How Does a Blind Guy Box?
Matthew Michael Murdock was… a strange bird, for sure. Foggy didn’t have to be asked twice to assign that injective output to the input of ‘what’s Matt like?’ Matt was a strange man, weird even, though undoubtedly, decidedly charming. From the first day that Foggy had met Matt in law school, smiling while holding onto a distinctly white cane that advertised to the world his disability, behind rectangular shades and a dorky little smile, Foggy knew… he was just a weird man. From the way he hated polyester fabric against his skin and wearing anything synthetic made him writhe in his seat from how ‘much he could feel it’, when Foggy couldn’t tell his ass from his elbow whether it was clothed in the finest Cashmere or a sweater made of barbed wire, to the way that he liked everything arranged in neat little lines and easily-found positions (okay, okay, Foggy could admit, that being quite literally blind may have something to do with that particular behavior tidbit), Foggy had noticed a string of interesting behaviors surrounding Matt Murdock.
The least of which was not his heightened senses—he figured, it made sense. Lose one, the others go on hyperdrive, right? To make up for the slacker on the team. There was a reason he didn’t go to medical school, however, and he was never really sure; all he’d ever gotten from Matt by way of an explanation was ‘well, something like that’ and a little laugh. But Foggy was certain he had some sort of… heightened ability, to sense when things were going on, and when women were hot (especially when women were hot). Matt, too, had always had an uncanny ability to tell where things were—walls, stairs, even people, he expertly (gracefully) navigated the world like some sort of damn gazelle, or a warm-water jellyfish, or something in a similar vein.
Which is why Foggy knew it was absolute bullshit when Matt started coming into the office with significant bruises, and his reasoning was that he tripped.
Tripped.
Matthew Michael Murdock—tripping? Down the stairs?
It didn’t happen.
Foggy would have believed him, if it had been an isolated incident; sure, Matt was graceful, and elegant, and beautiful—er, maybe didn’t need to tack on that last part, Foggy, but hell, it was true—but even he messed up sometimes, because he was blind, and maybe being blind did give him a bit of a disadvantage in being able to tell when to step up, step down, sidestep, and all the other steps that existed in Hell’s Kitchen. But Matt didn’t just trip down the stairs—he also fell in his kitchen, and hit his head, apparently, and he fell in his bedroom, and sprained his knee. He smashed his hand in the door, and that was why his knuckles looked like that!
Certainly!
Foggy knew better.
(And so did Karen).
Over the last couple of months, Matt had been coming in with… bruises. Injuries. Cuts. Scrapes, whatever one wanted to call them—he was getting hurt! He was getting hurt, and strangely frequently, with little to no time in between that Foggy sure as hell didn’t like. Sure, Matt had had little scrapes and cuts every now and then (and Foggy believed him, when he told him where they came from, sometimes in the form of funny stories, like the time Matt accidentally grabbed the business end of a knife and cut three of his fingers straight down the center and needed stitches—or even his regular boxing injuries) but never anything that was… serious.
These new injuries, that had shown up ever since Wilson Fisk had come along to stir up the bad guys wandering the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, were frequent, and fresh, and far more violent than anything Matt had ever endured in the past, Foggy was sure.
And this was certainly not just bag work.
Sure, Foggy could sit around and pretend that his best friend wasn’t often grimacing in pain at his desk when he thought no one was looking, like he didn’t have busted up knuckles and a busted up lip constantly, like he wasn’t exhibiting concussion symptoms with a conspicuous bruise on the side of his head, like none of those things were happening. But they were, and Foggy Nelson, bleeding heart extraordinaire, was going to be the first person to address it—and address it properly.
Foggy breached the waters on a fine Tuesday morning—bright, early, filled with the wonderful scent of breakfast bagel sandwiches (on whole wheat bread, Karen made sure to purchase, and Foggy wondered if it was her way of telling him that he really, really needed to clean up his diet before he died of a heart attack, chubby and happy) sitting on Karen’s dark-colored, though cheap, desk at the front of the office, and Foggy was sitting atop it, hand immediately diving into the bag without even asking which one was his; rude manners, he knew, but what was a guy to do when he was brought bagel sandwiches?
Karen, clothed in a flowy black dress that draped down to her shins, golden blond hair tucked behind both ears, slightly waved at the ends in her usual style, a kind, gentle expression on her doe-like face—one of fondness that she always had towards Foggy, one that he loved and appreciated and thought the world of—was sitting beside him, on the opposite side of the desk, leaning back on one hand as the other, fingers perfectly sculpted and elegant, chiseled from a damn piece of marble that those Greek statues were carved out of, he was certain, dove into the bag, chasing his hand for her own sandwich.
