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“Are you even really blind?” Foggy had asked.
It is a strange effect of intense shock, that all the vagueness of drunken memory is wiped away. Foggy can remember every moment of that night with crystal clarity.
It seems deeply unfair that such shock does not prevent you from making a fool of yourself whilst drunk.
Arguments in real life are not like arguments in court. There is no truth to be gotten to. There is no judge, no evidence, no rules of law. Foggy did not win the argument that night, because arguments between friends cannot be won.
It went like this.
Question: “You can see, right?”
Answer: “In a manner of speaking.”
This answer was taken at face value.
Once, when they were in college, one of Matt’s textbooks was provided as a digital version that was screen-reader friendly, instead of a physical braille book. This was because the ebook was significantly cheaper, and the school was paying for Matt’s materials per his scholarship.
“This is fine,” Matt had reassured.
“But you like reading your textbooks, don’t you?” Foggy said, “So it’s easier to go back and forth when you’re studying. And this is slower.”
The speed was a major issue, Foggy’d known. Everything just took longer for Matt, being blind was a long frustrating series of academic annoyances. Matt’s reading speed was insane, was one of the few areas he could catch up, but the computer’s reading voice put a cap on that.
“I can put it on triple speed or something,” Matt had said.
“Doesn’t that stress you out?” Foggy had asked, “You should have a braille copy. You should complain.”
“Foggy, it’s fine,” Matt had said, “I have full access to the material.”
And Foggy had watched the tense line of Matt’s shoulders, the unhappy line of his mouth, as he studied for that particular class, and he wished he could explain that that wasn’t good enough.
Matt said: “In a manner of speaking.”
Matt said: “I have full access to the material.”
But Foggy wasn’t thinking about that, not with the echoes of “Are you even really blind?” ringing out somewhere in the distance only Matt could hear.
Looking back, there is regret. There are so many things that Foggy should have asked, but didn’t. There are so many things that Matt might have said, if Foggy had listened. That was the time to ask, to understand. But it is gone now, Foggy can’t go back in time and change it. He wishes it could have gone differently. They made it up to each other later, and then blew up and made up in what he’s terrified might be an infinite loop. But it feels sometimes now as though the new foundations of their friendship are rotten, improperly assembled. But it’s too late to dig down into it again, now he has made his stance known. To return to that place, to ask again, to demand answers, would be to resurrect the argument from its peaceful decomposition, would be an accusation in itself.
At the time though, Foggy did not want to understand. At the time he was only drunk and furious. Shock, anger, does not improve clarity of thought, quite the opposite in fact. There are things now that Foggy can never unsay.
Accusation: “I actually felt sorry for you.”
Rebuttal, an accusation in kind: “I didn’t ask for that.”
This rebuttal was disregarded.
Foggy knew this, that Matt never asked for his pity. Knew that there was little Matt hated more than pity. If you had asked him the day before if Foggy felt sorry for Matt, he would have said that of course he didn’t, would have been offended on both their behalfs. In vino veritas, he supposes.
Or perhaps not. Because thinking back on it, it was not really pity that Foggy had felt robbed of, but pride. Foggy had felt proud of his skills as Matt’s friend. Proud of his skill in noticing what visual cues Matt was missing out on and casually describing them, proud of his guiding prowess, even drunk, proud that Matt, who trusted no one, trusted him, or so he thought. So he thought.
It was having that pride, that accomplishment that he had incorporated into his sense of self, taken from him, that stung. But even at the time Foggy was aware how eminently self-centered that would sound. So he called it pity, knowing that would cut deep.
It is an irony, how skillfully, how recklessly, in his anger at feeling he did not know his friend at all, Foggy wielded the knowledge that he did in fact hold. He said things he would have thought himself incapable of saying. He thought the very essence of their relationship was a lie, and so he used weapons that Matt had given to him in trust, only because a part of him was certain that the blows could not land.
They did land, every one of them, Foggy now knows, sure and deadly.
But that was all nearly two years ago now. Foggy cannot go back. He cannot dig down to the rubble of their pre-daredevil friendship and rebuild things properly, there are layers of argument and disappointment and long, long months of grieving and a resurrection between. Foggy can’t go back, can’t say what he didn’t, can’t unsay what he said. All he can do now is stand atop the pile and build from here.
So, really, it starts like this.
Matt trails his finger absently along the edge of the counter of the kitchenette in their new office as he goes to make coffee in the morning. Foggy notices this, because he is used to noticing things about Matt. Once he thought it was one of the things that made him a good friend, then he thought that it was one of the things that made him a fool, and how didn’t he notice all the injuries anyway? Now it is simply a thing that is.
