❝ give yourself
a reason ❞

001. normal

𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐒, and while the world had started to rebuild, Ingrid Banner found herself lost in the quiet aftermath. From the outside, everything seemed normal— almost painfully so. She had a boyfriend, the kind who worried about homework while also juggling the responsibilities of being Spider-Man. Sometimes, she even hung out with his friends, laughing at their jokes and pretending she fit in with their simple, uncomplicated lives. And she had a totally normal dad now, too. Well, as normal as a father could be when he was the Hulk. Bruce was more grounded these days, perhaps trying too hard to make up for lost time. He fussed over things like dinner, curfews, and homework. Every night, it was the same— he would remind her of her 11 p.m. curfew, like she was a normal sixteen-year old and not someone who had fought in a galactic war.

Everything was finally normal. But Ingrid wasn’t satisfied.

Most nights, she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of it all pressing down on her chest. She had been fighting for this— this elusive sense of normalcy that so many had sacrificed their lives for. And yet, it gnawed at her, leaving her restless. She often felt ungrateful, ashamed that she couldn’t just enjoy what she'd thought she wanted all along. Wasn't this the dream? A regular life? Something people died for?

But no matter how hard she tried, there was always something pulling her away from it. A force she couldn't resist. It was like an itch just beneath her skin, pulling her toward dark rooftops and alleyways, where the world was anything but safe and predictable. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the need for control— whatever it was, it always brought her back to this.

That's how she found herself in a shadowy alleyway, the dim streetlight barely illuminating the scene in front of her. Another robbery. Another night where she couldn’t just walk away.

Ingrid’s fist connected with the robber’s jaw, the sound of the impact echoing off the narrow brick walls. The man staggered backward, his hand slapping the cold, unforgiving concrete behind him. He looked up at her with wide, terrified eyes, but Ingrid didn’t stop. She knew the woman he'd been robbing was long gone, having fled the moment Ingrid intervened. But Ingrid was still fighting.

Punch after punch, she kept going. At some point, she wasn't even sure who she was fighting anymore— the man in front of her or something deeper inside herself. Something that screamed for release.

Sometimes, Ingrid wondered if she enjoyed this more than she should. The rush, the control, the power in her fists. She told herself it was justice, that she was making the world safer. But as the man slumped to the ground, clutching his face in pain, she felt no satisfaction. There was nothing fair about this fight, and she knew it.

Her breathing was heavy, her fists clenched tight as her mind spun with thoughts she couldn’t quite grasp. For a moment, she closed her eyes, willing the chaos in her head to quiet. When she opened them again, the robber was gone. She blinked, disoriented, scanning the alley. He was gone, and she was alone in the dark.

The only thing that proved the fight had even happened was the smear of blood on the wall. The same blood that now covered her hands and the fabric of her suit. For a brief moment, panic bubbled in her chest. She’d caused this. She had done this.

But instead of letting the fear take over, Ingrid forced herself to take slow, deliberate breaths. In and out, in and out. Her feet moved on their own, carrying her toward a familiar fire escape she'd climbed more times than she could count.

Without thinking, she flew up, landing on the metal grates with a soft, almost inaudible thud. The world seemed quieter up here, the city sounds muffled by the height and the distance. She approached the window, her knuckles tapping three slow, deliberate knocks against the glass.

She waited, feeling the cool night air on her skin, the adrenaline slowly fading but not quite gone. Just as she raised her hand to knock again, the window creaked open.

On the other side of the glass was a familiar face, warm and comforting, despite the late hour. He always waited up for her. Peter stood there, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern. His messy hair stuck up in different directions, like he'd just woken up.

Ingrid felt a smile tug at her lips, a faint smirk replacing the storm of emotions still swirling inside her. “Hey there, Juliet,” she joked, her voice softer than usual.

Peter raised an eyebrow, clearly fighting the urge to ask what had happened. He’d seen her like this before, bruised and bloodied, but he never pushed too hard for answers. “You know, I’ve told you a hundred times— if anyone’s Juliet, it’s you,” he said, stepping aside to let her in.

Ingrid climbed inside with a heavy sigh, feeling the familiar warmth of Peter's room wrap around her like a blanket. She took a moment to let the coziness of it all sink in—the cluttered desk, the posters, the faint smell of something uniquely Peter. But her body was still buzzing from the fight, and her mind was a mess of swirling thoughts she didn’t want to confront. Without a word, she moved toward his closet, already knowing where she was headed.

