Summary: They are superheroes, but they are not superhuman. Sometimes the Watchmen need help from the outside.
Disclaimer: I don't own them. But man, would I love to own Bubastis? Hell Yes.
Note: This is written in the first person from the point of view of an anonymous third party. I have used this style before in another fandom and it got good feedback, and it seemed to fit the situation here.
This third party can be anyone you want – their identity isn't important to the plot. I tend to always think of my narrators as female because I'm female, but it isn't necessary.
An Outsider Looking In
Prologue
The Keene Act was passed today. I knew it would pass, I think everyone did.
The Watchmen are no more.
I treated them all at one point or another. (Aside from the miracle man of course. The day Dr Manhattan needs a doctor the world will implode into a painful puff of logic, or the lack thereof.) They even called me out to see Rorschach once, although our paths were the least likely to cross, I must admit.
They were superheroes, but they weren't superhuman. They bruised and bled and hurt like any others of our race. They were tough, I'll give them that much. They didn't need me often, but when they did, I could guarantee that it was going to be spectacular when I arrived.
I always went to them, never the other way round. It somewhat spoils the illusion of invincibility when the Watchmen drag one of their compatriots into ER, doesn't it? It's so long ago now but I can clearly remember how we first met, and I know that soon afterwards I knew the way to their 'secret' base like the back of my hand. If anyone seemed worried by a doctor creeping down darkened allies in the dead of night, white coat fresh from the hospital and black bag full of tricks, then they didn't show it.
It had been a night like any other. I was going home after a shift, dead on my feet and yearning for sleep when I turned the corner and saw it, the vision that would change my life forever. Those famous vigilantes locked in combat with nameless wrongdoers, the blood and pain being dispensed to such gruesome levels that I had to look away, hide myself round the corner, but however much I tried I couldn't turn around completely and walk away, convincing myself that nothing had happened, that I had decided to take a different route home from work that night. I was compelled to stay and see the result of the carnage, although I still don't see why I did, even today. As the sound of the human destruction died down, so I allowed myself to peer again at the tableau.
There was death. There always was when Rorschach was around, no matter how much they tried to restrain his tendencies; they couldn't watch him all the time. But I didn't notice that. I only noticed the living, and more important, the injured.
Again, to this day I do not know what made me move forward instead of back. Perhaps it's simply because I'm unable to shake off the doctor in me. I remember wondering what I was doing at the time, my mind completely detached as my hands worked automatically through the processes they had learned: morphine, tourniquets, snapping dislocated bones back into place. I was amazed that I had been so bold as to walk into their world unannounced and uninvited. I was even more amazed that they had let me.
He had been grateful, in his own gruff, inimitable way, forever laughing at the irony that the heroes should need a doctor, those who fought crime with tooth and talon every day should finally need outside help. After I'd finished I packed up and I was ready to walk away, ready to close the incident off as one of a kind. The Comedian staggered on his bandaged leg, regained his balance and lit a cigar, ready close the incident off as one of a kind.
"Wait," Night Owl had said as I turned to leave. "Thank you."
I nodded, and then I left them.
I left them with my card. If you ever need me, I said, call me.
I waited a long time, although I can't really say that I waited, since I wasn't expecting the call. The caller didn't need to identify himself. I could remember the voice. I could tell in an instant.
"Doctor, we need you."
He gave me a set of directions and then I was there. They were part of my life once again, or was I a part of theirs?
I never did more than my job. I never needed to. I never spoke of anything but my task. I never asked how they had come to be in such positions. It wasn't my job to know. I never knew anything of the real identities behind the masks. I didn't want to. It was always the same in that dark chamber, working in the light from the Owlship, with the Comedian laughing quietly in the background at the fact they'd had to call the doctor out again, with the other doctor watching my work with an unworldly curiosity, with Rorschach's ever moving face on me, never trusting, always wary of the outsider even when the outsider was ultimately saving his life.
It was a strange existence, never knowing when I might be called, never knowing quite how much damage to expect when I arrived after having received that call from out of the blue. I think I'm going to miss it, in an odd sort of way. It was strange to be an outsider gaining a privileged glimpse into their closed, ordered world.
What's even stranger is the fact that it is only now, when I know that I will not receive the call again, that I keep on waiting for the phone to ring, anxious to hear the voice again.
"Doctor, we need you."
Note 2: Basically I refused to believe that they didn't need professional medical attention once in a while, no matter how amazing they were!!
If people enjoyed that then I plan to expand this, going on to tell the individual stories of how the doctor ended up treating all of them at one point or another. Please leave a review but please be constructive – I'm new to this world and I am going from the movie, not the book. (My flatmate's promised to lend it… when he remembers.)
If you'd like to see the stories but didn't like the anonymous style then do say, I am open to suggestion and I like to think I'm flexible.
