𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈-𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐎, avengers¹

𝐱𝐱𝐢. you don't get to tell me you feel bad

.ೃ࿔*:･𝐱𝐱𝐢. you don't get to tell me you feel bad

𝐀 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐀 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐂𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓, and the absence of his presence had gradually morphed from a painful void into something that felt almost surreal. Ingrid's journal entries, which had once been filled with the daily musings and concerns of a teenage girl, were now directed to "Dad." The way she addressed him seemed more akin to speaking to an imaginary friend than to a father who had been a tangible, guiding force in her life.

His absence was keenly felt in the subtle remnants of his life that lingered around her. His old shirts she had stolen a while ago were neatly folded in her drawers. The sight of them brought a strange mixture of comfort and sorrow. His handwriting that filled the edges of her notebooks with reminders of his thoughts and advice. Every doodle or annotation he had left behind felt like a silent conversation frozen in time.

In the nightstand by her bed, Ingrid kept a collection of photographs that seemed to capture moments from another world. Each photograph was a fragment of a reality that felt increasingly distant, as if her father had become a figure from a dream rather than someone who had been an integral part of her daily life.

Without these tangible connections, Ingrid might have convinced herself that Bruce was a figment of her imagination, conjured up from the depths of her longing. But the shirts, the scribbles in her notebooks, and the photos held a truth she could not deny.

Bruce had become an unspoken taboo in Ingrid's world, a subject so fraught with emotional weight that even mentioning his name felt like setting off a bomb. The people around her had learned to navigate this new terrain with caution, their conversations carefully avoiding any reference to him. They treated Ingrid with a delicate reverence, as if the slightest slip might shatter her into pieces, as though she were made of glass.

For a full year, Ingrid's gaze would frequently drift upwards after every training session, scanning the sky for any sign of the Quinjet. It was a hopeless pursuit-if Bruce was in stealth mode, even she wouldn't have been able to catch a glimpse of him. Yet, despite the futility, she continued to watch. It wasn't so much that she was actively searching for him; rather, she was waiting, holding onto the thin thread of hope that he might appear.

Her training sessions with Natasha were a bright spot in her days. They had begun after Ingrid confided in Natasha about the haunting vision she had seen under Wanda's influence. Natasha had offered to teach Ingrid hand-to-hand combat. She wanted Ingrid to be prepared, to have the skills to defend herself against whatever threats might come her way.

After one of their training sessions, Ingrid collapsed onto the cold floor of the training room, her breath coming in heavy, ragged gasps. She fumbled with her water bottle, taking long, thirsty gulps.