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Morgan Stark has never considered herself unlucky. To do so would be a spit in the face to the less fortunate, which, in the words of Glinda: “who isn’t, less fortunate than I?”.
Morgan has enjoyed a life of great privilege coupled with little notoriety. Her mother and father successfully kept her out of the press until her father’s death, and after the public mourning died down the paps have mostly left her alone. Stark Industries has become nothing more than another run-of-the-mill tech company, and as the heiress she might show up in a YouTube compilation of “Twenty Richest Kids in America” with a picture of her from when she still had braces, but that’s it.
Her Dad died, yeah, but that happens to a lot of people. Her child therapist used to point out her Dad didn’t choose to leave, which, no duh. Morgan doesn’t remember her Dad that well but she does know he never would’ve chosen to leave her. Of course then Kara would point out it was okay to still be mad at him anyway, which Morgan was, a little. Mostly she was just…sad.
But Dads die. It ‘s a thing, it happened to plenty of people, and losing her Dad didn’t make Morgan special.
It did make her lonely though. It still does.
Morgan’s never really had friends. She loves her Mom, and her Mom’s family, and when they fly to Nebraska for Thanksgiving it’s a good time even if Samantha always wants to talk about if Morgan’s met Johnny Storm (yes, once) and if he’s as cute as they say (yes, but he knows it). But they’re in Nebraska, and Morgan is in New York, and according to her Mom the private jet is not a toy.
Uncle Rhodey drops by every couple of months, and he talks to her like she’s his equal, which she’s always liked. But sometimes he looks at her and she knows she makes him sad, even though he’s trying not to show it.
And kids her own age are…hard. The only people she even sort of relates to are the other heirs/heiresses she meets at the galas once in a while, but even they’re kind of nuts. They grew up in cities, not cabins, and they have guys on call for drugs and booze and ins at clubs, and to them the private jet is definitely a toy.
Which brings her to two days ago. Morgan had gone to Harry Osborn’s private table at TAO at his invitation and it was capital T.M. Too Much. All those packed bodies, music so loud she could hardly think, men she didn’t know putting a hand on her back and people asking her if she wanted stuff she couldn’t legally have and wasn’t ready to try either way. She’d stayed for about a half hour, drinking plain cranberry juice before her chest had gotten too tight and she’d had to leave.
Her Mom had let her go probably expecting that exact response, and afterwards they’d sat down in their pajamas with a box of pizza and talked about her Dad’s life growing up, and how whether her Mom liked it or not she’d be exposed to the same stuff he was and she’d have to make her own choices about it. Morgan had gone to bed that night and dreamed of her Dad as a teenager sitting at her lunch table, grinning at her as he stole her biology homework he already knew how to do, and when she woke up her heart was aching and she was still alone.
Which was why she’d done an about face this morning after being driven to school, away from the front doors and through the gates, down the street. She’d walked for a little while, New Yorkers paying her no attention the way New Yorkers did. Then she’d spotted the fire escape. Her first jump had been epically bad, she’d skinned her knee and looked both ways when she got up, face flushing. Her second jump was equally poor but her third snagged the bar that came down with a clang and her very uncool squeal of surprise.
And then somehow she is chilling on a roof, success making her grin. She opens a pack of Hot Cheetos, the breakfast of champions, and then her mom calls.
“Hey Mom, what’s up?” she asks through a mouthful.
“Why don’t I let you answer that one?” her mom asks dryly. “Or did you forget we share a Find My Friends?” Morgan finishes chewing.
“Would you take 'good ol’ fashion teenage rebellion' as an adequate and complete response?” Morgan asks.
“Not particularly,” her mom says. “You have a security detail for a reason, Emmy.”
“I know, but it’s not like I’m,” Morgan starts, stops. She makes a wordless noise of frustration because yes, she has a security detail but also she’s on a roof and she’s not gonna get kidnapped on this rando roof.
When it becomes clear she doesn’t know what to say, her mom responds, tone gentler. “FRIDAY let me know where you are. I’m going to send your location to Boris. He won’t come get you, he’ll just hang around, okay? You know the car.”
Somehow her mom’s sympathy seems worse than any anger. Not really a rebellion when it’s officially sanctioned by a parent. “Yeah, okay,” Morgan mumbles, wiping cheeto dust off her pants and only succeeding in spreading red streaks across her jeans. “Thanks.”
“You want to talk about it?” her mom asks. Morgan thinks about it. What would she say? She’s too rich and too smart? Everyone wants to protect her too much? Her dead dad died too heroically?
“Not really,” she says, because her mom is a Fixer. And this isn’t really something you can fix.
