Chapter Text
“T’alla?” The whisper of his name, mangled though it is by a toddler’s tongue, draws T’Challa quickly from his light doze. He blinks in the bright beam of light piercing his dark bedroom; light, he realizes, that is escaping from the door, which is standing open.
“Anthony,” he murmurs, sleep rough, and sits up to regard the small figure outlined in the doorway. “Is something wrong?”
The toddler shuffles his feet but does not move further into the room. T’Challa wishes he could see his expression, but Anthony’s face is cast into shadow by the light of the hallway. “Where is Okoye,” he tries again. T’Challa hadn’t left the most important man in his life unguarded, but here Anthony is, wandering freely.
His half-formed fear and irritation is immediately assuaged by a soft, “Here, your majesty.” Okoye steps into view behind Anthony and bows shallowly. “He woke alarmed,” she continues in Wakandan. “A nightmare, I believe. He wanted to see you. I apologize for disturbing-”
T’Challa waves her apologies away and turns his attention towards her silent charge. “Come here, Anthony,” he says quietly, and the boy flings himself across the floor. It’s a marked change from when Anthony arrived a week and a half ago, shivering and flinching from every touch, no matter how gentle. T’Challa slips to his knees next to the bed just in time to catch him. Anthony is shaking, he realizes abruptly, shuddering with the force of the tears that soon soak the shoulder of T'Challa's shirt.
“I-I,” his voice shakes with sobs, “I had a ba-a-ad d-dream. C-can I sleep with you?”
T’Challa presses a kiss to the top of Anthony’s head and closes his eyes. At least Anthony trusts him with this, now. “Of course, mabhebeza.” Anthony is still shaking, so T’Challa pulls the boy closer and runs a hand down his back. He’s far too skilled at comforting Anthony through nightmares, although the ability to easily scoop the boy up and set him on the bed, as he does now, is new.
When T’Challa sits down on the bed next to Anthony, the boy scrambles up onto his lap and latches onto his shirt. Carefully, T’Challa maneuvers them both to lay propped on the pillows, Anthony on his chest. T’Challa can feel the boy’s breath shuddering, although the tears have stopped, and he strokes Anthony’s back and whispers comfort until he falls still.
The room falls into silence, Okoye having long since departed, broken only by the occasional hitch in Anthony’s breath. T’Challa cards his other hand through Anthony’s soft hair and asks, “can you tell me what you dreamt of?”
Anthony remains silent for a moment, but T’Challa is patient. “I was- I was stuck in metal, all of me, and I couldn’ move my hands or feet or anything and it was really cold.” T’Challa has a sinking feeling that he recognizes this particular nightmare - damn wormhole - but he’s surprised as Anthony turns his face into T’Challa’s shirt and continues, muffled, “and there was a man.” He stops, breath hitching, and T’Challa pulls him closer.
“A man?” he prompts, gently encouraging. Anthony nods against his chest.
“Y-yeah. He was big an’ strong an’ he-” Anthony’s voice drops to a whisper, “an’ he looked like Cap’n ‘Merica, but he couldn’ be, ‘cause he was hittin’ me, an’ I know Cap’n ‘Merica doesn’t hit little kids ‘cause he’s better than daddy, better than anyone. ”
“Oh, mabhebeza.” Emotion tightens T’Challa’s throat for a moment. In lieu of words, he pulls Anthony closer. “It was just a dream, Anthony.” A lie, and it hurts. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, ever. You are safe with me.” This is the unadulterated truth.
Anthony sighs and tucks his head into the crook of T’Challa’s neck. “He was so mad,” he mumbles, already half-asleep.
T’Challa nods, silent, and cards his fingers through Anthony’s hair until the boy’s eyes flutter shut and his breathing evens. T’Challa stares up at the ceiling and does not sleep.
They are eating breakfast three days later when one of the Dora Milaje steps up to their table. T’Challa encourages Anthony to finish his enthusiastic re-telling of yesterday’s foray into the jungle with Shuri before he turns to the woman. “ Yes, Khuthala?”
Khuthala bows shallowly before delivering her news. “Steve Rogers is here to see you, majesty.”
T’Challa tenses just as he feels Anthony’s excited fidgeting halt next to him. “Wha’d she say?” Anthony asks quietly, but the slight tremble in his voice reveals that he recognizes the name.
T’Challa curses internally and dismisses Khuthala externally before he turns towards Anthony. “An… acquaintance of mine is here to see me.”
“Steve Rogers?” Anthony is still so quiet, his gaze directed at the napkin he’s fiddling with. When T’Challa doesn't respond immediately, Anthony looks up, fear raging with excitement and confusion in his eyes. “Cap’n America?”
Slowly, T’Challa nods. “Yes. Captain America.”
