When Scott Met Annie

Chapter 5: Nothin' But Lucky

Scott woke up fast when he smelled medicinal alcohol, and he woke up swinging, connecting with something — or someone — before he'd even fully realized he was awake, though he recognized the gentle voice almost as soon as he did so.

"Calm down, Scott. It's me," Hank McCoy said, resting one heavy and furry hand on Scott's chest to get him to lay back, and Scott let out all his breath in a rush, relieved beyond belief.

He'd thought...

No, he escaped Sinister.

"Sorry about that," he croaked out, surprised at how rough his own voice sounded to him and how hard it was to speak. His chest hurt like crazy, though he supposed that was from those guys at the bar...

He looked around, caught a bit off guard when he wasn't at the mansion or even on a jet. It looked like he was in someone's home. He was on a couch... he could see the top of a kitchen counter close by... family pictures on the mantle of three sisters — two brunettes and a blonde...

He then turned his attention downward and watched for a moment as Hank worked to clean up the injuries he'd acquired over the past few days. A shorter, grey-haired woman with a stethoscope was talking with the big police officer Scott had met at the bar, and another woman, brunette, was seated in the loveseat and quietly, curiously, watching Hank work. At some point, Hank must have switched out the thing Sinister had put him in for Scott's usual glasses, and it made sitting back so much easier when there wasn't something at the back of his head stopping him.

"What happened?" Scott asked in that same hoarse whisper, and Hank shook his head lightly.

"I should ask you the same thing," he pointed out, gesturing with one hand to the rest of Scott.

He couldn't help but smirk. "Asked you first."

Hank let out a little low chuckle, shaking his head once more. "You are incredibly lucky," he told Scott. "Not only that these kind people opened their homes to you and invited a good doctor—" He tipped his head to the gray-haired woman. "—but that our Storm doesn't believe a word of the news and asked a few of us up this way to look into that little matter of the police in Canada—"

"That wasn't me," Scott said quickly.

"None of us think it was," Hank assured him. "But now that you've been caught up to date on just how it is you got from the bar where this gentleman found you to here — would you please tell me how it is you got ... well, into such a state?" he asked, frowning over the top of his glasses, still working as he spoke.

Scott leaned back into the arm of the couch and let out the very little breath that was in his lungs. When he answered, it was low enough that Hank was the only one to hear it. "It was Sinister," he said quietly.

Hank's eyes flashed as for a moment he looked over his old teammate with a new understanding before he let out a hum of displeasure. "That would certainly explain it."

Scott nodded, feeling tired already at the memory of it. "I'd only just gotten out when I got here... or to the bar, anyway," he said. "Honestly, I was going to call the institute..."

"And you ran instead into ruffians," Hank finished for him, shaking his head.

Scott gave him a wan smile. "Pretty much."

Hank shook his head at that. "Well, you will be happy to know that the X-Men have at least cleared your good name in the regard of the matter a few weeks ago. Storm is an excellent investigator, and—"

"A few weeks?" Scott repeated, sitting up taller with his eyebrows high on his head.

Hank paused and frowned Scott's way. "Yes..." he said carefully, frowning deeper when Scott's glare seemed to deepen at the answer.