The Gordon family home stood on the corner of Aparo Avenue and Dixon Street, a sturdy two-story brick house in Gotham's East End. It wasn't luxurious, but it was comfortable—a police commissioner's salary stretched only so far in a city like Gotham. As the car pulled into the driveway, Matthew felt a wave of relief wash over him. After two weeks in the sterile environment of Gotham General, even the faint smell of his father's neglected lawn was welcome.
"Home sweet home," James Gordon announced, putting the car in park. "Barbara's got everything ready for you inside."
Matthew nodded, his hands resting on the folded white cane in his lap. Leslie Thompkins had insisted he learn to use it properly before leaving the hospital, though he hardly needed it. Still, appearances had to be maintained.
"Need help getting out?" his father asked, the concern evident in his voice.
"I've got it," Matthew replied, finding the door handle with practiced ease. He unfolded his cane and stepped onto the driveway, taking a moment to orient himself.
The world around him exploded with information. The gentle breeze carried the scents of Mrs. Kravitz's rose garden next door, the lingering exhaust from the morning commute, and the distinct aroma of Barbara's attempt at baking something—likely meant to welcome him home.
He could hear squirrels chattering in the oak tree that dominated their small backyard, the distant siren of a GCPD cruiser heading downtown, and the subtle creak of the porch swing moving in the wind.
"Take it slow," his father advised, coming around to stand beside him. "No rush."
Matthew suppressed a smile. He could map every inch of their property without taking a single step.
nstead, he allowed James to guide him up the walkway, cane tapping rhythmically against the concrete.
The front door opened before they reached it, Barbara's excitement palpable in her rapid heartbeat. "Welcome home, Matty!"
Matthew grinned as his sister bounded down the steps to meet them. "Smells like you've been busy."
"I made cookies," she admitted. "They're a little... well, you'll see. I mean... you'll taste them."
"I'm sure they're great," he reassured her, detecting the slight embarrassment in her voice at her poor choice of words.
The next hour was a carefully choreographed dance of pretending to relearn his home. Matthew allowed Barbara to lead him from room to room, describing changes they'd made to accommodate his new needs. His bedroom had been reorganized for easier navigation. The bathroom now had tactile markers on various products. The kitchen cabinets bore braille labels—courtesy of Leslie, who had been teaching Barbara the basics.
"And Dad installed these rubber strips along the top and bottom of the stairs," Barbara explained, guiding his hand to feel the textured surface. "So you can tell when you're at the edge."
Matthew marveled at the effort they'd put in during his hospital stay. The house was the same, yet subtly transformed—not just for a blind child's safety, but with genuine thought toward independence.
"This is amazing, guys," he said sincerely. "Really."
His father cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with praise. "Leslie helped us figure out what would be most useful. And Barbara did most of the work while I was at the precinct."
"Even got your favorite records organized by the braille labels," Barbara added proudly. "The ones Grandpa gave you."
Once the tour was complete, Matthew found himself alone in his bedroom while Barbara fussed over lunch preparations and his father took a work call. Finally, a moment to properly explore his environment without maintaining the charade.
He closed his door and stood perfectly still in the center of the room, extending his senses outward. Every detail of the space revealed itself to him with crystalline clarity—far more precisely than he remembered being capable of before. The dimensions of the room. The location of furniture. The baseball trophies on his shelf, the model airplanes hanging from the ceiling, the stack of comics Barbara had placed on his nightstand despite his supposed inability to read them now.
Matthew walked to his window, fingers brushing against the glass. Focusing his hearing outward, he mapped the entire block. The Kravitzes arguing about their garden. A group of kids playing stickball three houses down. A television tuned to a Gotham Knights baseball game across the street.
He pushed further, testing the limits of his abilities. Six blocks away, a convenience store was being robbed—he could hear the clerk's elevated heart rate, the nervous demands of the would-be thief. In his past life, he might have intervened. Now, he was a nine-year-old boy who couldn't reveal how much he knew without raising impossible questions.
Reluctantly, Matthew pulled his focus back to his immediate surroundings. His hearing sharpened on the conversation downstairs—his father and Barbara, voices hushed but distinct.
"...still don't understand why we can't tell him," Barbara was saying, frustration evident in her tone.
"Because he has enough to adjust to right now," his father replied firmly. "Learning about your mother's request isn't going to help him."
Matthew's attention sharpened. Gordon rarely mentioned his ex-wife, Barbara and Matthew's mother, who had left Gotham years ago.
"But she's his mom," Barbara protested. "She has a right to—"
"She lost that right when she walked out on this family," Gordon interrupted, a rare edge to his voice. "When she didn't visit him once in the hospital."
"She's in Coast City, Dad. It's not exactly next door."
