Work Text:
Blood drips down the side of his face, and it takes all the energy he has left not to just collapse then and there. There’s blood in his mouth, too. He can taste it, the salty iron of a fight he could have, should have, fought better. Didn’t he? He leans against the wall, legs shaking as he does his best to walk home. He’ll make it. He has to make it. He was made to withstand.
He turns the corner, and his legs nearly give out. He’s still a few blocks from home. He leans into the wall harder, doing his very best not to collapse. Blood smears against the wall, although he’s not sure where it’s coming from. Everywhere hurts, and he couldn’t pinpoint just one injury if he tried.
He tries to stay upright, mind blurring between what was him and what was Azrael. Desperately, he wants Azrael to take over again, not to leave him bloody and in pain on the street, but there is no fight for him. He has no reason to stay for this. So, Jean-Paul is alone on the streets of Gotham again. Certainly not for the first time, and probably not the last.
To his credit, he makes it pretty far. He’s about a block from home when his legs finally give out, and he comes crashing down. He collapses against the wall, falling hard enough to scrape his face against the brick. It bleeds, or at least it feels like it’s bleeding. He sits there, dazed, and just wonders how he’ll make it home. His eyelids are heavy, and now he has to focus all his energy on just not falling asleep or passing out. He wants to curl up around himself, but the way his left arm hurts, he doesn’t want to move it at all. He just leans his head down to his shoulder, and tries to remain conscious. He fails eventually, but not for lack of trying.
When he wakes again, it's raining. He watches the rain mix with his blood as he tries, and fails, to move himself from this spot. His arms are heavy, and his legs are numb from the way he’d been sitting. He can’t do much more than his feeble attempt at moving his legs to a different position. He’s cold. Oh, he’s really cold. His costume is soaked, as is the rest of him. His hair is plastered to his face, with a mixture of blood and rainwater, and before he knows it, he’s shivering.
He just sits there for a moment, unable to do much else, before someone else approaches. His vision is fuzzy, and he can’t quite make out who it is. The silhouette is familiar, though. Dark silhouette, pointed ears…Batman? Immediately he mentally rushed to defend himself.
“Bruce…Batman, please, I’m sorry…I know I didn’t…I didn’t…I’m sorry.” And before he knows it, he’s crying. The tears mix with the water and blood already dripping down his face. He doesn’t know if Batman was there, or if he was just delirious after the beating he had just taken, but he didn’t want to take any chances.
“I’m sorry…I know, I failed, please…please…I’m sorry…” But the Batman, real or not, just cocks his head at him, and walks closer. But as “he” gets closer, Jean-Paul realizes that it’s not Batman at all. It’s Cassandra, and suddenly he feels worse somehow.
“Not Bruce.” she says.
“Oh, Cassie, I’m sorry…I’m sorry…”
“Don’t apologize. You’re hurt. Bleeding.”
“Cassie, I can’t…I can’t…was trying to get home. Hurts. I couldn’t…”
“I’ll help you.” Her matter-of-fact tone helps. He knows she means exactly what she says, so when she leans down and does her best to wrap his good arm around her, he trusts her. Between the two of them, they manage to get him to his feet. He’s unstable, but she’s steady. She helps him, albeit slowly, to walk the block and a bit to the apartment he shared.
Nobody’s there when they arrive. Jean-Paul moves to get his keys from his pocket, and moves his injured arm on accident. He winces, and Cass leans down to grab the keys. She opens the door, and they’re greeted by his little cat, George. She does her best not to trip over him, and they make their way to the couch, where she sets him down. Immediately, George hops onto the couch with him, and settles at his side.
“Stay.” she says, as if he could go anywhere without her. He can hear her opening cabinets and things, more than likely looking for first aid supplies. All he can do is sink into the couch and wait for her.
Before long, though, she comes back with the first aid kit that they kept in the hall closet and a blanket, and immediately gets to work. She starts cleaning the cuts on his face, as gently as she can to try to help with the stinging of the antiseptic. He wants to fall asleep again, but he thinks Cass would worry about him if he did. So, he tries his best to stay awake as she cleans and bandages his cuts.
“There’s blood in your hair.” she says, and he nods.
“I know. Plenty…plenty of blood.”
“You can wash it. Arm.” she says, gesturing for him to get ready for her to touch his injured arm. She examines it for a moment, before saying.
“Not broken. Good.” She stops, and George moves to try to lay on his arm. He winces again, and Cass turns to the cat.
“Don’t break him.” and she continues to examine him, checking for any injuries she may have missed. Once she’s satisfied, and has proven to herself that he’s mostly bruised and exhausted, she walks away again. Jean-Paul thinks, for a moment, that she’s leaving, before he hears her in the kitchen. Food. Of course.
She comes back with toast for them, and the cat treats for George, and makes herself as comfortable as she can on the floor.
“Eat. You’ll feel better.” he obliges, taking the toast with his good arm. He takes a bite, and watches Cass give George a treat. The two of them finish their toast, and once Jean-Paul is satisfied that Cass won’t worry too much, he falls asleep almost immediately, knowing she’ll have left before he wakes up the next morning.