A/N. Behold my first Daredevil fanfiction! There's no point to it, really. I just wanted to try my hand at writing from Matt's POV. I thought it would be an interesting challenge. Post-Season 1. I hope you enjoy :D
Disclaimer - I own nothing.
Note: I don't remember if Matt and Foggy pay rent or have bought the place. For the sake of this fic, let's pretend they rent. Please and thank you.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Water drips from the tap in the bathroom down the hall. Electricity crackles in the wires, threatening to short-circuit the lightbulbs. There are voices, distinguishable, yet blurred together outside the walls. They come and go, but the sound is constant. A buzzing background noise. The floor creaks every time someone moves. Sometimes quietly, sometimes loudly. Their chairs creak. The people creak if they sit in the wrong position. Clothing rustles. He knows whose it is and what they're wearing.
The hem of Karen's shirt brushes against the wrinkles of her skirt as she leans forward to get a better look at the papers spread out on the table. Her hair falls forward, slipping from behind her ear, scratching against the skin there. Paper slides against the wooden desk and it's like nails on a chalkboard only quieter.
Foggy has always liked strong coffee. The scent takes up the entire room – the entire building. From where Matt is sitting, it's like the coffee is just sitting inside his nose, waiting for him to breathe in so it can attack. Beyond that, there is a subtle hint of Karen's perfume: vanilla. It blends with the coffee so well that he almost misses it. But he doesn't. Because he searches for it when he knows she's nearby. It helps him pinpoint where she is. Foggy's deodorant and cologne collide with each other awkwardly, but the coffee is powerful enough that Matt doesn't have to be distracted by the two scents battling each other.
Everything is red and orange. No yellow, just red and orange. It's all fire. The shapes. The space. It's all he sees. The rose-tinted glasses make the shapes disappear until all he sees is a blank sheet of bright red. He really is blind when he wears them. Can't see a thing. But he prefers it that way. He'd rather have all of it or none at all.
There is the brush of his own fingers against the braille in front of him. There is the scuff of his shoe on the floor. There is everyone's heartbeats. Calm. Level. Steady. Their breathing. Calm. Level. Steady.
Foggy's changes. Matt knows its Foggy because his friend takes deeper breaths than Karen and has a tendency to breathe with his mouth when he's incredibly focused on something. It had irritated Matt in law school, but now he was… fond of it, you could say. He wouldn't know what to do if Foggy started breathing like a different person.
Paper rustles and then slams onto the table. Sounds like about twenty sheets. Material, cotton, shifts against more material and the chair to Matt's right – Foggy's chair – creaks once again, coming from the back rather than the legs.
"This is bull-shit." Foggy's hair ruffles and Matt knows that Foggy's just run his fingers through it. It takes just long enough for Matt to count the seconds and guesstimate how long Foggy's hair is now. Shorter than when they met, but still rather long. Foggy sounds frustrated. He sounds exasperated, tired, worried. He doesn't sound intimidated or on the verge of giving up. Matt has never heard that tone from Foggy and he doesn't think he ever will.
He hopes not.
He prays not.
"Foggy," he starts, but the man he's addressing breathes in deeply and Matt knows he's about to be cut off. He hears Karen sigh to his left. It's more of an exhale with context, but Matt knows what she's feeling even if he can't see her face.
"No," Foggy interrupts. There is a muted thump from the table, right on top of all those papers Foggy just slammed down. Probably his index finger pointing at all the work they have yet to accomplish. "I'm serious. They can't charge us for this!" The chair creaks again and the cotton moves. Strands of hair hit the table. Foggy must be leaning over it. Matt can hear the pad of Foggy's index finger (he was right, then) follow the words as he reads.
Matt's own fingers hover over the braille, waiting to go back to work. They'll never get anything done if they keep complaining about it, no matter how much he wants to join Foggy and just throw their bills into the wind, listening as it blows away and lands where he doesn't care and can't hear.
