Chapter Text
It’s snowing.
It’s the first thing Scott registers, curled up in a large bed. The bed isn’t his, to plush, the blankets a fuzzy sort of Sherpa. Not, Scott knows, running his fingers over the fabric, the warn, raised texture of his quilt. Cocking his head, Scott stills, letting the atmosphere of the room trickle in. Wood creaks, pipes gurgling as the room wheezes out a burst of heat. A heater, Scott ponders, slipping a hand from the blankets to find the wall. There yes, he can feel it, the slight hum of electricity. Not a space heater then, so this place had working electricity, at least.
Shifting, a slight chill dances across his back. Hearing no footsteps, and curious now, Scott shuffles again, angling his body towards the cold. It was the snow, Scott realized, plinking softly against the glass. A window.
His glasses are gone.
Sensing no imminent danger, Scott sits up. The cool air trickles in, leaving goose flesh that he promptly ignores. Skimming his fingers over the blankets leads him to the wooden headboard, smooth and weighty. Mapping their way across the wall, down, to another, smooth wooden edge, about knee height. Scott taps it firmly. The sound echoes back, and whatever is laid on its surface jingles. Pale fingers trace the surface, finding first a long, smooth bit of plastic with a narrowed end. Disregarding the pen, Scott keeps searching, until he feels the familiar curve of lenses.
Plucking them from the stand, he slips them on.
Tinged ruby, the house is startlingly gaudy. An upper-middle class dream, it was all hardwood flooring and pale, short carpets. Homey in a magazine way, with holiday baubles and ivy garlands. Plastic, Scott notes, fingering the edge. But the expensive kind, full and lush laden with twinkling lights and velvet ribbon. Despite this, something in the room itched at him, with its unnervingly straight lines and crisp, clean paint. Much of the house is done up similarly. Bookcases accented with garland and bows, kitchen cabinets with a matching island, all laid out in that same open-ended style and unnaturally straight, angular visage.
Unnerved, Scott backtracks, searching through the bedroom with swift efficiency. His cellphone is gone, no surprise, but his wallet and ID remain, as well as a closet full of clothes. A set of keys sit innocuously on the same bedside stand he’d searched earlier.
Right. He could take a hint.
Dressed for the weather, Scott slips his arms through a long, dark coat and heads out the door. Glancing down the street reveals rows of equally pristine houses, bedecked in lights and holiday filigree. Not far down the block, a street sign reads “Noel Ave.” and Scott can’t help but snort. Christ, give him a break.
“Howdy Neighbor,” The cheerful voice made Scott twitch, glancing across the street where a woman stood in a stylish, sleekly buttoned burgundy coat. “Heard you were back in town!” About middle aged, Scott thinks, with an uncrackable grin and comfortable boots, his ‘Neighbor’ had short brunette hair and an affable demeanor.
Scott raises a brow. “Do I know you?” He questions, perplexed.
The smile doesn’t change, except for a minute twitch of her lip. “Oh that’s right, it’s been a long while since you been back home huh Scotty?” Tromping across the snow, the woman ambles her way over. “Don’t you remember me?” She questions, waving her hands to encompass herself, from head to foot. At Scott’s deadpan expression, her smile dims, huffing, “I’m Mary Beth,” She says pointedly, motioning between them, “Your neighbor?”
Still baffled, Scott nodded slowly, “Neighbor. Right,” He says, glancing across the street and back to Mary Beth, who stands, arms akimbo. One hand in his pocket reminds him of the car keys, and the nearly pristine, but significantly less sporty Honda Accord sitting in the driveway. “Am I supposed to be doing something, Mary Beth?” Scott questions, dangling the keys in front of his face.
“Goin’ to work?” Mary Beth retorts, shoulder bumping him playfully. “Not like you to miss a day,” She adds, “Although I double anyone would complain, Mr. Serious.” Scott allows the jostling, though the tension in his shoulders remains. Wherever he is, whoever these people are, he can’t risk outing himself.
He needed more data.
If this place had Scott Summers, well manicured holiday décor enthusiast, then that’s who he would be. “Of course,” Scott agrees, walking to the car. Mary Beth joins him, their steps crunching in the snow as Scott tugs the door open. As he’s about to slip inside, he pauses, cocking his head, “Where do I work again?” Scott asks, brow furrowed.
Somehow, he had the feeling the woman wasn’t as put off by his confusion. “Accounting office,” Mary Beth informs him, patting his shoulder, “Main street, right hand side next to the cafe.”
Scott peered down at the hand, then back up at Mary Beth’s eternally smiling face. “Right” Scott says after a beat, nodding, “I’ll go do that, then,” getting behind the wheel, Scott waves, feeling the engine thrum to life.
Wherever Scott is, it’s close knit enough that Main Street is a short drive away. Classic brick buildings lined with lights, the street is reminiscent of a movie set, with hand painted store signs advertising diners and warm cafes. Coming to a stop, Scott spots another building, done up in that same classic brick with a jaunty Santa Clause waving in the window. Next to it was a sign reading “Mathews Accounting, LLC.” in bronze-tinted script.
Twisting the knob, Scott edges his way inside, glancing around slowly. “Hello?” He calls out, letting the door swing shut behind him. The office held nothing atypical, as far as Scott could see. Thin, wall to wall carpets and a few nondescript chairs in the corner. A front desk to the right, and behind a short hallway with several doors, offices, Scott assumed.
The left door opens, and a man pops his head out. “Scotty my boy! I was wondering when you’d pop in.” Graying hair and a slight paunch, the gentleman’s well-worn khaki suit and sensible shoes couldn’t hide his jolly demeanor.
“I’m sorry, I must have slept in this morning,” Scott replies, glancing at the plaque next to the door.
