Chapter Text
Better that it is me, Jean-Paul Valley’s brother said, eyes dark and weary with the exhaustion of years and years worth of manipulation. He lay weakly on the ground, broken and defeated. His black hair was greasy and stringy, swept in all directions, clumped with blood.
Jean-Paul stumbled backwards. He stared down at the beaten, bloody face of the other Azrael. They looked nothing alike, of course, but they were brothers. And Azrael couldn’t bear to face the loneliness that he knew would consume him if the man died.
“No. No. I will not kill you,” he replied with a voice raw from yelling. Rain poured on them from all directions, pounding on their similar armor. Every part of Jean-Paul’s body hurt, black and blue bruises surely blooming beneath his clothing.
You should. His brother stared up at him.
“No. You can be stronger than Jeremiah. I overcame my programming. You can too,” Jean-Paul pleaded, desperation obvious in his tone. He could not be alone again. He could not do it. He needed to—he needed to rescue him.
Then I would be nothing. A life not worth living.
“I am not only Azrael. I am Jean-Paul Valley, too.” Sometimes he felt like something else, too, or both of them or nothing at all.
I have no other name, he insisted.
“Then I will give you one!” Jean-Paul yelled, hating the way his voice broke so painfully. Why wouldn’t he just listen to him? This didn’t have to end in tragedy!
The man’s eyes slowly closed. Better that it is me, he repeated. His eyelashes, dusted with dirt and blood. His cheeks, ruddy with grime. His chest… was his chest moving at all?
“No!” Jean-Paul fell to his knees, grabbing his brother’s arm tightly. His other hand scrambled for a pulse on his neck.
Please, no. Oh, Dumas, no.
…
There. There was a small, thready, fast beat. It was strained, it was weak, but it was there. Azrael hadn’t killed him. He hadn’t—he wasn’t a murderer. Not again. Weight tumbled off his shoulder like an avalanche, the sheer relief nearly bowling him over from where he knelt.
Thank God.
Jean-Paul didn't care where Lilhy or Jeremiah were. They could have run off, away from the justice they surely deserved, or they could be lurking in the shadows and waiting to kill him, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was that he wasn’t alone. He finally had someone. Not just someone who put up with him out of pity, not someone who barely hid their distaste for him when working together, not someone who constantly manipulated him and made him feel small, not someone who, despite their best efforts, could just not fully understand him… no. He had a brother, now.
Azrael’d be damned if he let anything happen to him.
Jean-Paul looked down at the man, still reeling from his relief. He felt like he was walking in a dream, his mind floating somewhere above him in the eye of the great thunderclouds in the sky. The man needed medical attention. He had… they had beaten each other up pretty bad. He probably had internal bleeding, bruising, broken ribs… who knew what else. Leslie would help him.
Leslie. What was she going to think? About Jeremiah, about the other Azrael, about their fight? He knew—he knew she’d be mad at him. For giving into Azrael. But maybe she’d ignore it in favor of helping him and his brother. And figuring out what to do about Jeremiah.
Bruce’s car was miles back, behind a collapsed bridge. Azrael couldn’t trek across the river again, not with his brother in tow, not in this condition. He didn’t want either of them to drown or get hypothermia. What they needed was shelter. It was cold, dark, and Jean-Paul was tired. A place to rest safely sounded like heaven.
Jean-Paul looked up, cringing at the rain assaulting and pelting his face. The castle. It would have to do. No matter his opinions on The Order, a building was a building. Hopefully his brother wouldn’t have too violent a reaction when he woke up. He didn’t even know where he had been trained. Perhaps his upbringing was completely different from Jean-Paul’s. Perhaps they were more strangers than he believed.
No matter. Shelter first. Leslie and the crushing weight of anxiety second.
Jean-Paul got onto one knee, then pushed the man’s body into his arms. He maneuvered him into a bridal carry, barely feeling the weight as he struggled himself into Azrael’s mask after picking it up from the ground a few feet away. Subtly, Jean-Paul felt himself fade away into the background, his body moving to the tune of a different mind.
Azrael took a few steps forward. The ground was muddy and overrun with foliage. Red mixed in with the brown dirt, and something like horror settled in Azrael’s chest. That was their blood. Brother against brother. An unnatural, aberrant, terrible thing.
“Azrael,” a voice called from behind. A soft, familiar voice that reminded him of simpler times.
Azrael swiveled his head to the side. “Lilhy.”
Lilhy’s dress was reduced to rags. The fabric was barely holding onto her body, and she was gripping it for dear life. Her curly hair was flowing freely long down her back, and her large brown eyes were pinched in an unfamiliar way.
“Where are you taking him?” she asked, gesturing at her former servant in his arms.
“Away.”
She nodded hesitantly, her expression morphing into something sad. Perhaps she missed Jean-Paul. Or perhaps just Azrael. She began to turn back, heading to wherever her transport was waiting.
“Lilhy?” Azrael called out quietly.
