The ticking of the clock on the nightstand keeps me awake.

No, it isn't the clock, it's my mind. The same mind that killed Professor Xavier. The same mind that killed all the employees at Worthington labs. The same mind that killed Scott haunts me every waking moment, and quite honestly, every sleeping moment as well.

I lay on my side, the steady moaning of the air conditioner in the corner of the room and Logan's arm draped around my waist should be enough to calm me. Yet the guilt is eating me alive.

Logan thought he was doing me a favor when he didn't kill me, but he didn't. He found a Psychic who brought me back to my senses and put Phoenix in her place; behind a psychic barrier in the absent part of my mind. Yet, I'd still be better off dead. Ororo practically disowned me, and Logan, when he refused to kill me, but can you blame her? I KILLED the Professor. What's the phrase? An Eye for an Eye.

Needless to say, I'm pretty miserable.

Logan shifts slightly so that his hand is right above my navel. His fingers flex slightly against my stomach, and I feel his warm breath on my neck.

I look around the bedroom of the run-down apartment that Logan and I share. The curtains over the window dance in front or the AC as rain starts to beat off the window. The stained carpet is cluttered with shoes, dirty clothes, and the occasional condom wrapper. Boxes peek out of the only closet in the apartment, which is overflowing with boxes of stuff, mostly winter stuff, clothes, extra blankets, a small pencil tree that I convinced Logan to buy last year.

Once again, Loagn moves, this time he slips his arm across my breasts, then moves his warm lips against my bare neck. "Still can't sleep?" he whispers.

"I hardly can anymore," I reply.

"Want to get your mind off of it?" he asks, propping himself up on his elbow.

"What do you have in mind?"

"Well, Riley's would still be open."

He's implying to a bar off in the outskirts of Manhattan.

I glance at the clock that I had been absent-mindedly staring at for the past two hours and never once comprehended the time. It's now twelve thirty.

"Maybe," I say, "but Telepathy and-"

"Yeah, I know. Telepathy and beer don't mix. But I have Frost on speed dial. And a little ain't gonna hurt ya."

I consider this some. The last thing I want to do is hurt anyone else. Then again, Logan is right, a little drink isn't going to hurt.

"Be in the car in ten minutes," I swing my legs out of bed and quickly change from my shorts and T-shirt to sweatpants and a pink camisole under a white shirt.

We don't make it to the bar.

I wander into the kitchen to grab my car keys when I hear a knock on the front door.

"who the hell would be comin' around at this time?" Logan says from the doorway. I slip past him and through the livingroom.

The door doesn't have any windows, so I have to take a chance and hope it's not a serial killer.

Logan unsheathes his claws as I open the door. There are two people standing on the mat, the first one is Ororo. The second one, with his brown hair, taunt mouth, and leather jacket over red T-shirt, is Scott Summers.

This is my first fanfiction in awhile (I use to write some in middle school, but I was never allowed to publish it) so I hope you like it. Let me know if I should continue It.