Eye of the Beholder

Author’s Notes: Thank you blue_lioness, onewing, amh, Arden, Desiree, bunny_no_hoogle and Daokan for your reviews. For those who read the comics, I apologize now since I’m once again taking some liberties with Trish Tilby this time. Shade is one of my original characters; please don’t use her without my permission.

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“Good morning,” Betty cheerfully greets and then she sees the look on Amanda’s face. “Uh-oh, what’s the matter?”

“I’m really beginning to dislike Mondays,” Amanda states in a very controlled voice.

“What happened?” Betty asks.

“Let’s just say my dislike of reporters has just grown by leaps and bounds,” Amanda answers, some of her anger starting to seep through.

“I guess showing you this won’t help your mood any then,” Betty says, holding up a section of newspaper with a much dreaded picture printed on the page and Amanda lets out a resigned sigh.

“It could be worse, I suppose,” Amanda says as she takes the paper and starts to head for the door leading to the back. “My mother could be getting the newspaper and see these. Oh, and by the way, if I get a call from a Trish Tilby or The Star Report, put them on hold until the moon turns to green cheese and falls out of the sky.”

“Isn’t Trish Tilby that reporter that loves to report trash on all the big name people in Hollywood?” Betty questions.

“The one and the same,” Amanda confirms.

“What is she doing in New York?” Betty inquires.

“Trying to make my life miserable,” Amanda grumbles just before disappearing through the doorway that leads to the offices.

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It started off as such a good day. It really had. But then the mail had come.

You are cordially invited, it says in fancy gold script lettering, to an evening of Holiday cheer.

“‘Holiday cheer’ my blue, furry butt,” he softly grumbles to himself. “Just another excuse to trot out the pet mutant.”

He really doesn’t want to go, but if his position his doing some good, then it’s best not to upset the President of the United States. The mere thought of putting on the monkey suit and custom dress shoes is about as exciting as a root canal…without Novocain. Then there’s the thought of dragging her to one of these things is cringe worthy at best, especially after what happened the last time she went to one of these soirees. With a sigh of defeat, he reaches for the phone just as his personal assistant sticks her head in the door.

“Yes, Mary, what is it?” he says, glad for a little reprieve from the inevitable.

“Sir, I just forwarded you a link to something on youtube, I think you better have a look at it,” she replies, looking a bit worried.

“Alright,” he responds, confused by her behavior.

He turns to his computer and opens his email account to find Mary’s email at the top of the list. He opens it to find the link she said would be there and clicks on it. A second later a new window opens and within moments a video starts to play that makes his jaw drop.

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“Is that thing on?” Trish demands, not even bothering to look back at the camera that’s pointed at the back of her head.

“Yes, Ms. Tilby,” a patient male voice replies, its owner unseen by the camera lens.

“Good ,” the dark haired woman says, crouching down behind the back of a white van and then she turns around, plastering a big, fake smile on her face. “This is Trish Tilby on special report in New York. We’re about to talk to Ambassador Hank McCoy’s new paramour, Amanda Simon.”

Trish turns back around and peeks out from behind the van to whatever lays beyond.

“Here she comes,” she hisses. “Get ready to move.”

There’s several seconds of nothing happening and suddenly Trish is moving with the camera right behind her. It takes only a moment to spot her intended victim and before Amanda realizes what’s going on, her way is blocked and a microphone is shoved in her face.

“Amanda Simon, Trish Tilby with The Star Report,” Trish quickly says and the look on Amanda’s face goes from surprise to cool indifference.

“Is there something I can help you with Miss Tilby?” Amanda asks coldly.

“Is it true that you and Ambassador McCoy are officially a couple?” Trish asks.

“It depends,” Amanda replies evasively. “If you mean ‘officially’ in a legal capacity, then the answer is no.”

“I meant are you two dating?” Trish clarifies, a hint of annoyance in her voice.

“Then, yes, Miss Tilby, the Ambassador and I are currently seeing each other, but then again, any one with a pair of eyes and a newspaper already knows that,” Amanda answers and starts to try to go around Trish. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get to work.”

“How does it feel knowing that the Ambassador is a member of a secret mutant fighting force called the X-Men?” Trish questions.

“Unless he’s using it as a way to meet other women, I don’t really see how that concerns me,” Amanda smoothly replies.

“How does it feel to be accused of bestiality?” Trish asks with a very smug tone, a smirk on her lips.

“Miss Tilby, correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you and the Ambassador date back in college?” Amanda counters, glaring at the other woman with her piercing green eyes.