She pulled it out, red nail polish shining in the natural office lighting, unwrapped it, flashed him a little smile, and dove in. Foggy followed, and practically groaned at the delicious taste—Teddy’s Bagel Shop. Best in Hell’s Kitchen, had been around for years, was constantly in danger of foreclosure due to health code violations, and managed to hang on by the skin of its roach-infested teeth only by continuous acts of God. But hell, the best bagel sandwiches were always produced in shops with a rat scuttling around on the floor enjoying the crumbs, right?
He gently wiped away a crumb that had taken up residence on his lip, and he opened his mouth to ask Karen a question—something about their newest client (yes, they had a client!)---when Matt walked in.
Or rather, limped.
The tension in the air was palatable as Foggy and Karen paused eating to watch their friend and coworker painstakingly make his way across the room, his back stiff, his face flat in an unusual way that told Foggy he was hiding quite a lot of pain—and the slightly disheveled hair, the… the cut, on his lip, and the stunning shiner that was accumulating around his left cheekbone area? Well, that was just the icing on the cake; one that would make him sick to his stomach, if he were to eat it. Despite his dark suit, tie a little less than perfectly clad around his neck, unruffled shirt, smart attire in general, he looked… pained, and uncomfortable.
Foggy was no idiot. He knew when Matt was hurting—knew when he was thinking too much about his father, knew when he needed to be alone, to go to Mass to clear his head and reevaluate his faith and come back with it stronger than ever. He knew when Matt was hiding things, and if living with the guy for the past three years had been any use at all, it gave Foggy an uncanny ability to know when Matt was hurt.
In a moment, Karen was mother-henning, by Matt’s side, crossing the floor in her elegant black heels that matched her dress, little clicks across the wooden floor filling the air along with a slight inhale from Matt, a slight tensing of his fingers around his cane—and she gently laced a hand against his back, her other hand taking one of his into it.
“Matt—” she fumbled for words, for a couple of moments, face imploring Matt’s own, “---what happened to you?”
Foggy gave a subtle nod, knowing that Matt probably wouldn’t be so forthcoming with information if Karen weren’t the one asking, knowing that he’d taken a shine to her and that he trusted her with things that maybe he didn’t even trust Foggy with, and—
And Matthew Michael damn Murdock… lied.
“Oh, nothing. Nothing happened, Karen. I fell.”
The blind man, falling. Not an unbelievable story. But it was different, when it was blind Matt Murdock, falling.
“You fell?” the gentleness in Karen’s voice was astounding, and for a moment, Foggy thought that she actually believed him—but she shot him a look over her shoulder that communicated nonverbally that she wasn’t taking this shit from him. Good, Foggy thought, stick it to the strong, silent type trope.
Foggy pushed himself off of her desk, then, rustling a few of the papers that coated Karen’s desk in snow, and he puffed out his chest slightly, inflating himself with confrontational confidence—before smoothing his grey shirt down over his front, pulling his grey suit jacket a little tighter against his middle, and adjusting his own (tieless) collar. Marching across the whole ten feet that separated him and Matt and Karen in their less-than-comfortably-tiny office space, passing by the monstera plant Karen had fished out of one of the dumpsters in some random alleyway in Hell’s Kitchen that had been tossed away by its previous owner. He planted himself directly in front of Matt, then, noting how the man’s head seemed to nod upwards with his newfound close presence.
“Oh, hell no, Matt,” he gently nudged a knuckle into the other man’s chest, and he furrowed his brows together, knitting the hairs into his skin with how confused and deep his expression was, “there’s no way you fell. Dude, you have a fucking bruise on your eye. A bruise! On your eye! Look at me, shit, let me see it properly, hey—shut up.”
The grin that burst onto Matt’s face almost made Foggy feel better; like being humorous about the whole situation was somehow making it go away, taking away its seriousness. And he knew that the damn words were on the tip of the other man’s tongue, and then—
“I can’t really do that, Foggy.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“What happened to you, Matt?” Karen asked again—urged, in that dire tone of hers that she got when she wanted to know something (needed to know something, or it would tear her apart) and the other party was reluctant to give up the information. Foggy was glad that she had ‘the voice’ to use for these sorts of situations, because Foggy could never seem to get a damn thing out of Matt that Matt didn’t want to share. Matt kept everything bottled up inside, kept everything secret, and if he was drowning in it, then he’d rather try to swim for hours than ask for a damn helping hand. It was a curse, really, to have a partner (in law, of course) that was so… what was the word? Not stubborn, but—
Catholic.