Mr. Mathews chuckles. “Now now, I’ve been telling you for ages to call me Ben,” Mr. Mathews says easily, patting Scott’s shoulder. Cocking his head, he nods towards the back hallway, where Scott spies the legs of a small stand tucked into the corner, “Coffee’s on,” He announces, rubbing his hands together, “And Maggie next door has promised me some lovely ginger tea cakes this afternoon for lunch!”
Scott has no idea who Maggie is. “Sounds delicious,” He agrees, hands in his pockets, “Anything urgent this morning?”
The Jameson’s account files are on your desk,” Mr. Mathews informs him, waving lazily to the opposite door, “They do good record keeping but you know, gotta dot all the I’s and all that.” Nodding, Scott shoulders the door open, taking in the small, but neatly organized office. Much like the rest of the building, there was nothing overtly suspicious about the room. A worn, but solid wooden desk, a computer, several filing cabinets and a smattering of chairs. On the right hand side was a clean, empty coffee cup.
Eyeing the door dubiously, Scott strides to the desk, tugging open the side drawers. Files, several general information forms, and a few “current cases”, in descending priority, from what was likely family estates. None of the names jump out at him, but a glance shows general life humdrum ranging from elderly wills and mortgages to student loan debt. Returning the files as they were, Scott heads to the filing cabinets. Labeled alphabetically were rows of names he didn’t recognize, likely other citizens of the town. Curiously Scott skims through them. The category of “M” held no files with “Monroe” or “McCoy”, neither did the “G”’s reveal anyone named “Grey” with the exception of a “Grayson, Elizabeth”, who was apparently employed at the county library. There was no “Drake, Robert” to be found, and the only “W” was a “Walton” not a “Worthington.”
Well, Scott thinks, this presented some issues.
Wherever he was, he hadn’t found anyone who recognized him as Scott Summers, X-Man. But they did recognize him as Scott Summers. And just as importantly, none of his team seemed to be here. Whoever this Scott Summers was, he seemed to live a repetitive, but content, every day life. Scott boggled at the notion. A dimension shift, Scott pondered, settling into the desk, some sort of accidental switch even? Remembering the house, and its’ oddly helpful neighbor, however, gives him doubt.
More legwork then, Scott thinks, study the routine, see what the boundaries of this place are. Well, Scott amends, tugging open the bottom drawer of his desk, legwork after coffee.
Getting into the groove of things is less taxing than expected. Then again, he’s always had an eye for numbers. Several hours passed before a knock broke Scott out of his reverie. Glancing up, Scott nods in greeting. “Mr. Mathews,” He acknowledges, setting the forms down, “Is everything ok?” The man was clearly agitated, shoulders hiked and mouth twisted.
“Scott, I somehow got roped into an emergency meeting,” Mr. Mathews grouses, scrubbing his face tiredly. “I promised Maggie I’d pick up the tea cakes before the lunch rush really set in, you mind taking your thirty minutes and popping next door?” He gives Scott a pleading look, one foot wiggling impatiently from where he leans against the door frame.
Scott knows an opportunity when he sees it. “Sure,” Scott agrees glibly, pushing the chair back, “Might even grab something for myself.” It’s a good enough excuse if there was one, and if Mr. Mathews had ties with the bakery, then there was the chance the workers there had information. Even if that information was just who this Scott Summers was supposed to be.
Mr. Mathews beams, clasping his hands together. “Thank you my boy, now I have to go, or else Charlene’s gonna flay me alive for being late,” Scuttling out the door, the man stops just long enough to grab his coat before taking off down the street.
Scott watches him go, ambling behind him. The streets are beginning to swell as noon rolled around, people speeding to and fro for a bite to eat, or chatting on phones. He didn’t have to go far, true to Mary Beth’s words the bakery, “Maggie’s Slice of Heaven” was just next door, done up in sweet teals and pastel yellows with a cluster of tables and a diner style bar stool front. Claiming a stool, Scott waits patiently as a woman glides past, a harried face with wisps of ginger hair, and a strong set of arms. She’s chatting lightly while plucking treats from the trays beneath the clear counter, sliding them down the bar to the young cashier in front.
She’s just boxed up several slices of coffee cake when she glances up, spotting Scott by chance. “Oh!” The woman blurts out, glancing at the clock on the wall, “Scott, I’m sorry dear, I’m a bit behind,” She- Maggie- Scott realizes, apologizes, wiping her hands on her apron, “Why don’t I get you your usual while you wait?”
Scott waves her off. “It’s no rush,” He assures, smiling, “I’m sorry Mr. Mathews couldn’t make it.” Maggie’s face falls for a moment, and Scott jots the reaction down on his mental map. Here, any scraps of information were useful, until he could get his bearings. His usual turns out to be a toasted turkey reuben with all the trimmings, arugula, and a sweet-savory raspberry sauce over gouda and a side of chips. Down home diner portions, Scott thinks, taking another bite, are truly a gift.
The crowd ebbs and flows around him, the line diminishing as people rush out the door. Scott chows down, suddenly hungry, as he hadn’t risked eating that morning. He’d had no idea if any of it was safe, then, but whoever runs this place apparently didn’t want him dead yet. So turkey reuben it was. “Good honey?” A voice asks, and Scott looks up, cheeks full of turkey, as Maggie smiles at him, laugh lines on her face, “Rush is easing up,” Maggie explains, pulling a to go box out from beneath the counter, “Kate can handle the rest while I pack up Ben’s tea cakes.”
Wolfing down the rest of the sandwich, Scott nods, wiping his lips. Maggie’s smile widens and Scott flushes, opening his mouth only to be interrupted by a merry little jingle. Maggie glances behind him, still smiling at whoever had just stepped in. Scott’s fiddling with his wallet, about to ask if she could pack in something extra when a voice asks, “Scott?” in the most baffled voice he’s ever heard