#what if? fallen son

[dirigibleplumbing]

If you're like me, sometimes you need the full text of Civil-War-era Tony's letter to Steve in the event of his death from "What If? Fallen Son" (2009). So here it is in its entirety!

If you notice any typos on my part, please let me know.

I put line breaks wherever the text was broken up, either by being in different sections of a panel or different panels/pages. I preserved the ellipses, though I didn't double them (in many cases a section of text would end in "..." and then the next section would also begin with "..."). I also didn't double up line breaks and ellipses.

Steve, I hope you never have to read this, old friend, because if you do, it means something terrible has happened. It means I'm dead. I suppose it shouldn't come as much of a surprise, really. During my years as Iron Man, I've racked up hundreds of enemies who wanted to do me in… and after recent events, probably a few old friends who feel the same. It's funny, though. I always prided myself on being a futurist--constantly thinking a leap ahead of everyone else. Apparently, that leap wasn't nearly far enough. But this letter is about looking forward--not back. It doesn't matter what killed me. All that matters is what happens next… and the legacy I've left behind. I'm not talking about Iron Man, either. The suit is nothing without the right man inside… and there aren't many I'd trust to pilot. Rhodey. Pepper. Happy. Maybe Jarvis… though he was never really the hero-type. And you, Steve. Whether you believe it or not, I always trusted you. Even during the darkest days--during the war--I never stopped believing in you. No one did. But like I said, this isn't about choosing a new Iron Man. There was a world before him, and there will be one after. This is about my ideas--the plans and inventions that I hoped would make the world a better place. This is about making sure those things don't fall into the wrong hands. I don't even want to imagine the suffering that could cause… That's where you come in it. I need your help, Steve. I need you to keep an eye on things now that I can't anymore--which is a lot to ask, I know, after what I've put you through. Still you're the only one I trust to make certain everything I was working for doesn't fall apart without me… and to ensure that the threats that I wasn't around to predict… don't end up blindsiding us in my absence. Our war may be over, Steve, but we both know that it won't be the last one. When the time comes, the world will still need heroes. And when the fighting is over and history is written… I can only hope that we will be remembered as more than just heroes. I hope that we will be remembered as I will always remember us… As friends.

And the typeface used in the comic is--or is very close to--Lucida Handwriting Light, which used to come free with a lot of Microsoft products.

I also have a rough mock-up of the entire letter.

[fistfuloflightning]

I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you.

Liu An and Wen Fei Du from my Qing dynasty au (I want a cdrama of Persuasion so bad 😩)

[violent138]

If you read The Art of War, there are so many elements regarding deception and preparation that very neatly tie in (along with some of Machiavelli's warnings) with the actions Jason ended up taking when he returned to Gotham.

But I've always wondered if Jason was amused when he found the line: "Regard your soldiers as your children, and they will follow you into the deepest valleys; look upon them as your own beloved sons, and they will stand by you even unto death."

[whaalless]

I’ve fallen into the inevitable Destiny brainrot so here's my goofy little titan guy I forgot to post earlier on here

[thevioletscout]

Real quick while I've been talking about the Manager of the Royal Beth-

What do we think of Patrick Page for a headcanon voice?

[fictionadventurer]

The worst part about reading in a genre where you have low expectations (in this case, Christian historical fiction) is that when a book impresses you, you have no idea if it's actually good or if you're just overly impressed because it was a fraction of a degree better than the usual garbage.

[asleepinawell]

[hacksawboy]

fuck it .heres my edgy sniper oc. this is tumblr im not gonna get shamed for this

ft my spy oc theyre so in hate 🩷

[starkaabii]

Rise, O mighty Prince of Light...

Fear me not, for you and I are just the same...

[nullthevoidsheep]

Wow, this weasel sure is, something. I haven't seen my stats so low since I got myself a talkative rat right at the start of the game.

[campcomputers]

lowkey when I get a notification I seriously contemplate throwing fragile objects across the room but thats stupid and embarrassing so I just scratch myself until I bleed instead bc the PRACTICAL solution of just turning my notifications off gets me a "aster please answer me im worried about you" and texts to literally everyone else he knows who has my number asking THEM to message me

and of course it couldn't ever be me wanting to take a nap maybe? your brain immediately jumps to me being dead in a ditch or ignoring you on purpose just to be a bitch? oh hey that rhymed anyway FUCK YOU GET THERAPYYYYYY I WANT TO LIVE IN PEACE ASSHOLE

[1stchoir]

tags.

[brainfilehasstoppedworking]

THESE CODENAMES ARE NOT REAL

[gunkbaby]

GET YOUR HEAD IN THE FUCKING GAME SHUU

[ofglories]

Claudas: Go to hell. And go fuck yourself. Uther: I'm sorry, did you say something? I don't speak failure. Claudas: How dare y-?! Uther: Aw, what's the matter? Did I touch a nerve because you failed to defend your lands? Lot: ...I could kill both of them right now. I could do it easily. Uriens: Don't, it's funnier this way.

Emrys, in the afterlife: Take all three of them out, Lot.

[connorsui]

Dad! Simon

You find him in the bedroom, sitting on the floor with his back against the bed, legs stretched out, a shoebox balanced on his thigh. And, scattered around him—like fallen leaves—are photographs.

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Planning a scrapbook?”

Simon doesn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Just recognition.

"He’s gotten so big now," he mutters, lifting a picture between his fingers. He turns it toward you—your son, a newborn, swaddled tight, impossibly small in his arms. "Look at this—head barely bigger than my palm."

You step inside, lowering yourself beside him. The photos form a mosaic across the carpet—a timeline of a life measured in firsts.

First ultrasound. First bath. First wobbly steps.

His first birthday, cake frosting, smeared across chubby cheeks, fingers reaching for Simon’s.

His first time on Simon’s shoulders, tiny hands gripping his head, giggling like he’d never known a world without laughter.

You pick up a more recent one—your son at five, sitting on Simon’s lap, eyes bright, smile wide. He looks just like him. Same sharp gaze, same shape of the mouth. It’s almost funny how undeniable it is.

Simon exhales, slow and steady, his thumb tracing over the glossy surface.

"Simon ...do you want me to - "

His jaw tightens, just for a second, before he lets out a quiet huff. “No, it’s fine. Thinkin’ of puttin’ some in an album.”

You don’t catch him on the lie.

Because what you don’t know—what you won’t know for a long time—is that there will be no album.

The photos will go back into the box. Just like they always do.

And later that night, after the house has settled into quiet, after you’ve both gone to bed, he’ll slip the box under his side of the nightstand—within reach, always.

And when it’s time—when the bags are packed, when his boots are laced, when the house is still dark with sleep—he’ll take the smallest, most recent one.

-- where your son is missing a front tooth, grinning wide, arms thrown around your neck like he never wants to let go.

He’ll fold it carefully, tuck it into the pocket of his gear.

Because the thought of not having it, of not carrying that proof of life with him, is unbearable.

So he keeps them.

And sometimes, when he’s halfway across the world, when the silence stretches too long and the weight in his chest feels too heavy to bear, he’ll take that photo out.

Run his thumb over the edges.

Remind himself of what’s waiting for him at home.

Just for a little while.

Just to hold on.