Foggy watched as Matt’s facial expression changed, slightly, and he sighed.
“I got mugged,” he finally admitted, and he looked so much like a kicked puppy, shoulders sagging like he was feeling defeated, or ashamed, or—
“I wasn’t careful enough, and he got the jump on me—”
Embarrassed.
“You got mugged!? Who would do that to—to anybody, really, but even moreso to a disabled man!?”
Something curled in Foggy’s gut as Karen expressed her disbelief, and it wasn’t his stomach hungry for the rest of his bagel.
“You got mugged,” the man replied, smoothly, and he watched as Matt nodded, his expression solemn, and his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere but the spotlight of questions that he was being put underneath. Foggy wanted to believe him—he did. He wanted to believe that Matt was fine, and that he just had really bad luck, and that he was a clumsy blind guy who was always bashing into things.
“Do you make a habit of getting mugged?” Foggy asked, before the words could even register in his brain—his brows raised slightly, and he rested his hand on his hip, the one that was still holding the bagel sandwich raised slightly. He took a bite—almost authoritatively—and huffed gently.
“A habit? Certainly not, I mean, I don’t have any money to begin with—”
“Can you cut the shit, Matt?” Foggy interrupted, then, his voice a little harsher than he’d intended it to be, holding a hand out as if to stop him—and he was, he was trying to stop Matt from leaving the main entrance of the office, because he was attempting to sidestep his way off to the left so that he could go and run his fingers over pages or listen to an audio recording of something that Foggy wasn’t sure actually pertained to legal business half the time.
The air hung stagnant in the office, for a very pregnant pause. Foggy’s heart was beating quickly, in his chest, his mouth worried down into a thin line, Karen inhaling sharply, glancing at Foggy, a nonverbal ‘Fogs, maybe don’t do this so abruptly,’ but he shot back with a ‘Karen, I know what I’m doing’ expression that felt natural on his face.
And Matt was standing there, clearly hurt, silent. As though he was weighing some sort of options, at his disposal. Foggy didn’t like the look—it appeared as though Matt was hiding something (which Foggy was certain he was) and trying to decide whether or not to reveal it.
“You are always hurt, man,” Foggy added, then, making a point to make his voice gentler, softer, “and you’re a damn idiot if you think that I don’t notice—hell, we’ve only known Karen for less than six months, and she’s noticed, too. Look, these past few months, you… you’ve always got a cut up, busted up somethin’. And I know it’s not from—I know it’s not from anything normal. I’ve seen you with normal scrapes. This is intense. Something… more? And It’s really starting to freak me out. I just want to know what’s going on, I know I’m not the only one—Karen?”
He searched their secretary’s (friend’s) face for support in the matter. Karen just glanced at him, nodding gently, telling him that yes, indeed, she was going to be with him all the way, here.
Karen gently took Matt’s arm, and tugged him in a different direction. Towards the chair that rested behind her desk, creaky and cheap but solid, and did the job it was designed to do just fine. Matt folded his hands in his lap, his spine a little straighter than usual, like it was when he was sitting in the confessional.
“Come here. Sit.”
Karen looked back at Foggy, once again. The man took a couple steps forward.
“Guys, come on, what is this—an intervention?” Matt laughed, though the noise didn’t quite sound genuine—didn’t quite reach his eyes, as it often didn’t, when he smiled.
“Do you need an intervention, Matt?” Foggy questioned, though it was mostly a joke (making jokes lightened moods, as always—and humor was always the way that Nelson and Murdock managed to communicate), taking another bite of his bagel, and then speaking with his mouth full, “because we can totally—”, swallow, “---totally do an intervention, here.”
“I don’t need an intervention, Foggy. I don’t do drugs—you know that, I’m—”
“Catholic. Yeah, I know. I figured,” Foggy reassured, alarm bells ringing in the back of his head at the fact that Matt didn’t pick up on the joke, before he sat back on the top of the desk, and Karen took her place stooping next to Matt in his chair (still looking mildly uncomfortable, Foggy would add, fiddling gently with his suit sleeves and staring slightly more off-kilter than he usually did—did people with nothing to hide look this guilty?).
