Scott:

Hope made really good flapjacks.

Like, it amazed him daily. Even though she only made them, like, every other week, he would stare at his bland oatmeal or cereal and realize how awesome it was to get her flapjacks every once in a while. As Scott stared at his waffles that Luis had been able to scrape together, he really wished the Pym's would invite him over more.

Kurt and Dave were both over by the TV, sitting on the sofa and watching last night's MMA fight while they ate breakfast. Stuffing their faces, spitting some out accidentally, they acted like the crazy, jobless, carefree cons Scott knew they were. Even if they acted more like bad college roommates.

"Yo, Scotty. Something bothering you this fine magical morning?" Luis said, taking a seat across from Scott on their cheap table, digging into his portion of microwave waffles.

"Nah." Scott said, picking up his fork with one hand and the maple syrup in the other. He liked to drown his waffles. "Just wondering what's on the old agenda today, you know?" He said. "What with all the 'lying low' and… 'keeping myself scarce…" He said, trying to remember what Hank said last.

Luis snapped his fingers, pointing a finger gun at Scott. "Don't forget staying away from the old man's daughter."

"And to not try and take the suit, or else you will be punished." Kurt supplies from the couch. Scott thought about it for a second.

"So… More sitting around the apartment and waiting for a super villain to show up on the door again today." He said, finally putting the syrup back from the table. "Awesome."

Luis stopped shoveling food into his mouth for a few seconds to speak. "You could always head down to the pier or something. Keep your eyes open for the villains while you eat some ice cream, ya know?" He said, immediately going back to his food.

This time Dave spoke up. "Yeah, bro. You start'n ta look a little on the pale side, ya feel?"

Scott lifted both his arms, trying to remember the last time his skin was tanned. The guys were always there to help, but he felt like all their options were kind of scatterbrained. And not too helpful.

Also, he was out of money. At least, he wasn't going to spend any on ice cream for one. With lab experiments on the Ant Man suit hitting an all time low, Scott's source of income from Hank Pym was drying out. Maybe on Friday, he could grab Cassie away for an hour or two and get some ice cream then. If Maggie gave them permission, at least.

"Maybe, maybe. Can't say I've had any better offers so far." He said, taking another bite of his food. The morning ritual continued, the guys eating together until late into the afternoon. Soon though, Luis and the rest of them got up to leave.

It was a job. Of course it was for a job. They were fast like that, bouncing to the next (illegal) opportunity and getting the score.

And as usual, as they left Luis approached him again. "You know, man. If things are getting a bit tight again-"

"I'll bounce back." Scott said, dismissing the usual offer they gave him. "Maybe I can put in for another job somewhere I haven't yet." He said, wondering how desperate Walmart was. He could always go stand in the Home Depot parking lot until someone came looking for a day laborer.

Luis gave him an encouraging smile, followed by two enthusiastic thumbs up. "Cool cool. Catch'ya in a few then." He said. Scott gave them each a small wave.

"See'ya tonight." He said.

They left, Scott took a deep breath and started cleaning.

For one thing, cleaning was very therapeutic in prison. No one liked cleaning, especially when Scott knew everything would get dirty in one way or another. But in his cell, shared with a few other rather dirty individuals, Scott found rearranging the few letters and pictures he had and fluffing the pillows as a way to make the time pass by faster. By, like, two seconds. But still.

Luis and his friends were just as dirty as his cellmates, only they had more opportunity to make their living space a living nightmare.

Dishes piled so high, they filled both sinks and the counters. Globs of syrup on the tables, the floor, the couch… The bathroom was worrying. Scott didn't know if he trusted using that shower unless he'd scrubbed it first. Toothbrush, scrubbed it.

And don't forget the few dozen loads of laundry that stacked high in each room. He could kill, like, six hours just by doing their laundry.

Most places, Scott understood that he was not obliged to do this. He didn't have to keep the kitchen clean, he didn't need to vacuum, and he was never meant to touch Luis' lucky boxers. He was not a manny to a bunch of man-children.

But what else was he contributing?

