He doesn't sneak up on her. There's that, at least. An acknowledgement, Rogue figures, about his mistaken approach last time. Tonight Gambit may have bypassed the Institute's security system and picked the lock on her bedroom window, but he's polite enough to make noise while he's doing it: to let his duster flap and his boots thump softly on the floor as he enters.

And she's facing away from him, sitting cross-legged on the floor in the spill of light from the nightstand lamp, back against the side of her bed, which means he doesn't see the way her mouth twitches up into a stupid little smile as soon as she realizes who it is.

By the time he strolls across her room and stops in front of her, she's got the smile hidden away and her nose back in her book.

"Gettin' lost in a good book, cherie?"

"You can get lost right back the way you came," she says, waspish, not looking up, and turns the page with a crisp flick. Her hands are bare; no point wearing gloves when it's just her, reading for a little while before she goes to sleep.

Now, though, having bare hands feels dangerous. She's intensely aware of every inch of exposed skin, from her fingertips to her toes to the vee neck of her pajama top.

He clicks his tongue and says, "Ouch, girl."

She's still not looking at him. But his grin is audible.

Curse him for being so charming. She closes her book - back cover face-up, so the bodice-ripper front is less obvious - and finally puts her eyes on him.

She hasn't seen him since their bayou adventure. Months ago, now. Practically forever, in X-Men time. He looks tired. A little too scruffy, a little too thin, those devilish eyes of his burning a little too bright in his skull. Part of her wants to drag him down to the kitchen and feed him. Another, larger part has some questions for him first. Like: "Why're you here?"

He counters this reasonable question with a ridiculous one: "What're you reading?"

"It's about a dirty, no-account thief who kidnaps a princess," she says, which is a lie from start to finish. "And then she ends up saving his worthless butt."

Instead of being chastised, his grin only gets wider. "Chère. You been checkin' out my butt?"

She can't help that she blushes, but she's definitely not gonna admit he's right. That would be fatal. She leans forward just far enough to swat at his leg with her paperback.

He dodges, of course. A nimble half-step back and she connects with air. In the same motion, he makes a grab for the book; she manages to snatch it back to her before he can lay hands on it.

In so doing, though, he gets a good eyeful of the cover. All of it. The bare-chested hero with flowing hair. The swooning heroine with an artfully torn dress.

He doesn't say anything. Merely lifts an eyebrow and smirks.

She fixes him with a glare and says, "Why. Are. You. Here."

He shrugs and drops down to sit beside her. Somehow he makes the move graceful. Elegant. And non-threatening, despite the fact that he's broken into her bedroom after most everyone else has gone to sleep. "Just wanted to talk," he says, voice easy. Cajoling.

She snorts. "I've heard that before."

He holds up both hands at eye level, palms out, then extends one towards her. Fingerless gloves don't offer much protection against her bare hands, and they both know it. "Honest this time. You can check, if you like."

She studies him for a moment.

The problem is, she's pretty sure he's telling the truth. The other problem is, that might just be wishful thinking.

And the other problem is, he's throwing off warmth like a radiator, and even if he's up to no good again, she wants to curl into it.

He waits her out, those ruby-ember eyes studying her every bit as intently.

She makes a show of sighing, and gestures with the hand that isn't holding her book. "I've heard that before, too. Whatever. Go ahead. Talk."

He doesn't, though. Not right away. Instead, he drops his head back against the side of her mattress and closes his eyes. Exhales. His shoulders slump a little, but she thinks it's less about relaxing and more about being bone-tired.

And then they just sit like that for a long minute. Long enough that the room settles back into silence, with only the soft sounds of breathing to disturb it. Long enough that she wonders if maybe he's asleep, and if so, would it be rude if she got back to her book. She's read it before, but she's at a good part.

Then he says, quiet, "I'm sorry I wasn't there. For that mess with Apocalypse."

Oh. She wasn't expecting that. It had been weird, actually, that all of the Acolytes had turned up to help - minus Gambit. At the time, she hadn't really noticed, but in hindsight, she'd been curious. Maybe a smidge disappointed.

