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Chapter Text

Matt barely felt the first cut.

His face remained impassive as his skin was split open from his collarbone to just above his belly button. Thanks to his disciplined meditation, the audience chatter had been reduced to an indistinct buzzing. The pain from standing with his arms held horizontal should have been excruciating by now, but for the moment, he could have been floating in water for all the effort he registered.

He probably could have held the meditative state beyond the second cut. He could have ignored the gasps and whispers from the audience – the whispers of outrage, of disbelief, even humor.

He could have done it… if not for Foggy.

It was Foggy’s voice that pulled him from his place of delicate equanimity – a hissed, “what the fuck, Matt?” that broke through the general audience chatter.

The second cut – a horizontal slash that ran across his sternum – burned as much as the slash he received from a hopped-up ice user just last week. Matt’s body was suddenly aware of everything – the chatter; the racing heartbeats of the audience; the slurp of the paint; the tug of each follicle of hair as it was dragged downwards by the heavy liquid; the warmth of the blood; the plastic stench of acrylic paint dripping slowly onto his shoulders; the pattern of whorls and stripes forming around his bloody chest as the viscous paint met and competed with the thinner blood; the chipped fiber board under his bare feet; the heat of the theatre lights beaming straight at his chest.

Then there was Foggy’s heartbeat. It was too fast. Matt caught a small groan, footsteps, a small whine of “Matt, what are you doing?”

Matt breathed out through narrowed lips. This was a mistake. He wasn’t a performance artist. He was Matt – he was a fraud. The art audience knew. Why was he here?

“One minute,” Yasmin whispered. Matt wiggled his small finger to acknowledge he was okay.

But he wasn’t okay. He knew he was the subject of a critical gaze. He could hear the whispers from the audience as distinct as if they were talking to his face: “Is this for real?”; “What the fuck?”; “Should we do something?”;“beautiful”; “this is fucked up, man”; “OMG this is Instagrammable as fuck”; “you’re just jealous”; “is that real blood?”; “bloody hell, that must hurt”; “I’m leaving”; “did you say he’s blind?”; “at what point do we intervene?”; “we could go to Dave’s Bar, I guess”; “wow”; “what’s next on the program?”; “he’s got great abs”; “yeah but those scars – has he done this before?”; “I’m going to be sick”; “it’s gotta be a trick”; “this is ace”; “shit, my phone just died”; “this is so 80s”.

A slop of paint dripped over his left foot and through his toes. His foot twitched. Ticklish feet was one of his weaknesses, despite Stick’s repeated attempts to train it out of him. Pain was easier to bear than ticklishness. Matt clenched his teeth and counted to ten, trying not to think about the burn across his shoulders, the slight quiver of his muscles as they protested against his raised arms.

Just as Matt thought he couldn’t stand it any further, the temperature dropped with a crack as the theatre lights were switched off.  The audience erupted into applause. Matt cringed, finally allowing his face to express some of the pent-up energy. A towel was wrapped around his shoulders, and then a warm hug. “You did it. I’m so proud of you,” Yasmin whispered.

Matt grinned into her neck. “Likewise,” he whispered.

She led him backstage without another word, while the back of house staff at Performance Space rushed in to clear away the mess of paint and blood.

Matt collapsed into a chair with a drunken grin on his face. The hum of pain and adrenaline was incredible. That is, it was incredible until the shriek of “Matt!”

Matt sat up straight. “Foggy?”

“I’m sorry, I told him he wasn’t allowed back here,” a woman said as she came up behind Foggy.

“It’s fine,” Matt said, waving her away. “A friend.”

“A concerned friend,” Foggy bellowed. “What the hell, Matt? You’re cutting yourself now… in public?!”

“It’s art, Foggy,” Matt said. He grasped the towel Yasmin threw at him and wiped off his face.

“I hope these towels were already blue,” Matt awkwardly joked.

“They’re red,” Foggy said without humor.

“Also appropriate,” Matt deadpanned, gingerly scraping off the excess paint from his chest. Originally a delicate swirl of blood and paint, the liquid had now turned into a muddy mess. It wasn’t pretty.

“And you,” Foggy turned on Yasmin. “Why are you cutting him?”

“He asked me to,” Yasmin said.

“He asked- he asked-“ Foggy spluttered. “What else would you do if he asked?”

Matt hissed, “Foggy, chill.”

“It’s assault-”

“It’s not. I drew up a legal agreement.”

“Of course you did,” Foggy said under his breath. “Lawyers.”

Matt pinched the bridge of his nose before realizing his messy mistake. “Foggy, seriously. I really want to take a moment to recover.”