A small part of him is angry that Matt is lying to him even now, but Foggy tells that part to pick its battles.
But Foggy notices. Matt leads with his hands a little in their new office, fingers exploring new surfaces, picks things up and puts them back again in the exact same place. He leads with his hands a little, until he doesn’t.
One morning, Matt just makes a beeline to the coffee pot. Foggy thinks he’s tired, he’s in a hurry, he’s just dropped the act. But gradually he stops trailing his fingers over things in the office altogether. It’s a pattern that Foggy has seen before, Matt learning a place by heart, and then knowing it. But if it’s an act, there’s no reason for it. It’s not an act for strangers. A stranger would not know how familiar Matt is with a space, a stranger would not know how he learns a place and makes it his.
Karen asked once why he didn’t drop the act for them. Matt said that he had to keep it up for everyone else, and Foggy had taken this as simple fact. But Matt lies, Matt has always lied, and Foggy has always known this. Or at least, Matt has always been disingenuous, careful in what he says, cautious in what he shows to the world, even to Foggy. Matt has always hidden away his vulnerable places, has always pretended, as best he can, not to be different, not to be a bother, not to send out ripples to disturb people's expectations, not unless they blatantly underestimated him, sometimes not even then, if it was someone he liked. It is one part pride, Foggy thinks, and one part self preservation, and one part a silent, desperate desire to exist on his own terms outside the prying eyes of a world that is always watching without his permission. Or so Foggy thought once upon a time. Foggy had known all this long ago, back when he knew that he knew Matt Murdock.
But then Daredevil nearly bled out in front of him, and Foggy got it into his head that Matt could see, even though that had never been exactly what Matt said.
Foggy puts a little plastic dinosaur on the edge of his desk. Marci got it for him in what was for her an incredibly sappy romantic gesture. His previous office dinos had gone missing somewhere in the shuffle of the past few chaotic years, but Marci had remembered them all the way from Landman & Zack.
Matt tilts his head, noticing something different about Foggy’s desk. His hand reaches out and then returns to his side in an aborted gesture, as though he’s not sure that he has permission.
In a past life, Matt would have pretended not to notice at all, but then in a past life Foggy would have described the new addition to their office already. In a better life than this one, Matt would not feel that touch was disallowed him, with Foggy looking on. In this life Foggy notices Matt’s noticing and the shy uncertain twitch of Matt’s fingers, and he says, “Oh, yeah. I got a new office dino. Pick him up, buddy, tell me what you think.”
Matt picks up the plastic dinosaur, he does not pretend he has to grope around for it. His fingers explore the textured plastic, run gently along the long neck, tracing over the snakelike tail.
“What color is it?” he asks.
“Green,” Foggy says, “Sort of darkish and the same all over.”
“Classic,” Matt says, and then he smirks, “Smells like Marci.”
It’s on the tip of Foggy’s tongue to say how creepy that is, smelling Foggy’s girlfriend on his things. But then it occurs to him that Matt can’t help smelling the dinosaur anymore than Foggy can help seeing it. So instead he just rolls his eyes.
“I’m rolling my eyes at you, Murdock,” he says. Matt’s lips twitch upward.
Matt comes to the office beat to hell. Foggy glares at him, and somehow he can tell, shifts uncomfortably and fiddles with the cuff of his right sleeve, doing nothing to actually hide the bruise blooming on his wrist. Matt knows, but he does nothing to acknowledge it, and Foggy feels the overwhelming need to verbalize his displeasure.
“I’m giving you a death glare, Matt,” Foggy says, “No, I’m leveling it. It is a glare filled with intense disappointment in all the life choices that brought you to this point. It’s a good glare, if you could see it you would be deeply ashamed.”
Matt does turn to face him then, but he’s smiling. Somehow Foggy finds that he doesn’t actually mind.
“Sorry,” Matt says, “I’ll try to avoid idiots with baseball bats in future.”
“Is that what it was?”
Matt shrugs, “It was a bunch of dumb kids, I didn’t want to actually hurt them too much. It’s just bruises, probably looks worse than it is.”
“It’d better,” Foggy says, “You look like you’re turning into grapes.”
“Grapes?” Matt says, eyebrow raised, amused.
“Yes, grapes,” Foggy says, “Squashy, purplish, half smashed grapes. Or plums. That bruise on your face is about plum-sized, and your glasses do not cover it. Sort of plum-shaped too, I think. Or it could just be that I’m hungry.”
Matt chuckles. “I’ve missed this,” he says.