He wasn't producing any income, like, at all. He did odd jobs for the neighbors, he walked dogs for the hipsters down the road, and on the weekdays he stood in front of Home Depot and waited for the same old Ukrainian man to come and pick a bunch of them to help build playground equipment for a few hours.

All his money went to the time he spent with Cassie. When Maggie and the not-as-bad-as-he-thought officer Paxton let him visit with her, or even sit down for a meal every month, he brought a side dish that he put together himself. He couldn't hold a job, and no one would hire. It didn't matter that he had a heart of… not exactly gold. Silver? Bronze. Bronze was good.

And that heart of bronze wouldn't let him start burglarizing again. He wasn't going to jeopardize his chances with Cassie just because he couldn't afford anything new… or pre-owned… it was bad. Luis always offered him a gig, but he always had to say no, and that was getting harder, considering all the stuff Luis was doing for him.

So he'd clean. He'd keep the apartment he shared with his criminal buddies as well kept as he possibly could, and maybe that would make him feel better about not being able to pay a full rent every month.

He went through each part of the house systematically: he started at the living room, went from there into the kitchen, from the kitchen to the bathroom, and finally he ended up in each room, grabbing the dirty laundry hampers and making his way to the laundromat down the street.

And hey, maybe tomorrow he could think about hitting up the fast food restaurants for another job. If they were desperate enough to hire a crook, that is.

…

"When Captain America throws his mighty shield…" Scott sang quietly, hauling his laundry up the apartment building floors. A few college age kids on the second floor gave him funny looks, but when didn't they do that? He continued upwards, getting to the door and balancing the basket on his hip as he pulled out his key.

"All those who chose to oppose his shield must yeillllld…" He continued, opening the door to his apartment and stepping in. Now, in the safety of his own apartment, Scott placed the basket of clean laundry on the table, but continued towards the couch, waving his arms in a 'high and mighty' manner.

"If he's lead to a fight, and a duel is due, then the red and the white and the bue'll come through." He said, much louder than before. He took a superhero pose, one foot on the couch and his arms up in a 'Sparticus' kind of way. "When Captain America throws his mighty shield!"

Just as he finished, his phone in his pocket started to buzz. He pulled it out quickly, not even bothering to check to see who it was. His best odds were that it was either Maggie, telling him that Cassie was free for a couple of hours, or (less likely, but still exciting) it was one of the Pym's, looking to bring the Ant Man back for a quick encore.

"Scott speaking." He said, turning around and going to sit on his couch. "Who is thi-"

"Don't sit on your couch!"

Scott went rigid, immediately straightening his back and taking a step forward as he did. He did an awkward sweep around, checking to see if someone was watching him through the window. "O-kay… may I ask why I cannot sit on my couch?" He asked, walking closer to the window to peer out between the blinds. He looked up and down the avenue, but no one suspicious stood out to him. No one on the phone, at least. "And how you may be able to see me?"

"Would you like to know my name as well, or do you prefer not knowing?" Came the sassy reply.

"Well, this is a dude, so… Can I get a name too?"

"Hi, I'm Percy." Percy said. "And the reason I asked you not to sit on your couch is because I'm sitting on it right now."

Now, Scott is not an idiot. He knows most people can't shrink and sit on his couch without him knowing, but he also sometimes works as a shrinking/growing hero named Ant Man, so…

Scott gave his couch a firm once over, getting down on his knees and starting to scan the worn material for a tiny humanoid that may or may not actually be there. Sadly, he saw the tiny humanoid, as tall as he normally was in that stage. He saw it wave at him as well.

"Hi."

"Hey." Scott said, blinking a few times to make sure that he wasn't high off of detergent fumes or anything. When he confirmed he wasn't, he continued. "Is there a reason that you're sitting on my couch the size of… not a human?" He asked, casually and coolly maintaining his cover as mild-mannered, ex-con Scott.

"It was either this, a bedroom, the bathroom, or the kitchen. Personally, I immediately go to make food when I get home, so I hoped you were the same way. And I wasn't going to wait for the bathroom, and the bedroom didn't really appeal to me, either."

"Okay… I can see how that makes sense… Wait, no. Why are you so tiny?" Scott asked, already going to put his hand out for this complete stranger to get onto his hand. Apparently, the guy trusted easily, cause he jumped right on. 'He's just as quick as I am.' Scott thought.

