Funny how it didn't seem cold out at all now, the air off the lake only good for blowing hair into eyes that were already closed, and that hand that wasn't on Katchoo's face slipping around to splay across her back, and the skin against the other hand so hot that some tiny barely-conscious vestige of normality was wondering if Katchoo had a fever and thinking about chicken soup and tucking her into bed and--- oh bed, pictures in the bubbles in her head and arms and legs and sheets and that would be OH GOD Francine pulling back and staring.