"And just when I thought you came to see me," Peter teased from behind, his tone light but carrying that unmistakable affection.

Ingrid shot him a glance, a smirk playing on her lips as she rummaged through his clothes. She pulled out one of his shirts, holding it up as if she were inspecting it like fine fabric. "I did come to see you," she said, her voice soft with amusement. "But I also came to steal your clothes."

Peter chuckled, watching her with that boyish grin that made everything feel less heavy. "You know, I’m starting to think you only date me for my wardrobe."

Ingrid smiled, slipping out of the top of her suit and pulling Peter's shirt over her head. The fabric hung loosely on her, soft and familiar against her skin. "What can I say? It’s comfy," she teased, her voice more playful now, though there was still a weight beneath it all. “Besides, you know I can’t go home looking like this. My dad will literally freak out.”

Peter settled onto his bed, bouncing slightly on the mattress before raising an eyebrow at her. "You could've just come through the front door, you know. We have one of those," he joked, watching her with that mix of concern and humor he always carried when she showed up like this.

Ingrid glanced down at her dark pants, checking for any bloodstains. Satisfied that they were clean, she finally looked up at him, her smile mirroring his. "Yeah, I’m not sure how your aunt would react if she saw me like this, though." She gestured vaguely to the dried blood on her arms. "Covered in blood and dirt, she'd probably think I’m some horror movie extra."

Peter grinned, standing up and crossing the small space between them. "She’d probably kill you more for those bloody footprints on the carpet."

Ingrid winced, turning to see the trail of faint red smears leading from the window. "Shit, I’m sorry—"

Before she could finish, Peter closed the distance between them, his lips pressing softly against hers. The kiss took her by surprise, but only for a second. The warmth of it spread through her, chasing away the chill of the night and the lingering adrenaline. Her hands instinctively moved up to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her fingertips. For a moment, everything else— the blood, the fight, the chaos —disappeared. It was just them, wrapped in each other, in the safety of this small room.

When Peter pulled away, his eyes stayed locked on hers, his face flushed with the familiar warmth of embarrassment. “I… uh… sorry. I just… missed you.”

Ingrid blinked, the ghost of the kiss still lingering on her lips. She smiled softly, her heart doing a little flip. “I missed you too, Parker.”

They stood there in the quiet for a beat, just breathing, letting the tension settle into something more manageable.

Peter cleared his throat, his hand nervously running through his hair. "So, uh… we’re going on this school trip soon. Europe. Gonna see all the big spots—Paris, Venice, London." He spoke quickly, like he was trying to fill the silence before it swallowed them both.

Ingrid looked down, picking up her discarded suit and using it to wipe away the blood still clinging to her hands and shoes. There was something about the way he said it— so casual, so normal —that tugged at something deep inside her. She glanced up at him, her eyes softening as she offered a small smile. "That sounds fun. You excited?"

“Yeah,” Peter said, but his voice carried an unmistakable hesitation, a crack of uncertainty she hadn't heard before. “I guess. I mean, it’s just… I think I wanna lay low for a bit, you know? Be normal for once. No saving the world or worrying about… bad guys. Just... be a kid, even if it’s just for a little while.”

Ingrid’s smile faltered, the cheerful expression slipping from her face as quickly as it had come. She turned her gaze to the pile of clothes, pretending to be absorbed in folding them, but Peter’s words echoed louder in her head than anything she could focus on. Normal. The idea struck her harder than she thought it would. Normal— something she should want, right? Something everyone had told her she deserved. But did she even know what normal was anymore?

She wasn’t sure.

Peter kept talking, oblivious to the shift in the air between them. “Maybe I can actually focus on school, hang out with my friends, and just… be a regular high school kid for once. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

The room suddenly felt too small, too quiet. Ingrid swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking into her chest. Peter had a chance— he could walk away from this life, go back to who he used to be. But her? She wasn't sure she could anymore. The idea of stepping away from the chaos, the missions, the fighting— it left a hollow pit in her stomach. Could she even be normal if she tried? Would she want to?

She realized she’d been silent too long, her silence stretching into something awkward and heavy. She forced a nod, her head bobbing a little too quickly. “Yeah, totally,” she said, though her voice wavered, betraying her attempt at enthusiasm. “What time is it?”

Peter, still unaware of her inner turmoil, scratched the back of his neck and glanced at the clock. “Uh, ten thirty. You’ve got half an hour.”

“Shit.” Ingrid muttered under her breath, hands moving to shove the rest of her clothes into her backpack. The sudden burst of movement felt like a release, something to do with her hands so her thoughts wouldn’t spin out of control. “I’ll have to fly home.”