"A long story. But that's not important." Percy said, walking up Scott's arm and to his shoulder. Scott craned his neck just to get an angle on the tiny person on his shoulder. "What I need is a way to get big again."

Scott looked back and forth, looking for a sign of the Pyms. This had them written all over it. "Uh… okay… And why did you choose to come to me?" He asked.

Percy didn't reply. Instead, Scott heard his own voice being played back to him. "Hi. I'm Scott."

Scott swallowed, a noise that was seriously amplified when you were that small. He was pretty sure he knew exactly where and when he'd said that. And if that were true…

Cover blown. Instantaneously, cool-under-pressure-Scott reacted instinctively, swatting the small man off his shoulder and running to the door at full speed. He had maybe ten seconds before this Percy dude, potential Avenger, was able to stop him from leaving. The key was to get into the open and keep running. An ant stuck on foot couldn't keep up with a grown man running like his life depended on it.

As he went to open the door though, it was shoved close before he could even get his arm in. Scott saw something whizz past his face and didn't even have time to say 'I made a bad call,' before a fist the size of a pinhead hit him square in the jaw.

Scott was put on the ground, staring up at his ceiling and with a really, really painful stinging sensation on his chin. He squinted a few times (the ceiling was looking really bad), and before he knew it the phone was by his cheek. "You didn't even let me finish! If you were going to run, you should've tried before I introduced myself!" Percy said accusingly.

Scott groaned, looking around. He couldn't even see this Percy. "Who are you? A reporter? One of Stark's investigators?" He asked, trying to recall what Hank had said might happen now that he put on a suit like that. "Hydra? CIA? Russian communists?" He asked.

"Wow, you went all the way to the Russians." Percy said, sounding somewhat impressed. "But no, I work with the Avengers."

Scott sighed, putting his head back down against the carpet. "So they know who I am. Great."

"Maybe you shouldn't have shown your face and given an Avenger your first name." Percy said dryly. "It wasn't too hard to figure it out from there."

Scott sat up then, still looking for Percy. He felt an itch on his knee, and like the smart guy he was he checked before scratching to find the bug there. "Oh yeah? Then why wait five, no, six years to come after me?"

"You're a pretty small issue to squash, 'Ant Man.'" Percy said. "But I've got this problem, and I think you're the only one who might be able to help me."

"Uh… Yeah, I guess so." Scott said, then shook his head. "Wait, no. That isn't true."

"What do you mean? You have the shrinking suit, so just… lemme borrow it for a minute? I guess that sounds kind of stupid, but after being stuck this size for more than a day, I don't think I'd want to do this ever again-"

Scott shook his head, scooting until his back was against the wall and his kneecap was closer to his face. He held the phone tightly to his face. "No, I totally understand that." Scott said, remembering his first experience in the suit. He couldn't imagine being stuck that size forever. "But… I don't have the suit."

There wasn't a reply for a full minute, and Scott was afraid his little friend might've bailed. Instead, he got a very shocked reply. "Oh. Great." A pause, then. "But you know where it is? You'll help me get back to regular size? Dude, I haven't showered or changed in, like, three days."

Scott winced in sympathy. Do you know how hard it was to wash that tiny leather suit? You couldn't take that to the dry cleaners. "It wasn't stolen… well, not from me." He said. "It's just… not mine to loan out."

"Are you part-time with someone? Like, sharing the suit with someone else?" Percy asked hopefully.

Scott shook his head. "It's like I'm borrowing my neighbor's car. They don't just let anyone use it."

"Who's 'they?'" Percy asked.

Scott shivered at the thought of anyone this small meeting up with the Pyms. Even he had almost been squashed on more than one occasion. Heck, they didn't even care if he was small to make him feel like they could squish him.

"I don't suppose you know of any other ways to grow back to full size?" Scott asked hopefully.

"Dude."

Hope:

"Alright, you're getting better at controlling the wings, but you need to focus on precision."

