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“You got your peepers knocked out saving that old dude!”
“They didn’t get knocked out.” He hesitates for a moment, and then shrugs and gives a shit-eating grin. “They were surgically removed afterwards.”
---
Pain.
Matt comes back to himself in flashes of light – red and blue, silver, glitter cascading in swirls through what’s left of his vision, shadows encroaching from the sides, then the fronts, then the sides again, a smudge of white flesh color that dissolves to a rainbow with more colors than he thought existed.
A cacophony of agony – something beeping, someone yelling, hums at frequencies he had never imagined, deafening screams from somewhere deep below him, the sensation of something being inserted into his arm.
Snatches of words, phrases, his father’s voice – “It’s gonna be okay, Matty,” “Not unconscious yet, he will be,” “Prevent acid from eating away at non-ocular nerves,” “Preventative,” “He’s a hero, you know,” “If you can hear me, count backwards from ten…” nine…eight…seven…
And finally, his own voice, hoarse from screaming – “My eyes. Something’s wrong with my eyes. I can’t see.”
His father’s voice. “I know, Matty. I know.”
---
“You’ll be compensated for all of Matt’s medical expenses,” the personal injury lawyer is saying, sounding harried. Her heart is beating fast. It has been since Matt entered the room.
Ten weeks since the accident, and the bandages are off. “It’s not pretty, Matty,” his dad had said. “You know when there’s a dead baby bird on the sidewalk? ‘Swhat the skin around your eyeholes looks like. They say it’ll get better, though. You’re still a damn sight prettier than me.”
“As well as a settlement of two hundred thousand dollars, which will be placed in a trust fund that Matt will be able to access upon turning eighteen. So that’s the college fund out of the way, at least.” It’s a joke.
“Your medical expenses include future annual MRIs to continue to monitor for brain damage due to the corrosive substance, any related therapy, both occupational and emotional, and prostheses as needed until you are determined to be fully grown.”
“Prostheses?” his dad says, curiously. “Like glass eyes?”
“Exactly,” the lawyer says. “And I’d recommend making the most of that clause in your settlement – no offense.”
---
“They were surgically removed afterwards.”
Foggy laughs. “No shit, dude? That’s the most hardcore thing I’ve ever heard!”
---
“So why the glasses?” Karen asks over her marriage casserole. “It can’t be for photosensitivity.”
“Nerve damage,” Matt says after swallowing. “I’ve got almost no sensation in my eyelids. Apparently the lazy eye can get a little ridiculous. And even when it’s not, I don’t like having to put effort into controlling where they point. I’m pretty awful at it.”
“He is,” Foggy cuts in. “You’re talking to him and it looks like he’s staring at your crotch. One time he rubbed one eye and it got stuck like he was cross eyed. The other one still moved around, though.”
“And Foggy didn’t tell me for almost a week.”
“He got me back by hiding one in my underwear drawer and when I woke him up screaming, said ‘I’ve got my eye on you.’”
Karen laughs. “You two are ridiculous!”
“She’s giving the most amazed grin right now, just so you know,” Foggy says. “Hey, styrofoam cup up, we’re toasting. To new beginnings!”
---
“Hey,” Foggy asks, tipsy verging on drunk and almost asleep on Matt’s couch. “Question.”
“Mmm…answer,” Matt responds, also tipsy (verging on emotional), and also almost asleep on his couch.
“Why brown? Why not go hard and get like. I’unno. Scary, Undertaker blue. Or that football player with the red eyes, I told you about him. Gives me nightmares.”
“I don’t wanna give people nightmares. The scarring used to do that on its own.”
“Healed up pretty good though, dude. You got…eyelashes. And eyebrows. Eyebrow? Your left one is jacked. Like it’s there. But it’s jacked. Got some weird lines. Melty flesh.”
“Thanks, man. Melty flesh is all good. ‘n my eyes were brown. More green brown, I guess, but my dad’s were straight brown. Brown-brown.”
“Would you believe me if I said my eyes were purple?”
“Yeah man, totally.”
---
“Your nurse is pissed. She said picking pieces of crinoline glass out of your eye socket is so beyond her paygrade.”
