Anyway, here's what I like to think happened later that night at the mansion.

As he neared, Sinatra's crooning flowed through the hall to his ears.

Scott almost turned back. It was late. He was tired. He was not in the mood for Sinatra. And whoever was inside the kitchen listening to the guy was clearly in need of help.

But as Scott debated retreat, his stomach churned out a protest. Obeying with reluctance, he continued toward the kitchen…

And stopped short at the sight of Rogue sitting at the counter, with a glass of milk and the entire pan of Hank's brownies set before her. She was chewing, her eyes glued to the television screen, where a black and white Frank Sinatra, still young, still crooning, swayed to the beat of his own songs.

"Rogue?"

Her gaze turned his way. "Hey, Scott."

"Hey." He scratched his head as he approached. "Didn't figure you for a Sinatra fan."

"Ah'm not, really. But Ah used to live with one," she said, turning back to the screen. "Irene'd put on one of those old LP's every night in the living room. She didn't play it loud, but the music reached my bedroom anyway. Always used to put me to sleep."

Scott tried to imagine Rogue as a little girl, snuggling under the covers, drifting off to sleep with old-time love songs filling her head. Somehow the thought made him grin.

"What're you smiling about?" She was looking his way again, her brows raised defensively. "It ain't like Ah'm the one who played those records."

"I didn't say anything."

"Good."

"Because there's nothing wrong at all in being a closet light-and-easy listener."

"Summers—"

"It's kind of endearing, actually."

"All right, Ah'm gone," she said, dropping her brownie and hopping off the counter.

"Wait, wait, I'm stopping," he said, grabbing her robed elbow before she could reach the remote and turn the television off. With his other hand, he took the remote from its perch on top of the microwave and held it safely away, his six-foot frame towering well over hers.

She glared at him. "Gimme that!"

"But I want to watch this."

"You want to watch Frank Sinatra?"

"Sure, why not?" At her dubious glance, he said, "Look, we'll keep it on, I won't hassle you, and you don't have to leave. Okay?"

She stepped away from him. "Whatever."

Scott took the milk out of the fridge and poured himself a glass. He leaned against the counter, using a napkin to nab a brownie from the pan as Rogue re-seated herself. "Oh, man," he said, biting into the chocolate. "Wow. Hank really outdid himself this time."

"Yeah. Makes me wonder if he's Martha Stewart in disguise."

"That would make Martha Stewart a mutant. Shapeshifter."

"Shapeshifter?" Rogue creased her forehead, picking up her half-eaten brownie. "Maybe Martha Stewart's one of Mystique's covers?"

"Hank McCoy, alias Martha Stewart, alias Principal Raven Darkholme, alias Mystique." Scott shrugged. "Could happen."

"We should tell the Professor."

"Maybe tomorrow. His crisis quota's been filled for the night."

Rogue rolled her eyes as she bit into the chocolate. "Tell me about it," she said through a mouthful. "Let me tell ya, Ah'm thoroughly sick and tired of dances. The last two Ah've been to now, bad things have happened. Ah'm just gonna swear 'em off."

Scott frowned. "I think that sometimes, too."

"You do?"

"Yeah. Dances haven't been my kind of thing, either. Back in my sophomore year, when I was a green recruit here and the new kid at Bayville High, I went to this dance. My first dance. It was all right. Until I fell into the big punch bowl in the middle of the room. Then later, I found my date in some other car. Sitting in some other guy's lap."

"Oh, man."

"And last year, a month after Jean arrived, she and I went to the May Ball together. But she told everyone we were just going as friends. The whole night she danced with all these other guys while I tried to hide from this senior, Pia. She was nice and everything, but completely wasted. Kept doing things she never would've if she'd been sober."

"Oh? Like what?"

Scott looked down, hoping he wasn't blushing. "Well, among other things, every time she got within two feet of me, she'd pinch my butt. It got sore after a while. 'Cause somehow, she always pinched the same exact spot."

When he looked back up, Rogue was biting her lips, looking like she might burst out laughing any moment now.

"And then this year," he continued, trying to distract her from doing just that. "Well, this year wasn't looking too bad, really. I mean, Kurt thought Jean would ask me. Obviously not, since she went with Duncan. But Taryn's a nice date. We were having an okay time. Until dinosaur look-alikes decided to crash the party. And then we had to use our powers, so now our secret may very well have been compromised, Taryn's still freaked out about the dinos, and Jean's decided to go into one of her huffy, silent-treatment phases." 

When he finished, he inhaled and exhaled deeply.

"Wow," Rogue said, blinking. "Didn't figure you for such a babbler, Scott."