Hope tried really hard not to scream in frustration at her father's words while sticking her landing flawlessly. She felt the wings drape down the back of her suit like a cape as she did, gritting her teeth. "Are you sure I need to focus on my precision?" She asked, her voice echoing in the confines of her helmet. "Scott wasn't nearly as precise by the end of his training."

"I could let Scott off with sloppy technique at the time because of the deadline, but even he didn't have flight capability without the help of the ants." Hank said, his tone stern through the radio in her helmet. "Precision in flight may mean the difference between life and death. Your mother emphasized that often."

Hope was about to cut her father off, but went silent instead when her mother was mentioned. As she stood on the kitchen table with her wings fluttering experimentally behind her, Hope took in the view of fine china and antique wood. She needed to distract herself, knowing that if she didn't calm down she might say something stupid and her father wouldn't continue speaking to her about her mother.

She saw a few ants on the table, making their way towards her as they did. Hank had hundreds of thousands of ants at his command with that transmitter in his ear, but she couldn't help but be a bit put off by the fact that there were bugs all over her childhood home.

I mean, in Clarion's her father had basically left her alone after the death of her mother. She'd made her peace with that now, but before it had been beyond disappointing. And after three years- three miserable, lonely years -She'd received a package from her father, personally. An ant farm.

She'd smashed it.

She'd smashed it, and all the tiny insects found their way everywhere in her room there- her sock drawers, her backpack, her makeup- and she even found a few in her locker. She'd never been comfortable with them, considering they reminded her of her dad and his work, always more important than his daughter.

Now, they were like family. At least, Scott had made it seem that way, and Scott had a way of making Hope see things from his point of view without even trying.

In her home, though, they felt kind of like invaders. Without Scott, there wasn't an Ant Man to make them feel more in place.

Either way, as they approached with the camera's on their backs and feelers twitching, Hope remained quiet. With a little bit of luck, he'd start voicing his thoughts.

Moments later, he spoke again. "She and I had quite the debate once, comparing the pro's and con's of wings versus controlling ants. She was adamant that her wings were a better resource than the ants were." He said, the teacher's voice overshadowing his tone. "At one point, she ranted to me the rigorous specialized training she put herself through to fly- the way she worked tirelessly to improve her movements and speed. She wrote it all down somewhere…"

Hank realized he was speaking about her mother, his wife, and cut himself off as he cleared his throat. There would be no more discussion on the subject today, to which Hope was annoyed by. She wished he would share more about her, but it seemed difficult for him. Her father didn't share his thoughts often, but she soaked up what she could like a sponge. Her latest mental note: find her mother's flight notebook.

"Do it again. Four rooms while the doors close, and if you clip a wing again we'll start over." Hank said.

"Fine." Hope said, teeth still grinding together. "But if I don't clip the wings, we experiment with the wind chimes in the backyard." She bartered. She knew she could do it, but the challenge stirred her competitiveness. The ants shifted uneasily, a tell that she'd learned not long ago- when her father was nervous, so were they.

"We'll see."

It didn't matter how old you were. If a parent says 'we'll see,' it's highly unlikely that it will happen. Hope wondered when he'd treat her like an adult instead of his daughter.

She'd once wished those days were back, but now that they were she didn't want it. Hank Pym was trying to suffocate her, and now she didn't have enough room to breathe. He was even offering Hope her old room back.

Either way, Hope raised herself onto the balls of her feet. Her suit reacted instantly, the wings taking their cue to prick to attention. Without much effort, she went into a crouched position and jumped upwards. Her wings began fluttering as fast as a hummingbird's, allowing her to hover above the wooden table.

Four more doorways? Piece of cake.

Hank:

She was so much like her mother.

It rang in his head every time he saw her. The way that she smiled, the way that she walked, the way that she flew- Hope Pym was her mother's daughter. She held herself differently, no doubt because of her upbringing- more stoic, more wary, and much less… expressive -but she was nearly a spitting image of her in that sense, too.

As he watched her from the two dozen mounted cameras from his office space in the basement, he saw himself there as well. It scared him.

The way she spoke so ambitiously about flying, hoping to be seen as better. She was getting there, of course, but she wasn't the level of experienced her mother had come to be. It took his wife months before she considered flying outside- it had been six weeks with Hope, and she was already pressing to leave the house in the suit.

