Inheritance of ash

Music and mysterious voices

The smell of toast-burnt, somehow both soggy and crispy-mixed with the sharp tang of ozone and... was that lavender?

Thor was at it again.

"BEHOLD!" he bellowed, slamming down a plate of vaguely golden food. "BREAKFAST FOR WARRIORS."

Vicky sat at the island counter, wrapped in her hoodie, staring at the contents of the plate like it might blink.

Peter sat beside her, sleepy-eyed and half-smiling, absently toying with the edge of a napkin. He'd managed to tuck his curls under a hood, but there was still glitter in his eyelashes from the prank war. Somehow.

"I don't think that's toast," he whispered.

"It's glowing," Vicky muttered.

Across the kitchen, the coffee machine hissed violently.

Tony walked in, fixing his tie with one hand, mug already in the other. His gaze scanned the room automatically. Paused on Vicky.

Not hard. Not judging. Just... seeing.

"You sleep at all?" he asked casually, as if the question hadn't been loaded with worry.

Vicky didn't meet his eyes. "A bit."

Tony didn't push it.

Instead, he glanced at Thor's 'toast', raised his eyebrows, and said flatly, "Medical's on standby, right?"

"I THINK I USED TOO MUCH THUNDER!" Thor beamed.

Steve entered then, slightly sweaty from his morning workout, and Bucky trailed behind, clutching a cup of water like it owed him money.

Steve raised a brow at Thor's cooking. "I thought we talked about not electrifying the food."

Bucky opened the dishwasher, reached inside, and-dead serious-pulled out his metal arm.

"Really? Again?" Steve asked flatly.

"Deep clean," Bucky said. "Rinse cycle was on point."

Natasha entered next, expression unreadable, and snatched the arm from him. "You scratched the inside of the dishwasher again. We're going to make you hand-wash from now on."

"Oh no," Bucky said, tone dry. "Consequences."

Wanda followed, looking a little pale. She didn't say anything at first, just drifted to sit near Vicky, her presence quiet but deliberate.

Vicky stiffened.

She didn't look at her. Not yet.

Then Pietro zipped in, hair still wet, socks mismatched. "Who made toast? Why does it smell like lightning and regret?"

Peter gestured to the plate. "Thor's new recipe: Thundercrisp."

"Pass," Pietro said immediately, grabbing an apple and tossing it in the air.

Tony took a sip of coffee and muttered, "This is why we have three kitchens."

Vicky was quiet. Her tea had long since gone cold.

She didn't want to eat. Didn't want to talk.

But Wanda was still sitting next to her.

She hadn't moved away. Not even a little.

Peter leaned toward her and whispered, "If it helps... no one's mad."

She said nothing.

Tony, from across the room, didn't look up as he added, "No one's mad, kid. Not even a little."