Author's Note: Did I say Logan? Because I meant Remy.

You can see the confusion there, right? Since, you know. They are spelled with entirely different letters.

And Other Things

A Certain Type

Rogue learned so many things about herself when she started seeing Gambit.

'Started seeing.' More like finally conceded defeat, throwing in the towel and hoisting the white flag. It was a hard fought war, don't think otherwise; holding out until after her twentieth birthday, after he joined the X-men full time. After his casual flirting got more personal and his constant dating thinned. She's not so sure what was different about that night: he'd been out on a date with some nameless girl and had brought her back a dessert. Pretty typical Saturday (assuming he came home). He must've put something in it because in between her taking a bite while she glared at him over the treat, and him insisting he only took other girls because he had to show up for his reservations with SOMEone, the spoon ended up on the floor with her pressed against the refrigerator with his knee in between her legs. Her hands found his shoulder blades, his mouth took to her neck and they both sighed when he eventually pulled away. Her turtle neck was damp where the hickey formed.

Where was she going with this?

Oh yeah.

After that—man, that memory is distracting—they became pretty much official, and Rogue finds mildly annoying girlfriend traits she didn't know she had nearly every day. Today, for example, she'd been out shopping with Kitty. It's not her cup of tea really, even if she's grown more fashion conscious as the years have drawn on, but she goes for Kitty. Ever since Lance's brutal vanishing act, everyone's made it a point to keep Kitty occupied so she doesn't dwell. After all, he wouldn't have left (again) if it weren't for them (again). Another story for another time, though.

So they'd been shopping, and before Rogue even realized it, she was in the Men's department, sifting through button up shirts. What's worse is the why: Gambit certainly rocks the blacks to be sure, but she'd like to see him in something else. She's picking out clothes for him. Without him. Even after she made herself leave the area, she still ended up with a bag for herself and one with a few things for Remy.

Christ.

His bag sits on the island counter in the kitchen as she rifles through the fridge. Odd Numbers are running the training sim with Logan (there are so many of them now regular training sessions are divided into three groups: ID numbers ending in odd, even and zero), and Gambit always likes to grab a bite afterwords. She glares at the pastrami she pulls out. She's making him snacks. God. She never did anything this cutesy with Bobby, where is all of this coming from?

"Why does seventeen feel farther back than three years?" she mutters, plucking up the horseradish and turning towards the plate she set out.

"'Cause y' been lookin' like a woman far long'r den dat," comes the saucy reply. She snorts, spinning the bread bag open. Didn't have as much time as she thought. "Is true, chere! Y' were all kinds of jail bait. Da Lord gave dis Cajun quite a test when He put y' in fron' of me."

Rogue rolls her eyes, peeling away a leaf of lettuce. "Would serve ya right," and then another leaf, "Fer kissin' little girls."

"Mais" She can hear him drop his duster on a chair, the heavy objects in his pockets clunking against the wood. "Who kissed whom, eh, chere?" She doesn't respond because, well, she doesn't want to start that argument. Mastermind kissed you, Gambit. Ya still braggin'? The bread pops out of the toaster, though, and gives her an excuse to ignore the question. There's a dragging sound against the island top as she dips the knife into the horseradish jar. "What dis?"

"Went shoppin'," she starts, the sound of the bag being opened and searched follows her statement. Rogue scowls at the side of his head. Nosy. The next part is going to be tricky. He never lets her live this shit down. Ever. "Got that stuff for ya."

She can hear his smile. Goddamn it.

"Aw chere, pour moi?" he starts, and she wants to throw the stupid sandwich at his stupid, handsome face. She needs to beat him to it or she'll lose the upper hand. Why does she need the upper hand? Because she's a control freak, shut up.

"Got some pajama pants for ya." That does the trick. He's digging in the bag now, but she's got most of his attention. "For ya to keep in my room."

Now she has all of it.

Because of the alarming fact that the student residency at the Xavier Institute quadrupled in as many years, the professor made the wise call of adding dormitories—one for girls and one for boys—farther out near the tennis courts. Rogue, Storm, Logan, Kitty, Bobby, Scott and Jean, Hank and of course the professor himself are still in the mansion. Those rooms are mostly for Full Time X-men. Actual students and/or junior members are out in the dorms. Though Storm and Logan's rooms stand empty a lot of the time: Ororo married a prince (!) and Logan is heavy on the soul searching. Gambit's room is also out in the dorms, but he sneaks into Rogue's a lot. It took some mass trial and error, but they've finally gotten to the point where neither of them will move while they sleep. He insists it's to spend time with her, but she thinks that a good chunk of it is simply to stick it to Scott and Logan.

This means him dropping in fully clothed. And even though she's taken to sleeping totally covered (it breaks the professor's heart to see how badly she's regressed. Thanks Mystique), he still can't just strip down, despite all his offers. Sleeping in jeans? Uncomfortable. Sleeping next to jeans? Just as bad.

"Ya keep me up, and it ain't the good kind of 'all night," she complains, finishing laying out the meat and placing the sauce covered slice on top. There's a sniff of offense taken from his side of the kitchen and Rogue smiles to herself. "If you're gonna keep on sneakin' inta my bed, make sure you got those on first."

She sets the plate down next to him as he holds the pants up. "Ah bought 'em, yer wearin' 'em." They're plaid, of the black, grey, a lighter grey and purple variety. She's always sneaking in purple. She loves him in purple. She loves him.

…

In purple. She loves him in purple. They're not using the 'L' word yet. Not out loud anyway. Or at least she isn't. What if he's not?

Before that particular spiral of self doubt and hysteria can get started, Rogue notices a certain look on his face. Gears are turning. The further his thoughtful smirk spreads, the more her eyes narrow.

"So," and he draws the word out as though looking for the right phrasing but she knows he already has something in mind. "Does dis mean if I buy y' sleepwear, y' have to—"

"No."

Of course this wouldn't even come close to stopping him from trying. Even got her to wear something once, dear God. Seriously. She did not know she was this kind of girlfriend. Even more surprising, she wasn't so much the jealous type. He is, though.

But more on that later.

Author's Note: I hate when you have an idea all worked out in your head, and then realize that life is too inconvenienced to let you sit down and type it up. I also hate when you sit down at work and scribble it all out on paper on your thirty minute break, thinking you've bought yourself some time, only to come to find you wrote it so quickly you can't read it. My wide 'cheerleader' hand writing looked like the bunch of curly-qs you usually see in cartoons for hand written notes. Probably would've been faster just to start over than take a decoder ring to it.

I'm not even going to try to predict who will be next, since I just proved I'm not psychic. I'd guess either Remy again or Scott. Maybe Jean.

Review as you please!