Honestly, I'm not really sure why I bother... do I look like I have 'I own Marvel' tatooed across my forehead//thinks// Or any other body part for that matter:p So, just so you know from now on, I own nothing that is already copyrighted by anyone currently living or recently passed

This is just a little intro to the series for those of you reading the first chapter of The House is Just Packed, a floofy tale cooked up from my scary imagination. It's been on hiatus under another account for a while, but now me and the gang are back and ready for action! For a more indepth apologie/explanation, check my profile for the full details and groveling.

HOWEVER... for those of you with highly seductive/whiny muses, I think you will feel my pain of having the lovely, hairy, and oftimes irritating Logan living with me - not to mention his many 'friends'. Enjoy, don't forget to review, and skip tipping your waitresses - even if that is a major part of our earnings ;-) Note - I am not encouraging underage drinking. I just happen to enjoy my wine and beer in moderation and without driving :-)

This fic is written with the full approval and occasional brain-child of Tyrel. Rating is for language, and, 'cause... its LOGAN, people. He just doesn't cooperate with K ratings around my place. Plus, me and the whole K-rating thing... not going to happen. So if swearing offends you, please stop reading now or be prepared to get offended.

Now, all intros gone, lets get on with it!

Invasion

I'm having trouble sleeping. This insomnia, fast becoming the habit it was during my pre-teen years, is beginning to feel like an old friend from my childhood in new surroundings. I turn over to hit the snooze button on my clock and groan loudly.

Two frickin' a.m. I think I need to hire a hit man to kill me. Wonder how that would work - could I pre-pay him for the job?

Turning back over to face the wall, I bump into the whiskered mug of an old aquaintance with a jar that shakes a few of the cobwebs loose, but leaves the rest fully intact. My eyes widen and I gasp before squinting them shut again.

SHITE! Why does this always happen to me?

"Not again... go away..."

I slit my eyes open to see hazel eyes smiling across an incongruous pink pillowcase. I pull the adjacent striped pillow over my face with a groan, muffling my next words.

"I'm dreaming; this is a nightmare. You don't exist, you're a figment of my sleep deprived imagination..."

Molson and cigar smoke winds around my small room, a memorable scent that awakens thoughts of long nights spent together, huddled over a computer companionably. Days where I would awake to find the scraggly face above mine with the light of a new plot in his eyes, and extra creamer in my hot chocolate.

Evenings when I would be unable to study because of his irritating humming and horrifically loud boots. Nights when my friends would look at me like I was nuts because I came up with extremely lame lies to hide the fact that there was absolutely no way I could drink an entire six-pack of Molsons in one sitting, and by the number of beer bottles under my bed, that was precisely what I was doing. I seem to recall that collecting bottles from along the highway was the best story. Oh, and how could I forget the times I had to shoo him out of my work, because I couldn't concentrate with him whispering plots to me while I answered phones and rung up customers.

Ah yes. That's why I made him leave.

I'm not going to look at him, not going to look at him...

I peek anyways. It has been a long time after all. Almost three months since Logan was relocated to a friend. It all really started when he claimed I wasn't utilizing him enough. My suggestion of dish duty and a frilly apron was met with disgust and severe sulking, and it wasn't long before he searched out another 'vessel'.

Vessel my ass, he needs a swimming pool to hold both that ego and his numerous plot bunnies.

What the hell is he doing back, in my bed, at two twelve in the morning? I can't see him through the only slightly slitted eyelids, so I open my eyes wider for a sideways squint.

Fiddlesticks. I wasn't hallucinating when I remembered how scarily handsome he was back in the day. Same pointed hair, same fluffy muttonchops, and what appears to be the same exact smirk of self-satisfaction.

"Knew ya'd welcome m' home. I've missed ya Golda."

I turn away and lock the pillow over my ears and face, deciding to risk asphyxiation rather than another haunting by my muse. Maybe if I ignore him he'll go away. Perhaps... just maybe... please, oh Lord, if you have a sword smite this invulnerable mutant.

Right now. Right... NOW!

Instead of the sound of frying flesh I was praying for, courtesy of a lightening bolt from heaven, rough hands lock over my knuckles and pry them, one by one and resisting, from the pillowcase. The sound of boots clunking against the floor as he kicks them off makes me hiss in alarm.

"Logan! Tye's in the next room!"

His smile turns upside down faster than a puppy with a belly itch. He growls, and what is left of my quivering stomach shivers and melts quietly through my backbone. Why couldn't I have an ugly muse... like... like... I'm trying to think of an ugly superhero here...

"Y're livin' wit' tha'... tha'... excuse fer a man?!"

He remembers to whisper, but I have to admit, my shields are further lowered by the feel of his whispered breath on my cheek. Any idignation I feel on Tyrel's behalf is quickly forgotten as I concentrate on trying to make my unwelcome muse dissapear.

No, must... remain... strong... he's just a figment of your imagination, thats it, a figment...

