Matt let the phone ring out. He held his own phone at a distance, as if contact with his face might burn him. Of course, after a few rings, he went to voicemail, but that is what he had wanted.
HELLO?... HELLO, WHO'S THERE?
It was the voice he hadn’t heard in months.
Not since that night when Matt Murdock’s world had shattered around him.
Once Foggy’s phone was no longer needed as evidence, the police had given it to him. He told himself that he would give it to the family after the funeral but after the office had been cleaned out and he had no reason to, Matt couldn’t find it in himself to part with it. If they asked, he would return it, but he had his doubts that they would.
For the first month, after he had cut contact with everyone, he had kept it in a drawer beside his bed. When the sirens would wail at night, making his head spin, he would think about the phone he had hastily thrown in the nightstand. When the urge came to let the Devil out, he thought of the phone and the heartbeat that had slowed in his ears.
After the second month, he managed to open the drawer and hold the phone in his hands. It had felt like a Herculean task, but he had managed to do it, before he threw it back into the drawer with much more force than was necessary.
Something about it made him angry, after ten years of friendship, all he had left was the damn cell phone. A cell phone and a gaping hole in his chest that his friend used to fill. It was only fair, Foggy had died in that very way and now Matt was irreparably damaged because of it. The worst part was that it was his fault too.
How many times had Foggy asked him to hang up the suit? Matt had always naively thought that it was only his life he had put on the line, but it was never true.
All for what? Sending a few criminals to prison before they got back out again and hurt someone else.
He kept paying the bill on the phone. He told himself that it was just in case any former Nelson, Murdock, and Page clients tried to get in contact, but in truth, no one had or would. Any client who had cared enough, showed up to the funeral after the news broke. No one had called the phone. Not even telemarketers, which Foggy had constantly complained about.
Matt rarely answered his own phone. Every time he got a call, and the name of the caller rang over and over again, he could never bear to pick it up. It was mostly Karen. Every time the robotic voice said her name over and over, he felt a little sick to his stomach.
That night, he had heard Karen’s heart drop after he had thrown Dex off that building. He couldn’t bear to listen to her tell half-truths about how she didn’t blame him for what had happened. She had claimed that it wasn’t his fault, that Bullseye had made his choices; but that didn’t change anything. The truth was, if he had never become Daredevil, Foggy Nelson wouldn’t be dead.
He had been alone for a fair amount of his birthdays.
Solitude had become an easy companion as he went through the motions. Karen had called him on his birthday, this time he had answered. Their conversation was brief, like most of the conversations had been since Foggy had died. She told him happy birthday, and Matt had thanked her for the call before they very quickly mutually hung up.
No one sang for him, bought him a cake, or really acknowledged that it was his birthday. In a way, he was grateful. He wanted to remain under the radar, anything more would be a too strong reminder. In his life, there had only been two people to make a big deal out of the birthday of Matthew Michael Murdock; his father and Foggy Nelson. If anyone tried to celebrate him now, it would feel disingenuous.
It was a reminder, a sad one at that.
The Devil almost got to him that night, feeling sad and alone can make a man do things he doesn’t want to, maybe that’s why the Devil had come to him in the first place. Just when he was sure he was going to put on that damn costume, loose his resolve for good, he thought of the phone in the nightstand. He stood in the solitude of his apartment for a long while, silent and still.
There was the telltale plink plink plink of rain hitting the fire escape. Two blocks away, someone had their purse stolen. The newborn baby across the street cried, but inside his apartment, Matt barely took notice of those things. He kept thinking about the phone.
After minutes of crackling silence, he picked up his own phone. It wasn’t rational, he knew that even as he stood in the darkness and said, “Call Foggy.” Inside the drawer, Foggy’s phone began to buzz. Matt let the phone ring out. He held his own phone at a distance, as if contact with his face might burn him. Of course, after a few rings, he went to voicemail, but that is what he had wanted.
HELLO?... HELLO, WHO'S THERE?
It was the voice he hadn’t heard in months. Not since that night when Matt Murdock’s world had shattered around him. The pain of it nearly brought him to his knees, as it had done on the worst fucking night of his life.
NAH, I’M JUST KIDDING. THIS IS FOGGY. LEAVE A MESSAGE AFTER THE BEEP
Matt had always hated that voicemail but let out a strangled laugh at the remembrance of it. Foggy had set up his voicemail in college and professionalism be damned, he had kept it for as long as Matt had known him. He had hated it so much and had rolled his eyes every time he had listened to it. It was a cliche that Foggy had made endearing, it was the only thing Matt had left.
The beep almost took him by surprise, even though the ghost of college Foggy had already warned him about it. He moved to hang up, but his hand lingered for a moment. Finally, he brought it up to his ear.
“Hey, Foggy-” his words came out quietly, inaudible to him. There was a ringing in his ears that just wouldn't go away. “I- I hope-”
I can’t, he thought, lowering the phone to his chest. He pressed the speaker against his shirt before lifting the phone to his face again. Matt took a breath and began again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I wasn’t there the one time you needed me to be. I love you, buddy.”
With painful slowness, Matt hung up the phone and fell to his knees. He did nothing to stop his collapse to the ground, and God, it hurt. The shock of hitting the ground reverberated through his bones, but that pain was all forgotten as a cracked sob clawed its way out of his throat.
He called a lot, sometimes he wouldn't make it to voicemail. Often, he would just listen to the voice on the other end before hanging up before the beep. If he had wanted, he knew he could have just made a recording rather than paying the money to keep the number active, but he didn't. He could have listened to the short videos that Foggy had taken of them at Josie's, but he didn't. Sometimes he talked, asking Foggy for forgiveness that he knew Foggy would have given him a long time ago, even if he could never forgive himself.