“Okay,” her mom says, and it’s weird how knowing it is despite how Morgan didn’t actually say anything. But then again, her mom kind of knows everything. “I love you, Morgan.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
She continues to hang out on the roof, taking some pictures with her phone for later. She spots Boris’ car, and then Boris, who spots her back and waves before getting back in the car to probably do the New York Times spelling bee. Today’s pangram was UNINVITED.
Sometime later, she hears a high “thwip” noise from behind her, which doesn’t really register, followed by light footsteps, which do. She has a split second heart attack realization of oh no, I might actually get kidnapped on this rando roof before she turns around and sees Spider-Man.
“Hi Morgan,” he says.
“Hi Peter,” she says. “Uh, cheeto?” she offers, thrusting the bag forward. He pulls off the mask, fluffing up his hair.
“Oh sweet, yeah,” he says, “thanks,” grabbing a few and tossing them back. “Breakfast of champs,” he says with a grin. Morgan blinks.
It’s not that she doesn’t like Peter, she just…doesn’t really know him. They’ve met a couple of times since her Dad brought him back, but they’ve never really talked. The only real time she spent with him was when he was on trial, and she was a little too young at the time to really understand what was going on, beyond how furious her Mom was, and how pale and quiet Peter had been, sitting on her couch eating one of her fruit pops. They’d paid for his lawyer and her Mom had testified, and Peter had gone off the radar for a few years following, doing who knows what.
But when Spider-Man returned, he really returned. He’d gone on to head the Young Avengers, his face gets plastered everywhere as the hope of a new generation and he’s at the UN regularly, shaking hands or what passes for hands with legit aliens while simultaneously creating his own fledgling tech company. And Morgan’s Mom has made it a point to really step back from all of that stuff. Stark Industries official stance is having parted ways with the Avengers brand.
Guess her mom still keeps in touch with Peter, though.
“Did my mom call you?” she asks, sort of annoyed because again who the heck is gonna kidnap her from this rando roof, Boris is right there—
“She might’ve mentioned a lone Stark, yeah,” Peter says, plopping his butt on the edge of the roof. He swings his legs to face her with the confidence of a man who knows he won’t fall (unless he wants to) and pats the seat beside him. She plops down, knowing he won’t let her fall either.
“How’ve you been?” Peter asks, staring out at the New York City skyline. It’s the face they put in the magazines, the one that is indescribably fond of the city and its inhabitants. Morgan feels some anger leech out of her at that face, against her will.
“Dunno,” she mumbles, unable to find it in herself to lie to him. Peter swings his legs back and forth. He’s patient, in a way Morgan tends to hate, because she always cracks first.
True to form, she asks after a minute that feels like an hour: “What did my Mom say?”
Peter shrugs. “She said you were on a roof by your school and wanted to know if I’d stop by, as the resident roof guy.”
“Resident roof guy?”
“Oh yeah,” Peter says, putting his hands behind his head, “that’s me. I know all these roofs. I sunbathed on that roof last Thursday,” he says, nodding at a nearby building, “I’m on a first name basis with the pigeons and everything.”
Morgan snorts, despite herself. Peter laughs. “Oh man, Tony made that exact same noise,” he says, before stopping cold.
Morgan rolls her eyes. “You can talk about my dead dad, Peter, it’s cool,” she says. “I’ve had therapy all up in this bitch.”
Peter laughs again, eyes wide. “Wow. Look at you, all grown up and cursing.”
“Dad taught me my first curse word when I was five,” she says, the memory floating to the surface. “He tried to bribe me with popsicles to keep quiet.”
Peter chuckles. “Clearly didn’t work,” he says. He’s remembering her dad, she can tell, tipping his head and smiling warmly at the sky.
“What was he like?” she asks.
Peter blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Um,”
“With you, I mean. I feel like he was different with everyone. What was he like with you?”
Peter rubs at the back of his head. “I guess he was, uh, The Tony Stark,” he says. “He was sarcastic and smart and cool and I was totally engaged in hero worship, the whole time,” he says.
“And?” Morgan demands. Peter shifts awkwardly.
“Tony and I weren’t particularly close, Morgan,” he admits. “I only saw him a few times before everything happened. We texted some, but it was mostly me to him. He was a busy guy, being Iron Man and all.”
“I don’t believe you,” Morgan says flatly. “My dad had a picture of you and him in our kitchen in the cabin. It’s still there,” she says. She’s gotten so used to it she barely thinks of it anymore, just another decoration above the sink.
This is clearly new information to Peter.
“Oh,” he says. He laughs to himself, muttering something she can’t hear. He snags another cheeto and chews it thoughtfully.
