Exactly what it says on the tin. Drabbles of this lovely pairing. These are extremely fun to write, so this will most likely be updated pretty quickly.

Title: Awake
Summary: Michael doesn't let Fisk know that he's very much awake.
Words: 513

Michael doesn't let Fisk know that he's very much awake.

He knew Fisk would be there, in the night, putting the cream on the burning scars on his back, but he hadn't expected to feel it. Fisk's hands are soft and gentle on his back, like he's afraid to press too hard, and he can feel each finger running across the red marks.

He doesn't want Fisk to know that he's awake. That would ruin it.

There's a certain intimacy to seeing the way a person acts when they think you don't notice, Michael thinks. He makes a note to try to catch Rosamund like this, sometime.

His squire isn't making snarky remarks as he usually is and Michael can't even see his face, but so much emotion is conveyed just through his touch.

Fisk's hand moves across Michael's shoulder blades, although there are no scars there. Just feeling across his skin, skin against skin. He can almost feel Fisk smiling in the way his hands relax suddenly.

Michael can't fathom what kind of smile it is. But it's a smile. And seeing Fisk smile makes Michael smile into the stale, musty sheets. He hates this place, he hates the fact that they ended up here, but he loves this moment.

Fisk draws his hand away from the small of Michael's back and he considers feigning a movement of sleep to get Fisk to put them back. But they move down, back to the scars that they're supposed to be cleaning.

Those scars. The scars of an honorable-or, as Fisk might say-foolish man. He'd gotten so used to the idea of being honorable that it was almost natural to him, to stand up when he didn't need to. Do what others need, not what you want.

That was the difference between him and Fisk. Fisk did what was best for him and the people closest to him. Michael attempted to do what was best for those he didn't even know.

He was still trying to figure out whether that made him honorable or stupid.

Fisk reached over for some more salve and ran his fingers down the largest scar. The touch was soothing, like that of a mother to a child. Michael had never anyone touch him like that-not since he was so awfully young. Not even when he was younger. He hadn't been one of those children that everyone pampered. He was a fourth son, after all.

Fisk ran his hand down another scarless patch of skin, perhaps just because he could. Michael was somewhat flattered that his squire wanted to steal a moment just to feel his skin.

The touch made him struggle to keep his eyes open-although he wasn't sure whether his eyes were open or not, he saw nothing but black with his face pressed against the makeshift pillow.

He wondered whether Fisk was getting any sleep. A part of him wanted to jerk away from Fisk's hand and tell the squire to get some sleep, he would be fine without him.

But the truth was, he wouldn't be.