'd done when he was a boy trying to forget his responsibilities.
"My father was fast. He could outrun most men who challenged him, even as he started to grow older. My trainer used to joke that the main reason I excelled was because I shared my father's blood, and that we must truly be part-cat. And yet, whenever we raced he would always let me win."
Retelling this story helped to paint the memories vividly in his head, so much so that he could almost feel the wind brushing against his face as he ran and hear his boyish laughter pierce the air. He knew he would give anything to go back to those simpler times now, even if only for a short while.
"I like to think he is still running," he continued, barely aware of the other man's presence anymore. "He always believed that after he died, he would join my mother and they would run together through the green veld for eternity. My father's beliefs were always stronger than my own, but now I find myself hoping that he was right."
T'Challa took a deep breath and closed his eyes. It was almost dawn; the palace would be waking soon and his presence would be expected soon enough, but he was almost tempted to stay in this quiet space that seemed so separate from the liveliness of the rest of his home. It was no surprise that both he and Bucky had come here to seek some form of solace. It was easy to forget that the world kept on turning when the library seemed so timeless.
"Your father sounds like a good man." T'Challa opened his eyes to face Bucky, who appeared to have been listening intently to his every word. The soft light drifting through the window seemed to have removed ten years from the other man's face. "I wish I'd known him."
"In a perfect world, you would have," T'Challa replied, managing a small smile which the other man shared. "I only hope that I can make him proud."
"You will," Bucky said with such certainty that T'Challa almost let himself believe him. "You're a great man, T'Challa."
The king smiled bashfully, not having the energy to argue. He was not a great man, not yet, but he hoped that one day he could be. All he could do until then was continue to do what he believed was right and put the needs of his people before his own, as his father had done before him, while also forging his own path.
It did not seem long before the buzz of activity elsewhere in the palace started to invade their shared silence and he could hear the ringing of bells from the nearby city signifying the beginning of a new day. T'Challa could feel his lack of sleep start to catch up with him, but he knew that any hope of rest would have to be put on hold for now. With as much dignity as he could muster, he rose to his feet and gently squeezed Bucky's shoulder in a silent farewell as he passed him.
He hoped it would not be long before they spoke again. In spite of their awkward beginnings, he found himself enjoying Bucky's company, even if only as someone with which to share a silence.
For now, though, his time of peace was over. He had a country to protect after all.