"Hank," said Bobby, "I am in love."

"That's nice," replied Hank.

"She's the most beautiful, wonderful, smart, funny, absotively, posilutely perfect female on the planet."

"Another one?"

"She is the absolute quintessence of woman."

"That's what you said about Opal, and she turned out to be the absolute quintessence of--"

"Hank?"

"Yes, Bobby?"

"I'd really prefer it if you didn't finish that sentence."

"No problem, Bobby."

"Hank... I think she may be The One."

Hank put down his vial of hydrochloric acid.

"Bobby, you think they are all The One. You thought Lorna was The One. You thought Opal was The One. For the love of Tycho Brahe, you thought *Darkstar* was The One."

"I *never* thought Darkstar was The One! Well... except that time we were all drunk, but that doesn't count, because you had a lampshade on your head."

"That was Warren."

"So you say."

Hank sighed. "Fine, I'll bite. Gee, Robert, wherever did you meet this fabulous femme fatale?"

Bobby cocked his head. "Well, technically, I've never met her."

Hank narrowed his eyes. "Come again?"

Bobby sighed contentedly. "Her name is Sunny Skyes, and she does the weather on Channel 8."

"Gee, Bobster, is that a walkie talkie in your pocket, or you just happy to see me?"

"As a matter of fact, Jube-o-rama, it is a walkie talkie in my pocket! And if you're willing to accept a most dangerous assignment for me, there may, very shortly be a walkie talkie in *your* pocket, as well."

Jubilee stroked her chin. "Will there be... danger?"

"Perhaps."

"Will there be... intrigue?"

"Aplenty."

"Will I... get to annoy someone in the mansion?"

"Like you wouldn't believe."

Jubilee grabbed for one of the walkie talkies. "Krrrkkt! Joe Command, this is Scarlet. Over?"

"Krrrrkkkt! Snake Eyes, here, Scarlet, we read you just fine."

The pine cones were looking a little... scruffy.

The bow was rather... limp.

Over all, the wreath was... incredibly not wreath-like.

As far as Jean Grey was concerned, Martha Stewart needed to die. In small, flaming pieces.

Then she glanced out the window at the happy little robins flocking around the orange juice carton bird feeder that had taken a certain Mr. Summers all of an hour to create.

The one hanging next to the genuine grapevine hammock, which was "quite easy, once you get the hang of it."

The one he'd finished right after sealing the window joints with lard. Lard. Jean didn't even know where he'd gotten the lard.

She sighed at her wreath. Maybe it needed more wire.

Her "creative" processes were interrupted by a knock on the door. Jean practically vaulted out of her chair.

"Hank!" she exclaimed gleefully as she flung open the door. "I don't suppose you know anything about wreathes?"

Hank frowned. "Jean, I'm afraid we have a slightly more dire situation on our hands. Do you still have Bobby's emergency list?"

Jean stared at him, disgusted expression on her face. "Not another One..."

Bobby Drake pulled his much-beloved Ford Escort into the parking lot outside of the Channel 8 television station. He could only remember being there once before--long ago, when Professor Xavier had gotten it in his head that it would be good press if Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters participated in the local Academic Challenge game.

Most of that evening was a blur, actually. Bobby remembered being forced to wear a tie. Warren had fallen asleep six minutes into the program. Scott kept staring at the table, mumbling "I want to go home. Just let me go home." Jean had doodled all over her scratch paper, not to mention everyone else's, as well. It probably wouldn't have been nearly so boring if Hank hadn't known the answer to all the questions. He'd made the team from Westchester Central cry. Halfway through, Bobby started trying to ring in before Hank to yell "Beef Stroganoff!" at the top of his lungs. Just to spice things up. As far as he knew, Channel 8 had disavowed all knowledge of that episode. Bobby idly wondered if Professor X had it on tape somewhere.

Bobby whipped out his walkie talkie. "B.A., this is Hannibal. Report?"

"Krrrkkt! I pity the fool who messes wit' my milk!"

"There's no time for that now, Baracus! What's the skinny?"

"Subject's waterin' her plants. Looks like fair skies ahead."