Her anger… her temper… was so much like his own. Hank could admit to himself that he had been wrong before, and that he became rather narrow minded when it came to certain situations. He needed it done his way- no others could contribute unless they agreed to that. Hope had shown the same attribute during the heist at Pymtech.

And, like himself, it took someone opposite of himself to convince him otherwise. Not to change the plan, of course- but to tweak it slightly. To make it better suited for the person in question's individual skills. His wife had been able to convince him to change his mind quite a few times, hadn't she?

… But why Scott?

Hank blinked a few times, realizing he'd been drifting off. He frantically searched for his daughter on the monitors, trying to find her location in the house. If she had already started without him knowing and called him out on it, then she might try going outside alone-

Nope. The ants were on it, zooming in on the table in the study as he searched. She was starting in the study, which would then lead her from the study to the hallway, the hallway to the living room, living room to the kitchen, and then finally she would end in the dining room.

He cursed quietly. This was the route she'd practiced the most on- he should've specified which route she should take. Now, when she did finish with a flawless record, she'd be even more insistent that she take her practices outside. And she'd be more upset when he said she wasn't ready.

He was about to call her out and tell her to start from the bedroom, but then she was off.

She was a blur of silver light, as sharp and crisp as a comet moving through the vacuum of space. The camera-ants were better suited for focusing on the fast movements that a compressed individual made, rather than a normal security camera. Any other security would always see an insect, or a passing particle. Never a threat under an inch. Hope, at the speeds she was going, was more of a threat Hank had ever been.

Her time in the study was minuscule- if Hank's brain hadn't suffered minor atomic alterations, he might've been unable to keep watch. Milliseconds seemed like seconds at that size, but Hank was now accustomed to working in milliseconds. She flew through the keyhole as the door shut itself in 3.2157.

In the hallway, her wings shimmered between the soft lights, but only for a few passing moments. One wing caught the light, then she was invisible, then another wing caught the next light as she passed it by. Already, the wide doorway to the living room was reached, and the ants pushing the door closed missed Hope as she whizzed by. 4.316 seconds.

Her handling was flawless. Like everything Hank Pym's daughter had set her mind to do, she was dominating the competition. Her only rival was the time written in the notebook beneath Hank's fingers. Handwriting much more legible than his own.

The living room was cleared. Hope's ability to turn on a dime and adjust her limbs to compensate for drag were improving each relay. The closing door didn't snag her wing this time, either. 2.59 seconds.

In the kitchen, Hank let his trap flip into motion- as Hope entered (flawlessly) from the living room, several dozen fire ants pushed the broom Hank had intentionally propped against the doorway outwards. His timing should've been impeccable, and there should be no way Hope could get past it without clipping a wing. Not if she wanted to break her mother's record (which he knew she did).

He had decided earlier not to use such dirty tricks on his daughter… but that had been a premature assumption. This could be turned into a good lesson later on. Hank smiled at the thought of telling her to run another day of drills inside the house, 'just to be safe.'

Impossibly, astoundingly, incredibly, Hope put her feet forward, closed her wings, and shot under the minuscule (and ever shrinking) gap beneath the broom's handle as it fell. No wing was clipped, no stutter in her movements, and no delay to her flight. She somersaulted once, twice, three times before extending her wings again narrowly avoiding a collision with the hardwood kitchen floor. Her momentum carried her higher, as well as boosting her speed well into the range Hank had deemed 'too difficult to handle at that size.'

"Is that all you got?" Hope asked feistily. Her words were rushed, however, and Hank could hear how winded she was just by her voice. His smile disappeared as she cleared the final door, entering the dining room and landing beside the teacups on the table. 3.102 seconds.

"You didn't give me any time to set an actual course for you to run through." Hank accused. His stern voice echoed through the lab in the basement.

"Any other relay you set would've ended in the same result, Hank." Hope responded. "If it isn't a challenge anymore, we should be moving on to obstacles that actually will present a challenge."

Hank let his face soften. His wife, Hope's mother, had argued something similar. In fact, she had also predicted this exact moment.

