A postcard sent to Lorna Dane, at the Demeter in Los Angeles, with a stamp and postmark from Greece, and this image on the face.

Dear Lorna,

I guess you know by now that I'm not at the mansion anymore.

I'm sorry I left without saying good-bye. To be fair I didn't say good-bye to much of anybody. Logan, but that was only to tell him not to come after me. I didn't want him to come after me, but I spent the last couple nights sitting out on the porch and waiting. There's a porch here, and a hammock, and I sit out at night with the dog and listen to the sea. He didn't come, of course, I asked him not to. He's not really what I'm waiting for. I think what I'm waiting for has to do with the sea, and the stars, and the way it's so quiet here at night.

Charles owns this place, if you don't know. He lived here for a while with Ms. Voght, after his accident. That was before the school, I was still a kid, but he'd been my doctor for a while. He sent me some postcards. He sent me this same postcard, though I'd forgotten until I saw it in the shop. It's a silly coincidence; the phoenix is a pretty widespread symbol. It's almost a cliche.

I don't think anyone has lived here for years. I did, for a while, when there was an accident with the X-men, and I thought everyone was dead. But since then, I don't know who's been here. The place was kind of a shambles when I came in, sand everywhere, cobwebs and mildew on the sheets that had been on the furniture. I just sat down in the middle of the floor, and I cried. Then I thought, 'What am I doing?' I closed my eyes and thought about how I wanted it to be, and when I opened my eyes it was. I felt like Mary Poppins! Maybe I should can the whole hero thing and become a nanny. (I know I'd suck. No jokes!)

Well, I've written all over this card, and I've been all about me. I hope you're well and Henry's well and your work is going well. I don't tell you often enough how I admire the things you do. I know how hard you're trying, and I know I haven't been the easiest person to talk to in the time since I've been back. I wish all messes were as easy to clean up as the one I found in this house, but it doesn't always work that way. I'm trying though.

I miss you. I love you.

-Jean

TM Prompt #244:"That's something I think is growing on me as I get older: happy endings." -- Alice Munro

When Jean has the dream for the third night in a row, she stops pretending it doesn't mean anything. She's lying on the shore in Greece, a beach that she visited once when she was young, when she thought the other X-men were dead, and they were really in Japan. (A pattern with them over the years. You'd think they would have learned). She's lying on the beach, and it rises out of the water, the enormous bird with its massive burning wings. Stop pretending this is where we're supposed to be, the Phoenix says, and as it speaks, the water burns and the sand burns, and Jean burns. And she wakes up.

Logan isn't in bed with her tonight. He's gone somewhere vague, the way he often does when he assumes she doesn't want to know. She leaves a note on the pillow. It's a cliche, but then, it's been a while since she could call their relationship anything original. It's warm and comfortable, and it feels right, and she doesn't want to leave it, but they aren't breaking any molds here.

She writes:

( To Logan )

The next letter she folds and slides beneath Hank's door:

( To Hank )

( And finally, for Rachel )

OOC: Jean is going to be prompt-only for the foreseeable future. I've had a great time writing her in the TM-universe, but keeping up with events in order to fit her into things was getting past me. So thanks to everybody who has interacted with her, it's been a blast!

It's kind of strange to think of this as 'bad news' but the first thing that came to mind was that I've had to tell everybody I loved that I wasn't actually dead. It's good news, of course; at least I hope so. But it's bad news, too, in the sense that, "Everything you thought you knew about one of the most important things ever to happen to you was a lie" isn't the easiest thing to adapt to.

I'll never forget the look on Scott's face when he walked into the room at X-Factor. I know he wanted it to be true but, also -- I didn't have my telepathic abilities then, but I still knew -- part of him didn't know how he was going to live with it. He'd made his decisions, made his compromises, based on the understanding -- no, the firsthand knowledge -- that Jean Grey was dead. The evidence of my being there showed that it wasn't true. And at the same time, I had to tell him that I wasn't the Phoenix; that the person he had loved for part of that time, that he thought he had formed a bond and an understanding with, wasn't me. Scott was the most extreme example, but everybody that "Phoenix" had known -- my family, my teammates, Logan -- had to adjust to the same thing.

And years later, I had to tell them that was wrong too. Because now I think I was Phoenix all along. That's it's own kind of bad news. It's something we all need to learn to live with.

I've got a secret to share. You ready?

I have red hair.

I have lots and lots of red hair.

Okay, I guess, that's really not such a shocking revelation. That's kind of the point. My hair has been the first thing people notice about me, ever since I was a kid. It definitely always made me stand out in a crowd.

Standing out can be nice, of course, even when it involves a lot of questions about your alleged Irish ancestry, and comments on your fiery temper. I got that all the time from my dad -- "Oh, there goes Jeannie again, with her redhead fiery temper!" I'm not saying he was wrong, you know, but on the other hand, who's to say I didn't grow up thinking I was supposed to have this temper because I have red hair. Since I was a teenager, I've also gotten plenty of not so pleasant comments about being a redhead. Sometimes it's flattering -- like when Logan calls me 'Red' and there's kind of a little purr in his voice. And then there are the total strangers who try to think up funny nicknames like, I don't know, 'Firecrotch'. It's probably not a coincidence that my first boyfriend was a guy who saw everything in red, so I knew it wasn't the only thing that made me stand out.