"I love it when a plan comes together."

Jean and Hank sat in the rec room of the mansion, staring at the Channel 8 news Hank had recorded for this very purpose.

"She looks okay..." Jean frowned.

"If a little vacuous. Go ahead."

Jean smoothed out the piece of paper on her lap. "Is subject a native of the planet Earth?"

"Check."

"Does subject intend to remain a citizen of the planet Earth?"

"Umm... probably.

"Is subject Evil?"

"I'd imagine not."

"Does subject change genders at will?"

"No."

"Good. Does subject have any sort of cosmic powers?"

"No."

"Is subject Colleen Wing?"

"No."

"Does subject have red hair?"

"No. Why is that on there? Bobby doesn't have a fatal weakness for redheads."

"We just like to be safe. Does subject have 'one frigging huge pair of pants'? I think Warren added that one."

"No."

"Check. Does subject have dog breath?"

"Um... Just check no for now."

"Does subject have any sort of amnesia and/or split personality?"

"I doubt it."

"Has subject slept with Remy?"

"Oh, probably."

"Has subject ever thrown down with Wolverine? What? Who made this list?"

Hank frowned, peering over her shoulder. "Jean, what does item 37 say?"

"Item thirty--oh, um, nothing."

"It says, 'Is subject an evil, conniving, two-timing reporter who rats out her friends?'"

"Umm... Scott wrote that."

Fortunately, Jean was saved from the Evil Cookie Monster Glare of Doom when Logan walked into the room. "Logan!"

"What's up, darlin'?"

"See that girl on the tv?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you ever met her?"

Logan glanced at the television for a second, then stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Yeah, we threw down once. '76. Bar in Calgary. She pulled a knife on me, I tossed her out in the snow. We musta tussled for a good half hour before I knocked her flat with a right hook. Then we went in and had a drink. Good times, good times."

Jean and Hank stared at him, eyes the size of dinner plates.

Logan chuckled, lighting up his cigar. "I'm kiddin', darlin', I never seen that girl before in my life. You think I know every person on the planet?"

"Excuse me? Excuse me?"

Irritated, the girl behind the desk looked up at Bobby. "I'm not the receptionist."

"Oh. And I need some reception something fierce."

The girl blinked at him for a moment, then smiled. "Is, there, uh, something I can help you with?"

"But you're not the receptionist."

"Well, no, I'm part of the technical staff. But I didn't know if there was anything I could do for you."

"Actually, I'm looking for Sunny Skyes."

"The weather girl?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Why?"

Bobby stretched a little. "I'm, a, uh, world famous weather medium."

"A weather medium?"

"Yup. I predict the weather. WITH MY MIND!"

The tech girl raised one eyebrow. "Pull the other one. S'got bells on."

Bobby leaned on the desk. "Okay, okay. I think she's a hottie and I wanna ask her out."

The tech girl contemplated this for a second, then nodded. "Okay, I can deal with that."

"So, uh... she passed every item on the list? Really?"

"I suppose," Hank replied. "You don't think she could possibly be a completely normal girl, do you?"

"And Bobby's attracted to her? No chance." Jean was silent for a second. "Hank... Doesn't look like... whatshername? From Family Ties?"

"Mallory?" Hank squinted at the screen. "Dear Lord, you're right." He blinked. "Bobby always did love that show, didn't he. Wanted to be just like Alex P. Keaton when he grew up."

"Remember that month he made us call him Robert L. Drake? What does the L stand for anyway?"

"I have no clue."

"Y'know," the tech girl, whose little name badge said "Molly," said, "Sunny might actually buy that lame Weather Medium story. It'd be a lot cooler if you were some sort cool mutant weather guy, and you could trick her with that."

Bobby shrugged. "Well, I know someone who's a cool mutant weather girl, and I've got a friend keepin' an eye on her. Hence the walkie talkie."

Molly snickered. "That is so never gonna work. This way."

Bobby followed her through the television studio. "Hey, what are all those kids here for?"

"Them? That lame Academic Challenge show. I hate the guy who hosts it. What a jerk..."