“What, me being distressed at your visible state of injury? Because buddy, I hate to break it to you, but that has not been an uncommon occurrence in recent years.”
“No, this, the visual descriptions.”
“Oh,” Foggy says. He has been doing that a lot less, hasn’t he. And when he has described things, it’s mostly been for the sake of outside observers, terse, utilitarian reports that Foggy half resents giving, forced to participate in the lie.
“But you don’t need them, do you? I mean, don’t pretend you couldn’t tell I was pissed from my heartbeat or radar sense or whatever.”
“Well, no, I don’t need them usually,” Matt says, “But I still like how you describe things, adds color.”
“Okay,” Foggy says.
Color. Foggy rolls the word around in his head, thinks about the implications. Considers the differences between need and want, braille books and ebooks. There are things that Matt can sense that Foggy can’t even imagine, beautiful things, probably, along with the annoying things and the really disgusting things. Matt knows people by heartbeat and by scent and by voice, knows them by heart the way everyone does. But he hasn’t seen a smile since he was a kid. Foggy knew that once, it hasn’t changed.
“I really am sorry,” Matt says later, “For making you worry.”
“I wish you were sorry about getting hurt,” Foggy says.
“I don’t owe you an apology for that, though, do I?”
Foggy doesn’t say anything to that. He feels that they are on the brink of something ugly, but Matt eases them back from the edge.
“Does it really look that bad?” Matt asks.
“It’s definitely a good thing we’re not meeting anyone today, let’s put it that way,” Foggy says.
Matt sighs. “It always trips me up, you know,” he says, “How visually dramatic bruises are. I mean, it’s barely even swollen. Cracked ribs are so much louder, hurt more too.”
“Your ribs are cracked?” Foggy asks, alarmed.
“No,” Matt says, “But they were a couple weeks ago.”
“Oh.” And Foggy hadn’t known. It really must be jarring for Matt, feel arbitrary, the things Foggy gets upset about.
“You, know,” Foggy says, “It’d be nice if you told me when your ribs are cracked, or you’re seriously injured in any way, just so that I can be disappointed in your life choices in a more accurate fashion.”
Matt chuckles, but when he speaks he’s serious.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “About not being honest, I know I’ve fucked you over, and Karen too. Because the things that affect me affect you too, so you have a right to know about them. Even— even have a say in them sometimes. But it’s hard. I just—“ he cuts off, as if searching for words.
“Stick told me,” he says slowly, “That people like us couldn’t have people. Couldn’t trust them anyway. Because of the whole chaste, war, getting people killed thing. But also because people would, would try to control us. Either to use us, or just because they thought they knew better. Because they’ll think you can’t decide for yourself. You can’t have attachments, strings, because there’ll always be someone trying to pull them. You have to be independent, because that’s the only way to prove that you can be. And if you’re ever not, if you ever have to lean on someone else, then you’ve failed at, at existing, and everyone who’s ever doubted you gets proven right. And I know that’s bullshit. Because it’s not just— I mean, everyone needs help sometimes. And maybe it’s safer, or… or easier in some ways to just not let anyone close. But it’s better not to be alone. And I’d rather have you, you and Karen and this , than anything. But I haven’t had anyone to depend on, anyone I really trusted, since my dad died, and I don’t know where the lines are. I don’t know how much I owe and I don’t know how much I’m owed. It scares me, Foggy, because it feels like I have to give up a part of me, and I just, I just have to trust that you guys will give it back, and that’s fucking terrifying.”
Foggy listens, he really listens for what he realizes might be the first time in a long time. It all slots into place with disturbing ease. It’s stuff he knows already, mostly, or used to know. He wishes, not for the first time, that Stick was still around, so that Foggy could give him a piece of his mind. But he also wishes, weirdly, that he could go back further, find out who it was that hurt Stick in the first place. Matt’s fiddling with one of the buttons at the hem of his shirt. The skin over his knuckles is red and cracked. Scared. Terrified. Matt never admits to being scared. It’s been a long time, is the thing, since Foggy thought of Matt as being vulnerable to anything but bullets, and maybe highly trained ninjas on an off day. But the thing is that anyone can be vulnerable, and societal pressures don’t just go away because you can kick crime in the face while doing a backflip.
