Matt had smelled the whiskey and sweat as he approached his loft, so he barely starts when his father’s voice materializes behind him. “You know, Matty, I really like that Karen.”
And perhaps it’s a testament to how messed up Matt still is that he manages to ignore the remark— shrugging out of his jacket, hanging it on its hook by the door, and retrieving a beer from the kitchen before turning to face the apparition in his living room.
“What?” he bites out. It’s a little terser than he means it to be.
“Karen—she’s good for you.”
Matt laughs, a short, unhappy bark. He closes his eyes—suddenly, indescribably tired. “I think that ship has sailed.” Unbidden, a sense impression of Karen, outlined by a flurry of rain drops, presses against his closed eyelids. He remembers her soft lips pressed against his, the promise of heat, how he’d almost regretfully pulled away. He hadn’t wanted to ruin things by pushing ahead too quickly. As if there could be any other possible ending.
“She cares about you, Matty. She knows what you are and she’s still here.”
“Is she?” Matt sits down, heavily, on the couch, pretending he doesn’t hear or feel the stubborn creaks in his body. He takes a careful sip from the bottle.
“You have to move on.” And Matt hears the unspoken “from Elektra, from Stick.” Their absence, a fresher wound than the deep ache left in the wake of his father's death. Idly he wonders, does a figment experience jealousy?
“How long do you think you can keep this up? Eh, Matty? That ache in your bones after that last beatdown with Fisk---maybe this time it doesn’t go away,” his father’s tone changes, taking on a sudden urgency.
Jack Murdock didn’t do alarm. You couldn’t, living by your wits and your fists, and expect to keep your head. But Matt remembers hearing that urgency once, after a fight where Jack had triumphed, when Matt had let slip that he was thinking about learning to box too.
His father had grabbed him by the shoulders, fingers digging into the flesh. It was the week before the accident that took Matt’s sight and he recalls, with startling vividness, the look in his father’s eyes--–wild, almost unhinged. The cut above his eyebrow, held together by butterfly tape, had started to crust over, but the bruises along his jaw were florid and purple still. “Stay away from the ring, Matty–--far away. Use that big brain of yours instead, don’t be like me. Promise me, Matty.”
Matt rubs his shoulder with his right hand, massaging away the pressure of phantom fingers. “In case it’s not obvious, I’m not one for planning.”
“Oh come on, who do you think you’re fooling? There’s not a thing in your life that you haven’t over-thought. But don’t overthink this.” He’s abruptly closer, standing right behind Matt. If Matt breathes in deeply, he could almost believe his dad’s right here. It’s nice, he decides, to have his father doling out advice, and Matt wants so very much to be normal.
Against his better judgment, he asks: “What would you suggest I do?”
—--------------------------------------------
Navigating the stairs with his coat slung over one arm, his cane tucked under the other, a tray of coffees in his hands, and a waxed, paper bag balanced on top, taxes even Matt’s uncommonly good agility. He’s perilously close to wearing the coffee when Foggy, coming up behind him, plucks the bag from over his shoulder.
“What’s this, Murdock? Is this from Angelina’s? You know I love their cannoli!” Foggy’s voice is warm and enthusiastic, and Matt flushes—it’s been a while since Foggy’s been anything but disappointed in him.
“I think you might find a cannoli or two in there,” Matt says, smiling. Foggy opens the door to their office, impossibly even smaller than their previous office, for which Matt had to pour on the charm to knock a few more hundreds off of the “Incident” discount.
When they rebuilt their dissolved partnership and added Karen’s name to the door, they scrambled to find another place. Nelson’s Meats was an OK temporary solution for a week or two, but between the constant smell of cured meats and the bustling business Foggy’s brother was doing, Matt’s senses were fried.
Not that Matt ever would have said anything. But the second time he had startled so badly that he fell out of his chair, Foggy had guessed immediately what the culprit was and Karen began to make phone calls. Within a week, they found a small corner office, tucked away on a quiet stretch of 48th street.
No proper rooms in this space, just an uncommonly large closet. But they cleared out the shelves, dismantled the closet rods, and moved in a desk for Matt. Foggy and Karen made do with partitions hastily bought from the Brooklyn outpost of IKEA. It worked. That’s what mattered.
Matt sets his burden down on Karen’s desk, careful to avoid the stacks of files scattered in an order only Karen had the key to. But of Karen herself, there is no sign. Matt frowns. It’s not like her to arrive after him, and he had even stopped for breakfast.
