Behind Black Eyes Chapter 1: Without a Trace, a x-men fanfic

A/N:My first X-Men fic, please be kind. I don't know a whole lot about this universe, let me know if anything doesn't seem right. And please review!!

Henry McCoy was not an average medical doctor by anyone's standards. His knowledge of medicine is extensive, his bedside manner is impeccable, he has enough credentials to be hounded by the Mayo Clinic. But despite all these above board qualifications, the majority of the population would rather die of pneumonia then be treated by this man. Because Hank, as he prefers to be called, is a mutant. And while there are some mutants in existence whose only proof of their rather extraordinary condition is in their DNA, Hank does not count himself among these most fortunate. Although his 6'2", muscle bound body is a great deal more agile than the average thirty five year old male, this is hardly enough to finger him as "different." The inch long, fuzzy blue hair that covers every square inch of his skin, however, is more than enough to convince people that he is not quite the same as them.

Instead of letting these rather extenuating circumstances dictate how he should live his life, Hank goes about with the intention of being the best man he can be, human or not. He is currently head doctor of the medical facility of Xavier's School For the Gifted. His medlab is 4200 square feet of the most advanced diagnostic, preventative and logistical equipment in the Western hemisphere, perhaps the world. Hank works daily with machines most American hospitals didn't even have any knowledge of. When the hundred or so students that attend Professor Charles Xavier's school, of which Hank's lab made up part of the basement, or the twenty some odd teachers and faculty that care for the children, fail to provide enough gashes to stitch, broken bones to set, or concussions to x-ray, Hank does not find himself wanting for things to do. First year med students learn early on that there is never "free time" in a hospital. There is always something that needs cleaning, or restocking, or filing. So truant to what he learned during some of the most difficult years of his life, Hank found himself restocking the photo paper for his x-ray machine in between bites of his guilty pleasure, otherwise known as the Twinkie.

"Is there really anything greater in creation than the Twinkie?" he asked himself, holding the pastry up to the brilliant floruscent light above his head. "Certainly not."

He slipped the last bite into his mouth, carefully cleaning his fingers of any leftover sugar coating, and replaced the x-ray cassette in the tray of the machine. He tucked the box of recently purchased, yet almost all devoured Twinkies under his arm, and crossed the expansive lab back to his office, which was less an office and more a cubicle. He set the box on the highest shelf, placing a lot of hope in the old adage, "out of sight is out of mind." Hank pulled out his desk chair, with the intent of updating his computer's medical files, when a shrill ringing filled his ears and reverberated around the stainless steel medlab like a bat's echolocation. After a moment of bewilderment, Hank recognized the sound as the seldom used telephone ringing, and immediately frowned. Calls directed to Xavier's Institute were accepted by the control room on the main floor. Whoever happened to be on duty when a call comes in contacts the intended recipient via intercom, and informs them of the person waiting to speak to them. A call coming to the medlab without a prior communication could mean on of two things to Hank: a medical emergency had occurred somewhere on the grounds, and he is being called directly from another phone on the property, or someone outside the institute, who was given the lab number by Hank, was calling him directly. It wasn't often that calls were sent directly to him. Without a second of further hesitation, Hank reached out with a furry hand and grabbed the handset from its cradle.

"Medlab."

"Hank, it's Erika. How are you?"

A rush of air Hank hadn't realized he was holding was expelled from his lungs. "I am well, my dear. It's good to hear your voice." Dr. Erika Reid, head of Emergency Care at Angels of Mercy Hospital in New York City, had been a close friend of Hank since they attended medical school together, many years ago.

"Feelings mutual. Look, I'm sorry to call you so directly but I did need to speak to you right away."

Hank shook his head, although he was fully aware Erika could not see him. "Think nothing of it. What is so urgent that it could not wait another hour?"

There was a moment of pause, then Erika's muffled voice came through, as though she was giving instructions to one of the many nurses on her staff. "A man came in about twenty minutes ago, paramedics brought him in after he collapsed at JFK," she continued. "I think he's more suitable to your area of expertise, Hank. Can you come in?"

Hank knew that he could take one of two meanings from Erika's words. Either the patient's blood work had come back in record timing, and shown he had a rare blood disorder, a kind of which Hank had devoted his research to, or he had shown some outward sign of mutantcy.

