T'Chucky One Shots

{•6B•}

Someone is hurting Bucky. And that just won't fly.

Everyone at the office had noticed T'Challa's mood had drastically approved. Even T'Challa himself had picked up on his own positivity. He could attribute it to his yoga classes or getting out of the office earlier. But he knew that it was all Bucky.

Bucky, who greeted him every morning with his coffee and a shy smile. He was so much more than an assistant, Bucky knew his stuff. T'Challa soon begun to ask him for his opinion, out of curiosity. And he wasn't surprised when Bucky offered him solid answers with concrete support.

Of course, for whatever reason, Bucky didn't seem to like offering his opinion. He'd only do it when T'Challa presented it as a direct order, and he would, blushing all the while. Bucky liked to follow his lead.

The thought made T'Challa hot under the collar.

He spent a bit more time with Bucky than he had with his past assistants, though of course Bucky didn't know it. They'd grab lunch together, pour over complicated documents together. Truthfully, he was the best company T'Challa could ask for. Beautiful and intelligent. Bucky had a darker sense of humor similar to his that you had to listen for. Outside of his office, Bucky was shy and humble.

T'Challa was appropriately charmed.

They established a routine that worked for both of them pretty quickly, rarely deviating from it. So when Bucky was late one day, T'Challa was concerned.

He worried for a bit, before picking up his personal phone and giving Bucky a call. There was no answer.

Something could've happened to him. Bucky could've been hurt. He could be -

T'Challa took a deep breath. Here he was, worrying about Bucky like he was his to worry about. He could worry about Bucky as an employer, as a friend. But Bucky wasn't his. He couldn't be.

For the next hour or so, T'Challa barely got any work done. He kept thinking about Bucky lying dead in the street somewhere. He was just considering organizing some sort of search, when the door to his office banged open.

Bucky burst into the room, looking nervous and flustered. His clothes were more rumpled than usual, like he hadn't had time to get himself together properly. He was carrying T'Challa's coffee though, and he placed it on the desk, refusing to make eye contact.

A wave of relief washed over T'Challa when he saw that Bucky was safe. But he was also faintly annoyed, where had he been? He was about to ask when he noticed that Bucky was pointedly turning his face away from him, as if shielding his left side from him.

A wave of apologies burst out of Bucky. But T'Challa wasn't listening. He was looking at the dark brown hair covering Bucky's left eye.

"Bucky." he said sharply, causing the boy to go silent.

"Yes, sir?" he asked nervously.

"Your eye. Let me see."

Bucky looked surprised, but strangely enough, even more nervous. Almost fearful. "No, sir. It's fine. I just, I bumped my head. On the car when I was getting out of my taxi yesterday. I'm fine, I swear."

"Bucky." he said again, warningly, not happy that he had to ask twice.

Bucky swallowed, but pushed his hair back behind his ear, meeting T'Challa's eyes for the first time.

Dark purple bruising surrounded Bucky's left eye. The discoloring extended to his cheekbone and part of his nose. His eyelid was swollen.

"Jesus," T'Challa swore. He was up in an instant, across the room. Bucky stepped back a bit, and almost tripped over where his bag sat on the floor.