“I’m sorry, too,” Foggy says, “I haven’t always, I guess I haven’t always respected your choices, and that’s really shitty. I mean, there’s certain things, if we’re working together, where we are accountable to each other. But I don’t have any right to decide how you live your life; I want to be a part of it, but that’s different. I just, it’s just hard, because I know you can take care of yourself, but sometimes it feels like you don’t care about yourself, and that scares me. And I’ve been so terrified of losing you that I can’t see anything else. But I can’t change you, I mean, I shouldn’t change you, shouldn’t want to change you, or force you into anything because then you would lose you, and that would be worse. I, um, I’ve been really stupid about the whole Daredevil thing, so I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to be scared to tell me things, because I mean, I definitely do intend to judge your life choices, but I don’t have any right to decide for you. I’m here for you, that’s all. That’s what it should mean, being friends and trust, and all of it. I’m sorry if, that that hasn’t always been true.”
“Thank you, Foggy. I am trying, if it helps, to get better about it, the taking care of myself thing. It’s easier, it’s better than it was.”
“I’m glad,” Foggy says. He wants to say thank you, but Matt’s right, his wellbeing isn’t something he owes Foggy , “That’s not something you need to do alone either, the trying,” he says instead.
And Matt says, “Okay.”
Here is another thing that Foggy forgot; it’s important.
When they were making Nelson and Murdock, before it all fell apart, it wasn’t that Foggy didn’t notice.
He noticed when Matt came into work late, came into work tired, came into work injured. Of course he did, how could he not? Foggy noticed, and he worried, he even tried to ask a few times, but Matt always evaded. Foggy noticed, but he didn’t pry, he did not try to force answers out of Matt, he did not try to spy on him. Because he was worried, sure, but he knew how much Matt valued his independence. He knew that Matt was a grown man who could make his own choices, it was his right to make his own choices. Foggy had made it clear that he would listen, he hoped he made it clear he could be trusted. Matt could choose to tell Foggy whatever it was, or not, and Foggy could hate that, the not knowing, but he’d have to live with it.
And the thing is, Matt was wrong. He was wrong to recklessly endanger himself, wrong to lie to Foggy, and wrong, most significantly and deeply, to do what he did, go out as Daredevil and commit crimes, while being partners with Foggy, knowing that it could get them both disbarred, without even telling Foggy the danger he was putting him in. Matt was wrong, terribly and stupidly wrong. But Foggy wasn’t. Foggy was never wrong to grant him his respect and agency.
So, it happens like this.
Foggy describes things to Matt, the color of a sunset, the look on Karen’s face when Matt finally admits that her coffee is objectively vile, the gestures of strangers. Matt laughs and the sound feels at home in his voice.
Matt throws a wadded up ball of paper at the back of Foggy’s head.
“Stop it,” Foggy says, “I’m trying to work.”
“No, you’re not,” Matt says, “You’re looking at social media.” And Foggy doesn’t bother to wonder how he knows.
When they walk together, Foggy leads. He warns of curbs and steps and various street hazards, and it doesn’t feel like an indispensable service, but it doesn’t feel like a lie either, and Matt’s hand is warm and comfortable on his arm.
A smile flits over Matt’s face, one of the quick, secret expressions Matt has been making as long as Foggy’s known him. But then instead of moving on without explanation as he always does, Matt says, “There’s a family of raccoons sleeping in that alley. They’re all piled up on top of one another, curled up in a cardboard box in the trash bin. The littlest one is snoring”
“I didn’t know raccoons snored,” Foggy says, delighted by this knowledge.
Once, on a dark night a lifetime ago, a man who was drunk had an argument with a man who had been half dead. There was no judge, no evidence, no rule of law. No one won the argument, because arguments between friends cannot be won. The argument accomplished nothing, and no truth was reached.
The truth is this: Foggy is an idiot.
Wait, no, this isn’t about him.
The truth is this: Matt Murdock is blind, and he has superpowers, and he fights crime; he is angry and he is kind, he is smart and sometimes he is very stupid. These are all simultaneous but discrete facts about him, one cannot invalidate or eclipse another.
The truth is that Matt lied to Foggy, and that was awful, it hurt. Matt lied, and he shouldn’t have, and they can’t go back and fix it. They are standing on the graveyard of the bodies of their past selves. Those corpses cannot be disinterred, cannot be resurrected as they were before. Matt will never be the Matt that once existed in Foggy’s head, he never was that Matt to begin with, and he’s changed since, so has Foggy.
But the truth is that Foggy doesn’t know, can’t know, how much of what Matt does is a lie, he’s starting to think that Matt doesn’t either. He’s starting to realize it doesn’t matter. Definitions are only valuable in their usefulness, approximations can obscure as much as they reveal, assumptions make an ass, etc.
The truth, at the heart of everything else, is this: Matt and Foggy are friends. That has never been a lie. They cannot disturb the grave dirt, cannot rebuild the foundations, but they can build from here. Matt and Foggy are friends. They can figure the rest out together.