"She'll always be ready for anything new, if you give her the opportunity." Janet had said, all those years ago. Strange, to think a comment made about switching Hope over from soft foods to more tough vegetables could be applied to flight training.

… Or perhaps he was becoming a sentimental old man. His features hardened again, stern and determined.

Hank clicked his pen, careful not to leave too deep an impression on the old notebook page his wife had left behind. He placed each of Hope's winning scores beneath his wife's, trying his best to make his handwriting appear as nice as Janet's.

"If it's such a boring task to fly between rooms, maybe we should take a break from it for a week or so." Hank said, circling the latest in a long streak of broken records.

"That's not funny, Hank." Hope said seriously, hands on her hips. She took several steps towards the edge of the table before reactivating the wings and flying to more stable ground. "It's been weeks of flight drills and target practice. I can handle a summer breeze."

"I'm serious, Hope." Hank said. "Let's give it a rest for a week- in the meantime, I've been meaning to ask for your help with something else."

He glanced at the shrunk building sitting on the table- a more recent purchase that had cost a little more than he expected. Especially when the previous owner of the building had called to ask why there was an empty lot where the building had been not three hours after he'd handed Hank the keys. That had been a rough explanation, as well as a high price, to keep a small secret.

"Then let me run one last drill today- outside in the backyard." She requested.

Hank was about to indisputably answer no- this time without any room for compromise -when a quiet alarm began ringing out from the console. He rolled his chair away from the camera monitors to his computer, tapping away at the keyboard.

The monitors switched from interior cameras to exterior- ants posted down the block were bustling about, rushing through their extensive tunnels at the command of Hank Pym. The alarm that had been tripped was a proximity alert- someone red-flagged by Pym had triggered a pheromone discharge close to the megacolony under the Pym's house.

Ants responded to certain smells the way humans do- whether to repulse or to attract an individual, it wasn't difficult. Ever since Darren Cross had entered his home so easily just a night before the break-in at Pymtech, Hank kept several vials of specialized pheromones that the ants would react to. Particularly, when Hank could not supervise outside cameras while also teaching Hope, the ants would now trip the proximity alarm when the dangerous smell would appear.

This 'dangerous smell' was attached to several people in the Bay Area. One of them just happens to be Hope Van Dyne's current boyfriend.

"Can you tell me why Scott is here?" Hank asked, already going back through the tabs on his computer and closing any that related to his Quantum Realm theory. No use in leaving that open with an idiot on approach.

"He shouldn't be. I rescheduled with him so we could practice all day." Hope responded.

"Well, he's already at the door."

"Let him knock. We don't have any reason to answer."

A curt observation and brilliant strategy. Hank couldn't have made a better plan. The problem was the length of time they would lose. Scott could spend anywhere from five to thirty minutes on his porch, just knocking away and asking if anyone was home. What kind of person had that amount of time to waste? Scott Lang, that's who.

That man disappointed Hank- and considering how little Hank actually expected from him outside of burglarizing, that was a skill in and of itself.

"Let's run a drill in the backyard. He won't be able to hear me back there." Hope suggested, already preparing to fly again.

"No, no!" Hank said, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Just- come downstairs and change out of the suit. I still have something I'd like to talk with you about."

"Fine." Hope said evenly. "What about Scott?"

"He'll leave eventually- you can't even hear him knocking from down here." Hank said, picturing Scott standing at the door as he tried to explain to Hope his new theory on the Quantum Realm. The image left a sour taste in his mouth. Hank switched between camera angles, trying to get a look at the man spoiling everything in Hank's life at the moment.

That was when he realized that something was off.

Scott was walking stiffly, slowly, and cautiously down the street. None of those traits described Scott. It was as if he were sunburned, incapable of casual movement out of fear that he would be faced with pain. Even after getting sucker punched in the gut by Hope during training, Scott would be back to his slouched posture and fast paced walk within a couple of minutes.

Hank scrutinized Scott, but couldn't be sure why he would be acting like that while walking up to his door. This nervous behavior wasn't in his nature. Hank knew a few things about human nature. Better than most.

He could hear Hope shuffling around in the room behind the safe- probably changing. Hank continued to watch the monitor.