“You need stitches, and ergh, I don’t even want to know what’s in that paint. It stinks. Where’s Claire?”

Matt breathed out through pursed lips. He tried to keep his voice calm and polite, but there was an edge of impatience creeping in. “They’re shallow cuts, Fog. I don’t need stitches. Yasmin used a special knife. The cut is only a hair deep.”

“It sure created a lot of blood,” Foggy said, but his heartbeat slowed at Matt’s reassurance. “Are you sure you don’t need Claire?”

“I’m sure,” Matt said. His chest was starting to really ache now. The argument with Foggy had well and truly killed the buzz. “Um, but I do need a shower. Will you wait?”

Foggy nodded his head. Yasmin smiled at Foggy. Since she found out about Matt’s enhanced senses and alter ego, she felt like she was in a special club of sorts – a club of people who knew Matt could sense a nod from the other side of the room.

 But Foggy wasn’t ready to forgive Yasmin just yet. As soon as Matt left the room, Foggy turned away and busied himself with his phone.

“Do you want a beer?” Yasmin ventured.

“No,” Foggy said without looking up from his phone.

A few awkward minutes passed before Yasmin pulled a couple of beers from a freezer bag and cracked the lids. She offered one to Foggy. “Here, Matt brought enough for three people – he said you’d need at least one.” Foggy sighed and accepted the bottle.

“It was his idea, you know,” Yasmin said as Foggy took his first swig.

“Yeah, it has Matt Murdock professional masochist written all over it,” Foggy grumbled.

“It’s performance art,” Yasmin said.

“That’s just an interpretation.”

“Sure. But that’s Matt’s interpretation.”

“Why the blue paint then?”

“It’s Yves Klein blue,” Matt said, bursting out of the bathroom with just a towel around his waist. The cross on his chest was still oozing blood, with a small rivulet cutting a crooked path down his sternum to his belly button. He looked thrilled.

“Dude,” Foggy started, grabbing an extra towel to stem the bleeding, but Yasmin got in first. She dabbed the wound and grabbed the waiting first aid supplies.

“Matt, sit,” she ordered.

“Don’t I get a beer first?” Matt asked with a cheeky grin. He puffed out his chest, obviously enjoying the attention.

Foggy and Yasmin both rolled their eyes. Yasmin reached for the bag, but Foggy muttered, “I’ll get the beer. You tend to the blood.”

Matt and Yasmin’s original plan was to join the audience to experience the remaining performance artworks, but after cleaning up Matt was too wired to sit still and Foggy declared he couldn’t cope with any more performance art. Ever. So the three of them ended up at Josie’s.

“Don’t scratch,” Yasmin said as Matt raised his hand to his chest yet again.

“I’m not,” Matt grumbled. He was regretting going for the cheap acrylic paint option now. He pressed the cool beer bottle to his chest instead, sighing in relief.

“I’ll get us another round,” Foggy said, “but I’m just going to pop to the bodega next door first.”

Two minutes later, Foggy tossed a bag of frozen peas onto the table. “This is better than warming your beer.”

Matt gave Foggy an indulgent smile and stuffed the peas down his shirt.

 When Foggy returned with the beers, he asked, “so what now? You started off with lifelike sculptures, then moved onto drawing, then sound installations, now glorified self-harm-"

Matt rolled his eyes. “It’s not-”

“I know, I know, it’s art,” Foggy interrupted. He took a swig of his beer. “Well?”

“There were a few reviewers there last night – we're hoping we get a favorable write up.”

“And if you do? Does that mean a repeat performance?”

Matt shrugged. “We’ll see.”

“What’s the point of it anyway. What did you call it – eev-eev what?”

“Yves Klein blue,” Matt supplied.

“You can’t even see blue,” Foggy pointed out.

“But I know the name. It’s trademarked, you know.”

“So is this some kind of legal up yours to Eev-whatever for trademarking a color?”

“Yves Klein’s dead,” Yasmin interrupted. “He was early performance artist – big in the 60s.”

“Il était un nouveau réaliste,” Matt said in his best French accent. It made Yasmin visibly swoon.

Foggy rolled his eyes. “Okay, okay.” He sighed, “I guess I just don’t get art.”

Chapter Text

Matt was glad of the relative normality of work the next day. He fronted up to his research assistant position at Columbia dressed in his usual suit and tie. He knew it was ridiculous, but the tie seemed to weigh more than usual against the cuts on his chest. They were minor cuts compared to many of his Daredevil injuries, but they still hurt. He’d barely turned his computer on when he was interrupted by Professor Douglas, his supervisor.

