Inheritance of ash

day two

She squeezed her eyes shut. Her hands dropped to the keys—and this time, they didn't falter. The melody flowed clear, clean, whole. Not a single mistake.

Loki hummed low, approving. "See? You're remembering."

"Don't." Her voice cracked. "Don't distract me."

"It's not distraction. It's progress."

She glared at the keys until her vision blurred. "Please. Just... leave me alone."

Silence.

"No," he said gently.

Her chest flared, fury and grief at once. "Why not?"

"Because those dreams you hate—the ones you think I gave you—they can be undone. You can unmake them. I can show you how."

"I don't care!" Her hands slammed down again, another ugly chord. "I don't want your help! I don't need you!"

He didn't raise his voice. "You do."

"I don't!" she screamed. Her throat burned. Her whole body shook. "You're not my father! You never were!"

The word hung there like ash.

And for the first time, Loki didn't speak.

Vicky's breath heaved, ragged. Her eyes stung. Her palms ached where they pressed against the ivory.

"Just go," she whispered, hoarse. "Go. Leave me. Don't come back."

The silence grew vast and echoing.

And then—soft, frayed, too quiet to be anything but true:

"I can't."

Her rage cracked. She raised both fists and slammed them down across the piano, an explosion of sound, every note clashing, every key screaming.

The dream shattered.

Her eyes flew open—dark hallway, not golden light. Cold air, not dust.

She was on the floor. Back against a door.

Bucky's door.

Vicky's fingers trembled against the door's surface as she leaned against it, mind spinning. The world felt heavier somehow, the weight of all the things she hadn't said, hadn't done, pressing down in waves.

Suddenly, movement approached from the kitchen.

Natasha.

She had been up for a while, Vicky realized immediately, the soft rhythm of her footsteps careful, deliberate. She hadn't seen her yet—wasn't expecting to.

"Vicky?" Natasha's voice was calm, measured, but there was an undercurrent of tension that only sharpened Vicky's nerves. "Hey. Are you..."

She paused, assessed, then sighed.

kid, it's too early to try to talk to Bucky. You need sleep."

Vicky stiffened, but she let it slide. She couldn't tell the truth. Not yet. Not this early in the morning. "Uh... right. Sorry," she said, voice neutral. "Just... checking on him."

Natasha's eyes narrowed just slightly, but she didn't push. Instead, she walked over, looping her arm around Vicky's elbow and practically guiding her away from the door. Vicky went willingly enough, letting herself be steered down the hallway. She felt the warmth of Natasha's body beside her—steady, grounding. The motion was familiar, almost comforting, even though her chest felt tight with every step.

They reached the kitchen, and Vicky's stomach churned. She didn't want breakfast. She didn't want anything. But Natasha ignored her protests, pulling out a chair and gently guiding her down onto it. "You're eating," Natasha said firmly. "No arguments."