His people are not happy.
Erik was foreign, and, to further enrich the flame, he was angry and warbound. Many don't care for the source of the anger, of his identity, of his drive for a war to end wars; they only saw the scars on his chest and the fire within his hands that would set the world aflame; they see a man that sought to steal and to destroy, and they do not understand why the king would wish to honor him.
Even his family, as understanding as they are, are puzzled when T'Challa announces a mourning period of three days. It is not required, and T'Challa himself will be too busy with affairs to make use of the period. But it's there nonetheless, and, when night falls, T'Challa takes to Warrior Falls with a bare chest and a head full of white noise.
"Explain somethin' to me", Erik questions several feet from where T'Challa sits cross-legged; the waterfalls surrounding them are a roaring orchestra of plopping, trickling, and splashing. Erik wades his through the water until all but his chin is submerged. He stares at T'Challa, whose eyes are protected by the thin skin of his lids, and pulls his lips back into a sneer. "How can you mourn someone you never even knew? Or better yet, someone you killed?"
"Last I checked, mourning has no restrictions", T'Challa retorts, his hands folded in his lap. His legs ache from having been seated for so long, but he can't move; it's as if he's been paralyzed by his inner turmoil, immobilized as he awaits a sort of cosmic relief from the guilt that's gnawing away at his conscience.
"You know, it's actually kind of funny." Erik materializes beside him, dripping water and blood into T'Challa's hair. "Your daddy dies, you take off to kill the guy who killed him. Only, oops, wrong dude. So you take the dude home, make him your pet, beat off to him when you think no one's looking-"
T'Challa grits his teeth. "He is not a pet, and I've never-"
"Ah, ah, ah." Erik chuckles and presses a finger to T'Challa's lips. "I wasn't finished." T'Challa says nothing, just breathes louder, so Erik gets louder. He presses his back to T'Challa's and leans until T'Challa's face is inches away from the water. "Now where was I? Oh, right. So you've found your pet; you're too much of a pussy to make a move, but you got him."
"Is this going somewhere?"
"And you're thinking that maybe life'll be normal again, be easy again. 'Til that mean, old cousin of yours, starring yours truly, showed up and made a mess of things again."
T'Challa growls, shoves him off his back, and swims to where the crashing falls meet calming waters; behind the waterfall, there sits a cave, and T'Challa seeks refuge here. But, of course, Erik merely follows him out, recalling their final battle with a grisly glee.
"Stabbety, stab, stab, stab", he sings, drawing circles around where his stomach is peeled and bleeding; there's pus coming from the wound, and it clings to his finger like a festering goo. He smiles and points it at T'Challa. "You know, mortal wounds are a bitch. But, man, I gotta tell you. Most guys are lucky. They get hit, they suffer for a few minutes, maybe some hours if they're not as lucky. But they're dead in a day, tops. Me." Erik poofs in front of T'Challa, walking backwards as he continues forward. "I been living with this shit for about a week now. And it sucks."
T'Challa pauses. His toes dig into the sand; his claws creep out, and his hands tremble at his sides. He forces himself to breathe, and he looks Erik square in the eye. Erik beams like a child on Christmas. The color in his cheeks is missing, and the whites in his eyes are a sickly grey. He looks happy.
He shouldn't look like anything.
"You brought this on yourself", T'Challa states, intent to ignore the wobbly syllables afflicting his words. "This did not have to happen. I offered you peace, and I would have been willing to offer you a home. I would have listened and attempted to help suffering communities. But we never got that far because of you. It is not my fault that you are gone!"
T'Challa blinks, and Erik's gone. He recoils, turning to scrutinize the cave with a panicked pulse. His fingers coming up to press into his neck, he gulps, closes his eyes, and rests his back against a wall. Said wall is wet and fluffy with moss. On any other day, he might have flinched and immediately recoiled. But on this day, he seeks comfort in the vegetation's presence; it's a comforting presence against his clammy skin. He finds himself pushing further into it, eager to escape the thick, hot air of the cave.
As he's thinking this, a hot hand falls upon his shoulder. He doesn't bother pushing it away.
Lips creep close to his ear. "You know", Erik muses, his voice bouncing from various corners of the room. "The Blame Game always was a favorite of mine. And I'll tell you what." With each spoken word, his voice grows fainter and fainter. But to T'Challa, the words couldn't be louder. "In all my years, I've never once lost."
. . .
The Dora are being strange.