She pivoted towards him, smiling, hopeful. “Yes?”
“Don’t come near us again. Please.”
Her face fell. She looked a bit angry. “Oh.”
“There is a family, down the road from here. Their car broke down, and it is cold and wet. Will you get them to safety?”
“I… of course,” she replied.
… Maybe there was hope for her yet.
Azrael watched as she walked away, her neck hunched, her arms wrapped around her vulnerable body.
Perhaps he would miss her too.
<<<<……….>>>>
Azrael slagged through the mud and slippery rocks, up the giant hill. He tread carefully—he couldn't afford to trip, not with such precious cargo on his back. Every time the other Azrael breathed, Azrael himself let out a sigh of relief. Breathing was good. Breathing meant life. Life meant brotherhood. Life meant no more rejection, no more loneliness, no more living as barely alive. Maybe he could finally be a person, now.
They both could.
As Azrael climbed higher and higher, the pressure made his ears pop. He hoped his brother was okay, and the increasing pressure wouldn’t cause any problems while he was unconscious. He wasn’t sure if that was a thing that could happen, but. Well. He wasn’t a medical expert. One day, maybe. But for now, that was what the doctor was for.
At last, Azrael reached the top. He was wet, cold, muddy, tired, and possibly dying. But he had made it! The rain had not died down in the slightest. If anything, it was worse. Azrael suppressed a shudder, hoping his brother wasn’t freezing to death. There was a bridge in front of them, waterlogged and mildewed, the small divot of water below it nearly overflowing. Then, the castle. A cross was inscribed in the doorway, accompanied by grandiose arches, turrets, and cold stone imagery of saints. A gross thrill and simultaneous sense of panic ran through him.
Home sweet home.
<<<<………..>>>>
Jean-Paul managed to get the two of them inside the poorly insulated stone fortress before collapsing.
Oh, he thought. Maybe I’m more tired than I thought.
He fell onto his right hand, leaning all of his weight onto it. His brother lay prone beside him, face smushed into the stone. At least he was breathing, right?
Azrael shook his hand, dislodging the gauntlet from its secure position, then rifled through his many pockets, searching for the flip phone he had put in his suit before leaving Gotham. After a few seconds, he successfully felt the comforting weight of the small piece of circuitry. He pulled it out, his left hand growing limper with fatigue by the second. He flicked his wrist, the phone opening with it. The interface that came up was cracked, but usable.
Jean-Paul used the keypad to navigate down to Leslie’s contact. He clicked select, and let it fall to the ground, sinking down himself, his arm shaking and weak. Drive My Car by the Beatles played as Azrael closed his eyes, breathing slowly.
In… out…
They were safe. He had rescued them. Lilhy was gone. Jeremiah was… somewhere, but he could be dealt with later.
In… out…
He was safe. He had companionship. That was all he could ask for.
In… out…
“-ul! Jean-Paul, are you there? Can you hear me?”
And just like that, Azrael was gone. Jean-Paul coughed, forcing his eyes open with all of his strength.
“Leslie…?” he muttered.
“Jean-Paul! What’s going on?” The doctor sounded concerned.
”I… me and… and… the other Azrael are hurt. We… we need help. Please.”
“Where are you?”
“I do…don’t really know. Mountains. Castle. I… I think Batman knows.” He might’ve known the name earlier in the night, but the word escaped his mind and tongue in this disarrayed state.
“Are there any doctors near you? I’m sorry, but I’m quite tied up at the moment…”
“Please, Leslie… I don’t… I almost… please… Jeremiah, he…” Jean-Paul trailed off before he could finish. Everything was just… too much. The night was all one big jumbled mess, incomprehensible and certainly unable to be verbalized. And Jean-Paul definitely didn’t want to admit what had just happened to anyone, least of all to the kind doctor.
A pause. “I’ll be there in a few hours, Jean-Paul. Hold on till then.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to hang up now, Jean-Paul.”
“Okay.”
And she did.
The silence stifled and choked him, collapsing in on him from all sides. He was alone with his brother, now. His dying, hurt, brother. The one he had—God, he had fought him so violently. For a moment there, he thought he would die. And it’d be all his fault.
Azrael was a violent, cruel creature. He always had been. And he always would be.
There was a groan beside him, startling him out of his thoughts. Jean-Paul pushed himself onto his elbows, army-crawling to shift his body around towards the other man. His brow was crinkled, the man clearly in pain.
“Brother? Are you awake?” Azrael rasped.
“Mmph,” he responded, his mouth barely moving.
Azrael crawled closer. “Brother. Stay awake. Help is coming.”
A single deep brown eye cracked open, glazed over and staring silently into Azrael’s own covered eyes.
I am not dead? He did not speak, not exactly. They were not words that Azrael heard. He simply understood.
“No. A… friend of mine is coming. She will heal us.”
I do not want to be healed. I must kill you. Or you must kill me.
