Inheritance of ash

The performance

The kitchen was already warm with noise and clinking pans when Kate and Peter stepped in together, walking the careful line between casual and cautious. Kate's hair was tied up messily, her eyes clearer than they'd been before, and Peter wore the soft, gentle worry of someone trying not to hover. They moved around the room like they'd practiced it — Peter grabbed two glasses, Kate filled them with water. They joked about Clint's ongoing vendetta with the fridge light. It worked.

Natasha glanced over her shoulder at them from where she stood at the stove — a sight rare enough to pull a laugh out of Clint.

"You cooking?" he said, eyes wide as he leaned against the counter with his arms crossed. "This serious?"

Natasha didn't look back. "Don't push it, Barton."

Clint held up his hands in mock surrender just as Thor ducked in with Bruce behind him, the latter instantly moving toward the salad with quiet intention. Sam trailed in behind them, offering a joke about the weather being a Hydra conspiracy and making Steve sigh so loudly it counted as a contribution.

Then Pietro zipped in, as he did, grinning like nothing in the world had gone sideways. "What do I smell? And why is Nat allowed to cook with knives?"

That got another laugh, even from Bruce.

Wanda entered moments later, with Vision hovering at her side. She kept her expression neutral, casual. Vicky had been right — it wouldn't seem strange for her to arrive with Vision. It gave her cover. And it let her eyes scan the room without suspicion.

Pietro caught her eye and offered a subtle nod, almost invisible. Wanda's hand brushed Vision's arm gently before she moved to sit by her brother.

Then the air shifted again. Tony walked in, Pepper on his arm, Bucky right behind them. The tension snapped right back into place like a rubber band stretched too far. The four interrogators — the ones who knew something was off — were in the room together now. Not a coincidence. It never was.

And then Vicky stepped in.

She held her posture carefully, not too rigid, not too casual. Her hair was still damp from a shower. She wore a neutral-colored sweater that made her look soft around the edges, smaller, and maybe that was the point. She scanned the room for a second — exactly long enough — and then crossed toward Sam, who was loading his plate and laughing at something Clint said.

She sat beside him.

Safest option. No interrogations. Sam wouldn't ask questions, but he also wouldn't let anyone else press too hard. She kept her shoulders slightly curled, like someone who'd had a hard day but wasn't talking about it. She didn't speak right away.

But she could feel them watching.

Her fork moved slowly, spearing a piece of roasted vegetable off her plate, and her face stayed perfectly neutral. Not too cheerful, not too shut down. She made eye contact with no one — until it happened without meaning to.

Bucky.

He was already looking at her, unreadable, blue eyes fixed like he'd been waiting for her to look. You're a good liar, he'd said that morning, and she'd ignored it like she always did. But it hit different now. She met his gaze, held it just long enough to say, Yes, I am. Her face didn't shift. Not even a twitch.

She dropped her eyes and took a bite of food.

Tony was watching too. She could feel it — that engineer's mind dissecting her every microexpression, trying to find the flaw in the story. She didn't meet his gaze. She couldn't. His words from earlier still echoed: You are disappointing. And maybe it was true. Maybe it always would be.