"I'm not. Must be something in the brownies."

"Mmn. So, feel better?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do."

She nodded, looking away. "Ah guess that's what kept you up tonight?"

"What?"

"Jean not talking to you."

"Oh, no. No, I'm used to that. And anyway, she never holds out long. By Sunday she'll be okay again."

"Must be PMS then," Rogue muttered.

Scott laughed. "Probably," he agreed, and took another bite of his brownie.

In the pause that followed, as Scott chewed and Rogue fiddled with her robe's faded green belt, Sinatra's voice softly filled the room. It was almost romantic, Scott realized, casting his eyes around. Despite the kitchen lights, the moon showed through the windows clear and bright. He gazed at its milky roundness as he swallowed his brownie.

"Full moon," he said.

"No kidding."

"No, I mean, you asked what kept me up, remember?" He nodded to the whiteness outside. "When the moon's out full, the weirdos stay up to play."

"Speak for yourself, Summers," Rogue said, smiling.

"Fine. Then what's your excuse?"

"Don't need one. A girl's entitled to stay up late sometimes and snack on chocolate."

"And listen to love songs on TV."

For a moment she stared at him, and he wondered if she was going to kick him. But she merely looked down.

"Hey," he said suddenly. "I don't remember seeing you at the dance. I mean, aside from when Forge zapped the monster when it chased you near the lockers."

"Ah got in late."

"Oh. The old intentional fashionably delayed entrance thing?"

"No. My lateness wasn't intentional or fashionable. Ah just couldn't find nothin' to wear 'cause all my clothes were dirty." She sighed, leaning against the wall. "And it was all pointless fussing anyway. Ah mean, Ah got there and not five minutes later, Risty's idea to hunt down some boys got scrapped when those creatures showed up to hunt us." She shook her head and chuckled dryly. "Not even one dance."

"You didn't—"

"Nope." She shrugged. "But Ah guess it's for the best anyway. Guys tend to have straying hands, and if they'd done that with me, they'd have strayed themselves straight into a coma."

Sinatra took over the silence again. Scott looked up at the TV, staring blankly a few seconds as the band segued into a new song. The melody skipped around the room lightly, brushing against Scott's brain, drawing out a response—an idea—that made him glance back at the girl sitting beside him on the counter, her eyes turned to the brownie pan again.

He straightened, clearing his throat. "Hey, Rogue?"

"What?" She didn't look up from the pan.

"You wanna dance?"

This time, her head snapped up. "What?"

He gestured to the television. "It's an okay song, isn't it?"

"Are you kidding me?"

"No." He held out his hand. "So will you?"

This time, he was fully expecting to be kicked. Or laughed at. Or just walked away from. Rogue's temper was a volatile thing; he'd been on the receiving end of it enough times now to know the look in her eyes when she'd been pushed far enough. And right now that look was definitely passing through her eyes.

An instant later, something else clouded it.

"Go away, Scott."

"Why?"

"Because this is stupid. You're being an idiot."

"What? A guy asking a girl for a dance is stupid?"

"No. You asking me to dance is stupid." 

"No, it's not. You're wearing gloves, pajamas, a robe and socks."

"So?"

"So…dance with me."

Her face turned doubtful.

Scott took that as a positive response. He slowly moved closer. "One dance. All I'm asking."

Rogue eyed him intently, as if sizing up his sanity. Meeting her gaze, he tried to keep his face solemn, to assure her that he hadn't lost his mind. Or at the very least, only partially lost it.

A moment later, the face-off ended when she shrugged and took his hand.

Pulling her off the counter, Scott led her to the middle of the kitchen floor. The kitchen light spilled clearly over them, highlighting Rogue's worn robe, her mussed hair, and the smudge of brownie on her chin.

Scott smiled, lifted her robe belt, and used it to wipe off the offensive chocolate.

Rogue's eyes widened in horror. "Oh, God, did Ah have food on my face?"

"Just a smear."

"How embarrassing," she said, pushing away.

"Uh-uh." He tilted his head to the television. "Music's already started."

He put his left hand around to the small of her back and pulled her close. Rogue stiffened at the sudden proximity. Scott waited until she relaxed again, then lifted her hand in his. They started to sway in time to the music. 

Rogue gave him one last glance.

"Don't worry," he whispered near her ear. "I won't let my hands stray."

The anxiety faded from her face as she quirked her lips. "Ah won't, either," she whispered back, moving closer, resting her head on his shoulder as they gently spun around.

So the crooner sang…

Someday when I'm awfully low,

When the world is cold,

I will feel a glow just thinking of you,

And the way you look tonight…