This was... spontaneous.

I haven't posted anything in months, and yet here I am, with a barely sketched story and the promise of tears lingering in my eyes. It's really something, huh?

I found out this morning, while getting ready for school. The man who gave me my childhood, who gave me the best memories I've ever made and who gave me a best friend, is gone. He showed me that I was okay - that someone like me, angry and guarded, was allowed to exist and still save the world. He gave me Tony Stark, who I think of every day, and he showed me what it truly is to write, to feel a story's power within you. He's made me belive in possibilities and sciec]nce and magic.

It's only fair I do something in return.

In this AU, Stan Lee wasn't just a cameo, he was there. And the Avengers knew him. And they miss him. I really hope the story works out, because, like Tony, I'm not good with feelings unless I can channel them.

Cheers, Mr. Lee. Your light will never fizzle out.

Disclaimer: I only own the plot

Steve

"I'm sorry to inform you that Mr. Lee is gone."

Steve had been the only one not to cry.

How could he, when he was a soldier, a man out of time, a man who had gone under and come back to find everyone dead?

People had died back in '45. Steve called them people, not soldiers, because soldiers unquestioningly took orders, took jeers and punishments, took lives, and that had been him. Him, the skinny kid with a dead family and nothing else to lose. The rest wrote letters and poems, sung their dreams of kinder days to come; even stood up to Peggy when the day was especially hard. Human, every last one of them, the way Steve had desperately tried to be, the way he hoped he was now that he could speak without being jeered at and called pansy.

Though some had ridiculed him, and others had gone as far as to hurt him, Steve had cried when the first few died. He had cried because he knew their sweethearts' names, and because all that was left of them was a meager tribute and yellow piece of paper that never, not once in Steve's memory, came laden with good news.

But then the deaths tallied up. Some bodies came back, others were burned and mutilated by Nazis. And slowly, slowly, Steve learned to stop crying.

He certainly didn't cry now.

For the first time in years, he didn't know the person who had delivered the news. Normally news came from Maria, or Fury, or, more often, Coulson, but today he couldn't place a name to the unfamiliar face. Ginger. Steely, deep sea eyes like his own, and thin, pressed lips. A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent in every sense of the word, clad in tough boots and a pristine shirt. If telegrams could be people, this man would be the perfect candidate.

The man remained for a few minutes, left, and Steve only had his thoughts.

Stan. Stan was another Bucky, a man who had made it past the war and into the new world, and he'd done so marvelously. Steve knew him from the barracks, and Stark knew him from his childhood, and five years ago, when Stark had brought in a frail stick of a man with snowy hair and called him Stan, the latter had been the first to put two and two together. Unlike Steve, Stan had aged, properly, and he had a lovely wife and two daughters and his deep-set wrinkles to prove it. Still had the same smile, made the same outrageous jokes, told the same magnificent stories. Steve had reeled at the sight of him, but he had been thankful, and all those years he'd dedicated to catching up comprised some of his best memories.

Sat down now , he did, absently turning on the television. Trying not to get lost in grief, because he knew he'd never be able to show it, and it would eat him up for God knew how long. He flicked through channels, trying to ignore the tinny shouts of StanStanStan reverberating in his mind.

Steve knew, better than most people, that life ended, even for him. It was a fact people tried time and again to disprove, only to fail while doing so. Stan had only been added to a never ending list.

Steve kept changing the channels.

There were thousands of them in this TV. A miracle that still bowled him over. But his personal list only had fifty or so, and most of them of them were news channels. He couldn't stomach movies - unless they were fantasies. Anything that looked realistic took him too far back, to alley fights and grainy black-and-white pictures.

Thirty-five news channels, Steve now counted. For sports, for the weather, for celebrities; even for animals.

And not a single one discussing Stan.

Steve's left arm twitched.

He's not famous. They wouldn't know.

That was wrong. Stan - brave, hilarious Stan - posed with the Howling Commandos in every one of their photographs. Hundreds had him to thank for their freedom today.

The media's never kind. They want a tragedy; a disaster. Stan was neither of those.

He had weathered a war. The most destructive battle in history and he'd survived with enough left of his heart to fall in love. He had kept making the same outrageous jokes and telling the same bizarre tales. It was not tragic, but it was beautiful, as death should be.

He'd be happy that you cared. Probably didn't want some ridiculous media storm. Even you hate being on TV. Why should your old friend be any different?

Now his mind was definitely stretching. Stan had always been different. He'd been a man who revelled in daydreams and fantasies, who'd envisioned other worlds in the midst of throwing grenades. He didn't cry, either, but he knew how to feel, how to mourn. Even those who had mocked Stan had come to respect him in the end.

He wasn't a cocoa-haired boy with taut muscles and a mischievous grin. Nor was he the wispy breath of a man who heaved when he stood too long. He was Stan Lee, outrageous and extravagant and caring, with an imagination wilder than words, who laughed too hard and never spent a second he regretted.

And he deserved, more than any adorable animal, or flustered celebrity, to be celebrated.

Steve's chest grew warm. Suffocating. His arms twitched. A drum was beating somewhere behind his eyes.

Punching bag. You need one.

The warehouse he used was only a couple minutes away.

Steve wasted no time. He hung the first one up like clockwork, the ache inside him burning brighter, angrier.

A small thud reached his ears at the first punch.

The way he'd erupted into erratic hiccups, the way he'd hugged Steve when he first saw him. He'd been wearing sunglasses - borrowed from Tony, no doubt - and his hair had flown in the November wind.

Thud. Louder now.

The Fourth of July. Firecrackers and cake, and he and Stan and Bucky had laughed and talked about old times. They were indoors, away from the fireworks everyone else celebrated, because every sparkling burst sounded too much like the aftermath of an explosion.

Thud, thud, thud.

The soft embers in his eyes when he introduced his wife, Joan, and the raging fire when she'd died four years later.

Thud, thud. Neighbours would start asking questions.

Screw their questions.

Thud, thud, thud.

Stan wouldn't be forgotten, not as long as Steve was around to be pissed about it. He'd keep Stan alive, somehow. In photographs and cards, in his and Bucky's stories.

But for now, he'd throw punches until his knuckles grew numb. He'd let the grief eat away.

Was it worth the time? I'll be updating daily, until I'm through with the original six, and maybe I'll consider doing others, who knows. Just mourn, or tell me what you think.

Thanks for reading. Love, Mariam