"Leslie managed to come every day, and she runs a clinic in Crime Alley." A heavy sigh. "Look, Babs, I'm not saying your mother can never see Matt. I'm just saying now isn't the time to bring up her sudden interest in custody arrangements."
Matthew's breath caught. Custody? His mother wanted him back now that he was blind? The thought was bewildering. In his memories as Matthew Gordon, his mother was a distant figure who sent birthday cards with impersonal signatures and made obligatory phone calls at Christmas. She had never shown any interest in being part of his life before.
"What did her lawyer say exactly?" Barbara asked.
"That in light of Matthew's 'changed circumstances,' she feels he would benefit from the 'stability and constant care' she can provide in Coast City, away from the 'dangerous environment' of Gotham." His father's voice took on a mocking tone at the quoted phrases. "As if I haven't been raising both of you just fine for the past five years."
"That's garbage," Barbara declared loyally. "Matt belongs here, with us."
"The judge will agree," Gordon said with more confidence than his heartbeat suggested. "No court is going to uproot a child who's just experienced trauma just because his mother suddenly developed maternal instincts."
Matthew moved away from the door, processing this new information. His mother—or at least, Matthew Gordon's mother—wanted to take him away from Gotham. Away from his father and Barbara. The thought was unacceptable.
He had already lost one family in another lifetime. He wouldn't lose this one too.
Moving to his desk, Matthew ran his fingers over the surface until he found the small radio his father had placed there. He turned it on, tuning it carefully until he found the Gotham News Network.
"...continued investigation into the chemical spill that injured nine-year-old Matthew Gordon, son of Police Commissioner James Gordon," the announcer was saying. "Ace Chemical Processing Plant has issued a statement denying any irregularities in their transportation protocols, while city officials are calling for increased regulation of hazardous materials being transported through residential areas."
Matthew turned the volume down but continued listening. The accident that had blinded him was still news, it seemed. The son of Gotham's police commissioner was a more noteworthy victim than an anonymous Hell's Kitchen boy had been in his previous life.
The stakes were different here. His father had enemies—serious enemies, in a city like Gotham. Which despite my limited knowledge about the city, it makes his New York in the last life look like paradise.
His abilities had to remain secret—not just to protect himself, but to protect his family.
And yet, he couldn't ignore the potential good he could do with these gifts. Even as a child, there were ways he could help. Information he could gather. Dangers he could detect before they threatened those he cared about.
Matthew moved to his bed and lay back, considering his options. He had been given a second chance at life—a life with a family who loved him, in a world where actual superheroes existed. Batman patrolled Gotham's streets. Superman protected Metropolis. The Justice League safeguarded the entire world. There was no need for another vigilante.
Perhaps this was his opportunity to just be Matthew Gordon. To grow up, become a lawyer again, fight for justice in the courtroom rather than on rooftops. To experience the childhood and family life that had been cut short for Matt Murdock.
The sound of Barbara coming up the stairs brought him back to the present. He quickly adjusted his position to appear as if he'd been resting.
"Lunch is ready," she announced, knocking lightly on his door. "I made your favorite—grilled cheese with the crusts cut off, like the sophisticated gentleman you are."
Matthew smiled, pushing himself up. "Thanks, Babs."
As he followed his sister downstairs, guided by the sound of her footsteps, Matthew made his decision. He would keep his abilities hidden, but he would use them strategically—to protect his family, to anticipate dangers, to gather information that might help his father without revealing its source.
He wouldn't become Daredevil again. Not now, perhaps not ever. But he wouldn't waste this gift either.
The kitchen was filled with the comforting aroma of melted cheese and tomato soup. His father was already seated at the table, newspaper rustling as he folded it away.
"Perfect timing," Gordon said. "I was just about to call you two."
Matthew took his seat, finding the edge of the table without hesitation. He could sense the careful arrangement of his place setting—everything positioned for easy location.
As Barbara placed a plate in front of him, describing where each item was located with careful precision, Matthew felt a swell of affection. Having a family environment like this...
People who loved him unconditionally, who had restructured their entire home just to make his life easier.
It was weird. But he liked this feeling.
"Dad," Matthew said suddenly, "tell me about your latest case."
Gordon hesitated. "I'm not sure that's appropriate dinner conversation, Matt."
"Please? I miss hearing about your work." It wasn't just curiosity prompting the request. If he was going to help from the shadows, he needed to understand what his father was facing.
"Well," Gordon began after a moment, "there's not much to tell. Some stolen artwork from the museum. A series of break-ins in the Diamond District. The usual Gotham crime wave."
Matthew nodded, filing away the information.
As lunch continued, filled with Barbara's chatter about school and his father's carefully edited work stories, Matthew found himself genuinely content for the first time since waking up in the hospital.
Also, the grilled cheese really was fucking perfect.