More Than Meets the Eye

A.N. : I see some of you reading this, and I hope you're enjoying it. Please feel free to comment; I love hearing others' ideas on my writing.

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"What do you mean, she's gone?"

He shifted, the cold voice making his stomach roll uneasily. "I don't know what happened, sir. I only took one day off, and when I came in this morning she was gone."

The drumming of impatient fingers against polished wood cut through the still air. "Well, Doctor, unless you think she has also developed the ability to vanish at will, surely you know *where* she has gone?"

He twisted his hands. "A school, the director said. It was all arranged without my knowledge, sir, no one told me..."

"I am not interested in your paltry excuses, Doctor. I want her back. Now. And you will get her back. Or you will find this relationship becomes considerably less benevolent."


* * * * *


Hank set his own coffee on the picnic table, then reached out to take his companion's hand and wrap it around another cup.

"I do hope it's not too strong," he warned as he sat down. "I'm afraid my years as a night owl have left me with an affinity for coffee which bears close resemblance to road tar."

Faith lifted the cup to her lips and tasted the contents. "It's fine," she said. She set the cup down, her fingers playing over the sides. "Coffee was one of those things I really wasn't allowed at Bellwood, and I missed it terribly."

He raised an eyebrow. It was the first thing she had disclosed willingly about her time there. "I thought you were only eighteen when you entered Bellwood," he said. "Surely you weren't already drinking coffee?"

She smiled. "The last group home I lived in, the cook and I became good friends. We used to sit in the kitchen and talk over coffee a lot." She fell silent. "I miss her. She had a daughter who had been killed in a car accident just before her eighteenth birthday. She always said that having me around helped ease the hurt some."

Hank watched her, waiting to see if she'd offer more, but she didn't. "And the home's director had no problem with you drinking coffee?"

Faith gave a wry grin. "The home's director didn't care what we did, as long as we weren't bothering her."

He nodded knowingly. "Yes, I'm afraid that system has its fair share of pitfalls and inadequacies."

Faith shrugged. "I was lucky. I was bounced around to a couple of homes, but they were all reasonably decent places. None of that really dark stuff you hear of."

"And you were transferred to Bellwood when you aged out of the system?" Hank asked.

Her face darkened. "Yes. Well, sort of. There had been concerns over what to do with me when I aged out, because of my blindness, and I was temporarily sent to a care facility for adults. I had spent most of my life so isolated, few noticed any aberrations in my behaviour. But when they put me into that large group situation - I just sort of lost my bearings. I couldn't tell when someone was speaking to me, or when I was hearing things in my head. People being so close all the time created an emotional overload. I couldn't differentiate between my own feelings and those of others, and so my behaviour became unpredictable." She tipped her head quizzically. "I thought this was supposed to be some big fancy counselling session, not my life in a nutshell."

Hank smiled. "Well, you've spoken more to me in the last five minutes than you have since your arrival," he pointed out. "And I've managed to glean a pretty good history which I'd need for your file anyway." He took a long drink of his own coffee as he thought. "Phobias are very odd things to counsel a person through, especially on a mandated basis. Generally people seek help when they decide the phobia has begun to impact their life," he explained. "But you are here because I've decided you should confront this particular demon. When I realized that last night, I decided I should probably shift how we approach this."

"All of which means what?" Faith asked. "You've decided to leave me alone until I decide this is a problem?"

Hank chuckled. "Not unless you've decided to submit to the mandated physical," he countered. He laughed again as she glared at him. "I thought not. No, I really do feel it's important that you at least feel comfortable coming to me, Faith, if not to every doctor. It is very detrimental to your health to have allowed this to progress to this point, and frankly, I'm not sure how the doctors at Bellwood could have let it get this far." There it was again, he noted, that dark look. "None of which matters now," he continued hurriedly. "What matters is that you and I not allow it to get any further out of hand."

"Which means sitting in a garden and drinking coffee?" she said skeptically.

He smiled again. "For today, yes," he said agreeably. "And at least until you stop showing up for these meetings with that look of dread, discomfort, and fear on your face. Not that you actually showed up for it, since I had to track you down." He watched a sheepish grin cross her face. "A doctor's office, even our infirmary, is a physical representation of the skewed balance of power in the doctor-patient relationship. There are expectations and assumptions built into those places. This is neutral ground."

She looked thoughtful. "I never really thought of that," she admitted. "But doesn't it sort of defeat the purpose of everything if you tell me all this? Like a magician showing how he does his tricks?"

Hank chuckled again. "I'm no magician, Faith, and I won't be performing any feats here," he answered. He thought for a moment. "Tell me, do you honestly think I'm going to hurt you?"

She frowned. "Well, no."

"Are you afraid of me?"

"No, of course not."

"Then why did you panic last night?"