To be fair, though, they've always been a little strange, and their behavior isn't so much weird as it is different; they're tiptoing around him, watching him with wary, knowing eyes. It's their job to be perceptive, his very life depends on it, but it's unnerving nonetheless. Before, they'd always been open, at ease, and cordial. As it stands, they've resumed that nature they possessed when he was a child, fond but distant. And the way they look at him. Why do they look at him in that way, as if they're waiting for him to unfurl at the seams?
"Spoiler alert: they think you're nuts", Erik pipes up beside him. They're in T'Challa's study, sitting in curt silence as T'Challa attempts to focus on the letter in his hands. It's a vain attempt, and, in all honesty, he hasn't taken in a single word since Erik appeared. But it gives him something to focus on, and he's in dire need of focus, of direction, of something stable and certain.
"And why would they think that", T'Challa questions, dragging a finger along the top of the paper; his finger slices upon impact, but he can't find it himself to do more than smear the ensuing droplet of blood against the blank side.
"I'm just hazarding a guess here", he says with a nod to the Dora at the front of the study. "But it could be because you're talking to yourself."
He presses his fingers into his temple. From his spot on his loveseat, Erik smirks and cocks his head to the side. "Oh. Am I upsetting the precious, little kitty?"
"I'd gladly appreciate it if you refrained from calling me that."
"And I'd gladly appreciate it if you removed that stick from up your ass."
T'Challa inhales, forcing the rising Panther in his chest to settle. He rubs a hand up and down his neck and wills himself to focus on the blurry words evading him. It's an invitation from Steve, wishing for him to join their teammates at a Christmas mixer.
It is the Christmas season, isn't it?
"Wow, nothing gets past you, huh?" Erik materializes behind his chair, and T'Challa jumps, knocking over his glass of water. The Dora turn around, tightening their grip on their spears, and glance around the room. With a calming hand from T'Challa, they relax and turn back to their post.
They're still watching him.
T'Challa inhales.
"Everyone's gonna be there", Erik says, snatching the paper from his hands. He trails a finger along its length, leaving splotches of blood and peeling, grey skin in its wake. "I mean, I'm assuming. Not sure about that Stark guy; he and Stars still kicking up dust, or they finally get around to picking out curtains?"
"Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers", T'Challa states as he watches the soiled paper with troubled eyes. "Are talking to one another again. I'm not sure if they're together, but Stark has accepted and will be hosting the mixer in his home in New York. From what Ms. Romanoff has told me, they have met several times for lunch; Rogers is supposed to be assisting him with preparing for the mixer."
"Hm." Placing the paper back on the desk, Erik tosses one leg over the other and nods. "They're fucking each other."
"Definitely." T'Challa smiles, his first one in days. He pulls the letter back across the desk and smooths it out. The stains won't disappear, but there's no worry for wrinkles. He slips the letter into one of his drawers and turns to look out the window. Whereas the Christmas season is setting upon the West, Wakanda has not yet begun its celebrations. Nevertheless, it's easy to see touch of the festive season. There are people dressed in white, and the shops are selling materials for shammas and fringes.
It's strange that such a lively holiday could come so close without his knowing. Even in recent years, when times have been hectic and somewhat chaotic, he's never forgotten Christmas.
"Hm." Erik tiptoes his fingers down the back of T'Challa's neck and smirks. "What's got you so forgetful, cuz?"
He swats his hand away and scowls. "Nothing", he murmurs to himself. "I just have a lot of thoughts on my mind."
Erik wiggles his eyebrows. "Would Mr. Barnes", he asks in a snotty voice. "Be amongst those thoughts?"
T'Challa glares and rises to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor in the process. The Dora turn around once more, but T'Challa dismisses them with a curt, "I'm fine". Leaving without further word, he then pushes open the doors of his study and prepares to walk to his room. Before he can, though, he's taken aback by the sight of James standing on the other side of the door, his hand raised as if to knock. T'Challa takes a step back, and James does the same.
Erik stands at T'Challa's side, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
"James", T'Challa breathes. He coughs into his fist, then tries again. "James. I, um, what are you-what are you doing here?"
"Smooth."
"I got this letter from Steve", James says through a yawn. He rubs his knuckle into his eye, then sleepily blinks up at T'Challa. T'Challa suppresses a smile. "Something about a Christmas party", James continues, and he passes the note to T'Challa.
T'Challa accepts it gingerly, biting his lip as their fingers briefly make contact. "Yes, I received one as well."
