It has never occurred to Scott Lang that his bad-ass, unstoppable, indestructible (too much?) girlfriend, Hope Van Dyne would have fallen sick. So, it half surprises and half alarms him when he receives a call from her one morning, when he's halfway through devising a security plan in his apartment.

"Scott?" Hope's voice comes through the phone. Hoarse and crackling. A pause. Then a hacking cough. "Can you, uh, come over? I'm..."

Worry creases appears in between his brows. "I'll be right there," Scott replies, shrugging on his jacket, already halfway through the door, doesn't even need Hope to finish her sentence because he knows she's sick by the sound of her voice. "Do you need anything?"

In a haste, she sends him a list in a discombobulated state. He browses through the list on his phone - bread, soup, Vicks, flu tablets, but he certainly didn't expect to come across, pads? His eyes bug out, wide as saucers. Being the most supportive boyfriend that he is, he shrugs it off in a second. He'd do anything for Hope, anything.

Which is why he's standing at an aisle in a grocery store, hands on his hips, eyes flicking through the selection of pads displayed in front of him. He sees that there's an whole array of different brands. Well, that's a start. But then he starts to notice that there are ones for days, nights, wings, wingless, and what? scents and unscented? He doesn't understand why this has to be so complicated.

He's never done this before, not even for his ex-wife. Well, because she has never ask him to.

Scott quirks a brow, then rubs at his neck uncomfortably, all while trying to ignore the suspicious eye of a young woman standing beside him. He offers her a small smile, which she most probably interpreted as a creepy middle-aged man smile, because she takes a pack off the shelf quickly and scutters away.

He doesn't know why it's a taboo for men to buy sanitary pads.

Because it really shouldn't be.

He considers Face-timing Hope but thinks she's most probably knocked out in bed. He wants to see her. And with every growing minute, his worry for her expands. He needs to make this quick. He thinks of calling Maggie, but they've recently just build back the burnt bridges, and it would be awfully awkward.

So, Scott decides to make it simple, and takes one pack of each and chucks it into the trolley cart. He's off to the payment counter in a whiz, and it's now the cashier's turn to narrow his eyes at him.

"What? I'm buying these for my wife," Scott blurts, without a single hesitation, looking at the cashier straight in the eyes. And then he blinks stupidly for a while, realising what he'd just said. Wife. The word feels natural on the tip of his tongue. He lets his thoughts stray, because, oh boy, he really wants to call Hope his wife one day. A big silly smile plasters on his face.

The cashier simply shrugs.

...

Hope thinks she's going to die.

She is not being dramatic in any way, but she really thinks so. Pondering the possibilities of her death, she's lying curled up on her bed, wrapped in a bundle of blankets because she's running a temperature and freezing at the same time, it doesn't make any sense. The curtains in her room are drawn tight because she can't stand the sight of the light that's streaming in, and the illogical part of her brain thinks she's turning into a vampire.

Her head is pounding causing a constant ringing in her ears, her nose is blocked, she can barely breath and her throat's scratchy like sandpaper. She coughs, for like the billionth time, making her throbbing head worse.

It has been a very long time since she felt this sick.

And it sucks.

She barely ever gets sick that it's countable on one hand, and Hope prides herself for it. She would have gone to the grocery store herself if she wasn't feeling like she just got run over by a truck. Flipping over to sleep on her side, she groans, wishing that Scott would arrive soon.

A few taps on her bedroom door indicates that he's arrived. Speak of the devil. Hazily, she wonders at how did he get into her apartment, then she remembers he's a thief (ex-thief), he taught her how to pick a lock using bobby pins, and he had installed a new alarm system in her residence.

"Hey," Scott's head pokes through the door, wearing a big, goofy smile on his face.

"Did you just break into my house?" Hope asks, but she's extremely happy to see him.

His expression turns sheepish, but he's more distracted by her face that's peeking out from the pile of blankets. She looks a mess - her cheeks flushed, strands of fringe are stuck on her forehead and her hair is sticking out at the ends. His heart aches, yet it makes him love her more.

