Chapter Text
Matt was only nine when it happened.
He remembered that day far too clearly, as if it happened yesterday. As if he could still see it in the pitch black darkness.
He remembered how clear the sky was in the morning and though the air wasn't warm it hadn't been cold enough for anything other than a long sleeved shirt. How he sat in class staring out into the city through the window right next to his desk as the hum of his teacher's voice faded into the background. He hadn't been listening, he hadn't felt the need for it with how much he read and learned on a nightly basis.
He never liked homework but he always liked reading. Reading felt almost like second nature to him. Reading was what kept Matt relax and focused on something besides his father’s absence.
Matt remembered how it looked as he walked out of the school, children and their parents walking around, talking and laughing.
Matt hadn't really been in the mood for laughter or chatter, not that it was because he was sad, more so because Matt felt better, more fulfilled, when he was near his father. His next location was Fogwell’s since Jack had practice.
He remembered saying goodbye to his teacher, who was a kind and gentle woman who preferred to wait with him for his father. Jack Murdock was always late when he had to pick up Matt from school. He never did it on purpose. He knew his dad tried and he knew his father loved him more than anything on the planet.
Then as Matt was walking down the street, the roar of a bad engine spread through the air.
A truck.
And he remembered spotting the old man, too weak to move out of the way before he was hit.
So Matt ran. He jumped in the way and pushed so he wouldn't get hurt.
Maybe it was dumb, maybe it was ridiculous, a nine-year-old child playing hero was something that didn't sound right.
But Matt didn't mind.
Matt never minded.
Not when it came to helping other people. He couldn't bear the thought of just watching as horrors unveiled.
Just like he couldn't bear dragging his own problems and issues onto others. They shouldn't burden themselves with him. And he knew he could be a burden.
He didn’t use to feel that way but… times change.
Matt recalled the feeling of chemicals dripping from their barrels and onto him, the smell of toxins, the screaming of women and men, the crying of children. He remembered the terror and confusion as he laid on the concrete, hands balled into fists as he scrubbed at his eyes. He clawed at them, hoping something would help.
It had burned. Burned worse than anything Matt had ever felt before.
Matt remembered more, like his father's scared and worried face.
Where had he even come from? How much time had passed? Who called him?
Matt hadn't known. That part is still a mystery to him.
He remembered the old man telling his dad Matt saved him and apologizing with his voice shaking.
He remembered the ear piercing sirens that made themselves known even in all of Matt's pain.
And then…
‘I can't see!’
It was dark.
And it continued to be dark for a very long time, even while he was in the hospital.
The hospital had been filled with endless noise and an antiseptic smell. He woke to the sound of his father’s rough voice, muttering prayers that didn’t fit the man’s mouth. Jack Murdock had always fought for survival, fists in the ring, debts on his shoulders. But sitting by his son’s bed, Matt knew how crushed his father had been.
“You’re gonna be okay, Matty,” he’d said, voice cracking. “We’ll figure this out. I promise.”
But Matt heard the lie. He could feel the weight of his father’s guilt pressing heavier than the bandages over his eyes. His physical pain felt almost comparable to Jack Murdock’s at the time.
When they left, all Matt could do was rely. Relying on his senses of taste, smell, touch and hearing to help him. To make navigation in this world even possible.
He was blind.
Learning to do things again, except this time without any sight, was difficult. Even a simple thing such as eating, an everyday task, had become something Matt struggled with. The fork had scraped against the plate as he fumbled, stabbing at nothing. His hand brushed over mashed potatoes he hadn’t found, sticky and cold against his skin. When he tried to bring the food to his mouth, half of it slipped off and landed in his lap.
Matt remembered a nurse rushing forward with napkins, cooing softly, but that only made it worse. Matt had jerked away, muttering that he could do it himself.
He had wanted to scream.
He had wanted to yell.
He used to read late into the night, lose himself in stories and he couldn’t even find a bite of food on his own plate.