She stood abruptly, walking over to Peter and leaning in to give him a quick peck on the lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Peter replied, smiling at her as if everything was fine, as if her world wasn’t quietly unraveling beneath her feet.

Ingrid returned the smile, though it felt brittle, like something that could crack with the slightest pressure. She pulled open the door to his room, but the moment she stepped out, the weight of everything hit her again, heavier this time.

She froze when she saw May sitting on the couch, the soft glow of the TV casting shadows across the room. The woman’s eyes shifted from the screen to Ingrid, her lips curving into a gentle smile, as if she already knew something was off.

“Hi, Ingrid,” May greeted her, her voice warm and inviting.

Ingrid sighed, feeling the tension in her chest tighten. “Hi, Mrs. Parker,” she replied with a small wave, her own voice sounding strangely distant to her ears.

“I told you, you can call me May,” May said kindly, her smile never faltering.

Ingrid managed a weak nod, though her mind was already elsewhere, tangled up in Peter’s words. Normal. She couldn’t shake it. She should have said something— asked him more about what he meant, what he wanted. Was he pulling away from her? From this life? Did he still see a future with her if he wanted normal and she… well, she wasn’t sure if she could ever be that again.

“Right,” she muttered absentmindedly, glancing at the clock on the wall. Panic surged up again, reminding her of the time. “I—I have to go. Bye, May.”

May gave her a soft, knowing look, as if she could sense something wasn’t quite right. “Bye, Ingrid,” she called gently as Ingrid reached for the front door, her voice barely audible as the door clicked shut behind her.

.ೃ࿔*:･

Once Ingrid made it home, she carefully twisted the doorknob, easing the front door open without a sound. She didn’t want to wake her dad, especially if he’d managed to get some sleep for once. She slipped inside, the soft creak of the door barely audible in the quiet of the night. Her heart still raced, though, not from the urgency to meet her curfew but from the conversation she couldn’t stop replaying with Peter.

Normal.

She made it home just a minute before her curfew, grateful she wasn’t late. As she tiptoed past the kitchen, a dim light caught her eye, and she realized someone was still awake.

"Hey, you're home," Bruce called out, his voice calm but carrying the weariness of someone who hadn’t slept much.

Ingrid paused in her tracks, closing her eyes for a brief moment before turning and heading towards the kitchen. She hadn’t prepared herself for a conversation, not after the long day and the strange feeling Peter’s words had left behind.

“Yeah,” she sighed, dropping into the seat at the kitchen counter. Exhaustion hit her all at once as she put her head in her hands, rubbing her eyes as if she could wipe away the weariness that clung to her bones.

Bruce stood at the counter, holding a mug of something hot. He studied her quietly for a moment before speaking. “How’s Peter doing?”

“He’s good. Yeah, he’s good,” Ingrid replied, her voice strained. She noticed Bruce was watching her, his eyes fixed on her face, though she couldn’t quite tell what he was thinking. His gaze felt heavy, like he was looking for something he couldn’t see. To fill the silence, she kept talking. “He’s going on this trip to Europe soon. He’s really excited and—”

Bruce raised his hand, interrupting her. He leaned closer, his fingers gently brushing against a strand of her hair. When he pulled his hand back, his fingertips were stained with red.

Ingrid’s heart sank. She’d forgotten. The blood.

Bruce frowned, holding his hand up for her to see. “Ingrid… This is blood.”

Ingrid grimaced, her instinct to brush it off kicking in almost immediately. She smiled awkwardly, hoping to lighten the moment. “If it makes you feel any better, it’s most likely not mine.”

Bruce’s expression darkened as his eyebrows knitted together in concern. “Most likely?”

She shifted uncomfortably, avoiding his gaze. “Probably,” she muttered, her voice softer now. “It’s nothing, Dad, really.”

Bruce shook his head, his worry deepening. He set the mug down, his hand resting on the counter as if to steady himself. “You said you’d be more careful. This isn’t… this isn’t nothing.”

Ingrid looked at him, her chest tightening with guilt. She didn’t want to lie to him, but she also didn’t want to deal with this right now. “It’s just a scratch,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “I couldn’t even feel it. You’ve seen worse.”

“But I don’t want to keep seeing worse,” Bruce said, his voice breaking through the tension with a softness that made her stomach twist. There was something raw in his tone, something that made her feel like a child again. “Look, I know you’re trying to do everything. I know you think you have to be out there, saving lives, being a hero... but you don’t have to.”

