Disclaimer: Marvel owns all. (I've just invited them over to my house to play.)

A/N: Just a little peek into Rogue's coma in X-Men '97. Screw anyone who thinks, says, or "establishes" otherwise (3 little pips included).

Confessions

His breath sears across her neck as she arches her back into him. Her powers don't stop him from touching her exposed skin. And exposed she is. They both are, in more than just body but mind and soul. She doesn't remember the intricacies, but feels they've been at this for a while. Their bodies are too slick, too primed to have barely begun this game of teasing, of flirting with the edge of disaster. It's a tight rope they've been balancing on for ages. She can feel the length of him, hard, hot to the touch, pressing into her thigh.

As his lips move down the graceful column of her neck, she wraps her arms tightly around his broad shoulders. Close, she has to keep him close. Her fingers tangle through his long hair, gently tugging and guiding him where she needs him most. One of his hands tenderly supports her back while the other obliges her entreaty. He drifts over her smooth shoulder, grazes the side of her arm, and explores the fullness of her breast.

She moans, needing him to be ever nearer. There is still too much space between them. He's still too far away. She slides her leg from under him, twisting it over the back of his thigh and pulling him toward the offering spread before him. Slowly, so slowly, his mouth trails a path across her collar bone, over the flat expanse of her décolletage. He lingers only long enough to leave a sultry heat that shames the South. And then bliss, like she's never known before. Her pupils dilate at the first flick of his tongue. He steals her breath in a gasp.

She's never experienced the pleasure he laves over her now. Even the fire keeping the room toasty warm isn't enough to prevent a cool shiver when he takes a breath. She can feel those lips curve into a smile before his mouth returns to her with intensified pressure. He makes the peak sensitive and tender, even a little sore, but she doesn't want him to stop. No, far from it. She's impatient. As wonderful as this sweet torture is, she needs more. A rich laugh rumbles through his chest and across her skin where they touch. He's still too far away.

She rolls her hips, trying to get him to settle more firmly between her thighs. The eagerness only further amuses him. He enjoys the long game, the languidly slow decadence of each sensation evolving into something more transcendent than the last. It triggers her spitfire temper. If he thinks this all so funny, maybe she can get his attention with a swift tug on his hair.

Quick as lighting, the mood changes. The lighthearted teasing is gone, replaced by an intensity that reminds her of the danger lying just below his charming bonhomie. The hand supporting her back reaches up to snatch hers away. Their fingers intertwine in a bone crushing grip. She can feel his tangible strength digging into her knuckles. It's not painful for either of them, but it is desperate. Like the swan-song melodically signaling a long overdue end. It's why she flexes her hips into his. If this is it, if this is all they have, she wants it. She wants him.

Giving in to the silent request, he guides himself into her with his other hand. All the while, the grip on their entwined fingers never diminishes. His eyes ensnare hers in an unbreakable trance. The full impression of him stretches her tight boundaries before her body yields to his. Slick warmth eases his gradual progression. She never knew she could feel like this. Even as he pulls away to penetrate deeper, she doesn't lose the awareness of being completely surrounded by him. It's the ageless dance, a sensuous rhythm of drawing apart before melding together again. There is just as much pleasure in the act of simply being. Of becoming one, over and over.

The connection in their gaze sharpens, bringing to focus what defines him. It's an infinitesimal level on which she's never truly known him before this moment. What she doesn't realize is the exchange is mutual. He takes possession of her the same way she now owns him. Suddenly, the stimuli become too much, overwhelming her senses. Something has to give or she'll break long before she's ready for things to end. Giving herself over to the somatic, she squeezes her eyes closed and turns away from him to indulge in the fire blazing every nerve ending. A tiny grunt of displeasure is her only clue before she feels him lift her body.

He takes her with him as he sits back on his haunches. Their connection remains intact through the maneuvering, except now he's seated even deeper inside her. Surprised by the new pressure within, her eyes shoot open and their soul-penetrating gaze is re-established. Her knees rest on either side of his hips, spreading her wider for him and giving her extra leverage to bear down when he thrusts up. Shivers pebble her skin as her breasts graze against the hard, smooth plane of his chest. Inside, the slight curve of his length glides over her hot zones. She feels like there isn't a single ending that isn't being caressed by his beginning. Her head lolls back, but her heavily-lidded gaze remains locked on his. She isn't going to make that mistake again.

He carefully twists their still entangled fingers behind her back so their arms wrap around her waist. The submissive hold firmly presses their bodies together but frees their other hands. Desperately, she hangs onto the breadth of his shoulders while he sets a quicker rise and fall crescendo by grasping her hip. She can feel warm liquid ease from where they are joined before it glides down her thighs. They're both so close, so desirous to make the moment last forever. But the sweet release of la petite mort cannot be denied. Against the tight grip she controls, her muscles fail to hold him tight. She contracts around him in fluttering spasms. Her eyes squeeze shut in utter surrender as she cries out his name like a covenant never to be broken.