"OUCH!"

I jump as he pinches my arm. Hard.

Rubbing at the red mark on my wrist I throw a pillow across the room, knocking off a textbook from the teetering pile on my desk. Tyrel, in the room next to me, grunts and kicks the wall. Our beds butt against the same wall, my head at his feet and vice-versa. A kick in the middle of the night, only heard because of the shared wall, is little more than a subtle reminder to be quiet. I don't even think he's really awake most of the time when he does it anyway.

Crawling out of the bed, I fall with a thud against a box only half-hidden under the edge of my mattress. Tye kicks the wall again. I stand shakily and knock the wall twice. A muffled, "Mrph Golda... grumble flurf." can be clearly heard before everything resumes its natural two o'clock in the morning state.

Except for the bootless mutant still curled up on my bed, smirking as he props an elbow on the covers.

I groan and feel my way towards the door. I need some alcohol and ice cream, preferably as fast as possible. Shuffling out the door I head for kitchen, ignoring Logan. I'll deal with him after I get some sugar, both fermented and au natural.

Logan stands and follows me out, his sock-encased feet making very little commotion. Tyrel remains quiet in his room next to mine as I pass the oak door. My own bedroom is what we call the 'corner cranny'. One of those rooms they stuck in a corner, too big to be a closet, but still too small to hold a couch and the tv.

I stop in the shiny kitchen and open the freezer.

Good. Almost an entire pint of ice cream left. Unfortunately a glance in the fridge shows a distinct lack of Wild Turkey and Budlight. Tye must have finished off the Budlight, and I think the landlord probably took the Turkey. Drat.

"Darlin', I have this favor t' ask..."

I pull out the carton of milk, and sleepily shake it. The reassuring slosh makes me turn to pour some of the half-fat beverage into a pan. Logan sits down at the counter.

For some odd reason, my muse has always appeared in the guise of Hugh Jackman. Not that I'm complaining, mind - I'm about five eight, so having the comic Wolvie around would be trying to his short if stocky pride. But then at least I wouldn't has this feeling of deja-vu every time I watch Kate and Leopold.

Because my Logan (no, wait, not mine, I'm disowning him forthwith - abra kadabra, disowned), theLogan, has all the grouchy, self-centered, irritating attributes he ever shows in Marvel. Plus a few little habits they don't mention; always leaving the air conditioning on, and wanting to stockpile jerky in weird places - like under couch cushions and behind the dryer.

I am not going through that again. I don't care if having him around makes writing the Wolverine fanfiction so easy, I'm not putting up with him. Besides, how am I supposed to get myself into a safe, long-term relationship if my muse makes me hang out in bars, to 'get the atmosphere right'?

"Darlin'."

"No Logan. I'm too busy."

I know the question before he asks it, and I'm putting my foot down this time. He can just go haunt some love-sick teenager who would like having a beer-guzzling sexy mutant in her bed at two a.m.

Silly kids. They have absolutely no idea what they're getting into by opening their doors to a muse. Mine have always been something like termites - just when you think you've squashed the last irritating little plot, another one turns up. Although Logan is by far the worst - at least the others can be offended and chased off. He gets offended and comes back.

Go figure.

I slam the cupboard door shut. A protesting Tyrel sleepily throws something at his door.

"Gol-DA! I'm sleeping here, give me a break... damn nutcase."

I roll my eyes at the clearly grouchy Tyrel. "Sorry. Suppose this means you don't want me to turn on the blender?"

Another curse and Tye opens the door. "Golds, I have a chem test tomorrow... what are you doing?"

I pull my robe tighter and flick a glance towards Logan.

"Erm... nothing?"

No one except me has so far been able to see the muse, for which I both thank and curse all God's whims. Tye, however, tenant to the last Wolverine visitation, follows my guilty flick with increasing awareness.

"He's here again, isn't he?"

I nod, wishing that I could deny the accusation. Should have known that Tye, who dislikes the super-healing mutant almost as much as Scott Summers, would sense his invisable return. Logan glares at both of us.

"Darlin', coul' y' tell tha' sorry excuse fer a human t' go 'way?"

I hesitate. It would be nice to have Tyrel around. Even if he can't see the irritating Canadian, he believes in him as fully as I. Of course, I suspect that he has his own muse - who, I'm not really sure, but I'm pretty sure that he must to understand just how truly annoying Logan is.

"Is he being rude?"

I nod, ignoring Logan's growl. My room mate is well aware of the muse's hatred towards him. After all, switching hair tonic for peroxide is not precisely a friendly thing to do. Tyrel runs a hand through his hair, still faintly blond at the ends, before whistling.

"Well... looks like the Invasion has begun."

Once again, my head moves up and down of its own accord. The Invasion. How quaint.

I need some ice cream.

Sooooo... you like?

Another note: Again, no, I don't support underage drinking as a rule... but you don't live with Logan, do you?