“Cryolite,” Matt groans, rolling over. His left eyelid is sagging, though the orbital implant is still intact – he thinks. And it hurts. The deep wound in his side is pounding and screaming with every twitch of the surrounding muscles, the cuts on his collarbones and back are stretching over his muscle and sending constant feedback, primarily in the form of ‘stop fucking doing that, Murdock,’ and he thinks more ribs may be cracked than intact.
And none of that has anything on the dozens of tiny cuts on the underside of his eyelid and the soft tissue on the inside of his eye socket. There’s still two pieces of shattered glass embedded that he’s going to have to try and pick out later. He thinks he hears sirens distantly. He also might hear his father’s voice. Is he ten years old? Is he twenty-seven?
Foggy’s voice knocks him back into himself, a sensation that is only welcome because, despite everything, the pain he’s in now has nothing on the hissing burn of acid making its way through his eyeballs. “How, man? I thought I knew you! And you’re – you’re getting your damn eyes knocked out all over again, and – Matt, you’re blind! You don’t have eyes! You literally – you just, just do not!”
His breath is catching, and god, Foggy’s been crying. Is close to crying some more.
“I don’t,” Matt agrees, softly. “Something got fucked up in my brain in the accident.”
“Clearly!” Foggy interrupts. “You know, if someone had asked, what do you know about Matt Murdock? I’d’ve said he’s one of the most weirdly stable guys I met in Columbia! You make meals in advance and plan to eat leftovers! You know who does that? Stable people!”
“Foggy,” Matt says gently.
“No!” Foggy objects. “Listen to me, you’ve been my weird awkward, friggin’ blind rock for six years now. You’ve got your moral code, and, and your schedules, and you’ve worn the same brand of shoes for the entire time I’ve known you! I know everything about every single one of your weird-ass personal habits – you shave weekly because you can’t stand the way your beard hairs poking through skin feel, and the little burnt bit on your cheek stings if you put shaving cream on it too often. You won’t eat at Lin’s Garden because you insist that their oil is more cancerous than the average budget Chinese delivery oil. You put in eyedrops at 10am and 6pm exactly, and you don’t need a phone alarm to remember to do that.”
“I – I’m more than my schedule, Fogs,” he tries weakly.
“I friggin’ know that, dude! You’re all ‘let me brood, I’m Batman’ about your emotions and are obviously in denial about your depression, but you’ve got so many damn emotions. You got me Battleship for Christmas because I kept brooding about running out of card games to play with you! When Jeanie Ackerman cheated on you because she got tired of not being told how nice she looks, what an awful person by the way, you blamed yourself, like a dipshit! You care too much – if I’m in a sticky moral situation, you know what I would think? What would Matt do. And you know what I’d end up deciding? To do the right thing.”
He pauses, and Matt swallows, suddenly more guilty than he’s ever felt.
“And what I decide the ‘right thing’ is has never, not once, been ‘dress like a dumbass and put people in the hospital!’”
“It’s not just putting people in the hospital, Foggy…”
“Oh, is it putting criminals in the hospital? The criminals that we make a point of defending in court? Because that’s what you wanted?”
“We defend people who are actually innocent.”
“Oh, yeah? Well that’s friggin’ great. You’re mister judge and jury esquire over here. You an executioner, too?”
“No, I – never. I don’t kill people.”
Foggy lets out a breath. “I guess that’s something. I can’t believe I just said that’s ‘something,’ like it’s not a huge deal that you’re the damn devil. God. Shit, sorry.”
Foggy collapses on the chair next to him, and the vibrations up the floor send his various hurts singing again. He hisses, and Foggy’s pulse jumps.
“Dude, you know how I said your eyebrow was jacked, but it’s still there? It’s pretty gone now. I can’t look at you. You look like you got hit by a baseball bat made out of nails. Coated in acid. Sorry. Lots of cuts, I’m sure you can feel. You have a spare eye around here somewhere?”
“Underwear drawer,” Matt grunts. “Are you…you’re still here.”
“Yeah, I’m in the middle of the worst moral crisis I’ve ever had, but I’ve gotta know. How the fuck do you do it?”
---
A few weeks later, Foggy screams and drops his mug, and a brown eye looks up from the ground amongst the shattered ceramic and pooling coffee.
---
“Your eyebrow is growing back, you blind bastard,” Foggy groans, and Matt doesn’t have time to duck before a pillow gets him in the face. “You scarred yet ruggedly handsome piece of shit! I thought karma would take your eyebrow for sure!”
