Ask Crimson Weaver

Harry had been grounded, something about his already low grades slipping, and Morgan had shown up on his doorstep to plead his case.

Norman was the one to open the door. He looked down at them with the same curiosity and discomfort you’d give an ant that had crawled on your hand. He made no move to let them in.

Morgan had stared him down, swallowed the lump in their throat, and said, “I want to talk about Harry. Sir.”

Norman looked… bemused. Utterly entertained in a way that made their blood boil. “About him? What, do you want to negotiate the terms of his punishment on his behalf? Because I’ll let you in on a little secret Miss Miller: I don’t negotiate with children.”

“I’m not a—ugh!” Morgan huffed, something about the title made their skin crawl in a way they didn’t quite grasp, “Sir, I just think you’re being too harsh. If you’d let me in, maybe we could talk about it—y’know, properly?”

Norman tilted his head, the smile sharpening into something carnivorous. “You just think I’m being too harsh?” he echoed, making it sound more like he was repeating a riddle than anything. “And what exactly qualifies you to make that assessment? Your charming disregard for authority?”

Morgan’s cheeks flushed, but they didn’t back down. “I know Harry. I know he’s trying. And I know it can be really hard for him to tell you that he needs some extra help.”

Norman’s smile vanished. “And you think I don’t know him?”

“No, sir,” Morgan said before they could stop themself. “I don’t.”

Norman’s eyes narrowed. He pivoted, voice slick with condescension. “Do you make a habit of speaking to your father like this?”

Morgan didn’t blink. “No, sir. I save it for special occasions.”

Norman went still.Something cold settled into his features, like frost creeping across glass.

“Well,” he said finally, voice low and deliberate, “you certainly are a charmer. I see what makes my son so fond of you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Morgan replied, though their stomach twisted.

Norman studied them with a predator’s patience. “You’ve got spirit,” he said, almost admiring. “Bite. Harry doesn’t quite have that.”

“He has plenty of bite,” Morgan said, voice steady. “I think you know that.”

“Not with me,” Norman said, his smile sharp. “He knows better.” He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “Because he is an Osborn. He’s my son.”

The words hung in the air like smoke, possessive and final.

He stepped back, just a fraction. “Go on,” he said, gesturing down the hall. “After all, who am I to deny him company? I’m only his father.” His voice dripped with mock humility. “I’ll walk you to Harry’s room.”

Morgan hesitated, then stepped forward.

The air inside the penthouse was colder than the air outside—refrigerated, almost clinical. The furniture looked expensive but untouched, curated rather than lived in. The only signs of life were Harry’s backpack slumped near the door and his jacket draped over the back of the couch, half-falling, like it had been tossed there in a hurry.

Morgan kept close to the wall, walking a step behind Norman. The hallway stretched longer than it should’ve. Every step echoed against the polished floors, the silence between them thick enough to choke on. Morgan could hear their own heartbeat in their ears.

They stopped outside a door that looked no different from the others, but Morgan knew this one. A dent near the bottom where Harry had kicked it once in frustration. Faint sticker residue near the knob from a band he’d formed last summer that lasted a glorious three weeks. Morgan had made flyers, though they were childish in quality.

Norman didn’t knock.

He yanked the door open without warning, voice syrupy and sharp. “Harry, honey, you have company.”

Morgan tilted their head, confused by the term of endearment.

Inside, the room was dim. Curtains drawn tight. A desk cluttered with notebooks and half-finished homework that Morgan could barely wrap their head around. A hoodie crumpled at the foot of the bed.

Harry was curled up on top of the covers, back to the door, breathing slow and deliberate. Not asleep—just pretending. The oldest trick in the book.

Morgan lingered in the doorway, unsure if they were supposed to step in or wait for permission. Norman didn’t offer either.

So Morgan cleared their throat.

Harry jerked upright, spinning around so fast the blanket tangled around his legs. “Mo?”

Morgan nodded, trying to smile. “Hey.”

Harry’s eyes flicked past them to Norman, still standing in the doorway like a sentry. His shoulders tensed, but he managed a polite nod. “Thanks, Dad.”

Norman returned the gesture, expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he pulled the door shut behind Morgan. The click of the latch was louder than it should have been.

Harry sat up straighter, eyes wide. “What are you doing here?” he asked, voice laced with awe and nerves, like he couldn’t decide if he was grateful or mortified.

“Defending your honor, mostly,” Morgan said, brushing off the tension like it hadn’t followed them in.

Harry groaned, flopping back onto the bed. “I really don’t need a twelve-year-old to do that, Morgan.”

Morgan crossed their arms. “Yeah, well, I’m not just a twelve-year-old, jerk. I’m the one you were supposed to pick up from school today. And your dad is being ridiculous.”

Harry sat up again, slower this time. “He really isn’t. I’m—” he paused, then muttered, “—I’m fucked. Don’t repeat that.”

