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Morgan Stark doesn't remember her father.
Well, she does, just not the way people expect her to. She remembers fragments and pieces, the occasional snippet of who he used to be. She remembers the late nights sitting on his lap while he was working, a glass of milk in her hand. She remembers the tent (which was quickly taken down after his death- it was too painful for her mother) and their imagination filled stories.
She doesn't remember his voice.
She doesn't remember his laughter. Well, not quite. She's heard it on old news recordings she searches on youtube when she's drunk on sleep deprivation and her door is locked. It sounds manufactured, like something that was perfectly practised in front of the mirror specifically for newspaper interviews and the likes. She tried perfecting hers once. It didn't work out.
Morgan broaches the subject the subject of her father with everyone and then with her mother, who answers all her questions even though Morgan knows it's like rubbing salt into the wound; yet with the more she is provided the more questions she thinks of.
"Uncle James?" She asked once while helping him clean out the back garden. He hummed in response. "How did my dad die?"
A clatter and swearing followed her question as Rhodey dropped the sheers he was holding onto his foot. "Why do you ask?" He said once the pain subsided.
"Mom keeps telling me it's because he saved the world, but if he saved the world then why isn't he here?"
"Listen, Morgan," Rhodey crouched down so they were at eye level. "Your father loved you very much, don't you ever forget that. Sometimes saving the world means making sacrifices for the people you love."
Morgan never asked him again.
She never asked anyone again, until Peter.
The first time she met him his eyes were red rimmed and he was shaking. The black suit he wore made him look like a secret agent and when she asked him if he was he just laughed (it was a strained gargling noise but nevertheless a laugh).
“I’m Peter, Peter Parker.” He bent down and held out his hand. She took it over-eagerly sporting another chuckle from him.
“Do you know my dad?” At this Peter’s smile faded away. See, even though in the back of her head she knew her dad was dead she didn’t quite understand what that meant. A hope that he would come back still flared in her heart. A funeral, a casket, it meant nothing to her: she was sure her dad was going to come back. Why would he leave?
“He was my mentor.” Peter cleared his throat and blinked tears out of his eyes. “He was my friend.”
“I didn’t know that.” It was true, Tony had never mentioned Peter in their conversations. When Morgan asked who it was that he kept the picture of above the kitchen sink he merely brushed it off and changed the subject.
“Well, it’s true. It’s nice to meet you Morgan.” And with that final goodbye Peter stood up and left. He left her dumbfound trying to figure out how he knew her name.
Since then she saw him more frequently, working in her father’s work shop, coming over for dinner every so often and eventually just to visit her.
He took the role of an older brother in her life. Peter was there ready to catch her when she first learnt to ride a bike. They went on adventures and explored the woods together, he took her to his university where he would teach her astrophysics and chemistry.
He was ready with ice cream when a boy broke her heart but more importantly he was there when she won her fifth-grade science fair, and then again in sixth grade and in seventh grade and in eight and so on.
Morgan took on after her father’s work with the help of peter and slowly she began to learn who her father was. This time it wasn’t from newspaper articles or her mother it was from Peter’s eyes.
Iron Man became her new obsession. Then The Great War and the Five Years of Disappearance that followed. She asked Peter about it and at first, he was hesitant. Eventually she caught him dead tired and made him opened up.
Quickly she learnt that the signs of the war where still everywhere. Families got confused for being a group of friends, posters for group meetings and therapy sessions were on every corner, advertisements bragged about their ability to mask nightmares.
Peter would rarely stay over but when he did Morgan would hear him talk or cry, or on the good days say nothing but shiver.
On the good days, their work hours were filled with stories of the Snap or of her father’s witty retorts and remarks. On the bad days Peter simply wouldn’t talk. Morgan had to learn
how not to blame him.
But they moved forward slowly. Her dad intruded on her thoughts less and less and Peter began to sleep without nightmares, though neither of them ever forgot.
And now, once again, on her nineteenth birthday Peter’s there, smiling proudly at her acceptance letter from MIT.