“Matthew, I’m sorry for disturbing you,” he ventured.

Matt hurriedly stood up, “hi, sorry, did we have a meeting?”

“No, nothing like that.” The professor scratched his head. “Uh, there’s a small issue that’s come up. Can we chat in my office?”

Matt’s cheeks reddened. He knew that it was only a matter of time before someone else discovered his secret, particularly considering the subject of his work. Following the fall of Nelson & Murdock, he’d been out of a job. When he bumped into his old Criminal Law professor at his first art opening and was offered a job as a part time research assistant, he’d jumped at the chance. It was a mere coincidence that the research focused on enhanced individuals in the justice system. As Matt had explained to Foggy, this undeclared conflict of interest was far better than knowing someone else was potentially digging into Daredevil’s activities (along with that of Jessica Jones, The Punisher, Spiderman, Luke Cage, and Bullseye, to name a few of his subjects).

He followed the professor into his office and sat on the edge of the chair, nervously picking at the handle of his cane.

“I got a call from the PR department,” the professor started before pausing. Matt wanted to yell “get on with it”, but he just nodded.

“Apparently there’s been some, er, reports on a certain performance,” he continued. Matt sighed in relief. It wasn’t Daredevil after all. The performance he could deal with.

“There’s been some controversy in the press.”

Matt frowned. It seemed too early for reviews. And Yasmin would have called if there had been any press. He patted his coat pocket for his phone. It wasn’t there. He inwardly groaned and turned his attention back to the professor.

“I-I didn’t know. What are they saying?”

“Matt, you know I’m supportive of your art practice. I think it’s wonderful that you’re balancing your talents in law with your creative practice.”

“I feel like there’s a but coming on,” Matt said.

“No but. I just want you to know that you have my support.”

Matt furrowed his brow. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Well, apparently someone high up thinks that your performance brings Columbia into disrepute.”

“Disrepute?!”

“As I said, that’s a communication from above. I think it’s codswaddle personally. This will all blow over by next week, but I did promise I’d have a word to you – and here we are.”

Matt thought for a moment. He desperately wanted to read these articles before he responded to any criticism.

“Are you okay?”

“Me?”

“Yes, I saw an image with a lot of blood.”

“For show,” Matt clarified.

“But it was blood?”

Matt licked his lips. “Yes.”

There was an awkward silence, and Matt realized he hadn’t answered the original question. “I’m fine. It’s just a scratch.”

The professor’s tone lightened. “Well, I’m glad you’re okay. And while I’ve got you here, I wanted to discuss the case of Luke Cage. I believe he’s been incarcerated again. In fact, I hear your former business partner is representing him.”

Matt smiled. He’d got away with it again.

The drama for the day didn’t end with their meeting. Matt googled himself as soon as he returned to his computer. There were short articles on a couple of third rate click bait sites, and a longer one on a more reputable news site. He sent an email through to Yasmin warning her about his forgotten phone, then went back to his work.

It was mid-afternoon before he was disturbed again, this time by an administration assistant informing him of a phone call.

“For me?”

“Yes, she introduced herself as a Professor Luckhurst from the school of art.”

“School of art? Here, at Columbia?”

“That’s what she said.”

Matt swallowed.  Now he was going to be told he was bringing the art department at Columbia into disrepute. He was going to be revealed as the fraud he was, the poser who never went to art school.

He cleared his throat and said in what he hoped was a confident voice, “Matt Murdock speaking.”

“Matt, it’s Cara Luckhurst – professor of performance and discursive practices at Columbia.”

There was a pause before Matt cleared his throat again and said, “and what can I do for you professor?”

“I saw your work at Performance Space last night. I didn’t realize you were one of ours until someone mentioned it today over lunch. Apparently you made quite a splash – excuse the pun.”

Matt’s mouth twitched. He did love a good pun.

“Anyway,  we have a scheduled panel discussion this weekend as part of an all-day graduate seminar.  It’s on art and the body.”

“That’s sounds interesting. “

“Oh good, because we’d like you to join the panel.”

“Join - as in talk?” He thought he’d just listen to the panel – preferably later without the crowds.

“Yes, I know it’s last minute, but we had someone withdraw. Your work is topical and well, a talking point.”

“I-I think you might be better off with my collaborative partner, Yasmin-”

“We need a Columbia employee. Pay reasons.”

“Pay?”

“Yes, you’ll be paid faculty speaker rates.”

Matt thought for a moment. “I- I- you know I never went to art school.”