Morgan mimed zipping their lips and tossing the invisible key over their shoulder. Harry laughed. 

They plopped down beside him, letting their shoulder brush his. “It’ll be okay, I think. Worst case scenario, we run away.”

Harry snorted. “Oh yeah, a seventeen-year-old running off to Fuckoff, Nowhere with some middleschooler won’t be suspicious at all. I will not be arrested for kidnapping.”

Morgan shrugged, grinning. “You’re rich. You’d get away with it.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but the smile lingered. “That’s not how bail works.”

“Sure it is. You just flash your trust fund and say, ‘I’m an Osborn.’”

Harry gave them a playful shove, “Jesus Christ, you’re insufferable.”

---

The funeral home was far colder than the penthouse had ever been.

Morgan stood near the back, hands clenched around the program. The paper was thick, expensive, embossed with gold lettering that Harry would have hated.

“Celebrating the life of Harold Theopolis Osborn,” it read.

The pews were filled with suits and silence, and Morgan had to squint to recognize the man in the front row.

Norman Osborn, once all sharp edges and boardroom cruelty, was gone. In his place sat a shell in a tailored suit, eyes glassy and unfocused. His tie was crooked. His hair uncombed. His grief left him catatonic according, at least according to the tabloids Morgan couldn’t keep themself from reading.

The most powerful man in New Orleans. A husband without a wife. Now a parent without a child.

Morgan didn’t remember much of the service. Most of it blurred past while they stared at their shoes—bright red and brand new. They clashed spectacularly with the suit they wore, a small rebellion in a sea of black and gray. For Harry..

When they finally looked up, the room had emptied. The suits had filed out, murmuring condolences and legacy talk, leaving behind the scent of lilies, dust, and nothing of substance.

Only two people remained: one who had lost a son, and one who had lost the only person who would ever understand them.

Two horribly broken people, alone together.

Morgan’s footsteps were dulled by the carpet beneath them as they approached the front pew, inching closer to where Harry lay.

The casket loomed, closed and pristine. Morgan’s breath hitched.

“Mx. Miller? Morgan?” Norman’s voice cracked through the silence, thin and frayed, like a lost child.

Morgan opened their mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Osborn.”

Norman’s gaze drifted from the casket to them, slow and unfocused, like he was looking through them entirely.

They stood in silence, the air between them thick.

Then Norman said, “He wouldn’t have liked the service.”

Morgan nodded and laughed, throat tight. They knew if they didn’t laugh they would cry. “No. He would’ve hated it.”

Another pause. Longer this time. The kind that feels like it might never end.

Then Norman’s voice dropped, low and broken. “It should have been you.”

They sniffled, “Yeah, it should have.”

Norman’s hands trembled in his lap. “This can’t happen again. I can’t let this happen again.”

Morgan stepped closer, slow and deliberate, like approaching an injured animal. They put a hand on Norman’s shoulder, hesitant, but firm. His suit was stiff beneath their palm.

If they looked in his eyes just right, it was like their own reflected back at them. 

“I’m gonna fix this,” Morgan said, voice steady. “I’m gonna make this right.”

Norman laughed, a shattered wheeze of air. “You know what I used to tell Harry?,” He said, eyes fixed on the casket, “That with great power comes great responsibility. I said it like it was something noble, but what I meant was: don’t embarrass me. Don’t fail. Don’t be weak.”

Morgan tightened their grip on his shoulder.

“Someone had to fix this, Morgan. In the end it’s either gonna be you or me.”

---

The wind howled across the rooftop, carrying the scent of smoke, ozone, burnt metal, and scorched concrete. Below, New Orleans pulsed like an open wound, the wail of sirens and the distant crackle of fire. Helicopter blades chopped the air overhead, their searchlights sweeping across shattered windows.

They had gone in with a plan. Every move mapped out, every contingency accounted for. But plans didn’t tend to survive Norman Osborn. Not in a boardroom meeting and certainly not out here.

It didn’t matter anymore. This was going to end tonight.

Spiderling landed hard, sneakers skidding across the gravel. The impact jolted through their knees. torn at the shoulder where a glider blade had been lucky enough to catch them moments before. Blood bloomed through the fabric, warm and sticky.

They straightened slowly, eyes up, fixed on the figure hovering just beyond the rooftop’s edge, framed by the glow of a burning advert. The glider underneath him hissed and sputtered, exhaust trailing behind it in lazy loops.

He hadn’t spoken yet. Neither had Morgan. They didn’t need a speech. Not tonight.

Morgan adjusted their stance, fingers twitching near their web-shooters.

Norman tilted his head, just slightly.

Then he dived.

Spiderling barely rolled out of the way, gravel biting into the palms of their gloves. A pumpkin bomb exploded behind them, their spidey-sense lighting up just as the shockwave sent them sprawling into a rooftop vent.

Their ribs screamed with pain. Breathing became a chore.

