T’Challa didn’t like you. Not one bit. Why would he like a white American? A colonizer?

That didn’t mean he didn’t feel pity.

You had just lost your brother to colon cancer. Now here you were, breaking things in your lab at avengers tower. You were screaming, shouting and sobbing.

You had made a cure twenty-four seconds too late.

Wakanda had had a cure for cancer for the last fifty years. They were reluctant to share it because of the fact other places sold cigarettes. Meaning other countries didn’t care about their people, so why share it?

That was part of the reason you were so mad and T’Challa knew it.

Not to mention, your brother had told you too late. He didn’t tell you until he was dying. If he had just told you sooner you could’ve saved him.

When T’Challa walked into your lab and saw everything broken and on the floor…he felt so much pity.

“What are you doing?” He asked coldly, but with a little sympathy in his thick Wakandan accent.