“There are people we meet sometimes, however brief, that completely change the course of our lives,” he eventually says. “Your dad was that person for me. I was just sort of muddling by as neighborhood vigilante Spider-Man and then he was in my apartment, charming the heck out of my Aunt and inviting me to Germany. He…saw something in me, not just because of Spider-Man. I found out later he wrote a recommendation letter for me to MIT. I was sixteen.
“He was…kind. Considerate, though he tried to hide it. Tony,” he laughs, sidetracked. “I used to call him Mr. Stark and he hated it. Wanted me to call him Tony. I never did,” he sighs, “Well I did, actually. Just the once, the day he died.”
“You were there?” Morgan interrupts. Peter’s eyes snap to hers, flashing guiltily.
“Morgan—“
“Peter, tell me,” Morgan says, demands. She doesn’t ask her mom, they don’t talk about it. But Peter isn’t her mom.
“Yeah,” he admits after a moment. “I was there.” He doesn’t say anything else.
Morgan kicks her feet out. “Okay,” she says.
And then, like a zit popping, she says it: “Sometimes I think if he were alive he’d be my best friend.”
And more: “Because I don’t have any friends because I don’t get people and they don’t get me but he would’ve gotten me. He did get me. He was my best friend.”
And she can’t look at Peter because she doesn’t want to see how pitying he looks, except he takes her hand instead and says “You were homeschooled for a really long time, huh.”
She stares at him blankly, mouth dropping open.
“It’s always the homeschooled ones,” he says, shaking his head.
Morgan rips her hand out of his. “You don’t get it!” she says, voice coming out at almost a screech. Her face reddens against her will. “He was different!”
“Yeah,” Peter says, shrugging, “but you were also five. At fifteen I think you probably would’ve found him kind of annoying. I did,” he says, then, almost to himself, “huh, I forgot about that.”
“You said you hero-worshipped him,” Morgan snaps.
“Yeah but he was also condescending. Like a lot. Because he knew he was smarter than everyone else. And controlling. As a teenager I definitely found it grating. He put a protocol in my suit that reported everything I did back to him and called it the Baby Monitor. We fought about it. We fought a couple of times, actually.” Peter says, smiling despite his words.
Morgan gapes at him wordlessly as he stands up on the ledge, pulling out a sleek Starkphone from a side pocket. He types on it quickly, tucks it away and offers her a hand.
“Are you coming?”
“Coming where?” Morgan sputters.
“Johnny has a free period after lunch so we’re going to go pick him up and head to Playa Betty’s,” he says, pulling his mask over his face. “I’m in a burrito mood.”
“I, I can’t,” she says.
“Yeah you can,” Peter says easily. “Pepper said it’s cool. You’ll like Johnny, trust me.”
“We’ve met,” Morgan says numbly, “he’s kind of a prick.”
“Oh yeah, definitely, he’s a smug little shit,” Peter says. “He also grew up in the suburbs with just his sister before being abruptly thrust into the limelight after gaining his powers. So maybe it’s a little bit of an act, like the one your homeschooled butt puts on.”
“I don’t—!”
“You coming or not?” Peter asks.
Morgan hesitates, scared, not just of the height. Peter sees that. He steps back down and sits, hands on his thighs.
“When your Dad died, I blamed myself a lot,” he says. “I took one look at you and felt guilty I didn’t try harder, so that you could still have a dad. And because of that, I kind of pushed you and Pepper away, even when she tried to help me. I didn’t really know her, and I’d barely known Tony. I didn’t feel like I had the right to stick around.” Peter pulls off his mask.
“But that’s not true, Morgan. Tony saw something in me. I remember that now. Sometimes I think if he had lived we would’ve gotten closer. We would’ve been…” Peter doesn’t say it. He doesn’t need to. He knows about the picture above the sink now. “We can dwell on the could-have-beens ‘til the sun sets,” he says, ruefully. “Or you can come get some lunch with me. Your choice.”
Morgan’s stomach twists into knots. She takes a few measured steps back, Peter’s face falling, and grabs her bag.
“I want guac,” she says, putting it on. “And anyone who argues with me is a monster.”
Peter beams at her. “No arguments there,” he says, bending down so she can clamber onto his back. “Heads up, you might barf, most first-timers do.”
“More room for the guac, I guess,” she says over the pounding of her heart, and Peter barks out a laugh.
“Bye Boris!” Morgan yells before devolving into a shriek as Peter dives. But then he snaps out a hand and catches a web, and he doesn’t let her fall. She grips him tighter, swallows back bile, and laughs.