Bobby stopped in his tracks, and glanced over the kids. "Hold on a sec." There he was. The kid, standing by himself, who obviously didn't want to be there...

"Hey," Bobby said. "I'm Bobby. What's your name?"

The kid glared at him. "Keith."

"Keith, huh? What are you doing on this lame show?"

"I'm gettin' English extra credit. My dumb teacher made me do it."

Bobby grinned. "If you do something for me, I'll give you five bucks..."

"I wish there were something wrong with her! Apart from her uncanny resemblance to Mallory Keaton."

Jean sighed. "Hank, Bobby's a big boy. He can take care of himself. Besides. How long can this possibly last?"

"That's what we all said when you started dating Scott."

"Oh, it is not."

Speaking of the devil, Scott walked into the room, looking rather Zen. "Hi, Hank, Jean. How'd that wreath go, dear?"

Jean grimaced. "It went... fine," she managed between gritted teeth.

"Spectacular! I'm just about to go out and show Ororo the new plant food Martha just showed me how to make out of spinach and chai."

Jean raised one eyebrow. "I thought you were crocheting."

"Ha ha! Knitting, dear, and I finished. Made a lovely little stocking cap. The professor adored it. Do you want me to show you how, later?"

"Um... I'll pass. Hank and I are working on something."

"Super! I'll catch you later, then!"

Jean and Hank watched, as Scott walked out of the room.

"I can't determine which is more frightening," Hank noted. "The fact that he's affected the Martha Stewart monotone, or that he just knitted Professor Xavier a hat."

Hank and Jean looked at each other again.

"He knitted Professor Xavier a hat?!"

"I'll... be right back," Jean cringed.

Sometimes, even Goddesses got hungry.

Ororo poked her head in the refrigerator.

Hmm.

Some of Hank's strange macaroni-hotdog casserole.

That odd soup Scott had made after watching the show with that Stewart woman.

Eight bottles of Yoohoo, indicating that either Sam or Bobby had done the shopping that week.

The proper Goddess-ly thing to do would be to have a healthy salad garnished with sprouts and tofu.

Storm glanced around the kitchen.

Not a soul in sight.

She grabbed a bottle of Yoohoo and the jelly, and headed for the Jif Extra Chunky.

"You ready?" Molly asked, holding the handle of the door labeled "News Studio."

"One second," Bobby replied, holding up one finger, and grabbing his walkie talkie. "Daisy, this's Bo. What's the Boss Hog up to?"

"Krrrkt! Bo, ya read? The Boss is, uh... grubbin' on some PB&J, unless I'm mistaken. I predict sunny skies ahead."

"Sunny Skyes, indeed," Bobby purred.

Scott Summers wandered into the kitchen, in search of plastic spoons. He wasn't entirely sure what he wanted to do with them, but it was bound to be something absolutely precious.

"Good morning, Ororo!" he greeted. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

"Mm-hrmm!" Ororo agreed happily, around a mouthful of peanut-buttery goodness.

Scott eyed her plate critically. "Now, Ororo, that's not very nutritious. Way too high in cholesterol!"

Ororo blinked, and gripped her sandwich protectively.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to take this," Scott went on, snatching up her unprotected Yoohoo. "How about some nice V8?"

Jubilee gripped her walkie-talkie. "Drake! Psst, Drake, answer me! It's important! DRAAAAAAKE!"

When he walked into the dim news studio, it looked like she was shuffling papers.

Looks weren't deceiving. She really was shuffling papers. Randomly.

"Hi," Bobby Drake said confidently, flicking the switch to turn his walkie talkie off.

"Hi," replied beloved-weathergirl Sunny Skyes. "I'm Sunny Skyes! I'm a weathergirl!"

"Yes, you are," Bobby grinned. "My name's Bobby Drake, and I happen to be a weather medium."

Sunny's eyes went wide. "Wow!! What's a weather medium?"

"I can predict the weather before it happens."

Her eyes went wider. "And what does a weather large do?"

Bobby blinked. "Er, much of the same, I suppose."

"Wow!! Dr. Peters is a meat-ee-or-owl-gist. I think he's a weather large, too. He tells me what to say on the teevee! Heehee!"

