The Mimic (HE/HIM VERSION)

144

"Come on, get up." T'Challa suddenly instructed, causing y/n to practically jump out of his skin. It was four-in-the-morning, he hadn't really expected anyone to be wanting to use the training room. He needed time to think, and the training room seemed to be the most isolated area - well, it was, but that was before T'Challa decided to disturb him.

Now, T'Challa didn't plan on being awake. After becoming king of Wakanda, he greatly cherished his sleep, but his worries over y/n and Bucky just kept waking him up. After seeing how broken he was just a few hours earlier, T'Challa couldn't bring himself not to check on y/n. With Bucky all drugged up and asleep, he was probably alone. Alone with his thoughts. Alone to blame himself, to allow his mind to take over, and to probably do something stupid.

T'Challa trusted y/n, of course he did, but to be alone with his thoughts was probably the most dangerous thing for y/n. He was impulsive, and he didn't trust him enough to not do something stupid.

So, he decided to find him.

"Get up, y/n." T'Challa repeated, currently pulling a punching bag into the centre of the training room. He wasn't in his Black Panther suit or his training suit, he was simply in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. It was an unusual sight, especially because he was either in some regal clothing or his Black Panther suit, but T'Challa was far too tired to change. He just wanted to make sure that y/n was okay before he went back to bed.

Once the punching bag was in the centre of the room, he tossed a pair of boxing gloves up to the ledge that y/n was sitting on, an expectant look in his eyes. Despite trying to hide it, he was out of breath. He'd had to drag the punching bag all the way from one of the assessment rooms in Shuri's lab to the training room, and he wasn't going to be impressed if it was all for nothing.

Y/n let out an exasperated sigh as the pair of boxing gloves landed beside him. He sat up a little straighter, grimacing at the sound of the array of crackles and pops that sounded from his back. God, he'd been sat with bad posture for far too long. He rested his head back against the wall, closing his eyes with a frown. His eyes felt as if there were hundreds of tiny daggers stabbing into them, not just because of the tears, but because he'd been blankly staring at the wall opposite him for hours on end. "I'm not in the mood, T'Challa." He breathed out in an unamused tone.

However, T'Challa didn't seem to be taking 'no' for an answer. He crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his head to the side as he watched y/n. He looked so destroyed, from the tear-stained cheeks to the scratches and bruises littering his skin, it wasn't nice. But he knew that there was only one person that he wanted to comfort him right now, and that person wasn't T'Challa. So he'd decided to come up with the next best thing. "Well, you either punch the bag and tell me what's going on in that head of yours, or I'll go up there and we'll sit and talk about it. You choose." He hummed with a shrug.

Punching a bag was far too easy for y/n, especially with boxing gloves on. He was used to much more advanced combat than that. Hell, he'd just jumped out of a window. But T'Challa knew that. He didn't want to give y/n a proper training session. It wasn't what he needed. He needed to let his frustrations out on something that wasn't another person.

Y/n raised his eyebrows as he listened to the two choices, a frustrated smile appearing on his face. T'Challa hadn't really given him much of a choice, he'd only created an illusion of one. Whatever he picked, he'd have to talk about his feelings. God, he hated how well he knew him.