Inheritance of ash

False calm

A few moments later, soft footsteps echoed from down the hall. Vicky appeared, hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands, hair a little messy. She looked at the room, the tension, the stillness of it — and knew something was off.

"Hey," she said, cautious. "You needed me?"

Tony didn't waste time.

"In light of your confirmed involvement," he said, voice cool, "your restrictions are being adjusted."

Vicky blinked. "What?"

"New rules," Tony said. "Effective immediately."

Peter looked down.

Pietro exhaled through his nose, slow and silent.

Kate picked at her fingernails, but her leg bounced once.

Wanda's eyes didn't leave Vicky's face.

Tony started counting them off on his fingers.

"One. Bedroom door stays open. Unless you're asleep or in the shower. No exceptions."

Vicky blinked. "That's—what? Seriously?"

"Two," Tony continued, like she hadn't spoken. "No piano."

That hit harder. She visibly flinched — but still said nothing.

Peter's hands curled into fists at his sides.

"Three," Tony finished, voice still maddeningly even. "Training only with Steve. At six. Every morning."

There was a beat of silence.

Steve turned toward Tony, surprised. "Wait—Tony, that wasn't—"

Tony ignored him.

He turned back to Vicky, hands clasped.

"We'll reevaluate eventually. For now, consider this your probation period."

Vicky opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then said, slowly, "You don't trust me enough to shut my door?"

"You said it was your vodka," Tony replied. "This is what accountability looks like. Can't risk you sneaking another bottle now, can we?"

The whole room seemed to hold its breath.

Vicky's jaw tensed. Her arms folded tightly across her chest.

But she didn't protest.

Not a word.

Tony nodded once. "Good. We're done here."

And then he walked out.

The silence didn't move.

Natasha's eyes swept the room, slow and sharp. She wasn't watching Vicky.

She was watching everyone else.

Peter. Pietro. Wanda. Kate.

Not a blink out of place. Not a shift. Not a word.

Interesting.

Steve stood up slowly, trying to catch Vicky's eye, but she looked away. Bucky watched her, brow furrowed — not with judgment, but with something else. Concern, maybe.

Vicky was still staring at the floor.

The door thing.

That's what stung the most.

She turned without a word and walked out the way she came, shoulders stiff.

Peter didn't follow.

He couldn't.