Inheritance of ash

False calm

"No. No, see—look at them. Look at Barnes. You think that man is spiritually aligned right now?"

"I'll align you with a hospital bed," Bucky muttered.

"I'm just impressed," Sam said, grinning at Wanda. "You got Thor in here. Though, not sure eating six Pop-Tarts during yoga counts as enlightenment."

"These are multigrain," Thor declared proudly.

"They are not," Kate said flatly.

Wanda raised an elegant eyebrow and extended a hand toward the stack of unused mats. "There's room."

"Over my dead wings," Sam said.

"Pity," Wanda sighed. "Your glutes would thank you."

Thor nodded gravely. "Her glute training is truly unmatched."

Vicky snorted, covering her mouth with her sleeve.

"You too, Vicky," Wanda said. "Plenty of space."

Vicky shook her head. "I'm still grounded. If I find peace I might start plotting my escape."

Sam nudged her with his elbow. "You sure? Could be the spiritual cleanse you didn't know you needed."

"I'd rather be spiritually unwell."

Wanda gave a theatrical sigh and turned back to her calm pose. "Heathens."

Clint snored loudly, then muttered something like "sniper clear" in his sleep.

Bob stretched a paw across his face and went back to purring.

Peter tried not to fall over.

Sam leaned against the wall beside Vicky, still chuckling, as the world's strangest yoga class resumed.

And for a brief moment, under the absurdity and laughter and glowing orange light of the setting sun, things almost felt... okay.

⸻

The door to the music room creaked as it opened — just a little — like it had been waiting a long time to be used. The space was dim, lit only by the fading afternoon light filtering in through the tall windows. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, caught in the gold wash. The scent of polished wood and something faintly metallic hung in the room, familiar in a way that tugged at her ribs.

Vicky stepped in, her footsteps slow, hesitant. She hadn't come here in weeks.

Because this room had ghosts.

Not real ones — not the kind she could punch or reason with or trap in some Tony-invented machine. But the kind that stayed quiet and clung to memories. The kind that sounded like piano notes and echoed in dreams.

She crossed to the piano without really thinking, drawn to it like a magnet. The bench groaned quietly as she sat, her fingers hovering over the keys. Her heart beat faster, and not from nerves — from familiarity. From the part of her that still couldn't explain how she knew this instrument so well.

The first note she pressed was soft. Then another. Then another.

And then she was playing it. That tune.

The one with no name. The one she played in her dream — the one Loki taught her, note by note, with that strange mix of fondness and calculation in his voice.

Only now... she was better.

Her fingers flowed across the keys with practiced ease, like the melody had always lived in her body, waiting to be remembered. She didn't falter. Didn't think. It was like her hands had done this a thousand times before, in a different life. In a different world.