“A lot of successful artists never went to art school, Matt. It doesn’t make you any less of an artist.”

Matt didn’t expect a response like that from someone who made their living teaching want-to-be artists. But then, few would suspect a lawyer to moonlight as a vigilante either. Nothing was impossible.

“Can I let you know tomorrow?”

“Sure. I look forward to hearing from you. I’ll email you through the program.”

Matt gave up trying to read the program within a few minutes. Whatever computer program they’d used to create the document was utterly screen-reader unfriendly. He forwarded it Yasmin with “what do you think?” in the subject.

“You have to do it,” were Yasmin’s first words when he called her that night.

“Give me the details,” Matt replied.

Yasmin read out the introductory blurb, while Matt paced up and down his living room, head down, lips pursed. She was a few lines into the speaker biographies before Matt interrupted, “stop, stop.”

“What’s wrong?”

“This. I-I can’t do it.”

“Matt, you dress up like the devil and take down entire criminal gangs.  A graduate forum is far less risky.” She paused and continued, “besides, you stand up in court in front of massive crowds. How are you scared of a small grad group?”

Matt pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I-I could come with you,” Yasmin ventured.

“I assumed you would.”

“So you will go? You probably need to get permission for me.”

Matt waved his hand, “yes, yes, I can do that. Just-just promise me you won’t judge.”

Yasmin snorted. “See you tomorrow, Matt.”

Matt fiddled with his folded cane as he waited for the rest of the forum participants to arrive. He was seated in a semi-circle of chairs facing a dozen chairs in a row. It was certainly a smaller group than his graduate classes in law, but he still was more nervous than he’d been before his first court appearance. Professor Luckhurst was leafing through notes on an adjacent seat, quietly muttering to herself.

Keen to distract himself, Matt threw his attention to the surrounding rooms. He could hear students chatting in a nearby studio, complaining about restrictions in the sites they could use for their final assessments. He couldn’t imagine being given a mark for his performance. Reviews were bad enough.

He cleared his throat and reached for the bottle of water Professor Luckhurst had given him. But just as he’d taken a sip, the professor said to him, “was the blood real?”

Matt choked on his mouthful.

“Sorry,” the professor said.

Matt wiped the water from his lip. “s’okay,” he said, giving another weak cough. “I was lost in thought.” He paused and said, “yes, it was real.”

“Have you done this kind of performance before?”

“No, it was my first.”

“You started big. Most artists who have performed similarly invasive works tend to work up to it. Do you know of the work of Mike Parr?”

Matt shifted uncomfortably as his imposter syndrome reared its ugly head. “No, I-I'm afraid not.” He filed the name away to Google later. He explained, “my collaborative partner has experience. She did most of the logistical stuff too... Thanks for allowing her to attend by the way.”

“No problem. I wish I could invite her to speak as well, but faculty rules state...” She petered off. “Sorry, I won’t bore you with that. I’m sure you get enough of that in your own school.”

Matt nodded. He tried to keep out of college politics, but it seemed to catch up with him wherever he went.

“So how does a lawyer become a performance artist, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“Oh, I fell into it really. My friend bought me some clay, another bought me some pencils and paper, I had a show, then I met Yasmin and we created an immersive sound installation on the docks last year-”

“Yes, that was terrific.”

“Uh, thanks,” Matt said, still feeling overwhelmed. “I didn’t realize you’d seen it.”

Professor Luckhurst continued, “for someone who just ‘fell into it’, you make complex and well-resolved work.” She stopped as the door opened. “Well, here they come.” She lowered her voice to a whisper and said, “if you feel uncomfortable with any of the questions, feel free to, well, I guess as a lawyer you’d say, no comment, is that right?”

Matt huffed in amusement. “Something like that,” he said with a warm smile.

Matt was quite content to sit and listen as the forum got underway. The discussion started off quite general, and to Matt it was fascinating. He’d not had any education in art history, particularly contemporary art, so the names of theorists and art-specific terms tended to go over his head. But even so, he was learning. He was deep in thought about the implications of the gender roles in his performance with Yasmin, when he was interrupted by a question from one of the grad students.

“My question is for Matt Murdock,” she said.

Matt blinked. He’d been dreading this. But he cleared his throat and said, “sure, go ahead.”

“As a disabled person, do you think that letting someone physically harm you is the wrong message to send to audiences? It says abuse is okay.”

Matt raised his eyebrows. “I have agency. I consented to everything that happened last night. The fact that I’m blind played no part in the performance.”

“But it sends a message-”

Matt replied, “are you suggesting I be restricted in the type of work I perform simply because I have a disability? Why should I avoid certain, er, methods, simply because I cannot see?”

