Disclaimer: All characters belong to Marvel Comics and are being used for entertainment purposes only. All real life people belong to themselves. The story belongs to me.

Notes: Okay, gang, I've been dealing with a stern case of writer's block for awhile. Hopefully, this will help break me out of it.

The timer on the microwave goes off and she closes the People magazine, lingering for a minute to stare at the beautiful women on the cover before stepping to the kitchen sink and turning on the water. The steam rolls up in clouds off the running water as she pulls on the thin rubber gloves and works her hair into a lather.

She tries to forget the sting of the water combined with the sharp tang of haircolor as she works her fingers through the thinning strands of hair. With her elbow, she shuts the faucet off and applies the tube of shine enhancing conditioner to her hair, from the roots to the tips, working it into every strand. It must be silky, shiny, and smooth.

Hands damp around the edges, she thumbs through the copy of People, frowning as her wet fingers make smudges on Brad Pitt and Ricky Martin. Madonna stares up at her from a page, clad in a yellow satin dress adorned with black zippers, making her green with envy because she could never pull off that number.

As the microwave dings again, she sighs and walks back over to the sink, adjusting the water temperature and then watching as the conditioner and a few strands of hair make their way down the drain. She will lament them later.

Hair done, wrapped in a towel, she walks to the bathroom and begins her daily regime of age defying make-up. The lines around the eyes have to go. The ones around the mouth, too. Maybe Joan Rivers can carry smile lines proudly but she's an actress and people expect those little things when you're that old. They don't expect to see signs of age on an X-Man, no way. That's unheard of, undone, and she certainly doesn't want to rock the boat.

Skin aglow, hair dry and cascading in a long, red waterfall down her back, she stands in front of the full-length bathroom mirror and starts to curse gravity. Everything sags these days and skin-tight spandex will not allow for push-up bras and butt tightening panty hose. She looks like what she is, a woman approaching middle age who has spent the majority of her life locked in a war against powers that can't really be fought. Streaks of white, old battle scars decorate her pale skin, making her look like a warrior from some forgotten era instead of a woman who wants to settle down and have children.

Children.

Her biological clock ticks loudly in her ears as she pulls on the spandex. A grimace crosses her lovely face. Funny, it didn't sag there yesterday. As she stares at the uniform, which no longer clings sensually to her curves but kind of sticks and lingers in the crevices in her thighs, her heart begins to ache. She is fighting a losing battle and she knows it.

"Jean?" the voice of her husband floats up the stairs and into her ears.

With a sigh, she uses her telekinetic powers to tighten her flesh, pull the sagging muscles and skin back to where they lay twenty years ago. The spandex goes tight again, her breasts rise, no longer the object of gravity's cruel joke. She sniffs her hair, to make sure the dye smell has washed out, and then leaves the bathroom, her green eyes aglow.

"Coming," she yells down the staircase and then uses the hall mirror to put her contacts in. It isn't fair, she thinks as she floats down the stairs. My youth and beauty have gone down the drain and all I'm left with is the war. The same war that took those things away from me. It's isn't fair.

"Surprise!" her friends and husband scream as she walks into the living room.

"Happy thirty-eighth birthday, Jean," Scott says as he walks over to her, carrying a red rose.

But all Jean Grey-Summers can do is stare at him with wide eyes as the tears start to make their way down her face. Then she drops to her knees on the ground and begins to sob for all the years she lost.

The End.