Inheritance of ash

Day three - part two

Vicky pushed open the door to her room, Natasha close behind her. She didn't say anything at first—just stood there, staring at the familiar mess, the same chair with her jeans draped over it, the drawer she avoided too often.

Then she moved.

Her hand slipped into the pocket of those jeans, pulling out the first lighter—the blue one. She stared at it for a long moment, thumb brushing against the cold metal. Could she really do this? Give it away? Knowing she'd probably find another way to hurt herself if she really wanted to?

Still, she looked up at Natasha. And with a shaky breath, she stuck her hand out, offering it.

Natasha's brow furrowed slightly as she took the lighter, her expression caught somewhere between confusion and care. She slipped it gently into her own pocket, then looked back at Vicky.

"Why?"

Vicky didn't answer right away. Instead, she crossed to the drawer. That drawer. The one Natasha already knew too well. She opened it and pulled out the second lighter, pressing it into Natasha's hand too.

"Liane and I talked about it," she said finally, her voice quiet, almost embarrassed. "She... encouraged me to... to hand them over to someone I trust."

Natasha's eyes softened instantly. "Are you sure?" she asked, her voice gentler than Vicky had heard in a long time.

Vicky let out a breathless, humorless laugh. "No. Not at all." Her gaze dropped to the floor, her voice slipping into a whisper. "I'll probably regret it."

Silence settled between them. Natasha studied her—how tired she looked, how raw the admission was. She hated this, hated the way Vicky treated herself. But at least now she was being honest. That was something.

Vicky looked back up, a sad little smile ghosting across her lips. "But... it feels like the right thing to do. The next step."

Natasha's mouth curved into the faintest smile. "Look at you. Being all responsible."

Vicky rolled her eyes, though her smile twitched a little. "I'm trying to be what I want to be. What he would..." Her words trailed off, her smile falling. She didn't need to say Bucky's name. It lingered between them anyway.

Natasha stepped closer and wrapped her in a hug, whispering into her hair, "I know."

Vicky melted into it, like she always did—with Natasha, with Tony, with Peter. A rare kind of safety she never admitted she craved.

"Bucky always told me to talk to people," Vicky murmured against Natasha's shoulder. "To not disappear. To stay. And now he's doing the opposite of all of that. Not talking. Basically leaving, even if he's alive. Just... disappearing." Her voice cracked.

Natasha let her pull back when she needed to, whispering again, "I know."

Vicky swiped at her eyes with her sleeve before the tears could even spill. "And I get it. Why he's doing it. He's been through things we can't even imagine. He's scared—of himself. Maybe even of us. And we don't even know the fucking details." Her throat tightened, words breaking. "I just... I just miss him. I miss him so much."

Natasha gently tilted her chin upward, making her look at her. Her voice was firm, but soft as velvet. "That's allowed. Missing him. I miss him too." She tried to smile, adding, "It's too quiet in the mornings now. No silently brooding guy in the kitchen taking his metal arm out of the dishwasher like it's just another piece of cutlery."

Vicky let out a broken laugh, then fell silent again.

"Do you really think..." Her voice was small, hesitant. "Do you really think I might be able to talk him out of the room? What if he just feels guilty hearing my voice? What if he just remembers—"