I’ve been pondering Stan’s death for a while. I knew I wanted to write something, but nothing was coming out right. I know this isn’t the greatest piece of writing on earth, but I wanted to thank Stan the only way I know how: through a story.
“ To me, writing is fun. It doesn’t matter what you’re writing, as long as you can tell a story ”
“ If you wanna be a writer, keep writing ”
It is a cold autumn day in November.
In a church in Manhattan, a funeral is being held.
Tony Stark is the first to arrive. He takes a program and finds his way to a row of seats somewhat near the back, not wanting to draw attention to himself. This is, after all, about his mailman, not him.
Peter Parker arrives next, shocked and confused to see Mr. Stark at the service. How does he know his bus driver?
Thor walks in and silently sits beside the two already there. At this point, nothing can shock him so he’s unphased by their presence. He already doesn’t understand why he was invited to the funeral of the man who cut his hair, let alone why someone from Sakaar would have a funeral on Midgard.
One by one, people flood into the church. Eventually, Bucky, Steve, Sam, T’Challa, Scott, Stephen, Natasha, Rhodey, Clint, Bruce, and the Guardians arrive. Quill is the one to finally ask the question on everyone’s mind. “How do we all know this guy?” The heroes all exchange glances and shrugged shoulders. No one is entirely sure why they’re there. T’Challa met him at a club in Korea, the Guardians in a town on Xandar. Others remember him simply from the party before the Ultron disaster ensued. Most of them received an invitation and, having slightly recognized the man for whom the service was being held, decided to attend out of respect. There must’ve been a reason they were invited, so they figured it was polite to attend. What confuses everyone the most is when Steve and Bucky swear he was a General back in their World War II days.
The service begins and all the heroes sit back in their seats, pondering the circumstance they have found themselves in. The pastor says a welcomes the audience before an older woman stands up on stage to say a few words. She clears her throat and gives a soft smile to the crowd.
“Stan was an enigma. Everyday I spoke to him, he had a new story to tell. It felt like he was living a hundred lives and, even if I only got to see a glimpse of them all, I was just lucky to be a part of them. One day he would’ve delivered a package to a mansion, another he drove a school bus full of kids to a field trip. I never understood how he could do so many things in such little time, but I never thought to ask. If he was making up these grand adventures, I never wanted to know. I was content on believing in the thousands of people he said he was. Even when he would tell me of trips he went on to far off planets that I’m sure don’t even exist, I was always so compelled to believe him. Because above all else, Stan could tell wonderful stories. I just wish more of the world got to hear them.
“Maybe he never went to the planet Sakaar and cut the hair of a god, and maybe he never stole poker chips from an African king, but somewhere in his mind he did. I used to call him a watcher, like he was just observing the world around him waiting for a story to spark in his mind. Perhaps these adventures he went on just happened inside his head and only happened because a single person passed him by and gave him an idea of a story to tell. Maybe none of it was real in the literal sense of the word. But it was all real to him. In the end I think that’s all that really matters.”
The lady has tears welled up in her eyes and takes a deep breath before giving the crowd another small, sad smile. Then, she says, “Stan’s motto was excelsior. It’s an old word meaning upward and onward to greater glory. He used to say Keep moving forward, and if it’s time to go, it’s time to go. Nothing lasts forever. Maybe it was your time to go, Stan, but your stories will last forever.”
By the time the service ends, everyone has tears in their eyes. Slowly, one by one, the funeral attendees get up to leave. The heroes, however, can’t help but stay behind. Once the crowd is gone, they slowly stand up and walk over to the closed casket. Gamora lays a hand on it, closing her eyes sadly. “A real Watcher,” Rocket says sadly. “I can’t believe it.”
“A Watcher?” Scott repeats. “What do you mean?”
“The Watchers are an alien race,” Thor explains quietly. “They’ve been protectors of our galaxy since its creation. It is said that they watch over every universe in existence and make sure every star aligns the way it is meant to.”
“So he… protected us?” Bucky asks, his voice a little croaky as if he has been holding back tears of his own. Thor nods silently.
“Do you think,” Natasha speaks and quickly stops herself. She clears her throat before continuing, “Do you think our lives would’ve happened the way they have if he hadn’t been a part of them?” No one responds, too overwhelmed with their own thoughts to answer such a heavy question.
“So he was like our guardian angel,” Steve says. “He was leading us down all the right paths without us even knowing. Like he was writing our story.” Everyone is quiet again. Mantis sniffs every once in a while and no one can peel their eyes away from the casket.
“Who’s gonna write our story now?” the younger Peter whispers.
Silence. Heavy, mournful, silence.
“We will,” Tony says firmly. “Onward and upward, right? So we keep going. Excelsior.”
The heroes chorus back excelsiors in agreement, giving each other hugs and meaningful looks, most of them laying hands on the casket as if to say goodbye and thank you to a man they never really knew.
And somewhere in the heavens, Stan Lee watches and smiles.
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