“It’s still jacked though, yeah?” Matt asks, patting the area self-consciously. It’s still tender, which is ridiculous since it’s been months, but Claire thinks that the previous damage to the area made it more sensitive. Claire also thinks he ought to invest in bulletproof eyes, for the hell of it. “Wouldn’t be my eyebrow without it being jacked.”
“Totally jacked. You look like you got in a jousting tournament, and at the last minute the guy pulled out a friggin’ mace and clocked you. And then the horse trampled on just that specific part of your face. It’s okay, man, I’ve got enough sex appeal for the both of us.”
“Thanks, buddy,” Matt says with a grin, and holds up his glass for Foggy to knock his own against.
---
“So you’re gonna hate me for this, but I got Claire to snoop through your medical records,” Foggy says as he pushes the box into Matt’s waiting hands. Karen gives an overdramatic gasp and then muffles her giggles in her champagne flute. “I had to find the guy that sculpts your peepers.”
Matt shakes the box just enough to feel the specialized glass thump against the velvety inside of the case. “You got me eyes?”
“And to think I got you a puzzle,” Karen says, cheerfully. “I can’t believe you two.”
“Well, there was the accident, and I know he’s wearing his old one. That can’t be good for you!”
He opens the box, and yep. The fresh smell of new prosthetic eyes. But there’s something different about the smell, as though –
“What color are they, Foggy?” He holds up the case, and Karen starts choking back laughter.
“Brown,” Foggy lies. “Normal, boring person, brown color. Dark brown around the rims. Nice, neutral pupil size.”
“I can smell the different dye, Foggy,” he groans. “What do they look like?”
“Okay, that’s totally unfair,” Foggy starts.
“They’re red. Like bright red. And scleral. There’s a pupil but apart from that, like, they’re literally entirely red,” Karen interrupts, bless her.
“I asked if she could make them glow in the dark, and she laughed at me. But still, super creepy.” Foggy gestures. “I’m giving a thumbs up.”
“You do know I’m gonna wear these whenever we have to cross-examinations, right?” Matt says with a sigh, but he’s still smiling, because Foggy. “You don’t know what you’ve unleashed.”
---
The next time Foggy screams and drops his coffee, it’s a red lens that stares up at him.
---
“You hear the most recent news about the devil?” Brett asks as Foggy hands over a bag of cigars. “Might be the real deal.”
“Yeah?” Foggy asks, interested.
“Apparently his helmet or whatever he wears got cracked, right across the nosebridge. Metal baseball bat. A chunk of it came off his face, and I’ve got a gang of stupid meth heads saying he’s got red eyes. Nothin’ else bout his face, just the eyes. Pretty sure the lunatic just burst a bunch of blood vessels, but that’s been added to the official description. Red fuckin’ eyes.”
“Oughtta make him easier to find, though?” Foggy asks with a shrug. “How many douchebags in Hell’s Kitchen have red eyes?”
Brett snorts. “One, and it’s your buddy Murdock. Can you imagine me knocking on his door and interrogating him about being the guy that backflips off buildings?”
“I can’t even imagine,” Foggy lies, at the same time making a mental promise to never let Matt wear them to the station again - no matter how hilarious it would be. “You know, I got him those eyes? The doc gave me a discount because he said it’d be more fun than usual. And apparently he’d been dying to get through the rest of the red dye.”
“Maybe I should ask him about who else is commissioning red eyes,” Brett chuckles. “Have a good day, ya ambulance-chasing piece of shit.”
---
Matt answers the door, and he’s wearing his brown eyes. He’s also wearing a bruise on the better half of his face, the poor devil.
“Hey buddy,” Foggy says. “Guess what’s on the Official Daredevil Description?”
Matt grins sheepishly and then grimaces and puts a hand to his bruise. “You know, that was the first night I actually wore them out? I didn’t feel like swapping them out after sneaking up on Karen.”
“She’s gonna get wise to that soon,” Foggy warns him. “Luckily for you, I will always scream when your eye shows up in my damn coffee.”
“It’s good to know that I can rely on you,” Matt says, sounding way too sincere, and then he falters. “I – I can, right? I didn’t ruin that forever?”
Foggy doesn’t answer immediately, he mulls it over for several long moments as Matt gets more and more fidgety - and then he says, “The next pair I’m getting you is gonna be yellow. With slits for pupils.”
Matt laughs.