Inheritance of ash

Shared minds

"One hour limit," Strange said, his voice leaving no room for debate. "Stay too long, and time here won't feel the same as there. You risk losing track of your body in the waking world."

He drew a small rune on the inside of her wrist with enchanted ink—it tingled cold against her skin.
"The safe words are banana socks. Say them, and you return immediately."

Vicky snorted. "Seriously?"

"Humor helps people remember," Strange replied without looking up.

He handed her a magical watch. "Your emotions will affect his. That means stay calm. If you're hurt in the dream, you'll feel it here. Sometimes... phantom injuries." His gaze met hers. "If you die in the dream, you could be trapped. Coma, amnesia, death—it's all possible."

Vicky swallowed hard, the joke caught in her throat. Her eyes flicked to Tony. He was still staring at her like he was memorizing every detail of her face.
"You can still back out," he said, voice softer now.

Steve nodded beside him, though she could see the conflict in his eyes. He was the one who had brought her into this idea—and he was still offering her an out.

She shook her head. "I'm doing this."

Strange paused. "Any questions?"

Vicky hesitated. "...Could he enter my nightmare instead?"

That made Strange stop for a beat. "It's never been documented. But theoretically... yes."

She hid the chill that ran down her spine. The raw fear in her chest.

Strange brought her the tea—amber liquid swirling in the cup, the steam smelling faintly of something floral and unfamiliar. Her hands were steady when she took it from Tony, but she could see his were not.

"Relax," she said with a faint smile. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."

Tony managed the ghost of a smirk, throwing in a sarcastic, "Yeah, well... try not to prove me wrong."

Steve's voice was low. "Look out for yourself in there."

Strange added, "Remember the rules."

Vicky took a sip, the taste bitter and strange, and the edges of the world blurred almost immediately. Her head felt heavy, her limbs lighter.

The last thing she saw before her eyes closed was Tony watching her like she was already slipping away.

⸻

Vicky was stumbling into nothing.

Not darkness. Not exactly. Darkness was still a thing—it had depth, texture. This was... absence. Black stretched out forever in every direction, broken only by a low-rolling mist that snaked around her ankles and curled upward like something alive.

Her head pounded before she could even make sense of what she was seeing. The air felt too heavy to breathe. And somewhere—she couldn't tell if it was near or impossibly far—someone was screaming.

It was Bucky.

The sound sliced through her like glass, and it wasn't just something she heard. She felt it. His agony was in her bones, in her skull, clawing at the edges of her mind. The moment she realized it, her knees gave out and she hit the ground hard, palms slapping against cold nothing.

It wasn't the steady rhythm of a nightmare. This wasn't dreaming. This was happening.

Which should have been impossible.

She was supposed to connect to his dreamscape—his subconscious, his mind wandering. But he wasn't sleeping. He was fighting. And somehow, she was here anyway.