Work Text:
A hospital in San Francisco
“Visiting hours are over, sir – and in any case, we’ve had strict instructions that only Dr. Pym’s immediate family is permitted to see him!”
Hank’s ears pricked up. Whoever was arguing with the duty nurse – and getting her to talk loudly enough that he could clearly hear her rejoinder from three doors away – it couldn’t be any ordinary visitor. The police had left a security detail – purely for protective purposes, Paxton had assured him – to keep the press from getting past the hospital lobby, and Hope had given his doctors her own orders before they’d whisked him into surgery. Technically, of course, “immediate family” didn’t count Scott – but that would hardly be a problem for the new Ant-Man, and in any case Scott was still busy dealing with the fallout from the events of the previous night.
Then: “Madam,” said a crisp British voice, “I am a medical professional like yourself. There may be...unusual features of Dr. Pym’s case that I am uniquely qualified to address. And I have security clearances more than adequate to justify my presence.”
Hank’s hand closed tightly over the call button before the nurse got two words out. “Send him in,” he said as she poked her head into the room. “And give us some privacy. This may take a while.”
“All right,” the nurse said, sighing. “Twenty minutes, max. You still need rest.”
Less than a minute later, the voice’s owner – a small, well-dressed man with round spectacles and silvering sand-colored hair peeking from under a tan fedora – was eyeing Hank’s chart and shaking his head. “Dear me, Henry, you must be getting slow in your old age. The Ant-Man I knew would never let himself get shot – twice, at that – with perfectly normal bullets. Unless – the suit isn’t failing, is it?”
Hank favored his visitor with a glare. “The suit was working perfectly. I, however, took the advice you gave me twenty-odd years ago and stopped wearing it.” He paused. “What you told the nurse about clearances – you’re not still with S.H.I.E.L.D., are you? Or what’s left of it?”
“Good God, no. I left not long after you did. I like my science a little less cutting-edge, thank you very much. Nowadays I work for the U.S. Navy – their criminal investigation service, to be precise. Doctor Donald Mallard, forensic pathologist, at your service.”
“Ha!” The short bark of laughter made Hank wince – and the irony almost produced another. With an effort, he resumed a semblance of calm. “A trifle premature, aren’t you? Appearances notwithstanding, I’ve got a few years left in me. Now tell me – if S.H.I.E.L.D. or Stark didn’t send you, why are you here?”
Dr. Mallard – no, Hank told himself, Donald – set down the medical chart, dropped his fedora on a small corner table, and favored him with an expression that was both severe and sad. “I thought,” he said, a trifle stiffly, “that an old friend might need me. I suppose you won’t have seen it, but there’s news footage of PymTech’s headquarters going – wherever it went. At first I feared you’d gone with it, but a camera crew on the ground caught you being put into an ambulance. And considering that that cannot possibly have been a normal implosion....”
“You assumed some sort of catastrophic failure of the shrinking technology.” Hank sighed – and winced again. “Damn. I should’ve known someone would get video of the collapse.”
Donald shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry. After what happened in Sokovia, no one – well, almost no one – is likely to make much of your little kerfuffle. There are perhaps a dozen people on the planet who could look at that film and see what I did.”
“True, but at least three of them hate my guts.”
“Hate is a very strong word,” Donald observed. “And most people tend to mellow a bit as they grow older. Present company possibly excluded,” he added, clearly holding back a chuckle at Hank’s annoyed expression.
“Maybe. I’d have bet PymTech against Tony Stark ever turning into a one-woman man,” Hank admitted, then grimaced. “Hell, I suppose I just did. With what this will do to the stock price, he’d be crazy not to go for a buyout.”
Donald frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps. Though I imagine Ms. Potts will have some say in the matter.” Then he paused, blinked, and stared at Hank. “Wait a moment. You’re saying you deliberately destroyed PymTech’s headquarters?”
Hank smiled grimly up at his visitor. “It was necessary. What Darren was doing had to be stopped. I did have help, mind you.”
“That would be Darren Cross, I gather,” Donald said mildly. “You needn’t look surprised, Henry. Even if I hadn’t been following PymTech’s fortunes over the years, fringe-market arms trading is one of NCIS’ primary interests.”
Hank tried and failed to bite back another short laugh. “Aiii. Donald, you’re killing me here. Enough with the understated Scottish wit, okay?”
The doctor’s expression transformed in an instant. “Good Lord, I’m an idiot,” he said, giving a wry chuckle of his own. “My apologies; I shall try to be less entertaining. Oh, dear,” he added, as Hank swallowed yet another bark of amusement.
“I think that’s a lost cause,” Hank told him. “But let me get this straight – NCIS knew about the Yellowjacket project. Did they know HYDRA was after it?”