Bobby swallowed. So she was stupid. He'd dated stupidity before. He'd dated a lot of stupidity before. She was still hot.

"Can you predict the weather for me?"

"That's what I came here for."

"Really? Wow!!"

"And it's going to be sunny skies all afternoon."

"That's my name!"

"I know."

"Heehee!"

"Scott. No. Not the twinkies. I *need* a twinkie."

"Sorry, O! But not to worry--I just made a fresh batch of okra brownies. Super, huh?"

And with that, Scott used the last of the Yoohoo to wash the twinkies down the garbage disposal.

Ororo's eyes went white.

"So, I was thinking..." Bobby began suavely.

"You were?" Sunny asked eagerly.

"Er, yes. And since it's such a gorgeous day out, much like yourself--"

"Hee hee!"

"--that maybe--"

"Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Molly suddenly stuck her head in the studio. "Jeez, guys, it's totally pouring outside. Totally clear, then all of a sudden, cats-n-dogs!"

Bobby facepalmed. Someone was gonna get it.

Suddenly, the room lit up with lightning, and then everything went black.

"There goes the electricity," Molly sighed. "I'll go check the fuse box..."

"Hee hee! You're silly, Mr. Weather Small!"

"Ha ha. Yes. Yes, I am."

Hank flipped through the channels, resting on Channel 8 for a moment. It couldn't be... could it? Surely, they'd taken that horrible Academic Challenge show off the air years ago.

Chuckling, he watched as one team wasted the other. Finally, one young boy, whose nametag read "KEITH" managed to ring in.

"BEEF STROGANOFF!"

Hank twitched.

And then the electricity went out.

Perhaps it was better that way.

"Professor?"

Jean stuck her head into Professor Xavier's study. The lights had just flickered out, probably because of the sudden storm, and the room was completely dark.

"Professor, are you in here?"

There was a slight pause, then a quiet, "Yes, Jean. I'm here."

Jean waited for her eyes to adjust.

"I think the electricity went out."

"Yes, Jean."

She squinted. She couldn't entirely see, but there were earflaps where baldness should be. "Scott made you a hat, huh?"

"It's pink, Jean."

"You want it off, don't you, Professor?"

"Please, Jean."

"He's... um, been watching a lot of Martha Stewart lately, and..."

"Jean?"

"Yes, Professor?"

"Would it be immoral to erase all presence of that woman from his mind?"

"No, Professor."

"Jean?"

"Yes, Professor?"

"Could you burn that for me? Please?"

"Of course, Professor."

When the lights came back on, Scott stared blankly at a glowering Ororo. He blinked a few times. "What... did I just do?"

Ororo frowned. "You just promised to go to the store and buy an entire crate of Yoohoo. And Twinkies. And Ho-Hos. For Henry."

Scott blinked. "I... did?"

"Yes."

"I promised to get some Yoohoo, and some Twinkies... and some Ho-Hos. And give them to Henry."

"No, you may give them to me. I will deliver them."

"Riiight, right, that's it. Thanks, Ororo! Forgot for a moment there!"

"Don't mention it," Storm replied cheerfully.

"That was really weird," Molly commented, squinting at the rapidly returning sunshine. "Sorry it screwed up your date with the amazing Weather Bimbo."

"S'okay," Bobby shrugged. "She, um... yeah."

"Yeah. Exactly."

Idly, Bobby switched on his walkie talkie. "Garrett, you there? Did something happen? I lost contact with you and the Angels!"

"Sorry, Charlie! Scott took her Twinkies. How was I to see it coming?"

"Ah, no worries, Garrett. I'll pick up some Thin Mints and Jolt for you on the way home."

"Right on! Kelly out!"

"'Charlie's Angels'?" Molly asked with a grin.

Bobby shrugged. "Who doesn't love 'Charlie's Angels'?"

"Hey, far be it for me to criticize. I have the whole first season on tape!"

Bobby's eyebrows shot up. "I don't suppose you could..."

"Judo-chop? Been practicing for years."

Bobby's grin widened. Yup, there were definitely sunny skies ahead.

The End

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