"You know." Erik leans on his shoulder and shakes his head in disapproval. "You're never gonna get in his pants if you keep acting like you've got a stick up your ass."
"Right. Well." James scratches the scruff underneath his chin and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "I mean, are you going?" When all he gets is a pair of raised eyebrows, he lets loose a breath of a laugh and looks to the floor. "I know you and Steve ain't exactly get off on the right foot. And you're kinda new, so I wasn't sure if you was really in with the others and…"
T'Challa blinks. He opens his mouth to say something, then, deciding against it, closes it. When he's finally found the words, it seems minutes have passed. James has begun to squirm underneath the prolonged silence, and T'Challa finds him flustered as he stutters out, "Are you-are you worried about Tony?"
James looks away and crosses his arms over his chest. His hair's fallen in his eyes, and his shoulders are drawn in. "That obvious, huh?"
"So transparent it's see-through", Erik tuts; he slides down to the floor, pressing his back against T'Challa's leg. T'Challa pushes him away, and James pretends not to notice.
"He and Steve have made amends", T'Challa eventually says. "I think you'll be safe."
"Yeah but it ain't safety I'm worried about."
T'Challa stares, not understanding for a moment, before it dawns upon him. Safety likely hasn't been of this man's concern in decades. And, given his abilities, not so much in recent years either. Now that he's regained control of his mind, though, there's room for thought beyond strategy and efficiency. There's room for worry, for desire ("nasty little kitty"), for remorse, and, apparently, insecurity.
"Steve has relayed your recovery to the rest of the team", T'Challa says, and he's speaking too fast. "Now that they're certain you're you again, I'm sure they'd be welcome to having you around."
James scoffs. He still won't look at him. "Right. I'm sure they'd love to have a homicidal maniac at their little bubble party."
T'Challa falters. "They have their Hulk." James remains silent. "And the rest of them aren't of an entirely innocent background."
"Hm." Erik digs his nails into his palm, laughing as his flesh peels away. He flicks it onto T'Challa's shirt before turning back to his feverish skin. "Sound like anybody else we know?"
"I'm sure they'd like to get to know you", T'Challa continues. His face is warm. "You're a good man. This could be your chance to show them that."
There's a rustling in the air. Beyond the windows a few meters down from them, the Kenya-cedar trees are slamming against the side of the Palace, their leaves whooshing like sails in a raging storm. It's comforting, a well-appreciated distraction from the frequent pauses that impregnate their conversation and the parasite clinging to his leg.
This pause is shorter than the last. The wind drowns out as James looks up and stares at him with barely concealed hope in his eyes. "I'm not really good with people", James says. "Steve says old me was, but, uh, that's not me anymore. I get around groups, and I just clam up. Can you imagine what I'd be like around some people I tried to killed?"
T'Challa smiles. "I'm around you." Slipping his hands into his pockets, he takes in the wide set of James's eyes and gulps. "I'm new to the group myself", he says. "I'm not too keen on going either, but maybe we could go together."
James smiles, and that last bit of sleepiness in his eyes fades away. "You'd really be okay with that?"
"Yeah. I, uh, well, we're friends, aren't we?"
"Yeah, yeah, right." James ducks his head and grips his forearm. When he looks back up, it's to brush his air out of his face and take a step back. "Friends", he repeats, like it's an inconceivable concept. He smiles to himself. "Well, I should get going. You've probably got a lot of kingly stuff to do."
"Kingly. Uh, yeah." T'Challa pulls his arms behind his back and takes a step back as well. "That I do. And I'm sure you have your own things to do. Like your goats and-and things."
"Exactly", James laughs awkwardly and continues stepping away. "I should be getting back to them. They don't like it when I'm gone too long so. Yeah, well, bye."
"Bye, James." T'Challa turns around and quickly turns at the nearest corner. Leaning against a statue of Bast, he places his hands on either side of his head and groans. Erik pops up beside him and shakes his head.
"Well", he says, folding his arms over his chest. "That was absolutely horrendous. You know, I've seen your sister flirting with a cactus before, and she had better game than that."
T'Challa snarls and slices a clawed hand through the air. But that's all the hand meets, air, because Erik has gone and left T'Challa alone.
He gulps, blinks, and staggers off of the statue. Jagged pieces of breath expel from his chest like a wounded engine, and dark, teasing spots flicker across his field of vision. Brushing a trembling hand over his face, T'Challa huffs and leaves for a walk around the Palace.
Somehow, it's not nearly as comforting as it should be.