Donald’s eyebrows shot upward. “Not so far as I know. Then again, such a case could well have been assigned to the NCIS office here, not to mine in Washington, DC.”
It was Hank’s turn to blink. “Wait, you’re based in DC? Then how—?”
“They do give us vacations from time to time,” Donald replied. “I was waiting for a connecting flight at the San Francisco airport when your so-called implosion made its television debut. A simple search of the Internet supplied confirmation of your survival, and a call to one of my colleagues at home – quite unofficial, I assure you – told me where you’d been taken.”
“I see. So this really isn’t a business call?” Hank’s tone was skeptical.
“Assuredly not. No local investigator will need or want my assistance, and I’ve no basis for calling my own people into the matter. I may have a private word with my direct superior when I get home – but Jethro won’t ask questions he knows I can’t answer. I promise you, Henry, I came here purely as a friend.”
Hank was silent for nearly a full minute, then drew in a careful breath. “I – don’t know what to say. Friends have been kind of thin on the ground for me, since....” He trailed off.
“Since you lost Janet.” Donald’s voice was soft.
So was Hank’s. “Yes. And then – I lost Hope, too.” He paused, his expression rueful. “Oh God, please tell me I did not just say that.”
Donald shook his head. “I’m afraid you did. And meant it, I fear – both ways.”
Hank regarded him crossly. “Oh, please. Don’t tell me, you went and got a head-shrinking degree after you got out of S.H.I.E.L.D.?”
“Only quite recently, actually, in forensic psychology. It’s been quite useful,” Donald said, his tone a touch defensive.
“Head-shrinking for dead people? Lucky me, then – I don’t qualify as a patient.”
“Profiling those responsible for creating dead people. Another category for which you do not qualify,” Donald added, wagging a finger at Hank.
“Not that you’re letting that stop you,” Hank retorted. “Just so you know, I am dealing with...stuff. I finally told Hope the real story about Janet. It kind of came up during the run-up to last night’s caper.”
Donald’s brow wrinkled. “She was part of that? Wearing the Ant-Man suit?”
Hank gave him a horrified look. “Good God, no. I mean yes, she helped mastermind the thing, but the suit? She wanted to, but no way was I letting that happen.”
“No, I don’t imagine you were.” Donald eyed Hank thoughtfully. “Still, I assume the affair required an Ant-Man to carry off. And if neither you nor she took that part...?”
“I found a guy,” Hank said. “A little scraggly, but pretty sharp. We have a thing or two in common.”
“A protégé? Now that is a good sign. Assuming the man is trustworthy, of course.”
Hank glared up at Donald. “He’s extraordinary. He had to go subatomic last night – and made it back.”
Donald whistled softly. “Oh, my. That does rearrange matters.”
“You see the implication.”
“Be careful, Henry,” Donald said. “There are no guarantees.”
Hank nodded. “But there are possibilities. And that means there’s work to do.”
“Indeed. But where will you do it – and with whom?” Donald waved a hand at the wall-mounted television. “Last I looked, PymTech was, ah, missing in action.”
“Not entirely,” said Hank. “There are plants in New Mexico and Oregon, a business office downtown – the company will survive, with or without me. With Darren gone, it’s Hope’s show now. Or Stark’s, if he decides to make a play.”
Donald steepled his hands, tilting his fingers toward Hank. “Not, I think, the work I was asking about.”
“You’re head-shrinking again, damn you,” Hank said, scowling.
“Only in a good cause. There is, after all, always—“ Donald abruptly cut himself off.
Hank laughed out loud – which hurt, he discovered, less than he’d expected. “Oh, go ahead, say it. After all, you meant it both ways too.”
His old friend grinned at him, eyes sparkling behind his glasses. “Ah, but now I don’t need to. Congratulations, Henry – I do believe you’re going to be just fine. After a few weeks of rest, of course, and some physical therapy for that arm....”
“Donald,” said Hank, grinning back, “stuff it. I have three excellent doctors looking after me already. For my money – and before you ask, I salted plenty of that away after I got kicked out of PymTech – that’s two too many, but that’s one argument I’m letting Hope win.”
“Very wise.”
“I thought so. And as for that other question? After I get home, I’m going to have a really close look at the telemetry from the suit’s recorders. And then,” Hank said, “there’s a certain other suit that I’d better drag out of mothballs.”
Donald let out another whistle. “Oh, my. Are you sure?”
“Hell, no, but I don’t think I’ve got a choice. Like you didn’t say a second ago—“
Hank paused, met Donald’s eyes, and the two of them finished the sentence together.
“—there’s always Hope.”
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