Suicide Is Painless

by Dannell Lites

Father Jean-Paul Valley arrives in Gotham! Can Azrael be far behind?

Suicide Is Painless
By: Dannell Lites

SPIFFY DISCLAIMER THINGIE!

Ah don't own any of these folks! DC comics does! No infringement of copyright is intended! This
is a fanfic strictly for entertainment purposes! No money is being made, heah! Consarn it! *fume*
*fume* So don't sue!

Rated R for graphic violence and some filthy language!

The incarnation of Jason Todd (Draco!) that graces theses pages is the invention of the incredible
KJ! And if'n ya'll take Jays and abuse him without her permission she'll sic Kai on ya'll who'll get all
medieval on ya'll's buttocks!:):) BEWARE!


Thanks go to KJ and Kael, and all the rest of the cornerfolk (especially Glockgal!) and The Haven
Writers group for all their grand help with this puppy:):) But most especially to KJ for letting moi
play, once again, in her personal sandbox! *dipsmootchie* And to the incredible Mel for the loan
of Gina Beldacci-Brown. ALL ya'll folks are the BEST!


A brave man once requested me,
To answer questions that are key;
Is it to be or not to be?
And I replied "Oh why ask me?"

'Cause suicide is painless!
It brings on many changes!
And I can take or leave it if I please ...

And you can do the same thing if you please.

"Suicide Is Painless" (AKA The Theme From M*A*S*H)
Johnny Mandel



Something inside my chest coiled and writhed, squeezing hard. Oh fuck, it hurt! I couldn't seem to
breathe. Every time I tried to take a panicky breath I could feel something *give*.

'That's what happens,' I told myself, gasping for breath, 'when you tackle half a dozen dockworkers
smuggling dope into Gotham with no backup, asshole.'

I'm used to pain. Hell, with my medical history I'd better be. I can handle it. I *can*, damn it! I
know what to do. I mean, it's not like pain is anything new for me. Curling into a tight ball around
the agony
regularly erupting inside me, I lay as still as possible. That usually works. Shit shit shit ... Not this
time, though. Futilely I tried to think, to grab hold of the pain management techniques Bruce taught
his wayward little broken Robin Bird. Heh. The Big Bad Bat always has the answers to everything
doesn't he?

Fuck him.

I could almost hear the sardonic amusement in Dick's voice. 'Really, Jays? How Freudian!'

'Screw you, too, Dick!' I shot back. And then had to bite my tongue. Hard. Damn! Was THAT
the wrong thing to say or *what*? Fucked Up Boy strikes again.

Dick left my head in a huff and I bit my lip. Damn, but I play interesting head games, don't I?

Yeah. Like a train wreck or a freeway pile up is "interesting" ...

Eventually, I had it under enough control - uh huh ... riiight ... - that I could feel something, anything,
other
than the sharp knives grinding themselves in my chest. I caught the tail end of large soothing hands
sliding gently through my sweat slick hair in comfort and a low, deep voice calming my fears.
Desperately, I crawled toward that voice. I thought I recognized it. It was familiar.

'I'm coming, Bruce,' I murmured. 'I'm fighting, too. Just the way you taught me, okay? But Christ!
It hurts! It hurts like a son of a bitch!'

So, I finally open my eyes. Pried them apart with a fucking crowbar if you've got to know the exact
truth. Even that hurt.

But not as much as what I saw.

He was towering over me, that mass of long blonde hair shielding his face and obscuring it from my
view. But I wasn't fooled. Not even for a single moment. I *knew* who it was.
Instanfuckingtaneously. Not
even the stethoscope dangling from around his neck could disguise him well enough to save him.

"Azrael!" I croaked, my Sahara dry and scratchy throat burning with the effort of speaking. Feebly I
tried to rise or resist in some way. Merde! Which is about the only French I know. But the last
thing I needed right now was *this* butthole to remind me of all the things that I didn't have any
more. Like, maybe, my left
eye. What can I tell you? I've never met anybody in my whole life whose ass I wanted to kick so
badly.

And couldn't.

The hands that guided me back down to the small, pristine bed were gentle but very firm. "Non,"
said Jean-Paul Valley in that quiet, scholarly voice that always sets my teeth on edge (why do you
have to be so goddamned motherlovin' *perfect*?). "Azrael is not here. You must be content with
merely Jean-Paul. Will I do?"

I gazed up into his clear, calm blue eyes for a couple seconds. Long enough to know that he was
right. The Angel was gone. Nowhere to be seen. Those were Jean-Paul Valley's eyes. Azrael's
eyes are ... different.

Peering into Azrael's eyes is like staring through the Gates of Hell.

And yeah, I've seen *those* too. Up close and personal when he beat the shit out of me.

A couple of seconds isn't a long time. Long enough to know, though, that it didn't make a damn bit
of difference to me.

I guess it's not too surprising that I didn't notice what he was wearing until about then. It was dark,
that was all I knew at first. Dark and depressing. Had to figure, right? He's one of the Batguys,
after all, and dark and depressing is, I don't know, like their trademark, a way of life with them or
some damned thing or another.

