Note: Rogue is wearing a bracelet that puts her powers on hold.

I do not own X-Men. At all.

He noticed just in time that she was wearing the silver chain around her wrist, and leaped at her with such agility and grace, he'd make a jungle cat stumble.

He reached for the remote, got an elbow to the face.

"NO!" she yelled above the noise.

"Jacob's about to confess!" Rogue cries, and it amazes him how she can have her eyes planted firmly on the screen, but still manage to get the remote just out of his reach.

Wade was about to lose his shit. No seriously, he was. He was not going to put up with fictional wolves and sparkly douche-bags, just because she was his roomie.

That's where he drew the line.

He managed to get enough room to pull back, and quickly escaped from a headlock that would have snapped his neck. He lunges for her again, and this time her eyes meet his and she squeals.

The fuck?

That doesn't stop his awesome ninja-like skills, though, and with the forward momentum, and his current position he's going to land right between her—

Her fist meets his jaw with an audible crack, and this sends him a good three feet backwards.

She stands, remote held tightly to her chest, where his head would have landed, right between those legal breasts—He silently thanks god her birthday was last week, otherwise this shit would have gotten him killed.

"You can have it back in a damn minute, I just want to see what happens." Rogue growls, and sits down, folding her legs underneath her. It hits him, right now.

She sits on his recliner, takes a sip of his bourbon, and is clutching his damn remote.

It is on.

She's cradling her wrist, and hopping around the room.

"Damn it, hold still!" he tells her, trying to reach for her. She dances out of his way, glares at him.

"I can't believe you threw a chair at me." She says with a snarl, and moans slightly in pain. He rolls his eyes.

"It barely hit you."

"It broke on my damn wrist!" she yells and he blocks his ears like a child, too many words, too loud. God damn this girl.

The chair—the wooden one from the kitchen—is in splinters, and a few big chunks lay around on the carpet, but it was the least he could have done to her, he figures.

Besides, his blades are getting sharpened. She's lucky that's all he's done.

"I've killed people for less." He tells her and finally catches her by the waist, yanks her close, and lifts her arm, examining her wrist with gentle fingers, and she winces as he touches a bump.

A freakin' bump, for Christ's sakes.

"No big deal." He murmurs, and she notices his eyes—and he tries to look impassive—but with her, it never works. She smiles, well almost smirks.

"You were worried about me…"

"I threw a chair at you. You're a roomie—you also make one hell of a snack." He mumbles, and she grins, leans forward and presses a kiss to his cheek.

He stares at her incredulously.

"What the fuck was that for?" he asks after a minute of silence—which is very fucking unusual for him.

"For letting me take this" she lifts the bottle of bourbon in front of him. He wonders how this girl got so sly.

She turns, travels upstairs before he can say anything else.

"God damn roomie" he curses, and his cheek is still freakin' tingling or some shit from that kiss.

He turns to follow her.

He's getting the bourbon back, and seeing if any other part of him can tingle with her lips.

End.