daredevilkink | Prompt Post #4

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He still dreams in color, in bright, happy scenes. His waking hours are the nightmare; when he's asleep, he can see again, the faces of his friends and family perfectly sharp and clear. Matt, his teeth shining as he smiles, knuckles clear of bruises, no new stab wounds to speak of. Karen, all her golden hair hung over one shoulder in soft glossy curls, her shoulders weightless and free of burden. His parents, pushing him on some swingset in Brooklyn. His sisters, their braids flying, chasing him around the house.

Waking up is agony. There are a few days after he breaks the lamp when he just checks completely out of linear awareness; he unplugs his new talking clock, silences his phone alarm. He eats when he's hungry, so he doesn't eat; he sleeps when he's tired, so he's almost constantly in bed. The days and nights bleed and blend together so easily that it's almost hard to believe there was ever a reason for the distinction. Sometimes he wakes up with tears on his face; sometimes he makes it halfway to the kitchen for a glass of water before forgetting what he was doing and going back to bed; sometimes he doesn't open his eyes for hours, making bargains with himself that if he just waits another few minutes he'll be able to see again once he does open them.

Some time later, he wakes up from a dream in which Matt was chasing him across the Columbia campus dressed in his Daredevil suit, both of them laughing crazily, and he feels somehow, infinitesimally better. He orders his phone to read out the date and time for him: "Sunday, November third, 5:35 p.m." says the toneless voice. Four days. He's been checked out mentally, despair drowning him and starving him, for four days. He runs one hand down his face, tiredly, listens to his furnace kicking on, his refrigerator running, the tv murmuring still from when he turned it on some two or three days ago so that he wouldn't drown in the dark. He blinks a few times, still searching for a light, but just like before, he doesn't find one.

He sighs and gets out of bed. Plugs his clock back in, corrects the time. Sets his alarm for Monday morning. Turns off the tv. Sits on his couch, feels around for the folder Matt or Karen had slipped under his door. Finds the first Braille bumps with his fingers and begins to read.

--

He goes back to work the next day, still limping ever so slightly from destroying his end table. He takes a taxi, still not trusting his sense of direction anywhere other than his apartment building, and clutches his cane as he tentatively steps out onto the sidewalk, into the brisk November air.

"Door's right in front of ya, 'bout ten feet," the taxi driver says helpfully.

"Thanks," Foggy says, and he means it. He makes it to their second floor office door without incident, and, with a deep breath, pushes it open.

--

It's not easy. It's the hardest thing he's ever done, getting up every day and going back to work, asking for help with things he never used to even think about. More than once he finds himself snapping at Karen, punching a wall so he doesn't aim for Matt, breaking down into frustrated tears. He goes to therapy and starts taking antidepressants and anti-anxiety meds. Some days it seems impossible to take one more step without wrapping a rope around his neck and kicking a chair out from underneath him.

But Karen is patient, and Matt is understanding. When he cries, they hold him; when the trips or runs into things, they patch him up with gentle fingers; when he apologizes for yelling at them, they forgive him, easy as a breeze. The days he can't get out of bed begin to dissipate, grow fewer and farther between, until they're mostly a distant memory.

One day, several months after his eyes fail, he's laughing at something Matt said, and his chest feels lighter than it has in a long while. After a moment, he realizes that Karen has gone abruptly silent, and he turns in her direction.

"Karen?" he asks. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," she says softly. There's a grin creeping at the edges of her voice. "It's just... I think that's the first time I've seen you really smile since October."

It's the first of many.

(A/N had to split this into two because I hit the character limit, wow. was not expecting that! anyway. it's finished! hope you like!!)

Loved it

OP here. This was absolutely amazing, so much better than I was hoping for when I posted the prompt! Thanks so much for writing it!

I'm glad you decided to finish on a happy note :)

Oh, anon. Wow. This was so difficult to read. It was beautiful and amazing and your pacing and grasp of describing emotions is brilliant, but for exactly that reason Foggy's despair was palpable.

Prompt Post #4

Fill: Foggy is going blind, 7b/7 COMPLETE!

Re: Fill: Foggy is going blind, 7b/7 COMPLETE!

Re: Fill: Foggy is going blind, 7b/7 COMPLETE!

Re: Fill: Foggy is going blind, 7b/7 COMPLETE!