Disclaimer: If I agree they're not mine, do I get a cookie?




Bad Days



She'd had bad days before. Days when you sat up in bed with half your hair plastered to one side of your face and determined to stay that way. You run out of shampoo as soon as you go to use it. Someone else eats your last Eggo chocolate chip waffle (no one else even liked them!). And you trip at least twice before you even leave your room.

Yep. Today seemed to be a good contender for worst day ever. So far, she'd met all the above requirements, plus a few extras (including an extra painful session in the Danger Room), and the entire afternoon still stretched out in front of her.

She needed a smoke. And she'd never smoked in her life (well...maybe once, twice...).

And to top it all off, the only mail that came into the mansion that day with her name on it was either a catalogue she swore she had her name removed from and a letter from her mother (try picking the lesser of two evils there).

"Damn it all!" She cried as she passed through the common room.

"Jean, could you possibly find in you to remain relatively quiet?" Hank muttered from the couch. "I'm trying, in vain mostly, to get some rest." He turned back on his side, some rather harsh comments filtering through his mind concerning the rude habits of certain residents in the house.

So she ignored that, and went to find Scott. If he could possibly make her day any worse, she may as well get it over with. She found him in the garage, tinkering with his cycle.

"Hello darling," she cooed. "How are you?"

"What? Oh, fine." He took a distinct lack of interest in her at the moment. With a sigh, she leaned on a nearby counter.

"No, Jean, don't!" She jumped right back up. "Oh, you ruined it!"

She must have looked mortified. "What? What did I do?"

"Nothing, just...go find someone else to..." He searched for a more delicate term than the one he had planned to use. "Someone else to keep company. I'm busy." He shooed her on her way.

What's his problem, Jean thought to herself in a nasty little tone. Oh well, looked like she'd have to find someone else to talk to. Maybe she'd run into town to buy herself a present. It would certainly improve her mood.

In the garden she found Ororo, sitting stiff as marble in a cross-legged position. Instinctively she sensed someone nearing, so she tried her best to seem completely spaced out and unavailable. To no avail.

"Hey, Ro," she smiled sweetly. "You look peaceful."

"I was," she could swear left the woman's lips, though her eyes never opened and her concentration never seemed to waiver.

"So you...sit here often?" This was proving to be her most successful conversation of the day.

After a stifled silence, Ororo replied. "Jean, if you would be so kind as to leave me in quiet while I try to collect my thoughts, it would be forever appreciated." She even opened her eyes for this one.

"Oh, sure, no problem," she answered meekly.

Jean telekinetically flung open the garden gate. This was getting ridiculous.

Her ears peaked when she heard laughter on the other side of the house. Finally, some happy people! She quickened her pace until she was racing to join them.

And bumped headfirst into a jumping Marie.

"Geez, Red, watch where you're goin', huh?" Logan seemed genuinely and completely pissed off. "When'd you get so clumsy?"

"My gosh, Marie, I'm so sorry," Jean said immediately, hoisting the girl and obliging to dust a little dirt on her knees. "I didn't know..."

"I'm fine," Marie replied, with an effort to seem unfazed but letting a hint of anger show through.

"Now we gotta start all over again. Mon Dieu, thanks a lot." Remy sneered and turned away. "At least pass over de ball, non?" Sheepishly Jean scooped up the orange basketball and tossed it to Logan, who caught it with a perpetual frown. No one bothered to thank her. She didn't dare "offer" to join them; she'd rather risk another bout with Apocalypse.

Stuffing her hands in her pockets and cursing her bad hair day, Jean figured her presence, just for today, would be better served elsewhere. Why bother to seek out Charles, currently the only resident not thinking how annoying she was managing to be today.

She grabbed her coat off the rack quickly, knocking over the stand in the process. The familiar clink of coins falling to the ground accompanied the dull thud of the coats.

Bobby immediately appeared on the scene. "Aw, man! My arcade money! Jean, why did you have to..."

But by this time Jean had already hastened out the door.




"I'm famished." Bobby sat himself down at the table, waiting for food to be put down. "What's to eat?"

