Hey, kid.
I know you won't see this….but I'm gonna say some stuff anyway, relive my guilty conscience like the asshole I am.
You're dead.
And I feel bad.
People might wonder why I say that so...harshly, rip of the bandage and use the 'd' word.
I learnt, when my parents died, that nobody is gonna say it, so you should. The first few months after — hell, even now — they don't say 'I'm sorry they died', or 'their deaths must be hard' they say, 'I'm sorry for your loss', or 'condolences.'
So I learnt you should pull it out every opportunity, shock them. The last thing they expect is for the grief-stricken son to say it. So I do.
Enough about me — see what I mean? Asshole. — I'll talk about you, I guess.
You're just a kid. Not like Wanda's a kid, not an adult hiding behind PTSD and innocence, but an actual fucking kid. Excuse my language, although you don't care, 'cause you're dead.
And it's my fault.
I shouldn't have brought you here. I killed you.
Nebula — that's the blue alien lady — she told me about the snap, about the stones.
I don't know how it works, I never will, but if it's geographically? I killed you. If it's not...well, that doesn't help it either.
God, this is like pushing a thumb into a bruise.
You remind me of...well, me. I was smart, too. You're lucky, though. My parents pushed me through school, eager to have the prodigal son for the papers.
You get to grow up and go on field trips and….be a kid. I didn't, and I'm really happy that you do.
In time, like a normal, well-adjusted person, you would have graduated, and going into work — hopefully SI, although that won't happen now. You would have changed the world, Peter. I know it.
Huh.
I don't think i've called you by your name before.
It's always spiderling, or kid, or underoos. I'll call you Peter, now.
You deserve it.
At the start, I both loved and hated your hero worship.
I hated it, because Peter, if you knew the things I've done, you would not look up at me and call me 'Mr. Stark'. I love it, because sure, you liked Iron-Man, but you liked Tony Stark as well. And not many people do.
In the eyes of the public I'm still the merchant of war, playboy, filthy-rich Tony Stark.
Well, I used to be.
I won't be tomorrow morning.
Was that a joke?
God, you can count on me for jests in near-death situations.
You could count on you, too. Do you know how many complaints I've gotten over you talking during fights? Too many, Peter. But I love it. It's more than just a cheap trick and a cheesy one-liner, it's you. Not boasting or bragging, just you, being Peter, chattering away.
I think you would have liked this. Being in space. It's wonderful, really. I feel like I should appreciate it more. I will, for you. Do you know how many of those dumb, punny T-shirts you could make?
Tony Star
Space-man?
That one's a bit weak, i'll admit
God, the limits are endless.
I'm too tired to bother.
I'm sure you would. I can imagine it, us sitting here, you chattering away.
The keyword here is imagine.
This is me, Peter. Saying goodbye, even if you won't hear it.