Fortunately, his father had been there, steady, to help him. Jack Murdock would sit at the table, patient but pushing Matt to keep trying until he figured it out. Matt told himself there would be time for adjustment, time to learn, time to be his son again. That same son that stitched up his father after a fight, that same son that did their bills and counted Jack's money.
And he had time, he really did. Matt had been learning properly and his father and him had become so much closer than before. If that was even possible.
Sadly that time didn't last.
‘Dad-’
‘I need to go, Mattie, what do you need?’
‘Can you do me a favor?’
‘Of course, what is it?’
Matt swallowed down the lump in his throat. His heart had beat loudly in his ears. Something hadn’t felt right at all. But Matt couldn’t tell his father that, he had no other evidence other than a gut feeling. So instead of convincing his father to stay home, he had simply uttered four words.
‘Please win for us.’
He couldn't tell but he knew his father had smiled at him.
‘Just listen to the tv, Mattie, we'll see how it goes, yeah?’
Matt never got to have more time with Jack after that.
That night, a night like any other, the police came to his door to tell him his father had been killed in cold blood.
He had been trying to get home to his son when the shot was fired.
He didn't know how, he didn't know who, he didn't know when or even where. Hell, Matt didn't even remember reacting. Just…
It felt… numbing. It felt quiet. Like the world decided to separate itself from the rest of his senses and allow him to float in a pool of pure nothingness. He felt so detached that he couldn't even speak.
The world kept turning after Jack Murdock's death. It wouldn't and hadn't stopped for anyone, least of all Matt. Because why would it stop for him? Why would he have peace for even a moment?
It was foggy and hazy, the time period between listening to his father's win and screaming in joy and then sitting on the bed, cane in hand, in St. Agnes’ orphanage. People around him had.. unpacked his things for him. Probably. Maybe it was him.
He couldn't remember that part.
As he said, the time period practically didn't exist in Matt's mind.
Grief, Father Lantom once told him, when he came to visit him for the first time.
It had been grief that allowed Matt to tune himself out. Make himself completely void of anything, his mind trying to protect him while also trying to deal with the shock of reality.
At the time, Matt wished his life hadn't gone the way it had. Perhaps Jack dying and him going blind was a part of God's plan for him, but couldn't Matt have at least the privilege of living back then? Feeling, experiencing, smelling, hearing, speaking? No… no, all that went out the window when grief decided to bare its teeth.
It was like he went blind all over again, except this time it wasn't his sight that had left him. His father’s death truly left him in darkness.
They put him in therapy again before he started school at St. Agnes, but it didn't help. Matt hadn't spoken a word to anyone. Not the therapist, not the nuns, not Father Lantom, no one.
Not even sister Maggie, who didn’t talk much but kept herself near him. Her tone had almost sounded guilty to Matt’s ears but what would he know? He didn’t remember what it sounded like.
Even as he finally started school again, Matt couldn't bring himself to do anything. His life had been a repeat of sleep, eat, go to school, eat, shower, go to sleep, constantly and without fail.
Even though that space of time wasn't much to Matt, he did know how he got out of it.
He had been laying in bed, lost to anything and everything, when the door had opened and the sound of tapping of a cane caught Matt's attention.
A man by the name of Stick.
He was… well… he certainly was.
He wasn't pitying, he didn't feel sorry for Matt and he didn't treat him as if he was blind, deaf and stupid. Matt liked that. It was a nice change of pace.
Yet the man also hadn't been soft. He spoke uninterestedly though his words had a pinch of venom in them. He didn't seem angry, he didn't seem sad. But he hadn't been monotone either.
It was something Matt hadn't heard before.
Maybe that had been what woke him up, something new.
Stick had taken him out for ice cream after he threw… Keys at Matt's head. He was very unsuccessful in catching them.
‘They say you're getting worse. Can’t let that happen now, can we?’
Stick spoke to him for a good while, he asked Matt to focus, to listen, to try to see the world without using his eyes. ‘Sight is a distraction’, he told Matt. Try teaching /that/ in therapy.
‘First thing’s first, kid, nobody feels sorry for you and nobody ever will.’
