"I just can't believe it."

 

They sat in a rowdy bar with loud music bouncing the walls and glaring raver paint covering everything.  He had picked a table quite a ways away from the crowd and had already ordered drinks for the both of them.  Not that she knew anything about that; she was too busy feeling stupid.  She held her face in her hands, elbows resting on the table.

 

"I completely screwed everything up."  He sighed, a little irritated.

 

"It was just a mistake," he repeated for the hundredth time that night, "everyone makes mistakes."

 

"Yeah, but I'm a Jedi.  We're not supposed to make mistakes," she growled.

 

"You also just got back from the afterlife three months ago," he retorted.  A grubby waiter interrupted their conversation by slapping two shot glasses on the table and filled them from a glass bottle.  At a look from Logan, he left the bottle behind.  Lyyn glanced up at the foul-smelling drink in front of her.

 

"What's that?" she asked as he downed his.

 

"Whiskey."

 

"Whiskey?"

 

"Yup."  He filled his glass again.  "Try it.  It'll help you forget."  She picked it up and eyed the contents dubiously.

 

"It will?"  He didn't answer, just gulped down the burning liquid and grimaced slightly.  She cautiously followed his example.  It was the most horrible thing she'd ever tasted in her entire life: something between three-year-old roadkill peppered with battery acid and earwax soaked in turpentine.  She nearly threw the glass across the room and fell into a fit of coughing.  He grinned.

 

"Takes some getting-used-to," he said as he poured them both another round.  She managed to get herself back in order and stared at him with watering eyes.

 

"That stuff is awful," she choked.

 

"You didn't give it much of a chance."

 

"Chance enough."

 

"Well, whatever.  If you can't handle it, you can get somethin' tamer."  He downed another one as she glared daggers at him.

 

"I can handle it," she snapped, grabbing the shot glass and gulping its contents down hesitantly.  It wasn't so bad the second time around....

 

****

 

They had been there for almost an hour and she was definitely showing the effects of the alcohol.  She was giggling madly at the spatters of paint made on the table top, tracing them with a wobbly finger.

 

"I'll bet Cyclops wears pink panties!" she squeaked in a drunken slur.  He smirked, not horribly amused but still finding it somewhat funny.

 

"I'd hate to be the one to find out," he muttered.  She burst into another fit of hysterical laughter, clutching the table to hold herself up.

 

"You're really funny," she gasped.  "I never noticed it before, but you're... funny.  Really, really funny."

 

"Thanks."  She held up the half-empty bottle and stared at it, nearly crosseyed.

 

"So this is what it feels like to be intoxicated," she babbled.  "I have to admit that I don't feel any different."

 

"You're actin' different."

 

"Really?"

"Really."

"Oh.  But I don't feel different."  She giggled at the liquid in the bottle, then set it down again and sighed.  "Except I'm not sure if I want to throw up or go dance."

 

"Don't do the first one," he said, taking another drink.

 

"Okay!" she cackled.  She glanced around the bar and her eyes lit upon a large, gruff-looking biker littered with tattoos and body piercings.  "I'll dance with him!" she squeaked and tried to get up.  Logan saw the man and grabbed her arm.

 

"I don't think he'll want to dance, Lyyn," he cautioned.  She ripped her arm away.

 

"'Course he will," she grumbled and wobbled towards her target.  Logan leaped to his feet and reached out to grab her, but, to his surprise, she fell right into his arms, eyes rolling.

 

"Logan," she murbled sickly, "I don't think I'm going to dance after all."

 

"Let's get you back," he said, wrapping an arm around her and propping her up against his shoulder.

 

"And I don't think I'm going to walk or jump or skip or run or... live--"  She babbled on as they shuffled out to the bike.

 

****

 

She woke up wishing she'd died... again.  Her head felt like someone was running a few hundred jackhammers through it and her stomach churned dangerously.  Her throat and mouth burned harshly and she felt they had to be at least three times their normal size.  Everything was wavy; her eyes weren't wanting to function properly at all and it didn't help her nausea any.  The sun glared in on her, pounding at her brain like a locked-out ex-lover.  She lay in bed, trying to remember what she'd done the night before... and how she'd ended up in a bed instead of on her sofa.  While she was trying to sort out this confusing factor to the morning, Logan strode in obviously fresh from the shower.

 

"Good morning," he screamed, making her flinch and groan.

 

"Not so loud," she whispered.  He stomped across the floor to his dresser and yanked open the drawers like he was pulling a train in the Strongest Man competition.  She wanted to wring his neck, but decided the sudden movement would jolt her aching brain too much.

 

"I'm not being that loud," he bellowed, "you're just hung over.  I'm not surprised, considering how much you had last night."  She covered her face with a pillow... very, very gently.

 

"What did I do last night?" she asked, voice muffled by the fluff.  He slammed the drawers closed.

 

"You mean you don't remember?"  He smirked, devious plans forming in his mind.  She answerd in the negative.  He pulled on a tanktop and jeans before sitting himself on the side of the bed.  "You were pretty damn wild," he began.  "I never knew you'd be like that."  She lifted the pillow just high enough to look at him.  He would've killed to have had a camera on hand to catch a picture of the look of horror painted on her face.

 

"I what?" she choked.  He grinned wider.

 

"I wouldn't mind it happening again," he went on, "don't get me wrong.  You just don't seem the type to be so... aggressive."  He winked.  She looked ready to faint dead away from a heart attack.

 

"No, no, no," she moaned.  "Please tell me I didn't...?"  He couldn't take it anymore.

 

"No," he replied.  "I was just kidding."  It took a moment to register, then she buried her face in the pillow again with a growl.  He laughed.

 

"I hate you," she snarled.  "You are not funny."

 

"Really?  You said I was last night," he retorted, getting to his feet.  "Anyway, you'd better get up.  You've got that whole 'space travel' whatever today."  She let out another groan and swore softly.

 

"Tell them I contracted scarlet fever and died," she mumbled.

 

"I don't think so," he muttered, pulling the pillow away from her.  "C'mon."  He grabbed her shoulders and hauled her upright.  She protested with an animalistic growl and bared her teeth at him, glaring at him straight in the eye.  Thoughts of ripping his nose off ran fleetingly through her head.  "We'll get you some coffee or something.  That'll help."  He pulled her off the mattress and stood her on her feet.

 

"That's what you said about the whiskey," she growled.

 

"That did help," he replied as she pushed him away, standing on her own two shaky feet.  She was still dressed in her clothes from the night before.  "You forgot everything, didn't you?"