Bruce is infectious.

But I had to admit the Roman clerical collar *did* sorta stick out. Don't see many of those around
The Corner and that's a fact. My eye bulged when I realized what it meant. Jesus H. Christ on a
goddamned Cruise missile!

"You're a *priest*!" I accused, lamely. "A fucking *priest*?"

He turned a bright shade of crimson and fingered the collar about his throat absently as if it might
chafe if he let it. I smiled. 'Score one for the kid that everybody hates!' I crowed silently and stored
his discomfort with my foul language away for later ammunition.

"Ah - that's - that's rather a non sequitar under the circumstances, non?" he stammered, still
blushing. I blinked. Was he trying to make a joke? *Azrael* making a joke? The Second Coming
HAD to be right around the corner. No doubt about it.

"Son of a bitch!" I started to chuckle.

BIG mistake.

I couldn't stop coughing. Something jarred loose down there and suddenly I was coughing up warm
sticky globs of red blood. Breathing was pure torture and next to freaking' impossible. Strong arms
swept me up and carried me light as the proverbial feather to another bed. I clutched frantically at
the oxygen mask he slipped over my face and breathing became possible again. The hands were
back, stroking my hair in reassurance. I saw him warm his stethoscope with his callused hands
before he slipped it into his ears and listened to my heart beat. Soothing hands turned me over on
my back, tapping gently, skillfully. When the bleeding stopped, he gave me some much needed
water to rinse my mouth of the foul metallic taste of my own blood. A pin prick on my arm told me
that I'd probably been sedated.

Damn! I hate that.

He fluffed my pillow and spoke to me.

The last thing I remember before I slid head first down into the spreading, comforting velvet
darkness was the sound of that voice.

"Rest, now, Jason, mon frere," he whispered. "Rest."

'Valley,' I thought groggily. 'When I wake the Hell up you are sooo dead ... '

**********************************************************************************


Did I mention that he cheats? I didn't think priests were allowed to do that. Cheat, I mean. Aren't
they supposed to be better than us regular mooks or something? But this was definitely cheating.
No two ways around that. Beneath my breath, I swore luridly. I was supposed to still be out of it,
but hey! I've been doped with enough narcotics in my time to tranquilize an elephant. Tranqs don't
work on me all that well anymore, I guess. And this crap was kid stuff compared to some. Still, I
found out later that I slept for almost three days. Jesus.

So I played possum. It's amazing what you can learn that way, sometimes. And yeah, so what if
that's something else I learned from Bruce? Bite me, fanboy.

Through the window I watched Gina's battered old taxi pull up to the curb. Christ, I must know
every nut and bolt in that piece of shit-on-wheels by now. For a moment I was kind of hoping Gina
might come in and say hi. Which reminded me that I needed to call Barry and let him know where I
was. My eye was barely cracked but I still had a great view as Valley reached into the taxi's back
seat and scooped an unhappy Barbara Gordon up in his arms while Gina unloaded the wheelchair
from the trunk and followed them as he carried Babs up the steps.

See what I mean about cheating? Goddamn him to Hell.

Hell of a thing, though, right? A clinic without handicapped access.

Was she clinging just a little too tightly to his neck?

Was he holding her more securely than was maybe absolutely necessary?

Was ...

Was I being paranoid and pathetic or what?

Shit.

"You're sure he's okay?" Babs inquired anxiously as Jean-Paul set her lightly down in her chair out in
the hallway. Through the open door I still had a great view. The Angel nodded and moved off, out
of my view for the moment. And if I was nervous about that I think I'm entitled, right? But when he
glided back into view he was only ferrying a cup of hot coffee that he handed to Babs with care,
who accepted it gratefully. Babs and I are both your basic caffeine addicts so my caffeine deprived
nervous system went into hyper drive. Jean-Paul just smiled at her beatifically.

"He'll recover," he reassured Oracle. Then he sighed and ran his fingers threw his thick blond hair.
"*If* I can keep him from injuring himself trying to hurt his doctor, that is." I growled softly in
frustration. But I'm proud to say that I didn't move. Not so much as a single muscle.

'Your time is a coming', Angel Man,' I threatened in silent rage. "Count on it.'

"His injuries are not life threatening," Azrael continued. "Merely very painful at this stage. Bruce
already knows that. And Dick. And Tim. Even Garth was glad of that. Jays has many more
friends than he allows himself to believe, I think."

I saw Gina nod and tug her ratty old cap down around her ears. "Damn stubborn fool," she
groused. My favorite taxi driver glanced at Jean-Paul Valley. "Look, Father ..." she began,
subdued in the presence of a priest. Somehow, I managed to keep from scowling. Couldn't really
tell you how. Okay, so Gina *is* Catholic. In fact, Mama and Papa Beldacci almost never miss
Mass on Sunday. I think that pew in St. Annuncie's has their name carved in it or somedamnthing.
Hell, they've even started dragging my heretical ass along to church. So, I had to admit it made
sense Gina'd respect a priest.

But that didn't mean I had to like it. Much.

And why the Hell did it have to be *this* priest, huh?

