Inheritance of ash

day two

Vicky let out a scoff and sat, arms folded across her chest, glaring at the smoothie ingredients Natasha had started pulling from the fridge. Her gaze flicked to the blender on the counter, the fruits Natasha dumped inside with rhythmic precision, the knife chopping loudly against the cutting board.

"You're up early," Vicky said finally, voice cautious. She watched Natasha slice the fruit with a precise rhythm, cutting through pineapple, strawberries, and banana.

Natasha didn't look up. "Couldn't sleep," she replied, voice flat.

Vicky's brow furrowed. "So... you left Steve behind for the night?"

Natasha paused, knife mid-air, thought threading through her eyes before she finally snapped her gaze forward and answered. "Yes."

"Right..." Vicky's skepticism wasn't hidden. "Did you actually sleep in the same bed at all last night?"

Natasha stiffened slightly, then went back to her motions, making the smoothie in near-silent defiance, though the blender whirred loudly enough to fill the room. Vicky scoffed and returned her attention to the breakfast she hadn't really wanted to eat anyway, pretending she wasn't scrutinizing Natasha's every move.

She poked at the food lazily, the bite barely touching her lips. Then, almost unconsciously, she muttered, "I hurt myself again."

The room froze. Natasha's movements stilled mid-cut. The knife hovered, the blender whirring paused. She turned, crouching in front of Vicky with sudden intensity, her hands settling on Vicky's knees. Her eyes searched Vicky's face, worry sharp and immediate.

Vicky felt her chest tighten, but she didn't flinch. She'd said it. Couldn't unsay it. And part of her... didn't regret it.

She knew, deep down, she could tell Natasha everything—well...

Almost everything.

"How?" Natasha asked, soft, urgent. She distinctly remembered the last time.

Vicky shook her head quickly, shaking off the panic that threatened to rise. "It's not like that. No... cuts. Just... the lighter. I—" Her voice faltered. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. "I lied. I had another nightmare... I wasn't checking on Bucky. All of this is my fault. I can't. I can't—"

"Vicky," Natasha said, voice firm but gentle. "None of this is your fault. You don't have to feel guilty."

Vicky's hand absently went to the turtleneck covering her neck, tracing the faint mark still lingering there. Her voice cracked. "But I do. Because I make him feel guilty."

She swallowed hard, her gaze dropping. She was probably the last person Bucky wanted to hear right now. The thought pressed heavy against her ribs, stabbing both her and Natasha in a way that neither could shake.

Natasha's hands tightened gently over Vicky's. "Then help him believe it's bullshit. Talk to him. Make him understand. He doesn't have to feel guilty. None of this was his fault either. Not the mess, not what's happened to him, not what he did, not this week. Nothing. Tell him that."

Vicky stayed quiet, staring at the floor, trying to process the waves of relief and dread crashing inside her. She couldn't say no. But she also couldn't say yes. The silence stretched for a long, delicate moment. Then, softly, she broke it again.

"What's really going on between you and Steve?"

Natasha stiffened, hands halting over the blender as though she were caught in a trap. She glanced toward it briefly, then back at Vicky, tension tight along her jaw.

Vicky didn't wait. She reached out, grasping Natasha's wrist gently but firmly, halting any more deflection, any more noise. Natasha let out a small, resigned sigh, and finally met Vicky's eyes.