Inheritance of ash

day one

The morning light crept into Vicky's room reluctantly, brushing faint streaks of pale gold across the messy sheets. She woke with the heaviness of too little sleep, the weight of too many dreams. Her eyes blinked open against the dim quiet, and the first thing she became aware of was the steady rise and fall of Peter's chest beneath her cheek.

He was awake already. She could feel it in the way his breathing wasn't quite even, like he was trying not to move and disturb her.

For a second, she didn't move either. She just listened to the faint beat of his heart under her ear. The room still smelled faintly of smoke—her lighter hidden in her jeans on the chair across the room—and of Peter's cologne. She realized he hadn't left her side once last night. Every time she'd woken with a jolt, choking on screams she didn't even remember making, he'd been there. His voice soft. His arms steady. Whispering words she didn't deserve, grounding her back into the world when her brain was pulling her somewhere else.

"You're awake," Peter's voice was quiet, still edged with exhaustion but warm.

Vicky shifted just enough to glance up at him. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every possible direction. His eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep, but still soft when they met hers. She nodded, her throat tight.

"Yeah," she whispered.

Peter gave a tiny smile. "The nightmares. You were—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. He didn't want to make her relive them. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she answered too quickly. It was automatic, like muscle memory. Her voice didn't even crack, but it didn't sound convincing either.

Peter studied her for a moment, the crease between his brows deepening. He wanted to push, but he didn't. Not yet. He just brushed his thumb over the back of her hand where it was curled against his chest. "Okay," he said softly, though his tone made it clear he didn't believe her.

The silence stretched, almost fragile. Vicky let her eyes fall closed again, like she could pretend the world outside this room didn't exist. Just her, just Peter, and the faint hum of the tower in the background.

And then her door swung open.

"—Alright, skyfall, breakfast is—" Tony Stark's voice cut into the air like a thunderclap. He froze mid-sentence, standing in the doorway with his hand still on the knob. His eyes landed squarely on the bed.

On Peter.

In. Vicky's. Bed.

It was instant. His entire body stiffened like he'd walked into a crime scene. His eyes went wide, then narrowed with all the ferocity of a dad who just caught his kid doing something he absolutely did not approve of.

Which, to be fair, was kind of the case here.

Peter went pale. He scrambled to sit up, his arm flying away from Vicky so fast he almost knocked her in the face. "Mr. Stark—I—it's not—"

"Don't." Tony held up a hand like he was in the middle of defusing a bomb. "Don't you dare finish that sentence, Parker. I don't want to hear what it's not. I want to hear why in the ever-loving hell you're in my daughter's bed!" His voice pitched louder with each word.

Vicky groaned, dragging the blankets over her head. "Dad, it's not—"

"Oh, I know it's not," Tony snapped, pacing a step into the room. "Because if it was, I'd be pulling out the Iron Man suit right now and giving Romeo here a free flying lesson off the roof!" He jabbed a finger at Peter, who was turning redder by the second.

"Mr. Stark, I swear," Peter stammered, hands up in surrender. "Nothing happened. Nothing. She had nightmares, and I— I stayed because she—because she—"