I read somewhere that in the middle ages, thousands of women were burned at the stake as witches, for no reason other than having red hair. I don't really know if that's true, but unfortunately it feels true. I'm lucky to live in more "enlightened" times, where red hair will get you a date if you're lucky, or just a lot of annoying comments if you aren't. People still manage to zero in on anybody who's a little different, though. Or a lot different.

There ought to be something we can all do about that, don't you think?

I think I screwed these answers up!

( I like Han Solo and all, but. . . )

Friday night's pay night guys fresh out of work
talking about the weekend, scrubbing off the dirt
Some heading home to their families, some looking to get hurt
Some going down to Stovell wearing trouble on their shirts

I work for the county out on 95
All day I hold a red flag and watch the traffic pass me by
In my head I keep a picture of a pretty little miss
Someday Mister I'm gonna lead a better life than this

Working on the highway laying down the blacktop
Working on the highway all day long I don't stop
Working on the highway blasting through the bedrock
Working on the highway
Working on the highway

I met her at a dance down at the union hall
She was standing with her brothers, back up against the wall
Sometimes we'd go walking down the union tracks
One day I looked straight at her and she looked straight back

So I'm working on the highway laying down the blacktop
Working on the highway all day long I don't stop
Working on the highway blasting through the bedrock
Working on the highway
Working on the highway

I saved up my money and I put it all away
I went to see her daddy but we didn't have much to say
"Son, can't you see that she's just a little girl she don't know nothing about this cruel, cruel world"

We lit out down to Florida, we got along all right
One day her brothers came and got her and they took me in a black and white
The prosecutor kept the promise that he made on that day
And the judge got mad and he put me straight away
I wake up every morning to the work bell clang
Me and the warden go swinging on the Charlotte County road gang

I'm working on the highway laying down the blacktop
Working down the highway all day long I don't stop
Working on the highway blasting through the bedrock
Working on the highway
Working on the highway

Working on the highway laying down the blacktop
Working on the highway all day long I don't stop
Working on the highway blasting through the bedrock
Working on the highway
Working on the highway

Jean crosses her legs into a lotus position, wraps a hand around the toes of each foot, and rocks back on the carpet of her bedroom.

"All right," she says, "I want to do this right. From the start." She looks down into a pair of wide brown eyes. "My name is Jean, and I might not be very good at this. But I just want to tell you. . .Hey!" The deceptively mobile ball of fur that surrounds (is?) Jean's newly acquired Corgi puppy rockets into her lap. "No, no, don't. Don't!" She tries to pick him up, and deposit him back on the floor in front of her. But he wiggles, furiously, out of her hands. Jean lets out a frustrated sigh, and lies down on her back -- at which point he darts out his little tongue and starts licking her face.

"Lloyd! No!" she cries out, then claps her hand over her mouth -- you're never supposed to say your pet's name when you're angry, because then it won't come to you. She saw that on a show. "Wait!" She sits up and tries to set the puppy on the floor in front of her. He launches back into her lap, starts to nibble at her arm -- and Jean surrenders, giggling as she holds the warm, wiggly body in her arms. "All right, cute boy, you win --" She lies back on the floor again, letting him lick her face, as she goes on talking.

"But listen to me, okay -- it's not going to be like this all the time. Because you're sweet, and you're cuddly, and I'm glad that you love me. But I want you to respect me, too. And that means I have to say 'no' sometimes. We're going to have rules, and -- and -- discipline. Which -- oh, hey, cutie -- who's a good boy?" -- as he rolls on to her stomach. Scratching him on the head, she says, "I'm not very good at rules. I just --" Scratching the puppy's head "--I feel like people should just know, sometimes, when they're doing things they shouldn't. And they should -- not do them. How complicated is that, you know? I don't think it's very hard. But sometimes I think it makes me not very good. At the leader thing. It's not natural for me. I'm not smarter than anyone else; I don't have better strategies, I don't have big ideas. I've got some power, I guess, but it's not like I can ever use it. And so --" Jean stops herself, and giggles. "God, here I am, getting neurotic at my dog."

She bends down and kisses Lloyd's forehead, as he squirms and whimpers, happily -- she thinks it's happily. She doesn't know all the sounds he makes, yet -- and the psychic vibrations small mammals put out don't tend to be particularly helpful. "I promise you won't have to listen to too many more of these monologues," she says, ruffling his coat with her fingers. "Well -- maybe a few more. I either throw all my insecure crap at you, or Logan has to deal with it. Or Hank does. I can't act like that in front of other people. I need them to respect me. You see that, right?"

She looks down into the puppy's wide, soulful eyes -- just as she feels a warm, wet sensation spreading against her knee. "Oh, baby," she sighs. "If you just did what I think you did --"

That settles it. Like it or not, she's going to have to work on saying no. If not for the sake of respect, for the sake of her carpet.

My baby is so cute, you guys! I don't even know how to describe it!!

( Just look!!! )

Logan got him for me, and he's not even worried about the effect it will have no his tough guy reputation. Not at all!!! I love him so much. (The puppy, I mean. But Logan too, obviously).

I don't know what to name him.

I've never named a dog before -- I've never really named anything, myself included.

This is hard.

But I don't care, because my baby is cute, and my boyfriend is awesome. And also cute.

Random ipod shuffle produces a song that is supposed to predict the rest of your month.

I think is a SUICIDE NOTE.

Peachy.

( My Bad Days by Okkervill River )