“Matt, I can feel you thinking from across the room,” Foggy says. He had wandered to the kitchenette to retrieve plates. “Though to be fair, across the room doesn’t mean much in our glorious new digs.”
“She’s probably just late,” Jack says reasonably from somewhere behind him. Matt shakes his head, as if dislodging the thoughts that were gathering there. Months of waiting for the other shoe to drop, the ambush to erupt, the conflagration to spark have made him permanently on edge. With an effort, he reminds himself that Fisk is behind bars, neutralized with the promise of Vanessa’s safety.
Karen’s OK. They’re all OK.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he murmurs, prompting a curious look from Foggy.
Matt clears his throat and takes a plate from the top of the stack Foggy is still carrying. When the other man is momentarily distracted, he retrieves an envelope from the inner pocket of his jacket and deposits it in the front drawer of Karen’s desk—then shuts the compartment and straightens his spine in one fluid motion.
Matt can feel his father’s approval warming his back as he walks into his closet-office and firmly shuts the door behind him.
—--------------------------------------------
Karen walks in 35 minutes later. 5 minutes after that, she sighs contentedly, biting into a warmed croissant and taking small sips from the almond latte that Matt knew was her favorite. 2 minutes after that, a short intake of breath, when she discovers the note Matt had left in the drawer.
—--------------------------------------------
The sun is setting. Matt can feel it, low on the horizon, the last gasps of warmth before twilight sets in. Around him, the bustle of the city recedes. Someone, somewhere, tosses a frisbee and a dog’s happy bark follows it.
The bench he’s on is unoccupied – no one wants to disturb the blind man wth the somber expression; they give him a wide berth.
“I thnk she’s coming,” his father says. But Matt had already registered Karen’s familiar heartbeat as she crossed 11th avenue at the corner of the park. Matt follows her as she picks her way through cyclists and power walkers, past the questionable pretzel cart stationed at the wrought-iron gates.
When she spots him, her heartrate ticks up. His heartrate, traitorously, rises too. This is the first time they’ve been alone together since that day in the crypt, their bodies pressed together in a parody of intimacy. When a game of cat and mouse with a madman in Matt’s devil suit had been sufficient distraction from the grief and betrayal of the preceding six months.
Matt had let his friends think he was dead. He had let months go by—months of Foggy mourning him, months of Karen maintaining his apartment, unwilling to relinquish hope. Despite talk of new beginnings, Matt knows there’s no coming back from that.
Although his father’s shade had convinced him to reach out, Matt suddenly feels a stab of panic. A graceful exit is impossible as the distance between them rapidly closes. When she’s finally within reach, she hesitates a moment before taking a seat on the bench beside him.
“I didn’t see you all day,” she says by way of greeting. “Though I did see my favorite coffee, thank you.”
“I was researching questions for the voir dire we have coming up for the Castillo case.” Matt loosens the tie—suddenly too tight—around his neck.
“So you weren’t pulling the patented “avoid confrontation at all costs” Murdock move, then?” Karen says. But her tone is light, a smile undercuts the words.
“Besides, do you really need to craft your questions all that carefully? Couldn’t you use your built-in lie detector to pick out impartial jurors?”
Matt sighs-–it’s a constant battle, convincing Karen and Foggy that his heightened senses don’t make him omnipotent.The Scarlet Witch, he’s not. “The senses help, but I still have to ask the right questions—there’s nothing to read otherwise,” he explains. “And sometimes you have to give a little to get a little.”
“Like the night we met,” Karen says, realization dawning in her voice, “when you asked me about the Union Allied files and talked about losing your sight. You knew I was lying, but you didn’t know why or how. So you followed me.”
“Well, you certainly know how to impress the ladies, Matty,” his dad says with a snort.
Matt must have looked chastised because Karen laughs, the sound musical—a balm Matt didn’t realize he needed. “Matt, it’s OK.” She pivots so that she’s facing him and puts a hand on his knee. The heat from her palm burns. “You know, you didn’t have to bribe me with pastries and latte to get me here. What did you want to talk about?”
“I didn’t, I was just…”
She’s patient, silent but not discouraging, waiting for him to get out what he wanted to say.
“I was wondering if you’d have dinner with me?” he blurts out, wincing when he hears his father chuckling behind him.
