Disclaimer: The Secret Garden doesn't belong to me. It belongs to Frances Hodgson Burnett and other related companies/people. The only thing that belongs to me is this fic.

Author's Note: My first Mary/Dickon fic, let alone first The Secret Garden one. (gulp) Hope this is good for a first try. "She" refers to Mary, "he" refers to Dickon, and "they" is pretty self explanatory.

Much thanks to Romy for encouraging me. This goes out to her.

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She remembered his hands. The one feature of him that she couldn't help but admire and gaze at for hours.

She remembered the way his fingers curved ever so slightly at the knuckle, how grubby yet refined they were. His hands could bring the most well groomed gentlemen to shame.

She remembered how those very same fingers would make her tremble and scream desperately, wanting more of his hands on her.

She remembered the very first time he had enchanted, captivated her – just by his hands. He had been playing the pipe merrily to some squirrels. It had been interesting to see how and where his fingers moved . . the same way they did now, tracing patterns on her skin. Patterns that only they knew, and ones he knew that would drive her mad. One touch and she was gone, not existing on earth. So easily with one touch of his hands would she come undone, be in agonizing pleasure. An exquisite thing to experience, to feel. But so torturous.

She remembered the feeling she got whenever his hands weren't on her. It was an inexplicable feeling, one that was felt in volumes yet could never be expressed aloud. It was one of emptiness, of feeling – and being – hollow.

She remembered the first time his hands touched her. They were trembling, uncertain. A tentative touch and she knew that this was right, that stepping over the unmarked line of friendship and of society's "wrongs" was the most natural thing to do. And they didn't feel bad, hadn't regretted it ever since.

And why would they? She thought. There wasn't any reason to, so why should they feel bad about it?

The feel of his hands on her then made her yelp. She hadn't been expecting him to sneak in a touch on her. Yet she welcomed it. Her face and body betrayed that.

Her thoughts flew out the window when his hands, so experienced at gardening and caring after animals, began to work their Magic on her. The Magic she knew he possessed – but at the same time this was a different kind of Magic. The tingling, sort of blinding in a nice way Magic. The one that made her feel so happy as if she hadn't ever felt happier in her life. And when she was with him, it was even tinglier and an ecstaticness that knew no limit was all she felt.

Laughing giddily, she kissed one bare slightly tan freckled shoulder and let him have his way with her . . . especially letting his hands do what they wanted to her.