Because Hope, his proud girlfriend, is learning how to let him take care of her. And he's damn sure he's going to do a great job at it.

"Come here," she makes grabby hands at him, then she coughs. A jolt of concern shoots up in his chest. Scott strides to her and sits at the edge of bed, her hand flying up to his chest to push him away, to keep a distance, because she's contagious. But it doesn't deter him from rubbing her back soothingly. Hope stops coughing, and then Scott leans in, planting a kiss on her forehead.

"I look and feel like shit," she laments.

"You look beautiful," he cups her face, strokes her cheek gently.

"Shut up," Hope mutters, though she can barely contain her smile. She doesn't know when had it become appropriate for him to hurl her compliments at random, spontaneous moments, so she usually tells him to shut up, because she simply doesn't know how to respond to his compliments.

Scott just grins, throwing his arm around Hope, and she snuggles up to him, resting her head on his chest. He's warm, very warm, so she snakes her legs around his, feeling the warmth spreading from her toes upwards.

"You're so warm," Hope whispers. He tightens his grip around her, running his palm up and down her arm.

"Did you just call me here to be your body warmer? Because I'm definitely much more useful than that," Scott jokes, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"I'm not having sex with you," she states plainly, and prods him in the ribs.

"I didn't imply that! How could you Hope!"

She only rolls her eyes.

They lie on the bed like that, in companionable silence.

"You know, uh, about that list that you sent me? I didn't know which one to buy, so I, uh, got every one of each," Scott clears his throat, averting his gaze from her perplexed stare.

Hope is completely lost. "What?"

"I also got you a heat pad, just in case, I don't know, if you have cramps...," he trails away.

And then it sort of strikes her as she tries to recall the list that she had sent him. "Fuck," she groans, hiding her face in her palms, squirming in his embrace, embarrassed.

"What?"

He looks down at her, notices her cheeks have gone redder. He has never seen her embarrassed before, so this is something new, and it's pretty darn cute. He likes how he's learning something new about her every day.

"I sent you the wrong list."

"So I got all of these for nothing?" Scott exclaims, reaches for the floor, holding up a paper bag that Hope didn't notice that he had brought in earlier.

Hope takes a peek at the contents of the bag, and erupts into laughter. "You bought the whole store? Thanks for the free supplies for the whole year," she half smirks, half laughs, and she's coughing out her lungs again, almost choking while laughing.

"Hey, hey, you okay?" Scott asks, concern written all over his face.

Hope waves him off. She's okay. In fact, Hope's more than okay. Warmth blooms the moment she hears him going through the trouble of buying it, didn't even try to double check with her, doing it without hesitation, and it surprises her that he's even got her a heat pad.

Why does he have to be so god damn sweet.

"Thank you," she murmurs, genuinely. She wants to kiss him, she really does, but she can't risk infecting him. So she stares at him, at his clear green eyes, fondly, instead.

But Scott doesn't care. He's been wanting to kiss her the moment he arrived. He leans in, closing the distance between them and kisses her before she could even react.

Her hand shoots up to cover her lips a second too late. "You can't kiss me, idiot, I'm sick!"

"Do ants get sick?" He pretends not to hear her and kisses her again.

She shoves him away and hides under the blankets.

...

Scott coaxes Hope to come out from her room, tells her it's better to have some fresh air. She refuses at first, until he threatens by wanting to carry her out of the room, princess style. She glares at him, and swats his hand away, mutters grumpily but still let him take her hand and they head to the kitchen.

So, she sits at the kitchen counter wrapped in a blanket and watches him work his wonders in making her soup, and plays Spotify from his phone. He had bought raw ingredients instead, planning to make chicken soup from scratch because Scott isn't going to let Hope drink some MSG-ridden instant soup. Hope excels at everything she does, but she can't cook to save her life.

She can't remember when was the last time someone had made her soup - probably her mother and a pang of sadness creeps in. Hope was always alone on the rare occasion when she did fall sick, nursing herself back to health. She didn't need anyone. But now, it actually feels strangely good to have someone to lean onto, and let the weight of the world slide off her shoulders. And it isn't just someone, it's Scott.