“Oh.” Anthony looks down again. Then, “can I- can I meet him?”
When T’Challa hesitates, Anthony meets his gaze. Under those imploring amber eyes, T’Challa crumbles. “Of course, Anthony.”
Rogers is pacing back and forth in front of the bay windows when T’Challa steps into the antechamber where they are waiting. Sam Wilson is perched on one of the couches, a curled line of anxiety. The Widow, beside him, is sprawled on the couch in a move designed to appear relaxed, but T’Challa frowns to see the knife she cleans her nails with.
He goes to address them, but Rogers sees him first and starts towards him. “T’Challa, I’m sorry to bother you, but we need your help.”
T’Challa regards him, unimpressed. “Even after I hosted you for half a year and still guard Barnes from your government’s persistent and growing interest?” It is harsh, but T’Challa does not feel inclined to extend even more generosity to this man. Rogers looks sufficiently abashed, and T’Challa sighs. He might as well learn what drew these people to Wakanda once more. “What do you need?”
Rogers rubs at the back of his neck. “We’re having a little difficulty getting into Latveria, and we were wondering if you might be able to pull a few strings to-” He stops abruptly, his hand dropping as he stares, wide-eyed, at the doorway. T’Challa glances back to see Anthony lurking there, one tiny hand clasped around the doorframe as he peers in.
“Who is that?” Rogers asks, but he’s gone pale; he already knows.
Ignoring him, T’Challa holds a hand out to Anthony. “Come in, Anthony,” he encourages gently, and someone sucks in a sharp breath of surprise behind him.
Slowly, Anthony edges into the room, his eyes fixed on Rogers, before he dashes the last few feet to T’Challa and grabs his hand. “Hello,” he says, quiet.
Rogers seems frozen into place, but Sam Wilson steps forward, an easy smile on his face. “Hey, Anthony. My name’s Sam. How are you doing?” The question seems innocent, but he flashes a glance at T’Challa, who glowers at the implication that he would ever even consider the idea of harming any child, let alone Anthony.
Anthony shuffles his feet as he peers up at Wilson, uncharacteristically shy. “Pretty good.”
Wilson grins, apparently genuine. “Good! I’m doing alright, but, wow, it’s hot here!”
“I’m used to it,” Anthony informs him, a little proudly. “Plus there’s a pool!” Wilson’s face lights up at that, and he enthuses about the pool - “two, ach’ally! Inside and outside!” - with Anthony as the boy slowly relaxes. T’Challa’s distracted from the conversation by a presence next to him, and he turns to see Romanoff regarding the interaction.
“How did this happen?” she asks, quiet.
T’Challa hesitates for just a moment before admitting, just as lowly, “we are not certain. He was called in to investigate rumors of AIM activity. It was intended to be simple reconnaissance of one of their supposed bases, but his suit went offline and we could no longer contact him. Two weeks later, your former director Fury showed up in Wakanda with Anthony in the condition he is in now.” They turn to look at the boy in unison and fall into silence as they watch him gesticulating to Wilson.
“Do you know how to fix it?”
“No.” T’Challa can’t resist the urge to rub at his temples. “My scientists have never seen anything like it before, and Dr. Strange says it is no magic that he is familiar with. We are working on finding a cure, of course, but in the meantime…”
“You’re taking care of him?” When T’Challa nods, Romanoff turns to look at him speculatively. “Why did Fury come to you first?”
Before T’Challa has the opportunity to come up with an answer, Rogers clears his throat. “Tony?” He steps towards Anthony, and T’Challa watches with narrowed eyes. “Do you know who I am?”
Anthony flicks his gaze at Rogers, drops it to the ground. “You’re Cap’n America,” he mumbles. T’Challa spies the way he twists his hands nervously in front of him and takes a few steps forward to stand behind the boy. Encouraged, perhaps, by T’Challa at his back, Anthony continues a little louder, “my daddy helped to make you big and strong. But then you got frozen, so I dunno if you’re ach’ally…” He trails off, looks back at T’Challa for support.
“I am Captain America,” Rogers assures before T’Challa can do more than open his mouth. “People found me and… unfroze me.”
Anthony frowns. “My daddy found you?”
“Uh, no.” Rogers looks almost helpless as he rubs at the back of his neck. “It was almost by accident, actually.”
“Oh.” Anthony looked back down at the floor and seemed to think about it for a moment before he brightened and turned towards T’Challa with a grin. “My daddy doesn’ have to go on ex’pidshions anymore! He can help me build stuff! Then he’ll be proud of me!”
Wilson inhales sharply, but T’Challa has eyes only for the exuberant boy before him as he swallows back a lump in his throat and smiles back. “Yes, Anthony. I’m sure he will be.”
When he looks up, Rogers is staring at them, pale and wide-eyed. T’Challa looks away.