Marie giggled and began a commentary. "Well, Mr. Drake, it seems we have a interesting selection of green, red ...blue, interestingly enough." She wrinkled her nose. "Is chicken supposed to have that film over it?"

"Don't matter as long as it's food," Logan piped up, sticking his fork in a generous piece, taking a bite, then slowly swallowing. "Second thought...can I take that back?"

"I'd like to see him cook anything," Ororo muttered with a touch of resentment under her breath. Remy seemed to nod in agreement, happy that his insight had told him to heat up some dinner from the fathoms of the freezer.

"Is everyone here?" Bobby whined, eager to eat, no matter what the cost to his life and livelihood.

"I think so," Marie chimed. "Dig in." He obeyed.

"Hold on," Logan held up a hand and temporarily had the attention of the room. "Is Chuck eatin'?"

Scott shrugged.

They attacked the food.




Her car didn't start for five minutes. When it finally decided to co-operate, she found herself caught in traffic for at least ten wasted minutes of her life. Salem Center, it seemed, was very busy after dark. Jean realized she didn't actually have a destination in mind, and she had (rather characteristally) stormed out without any consideration to what she'd do afterwards.

She pulled into some nameless bar, intending to maybe collect her thoughts and get a bite to eat. It seemed like a good idea.

However, the interior was not what she expected. The room was hazy from smoke and had the dull droning of a low quality radio lilting in the air. She glanced around and noticed there were few other patrons (a few old men at the rear, a somlemn looking middle age couple), and one lonley looking barkeep. With a grimace, Jean deduced this place didn't offer much more than peanuts, and maybe olives, to eat.

Something stopped her from spinning on her hell, however, and returning to her warm, clean (albeit a little hostile at the moment) home. She sgokced herself: was she actually considering indulging in a drink, at this place?

Well, she reasoned, why not? One little drink never hurt anybody. And it was about time she loosened up a little. Even she was allowed to disobey the rules (yes, there was an actual rule-one about abstaining from alcohol during the week-though no one paid much attention to it).

She daintily perched herself on a well-worn stool and quickly became aware of a new problem. Certainly, he couldn't order a Cosmopolitan or a dry martini in a place like this. And she got a paticular feeling she'd be run out of the door if she inquired about a wine list.

But as she placed one arm on the disgusting unkempt counter, she recognized a brand of beer Logan kept in the fridge at home.

"I'll have one of those," she told the bartender (who gave her the oddest look- some people had no manners) and quickly handed over her request.

Jean almost gagged as she took her first sip. No wonder Logan is always so angry all the time, she thought to herself as she regained what little composure she could and forced down another brave gulp.

She was quite content in her steaming misery when the door behind her tinkled rather ominously. Sure enough, two burly looking idiots soon seated themselves two chairs over. Jean tried to ignore them, and enjoy her drink (neither of which looked to be a great possibility).

"Hey baby," one of them slurred, led on by his crony. "Why don't cha come visit us? We're lonely something awful."

"What a tragedy," she mused under her breath, her comment unfortunately unnoticed by the idiots. They took her apparent silence as an invitation. The bigger one slid over onto the barstool next to her.

"And what's a pretty thing like you doin' by herself?" Ugh. He smelled like motor oil.

"Yeah, in a joint like this?" The other one piped up.

"Waiting for my husband. His name is Bruno. He won the national muscle building championship last year; maybe you've heard of him?" Her slightly silly response was courtesy of the beer. Potent stuff.

Which gave her an idea; she signaled to the guy behind the counter for another one.

"Aw, come on, baby, don't be like that." I'll bet his name is Snake, she thought to herself as she looked him in the eyes for the first time. "We're just lookin' to be friendly."

The bartender placed the new beer in front of Jean, casting a disguised concern for the now sole female occupant of his bar.

"Well, look somewhere else." Jean raised the bottle to her mouth once again, nearly missing by an inch.

The guy spat some muttered curses and returned, dejected, to his buddy, who was laughing (and sounding like a cross between a weasel and a snake).

After five more mintues, she decided that she'd had quite enough indulgances for the evening, and collected her handbag off the counter. Pulling what she hoped was a twenty out of her wallet, she gently placed in the barkeeper's hand.