“Well, uh…,” Trish stammers, caught completely by surprise.

“And is also not true that you broke up with him, stating that your studies were suffering from having a steady boyfriend?” Amanda demands.

“Um, uh…,” Trish tries to answer only to be interrupted once more.

“Is it not also true that not only did you not have the courage to break up to the man’s face, but that in fact you left an answer on the Ambassador’s answering machine?” Amanda continues her interrogation, stepping into the reporter’s personal space. “And you in fact broke up with him because of another man, not because of your grades?”

“Oh, uh…,” Trish stutters, taking a step back.

“So my question for you, Miss Tilby, is this,” Amanda pauses for effect. “Jealous?”

Before the other woman can react, Amanda steps around the reporter and marches into the building, head held high, leaving Trish there with her mouth hanging open and egg on her face. A few seconds later, a red faced Trish realizes the camera is still rolling quickly makes a slashing motion across her throat and the scene goes dark a moment later.

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Hank sits there for nearly a minute still trying to wrap his mind around what he’s just seen. Then, much to his personal assistant’s relief, he starts to snicker which turns into a chuckle which finally turns into a full bellied laugh. By the time he’s wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, Mary is smiling as well.

“I’ve decided to take a long lunch today, Mary,” he tells her as he stands, stuffing the invitation into his coat pocket. “And unless the world is coming to an end, please just forward all calls to my voice mail.”

“Yes, sir,” she replies, a smile still on her lips.

With a bounce in his step, a mischievous glint in his eye and whistling a jaunty tune, he heads out for what he hopes will be a lovely lunch.

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“Our latest offer was rejected, just as we knew it would be,” Mr. Steele tells her. “How would you like to proceed?”

“Raise the offer by another two hundred,” Amanda replies with an aggravated sigh. “If he doesn’t accept this offer, I guess we’ll have no choice but to see him in court.”

“Even with his…abilities?” he questions, the strain in his voice evident with that last word.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll get hit by a bus on the way to the courthouse,” she suggests, rubbing her temples to ease the headache she can feel coming on. “I don’t know what else we can do. I can’t afford to pay that much for a ruined dress.”

“Very well, I’ll let his lawyer know,” he replies, sitting back in his huge leather desk chair. “Let’s hope he takes it this time.”

“At this point, hope is all I’ve got left,” she sighs again as she gets up and heads for Steele’s office door. “Thank you, Mr. Steele.”

Steele merely nods as she leaves the room and she almost immediately runs into Mr. Jones.

“You don’t look like a happy camper,” he states, noting the rather less than pleased look on her face.

“First Tilby ambushes me right outside the building,” she tells him. “Then there are pictures with me and the Ambassador and, dear Lord, I look like Hell in those shots. Finally, I just got done talking to Mr. Steele and it turns out James has rejected my latest offer.”

“And it’s only noon,” he says jovially.

“Could this day get any worse?” she asks rhetorically.

“I don’t know about worse, but it’s definitely going to get more interesting,” he smirks and she narrows her eyes at him. “Have a good lunch my dear.”

With that, the portly man makes his way down the hall to his office and disappears through the door a second later. She stares at his door for a few moments more before shaking her head, shrugging and then heading back to her own office. She passes Sarah’s empty desk and thinks nothing of it as she steps through her office door. She gets about halfway across the room before she’s brought up short by what’s waiting for her on her desk.

A beautiful bouquet of a dozen long stemmed red roses sits peacefully in the middle of her desk in a vase. She slowly takes the last couple of steps across the room to get to them and after determining there’s no card, cautiously sniffs one of the heady blooms. She’s so absorbed with the flowers that she never hears her office door quietly shut or realize that she’s not alone in the room until a pair of strong arms circles her waist and pulls her flush with the body behind her. She lets out a startled squeak and her heart starts to pound in her chest, there’s a moment of fight or flight instinct until a familiar deep chuckle sounds next her ear and warm, soft fur brushes against her neck and cheek.

“Do you like them?” he asks.

“They’re beautiful, Hank, thank you,” she answers as she closes her eyes and leans against him, her troubles and worries momentarily slipping away just because he’s there. “What’s the occasion?”

“Just because I think you’re incredible,” he replies as he rubs his cheek against hers.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she softly tells him as she reaches up and strokes his mane of hair.

He turns her around before she can sink her fingers into that wonderful fur and gives her a long, slow kiss. By the time he lets her up for air, she’s very glad that he’s holding her up since she doesn’t think her knees are up to the task. With a contented sigh, she rests her head on his shoulder, her arms around his neck as he soothingly rubs his hand up and down her back.

