Inheritance of ash

Sickness

Vicky stirred before her alarm. It wasn't the kind of jolt that came with nightmares—there was no cold sweat, no gasping, no Richard or Claire or green sky holes. Just pain.

A sharp, steady kind of sting that pulsed along her arm.

She shifted slightly under the covers, groggy, careful not to move too much. The pressure bandage had shifted during the night, and every small movement reminded her of it. But it wasn't all bad. For the first time in days—maybe weeks—there was no dread sitting on her chest. Just discomfort.

And... something else. Something that almost felt like peace.

Last night had been good.

Better than good.

A full-on chaos comedy with paint and spray cans and Peter wheezing over the suit. And when she finally crawled into bed, she did so with a heart that wasn't weighed down by guilt or nightmares. Just exhaustion, and the warm buzz of laughing too hard.

Tony was still pissed, sure, but less pissed, maybe. Bucky hadn't left her side since that morning—hadn't said a word about the bandages, just stayed nearby like some silent guardian with sarcastic comebacks and comfort in his eyes.

It was almost a good day.

Until the knock came.

Tap tap tap.

She blinked.

It was still dark outside, the first pale streaks of dawn barely stretching behind the curtains. She looked at the clock.

5:45.

What the hell?

Then the door creaked open and Steve Rogers leaned in, already dressed in that starched navy-blue workout gear that said "military trauma" louder than anything he ever said out loud.

"You've got training in fifteen," he said, gently but firmly.

Vicky's stomach dropped.

"Wait—what?" she croaked, voice still raspy from sleep. "But—I thought—Tony—"

"Tony's orders," Steve said. "Still grounded. Still training at six. And he made me promise I wouldn't let you oversleep."

Of course he did.

Steve gave her a nod and stepped back out, closing the door behind him like this was all perfectly normal.

Vicky sat up slowly, wincing as her arm throbbed under the blanket. She looked down at it, gauging how bad it might be to push through. Bandages were still clean—no new bleeding. That was something.

She sighed, dragging herself out of bed. No way she could spar today. No way she was throwing punches or doing any fancy flips, unless they wanted to add a fractured rib to her current trauma bingo card.

She changed into a long-sleeved hoodie, something loose enough not to press into the bandages but tight enough to pass for workout gear. She tugged the sleeves all the way down to her knuckles. Just in case.

When she arrived at the training room, Steve was already there, stretching. Spotless. Stoic.

"Morning," he said.

She managed a small wave. "Hey."

"You ready?"

"Sort of," she said, avoiding eye contact. "I'm not really feeling the punching bag today. Or the punching in general."

Steve raised an eyebrow. "Sore?"

"Yeah." She paused. "Kind of. Actually... would you be okay with going for a run instead? Just, like... outside? I know I'm grounded and I'm not technically allowed off the property but... the treadmill's depressing."