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When Jean-Paul wakes up that warm summer morning, all he can think about it how he doesn't want to wake up. Though he can see the beginnings of a sunrise behind his eyelids, he wants desperately to return to his quickly dwindling dream. Unfortunately, like most things in his life, it's gone before he can capture it again.
Once he finally does manage to open his eyes, he is staring up at the old and yellowed ceiling of a run-down motel off the outskirts of nowhere. His muscles ached and his face was sore with a burgeoning bruise, but he was grateful that there was no lasting damage. Nothing that would require immediate medical attention, anyway.
Jean-Paul had been sent on a mission. Well. If you could even call it that. It was more like a chore Batman hadn't wanted to bother with (some crime-lord had been importing some kind of drug into Gotham using the town as a waypoint). It was simple. Tedious. And far, far below the pay grade of anyone else under Batman's brood.
Jean-Paul had been desperate for any task, anything, and as such, he made the perfect sycophant to send off. Who cares if Jean-Paul could've solved it in his sleep? It's not as if his detective skills were good enough for Bruce to use him as a replacement or anything once upon a time. His fist clenched the cheap motel blankets. Bruce was always underestimating him. Always too cautious after the monumental fuck-up that was his tenure as Batman. The man would never trust him with anything important again, that much was certain.
He winced at the bitterness in his own monologue. That wasn't right. But regardless, he still felt...insulted almost. Such an easy mission, one Bruce could've done automated. A deep resentment welled up in his chest. It was a pity. This entire mission was out of pity.
Blearily, he realized he couldn't see the clock from his location on the bed across the room. So preoccupied was he with his internal dialogue, he hadn't even moved to get out of bed, let alone put on his glasses.
He grabbed blindly at his nightstand, finding them quickly enough. Squinting at the clock across the room, he found himself distantly surprised. Though the sun had risen, it was only 5:22. If he compared with Gotham timezone...10:22 pm. They were all likely in the midst of patrol and wouldn't be expecting an update for at least a few hours.
When he looked at the date, his heart stopped momentarily in his chest. May 14th. His throat felt dry. He could feel the phantom sensations of something slimy and wriggly being forced down down down his throat as he closed his eyes tightly.
He hadn't thought of St. Dumas Day in...years. Remembering it now filled him with a strange sense of...nostalgia, almost. He remembered his first. The uncomfortable awkwardness of it all. Thinking back, it was the one tradition his father made an effort with. One of the few ways he shared the revelry of St. Dumas without the involvement of the system. Since the age of 12, Ludovic made it a point to be there for every St. Dumas day. At the time, it had confused Jean-Paul. His father barely ever spoke about it more than that first year. But. It had been something for the two of them.
He remembers that first year away from home. He remembers staring at the phone, wondering if he should...call Ludovic? For what? To meet up? The man could've been hundreds of miles away. To tell him "Happy Saint Dumas Day"? Would the man even have cared? So often, Jean-Paul wonders what would have happened that first year if he'd taken that leap of faith.
Maybe Ludovic would've revealed the truth of Azrael earlier (unlikely). Maybe he would've been more cautious that day. If he'd been thinking of him (extremely unlikely).
Jean-Paul shook his head to clear his mind. There is a lot of what-ifs. But not many certainties. He put his phone to the side and started getting ready for the day.
Jean-Paul didn't have much to do. His Beetle had unexpectedly broken down, and the only mechanic said it would take a day to get it up to par. He wasn't exactly in the mood to hitchhike back to Gotham, so in the meantime, he was stuck. For now, he felt relatively…listless.
His mind kept circling back to the date. May 14th. It had been years since he'd acknowledged the date as anything more. Not since that first year away from "home".
He'd tried to continue the tradition at first. For what reason, he couldn't tell you. He remembers going to a local "pet shop"—if you could even call it that. The floor was covered in grime and filth. The few animals trapped in cramped cages had looked positively miserable. But it was the only location with frogs in 30 miles, so it had to do.
He remembered taking the frog with him to his cramped college dorm. He remembered staring at it, as it wriggled in his hands, trying desperately to escape. Did it have an inkling of its fate? To be crushed between human teeth and flayed in stomach acid?
In the end, he couldn't do it. He'd let the frog go free, even if it probably wouldn't live a day in the toxicity that was Gotham Bay. And he hadn't thought of Saint Dumas Day since.
Until today.
Maybe it was destiny then, that when he returned to his room in the motel, he'd found—of all possible things— a frog in his sink.
Jean-Paul had nearly screamed. What were the chances? Of all animals, of all days, a frog.
His hands darted out and grabbed the poor thing. He should take it outside. Release it into the wilderness where it belonged.
He should. But…he could. He…
There's an echo in the back of his mind. Of an apology, of guilt that gnawed on him. Of the disappointment that made him feel weak and pathetic.
He stares at the frog in his hand. Bile rises in the back of his throat. Is he actually going to do this?
He is reminded, distantly, of his first year away from his father. Truly separated in a way that had been almost…foreign to him. Even when his father was away for weeks or even months at a time, there was still the knowledge that he knew where he was. That, somewhere in the world, his father would one day come back to him.
At the time, Jean-Paul hadn't known if that was a comfort or a source of distress. His father's return never really alleviated his sense of loneliness. In truth, sometimes it exasperated them. Knowing someone was right there and yet feeling as though there was a wall, forever keeping them apart. What good was company you never knew how to talk to? His father was more of a large looming shadow in his life than any present figure. His only real memories of the man distorted by time.
And yet. He'd tried. In ways Jean-Paul didn't always understand, his father had tried. It makes his aversion to one of the few things his father had willingly shared with him— it makes him feel stricken.
He bites down. Swallows down the blood that seeps. Bites it again, with a loud, echoing crunch. And swallows once more. Down, down, down it goes. He can feel it, a phantom sensation of squirming down his throat. Writhing in his stomach.
Within moments, he's on his knees, heaving. But something, maybe a habit, maybe a sick desire for self-mortification, makes him cover his mouth with his hands. He can feel something brush against his throat as it comes back up his esophagus, and that triggers a cycle of heaving and swallowing down over and over again. By the end, his throat burns, his eyes sting, and his stomach hurts.
All he can do is stare at the ground. He comes to a sinking realization. It was easier. To swallow the frog, to chew it down, and kill it by his own hands. It was easy. He didn't even choke. It shouldn't have been a surprise; he was older now. Stronger. Bigger. But it dawned on him then. Just how much he'd changed since his father's death. Changed in ways he'd never even thought about.