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They know you shouldn’t find yourself injured and out in Gotham too late.
Bleeding slumped against a wall, too weak to get up and get to the nearest clinic or safe spot. They wait. Death comes for them all and it’s no surprise.
But instead, what comes into view is pale bare feet.
It’s Saturday.
Not the day, of course. It’s Thursday just a little passed 2:15 am.
But before them is the familiar figure that goes by the name of Saturday. He was a teen, or a very young man from the looks of him. Not very tall and his feet and ankles were concerningly skinny.
No one missed the bruises around his ankles and old scars.
“Heeeey Sats,” the word came slurred out of Jacob, he’d taken a nasty hit to the head earlier. Still, he knew the wispy light visage around Saturday’s eyes was all him and not the concussion.
Saturday tilted his head, hair a mixture of black and white strands falling in front of his face. He lifted a hand carrying an old bag, it's one with some stitching from one of the workin’ girls. When it opened on the ground, a medical kit was splayed out next to where Saturday kneeled. Unflinching at how the dirty gravel and garbage dug into his knobby knees. Jacob winced in sympathy.
No one’s ever seen Saturday wince in pain.
Made sense though. When Saturday hiked up the sleeves of an old jacket from one of the older guys, scars and burns litter his skin. Some of it is jagged and rushed. Others look a little too methodical and clean-cut for comfort. Most of them always look slightly red, especially against the pale skin.
Jacob looked away when Saturday pushed his shirt up to get a closer look at the wound. He was still a bit squeamish about blood, though he’d never admit it.
The fingers that poked and prodded were gentle and careful. They always were.
Even in the most hectic of situations Saturday’s hands were always steady when they patched people up. A few rumored that not even Batman’s hands were that steady. Jacob didn't really care, he preferred Saturday patching him up with no question than a vigilante getting up in his business.
It’s another reason why no one messed with Saturday.
Helpful people were hard to find, even more so that could be considered neutral in the shitshow that people called the city. Especially where gangs, rogues, and vigilantes had more influence on what rules would be followed than the police or the government.
There was Thompkin’s clinic obviously, but not everyone could make it so easily to the Doctor, especially not in time.
But then Saturday showed up.
No one’s really sure when, why, or how; but suddenly people knew to let the skinny barefoot kid look at whatever had you bleeding out or fucked up in a dumpster or alley. He wouldn’t ask you questions, but he’d patch you up and -if you wanted - he’d guide you to the Doctor himself. Well…right up to the door of the clinic. Either way, it was an unspoken rule not to interfere with Saturday’s business. It was expected that he’d be allowed to patch up whoever it was even in the middle of a fight.
Jacob still remembered that one time a few months back how shockingly silent it had become when suddenly the shooting had stopped between two groups. All the yelling and bullets flying froze when someone called out the name Saturday. It didn’t happen often for him to appear mid-fight, but when he did they all knew the routine.
“Shit, who’s hit?” another called out, and three hands from various spots of cover shot out.
“Ugh, get your asses out here so the kid will patch you up.”
It almost made Jacob laugh the way that three guys came out, two of them from the same group and the other not. It looked like gunshots in the leg, another to the side, and another in the arm. The way they came out felt more like three kids coming out after being scolded.
“Have at ‘em,” a man said and swung his arms to the three while Saturday just stared and nodded. The only following sound was a small hum and the small pit-pat of his bare feet on the floor.
Everyone else settled down with murmurs and a few glares, but nobody bothered Saturday as he patched up the guys. A few of them checked on how Saturday himself was doing, but if he answered, no one else heard him. Sometimes Jacob wondered if Saturday even talked but then sure enough, after finishing up he’d stand up tall and straight with a serious gleam in his eyes, and with a clear-cut voice still unusually soft he’d asked, “Leslie?”
That was another tidbit people took note of. He always called the Doc by Leslie and only Leslie.
The guy with the gunshot in his side, a ‘something’ Davis, took up the offer. His face was paler than before. With that answer, Saturday nodded and grabbed a piece of Davis’s jacket before turning and walking to the exit. Davis let himself be pulled as he followed and no one stopped him.
It was a sight people eventually got used to, seeing someone being pulled along by Saturday. Almost always a sleeve, jacket, or piece of the shirt. If needed, Saturday would bring an arm around to help someone walk. A few young ones had been carried. Either way, no one got in Saturday’s way. If you did…well it wasn't unsaid that there would be hell to pay.
The few rare times, someone else tried to interfere, things felt more empty than usual in Gotham. It’d be like someone was slowly taking away the warmth and air in a room. The colors around them would become bleaker, all the while all you heard was pit-pat of bare feet walking. By then, someone was pulling the fucking idiot back and the other sounds came back.
Saturday would keep on walking.
Jacob wondered why Saturday cared. Why did he patch people up and take them to the Doctor? Why did it feel wrong to mess with what had almost become something that was a normal part of where they lived?
It was beginning to feel a lot like a sliver of hope and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that after so long.
Saturday cleaned up Jacob’s side and put on a bandage before straightening up from his kneeled position. Those pale skinny hands rested on his thighs, bones slightly crooked with skin marred by cuts.
“Leslie?” he asked.
Saturday had such a young face. A sad face. Tired.
With a moment of clarity, Jacob can’t help but ask, “Why do you do it?”
One of the fingers twitched.
Jacob was leaning against a dirty wall with an achy body and pain at his side. His head was throbbing something fierce and his eyes kept drifting to the side, wanting more than anything to close and be done. He hadn’t been expecting any help even if he knew that Saturday did and there Saturday was in front of him.
“Because it hurts.”
It was such a simple response. Just three words and a hint of an accent that only made Jacob have questions about where did Saturday come from and why did he come here. But his answer made sense. Even when he knew Saturday wasn’t talking about his wound or any of the things that were giving him pain this wonderful Thursday morning, it made sense. Jacob couldn’t help but laugh at just how right the answer was. Oddly fitting answer from someone not from Gotham, but welcomed all the same.
Yeah, it fuckin’ hurts.