Spiderling scrambled to their feet, vision swimming, the world tilting sideways for a moment before snapping back into focus. 

“You’re getting sloppy, Spiderling,” Norman taunted, circling like a predator. His voice was distorted through the Goblin mask, but the cruelty was unmistakable. “Such a shame. I’m nowhere near done with you.”

They didn’t answer. They couldn’t. Their jaw was clenched against the pain. They fired a web, fast and desperate. It caught the glider’s wing and yanked it sideways with a snap of tension.

Norman crashed hard, skidding across the rooftop, but he rolled back on his feet before Morgan could blink.

“You little shit! That’s no way to have an adult conversation, you know?” Norman stalked forward. “You used to be clever,” he sneered. “Now you’re just stubborn.”

“What can I say, I learned from the best,” Spiderling quipped between ragged breaths. They fired another web, this time aimed at his ankle in hopes of knocking Norman off balance. It hit, but he slashed it away with a serrated blade, lunging forward in the same motion.

He was on them in seconds, tackling them to the floor. He straddled their hips. Gravel dug into their back. Somewhere, a fourteen-year-old Morgan sobbed on a rooftop.

They bit down on their tongue hard, the metallic taste shocking them back to the present just in time to grab the hands wrapped around their throat. Their fingers found purchase around his wrists and yanked. Not quite enough to break his grip, but enough to shift it.

They twisted, using the momentum to roll out from under him. Norman snarled, slamming a fist into the rooftop where their head had been a second earlier.

Spiderling fired a web blindly, catching the edge of the glider. They pulled hard, and the machine flew through the air, clipping Norman’s shoulder. He stumbled, but recovered quickly.

They scrambled back to their feet.

“What do you think this is, Morgan? Strength, resilience, or G-d forbid, responsibility?”

Spiderling pulled down the bottom half of their mask and spat blood onto the gravel, chest heaving. Their throat burned, ribs ached, and their vision pulsed at the edges.

“You wouldn’t recognize responsibility if it punched you in the face, which I’m gonna,” they rasped.

Norman tilted his head. “You sound just like him, sometimes.”

They nodded. “I’m supposed to.”

Norman leapt at the again. His blade slashed across Morgan’s arm, tearing through suit and skin. They hissed, but twisted and drove a knee into his side. He grunted, grabbed their leg, and slammed them into the rooftop.

Concrete cracked. Morgan gasped, vision flashing white.

Norman loomed over them, mask cracked, “You’re not strong enough for this. I could have made you stronger.”

They looked up. “I don’t have to be strong. I just have to be better than you.”

“You think this is better?” Norman spat, circling. “Bleeding out on a rooftop?”

“Yeah, actually.”

Norman ran at them, blade flashing. Morgan rolled, barely dodging, and fired a web that caught his wrist mid-swing. They yanked hard and drove a punch into his stomach.

“You would have been unstoppable, a real hero.”

“I would have been controllable, you mean.”

Norman didn’t deny it.

Morgan surged upward, slamming into him with everything they had left. They grappled, fists flying. Norman countered with a knee to their already tender ribs, sending them sprawling.

“Look around you, I gave you everything you have.”

“I lost everything to this! I’m never going to get who I was before your stupid spider back,” they shouted, voice cracking.

“I lost my son. What have you lost? Your virtue?”

“I’m the one who held him while he died. Because of you. Get that through your thick skull! Because you can’t handle not being in control of one damn variable!” They screamed.

Norman reeled from the force of Morgan’s words, his face plate cracked, expression twisted—rage, grief, something else. Something hollow.

“You think I wanted him dead?” he spat, voice fraying. “I wanted him to have a future.”

“He’s dead now, Norman. He doesn’t get a future.”

Silence hung between them, thick and suffocating. The wind howled. The city burned.

Norman staggered back like they had struck him, blood streaking down his face, suit torn and sparking. Spiderling stood across from him, swaying, fists clenched, every breath a war.

“You think this ends with me?” Norman growled, voice fraying. “You think you’ve won?”

They didn’t answer. They were done talking.

They fired a web—quick and precise. It hit Norman square in the chest, pulling him towards them. He stumbled, off-kilter, and Morgan met him half way with a brutal kick to the ribs.

Norman flew backward.

He hit the ledge hard, arms flailing, boots scraping for purchase. For a moment, he teetered—half over the edge. 

They stepped forward out of instinct, hand twitching toward their web-shooter.

Then he fell.

No scream. Just the rush of wind and the distant roar of fire below.

Spiderling hesitated for a beat—just long enough for their next movement not to matter. Their body moved before their mind caught up, sprinting to the edge of the rooftop, adrenaline drowning out pain.

They hit the ledge just in time to hear it.

A sickening crunch.

Bones against asphalt.

Morgan froze.

Below, in the alley choked with smoke and shattered glass, lay a twisted heap of flesh.

They stared down at the heap that once was Norman Osborn.

Their breath caught. Their heart thundered.