Scott stopped just short on the sidewalk- he faced the house, but didn't step closer. Hank switched his perspective to the doorbell mounted camera, zooming in closely on Scott's face.

He was speaking. Mumbling, really, in that soft way he usually did when he was unsure. The audio wasn't being picked up, though. Hank's eyesight wasn't good enough for reading lips, either. All that Hank could be sure of was that Scott seemed serious.

Hank pushed himself away from the computer and grabbed his (lukewarm) cup of coffee. If Scott really wanted to talk about something with him, he should've called Hank first. The Pym's were running experiments and drills almost around the clock- they didn't have time for unscheduled drop-bys from part-time employees, serious or not. And what did Scott have anything to be serious about that could involve the Pym's?

"Has he knocked yet?" Hope asked from the other room.

Hank took a (lukewarm) sip. "Not yet- I doubt he'll stay for more than ten minutes this time."

"I'll wager fifteen."

"Oh?" Hank inquired. "What would you like to wager?"

Hope appeared in slim jeans and a grey cami tank top, peering over Hank's shoulder into the monitor. "If he's there for more than ten minutes, we run flight drills outside for the rest of the day."

Hank felt an irritation growing from inside his throat as he spun to face his daughter. Did Hope ever hear a word he said? "I told you, I have something I want to share with-"

"What is he doing?" Hope asked abrasively, already turning from the lab and walking towards the stairs. Hank blinked once, twice, then refocused on the monitor.

Only, Scott wasn't waiting at the door.

Scott had walked through the door. Without knocking.

Hank quickly stood, almost spilling his (lukewarm) coffee. Then, he followed after Hope.

…

He was sitting in the living room, unabashedly… fidgeting. Like a grade school boy sent to the principal's office. Nothing about this situation was in Scott's nature- especially about feeling guilty of a crime before someone else brought it up (Hank brought up his past mistakes often. It kept him honest).

Hope was the first to see him, Hank right on her heels. When they entered, loudly, Scott locked eyes with Hope. "You guys were here. Great." He said, his voice weary. He even sounded like he was in trouble. For just a moment, Hank's anger was displaced by curiosity. What kind of trouble could Scott be trying to drag him and his daughter into?

"Who gave you permission to come in?" Hank asked. "You didn't call, you didn't knock-" He began, preparing for a lecture on common sense. One of many senses Scott lacked.

Scott pulled his phone from his pocket, already dialing. This was beyond ludicrous. Hank was about to shift gears from stern to furious, but Scott placed a finger in the air, signaling for a moment of patience.

"Scott- what's going on?" Hope asked. Her arms were crossed in front of her, expectantly.

Scott put the phone on speaker, placing it in front of his mouth horizontally, like he was balancing a plate. Only his eyes switched over to the Pyms. "Don't say anything about who you are, and don't panic like you normally would, okay?" Scott spoke evenly, each word stressed and serious.

Whoever was on the other end of the phone call picked up. Scott nodded to himself while Hank and Hope shared a concerned look. He'd never acted like this before. At least, he never seemed serious enough when he meant to be.

"Percy, you there buddy?" Scott said. "Can you hear me okay?"

"Loud and clear. Loud and clear." A deep, loose voice responded through the speaker. "Are you with the guy you said owned the suit?"

Hank nearly jumped at Scott, ready to strangle him. His face was probably flushed with rage, and eyes wide with disbelief. "You told someone about my suit?!" He shouted. Someone put a hand on Hank's shoulder, but he didn't stop trying to advance on the idiot sitting in his armchair.

Hope grabbed Hank's shoulder this time, squarely keeping him in place. "Dad- Dad!" She whispered urgently.

Scott took the phone off speaker and quickly put it to his ear. "Gimme one second- I think I already messed up."

"Oh, you think?!" Hank nearly yelled.

"Yeah, yeah- no, gimme five minutes. Five minutes is all I need to clear this up." Scott said, trying to reassure the entirely wrong person, in Hank's mind. He should've never trusted the irresponsible Scott Lang. What a blunder. What a nuisance.

Scott covered the mic with his hand, pulling the phone away from his mouth. "I can explain." He said, blinking and nodding as he spoke.