"REMY!"

For a brief second, at the peak of intensity, the universe's secrets are revealed in a flash before being locked away again. Something important, something critical remains out of grasp at the edge of awareness. Her eyes snap open, and she desperately searches for the smoldering ember eyes she's always loved. She needs confirmation that he aches for her the same way she does for him. As her body grips and releases his, she feels him swell and pulse inside her. The moisture she'd felt just a moment ago is nothing compared to the sticky stream of his deep-seeded release. And then she knows. He is on the same plane of existence. They are joined as one, never to be separated again. Their pieces are too intricately intermingled now to ever completely distinguish what was once uniquely her and what was once solely him.

They continue to ride the surging wave as their muscles contract and relax for that deeply-desired forever moment. Her name is the sweetest prayer that she kisses from his lips. But his voice is funny, like she's only remembering the heavy yat, not hearing it with her ears. She pushes away the intrusive fear and focuses more on the warm flesh, sinewy muscles, and solid bone beneath her fingers. The only thing she wants is to revel in the forbidden contact. Their foreheads touch but their desperate hold on the other eases. It's a time for gentle caresses and whispered lover sighs. Through it all, their hands with fingers woven together never separate. It's her anchor to know this, he, is real.

When at last their racing hearts slow and their sweat-slick bodies separate, she realizes there's a confession to make. Several confessions, actually.

"Remy! Ah…no!" Suddenly a blinding white light fills the room and stings her eyes.

The brightness is so intense that a pounding ache beats percussively through her skull. Her body sags, no longer supported by his. Panic rises in her chest as she tries to open her watering eyes to search for him. There's no trace of the man she loves.

"No…" Rogue shouts, sitting up in the bed she didn't even remembering climbing into with him. Except Gambit isn't there. Yes, her skin is damp with sweat, but she's fully clothed and alone.

No, not alone. Someone is in the room with her.

"Rogue. How do you feel?" Her brother Nightcrawler tries to soothe. He learned days ago to politely tune out the feverish dreams his sister vocalized in her vulnerable state.

She rubs her temple, both to ease the pain and try to get a grip on what happened. "Ah feel like Ah've been run over like a hay baler fixed with a jet engine."

The painful memories slam back into her brain like a new explosion going off inside the close confines of her head. Anger, revenge, grief. Prime sentinels. She doesn't see Gambit, only…

"Trask! Ah…Did he…" She questions, unable to remember critical parts that would piece together jumbled memories. It's against her very being to murder.

"Much has happened, fräulein." Her brother gently takes her hand. "Trask survived, and so did-"

"Remy?" She knows as soon as she speaks his name. She doesn't need her brother's wounded expression to confirm what she already remembers.

Damn the whole awful affair and damn what she had said to Gambit. The realization of that stupid confession slams into her. It had been an utter mistake as soon as she had spoken the words back then. And another when she hadn't immediately begged forgiveness for lying. Now she would never have the chance to tell him…

She chose him. With all her heart, she chose – chooses – Gambit.

"Oh, Kurt," She sobs into his shoulder. Déjà vu washes memories of Mexico over them both. "It was so real. Ah could feel him. When his hand held mine, Ah could feel the power and strength in it. Revel in his sun-warm skin. It couldn't've just been a dream."

The tears flow freely down her cheeks, soaking into Nightcrawler's jacket. He gives her time to grieve, caressing her hair. All the while he is gathering the composure to acknowledge and vocalize his own pain. Rogue isn't the only one lamenting missed opportunities. In a different time, in a different place, Gambit was his brother, not simply a friend.

"Sometimes, liebling," Nightcrawler pauses to smooth the catch in his voice, "those who pass in Grace are granted ze opportunity to tell loved ones: do not mourn for them… To understand they are in a better place now and… To say goodbye for ze last time."

"But what if Ah don't want ta say goodbye? What if Ah want ta march right up ta those Pearly Gates and demand they let Remy come home… ta me." She pleads.

He rests his cheek against the top of her head. "Ah, well, that is ze burden for those of us who live. We must discover how to turn our sorrow into ze joy of remembering them. And the depth of impact their life has on ours, even in their absence."

Fresh tears burn her eyes, welling over the edge. "How am Ah ever gonna be able ta do that?" She chokes, unable to see through the grief of living the next day much less a lifetime without Gambit.

For once, Nightcrawler blindly grasps for an answer that will not come. An age-old cliché blocks his uncanny ability to provide sage advice. But perhaps that is the answer after all.

"Though it is old and may seem overused, I am reminded of a sentiment that still rings true," He pauses, holding her closer in the tight brotherly embrace.

"Only Time can heal our wounds."

(X)