*Author's Note: This is my very first fanfic! Dun-dun-dunnnn. I humbly welcome gentle criticism and honest feedback. I don't welcome non-gentle anything because of my tender little feelings.
This was loosely inspired by a short scene in chapter 7 of Lauralot's brilliant And I Am Always With You. If you aren't already following this obsessively, STOP and go do it now. Join us. It's bliss.
I own a small fortune in books, costumes, and baby gear, but none of Marvel's characters.
I watch calmly as the stasis tank fills with steam. The structure holding the tank begins, ponderously, to tip it back, coming to rest at a slight angle. The door to the tank opens, fog rolls out of the shallow chamber, and the figure of a young man stumbles out, collapsing gracelessly to the floor. Condensation beads on his skin and drips steadily from his dark hair. He is breathing hard, head hanging low.
I crouch over him and stroke the wet hair gently, whispering, "Hey, it's okay. Trust me, everything's going to be fine." I help the young man to sit up, still shivering in the cool air.
"Of… of course I trust you… P-Papa." he stutters, meeting my eyes. I look into the wide-eyed, frightened face of my eldest son.
"Good boy," I murmur as I help him to his feet. Tendrils of fog curl slowly around our shoulders. "You want to make me proud, don't you?"
"Yes, Papa." he keeps hold on my left hand with his right and follows me out of the room without protest, hair still dripping, rivulets of moisture running down his cheeks. His bare feet leave a trail of damp footprints on the cold tile.
Moments later, I am settling him carefully into a heavy padded seat. It isn't monstrous unless you notice the bulky restraints, the ominous hardware and equipment looming on every side. "What's happening, Papa?" asks my son, questioning eyes locked on mine.
"Something wonderful, my son. I'm going to help you. Help you make me proud." I smile at him as I buckle down the straps restraining his arms and torso. They cut into his clammy skin and blood pinkens the water still dripping from his body, but I notice approvingly that he doesn't protest.
"Thank you, Papa," he whispers as the chair reclines itself. A buzzing whine, like electricity and sparks, fills the air. "Papa?"
The buzzing intensifies, and I am still smiling as my son begins to scream…
… and I awaken with a gasp, tangled in the sheets of a comfortable guest-room bed in Albany, New York. It is 2014.