Inheritance of ash

False calm

TW: self-harm

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Sam and Vicky stepped into the tower and were immediately hit by... serenity?

Sort of.

Calming, vaguely ocean-sounding music filled the living room from an unseen speaker, the lights dimmed to a soft golden glow. A dozen yoga mats had been arranged in semi-organized rows across the hardwood floor. And on those mats, the Avengers — or at least most of them — were participating in what could only loosely be called a yoga session.

Sam froze in the doorway.

Vicky blinked, actually rubbed her eyes once, like maybe the post-therapy ice cream had given her some sort of hallucination.

Then Sam took one long, slow, exasperated look at the scene in front of them.

And burst into laughter.

Loud, unfiltered, doubled-over cackling. Real tears started forming in the corners of his eyes as he clutched his side, and Vicky couldn't help but grin.

"Are you serious?" Sam finally choked out, pointing like it was the most absurd crime scene he'd ever witnessed. "What the hell is this? Avengers: Stretch-game?"

Clint — or rather, the shape of Clint — was laid flat on his mat, fully asleep, one socked foot twitching every few seconds. Bob, the black cat and chaotic menace of the tower, was draped across his chest like some fluffy breathing scarf.

Pietro was leaning back on his elbows on his mat, legs lazily crossed, eyes half-lidded like he had aged seventy years out of boredom.

Thor sat cross-legged on his mat with a family-sized box of Pop-Tarts open in his lap, chewing thoughtfully while Mjolnir lay on the mat next to him. Upright. Perfectly balanced. Like the hammer itself had joined the session.

Steve was in the middle of attempting some sort of twist, his brow furrowed like it was a tactical briefing. He glanced over at Bucky and whispered, "Is this one of the breathing ones or the bendy ones?"

"I told you I can't do this crap with one arm," Bucky grumbled, clearly agitated, his metal arm missing and a rolled-up towel wedged under his shoulder for balance. "This is discrimination."

"Yoga discrimination," Sam echoed through another round of giggles. "You poor thing."

Wanda, seated at the front of the mats with the most perfect posture known to mankind, turned her head slowly with mock serenity. "This is why you weren't invited," she said to Sam with an exaggerated exhale. "You disturb the energy."

"Yeah, well your energy smells like incense and sadness," Sam shot back. "What kind of cult is this?"

Peter caught Vicky's eye from where he sat awkwardly near the middle, his arms bent in a pose that definitely wasn't a pose. He gave her a helpless little smile — a silent help me — and Vicky just smirked and shrugged, not even trying to save him.

Kate, behind Wanda, looked entirely too committed, determined to perfect her Warrior II stance despite clearly trembling in the legs. Wanda had probably roped her into this. Natasha, just behind her, looked like she'd been doing this since birth — composed, still, eyes forward. She didn't greet Vicky. Didn't even glance at her. But Vicky felt it.

She also felt the subtle weight of Steve's eyes. And Bucky's.

Even while Bucky was busy trying not to collapse sideways, she could feel that tick of attention, that unspoken checking-in.

She ignored it.

She stepped a little closer to Sam, who was now dramatically miming a sun salutation with his left hand. "Sam, seriously."