“Matt,” she breathes, and Matt braces himself for a rejection that doesn’t land. “Drinks instead maybe?” she suggests.
They settle on the Royal Bangladesh, the Indian restaurant on the Lower East Side that was the site of their first and only date. His dad suggests it and although Matt can sense the reluctance in her voice, in the set of her shoulders, Karen agrees.
Afterwards, she lingers and they talk about pending cases and other things. The Sullivan case that’s entering the jury selection phase in two weeks, Ellison’s recent overtures after the splinter sparked by the Bulletin attack, Hogarth’s continued attempts to lure Foggy back.
By the time they finally part, the knot that had taken root since Matt regained consciousness in Clinton Church finally begins to loosen.
—--------------------------------------------
Karen’s at the bar when Matt enters the Royal Bangladesh. The ceiling, dripping with lights, hums—a muted buzz over the punctuated whispers of a dozen conversations. Matt takes a deep breath, pushing back the noise, and focuses on the woman seated in the corner, her hair a curtain around her face. She’s already taking slow sips from a beer.
Matt taps his cane when he’s steps away to catch her attention. She looks up and smiles and pushes a tumbler of scotch towards Matt as he takes a seat. “I took the liberty, hope that’s OK.”
“Why thank you, Ms. Page.”
A slight shake of her head. “Don’t, Matt.”
And he realizes she’s right—they’re not the same people who were here more than a year ago. They’ve both seen too much, experienced too much, and revealed too much to go back to the unequal foundation their relationship had rested on.
“OK,” he says, sliding onto the stool next to her. “Sorry.” The apologies never feel sufficient, but his dad’s right, he needs to try.
“So, have you seen your mother lately?” Karen asks with forced casualness.
“No,” Matt says carefully. “But you have.” He doesn’t know how he didn’t realize it before, but it’s all over her. Smoke from incense candles clings to her hair and beneath that, the earthy scent of detergent and soap. “When?” he asks, choking a little on the question. He masks his discomfiture by taking a sip from his glass.
“That’s never not going to be creepy, Matt,” Karen laughs.
“Earlier today—I’ve been helping out at the church on Saturdays, ever since Father Lantom’s funeral.” He can feel her gaze on him, as if she’s gauging his reaction. “But you haven’t been back recently.” It isn’t an accusation; it still stings.
Matt closes his eyes, remembering the conversation with his mother just before he delivered the eulogy for Father Lantom.
“Do you think you can do that?” She had asked when he shared Father Lantom’s last, whispered words to him—words of contrition, and a plea for forgiveness for the secret Maggie held and Lantom kept.
Matt tried, but the discovery that his mother was within reach this entire time, but chose to keep that knowledge from him, was a blow too many in a life already filled with them. So he’s kept his distance for now.
“She asks about you, all the time. But she’s trying to give you your space,” Karen says. She fidgets with the bottle in her hands. “But Matt, don’t make her wait too long.”
“She’s right, kid, you’ve lost too much time already,” his dad says from the empty space to his left.
“And who’s fault is that?” Matt whispers, voice breaking.
Karen blinks, confused, and reaches out for his arm. “Matt? Are you..”
“OK?” Matt finishes. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He brushes off her hand, stands and sways.
There’s pressure building in his head, behind his eyes, and Matt suddenly realizes he might not be fine after all. The buzzing of the lights, the warmth from the drink, the scent of tallow from altar tealights—they war for dominance until he feels his legs give out, sending him sprawling on his hands and knees.
Distantly, he hears his father’s alarmed shout and Karen’s urgent call for assistance meld together and recede until everything narrows to a point and vanishes.
—--------------------------------------------
Matt wades back to consciousness to the rhythmic sound of beeping. It takes a moment more before Foggy’s shampoo and the smell of stale coffee alerts him to his friend—whose slow, even breaths indicate he’s fallen asleep in an uncomfortable hospital chair at the foot of Matt’s bed.
Matt would’ve been content to let Foggy sleep a bit more, but a nurse entering the room to take Matt’s vitals startles Foggy awake.
“Even when you’re not Daredeviling, you still manage to be a danger-magnet,” Foggy sighs after the nurse shuts the door behind her. “You scared Karen,” his tone is almost reproachful.