"For you, my good man," she annouced, withdrawing her hand slowly. "Keep the change."

"Lady, you okay to drive? I can call you a taxi." He took her smile (simply a polite response to whatever it was he had said; she hadn't quite heard) as a yes, and quickly dodged in the back to make the call.

Meanwhile, the cool outside air hit her like a hammer, and Jean grabbed her slightly spinning head, cursing to herself. She'd had two beers, was all. But of course, she'd never handled alcohol well. She was barely 110 pounds, for cryin' out loud.

She was in no state to drive. Scott, she realized. She'd call Scott, he'd come and get her. Her knight in shining armour. No matter what kind of bad mood he was in, he'd never want her to risk it driving under a slight influence.

Hmm, phone, phone, need to find a phone.

The door to the bar opened and clanged shut behind her, unknown to her dulled hearing. When she did turn around, it took her a moment to recognize the threat.

"Oh, you two again," she muttered, still looking for a phone. "Do either of you have a quarter by any chance?"

They looked at her as if she'd just requested to see pink flamingo dancing the hula while wearing a orange tutu. She waved them off.

Finally she spotted a rather beat up pay phone near the corner of the building. She stumbled over to it and picked up the phone, staring blankly at the numbers for a second before she remembered she had to hit the little zero.

"Hey, honey, hang up the phone, huh?" The taller, apparently in charge idiot sauntered over and leaned his considerable weight onto the innocent telephone casing.

"Yeah," his smaller, more annoying pal snickered, convincing Jean that much more of how he resembled a weasel.

"If you could both just hang on a moment, I'm almost through," she said to them politely (if not a little slurred) after she had successfully given the operator the number to the mansion.

"I don't think you understand, chicky," the tall, trying so hard to be menacing fella leaning against her payphone growled. "Hang up the phone. Don't get nobody involved in our business."

"No, you see, I'm just calling my ride," Jean replied innocently as the connection as completing.

"We'll give ya a ride!" the snivelling one behind her called out. God, he was so annoying.

"That's not necessary," she declined sweetly, quietly becoming more panicked. Someone pick up...please...

The tall one grabbed the phone out of her hand and ripped the cord out of the reciver. Jean swallowed slowly, her mind numbly processing the events unfolding.

"Bad connection," the guy muttered as he calmly replaced it on the hook. "Comin' with us?"

She'd have to chance it, she realized. Damn it, she didn't want to drive drunk. But her car was looking much better than out here.

"No, boys, you can go on your way, I've got my own car." She pushed past the tall one and headed to her safe car.

Weasel ducked in front of her, somehow, and grabbed her arm. "I don't think you heard my buddy correctly. You're comin' with us." He snickered again.

"Get your hands off of me!" she shrieked. The poor fool didn't have the brains to let go.

It took a moment of hazy concentration, but she managed to telekinetically hurl the guy across the small parking area onto the roof of his crappy little car. She'd forgotten how handy this stuff could be in real life.

"You...you..." the tall one stammered. Jean just assumed she had suitably scared him speechless. However, he abruptly snatched her wrist and jerked her over to him. "You mutie bitch!" He yelled in her face, sending his spit everywhere. As much as she struggled, the motion only seemed to dull her senses more. He raised his arm as if to strike her, but slowly released the tension.

The guy narrowed his eyes. "Look, much as I may want to smash your little face in right here..."

"The bartender's seen your face. Not to mention my husband Bruno is expecting me home," she snatched her arm back, "Any minute now."

"Scram." He turned to attend to his buddy, slowly making an attempt to move,

She opened her mouth to snap a retort, but reconsidered. It was so much easier to be witty and clever on the battlefield, while surrounding by your big strong teammates. Jean thought it might be best to shut up and get out of there, before Big, Tall & Ugly rethought his decision. And save the comebacks for when she had Scott, or Logan or Ororo around for security.

She turned and stumbled away, the alcohol in her blood really starting to get on her nerves.

Stumbling over to her car door (having found, by some miracle, her keys in her coat pocket) she fumbled the key into the lock, not thinking to press the unlock button on her keychain, and flopped down into the driver's seat without her usual grace.

