Logan was pissed.
Pissed was a bit of an under-statement.
He had just got back from a long journey, and arrived at the mansion at ten thirty, pm.
Not a second after he had opened the door, something hit him strait in the face.
A scent which made his skin crawl.
Whisky.
His whisky.
Someone had gone into his room and gone through his whisky and done something to it.
Logan stormed his way toward the scent, breathing the scent into his lungs, pushing past bewildered mutant students.
Logan screeched into the kitchen and froze at what he saw.
John (Pyro) and Bobby (Ice man) were sitting in the kitchen with their back against the wall, Logan's empty bottles of whisky at their feet, looking absolutely sloshed, Kitty (the girl who can walk through walls), Siryn (the girl who screams really loud), Rogue (duh) and Warren (archangel, he's got pretty angel wings) kneeling around them.
Noone seeming to notice the fact Logan was standing, rigid, in the door frame.
hic
Kitty, Rogue, Siryn and Warren's heads swiveled around to stare at Logan.
Logan hiccuped again, staring in horror at John and Bobby.
Yep. Logan hiccuped when he was pissed and it had something to do with his private stash of alcohol. Go figure.
"Loo-gan!" called John, the sixteen-year-old heaving himself to his feet and stumbling over to the older man. "Hows my favorite feral punk?" Jahn drawled, tripping and grabbing the front of Logan's shirt to stop himself falling over completely.
"My --hic -- Whisky..." whimpered Logan, taking no notice of the teen clinging to him.
"John really must be drunk. He said Logan was his favorite." muttered Kitty under her breath.
"My whisky!" screamed Logan, running over to the empty bottles and kneeling down next to them, as though they were a fallen comrade in arms, John still clinging to him.
"It was your liquour?" blinked Warren delicately.
"YES!" sobbed Logan, cradling the empty bottles in his arms, occasionally hiccuping, causing his body to jerk.
"Stop the fucking tribbles!" shouted Bobby before keeling over and passing out.
"Two of the underage students are drunk out of their shorts... What's the Professor going to say about this...?" asked Rogue, looking at Siryn and Kitty.
Kitty looked at Siryn.
Siryn gave them a 'we are soooo dead' look.
"hic-- MY POOR-- hic-- WHISKY!" sobbed Logan.
"What's wrong, man? It was some gooooood shit." drawled John, releasing Logan's shirt from his captive.
"I'LL-- hic-- KILL YOU!"
Warren, with the help of Siryn and Kitty, held Logan back from trying to attack the semi-concious John.
"What is going on here?" came a delicate voice from the doorway.
Rogue knelt beside John, who giggled like a school-girl about nothing in particular, beside him; Bobby's unconscious carcass' stomach churned, and Warren, Kitty and Siryn winced as they got an extra-tight grip on Logan as Proffessor Charles Francis Xavier entered the kitchen, Ororo Monroe walking in beside him.
Oh, yeah. Logan was pissed.
Warren ruffled his feathered wings as he looked over Logan's muscly arms –of which he was trying to restrict– at the professor.
"THOSE LITTLE-- hic-- PUNKS DRANK--hic-- ALL-- hic-- MY WHIS--hic--KY!" shouted Logan, stamping his foot, struggling with all his might against Kitty, Siryn and Warren, nearly succeeding, Rogue quickly getting up and helping the teens.
John just continued to giggle from on the floor, rocking his head from side to side, his eyes closed, his face flushed from the alcohol.
The professor dragged his blue-grey eyes over the scene, sighing softly as he directed his wheel-chair over to John and Bobby.
Ororo took her silent cue and picked up Bobby and helped John to his feet.
"Aye aye, cap'n." smiled John, swaying this way and that.
"LEMME KILL --hic-- 'EM!" screamed Logan.
"Silence." hissed the professor as Ororo left with the two seriously sloshed students.
The effect was close-to immediate. Logan glowered and stopped struggling, Kitty, Siryn, Rogue and Warren hesitantly letting him go.
"I have some scotch in my closet, if that will make you feel any better, Logan. But i can't remove the twelve-year old whisky from Bobby and John's stomachs." the professor said simply.
"It was twelve years old?" gasped Warren.
Kitty, Rogue and Siryn looked at him.
"That's good whisky!" Warren gasped again, his wings ruffling a little as though they were agreeing.
"I -- hic-- KNOW!" sobbed Logan.
It took three hours and four bottles of the professor's scotch for Logan to calm down and four very large, very dry martinis for Logan's hiccups to go away.
Never again was Logan going to hide his whisky in crates with 'TOP SECRET' printed on it, in the bottom of his closet. Next time they are going to say 'TOUCH, AND I'LL RIP YOUR ORGANS OUT YOUR EARS TO WATCH YOU WRIGGLE' if there is enough room.
If not, he's just going to have to have a stash of something different...
Maybe human sculls.
First off; two sixteen-year-old male sculls...
((END. definitely not my best ff. no flames, please. i know it sucks! the reason for this, is because i has hiccups for four hours yesterday. yes. arg.))