“What’s up with you? How does a blind guy get so many bumps and bruises—you even look like someone punched you,” Karen added, before she grabbed his hand—hard, Foggy imagined, and held it between her two, “and tell us the truth, Matt. You know how I am with the truth, I’m like a bloodhound—”
“---Karen, I’m fine, really—”
“---and I will get to it, whether it wants me to or not. So if you’re going to be stubborn, that’s fine, but I might break into your apartment, watch you from afar with some binoculars, y’know, typical reporter stuff, until I figure out what’s really going on with you—”
“---I think that’s called stalking, Karen.”
“---so you’d better just tell me now, because it’ll be much easier than dealing with me tailing you for the next month or so until I compile enough evidence to put even Ben’s investigative skills to shame—”
“Fine, Karen, fine—”
Matt lifted his bloodied-knuckled hands up, as if to nonverbally surrender. He shook his head, and Karen’s hands dropped into her lap, as she sat on the slightly-gritty floor, and she absentmindedly noticed that it could use a good sweep, knees swept to the side, holding her thumbs gently as she implored Matt’s stoic, slightly-amused features with abandon to attempt to figure out what the hell was going on.
“Fine?”
Foggy, who had remained quiet for a couple of minutes, tossed his empty bagel wrapper into their trashcan—threw it, like he was making a three-point shot in an all-stars basketball game—and then he folded his own hands in his lap.
“The truth is, I didn’t get mugged. I—”
A pause.
Baited breath.
“I…”
Matt looked (well, not really) off to the side, his head turning away from Foggy and Karen minutely.
“...I box,” Matt said, then, shoulders slumping forward slightly. So simply, so gently.
Foggy narrowed his eyes.
“I know,” he replied back, “you’ve boxed since Columbia. But you’ve never looked like someone just ran you over with a car, man.”
“You box?” Karen’s voice carried a lilt of interest—though, mostly, surprise.
“Yes, I box, and I’ve been boxing with an actual sparring partner for the past couple of months,” Matt told them, then, lifting his head up a little higher, red glasses catching the light—Foggy’s heart did a little jump, then, as Matt’s lopsided smile flashed across his face, and his tongue darted out between the damn things to lap lightly at a still-healing cut that populated his perfect cupid’s bow—and he raised his hand up to prod gently at his jawline, as if he were adjusting something.
“He doesn’t take it easy on me,” Matt continued, then, almost proudly, and then his expression… changed. Again.
Not quite unreadable, but close.
There was determination behind those rose-tinted glasses, and Foggy knew that in Matt Murdock when he saw it—when he set his mind to something, well. There wasn’t anything that could be done to change it. Usually, at least. Sometimes, he did get lucky when Matt decided he wanted to listen to the audio description of Rocky for the fiftieth damn time this month, and he managed to convince him that a different movie—any movie, really—would be so much better than the same… damn… thing…
“He doesn’t treat me like a man with a disability, he just fights,” Matt concluded, “it’s refreshing, because no one else wants to step into the ring with me—”
“A sighted man has been beating you up in the ring and you’re happy about that? Matt, can’t you see that’s not fair, that’s not… that’s not okay, that’s bordering on what I’d say is abuse! How can you—”
“He treats me like an equal, in the ring, Karen. He doesn’t see that I’m blind, he sees an opponent. He sees someone with skill—who knows what he knows, has the same skill he does, and doesn’t know when to back down, and he treats me like a worthy opponent instead of someone to just laugh at. I mean really, a blind guy, who boxes? Sounds like the punchline to a shitty joke,” Matt snorted, “...but it’s all I have, the fighting. The rush of it all, the sound of fists hitting a body, smell of sweat, feeling of a job well done—”
Foggy pinched the bridge of his nose, at the very least glad that Matt couldn’t see him, at the moment. When he’d followed Matt to the boxing ring one night, half-drunk and curious about where the hell he’d gotten all his scrapes and bruises from, he’d found him doing mitt work with some woman who was telling him ‘up left’, ‘up right’, ‘left’, ‘right’ so that he could punch the mitts properly. He even looked a little clumsy, while doing so.
What would be expected, of a man who couldn’t see, trying to punch something that was constantly moving.
But he’d never envisioned that Matt would actually get in the ring with anyone—never thought he’d be so stupid as to…
No, who was he kidding.
This was Matthew Michael fucking Murdock. If he ever met anyone crazy enough, with shitty enough ethics, to step into the ring with him and start wailing on him, Foggy knew that he was going to leap at the opportunity. So, he wasn’t surprised. Not at all.
Just… disappointed, mostly. Worried, mostly. Exasperated. All of the above.