Foggy's right, of course. The amount they're expected to pay is ridiculously high. Not only that, but the landlord has decided to start charging them extra for the most annoying, mundane things. Things like leaving the light on all night (when they are in fact using it – well, Karen and Foggy are, anyway). Things like banging on the device that projects wi-fi to try and get it to work. Things like calling the landlord in the middle of the night when Foggy and Karen are piss-ass drunk (that last one may be a bit warranted).
They're lawyers, though. They should be able to fix this. Find a loophole. Something. But so far they've come up with nada. It's infuriating.
Foggy sighs. It's a short one, so Matt knows that Foggy is only frustrated and nothing more. He isn't about to boil over with fury or anything. Then again, when has Foggy ever blown up about anything? Besides the Daredevil Debacle, nothing since Matt has known him. Foggy's one of the most laid-back, chill, easy-going guys Matt has ever had the pleasure of knowing. Foggy just lets things roll off his back like they didn't hurt and Matt admires that about his friend. He's almost jealous of it, in fact.
When something attacks Matt, it sticks to him like a splinter that he can't grasp with tweezers no matter how hard he tries. It stays with him for days, rolling not off his back, but in his mind – around and around and around. He dwells on things, even those he shouldn't. He knows this. It's a character flaw. But Foggy reminds him that everything's going to be okay.
Karen begins her usual consoling of Foggy, speaking in a voice that Matt can tell is meant to be soothing, but really it just comes out annoyed. The intonations are right for what she's trying to accomplish, but the volume and the pitch tell another story – the true one.
Karen and Foggy bicker for a bit, like usual, before going back to their respective reading. After a while, Matt doesn't know how long, Foggy sighs. The chair scrapes against the floor. Matt has long taught himself not to wince at that sound, no matter how loud it is. "I need some air," Foggy claims from above. He's standing now. More cotton movement, louder this time. Matt imagines that Foggy has just grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and shrugged it on. "You guys want anything? Lunch's on me."
Matt hears Karen's innocent intake of breath and stops himself from saying anything so that she can go first. "Actually, can I come with you? I need some air too." She's more careful with her chair, but it's not for Matt's benefit. He hears it tap the floor before swishing a few inches in the air and landing harshly a tiny bit further away. The wrinkles in her skirt straighten out as she stands, the floorboards creaking. Something rattles behind leather diagonally to his left. She's picked up her purse from the table. "Matt, you coming?" He can tell she's looking at him because the sound of her voice is clear and the path it takes cuts straight to him.
He turns his head toward where her words came from. "Yeah, alright. I could eat." His stomach growls and he thinks for sure that they heard that. If they did, they make no mention of it. His own movements, always so close to his ears, are like gunshots to him, but he's used to those. He stands, grabs his own jacket from his chair, plucks the walking stick from where it was leaning against the table, and taps it on the ground. He doesn't need it, never has, but he likes using it. Despite being blind, it makes him feel normal. It makes him feel like he's not a vigilante – like he's just a normal guy in Hell's Kitchen. Plus, it makes a great weapon if need be.
Metal clicks and wood creaks and the door is open. From the length of the creak, Matt knows that Foggy is holding it open as wide as it can go. "After you, milady," he says in an overly dramatic tone of voice. Cotton shifts and Karen giggles. Matt assumes that Foggy bowed.
"Why thank you, kind sir," she says to him, traces of laughter still evident in her voice. Her heels clack on the floor, getting further and further away. Despite her choice in footwear, Karen always treads lightly, gracefully, carefully. She walks as if she doesn't want to be heard, but knows she will be anyway.
Matt nods at the door, where he knows Foggy is still standing. "You said it yourself. Ladies first." He gestures for Foggy to go through the doorway.
Foggy laughs from his original height, where Matt is used to hearing his voice. "That I did. So go on, Murdock. The man's paying tonight."