Matt wished that was true but he didn’t need sight to know how people truly felt about him-
‘Cause when it comes to being born lucky, you won the friggin’ lottery.’
Now that part, that was what got Matt to truly listen to the older man.
Matt was taught to not miss his sight by those helping him, but Stick came in with ‘You don't need sight’ and meant it.
Stick was, after all, blind too. And he knew how to fight. Fight well.
‘How old were you, when you got blinded?’
‘Nine.’
Matt couldn’t see but he could remember that day as if it just happened. He could almost feel the phantom pain in his eyes, eating away at his sockets and all around his face. The doctors made sure there was no scaring but it was weeks before Matt had looked okay.
‘So you’re nine years old, walking along, minding your business, and whamoo… Get hit by a truck. Killed dead on the spot.’
Matt certainly hadn’t been minding his own business, but what does the older man know? He hadn’t been there when it happened. He didn’t know what Matt had to go through.
‘I wasn’t killed.’
‘You lived? Praise God it’s a miracle.’
Yes. It was. It was sort of like being reborn in a weird way.
Not that Matt liked going through it. It wasn’t like Jesus who simply resurrected. No, for Matt it felt as if every bone had been broken and then he experienced the excruciating pain of them fixing themselves.
‘So you survive the truck, get this chemical shit in your eyes…What next?’
… Yeah. What next?
‘I don’t know.’ Matt had truthfully answered, ‘I kept going? For a while I did anyway. It all kind of blurred after…’
Matt didn’t continue his answer after that. Stick didn’t need to know, not like the man would care.
The older of the two hummed.
‘Mattie, what do you taste?’
Food never really tasted the same after that. It felt as though simply thinking about what could be in the ice cream was enough to showcase the truth behind it.
‘Mattie, what can you tell me about that woman?’
The woman running by them.
She sounded excited as she passed them with another person, ‘Is she happy?’
‘Worse. She's in love.’
‘Love is in the air’ wasn’t just a dumb phrase after all. If you couldn’t see it you could feel it.
“So, Mattie… wanna learn how to do what I can?”
“...”
‘Use your head, not your fists.’ Jack Murdock's voice echoed in Matt's head like a bell, a reminder to a promise he made.
The boy was quiet for a moment, busying himself by getting a lick of the ice cream in his palm. It tasted cold but sweet and comforting. It was just what he needed after waking up. Despite what Stick had told him about it Matt tried to ignore the bad bits.
“No.”
There was a long pause as Stick processed what the boy said. He hummed…
“What?”
“No. I don't want to fight. I want to help those around me but I won't do it by bloodying my fists.”
“That's a pussy answer, kid.” Stick sounded annoyed but Matt couldn’t find it in himself to care. Who was this guy anyways? Was he trying to be something to Matt? Was he not? Did he just want another soldier like himself so he could die in peace knowing Matt would take over?
‘Use your head, not your fists.’ Once again, that voice. Even just thinking about his father almost made Matt’s eyes tear up but his heart warmed at the words.
Matt gave a small smirk as he gave a lick to the ice cream. He didn’t mind the chemicals and dirt, they fell into the background more and more. “Maybe. But it's my decision and my choice to make.”
Stick scoffed next to him..
“My dad wouldn’t want me to fight.”
“Your dad ain’t here.” The sentence caused physical pain to the young boy, but he remained strong.
“He doesn’t need to be. I’m honoring his memory.”
“And what of the war?”
What war? Matt wasn’t a warrior. He was just 11 years old. He didn’t fight, he didn’t know how besides what he remembered his father teaching him.
“Find another soldier.”
But he hadn't left like Matt expected him to, like Matt thought he would do.
That's how he learned self defense, just enough so he wouldn't fall from a single hit. Granted, Matt doesn't want to fight, but knowing just in case is always a good thing. It kept him safe.
And when Stick left Matt didn’t feel an ounce of sadness. Not even an ounce of anger. His father was watching him and that’s all he needed. Even if the bracelet around his wrist felt close to heavy with regret.
