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Jean-Paul kneels before the altar in the dimly lit church. It was late, far too late for anyone else to be around.
Here, alone and surrounded by nothing but empty pews and stoic gargoyles, it's not nearly as isolating as it should be.
He's been here for hours. With hands clasped around a long-worn rosary as he recites his prayers, his mind feels far away. He can hear the angered whispers of the angel in the deepest recesses of his mind, angry about a patrol, of a false sect, of a hundred other things. His recitations soon drowned out even that.
In his thoughts, he begs and pleads for forgiveness. For clemency, for retribution, for all the mercy he knows he does not deserve. Through these unspoken desires, he speaks to a God he knows will not answer. And in that silence, he finds relief. The last time faith responded, it was only in the hell of his own making.
Breathing hurts. He's been kneeling for so long, but it isn't enough. It's never enough for the lives he's taken. For the misery, the pain he's caused.
There is comfort in imagining hell. In imagining he will eventually be rightly punished for his sins by something so much greater than himself. The guilt that all consumes him could be doused by someone unsoiled by human nature.
He prays to a god he's not sure he believes in, because that belief holds him together. Even when the bonds that tie them begin to strain, Jean-Paul and Azrael are kept conjoined by that one truth. Truth of a higher power.
Is it even a truth if he doubts it most nights? When looking at the suffering that surrounds him? What being, what object of devotion, stares at the brutalities of life and chooses to look away?
It is pressing to imagine. An all-seeing being, who knows, who watches, who punishes, and whom you cannot fight against. Someone you must submit your will to or risk unimaginable pain.
And yet, such a creature is merciful in ways you cannot even begin to imagine. He is compassionate in a hundred different fragments. He created you from nothing, chose you for life. He brings you the ones you cherish, the ones who bring you joy. He gives you happiness and hope even in your darkest hour.
He is your father and your mother, your judge and executioner.
Jean-Paul kneels there, under the dimly lit altar, and lets the guilt consume him. He lets every hint of frustration, every ounce of self-loathing, he lets himself feel in full. He does not hide behind Azrael. He doesn't think of his friends' words, of Oracle's wry wisdom, or Batgirl's quiet support. He doesn't think of Brian's reassurances, or even Lilhy's empty comforts.
He lets himself feel shame and regret, even as it poisons him, even as tears prick the corners of his eyes and the pain in his chest triples as his heart thunders louder. He lets his darkest thoughts roam free.
It's all my fault
I could have saved them
I should have saved them
I've failed
I am a failure
I'm usel-
He cuts that train of thought. Worse thoughts creep along the edges. These are the only thoughts he will not fully form. He can't.
He can hear Azrael's frustrated mutters. But as long as he doesn't conceptualize those thoughts in full, then he isn't actually-
Jean-Paul can't even complete his denial anymore. He isn't telling them. He couldn't bear to see their faces twist in horror and pity. If they even cared at all.
And that is his real fear. That if he asks for help, they would show no real concern. Nothing beyond what they'd give to any stranger. He knows that rejection—is it even a rejection?— would shatter everything he is even more completely.
And Brian. His heart clenches. He couldn't force this on Brian. Not after all he'd been through. Not after the guilt Jean-Paul knows he still carries. To bring his dearest friend pain would do no one any good.
He stands just as the first rays of the sun peak through the gloomy Gotham sky. Soon, the first of the ushers and clergy men would arrive. His knees ache. His chest still feels tight. However, there is still a fervent sense of relief and catharsis. He feels better. His heart feels lighter, and his mind isn't as bogged down as it once was.
He takes his mask out of his pocket. Jean-Paul stares for a long, long moment. To put it on now would be to wipe himself clean of everything for the briefest moment. Yet to do so is forcing Azrael to take on the remnants of his broken psyche. Jean-Paul knows its unfair. He can hear Azrael's protests, in fact demanding he wear it again. He hears his whispers of how Jean-Paul owed it to him for forcing him to listen to that. He hears and hears and hears.
He puts it on.