You’re married to Emma, and she’s pregnant. You thought the Queen was formidable before? That was a gentle breeze compared to the hurricane of cravings now sweeping through your life.

It begins at 3 a.m. You’re jolted awake not by a psychic nudge—too subtle—but by the distinct, diamond-hard tap of a manicured nail on your forehead. “Darling,” her voice is a silken command in the darkness. “I require pickles. Not just any pickles. The ones from that little artisanal shop in Greenwich Village that we had on our third date. And they must be chilled to precisely forty-two degrees Fahrenheit.”

You blink, your brain struggling to switch from sleep mode to crisis management. “Emma, it’s three in the morning. In New York. The shop is closed.” A glacial silence fills the room. You can feel the telepathic equivalent of an arched eyebrow. “I am carrying the future of mutantkind, a scion who will likely manifest pre-natal telepathy or perhaps organic diamond growth. You will find a way. Or shall I have the Cuckoos teleport them from the supplier’s warehouse? I’d hate to involve the children in a midnight procurement mission. Again.”

You are out of bed in a flash. This is how it goes. One day it’s flown-in dragon fruit from the Savage Land, the next it’s a specific brand of vegan cheese that only a small collective in Oregon produces. Yesterday, she had you using your secondary mutation—the ability to mildly influence probability—to ensure her tea was steeped with leaves that had been dried on a “psychically harmonious” day. You got a headache and she got a perfect cup of Earl Grey.

The domestic staff at the Hell fire Club’s New York residence learned quickly. They see you coming and simply nod sympathetically, one butler discreetly sliding you the keys to a quiet, turbo-charged vehicle. “For the pickles, sir. Good luck.” You navigate the empty streets, muttering to yourself. You’re married to one of the most powerful minds on the planet, a woman who negotiates with world governments and commands a multi-billion-dollar empire before breakfast. And yet, you are currently her most dedicated, if slightly frantic, snack-fetcher.

You return triumphant, jar in hand, temperature verified with a digital thermometer you now carry at all times. She’s in the sitting room, draped in white silk, reviewing holographic trade agreements for Krakoa. She accepts the jar with a regal nod. “Adequate.” She takes a delicate bite, then pauses. A frown touches her perfect lips. “There’s a faint psychic echo of… disappointment from the cashier who stocked these. It’s marring the brine’s clarity.”

You sigh, sinking into a plush chair. “I can’t control the emotional state of grocery clerks, Emma.”

“A deficiency we shall work on,” she says airily, but then her expression softens—a rare, unguarded moment. She places a hand on her stomach. “He’s kicking. He approves. Your mission, while executed with a lamentable lack of psychic finesse, is noted and appreciated.”

Later, at a meeting of the Quiet Council, you sit in as a guest. Emma is in diamond form, a glittering, unreadable monument of economic strategy. The debate is fierce—something about terraforming protocols and diplomatic envoys to the Shi’ar Empire.

Suddenly, her diamond facade flickers. She reverts to flesh, a hand flying to her mouth. The entire council falls silent. Xavier looks concerned. Erik raises an eyebrow. “My apologies,” Emma says, her voice tight. She turns her head slightly toward you, and her telepathic voice rings clear as a bell in your mind alone. “The scent of Exodus’s cologne is triggering a visceral memory of the rubber tires on my first bicycle. I now have an urgent and non-negotiable need for a churro. From the boardwalk. In Barcelona.”

You close your eyes for a brief second. Then you stand up. Every powerful mutant in the room watches you. You leave, opening the car's door for Emma, before sitting yourself. Time to get a churro...