daredevilkink | Daredevil Prompt Post #11

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I am a complete n00b here, please be gentle with concrit. Thank you to OP for lighting a fire under my muse’s ass, though, much appreciated. This is set in a vague point of season one because, again, n00b and also because that’s not the focus.

DIPG (diffuse intrinsic pontine glioma) is a nasty and fatal cancer that slowly takes over the part of the brain that controls breathing and other baseline functions. It’s awful and terrible and my favorite professor’s son died at four years old. All OC names were adapted from my time volunteering at a summer camp for little kids with cancer. Bam! in the feels was requested, here goes.

Gemma's Wish

“Claire…”

She nodded in response to the half-whined protest, recognizing that tone perfectly well. She was a nurse after all. Nurses knew when they would win if they pushed their luck just a little farther, whether that meant a cranky dementia patient actually in their pants or a fussy vigilante staying in his seat instead of parkouring out her window.

“Remember, she’s eight years old and has brain cancer,” Claire continued. “She doesn’t keep your usual hours. Hopping onto the fire escape would probably make her day, though.”

“Claire.”

“One of her remaining days, since, you know, DIPG is fatal.”

“Dammit.”

--

In the usual chatter of Hell’s Kitchen, several very enthusiastic volunteers were making it their priority to make sure Gemma’s Wish was one of the most discussed topics. Foggy said that you couldn’t go in a coffee shop without passing one or two flyers on the bulletin board. Karen cooed over the girl’s crayon portrait printed next to a Bulletin article and joined the horde of adults adding even more flyers around Hell’s Kitchen, all of which were apparently brightly colored and now starting to be stuck on crosswalk poles. Matt couldn’t walk half a block without hearing the fluttering of new posters struggling against the wind.

“They tried to talk to the Avengers’ charity liaison, but he said that the Avengers have never had contact information for the Devil,” Karen said, frowning at the paper open over her desk. Matt had the sinking feeling that the neat stack of papers and roll of tape she had set down with determined thuds before opening her newspaper was an even larger stack of flyers than she’d had the day before. “How do people usually get in contact with him, anyway? Just luck?”

Foggy was standing behind Karen, probably also reading the second Bulletin article in two days because Matt was not having a good week. “Not like he has a Batsignal,” he said. Foggy sounded like he was thinking over the weaknesses of particularly annoying opposing counsel.

Matt gave up on pretense and left from where he had been in his office (hiding) attempting to work on something productive for keeping the firm’s lights on (not that he needed the lights). He had to stop this before Karen decided that a giant spotlight pointing toward clouds was just what the city needed. The way that his week had been going, they would do it, and not responding to an all-visual signal would be the only way to look worse. “Has anyone asked Mahoney?”

“He’s quoted,” Karen said, tapping the paper. He could hear her grin in the next words. “Apparently a lot of people keep calling and asking him if he’s had any notes lately. The station is about to bring someone on staff just to handle calls about her, since Gemma’s mom is a detective there. Her gofundme page is in great shape, though.”

Gemma Carmichael’s mother was also a very outspoken detective that he recognized from previous quotes to the Bulletin about the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen being an unhinged menace making a cops’ lives worse instead of better.

“You’d think he would notice the flyers,” Foggy said, reaching under the newspaper and grabbing a flyer to hand to Matt. Worse, Foggy tapped the back of his hand first, then waited patiently, so there were no excuses to flub the handoff.

“Cardstock,” Matt noted, surprised. Decent weight, too, but with a smell that went deeper than ink alone.

“Fluorescent cardstock,” Karen agreed happily. “That one’s a shade of yellow that would hurt your eyes if it had the chance.” She folded the Bulletin and slid the half-used roll of tape onto her wrist like an oversized bangle. “I’m taking my lunch now. Anyone else up for taping?”

“I could stretch my legs,” Foggy said, taking the rest of the stack of apparently bright-colored signs that no one with working eyes could miss. “Matt? You in?”

“I’d probably just get them upside down,” he demurred. “I’ll be here in case we get a call.”

Neither of them tried to reclaim his flyer. They were laser-printed, he decided as they left, but with different colors of ink. Someone was spending more than necessary to get the message out, someone in Hell’s Kitchen would have made a website, maybe… Matt started when he realized he was tracing the girl’s name. He had expected a J, not the G. Gemma, like Gemma Galgani.

When Matt tried to get through the deposition transcript, he thought he could feel the yellow of the paper burning against his arm.

--

That night, Claire called the burner phone and said she needed his help. When he made it through her window just nine minutes later, she brought out another fluorescent menace and calmly read him the entire thing, let him pretend that he was only reluctantly convinced, and then pressed a brand-new prepaid phone into his hand. “Make-a-Wish is the only contact in there. I don’t want to interfere with any plans of yours, now, but her building does have a nice little garden on the roof.”

--

Gemma Carmichael was eight years old. The precinct had nominated her to Make-A-Wish the day that her mother called in to work and said that she’d need more than an afternoon off. Diffuse intrinsic pontine glioma was the name of the new monster that was preying on a child, and in the station it quickly became the public enemy of choice. The cops stayed in touch with Jackie when she came in to take the occasional shift, usually covering a weekend, and learned about ketogenic diets and the tricks of cajoling a child through another failed PICC line. The day before Gemma’s wish became a driving force through the neighborhood gossip lines, they learned about hospice for children.

Detective Jackie Carmichael had never liked vigilantes. They muddied the waters and made proper collection of evidence a pipe dream. If the meatheads spent a day in court, they might know about chain of custody when it came to evidence, she’d fume. Occasional confessions were okay but the DA never seemed to do more than plea them out into offensively small sentences.

Her daughter Gemma drew pictures of Hell’s Kitchen’s Devil, substituting in red and purple and orange when she wore her black crayon down to nothing.

Daredevil Prompt Post #11

Fill: Gemma's Wish 1/2