“No. Jeremiah is gone. He ran off like the coward he is. Lilhy is gone, too. I won’t let them near you.”
I must kill you. I can’t fail. He started to heave himself up onto his stomach, struggling to get his arms under him.
Azrael reached over and pushed him down gently with the hand still clad in his gauntlet. He went down easily.
“Peace. Please.”
“Kill. Must kill,” the man said out loud, his voice hoarse and barely coherent. He had a strong accent. Jean-Paul had never heard his voice before.
“We do not have to fight anymore. We are safe.”
We will never be safe. Dumas will find us.
Whether he was speaking of the organization or the saint, Azrael didn’t know.
“If they do, then I will protect you. I have allies. They will help.”
You are an idiot. It wasn’t said in jest, but it still made Jean-Paul’s mood rise slightly.
Jean-Paul smiled. “Probably.”
If I cannot kill you, then you must kill me.
Morbid. “Never.”
You were going to. Back there. I saw it. I sensed it.
Azrael looked away quickly. “No.” Yes, he thought.
“Yes,” his brother said aloud, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with the effort. It was odd, hearing his voice aloud instead of his silent meanings and ideas. “You were willing.”
“I wouldn’t!”
“We are… the same. You were. I know it.”
Rage was building up inside Azrael. He felt it bubbling in his core, reaching out, wildly searching for anything to burst on.
No. No. He was better than this.
In… out.
“I’m not talking about this right now,” he finally said. He took his Azrael mask off, leaving it shapeless on the floor. He felt his powers seep away, retreating far back into his mind and muscles where he could not reach them. Whether or not his anger faded along with them—well, that was a question he’d rather avoid.
“C-coward.”
Jean-Paul only turned away. His hair brushed the floor, dirtying it further. “We will wait for my friend Leslie. Neither of us will kill each other.”
No response. Jean-Paul waited for a few moments, expecting to hear his brother say something. He lifted his heavy head back so he could look at him, and was greeted with a slack face and a relaxed body that told him he was unconscious again.
“Sleep well.”
Soon after the words left his mouth, darkness claimed his vision.
<<<<………..>>>>
Jean-Paul didn’t know how much time had passed when he woke up next. Leslie still wasn’t there. His brother was still dead to the world. His body still ached in every direction.
With great effort, Jean-Paul pushed himself up to his feet, wavering slightly. It was freezing in the castle, especially since he had barely made it past the entrance. There had to be some kind of living quarters around, somewhere he could lay his brother until Leslie arrived.
Jean-Paul crouched down and stuffed his arms under the man’s armpits, trying to get into a good position for a fireman’s carry. He didn’t dare put the Azrael mask back on and regain his superhuman strength, not with Leslie coming so soon. She would have a fit if she caught him wearing it. Although the mechanics of his powers and… switches were vague and inconsistent, at the current moment, he was quite sure the mask was the real trigger. With just the suit on with no mask, he wasn’t positive who exactly he was. The line between Azrael and Jean-Paul blurred the most then. It was deeply unsettling. He didn’t like to be like that for very long.
His footsteps echoed loudly as he walked along the dank corridor. He peeked in every room. Most were empty besides altars or pedestals or kneelers positioned towards crucifixes and other holy relics. One—one held a medical lab, dusty and deteriorated. Needles, outdated computers, dirty bandages, pliers and scalpels were haphazardly thrown around. The stench of blood and decay festered freely. Were those animal organs, resting in jars? He wondered if this was where Azraels were born.
There were some cots, resting in the corner. Jean-Paul considered sleeping there for but a millisecond. A hard no. He would not dare remain in that cursed room for more than he had to. He would rather not think about the nature of his humanity and lack thereof, thank you very much. He continued onwards, lurching away from the room like a hot stove that had burned him.
At last, as his feet steadily became more sore, Jean-Paul found an actual bedroom. It wasn’t lavish or extravagant, like one would expect in a castle. There were two twin beds, cold sheets that smelled incredibly stale, and small, hard pillows resting on top. There was a small desk, parchment sitting out and cupboards within it, possibly containing ink and quills. A single candelabra sat upon it, its unlit candles having previously been burned down nearly to the wick. A wooden chair was pushed in. A tapestry of Saint Dumas slaying a wild, rabid beast hung on one side of the wall. His expression was crazed, triumphant. The beast—a boar, maybe?—lay clearly dead on its side, the artist not shying away from the blood and guts spilling out onto a green forest floor.
If he had to guess, this was probably once the monks’ or priests’ quarters. Not that it mattered.
Azrael carefully placed his brother down on one bed, making sure to not injure him in the process, and slumped down on the other one across the room. He let his weight fall onto his hands, his elbows pressing into his thighs. He stared at the man across the room. He at least looked peaceful for the moment.
“I will help you, brother. I swear it.”
Leslie. He just had to wait for Leslie, and then everything would be fine. She helped him understand himself, so she would also help his brother.
Easy. Simple math. This was all… peachy.