Inheritance of ash

False calm

When the last note hung in the air, delicate and sad, Vicky exhaled like she'd been holding her breath.

And then she blinked, a little startled at herself.

"Okay," she muttered. "Weird."

But not bad.

She let her fingers trail off the keys, then reached for the binder tucked to the side — the one Tony had left there around Christmas. Sheet music, mostly piano arrangements. Some classics, some weirdly specific stuff like the Halo theme, and one that was literally titled "Stark's Hotdog Jingle (Unfinished)."

She flipped through, choosing one of the more normal pages — Clair de Lune. She recognized it from movies. Played it slowly, halting in some places, smoother in others. A few more followed — not perfect, but good enough to scratch that itch in her brain that longed for movement and rhythm and sound.

Then her eyes drifted to the corner of the room.

The drum set sat like a forgotten Christmas toy: sleek, shiny, absurdly expensive-looking, and mostly untouched. It still had a ribbon on one of the cymbals — half torn. Tony had put it there "for anyone," but it had mostly become furniture.

Vicky stared at it.

Her dream last night... it hadn't been a great one... but there were no creepy mirrors, there was no fire. Just her, moments before disaster, at the kitchen table, doing homework.

Homework.

So, school?

And if she'd gone to school, maybe she'd had music classes.

And if she'd had music classes, maybe she'd played—

Before she could overthink it, she stood and crossed to the drums.

Sat down.

Picked up the sticks.

She tapped one softly against the snare, then the other. Just testing. Nothing dramatic.

Then a simple rhythm — kick-snare-kick-snare. Then a tap on the hi-hat.

Her brow furrowed in concentration, and she tried a little fill she'd once seen Peter attempt on the kitchen counter.

It went... badly.

She missed the snare entirely, hit the cymbal too hard, startled herself and dropped a stick.

"Okay, wow," she muttered, retrieving it from the floor. "So maybe not a drummer."

She tried again anyway.

And again.

Still bad.

But kind of fun?

She was in the middle of butchering a basic rhythm when a voice cut through the room like a sleepy growl:

"Are you trying to make me deaf?"

Vicky nearly jumped out of her skin.

She spun in her seat to see Clint Barton standing in the doorway, one eye squinting, yoga mat tucked under his arm, hair a disaster. He looked like he'd been woken up from a nap in a garbage can.

Vicky blinked, then grinned. "You're already half-deaf. I'm just trying to balance you out."

Clint stepped into the room like an old man, muttering something about "kids these days" and "noise pollution." He walked straight to the piano and plopped down on the bench she'd just vacated.

"You left the door open," he added, lazily pressing a few random keys. "I thought the ceiling was collapsing."

"It was one cymbal," she defended, crossing her arms. "Barely touched it."