He heaved a deep sigh.
“...why’d you lie, man? Why’d you say you got, what, mugged? What was the point of that?” he asked, “if these are just boxing injuries, then, shit, you could’ve said it earlier, so I didn’t have to spend the last couple weeks worried sick about how beat the hell up you’ve been looking—”
Matt was silent. Contemplative. A sort of face that Foggy had seen often, right before he’d led Matt into church, on holidays, and the occasional odd Sunday that his old roommate had dragged him to the religious institution because it was important to him.
He remembered the embarrassed expression he’d seen on Matt’s face when he’d brought up his injuries.
Wondered if maybe Matt was embarrassed that he was a punching bag—that he couldn’t do more, couldn’t win in the ring. It was the type of nonsense that Matt would beat himself up over, Foggy rationalized, and in a moment, he regretted calling his best friend out on his untruths.
“I didn’t think you’d approve of me in the ring, Foggy. Was I wrong?” Matt asked, then, a bit of a quipping tone taking over his words, some defiant little shit sort of nip at Foggy’s intentions that Foggy sure as hell didn’t appreciate.
“...can you blame me?” he asked, then, gently, under the impression that his previous question carried more weight than he’d meant for it to carry—attempting to diffuse the defensiveness that he was certain took over Matt’s voice—and this question, too, it was meant to be a joke, but it came out far too sincere for it to mean anything funny, now, “...you’re limping. You’re grimacing, even, I can see it. That’s not okay. I’m—”
He slumped.
“I’m glad you’ve found someone stupid enough, cruel enough, maybe, to spar with you, but shit, can you at least tell him to take it a little easier?”
“Hey, sometimes a kick is strong enough to jostle a knee or two,” Matt smiled, then, eager to skip over the previous question, “but if you guys think this is bad, well—”
Matt smushed his lips into a self-righteous, haughty little grin that Foggy had seen more times than he could count (wanted to see a million more times, if he could) and then peeled his mouth into a grin, pearly teeth on display as though he was infinitely proud of himself.
“You should see the other guy.”
That one earned a laugh from both Karen and Foggy—who seemed, at least to Matt’s observations, assuaged at the moment with his excuse—and Foggy just clapped Matt on the shoulder.
“I’m serious though, man, be careful. I don’t need you limping into a courtroom and giving Nelson and Murdock a bad impression on our clients, eh?” he smiled, “I don’t need anybody thinking I’m beating you or anything. I’m smiling, by the way.”
“I know,” Matt replied, “I can hear it in your voice. And hey, I’ll tell him not to try to break my knees anymore. Above the belt only.”
“It’s a start,” Foggy tossed his hands up—before he hopped off of Karen’s desk. She was collecting herself off of the floor, a relieved expression plastered across her face, as though it all made sense and she could let go of the worry that was bunching up in the cords of muscle in her shoulders about Matt’s injuries and where they could possibly be from. Foggy didn’t let that tension go, though. It was going to live there for a while longer, he had a sneaky feeling.
“Matt?” Karen suddenly inquired, her tone taking on an interested sort of cadence that revealed she’d been thinking about what she was about to say for a couple of minutes, and she began moving her seat, once Matt had gotten up out of it, back to its original position. She settled into it, and tucked herself into her desk, so that she could continue work on the case that she’d been building against Fisk and whatever involvement he had in the death of his father and some other junk that Foggy honestly was far too tired to properly recall at the moment.
“Yes?”
“How does a blind guy box?” Karen asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, voice sounding bemused and interested but most of all curious in a genuine sort of way that differentiated the question from one that was meant to be a jab at the disability.
“...by listening to his dad’s boxing matches. But, when you can’t see, being practically raised in a boxing ring doesn’t really do much good. These days I typically like to swing and hope for the best,” Matt replied, resting a hand gently on the doorframe to his little alcove in their space, pausing for a couple of moments like he was deciding whether or not to do something, “...you should come by Fogwell’s, sometime. I’ll show you.”
Karen beamed.
“I would love to!”
“And you too, Foggy. You know what, let’s make a night of it—Saturday. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
Foggy raised his brows, genuine surprise overtaking him. Matt had never invited him to see him box; hell, he wasn’t even sure Matt had known before today that Foggy knew that Matt boxed—always assumed that it was some private business, some outlet or whatever, to do with his father, and as such had never brought it up, but now—
“Blind Matt Murdock in the ring? Now this,..” he grinned, a nickname callback to one of many drunken nights he spent stumbling around with Matt’s cane, with Matt’s laughter echoing in the memory, “I’ve got to see. But you gotta promise not to get mad when I start fighting the other guy when I see you getting pummeled, okay?”
