Inheritance of ash

Date night

Dinner had been too much.

Too many voices overlapping. Too much laughter, too much clattering of plates and silverware. Too many people saying the same thing in different ways — worthy, worthy, worthy. And she didn't know if they were talking about Thor's hammer or about something else entirely. About who she was supposed to be now.

She'd smiled at first. Forced. Polite. But by the time Yelena made some loud joke about giving her an official cape and Thor agreed a little too seriously, the air got too thick to breathe.

So she'd excused herself.

No one stopped her. Bucky gave her a brief glance — understanding. Wanda too. But no one followed. She didn't want them to.

Upstairs, in the quiet of her room, Vicky sat at her desk.

She hadn't used it much — not since she'd moved in. The bracelet came off first, like a weight unhooked. She dropped it on her dresser without looking at it, even as it glowed faintly green in protest. She didn't care. She was sick of the way it pulsed like it had something to say. Like it had some claim on her.

The piano would've been her next thought, normally. But after the dream... Loki again, at the keys, not quite smiling. The music had been beautiful, but the silence after had been deafening. She couldn't go near it.

So she sat and pulled out her sketchbook instead. Blank. Clean. Safe.

She didn't need a prompt or a photo or a Pinterest board. She just started sketching.

A face.

Then another.

A girl laughing with closed eyes. A boy with tired shoulders. An old woman who looked like she had stories carved into every wrinkle. A child with a secret. Someone who looked like her — but older, colder, angrier.

She didn't plan it. Just let the pencil go wherever her hands sent it. She didn't think about technique. Or neatness. She drew like breathing — urgently and without pause. Letting each feeling find a face.

She imagined names. Backstories. One of the boys had lost his father. One of the girls didn't know her mother. Another was invisible to everyone but her cat. One of the older characters had run away. Another had returned too late. They were all pieces of her, splintered and rearranged. But safer that way. On paper, they didn't have to talk.

When she next looked at the time, it was 8:07.

And then—

knock knock.

Vicky startled.

She turned to the door — but no one was there. Her brows knit. Another knock — softer this time, and coming from the window.

Which was weird.

No one knocked on her window.

She stood slowly, unsure, her pencil still in hand — more reflex than weapon. She approached the window and slid it open with cautious fingers, heart ticking faster in her chest.

Peter Parker was standing on the fire escape in his Spider-Man suit, mask off, hair a mess, eyes wide with nervous energy.

"Oh—hi," he said.

Vicky blinked. "Are you... okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," he nodded quickly. "Totally okay. Just, uh—this was the least dramatic way I could think of to show up without, like, knocking on your bedroom door like a creep or calling you in front of everyone or writing a handwritten letter like a weirdo."

"You knocked on my window."

"I did. And it worked, didn't it?"

She blinked at him. "You're lucky I didn't throw something."