"This soup is going to make you feel so much better, trust me. Even Cassie loves it," Scott interrupts her thoughts.

"That's a relief. I'd take Cassie's taste over yours any day," Hope teases with a smile to which Scott responds with a faux hurt expression.

A favourite song of Scott's pops up on his Spotify playlist, and he starts singing Michael Buble's Everything. He's with his stupid, charming grin of his, goofing around, using the soup ladle as a microphone, directing the song to her, because recently all the love songs are about Hope, and Hope only.

If it happened years ago, Hope would have thought it was cloying and disgustingly sweet, and she might have thrown a shoe in his face, but now all she thinks is that he's absurdly endearing. She bites back a smile, ducking her head so she doesn't let him see the smile that's threatening to break from her face. Suddenly, her headache's all gone, her body's light as a feather, and all she feels are sunshine and butterflies and cakes.

Also, Scott does notice, notice the upward curl of her lips and the way she flushes.

Hope's truly fallen in love with him, or it's just the fever messing with her head, she doesn't know.

He's kind, and warm, and smart, and also an idiot, but she likes him. Likes the way there's a slight tilt to his head while he bobs to the music, singing in tune. Likes the way he's stealing glances at her with a twinkle in his eyes. Likes the way his lips twitch single sidedly upwards, the crinkling of his eyes when he smiles at her. Likes the way he's taking care of her.

She's thoroughly loving his presence and she loves soaking in the warm, soft love that he's giving her.

Hope ends up sitting on the couch, cross-legged, still bundled in a blanket, drinking chicken soup, while Scott fusses over her. He had wanted to feed her but she had smacked his hand away, saying she's still capable of feeding herself. The soup is extremely delicious, despite how bland her taste buds are, and there seems to be a pinch of spice/herbs that's cleared up her stuffy nose. Meanwhile, Scott is slightly restless, doesn't know what to do with his hands so he massages her shoulders instead, while keeping a watchful eye on her. It's a perfect pressure he's exerting, and it makes her relax. A few months into dating and he's already learned all of her soft spots, she doesn't know what to make about it.

"How is it?" Scott asks, but judging by the half-finished soup that she's still slurping away, it's very good. There's a certain kind of indescribable happiness when you watch the one you love enjoy your cooking. It's satisfying.

"Hands down the best chicken soup I have ever tasted," Hope smiles, glances at him, showers him a compliment. He's clearly softened her hard edges.

"Did you just compliment me?" Scott smirks. It isn't the first time that she's praising him, but he still likes to act that it shocks him, just for the fun of it.

She nudges his ribs with her elbow. "Don't get used to it," she mutters.

He grins, gives her shoulders a light squeeze. "I hope you're feeling much better. You got me worried."

She looks at him, nothing but grateful showing in her olive green eyes. "I am, thanks," she gives him an appreciative smile. It's hard for her to put her trust on someone, but he makes her feel safe.

Scott sneaks in a kiss on her lips again and she's pushing his face away with her hand.

"I'm not going to take pity on you if you do get sick."

"I won't, don't worry."

At the end of the day, Hope falls asleep on Scott's lap, on the couch. He doesn't want to disturb her slumber, so he watches her quietly instead, his fingers gently stroking the strands of her hair. They stay like that until late at night, and he does carry her, princess style to her bed.

...

A week passes. One fine morning, Hope gets a call from Scott when she's better enough to start resuming the work on her Wasp suit with her father. Scott, who's supposed to convene with her at her father's house, is very late.

"Hey Hope," Scott's voice is low and croaky and she can foresee what's coming next. "Remember that time when you were sick and you dared me to kiss you and I did?"

Her brows rise up to her hairline, "Putting the blame on me as usual huh. I told you not to kiss me Scott," she rolls her eyes.

"Well, yeah, uh, I'm sick," he coughs, and then he blows his nose.

She sighs, "Idiot."

Still, despite saying she wouldn't care about him, Hope flies to his apartment, tends to him, and makes him soup with his instructions (priding herself in not burning his kitchen down), while Scott looks on, lovestruck.

Both are lovesick idiots.