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Fireflies and Woodsmoke

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It was one of those days when work followed her home. She was curled up on Matt’s couch with her laptop, trying to pin down a lead. When she’d offered to put her investigative skills to work helping Matt and Foggy track down evidence for their cases, she hadn’t expected it to be this…frustrating.

It was exciting and satisfying, definitely. But also frustrating.

Plus, there was the stack of documents sitting beside her which the opposing counsel had mailed over—mailed. And she was one hundred percent sure it was because they wanted to take advantage of Matt’s blindness by not making the documents accessible. He had some apps for that kind of thing, sure, but the paralegals at Lang and Weber also must’ve waited until they were almost out of toner because the text was faded enough that his apps apparently couldn’t make sense of it. So she was planning on surprising him with a transcription, but that would mean sitting at her computer for several more hours.

On the plus side, he was out patrolling and probably wouldn’t be home until she was done.

Home. She wasn't officially moved in with him, not yet, but her shoes and jacket were by the door and her favorite tea was in his kitchen and she had her own drawer in both the bathroom and the bedroom. It was less than a year after Fisk had been put away for good, and there was a lot they still needed to sort through together...but the operative word was together.

Tonight, however, she resigned herself to the imminent prospect of neither of them would be getting more than an hour or two of sleep. She resolutely fetched herself a fresh cup of hot tea and got back to work.


Tried to, anyway. Instead, she woke up with new stiffness in her neck to Matt leaning over the couch, gently pushing her hair out of her face. “Sweetheart?”

Groaning, she rubbed at her eyes until he came into focus. His lip was bleeding, a bruise was blooming across his cheek, and his hair was rumpled like he’d just pulled off his mask. Her eyes automatically swept down his body. Nothing looked broken, although something had ripped at his shirt, leaving a bloody gash across his chest in its wake.

She jerked upright. “You’re hurt.”

“Not really,” he said calmly, and she didn’t need to hear his heartbeat to know he really thought that. “What are you doing on the couch?” One of his hands kept playing with her hair; the other strayed over the sheets of memos and emails that’d been dropped off at the office, now scattered on the couch and the floor from when she’d fallen asleep in the middle of her transcribing. “What’re these?”

“They’re…uh…” She was too tired to come up with a good lie. “They’re all the documents from Lang and Weber.”

“And why are they on our couch?”

“Mm, I don’t know. That’s weird.” She tried to slip off the cushion, but he stopped her.


“Matt, lemme go. I need to brush my teeth.”

He rolled his eyes but let her past. By the time she’d come out of the bathroom, he’d stacked the papers into something manageable. “I hope I didn’t ruin your meticulous organization.”

“They fell on the floor in a very specific pattern, actually.”

“Whoops.” He wandered over to grab the first aid kit while she filled up two glasses of water in the kitchen. “How much sleep were you planning on getting tonight?”

“How much were you?” Setting the waters on the table, she plucked the kit from his hands and steered him backwards into the chair. “Shirt.”

“A solid eight hours if you count sleeping through Foggy’s lecture,” he yawned, tugging off his shirt obediently.

“What lecture?”

“For busting up my face right before a deposition.”

She hummed contemplatively. “I think it makes you look intimidating. Bully the witness into cooperating.”

His smile was quick and small, like he didn’t want to stretch the cut on his lip. He stayed quiet as she cleaned the gash on his chest, only speaking when she reached for the stitches. “Tape’ll work.”

She squinted at the injury. Didn’t look like tape would work. “You sure?”

“Positive.” He blinked innocently up at her.

Suspicion niggled in her stomach. “Matt…”

“When’s the last time you did something just for fun?” he interrupted.

Pulling back indignantly, she glared at him. “Are you calling me boring?”

“Never. Just curious.”

Just trying to distract her from arguing about stitches, probably. But of the two of them, he was the expert with first aid. Reluctantly, she taped up the injury before turning her attention to his split lip and bruised cheek. “This morning was fun,” she answered, smirking slowly as heat swept through her at the memory of their earlier activities. They’d skipped breakfast and still been late to work. Foggy punished them by making them sort through the older files that still kind of smelled like a butcher shop.

He smirked back but apparently refused to be distracted. “If you had a couple of days where you didn’t have to do anything or be anywhere, what would you do?”

“Sleep,” she answered before she could think better of it.

He raised his eyebrows but didn’t make any kind of innuendo. Oh, he was taking this seriously. “What else?”

All right, she could play along. She dabbed at the last bit of blood on his lip and started smoothing down his hair, making his eyes flutter closed. The man was actually a cat. “I liked camping as a kid,” she admitted. “Cold nights in a tent, bundled up in sleeping bags, smelling like a campfire.”

His eyes opened incredulously. “What part of that sounds fun at all?”

“Are we talking about my daydream or yours?”

He held up his hands. “Sorry, sorry. Go on.”

“Nope, it’s too late. You’ve ruined it.” She kissed his forehead and closed up the first aid kit. “I’m going to sleep.”

“In a bed that doesn’t smell like smoke,” he pointed out, detouring towards the bathroom.

“City kid,” she muttered under her breath, smiling at his answering laughter. Slipping between silky sheets, she fell asleep to the sound of his shower.