Avengers: Legacies

Cold Tea and Rainy Afternoons

Pym Residence, Oxford, England

Henry Pym, Jr. poured over the many textbooks in front of him, the surface of his large, finely-polished desk unseeable beneath the mess. Although most of his written work was done, and he only needed a conclusion for his microbiology paper, he worried over the test his father had planned for him the following week.

His father, Dr. Henry Pym, Sr., never approached a test as a simple measure of understanding and acquired knowledge. Instead, the established doctor and formidable professor preferred taking the extra mile in testing his son's intellect, which rivaled his own, possibly exceeding his. The younger Pym had stopped attending private school two years ago, and he followed along the strict, intensive curriculum his father had tailored specifically for him. If his father's students at the university had the equivalent workload that he had, they'd weep, pull out their hair, quit their pursuits of higher education all together.

But Pym didn't mind, not one bit. It was the only aspect of his life that his father actually paid attention to, and he wanted nothing more than to meet every one of his father's expectations of him. He didn't care that he forced himself to rise before dawn to go over difficult material, to memorize formulas that seemed to fill entire pages in his notebooks, to gain a more and more complex understanding of what it was that made his father a passionate man of his scientific field. Biochemistry seemed to be the only thing that connected father and son to each other, and not the blood that they shared.

Pym lifted a teacup to his mouth, the tea tray on a little table to his left, and frowned as the chilled beverage touched his lips. How long had he been studying? The hand that held the cup turned the watch's face on its wrist towards him. Close to dinnertime. The realization sucked him out of the world of chemicals and formulas, and back to the leather swivel chair he sat rigid in and the large room he mostly lived in. His bedroom, that is. He set the cup back onto the tray and looked to the little intercom box at the right back corner of his desk. He pushed one of the little buttons.

"How may I be of assistance, Mr. Pym?" came the prompt reply of the Pyms' butler, Edwin. He had been an employee of theirs since Pym was a toddler.

"A fresh pot of tea, Edwin. It appears the tea I have currently has gone cold," he said.

"Yes, of course, sir. Anything else? Ms. Kittredge will begin preparing for dinner soon."

Pym sat up straighter. "Will my father be home soon?"

"Uh, no, sir. He phoned in not that long ago and said he'll be late again tonight. Shall I tell Ms. Kittredge to start preparations for dinner now?"

Pym tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice, but even to his ears, it sounded obvious. "No, that's alright. Just the tea will be fine."

"Very well, sir. I'll be up shortly."

Pym's attention fell back to his desk and the mess there. He stood from his chair and straightened it out, closing all of the textbooks and stacking them to one side and all of his notes and study guides to the other. His ghostly reflection shone up at him in the dark wood, and he could barely make out his pointed chin, overshadowed eyes, the glint of his wire-rimmed glasses, and the wild mess of his honey-coloured curls, one of the subjects of his father's constant nitpicking. He pushed his hands through his hair and turned away from his study spot to the soft knock at his bedroom door. He straightened out his navy blue sweater vest, a little crumpled, the light blue button-up beneath even more wrinkled, and he dusted off the grey trousers that had a small jam stain on the knee. His Converse were the only casual thing about his outfit, and at the moment, they were the only shoes that fit him. Their rubber soles echoed off the hardwood floors, as polished as his desk, as he reached the door and opened it wide enough for Edwin to enter with another tea tray.