Texture

Texture
A Karen/Mary fiction by Setsuna-Jikan

I watched my hands move over the pink flesh. Up, down, feeling the horrible--yet sickly fascinating--blistered texture.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Allen, it is the best we could do. The burns were quite severe, and they were already on top of your old burn scars so..." The doctor's dry voice faded from my ears; my fingers retraced the surface, drawing little patters with my fingers.

Thin fingers squeezed my shoulder; I raised my left hand up to clutch at the support. My right hand completed another pass and started again.

"Its okay, Kare." Mary's voice was familiar and soothing. My fingers didn't slow.

"I know, Mare." It's funny--I could still see the damn cross under the new scars. A darker colour than this pink and white mass. A double burn.

"Anything we can do to get the feeling back?" Mary asked. I pressed a bit harder--I felt it, the shape of the fingers, but not their feel.

"Vitamin D might. A lot of it. Other than that..." his voice dropped off uncomfortably. Mary's fierce green eyes were probably giving him that angry glare that the Irish do. I love that glare, even when it's directed at me. I moved my hand from hers to reach up and cup her face, thumb tracing milky skin and freckles.

"Its okay, Mare," I said softly. I rested my palm against my chest; I could feel my heart beating steadily. "I don't mind. I can still feel pressure; I don't need to feel texture."

Re-buttoning my shirt, I tugged at the bottom absently to make sure that the black fabric was fitting right. I stood up and bowed to the doctor. "Thank you for doing all that you've done," I said softly, long black hair hiding my face. He nodded, returning my bow.

"You are very welcome, Ms. Allen. I truly am sorry that I could not do more." His voice was tight with regret, his brown eyes sad. I smiled at him and left, coat over my arm.

Standing outside, I closed my dark blue eyes and breathed deep. "Gods, I hate hospitals. All that antiseptic..." I shuddered. "Ugh."

I slung my coat on; an arm slid through mine, fingers twining with mine. Mary rested her head on my shoulder, and I rested my head on her strawberry-blonde mass.

"Let's go to Antionie's for lunch," she sighed, smiling. The breeze tugged at my trench coat; I pulled her closer.

"I thought you didn't like Italian anymore," I teased, placing a light kiss to her temple. She shrugged dramatically.

"Pish-posh. And you deserve a treat." She fell silent, staring at my chest. I could see her mouth parting to say the words.

"Karen, I'm--” I grabbed her hand, holding it tightly to my chest. She stuttered to a stop, eyes wide.

"No, Mary. No." It was a weird feeling, her hand on my chest. I couldn't feel the shirt at all, but I could feel the steady pressure of our hands. "Listen, I'm fine. I can still feel this--" I pressed a little harder. "That's all I need."

Her eyes locked with mine, searching for lies. I met her gaze evenly. She smiled suddenly, eyes shining.

"God, I love you Karen," she whispered, leaning in to kiss me gently. I squeezed her hand tighter, feeling the heat grow. Standing back, we released the tiny spark into the air.

I tugged on her hand. "Come on. I'm starving," I drawled. She laughed, dragging me down the street. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the small spark land on a small pond, flashing briefly before sinking beneath the surface.

---{{{}}}---

AN: Another CW prompt. I love Karen and Mary. Sorry about the weird ending; didn't know how to end it. ;.; Karen and Mary are fire casters, just so you know. Something bad happened--a mistake, perhaps--and Karen got burned on her chest.

I got the idea for the scars because the prompt was "A story about someone who is lacking a sense somehow." When I got the cyst removed, the scar on my wrist can't feel textures but I can feel that something's there. It is one of the weirdest feelings ever. It's been over six months and I still have no feeling--the nerves are prolly dead. So I started writing about something like that, but larger. And thus Mary and Karen.

Karen, Mary, and the doctor belong to me, as does this lil plot.

Sets, out.
::end transmission::