"You had… family obligations?" she guesses, trying to be sensitive.

Now it's his turn to snort. "Obligations," he says darkly. He scrubs at his face with both hands. If anything, he looks more tired than he did when he arrived. "Mais ouais. I had those."

"It's all right," she says, although why is she trying to make him feel better about it? "I mean, it would've been nice to have the help. But we didn't need you."

His expression tightens at that. "No," he says. "I reckon you didn't."

They lapse back into silence. It should be awkward. They're not friends; they're barely acquaintances. They spent a day together, not counting the hours she was unconscious, and for a good chunk of that time people were trying to kill them.

But she was inside his head. She knows him.

She thinks he knows her, too. Because the lies he spun to get her to New Orleans - well, he wasn't wrong.

Her skin is too… something. Uncomfortable. Hot. She shifts a little, trying to fidget it away.

He turns and looks at her, a careless, lopsided half-smile on his face. Red eyes glowing. "I heard you saved the day."

Now she's uncomfortable in more ways than one. Kurt had made the same claim, but she's never accepted it. She'd just… done what she needed to. Same as any of the X-Men would. She shifts some more. Waves it off. "Team effort."

He leans over and reaches for her face and she freezes - what is he - but he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear safely, without touching her skin. Her heart's pounding, though, and she nearly shivers when his breath ghosts over her cheek as he murmurs, "Always knew you were something special."

And then he steals the book from her.

"Hey-"

But he's already sitting back, grinning like a cat who's just nabbed a canary. "Now let's see what-all you're readin'. My Lady Notorious. Sounds like my kinda girl."

He fans the pages. It doesn't take but two seconds for the playing card to flutter out from where she'd tucked it.

They both grab for it. Of course he gets there first. Plucks the card out of the air with two fingers, neat as any magician doing a trick.

"There she is," he says, practically crooning, turning the Queen of Hearts over to examine both sides. "She been treatin' you well?"

She says acidly, "I sincerely hope you're talking to me and not to your stupid card."

He winks at her. Honestly, how dare he be so charming. "It's your card now. Even if all you use it for is a bookmark."

She doesn't. She puts it in whatever book she's reading to keep it safe and keep it close. On missions, she carries it in one of her uniform's pockets.

She's definitely not going to admit to any of that. "Whatever."

He holds out the card to her; she takes it and stretches one arm to set it on the nightstand.

"Sorry if I lost your place," he says.

That's two apologies in roughly two minutes, from a boy who barely felt bad about kidnapping her, lying to her, and manipulating her for her powers. Huh. Maybe it's Mystique in disguise.

She shrugs. "I've read it before."

"You got any more of these?" he asks, lifting the book.

She bites her lip, but then - what the heck, why not. It's not like it's a secret; it's not like anyone can keep secrets in this house, between teleporters and telepaths and general nosiness. And she's not ashamed about reading romance novels. They're books. Some of them are terrible, and some of them are wonderful. All of them are an escape.

She stands and goes over to the closet. Gets the box down and returns to where he's still sitting, elbow resting on one bent knee.

He starts looking at the paperbacks. Picking them up, scanning the covers, putting them aside. It's a clinical kind of assessment. Like he's an evaluator on Antiques Roadshow, if any of them dealt in ratty secondhand romance novels.

"There's a used bookstore right near the high school. They have sales sometimes. Four for a dollar, that kind of thing." And then she clamps her mouth shut because oh my God, this is a master thief, he doesn't want to hear her bargain shopping tips.

He's smirking at the historical romances, which have much more lurid covers than the contemporaries. Embracing couples, half-naked, though not with anything actually showing. "Strange how their dresses always get tore up."

It's nothing she hasn't thought herself, more than once. She crosses her arms over her chest and says, bitingly, "I'm sure you're complaining."

"Be a good look on you, cherie."

She scoffs and says, "In your dreams," before realizing her mistake. She hurriedly points an accusing finger at him. "Don't say it."

