"Yeah," she agreed. "She is." What else was there to say? She'd chosen her words well the first time she'd told Tony he had a daughter: she's a perfect thing, and she was. Down to the last detail, if Tony Stark could have described the child he would have wanted, it would have been every little thing Morgan was. Smart, and good with numbers, and wanted to learn to tinker, and adored her father, sweet and clever, mischievous and just the right amount of mean.
She turned her head to look at him, and it was - what she had expected, the ravaged look on his face. Devastated and so awed at the same time, clearly already ass over feet for this little girl he would probably never get to hold in his arms.
Her own face had sort of - collapsed inward, in a way, something crumpled in it that would have been difficult to articulate, to put a point on. But it was both of them sitting here in it, both of them with a crack somewhere inside for reasons similar enough, and she closed her eyes, tipped her forehead against his in the spot where she'd kissed him as she walked onto the porch. If she'd been told a decade ago that she could exist in a quietly intimate, heartwrenching moment with Tony Stark, she never would have believed it. "I did a lot of things badly, when I got here," she told him. "I wasn't - it was. A lot. It was. It's not an excuse. But I shouldn't have - if I had been myself, I would never have just blurted this out, Tony, I swear, I would not have done this to you. I would have sat with it. I would have thought about - if it would spare you something, for me to keep it to myself. And maybe I still would have told you, and maybe I wouldn't have but the way I did this - "