Inheritance of ash

revelations

TW: mentions of self harm and suicide

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The gym smelled like sweat and rubber — familiar territory for Vicky. But this morning, every breath felt thick, struggling. Her body trembled slightly when she entered the empty space, the echo of her boots on the floor loud in the hush.

She'd changed. New clothes: dark, fitted sweat pants, a long-sleeve gray compression shirt, fingerless gloves for grip and coverage. Hair tied rough in a ponytail. No makeup. No facade. Just her.

"You ready?" Bucky's voice came from the other side of the gym, near the heavy bag. He stood next to it, sleeves rolled up, fist wrapped in tape.

She didn't answer. She just walked toward the bag, her boots thudding softly.

She knew she was kidding herself if she thought she could pretend it wasn't real. She still felt dizzy, her hands shook when she lifted one to press into the bag. No real meals in nearly two days, no sleep at all. The blood on her clothes from the mission still dried in grimy stains, laying forgotten on her bed. Even her gloves were crusted. She had tugged them off and tossed them aside.

New gloves could hide the burn on her arm. The mark she hadn't let herself think about since Bucky walked in earlier. It pulsed beneath the skin like a heartbeat of guilt.

She shook her head. Didn't want to think any more.

Her fist connected with the bag, snapping her eyes shut. The sound—thwack—echoed off the walls. She expected pain. Expected numbness. Instead, it felt like release.

"Harder," she muttered to herself. She didn't care who heard.

Bucky circled her like a coach, hands on his hips. "Slow," he said gently. "Focus on form."

She smirked through gritted teeth. "I'm not here for form."

Another slap. Her fist stung.

"You're not training for a mission," he persisted. "Exercises aren't going to fix this."

She spat out laughter, short and bitter. "They won't fix anything."

She began hitting again. Left hook. Right jab. Pivot. Repeat.

The rhythm built fast, and her arms started to shake. She didn't care—a scream crescendoed inside her chest, and each hit let some of it out.

In her mind she saw him—Agent Joseph Langston, dying in a hallway with a daughter waiting somewhere in the world. His trust in her. His battered voice.

I have a daughter... Tell her I was brave...

She squeezed her eyes shut and hit harder. Tell her I was brave.

Blood pounded in her ears.

My hands are useless
A man is dead
A little girl...

She punched so hard, her arms jolted. A sharp ache rippled up to her shoulder, but she didn't care. She just hit again.

Bucky didn't move. He waited.

She swung wide, connecting her glove with the bag's side. A metallic clang.

Tears stung her eyes. Exhaustion was a fog, but adrenaline kept her going.

Memory crashed in on her: Loki's smirk. The mirror room. The sentence that came out of her mouth like it wasn't hers:

I'm not meant to be anywhere.

Bucky.

A warning. Frustration. Care.