"Wasn't gonna say anything," he says, although his expression indicates otherwise. He cocks his head slightly. "Although… I do have a question."

She throws up her hands and slumps back against the bed. "Why not."

"Why romance novels? It doesn't really fit -" he gestures at all of her, or rather the her that's usually wearing Doc Martens and ripped jeans "- your style."

She shrugs one shoulder, and says, as if it doesn't drive daggers through her, "Just livin' vicariously, I guess. Not like I've got any big romances in my future."

He starts to make a flip remark, then stops. Looks down at the book in his lap, the one she was reading when he came in. Picks it up. "I think," he says, careful, serious, "you can have any future you want, Rogue."

"So can you." When he looks at her, she adds, "Gambit."

"It's Remy," he says, with a brief return of that lopsided smile. "But you already knew that."

"I also know how much you like Star Trek, in case you were plannin' on doing any blackmailing."

He nearly laughs out loud, late hour and a lifetime of thief training be darned. She watches him choke back the impulse, and for the first time, when he looks at her, he looks like himself. Like whatever dark thing was eating at him, it's finally let go. "So beautiful and yet so vicious," he says, feigning amazement.

She pushes to her feet and holds out her hand for My Lady Notorious. "As fun as this has been…"

He stands, too, and gives over the book at last. "Kicking me out?"

Which she should've done the moment he arrived, if she had any brains at all. She sets the book on her bed. "I gotta be suited up and in the Danger Room at six AM tomorrow. So yeah."

"Hmm." He sticks his hands in the pockets of his coat and rocks back slightly on his heels, considering. "And what time should I come knock on the front door if I wanna join?"

"Join our training?" she asks, confused.

He shrugs. "Join the X-Men."

She stares. Opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again to say, "Are you for real?"

He's grinning at her. "Didn't you just say I could have any future I want?"

"Yeah, but…" A thought occurs to her, and her eyes narrow. "Is that why you're here? To see if I'd, what, roll out the welcome mat? Convince everyone, again, not to beat you up?"

Entirely unrepentant, he says, "One reason, yeah."

She can't help the aggrieved "Ugh!" or the foot stomp that goes with it. Totally involuntary reactions to being suckered again. Again! "I should've known! You thieves can never -"

The rest of it is lost, because he's got one arm around her waist and one around her shoulders and he's spun her into a dip that would rival any romance-novel clinch cover.

Except he doesn't kiss her.

Of course he doesn't.

But his face is barely an inch from hers, and his eyes are glowing, and she's grabbed his arms instinctively - thank God he's wearing a coat -

They stay like that. Frozen, if you ignore the blush that's burning across her face, and the heat blooming under her skin wherever they're touching, and the way both of them are breathing a little unsteadily.

He's so warm. And he smells so good.

His eyes flick down to her mouth. Just for a second.

She finds herself lifting her face a fraction closer to his. Wanting to kiss him. It would be -

- absolutely cruel. To both of them.

She hisses out a breath and pushes away. He lets her go without any resistance.

"I had other reasons to be here," he says, crossing back to the window.

She runs a hand through her hair, pretending not to be rattled. "Like what? Besides harrassin' me?"

"Maybe I wanted some romance," he says, holding up her book before tucking it into a coat pocket. Grinning. He sketches a mock salute, adds, "Until tomorrow, cherie," and leaps from the window.

She hurries over to the window and stands there and watches him disappear into the darkness.

Smiling like an idiot the whole time.

.

.

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Note: The last time I wrote for this fandom was 2009! What! And then this idea just jumped up out of nowhere and bit me. Go figure.

My Lady Notorious, by Jo Beverly, was first published in 1985. Be advised it's about as problematic as you'd expect a 1980s historical romance novel to be, and it veers off into some wild situations - but it's also, for the most part, pretty fun.

Sadly, if Evolution is taking place in the early 'aughts, this Rogue is still a few years away from the paranormal romance boom. You know she'd be all over that.

A couple of shout-outs to their 2018 comics miniseries here - namely, Remy lampshading the "artfully torn clothing" trope, and of course the title.