Once she was on the road again, Jean let the fear she had hidden seep through, noticing how her hands trembled on the wheel. Had they been shaking like that, the whole time? She tried to force herself to relax a little, turning on the air conditioning and humming softly to herself. Not that it helped. Jean wondered if she should tell Scott. Or just thank her lucky stars.

Sometimes she forgot how real the real world could get.




Hank entered the dining room with a lazy smile and a stretch. "It seemed I've woken just in time." He lowered himself into a seat.

"Did Sleeping Bluey have a nice sleep?" Bobby chomped loudly, apparently the only one amused by his (for lack of a better word) pun.

"Why yes, thank you, Robert. And it was the oddest thing...the phone woke me, actually. Of course, they hung up after rousing me from slumber. What are we having?"

"Better hurry, Hank. Bobby seems to have forgotten to eat the past week," Scott mused, yawning. Bobby cast a dirty look at Scott for limiting his ingestion options. There was a small crowd that remained around the table, chatting idly, or simply resting.

"Has anyone seen Jean? I feel terrible," Hank spoke up loud enough to catch the attention of a few ears in the room. "But this afternoon, I was rather short with her. I haven't the chance to apologize."

"Yeah, where is Red?"

"Probably curling her hair for her grand entrance," Marie oozed under her breath. She noticed she had brought attention to herself with the comment. "I mean, nothing." She smiled innocently.

"Well, she left here in a hurry," Bobby offered, leaning back in his chair. "Didn't even apologize for spilling my money all over the floor."

"Really??" Marie wrinkled her brow. "That's kinda mean."

"Don't worry bout it, Bobby, she goes out on these little trips sometimes. I'm sure she didn't mean to upset you." Scott nodded and left, intent on fixing the fuel gauge before the night was out.

"Speaking of money...anybody up for the arcade? My treat."

"My, that's real nice of you, Bobby," Marie grinned as she and Remy stood in their respective seats.

"Well, as long as you pay your own way, that is." He frowned at the looks he got. "What? I lost some of my money when it spilled. I've got to budget." With much commotion and noise, the room cleared cleared.

With the exception of Hank and Logan, who was looking particularly brooding this evening.

"Don't mind if I left, would ya, Hank? Gonna bunk it early tonight, I think."

"Not at all, my friend. In fact, I'd suggest it. I am rather hungry tonight. Good night, Logan."

"Okay then. Night."

Hank sat quietly and poured over the day's paper, munching on his food occasionally. As the clock neared ten, he decided it might be time to call it a night. He cleaned away the table and made sure the porch light was left on, so his returning friends would not come home to a dark house.




Two, three, four...great. Bobby had five bucks to his name. Aw, crap on a stick, and he promised to go to a movie later that night with Kitty! Maybe he could hit Hank for a couple coins; Hank was always a pal! (under reasonable circumstances, of course). There were many places he'd never venture when he needed cash; but Hank was neutral territory. And they'd been on excellent terms lately; Bobby assumed it had nothing to do with the generous offering of the last three Twinkies to a certain doctor. You see, when Bobby made allies, he made them right.

Unfortunately, his friend had not emerged from is room yet. It was, after all, nearing noon. Nobody in this house got up before noon on a Saturday, unless they had to. The sun was at that perfect place in the sky where it found its way into every window crevice and warmed everything it touched.

His searching of the couch for some loose change was interrupted by the shrill ring of the phone. Muttering some ample curses about the terrible timing of the phone, he replaced the cushion and shuffled over to the nearest phone (namely, the one in the hall).

"Speak," he sighed into the receiver, picking up the notepad meant for messages and rifling through the yellow pages.

"Er, hello. Is there a Scott Summers in the residence?" The stern voice on the other end droned.

"Well, yeah, but he's not home. I think."

"Could you check? It's urgent."

Bobby wrinkled his nose, not wanting to go check (for all he knew the guy was in the next room. But let him answer his own calls!). "No, I'm sure he's not here," he lied. He poised a pen above his notepad and said in his best Professor imitation, "What is the call concerning?"

"Well," the voice on the other hesitated. "He's listed as next of kin. Who is this?"

"Wait a minute," Bobby dropped the notepad back where he'd found it. "Say that again?"