She blinked, staring at the countertop instead of him. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, a shield against the vulnerability creeping in. “I can’t just sit back and do nothing.”

"I’m not asking you to do nothing," Bruce began softly, but there was a weight behind his words that made Ingrid bristle. "I’m asking you to slow down. Maybe take a step back..." His voice wavered just a little, a hesitation Ingrid recognized well— it always came before something he knew she wouldn’t like. "You don’t have to be a superhero all the time. You could just... be a teenager. Have normal friends. Do normal things."

Ingrid laughed, but it was sharp, humorless, like the sound didn’t quite belong in the moment. "Normal things?" she echoed, her words laced with a bitterness she didn’t even try to hide. "Dad, I can't just pretend like... like nothing ever happened."

Bruce’s face softened with a kind of sadness that always twisted something inside her. He stepped closer, his posture tense but his eyes full of concern. "I’m not asking you to pretend," he said, voice gentle but firm. "I’m asking you to live. To give yourself a chance at a life that isn’t about fighting battles every single day."

Ingrid’s chest tightened as she crossed her arms tighter, her nails digging into the fabric of her sleeves as if that could hold her together. "But fighting’s what I’m good at," she said, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to keep it steady. She didn’t want him to see the cracks in her armor, but it was hard to hide them when she felt like she was coming apart.

Bruce’s eyes filled with something almost like helplessness, and he reached out but stopped just short of touching her. "That’s not true," he said quietly. "You’re good at a lot more than that. But you’ve been through too much, Ingrid. You’re running yourself into the ground. And I can’t... I can’t stand by and watch you burn out."

His words hung in the air, and for a moment neither of them spoke. Ingrid could feel the weight of everything pressing down on her— the expectations, the battles, the endless sense of responsibility. It felt like it was suffocating her, like there wasn’t enough room left to breathe.

"You really think I should stop?" she asked, her voice smaller now, like the certainty had slipped through her fingers without her even noticing. She hated how uncertain she sounded, hated that she was even asking the question.

Bruce didn’t hesitate this time. "I think you should slow down. Let yourself breathe." He stepped closer, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. "You’ve been carrying so much, Ingrid. More than anyone should ever have to. I just want you to have a life. With friends. With... people who care about you— not because of what you can do, but because of who you are."

Ingrid bit down hard on her bottom lip, willing herself not to cry. She hated feeling like this— so exposed, so raw. The fight that had been fueling her for so long was draining out of her, leaving her feeling hollow. She looked down at the floor, unable to meet his eyes, her thoughts spiraling. "I don’t know if I can just... stop like that," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. The truth was, she wasn’t sure she even knew how to stop.

"I’m not asking you to stop completely," Bruce said, his hand still warm and comforting on her shoulder. "But maybe just take a step back for now. Give yourself a break. You’ve earned that much."

There was a long, tense pause. Ingrid shifted in her seat, the weight of his words pressing on her from all sides, making her feel trapped. She wasn’t ready to admit he was right, but a part of her knew that he was. Still, there was a deep fear gnawing at her, the fear that if she slowed down, if she took a step back, she’d lose something— her purpose, her identity, maybe even herself.

"Okay..." she said at last, her voice hesitant, like she wasn’t quite sure if she believed the words even as she said them. "Maybe I could slow down a bit." The words felt foreign on her tongue, not quite real, but she had to say something, even if it didn’t feel like a promise she could keep.

Bruce smiled, though it was small and tinged with relief. He could see the reluctance in her eyes, the way she wasn’t fully convinced, but he didn’t push. "That’s all I’m asking," he said softly. "Just... give yourself a break, okay? And who knows, it might help with those nightmares you've been having."

He said the last sentence so casually, but it hit Ingrid like a punch to the gut. Her body tensed involuntarily, her mind flashing back to the nights she woke up drenched in sweat, her heart pounding as the same images of fire and destruction haunted her. She’d never told him the full extent of the nightmares, but somehow, he always knew. Her posture stiffened as she fought the urge to react, but her silence was answer enough.

Bruce noticed the change in her, and though he didn’t say anything, he began rubbing her back gently, his touch steady and soothing. But Ingrid’s mind was already racing, torn between the promise of slowing down and the pull of what she’d been trained to do— what she’d become so used to doing that it felt like the only thing that made sense anymore.

Could she really just slow down? Could she just... be Ingrid, without the weight of being a hero hanging over her?

She wasn’t sure she knew how to be that person anymore.