Since Foggy really was paying, Matt just chuckled and obliged, wagging his stick back and forth and stepping through the familiar doorway. Once they're all outside, Matt takes a deep breath. The air is lighter out here, less stuffy, but it's also thick. There is a plethora of smells that he doesn't bother to try and identify (even if the garbage, the B.O., and the dirt make themselves known automatically). Gravity feels stronger outside; he doesn't know why. The smalls assault him, press in on him, try to drown him. He ignores them and takes deep, calming breaths.
The sounds are worse. There's a cacophony of chatter. Some people are yelling, others are talking, others are whispering. There's a couple kissing down the street and the radio in that taxi to his right is playing loud rap music. There's a little kid to his left passing a toy store and begging his dad to get him an Iron Man action figure. There's-
"C'mon, Matt!" Karen's familiar voice drags him back to his body, where the only sounds that are important are the ones he focuses on. At least out here, he doesn't have to pay attention to the rustling of clothes or the stifling quiet. He just needs to hear them and their conversation and the rhythmic tap-tap-tap-tap of his walking stick.
She grasps his elbow as if he's a gentleman leading her into a ballroom and tugs him ever so slightly. She's excited. He can hear the soles of her shoes squeaking quietly as she bounces on the balls of her feet (he fleetingly wonders how she can accomplish such a feat in heels).
"Who's up for Chinese?" Foggy announces loudly from directly in front of Matt. Matt's glad that he hasn't started waving his stick because he knows for a fact that Foggy is close enough to hit. Cotton shifts again on either side of Foggy. He must have thrown up his arms.
There's a pause.
"Karen just wrinkled her nose. It was really cute."
Thwack. "It's not cute!" She protests like a whiny child. He knows she's smiling as she says it.
Matt smiles too, lips twitching upward. He loves listening to their voices. It sounds like home.
"Ow!" Foggy protests. Cotton shifts up and down. Matt pictures Foggy rubbing his arm. "What's wrong with cute?"
"I am a grown woman! I'm not cute!"
They're still standing in a triangle in front of Nelson and Murdock: Attorneys at Law, not walking towards any destination (or food). But Matt doesn't mind. Karen is still holding his arm and Foggy is laughing. Matt really doesn't mind.
"Fine, then! You're beautiful. Happy?"
Matt doesn't hear it, but he knows Karen's blushing. Her grip tightens just a little on his arm and she moves a tad bit closer to him. He really hopes these two get their acts together and kiss sometime soon. The sexual tension is as stifling as the quiet sometimes.
He speaks up to prevent any awkwardness (though Foggy is usually very good at dispelling that himself). "I'm actually in the mood for sea food." He's not, really. It's just something he hasn't had in a while. He also doesn't want to eat anything that sounds like one of the mobs.
"Sushi?" Karen suggests hopefully.
"You just wrinkled your nose at Chinese!" Foggy protests. The air changes and Matt knows that Foggy is pointing at Karen accusingly.
"Sushi is Japanese," she corrects in a tone as if explaining something to a small child. He knows she's rolling her eyes with fondness.
"I knew that!" Foggy exclaims indignantly.
Matt knows that Foggy does know this and was just being a little shit. Just for kicks.
"Seriously, though, Matt," Foggy continues. His voice sounds slightly clearer. They're facing each other directly now. "Are you trying to empty our pockets? Sea food is so expensive! Have you not seen our bills?"
Matt knows what Foggy means and Foggy knows that Matt knows what Foggy means. "Lobster is expensive," he states in response. "I don't know about the other stuff."
"So we won't get lobster," Karen decides. "What about salmon?"
"Or, just an idea, we can go to a sea food restaurant and order chicken."
Karen giggles again and Matt thinks it's a beautiful sound. "Foggy." She says his name like it's both a prayer and a swear word, all the while trying to stifle her laughter.
"What? It's probably cheaper there."
"Why's that?" Curiousity leaks into her tone.