"Give me twenty minutes," he decided, after consulting the Rolex watch fastened to his left wrist.

"I appreciate it, Hank. I'll see you soon." The line was disconnected, and Hank replaced the handset in its cradle. He was somewhat relieved to have been met with something that would break up his monotonous day. He hoped he would not live to regret his thoughts.

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"Like I said on the phone, he collapsed about forty minutes ago shortly after stepping off a plane." Hank had arrived at the hospital in record timing, a result of both little traffic and overzealous driving. Erika walked briskly beside him, dressed in what Hank had come to think of as her uniform, black slacks, with a white blouse and a white lab coat overtop. Her long red hair was pulled back into a neat bun, and as per usual, her face was make-up free. A file was tucked under her arm, presumably information gathered on this mystery patient. "Paramedics administered O2 at the scene, the patient stabilized. When he got here our triage discovered fairly mild frostbite of both hands, mild frostbite of both feet, hypothermia, and what I'm fairly certain is severe pneumonia. X-rays are being developed now."

"Did the paramedics find out what flight he got off of?" Hank asked, as they stepped off the elevator and onto the intensive care floor.

Erika shook her head. "No, but one of our nurses found a boarding card in his overcoat pocket from Rio de Janeiro, although he didn't carry any identification."

Each separate fact, as it was revealed to Hank, was proof enough to set his heart beating a little faster each time. Although he was physician and scientist above all else, a part of him couldn't help but hope against all reason that the young Cajun had performed a miracle and made it out of that frozen island. But practically speaking, Hank knew that he was holding on to an errant hope so he wouldn't have to accept Gambit's death.

They rounded a corner at the end of the hall, whereupon Erika's name was shouted out as though she were the messiah.

"Dr. Reid!" A young nurse called, her pragmatic walking shoes made no noise on the floor as she rushed to her superior. "I'm so sorry, I don't know what happened."

"Slow down, Nicolle," Erika responded, placing a hand on the young girl's shoulder. Calm down and tell me what happened."

The nurse glanced at Hank out of the corner of her eye, then refocused her attention on Dr. Reid. "I went in to check the hypothermia patient's blood pressure…I'm so sorry!"

As Erika once again calmed her charge and attempted to sort out some sort of knowledge of what exactly had happened, Hank knew suddenly, with alarming clarity, what had happened. It was as if his mind had been touched by a telepath, although he had not felt the telltale sign of a foreign mind brushing up next to his. Yet even so, he knew with no doubt in his mind, that Gambit had been the hypothermia patient. He knew with no prior knowledge, that Gambit had woken up in a hospital bed, gathered his things, and left with no evidence of ever having been there. A chill ran down his spine when he considered the implications for these feelings. If Gambit was alive, regardless of how much he had wished for it, had serious consequences for members of his team. With a barely audible sigh, he turned back to the young nurse, who was finally calm enough to continue.

"He's gone, doctor. I don't understand it. When I left him this morning, he was still unconscious. But only an hour later… he's gone. And so are all his things. It was as if he was never here to begin with."

Erika cursed quietly under her breath, the only sign she would ever give of her frustration. She placed both hands on her nurse's shoulders, and looked into her wide green eyes. "Nicolle, I need you to contact security, give them a description of the man. Contact NYPD, let them know we're missing a patient. If he got up and walked out of here, we need to find him, alright? He's very sick."

Nicolle nodded, having seemed to regain her stability with a list of tasks to do, or maybe it was relief from not getting blamed. She thanked the doctor, nodded in Hank's direction, then took off at a jog down the hall.

"How does this happen?" Erika spoke aloud, once they were alone once again. "That man shouldn't he been able to stand, let alone get up out of bed and leave."

The bitter ball of apprehension that had been growing in the pit of Hank's stomach bubbled over. "I think I can answer all your questions, my dear, if you would tell me why it was you thought he was under my area of expertise." He asked even though he knew the answer.

Erika focused her gaze on Hank, and her green eyes were uncharacteristically wide. "He seemed normal enough, when they brought him in. Really underweight, but nothing off the board. Then I checked his eyes." She shivered. "Hank, you should have seen them, I've never seen anything like it. Red on black. One of the nurses called them devil eyes."