Her frowned deepened. "I-I don't know. I just... I don't know," she finally admitted.

He reached over and placed one hand over hers, gently squeezing her fingers. "That's the side of your mind we're trying to reach here. The side that tells you to have reactions that you don't understand." He released her hand, sitting back. "That, and I do remember what it was like, my first few weeks at the mansion. I thought you might find it beneficial to have someone to talk to every now and then."

She smiled then. "Oh good. You mean it's normal to be totally overwhelmed and feel like you're completely out of your league?"

"Oh yes," Hank assured her. "Have you wanted to find a corner and cry yet?"

"A couple of times," she admitted.

"Then you're right on schedule."

They laughed together, and Hank noted with pleasure that she seemed to be relaxing a little. She was also very pretty when she smiled like that.

"So, I went through your file from Bellwood, but they don't really mention anything about the blindness," Hank said casually.

She shrugged. "That's because they can't figure out why I'm blind," she explained. "There's nothing physical to explain it."

Hank frowned. "But you've been blind since birth?"

She nodded. "And no one has ever been able to figure out a reason. The best anyone can come up with is that it's neurological, something about my brain being unable to process the information, because my eyes certainly receive it."

He tapped his coffee cup thoughtfully with one finger. "Hmm. It is possible that your psychic abilities interefere with that part of your brain," he mused.

"Is that why the Professor is in a wheelchair?" she suddenly asked.

Hank shook his head. "No. He was in some sort of accident as a young man that left him paralyzed. He doesn't like to talk about it."

"Ah." She tilted her head again as she thought. "So most of you get brought here as children?"

Hank nodded. "Yes, as soon as our powers begin to manifest. The Professor has means of tracking mutants by their power. As soon as he knows of the existence of one, if he feels there is a need, he brings them to the school."

She frowned slightly. "Then why didn't he find me? Like, before? I've been hearign these voices since I was a child."

"I'm really not sure," Hank admitted. "He did mention that he had a difficult time tracking you with Cerebro, but he is better equipped to answer those questions than I."

She fell silent again as she thought over his answer. Hank decided that meant it was his turn for questions in their little back and forth. "You've mentioned living in group homes. What happened to your family?"

She shrugged again as she swallowed a mouthful of her own coffee. "I really don't know. My mother apparently arrived at a secluded convent near the Quebec border, badly injured and very ill. She died there, but left instruction for the nuns to care for me. They tried to honour her wishes, but when I was ten, the authorities found out I was there and demanded I be put into the social care system." She smiled. "That's where my name comes from. It was the Sacred Heart Convent. They knew my first name was Faith, and they tagged Delacoeur on me. I'm sure they thought it was cute, but Faith Delacoeur? Sounds like something out of a burlesque show."

Hank chuckled. "I think it's lovely," he argued. "So you have no idea about your mother or father?"

"Whoever my father was, he apparently did not care enough about me or my mother to go looking for either of us," she said shortly. "For all I know, maybe that's who my mother was running from."

Hank made a noncommittal sound, unable to respond. For all he knew, she spoke the truth.

He drained his coffee cup, setting it on the table. "Well, I think that's likely enough for today, but would you mind if I have a brief look at your eyes before we part ways?"

She looked startled by the question, then shrugged. "Sure, I-I guess. But you won't find anything."

Hank crossed around the table to sit on the bench seat next to her, slipping the opthalmoloscope out of his coat pocket, where he had put it earlier. He had called a former classmate from Harvard who had done considerable work with phobias, and he had suggested including the occasional innocuous medical procedure - such as checking her eyes - into their sessions.

Hank gently grasped her chin, turning her face toward him. Besides a slightly unusual pale colour, exterior examination seemed normal. "I'm just going to use an ophthalmaloscope to check the cornea and retina," he warned.

She raised an eyebrow. "You just happen to bring one of those every time you have coffee?" she asked wryly.

"Well, you never know when you might need one," he answered with a grin. He examined her eyes carefully.

"Hmm... There's some nerve deterioration, but besides that, your eyes are normal," he commented. "Perhaps, some time in the future, we might want to consider looking into running a functional MRI, see if we can't narrow down the issue." He pulled away to see that same flash of fear cross her face. "It's a suggestion, Faith, not a mandate. And I'm certainly not suggesting it for anytime soon."

She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I don't meant to... to be like that."

He smiled, gently squeezing her shoulder. "I understand. And I don't take it personally." He slipped the scope back in his pocket. "Well, shall we call it a day then?"

She swallowed her last mouthful of coffee. "Yeah, I have to go. I have a meeting with the Professor this afternoon to set up a study schedule and start 'discussing my options.'"

He took her cup and slipped a hand under her elbow to help her up. "Tomorrow then?"

"Can't wait."