.ೃ࿔*:･𝐱𝐱𝐱𝐢𝐢. i knew you'd haunt all of my what-ifs

𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐃 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐅𝐎𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒, replaying the kiss over and over in her mind like a scene from a movie she couldn't turn off. The motel room felt like a cage, the peeling wallpaper and the faint smell of stale cigarettes only adding to her sense of suffocation. Time lost its meaning; each day bled into the next until they were indistinguishable from one another. She didn’t even remember the last time she had stepped outside.

She would lie on the creaky bed, staring up at the stained ceiling, her mind wandering to Peter. Did he think about the kiss as much as she did? Did it haunt him the way it haunted her? Was it just a fleeting moment for him, or did it carry the same weight? The uncertainty gnawed at her, a constant ache that wouldn’t let up.

With a heavy sigh, Ingrid sat up, the mattress protesting with a loud creak. The room was a mess, a physical manifestation of the turmoil inside her. Empty soda cans littered the floor, and takeout bags were scattered across the nightstand, their contents long forgotten. She knew she should clean up, do something—anything—to pull herself out of this rut, but she felt paralyzed, stuck in a loop of what-ifs and unanswered questions.

Suddenly, the room was filled with a blinding flash of yellow light, and a circular portal shimmered into existence, its edges crackling with energy. Ingrid blinked, convinced that her exhausted mind was playing tricks on her. She rubbed her eyes furiously, but when she opened them again, the portal was still there, and a man now stood before her, his presence both imposing and surreal.

Panic surged through her. Without hesitation, Ingrid’s hand darted to the bedside table, where she kept a gun within arm's reach. She sprang from the bed, her heart pounding in her chest as she aimed the weapon directly at the stranger. He remained unfazed, his expression calm as if this was nothing out of the ordinary.

"Ingrid Banner, I'm Doctor Stephen Strange. I need you to come with me," the man said, his voice steady and authoritative.

Ingrid’s grip on the gun tightened as her mind raced. She narrowed her eyes, suspicion flaring up inside her. “Who sent you?” she demanded, her voice edged with tension. “Tony?” She spat the name with a mixture of bitterness and fear, her hand trembling slightly despite her effort to keep it steady. “Ross?” The name escaped her lips like venom, dripping with disdain.

Dr. Strange shook his head slowly. “Your father.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and disorienting. Before Ingrid could fully process them, another figure emerged from the portal behind Strange—one that made her breath catch in her throat. Bruce stepped into the room, looking worn and uncertain, but undeniably real.

“Hey, Ingrid,” Bruce said, his voice awkward, his hand lifting in a tentative wave.

Ingrid’s world seemed to tilt. She stood there, gun still raised but her resolve crumbling as she stared at her father. He was here. Alive. Standing in front of her after all this time. Her hand slackened, and the gun lowered, falling onto the bed with a soft thud. For a moment, she was paralyzed, unable to move, think, or breathe.

Bruce took a cautious step forward, his eyes scanning the rundown motel room, taking in the evidence of her isolation, her struggle. His expression shifted, a mix of guilt and concern crossing his face as he realized just how far his daughter had fallen.

Ingrid, too, was struck by the reality of the situation—her father was here, in the flesh, after so long apart. The motel room, with its chipped paint and flickering light, faded into the background. The anger and resentment she had harbored for him, for leaving her, dissolved in an instant, overwhelmed by a flood of emotion she could no longer contain.

Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision as they began to fall freely down her cheeks. The dam of stoicism she had built around herself cracked, then shattered entirely. With a broken sob, she crossed the distance between them in two quick steps and threw herself into Bruce’s arms.

Bruce hesitated for only a second before wrapping his arms around her, holding her tightly as she wept against his chest. The years of separation, the pain of abandonment, and the fear of never seeing him again all poured out of her in those tears. Bruce’s own eyes glistened with unshed tears as he clutched his daughter.

"Why did you leave?" Ingrid's voice trembled, the words escaping through barely muffled sobs as she clung to her father, her fingers digging into his shirt as if she feared he might vanish if she let go.

Bruce held her tightly, his own heart breaking at the pain in her voice. He kissed the top of her head, feeling the weight of her question. He knew there was no simple answer, no easy way to explain the choices he had made. The guilt gnawed at him, leaving him with only one thing to say, "I'm so sorry."

But Ingrid wasn’t satisfied. The hurt in her chest demanded more than just an apology. "How could you leave?" she repeated, her voice cracking under the strain of her emotions.

"I'm so sorry," Bruce echoed, his voice thick with regret. He gently pulled away, though only enough to cup her tear-streaked face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling. He wanted so badly to give her the answers she deserved, to make her understand why he had left, but the urgency of the moment didn’t allow for it. "You deserve an explanation and an apology, and I promise you’ll get it. But we need to go now."

Ingrid furrowed her brows, confusion momentarily cutting through her grief. "Go where?"

Bruce didn’t answer, his focus shifting back to the portal as his grip on her hand tightened. Without giving her time to resist, he started pulling her towards the swirling gateway. Ingrid’s instincts kicked in, and she reflexively grabbed her backpack, slinging it over her shoulder just as Bruce led her through the portal.

In an instant, the dingy motel room vanished, replaced by the vibrant greens of Central Park. The sudden change in lighting made Ingrid blink rapidly as her eyes adjusted from the dim motel room to the bright, sunny day. The familiar sights and sounds of New York flooded her senses, bringing with them a wave of panic that threatened to drown her.

She couldn’t be here. Not in New York. She had to leave—had to get out before—

But before she could act on that instinct, Bruce emerged from behind Strange, still holding onto her hand as if afraid she might bolt. His voice was calm, almost too calm, as he greeted, "Hey, Tony."

Ingrid froze at the sound of Tony’s name, her heart racing as if it might leap out of her chest. She couldn’t be here, couldn’t face him. Her breath quickened, and she instinctively grabbed Bruce’s sleeve, tugging it like a child silently begging her father to take her home—anywhere but here.

Tony stood just a few paces away, his expression flickering with surprise before settling into something more unreadable. "Bruce," he said, as if trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

Beside him, Pepper stood, her eyes full of quiet concern as she took in the scene. Bruce gave her a small wave. "Pepper."

"Hi," Pepper greeted, her voice soft.

Tony’s gaze shifted back to Bruce, his brow furrowing slightly. "You okay?" he asked, his tone laced with concern as he studied Bruce’s face. In response, Bruce stepped forward and pulled Tony into a brief, tight hug, bypassing the question altogether.

Meanwhile, Ingrid’s panic intensified. She felt exposed, as if everyone in the park was watching her. Her eyes darted around, searching for a place she could run to if she had to.

"Ingrid," Tony’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts, pulling her back into the moment. She narrowed her eyes, instinctively crossing her arms over her chest, her stance defensive.

The tension between them was palpable, and Bruce couldn’t help but notice it. "Wait," he said, his voice edged with confusion. "Did something happen between you two?"

"You could say that," Ingrid replied coldly, her gaze locked onto Tony with a mix of anger and hurt that she couldn’t fully mask.

Tony’s lips curled into a slight smile, a reaction that only made Ingrid’s blood boil hotter. "You can loosen up, kid. I’m not going to call Ross," he said, the casual tone of his voice grating on her nerves.

"Ross?" Bruce looked between them, his confusion deepening. He turned to Tony, searching his face for answers. "Why would you have to call Ross?"

A heavy silence followed. Ingrid and Tony exchanged a look, both seemingly grappling with the decision of who would be the one to tell Bruce the ugly truth. But before either could muster the words, Strange stepped in, his tone firm and unyielding. "You’ll catch up later. We need to go now."