"I dunno! Restaurant logic."
"Restaurant logic?" They say the same words, but they're said so differently. Matt understands every difference – revels in being able to know them because he knows them, the people, so well.
"Can we just go?" Foggy asks in mock exasperation.
There's another pause.
"She just nodded. Alright, let's go!" Plastic swirls on pavement and then Foggy's heavy footsteps move forward, further away. Matt begins tapping his stick and follows, keeping pace with Karen. Tap-tap-tap-tap. He hears Foggy's footsteps halt, but he pretends he doesn't and lets his stick whack Foggy in the calf lightly. "Ow! Dude!"
Matt tries to stifle his own chuckles. "What? That's what the stick is for." He holds it up as proof. "Be glad I didn't run into you and knock you into the road." He pictures Foggy rolling his eyes.
"I just rolled my eyes at you."
Matt chuckles without holding back this time. He's so lucky to be able to picture things – to have known sight for nine years before it was taken away. He understands what light is and how physics work and what colours are. He knows what the sky looks like and what his father looks like and what the inside of a church looks like. He knows what suits look like and he knows what people look like and he understands depth and space and time and height, weight, width, length, and the third dimension. He can imagine things. It's like reading a book. He imagines the characters and what they look like and what it would be like to live in this world. It's all in his imagination, but it's there. It's real.
He's lucky to understand the concept of eye rolls and nodding and shaking your head. He's lucky to know what sign language is and how to read the normal way, even if he'll never do so again. He knows how to write the way he was originally taught. He knows how to sign his name and he could write essays by hand if he wanted to. He knows the difference between light and dark and he knows what fire looks like and emotions and how a person's face contorts into different expressions.
He knows of all of this and he's so thankful for those nine years because he can't imagine living in a world where none of that ever existed. How do you understand what light is when you've never seen it? How do you understand colour? The sky? The sun and the stars? How does it make any sense?
Even if Matt would give anything just to look up one more time and see… he is thankful that he already has.
Karen's hand droops on Matt's arm. "What is it, Foggy?" She mocks, almost like a mother speaking to a son when all he's done for the past forty minutes is ask question after question.
There is another pause. "Do either of you even know any sea food restaurants? At all?"
Matt blinks. He and Karen laugh together and it's harmony and discord at the same time. He loves it. "No," he admits. "You?" He turns his head in Karen's direction.
Her hair brushes her shoulders back and forth. "No." She's still laughing quietly. "Where are we supposed to go?"
"Why don't we just go where the wind takes us?" Foggy suggests.
Far away, tires squeal and metal crunches. People scream. There's a car accident a couple blocks out. Steam hisses from the engine and he strains his hearing. Foggy has informed him that his ears wiggle when he does this. He tries not to think about that and concentrates on the screaming.
"Are you okay?"
"Oh my God, Sir! Are you-? Are you alright?"
"Sir!"
"Yes, yes, I- I-I'm fine."
"Was there anyone in the car with you?"
"N-no. Just me. Oh my-! Is the other driver okay?"
"Let's find out."
Karen tugs on his arm again and he's back, snapped back to his body like an elastic band. Tap-tap-tap-tap. He follows their lead. They've decided on something and assumed he was paying attention. Crap. Oh well. They won't poison him so he'll go to lunch wherever they go. He trusts them.
As he walks, he listens.
"She's okay!"
Cheers.
"They're both okay! No one's hurt!"
Matt stops listening. His senses allow him to watch over his city – to guard it and help those in need. They also help with other things, like eating and bluffing and sex. He'll never be able to turn them off. But that's okay. They make the world brighter, clearer for him than seeing ever could. They let him see more than anybody else does. They grant him the gift of knowledge within his city and the choice of what he wants to do with that knowledge.
Right now, he wants to eat food with his best friends and hopefully not get food poisoning (Foggy has horrible taste in restaurants). And that's perfectly alright with him.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.