Matt lifts a hand towards his temple, wincing as the movement pulls on the IV taped to the back of his hand. Foggy clicks his tongue, and jumps up to sweep Matt’s hair—matted with sweat—off of his forehead.
“What happened?” Matt swallows to relieve the dryness in his throat.
“Oh, nothing much, just a swan dive in the middle of dinner hour on the Lower East Side.” Foggy says, the thudding of his heart belying his casual words. “And Karen’s outside—they’re limiting the number of visitors allowed in your room at a time to minimize stress.”
Foggy starts to pace and then as if he’s abruptly aware of what he’s doing, stops.
“The doctor was in earlier. Apparently, you have an aneurysm, quite a big one, pressing against your parietal cortex. You’re going to need surgery. Right away. Before it has a chance to burst.”
Foggy sighs noisily. “Weren’t you experiencing symptoms? They said you would’ve been experiencing hallucinations, headaches, blurry vision—well, I guess that last one, you get a pass on.”
“I have been experiencing hallucinations,” Matt admits quietly. Foggy doesn’t react verbally, but his heartrate rises.
“Ever since I woke up from Midland Circle.”
“And you didn’t think to mention it to either Karen or me?” Foggy’s indignation makes Matt wince. He softens his tone. “Are you still having them?”
“When they first started, they were adversarial, violent. It was mostly Fisk. He’d appear—usually at my lowest points, when the urge to hurt, to punish eclipsed all else. He gave voice to the worst parts of me.”
“OK, so we’re going to put a pin in that for now, but we’re definitely going to revisit that later,” Foggy says, rubbing his eyes. “And now?” he presses.
“These days, it’s my father. He’s here now.” His father’s presence is as solid as Foggy’s—oiled leather, whiskey, sweat. Something inside Matt, a part he thought he had closed off forever, aches.
Foggy looks around as if he expected someone to materialize on the spot and laughs at himself for the instinct.
“And if I have the surgery, all the hallucinations will disappear?” The thought leaves him breathless. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d grown accustomed to his father’s asides, thoughts, advice. He had been ten when his father was murdered—the hole that death left in its wake was bottomless.
“Matt, you’re not thinking of not getting the surgery, are you? That would be reckless, even for you. The doctor’s amazed the aneurysm hasn’t burst already. You needed the surgery yesterday.”
“Matty, he’s right, you need the surgery.”
Tears prick his useless eyes and Matt blinks rapidly, willing them away. “OK,” he says quietly.
Foggy jumps up and heads to the nurse’s station at the center of the wing. Matt tries to ignore the hurried conversation taking place there, but the next thing he knows, a nurse armed with a razor is clearing a patch on his skull while another is lowering his bed and injecting something into his line.
Almost immediately, his limbs feel heavy, sinking into the mattress beneath him. Overwhelmed by how quickly the drugs are taking hold, Matt turns his head towards the space that contains his father, seeking out one last point of contact.
He’s running out of time. Darkness continues to erode his senses until he’s suspended in space and time. Into that deepening void, his father’s voice, whispering assurances, accompanies Matt as he slips completely under.
—--------------------------------------------
This time, resurfacing is slower. So it takes him several moments to realize that the presence hovering in the periphery is not Foggy or Karen. She wears a simple habit, the weave rough and coarse, and smells of candle smoke, detergent, and a hint of dried tea. Tears collect in the corners of her eyes, but they remain unshed, held perhaps by force of will.
When his mother notices that Matt’s awake, she crosses the short distance to the door, cracks it open and notifies a passing nurse.
Back at his bedside, there's the barest pause as she performs the mental calculations in real-time, trying to gauge how unwelcome her presence is. “Karen and Foggy are at the office, but they’ll be here soon to check in—I’ll let them know you’re awake.” She moves to take her leave. “I”m sorry for coming, Matthew, but when Karen told me what happened, I had to see for myself that you were OK." Her lips press into a thin line. "But I’ll wait until you’re ready to contact me.”
Her breath hitches, but when she resumes speaking, her voice is steady. “Father Lantom and I, we made mistakes, but I’ve never once stopped thinking about you, or wondered if I did the right thing, giving you up.” She sighs. “You know where I am.”
“Maggie, mom.” She pauses at the threshold to the room, listening. “I think I can—forgive you,” Matt says, answering the question his mother had posed that day several weeks ago.
His mother strides back to his bedside then and grasps his hands in between hers—the skin there warm, callused. And solid.