Father Lantom assured him that sometimes people come into their lives, stay for a bit and then go, but that fact didn't change that Matt was allowed to feel. Furious, annoyed, upset, etc. All these emotions were fine. We had to feel them. We were human.
As long as you didn't allow your heart to control your brain completely, you were going to be okay.
And even if you didn't feel anything, that was okay too. Being in denial as well? All part of it.
It was all okay.
Matt's sudden change in attitude was surprising but not unwelcomed. He was finally out of his shell. That's what they called it anyway, unaware that it was much more than that.
Matt started talking more, being around people more, going to Mass, leaving his room, studying, learning, everything.
Matthew Murdock was alive.
“What are you doing now?” Sister Maggie asked him one day, while Matt was sitting outside in front of the church. The steps were cold under him, but he found it grounding. The book on his lap was in braille, of course it was. But it wasn't just any book.
“Sneaking up on a blindfold kid, sister? Thought you told the other kids to not do that.” Matt answered instead, but his fingers continued moving smoothly against the pages.
He was kidding, he knew someone was coming behind him, he wasn't deaf. He just didn't know it was Sister Maggie till her minty smell hit him.
“I know you heard me. Don't be sassy with me, kid.” Maggie walked closer to him, standing next to his sitting form. “You're reading? You do know class is in session, yes?”
“I do, sister. But sister Dora kicked me out.”
Matt tried to, unsuccessfully, stifle his smirk once Maggie let out a small annoyed sigh. “Well maybe if you didn't argue everything she says for once.”
Matt chuckled, “Not in my nature. I seem to be good at it.”
He could almost HEAR the eye roll that came from Maggie. “Yes, well, maybe you should make that your job.”
“Arguing?”
“Sure, why not? Since you're so great at lying too.”
Matt's brows pinched together, “When did I lie?”
“I know sister Dora didn't kick you out, Matthew. You left.”
The boy sighed, his fingers finally pausing.
“I just don't understand why.” Maggie finally moved, sitting down next to him, “This isn't the first person you've done this to. You keep running away to- what- read? I thought we were getting somewhere when you finally decided to wake up.”
Matt was quiet.
“Are you still angry? Is that what this is about?”
“I'm always angry, sister. But that's nothing new. I'm.. always gonna be angry, even if it's just in the back of my mind.”
Ain't that the truth. “But no, it's not about that. I've been…”
Maggie watched him, he could feel her eyes on him, prying. She wanted to understand him and read him as if he was an open book. But jokes on her because all his pages were scattered with scrambled letters that only he could read.
“What?”
“I've been reading up on different studying materials.”
“Studying materials? You mean you've been going forward without help? That's no reason to escape class, Matthew.”
Matt sighed, “No, I've… I haven't been reading what you've given me. What I'm reading isn't really talked about here, I guess?”
Maggie tilted her head in question, staring at the boy, “What have you been reading in that case? What was so important that you decided leaving class is okay?”
Matt was once again silent for a moment, but only for a few seconds, before speaking again, “Well, you did say I was good at arguing. So… recently I've started thinking about maybe being a lawyer.”
‘Use your head, not your hands.’
‘Be good, Matty.’
‘Be better than your old man.’
Matt wanted to help people. That was always what he wanted to do.
“So I've been reading about laws. I've gotten some.. books in braille.”
“Is that what those boxes for you were?” Maggie asked him, to which Matt nodded his head. “Huh. Alright… I don't know what I was expecting but it certainly wasn't that.”
…
“So I'm not in trouble?” Matt asked, hopeful.
“Not a chance, get your butt up.”
“Worth a shot.”
Who knew that years later, when Matt was in college to be a lawyer, that he'd meet his best friend for life there?
“Excuse me, is this room 312?”
“Yeah, who you looking for?”
Franklin “Foggy” Nelson.
The best friend he'd open a law firm with.
The best friend he'd worry about and care for.
The best friend that… wanted to protect him. No matter the cost.
‘Use your head, not your fists.’
Well what if someone could simply use both?
Welcome to
“The Advocate”