“As much as I enjoy holding you, my dear, we should get going to lunch,” he quietly tells her. “They won’t hold our reservation forever.”

“Lunch, smunch, I’m happy right here and I’m not moving,” she mumbles and her tummy picks that moment to let its presence be known.

“Your stomach thinks otherwise,” he chuckles as he carefully pulls her arms off of his neck while taking a step back and she looks down at her midsection.

“Traitor,” she tells the rebellious body part before pulling away from him. “Let me get my purse and let Sarah know that I’m going out.”

“Oh, Sarah already knows,” he tells her with a smile on his lips. “As well as Betty and Mr. Jones. Pleasant chap, Mr. Jones. Nothing at all like his nephew.”

“Attila the Hun would be a pleasant chap compared to James,” she nearly growls as she retrieves her purse from her desk.

“More trouble from the cad, I take it,” he says.

“He’s rejected the latest offer to settle out of court,” she sighs. “Between him, Trish Tilby and those photos in the paper my day was going right down the toilet until about five minutes ago.”

“And what happened five minutes ago?” he asks, pulling her into his arms

“A blue angel came and rescued me,” she answers as her arms make their way around his neck again.

“Now I’m tempted to ask when you met one of the Navy’s stunt pilots and how did I miss him,” he jokes and her only response is to give him a long hard kiss that leaves him panting for more reasons than one.

Mate, Beast purrs again, sending Hank all sorts of interesting things his primal self would like to do with her.

Before he can react, she pulls herself out of her arms and marches out through the office door, intentionally swaying her hips. It takes him a few seconds to regain enough of his wits to realize what she’s done. He quickly gives chase with much encouragement by Beast but she moves faster than he thought she would and it’s not until they’re almost to the door that leads to the front lobby that he catches up with her.

Before he can grab her, a man who appears to be around fifty with quickly graying hair, comes around the corner and spots them. While Mr. Jones is fairly short, portly and jovial, this man is tall, in excellent shape and doesn’t look to have so much as an ounce of good humor. The instant the man sees them, he goes stiff with pent up anger and hatred and before Hank can react, he suddenly finds himself grabbed and shoved through the doorway into the lobby.

“See you later, Betty,” Amanda calls as she continues to push Hank through the lobby.

“Have a good lunch,” Betty replies, amusement tingeing her words.

As soon as the outer door is closed, Hank puts on the breaks and Amanda finds herself trying to push a blue brick wall down the corridor.

“Please explain,” he requests as she steps back and takes a deep breath.

“That was Steven Steele,” she tells him as she begins to head for the elevators and he follows her. “One of my bosses.”

“He didn’t seem to be a very pleasant fellow, unlike Mr. Jones,” he observes.

“That’s putting it mildly,” she snorts.

She pushes the call button and practically jumps out of her skin when it dings a second later. He follows her in and he can smell the fear rolling off of her in waves. He touches her arm and she gives an involuntary twitch.

“My stars and garters, you’re shaking like a leaf,” he states in surprise as he quickly pulls her into his arms. “Does the man frighten you that much?”

“I was more worried that he’d try to punch you than anything else,” she admits as she gladly lays her head on his shoulder.

“He hates mutants that much?” he asks, holding her close.

“He has his reasons,” she replies as she buries her face in the fur on his neck.

“Care to explain?” he requests as he rubs her back.

“He had a nephew in the special services branch of the military,” she quietly tells him. “Mr. Steele considered him the son he never had.”

“What happened to the boy?” he inquires.

“He was protecting Worthington Industries on Alcatraz last summer,” she replies unhappily and he closes his eyes as a wave of sadness and regret come over him. “They have yet to find his body.”

“We all lost people we cared about that day,” he sadly states as he holds her closer and a shiver runs through her body.

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In California, a distinguished gentleman happily hums to himself as he finishes clipping out a black and white photo from the newspaper. He gets up from his seat and goes over to a wall were several other similar pictures hang. A thumb tack floats up out of the bowl that its brothers still lie in and pierces the paper and then the wall with its sharp point.

The man looks at his collage and smiles, though it is a smile that would make a junkyard dog cringe in fear. As he admires his handy work, he sees one of the shadows in the room move unnaturally out of the corner of his eye.

“I certainly hope you brought me good news this time, Shade,” he says, not bothering to turn around.

The sound of someone crashing to the floor is his only answer and he spins around to see what is going on.

“PYRO!”