“You have an obligation to all disabled people,” the student argued.

“No, I don’t. I may have a disability as defined by you and many others, but I am my own person. I just do things differently.” Matt pulled back his shoulders. He wasn’t expecting a fight like this.

“It’s people with disabilities, not disabled people,” another student chimed in.

The professor cleared her throat. “The issue of consent is interesting because it was a collaborative performance. Disability aside, how does one consent to such a performance? Does your experience as a lawyer come in handy?”

Matt said, “if you’re talking about legal paperwork, then yes, we had an agreement in writing.”

“So if something went wrong-”

“Not just if something went wrong. On a more basic level it was about consent and protecting Yasmin.” Matt gestured towards Yasmin, who was sitting at the back of the room. She waved at the group.

“Lots of artists use performers to realize their art, don’t forget,” Yasmin said. “Is there anyone here who outsources the actual performing?”

Matt gave Yasmin a grateful smile as the conversation moved onto outsourcing labor in the context of one of the grad student’s work. He was itching to leave. He had anticipated questions about the art theoretical aspect of the work, or the experience of performing. He didn’t expect to be attacked on the basis of his blindness. Betrayal indeed!

Matt answered a few more questions over the following hour, but as soon as the forum was over, he excused himself and fled the room, apologizing to the couple of students who wanted to chat.

“What was that about?” Yasmin said as soon as they’d left the building.

“What?”

“Your iceman act. And then ignoring those students at the end.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Matt snapped, speeding up.

“They wanted to talk to you. They were interested. This was a great opportunity.”

Matt turned on Yasmin. “I never wanted to do this in the first place. I knew it was a mistake. I don’t belong here.”

“Sure you do. You are success-”

“I was just accused of betraying all people with disabilities, and no one in the room came to my defense. For all the art world’s preaching about liberal values and inclusivity, I sure didn’t feel supported tonight.”

“That was one student-”

“I don’t care.” Matt paused before snarling, “you know what I think? I think you pressured me into doing this because you want to be here.”

“What-”

“You’re the one that’s always going on about careers and promotion. I only ever wanted to make art.”

Yasmin whispered, “that’s not fair, Matt.”

 “I-I’m going home.”

“I’ll come-”

“No, I think I need to be alone.” Matt turned on his heel and walked briskly to the nearby cab rank, leaving a devastated Yasmin in his wake.

Matt started to give the cab driver his address, but half way though changed his mind, giving him Foggy’s address instead.

“This is a surprise,” Foggy said as he opened the door to Matt holding a six-pack of beer.

“Sorry, I-I hope you’re not busy,” Matt stuttered. He held out the beer like a peace offering.

“If you call trying to find precedent to justify the forced used by an enhanced individual to defend a young offender busy, then yes.” Foggy shrugged. “But I always have time for you…  particularly when you’re in a mood.”

Matt raised his eyebrows.

“Come on, Matt. I can tell you’re upset about something. What’s up?”

“Shitty day,” Matt grumbled, separating two beers from the pack and handing one to Foggy.

“Thanks.”

Matt took a swig, debating whether or not to tell Foggy what happened. “Uh, can we sit?” Matt gestured at the couch.

“Yeah, yeah, sure.”

After a minute’s silence on the couch, Foggy sighed and said, “so, are you going to tell me what’s wrong or are we going to sit here pretending that you’re not having an internal meltdown?”

“I’m not having a meltdown, Foggy,” Matt said in a voice that suggested offense.

“You broke up with Yasmin?”

“We had a fight,” Matt said slowly.

“Oh,” Foggy said, disarmed. “I’m sorry, man.”

Matt shrugged and took another sip of his beer.

“I-“, Matt started.

“Do you-“ Foggy said at the same time. “Uh, sorry, you go.”

“I- I don’t think performance is for me,” Matt said quietly. His hand unconsciously drifted to the healing cuts on his chest.

“You sore?”

“A little,” Matt acknowledged. “It’s more uncomfortable than sore.” He took another sip. “But that’s not why…” He petered off.

“If it helps, I thought your sculptures and drawings were much better.”

“Well that’s the thing. I enjoyed drawing. I-I don’t enjoy performance… well, not that kind.”

“You like doing flippy shit in a mask.”

Matt laughed. “Yeah.”

“Show off,” Foggy muttered.

Matt snorted and leaned back into the squishy  corner of the couch. “Thanks, Fog.”

“So does that mean we’ll be seeing more drawings from you?”

Matt smiled. “Yeah, I think so.”