ask-ant-man asked you:
Brain (my character or yours, trying to instigate a deep conversation)
“So this is—”
“No, I’m telling you, look.”
Hank wasn’t looking. Well, not at the papers Bruce had shared out on the desk. He focused his sight down a microscope. “A moment, please…”
Words in one ear, out the other—they’d been sitting like that for the past fifteen minutes. Bruce invested in the theoretics written down on the papers in front of him, and Hank in whatever he had gotten out of that petri dish.
“Two minutes, Doctor Pym, then I’ll leave you to your mold,” He prodded.
“It’s not mold, it’s—”
Bruce was tapping a pen against the edge of the table. “I know. But this is—”
Hank held up his hand and wiggled two fingers, “Two minutes, Bruce…”
He knew his shoulders and neck would ache by the time he woke again. But Bruce didn’t care much for getting out of the chair, and laying down in his bed a few doors further down the hallway, as his eyelids slid shut.
Even less about the papers crumpling slightly under his hand, or the pen rolling from the desk and hitting the floor with seemingly more noise than a pen should be able to make.
He was dead beat - blaming it on the autumn weather - nothing a nap wouldn’t help though…