The laugh that carried from inside of Matt’s little room was an indication that he seemed to think—arrogantly, that fucker, Foggy thought—that there would be no such pummeling happening.
“Okay, Foggy. I’m sure he’ll be real scared.”
“You can count on it!”
He shut the door. Foggy’s shoulders relaxed, a little smile still on his face.
It wasn’t entirely genuine.
He stared at the door for a few more moments, before he retreated slightly into his own office, but stopped—hand resting on the doorframe.
“Do you think he’s telling the truth?” he asked Karen, off-handedly. Didn’t look down at her. Gripped the doorframe a little tighter.
She looked up, a file in her hands, and her mouth morphed into a little frown.
“...why wouldn’t he be?”
“I don’t know, I just…” Foggy sighed, “I feel like he’s still keeping something from us. I’ve got this weird feeling, in my gut, you know?”
“Ah, that would be… food poisoning from Teddy’s,” Karen smiled.
“Maybe,” Foggy shot her with a single finger-gun, “but I’m serious, Kar, I just… I don’t feel right about this. I mean, even if it is just some guy cruel enough to step in the ring, like… what the hell? Some sighted guy just beating the shit out of Matt? Matt can’t see! I know his whole deal is to be as self-sufficient and shit as possible, but this can’t be… healthy, right? Dude beats him up and he feels good because he thinks it means dude doesn’t think any less of him because he’s blind? I just—it’s a weird situation, I don’t know—”
“Fogs, you’re spinning,” Karen told him, “look. Let’s just go. Go see what’s up, okay? And we’ll make a decision from there whether or not we keep pushing this, or just… let it be. I just… I didn’t know his dad was a boxer, it really explains why he wouldn’t want to tell us.”
Battling Jack Murdock. Matt’s dead father.
It made sense, to Karen, why he would’ve kept things private—it meant a lot to him, she could guess, filled some void of grief in his heart to be able to follow in his father’s footsteps, maybe. She learned that Matt’s dad had passed away (the way his lip twitched, the way he gripped his cane, when he’d said that, made her think that his death had not been natural) and she knew how sensitive he was about his father. It was a sore spot. She knew that he was all that Matt had had, before he’d gone to the orphanage.
These were all things she knew about Matt, revealed in increments of progressive trust he’d shown her, bore his soul to her a little more each time he told her something so personal, and so, to her, it didn’t seem so… farfetched, that he’d keep the last little vestige of his dad close to him, guarded, because he knew that maybe Foggy would shit on it with the whole ‘you’re blind, you shouldn’t be boxing’ thing that she’d just observed happen, not two minutes ago. She wondered, then, what it would be like to have a part of herself so important shrouded in words like ‘can’t,’ because of something she couldn’t control.
“We all have things we need to do to feel sane, and if this is Matt’s thing, then I guess we need to let him have it,” Karen finally replied, and before Foggy could protest, she added,“Even if he does end up with split lips and black eyes.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Foggy replied, “alright, I need to go deal with this client of ours—apparently, his dog bit someone and he’s looking for a defense because he’s pretty certain that somebody is going to try to get his dog put down. Very exciting stuff, I know. I went to Columbia for this.”
“Well, go put that law degree to good use,” Karen beamed, “and Foggy—don’t worry too much about Matt. We’ll see about his sparring partner. If you think I’m going to let this go if I even suspect for one bit that the guy’s purposely wailing on Matt because he just likes to beat up blind guys…”
Foggy smiled.
“Yeah, I know you won’t. Neither will I. Matt’s lucky he’s got the two most stubborn friends on the planet, eh?”
“Absolutely, Foggy.”
He walked into his office, slightly cluttered with a couple of cardboard boxes holding some case files, some statements from a building foreclosure they’d dealt with last month, and some random papers that Foggy wasn’t sure how to make heads or tails of—a gentle chuckle being the only response he got from Karen—and he stood in the center of it and put both hands on his hips, a new frown coming over his face.
He sat down in his chair, grumbling softly, and tapped his fingers across the top of the surface of his workspace, and sighed, muttering to himself.
“Yeah… we’ll see alright. We’ll see what an asshole this piece of shit is. Boxing with a fucking blind man. Beating the shit out of a fucking blind man. Maybe even press charges. Yeah, charges…”
Saturday, in Foggy’s humble opinion, couldn’t come fast enough.