Fuck.

"Tell Jays that I was here, will ya?" she continued. "And that I'll be back. Mama'd just kill me if I
didn't bring him some of her homemade minestrone and pasta con pollo," she grinned. "So would
Jays."

The Angel's smile broadened. "I think your mother's cooking is just the thing for my reluctant
patient," he chuckled.

Gina smiled in return. "I'm sure there'll be enough for you, too, Father," she quipped. "Mama
doesn't really know how to cook for anything less than at least half the Chinese Army." She looked
Jean-Paul up and down -

Appreciatively?

Innocently?

Damn! I was too far away to really tell.

Waving her farewells, Gina Beldacci-Brown pulled out her keys with one hand and shook Barbara
Gordon's
hand with the other. I noticed then that not once had she faced Babs this whole time without her
cap pulled low, shadowing her face.

Hiding the scars.

Was she ashamed of them?

You can believe that THAT made me feel like roughly two and half pounds of mandrill shit.

"It - it's nice to finally met you, Miss Gordon," she said, with only a small slip of the tongue to betray
her. For her part Babs was great. If she noticed she gave no sign of it to embarrass Gina
unnecessarily. Her answer was warm and friendly and full of gratitude.

"Call me Babs," she insisted. "And thanks for the lift, Mrs. Brown."

Gina actually smiled on her way out the door. "Gina," she corrected merrily. "No problem," she
asserted. "Call me when you're ready to go, okay?"

To her embarrassment, Jean-Paul escorted Gina to her battered old taxi and watched her drive off.
I could tell Gina was impressed. Don't suppose she sees too many gentlemen in her line of work,
huh?

Damn, damn, damn!

"I see you still don't have a girlfriend," Babs chuckled, taking in his attire upon his return. Usually, I
like Babs' kidding banter. Especially when it's directed at *me*.

I knew as well as I know that I'm laying here eavesdropping that Valley blushed. Mention anything
to do with the big dreaded s-word and Jean-Paul Valley colors like a schoolboy. Damn. How
come that never works when *I* do it, huh?

"No," he returned her soft laughter. "I suppose I have not." Unconsciously, he touched the silver
cross hanging from his neck and grinned like a mischievous imp. "Will a 'boyfriend' do?" he asked,
lifting his blue eyes toward Heaven playfully.

Babs chuckled and finished her coffee. I took that as a sign and made some rather obvious waking
up noises. Sure enough, moments later Babs wheeled herself into the small recovery room, smiling.
Hey! My day was made and I didn't care who knew it. The rest of the afternoon was golden.
Almost perfect. Jean-Paul made himself scarce, leaving me alone with Babs. She scolded me to be
more careful and I lied and promised her that I would.

"You're supposed to duck, former Boy Wonder," she observed acerbically and I grinned. It didn't
even hurt.

Hell, I even let her help Valley strong-arm me into agreeing to stay in his damned clinic for at least
the
next day or two. Hey, I may be a wuss where Babs is concerned but in this case I was a wuss with
a plan. I reached for the phone to call Barry and let him know the stich. My agreement got Babs to
promise she'd come back to see me tomorrow, so I was a happy camper, believe you me.

And she did, too. Gina dropped her off again and stayed long enough to deliver a pasta care
package from Mama Beldacci. Man, you know you've done something right when Mama Beldacci
feeds you sticky hot lasagna and fresh home baked garlic bread. I even got a hug when Gina left to
go back to work. Hot puppies! This was living, I'm telling ya. Maybe I oughta consider getting the
fuck beat out of me more often, huh? It was almost worth it to see Babs sitting across from me
smiling and laughing. Since she brought her laptop with her we even got a little work done. How's
that for a lame excuse?

But all good things must come to an end or so they say. The Angel brought Babs her coffee-none
for me, damn it!-and insisted that I get back into bed and rest. Snarling under my breath, I obeyed
reluctantly. Truth to tell, I guess I was more tired than I was willing to admit. I was out like a light.
In fact, if it hadn't been for an horrendous noise coming from the main examining room, I'd probably
still be out.

I came awake instantly, body flooded with adrenaline. Silently, I slipped out of the comfortable bed
and onto my feet. I don't think I made any nose as I made my way to the door leading to the
examining room and peered in. Bruce would have been proud of me.

Riiiiight. And pigs might fly, too. There'll be pork in the trees any day now, folks.

Son of a bitch.

I counted six of them.

Not good odds at the best of times. Shit shit shit. This was *not* gonna be pretty. No freakin' way
around that. I gritted my teeth as I watched Valley step forward, shielding the others with his tall
body. The greasy mother with the gun, the one I had pegged as the leader of this fun filled little Girl
Scout
promenade, frowned. But he didn't back down. Damn. Valley's a big guy. I was hoping for a little
intimidation here. No such luck. Instead he pointed the gun in his hand at Valley's head and puffed
out his chest, fortifying his waning courage.

"Don't be stupid, Holy Man," he sneered. "Just be a good little ring kisser and you might live through
this." He grinned ferally. "Ain't makin' no promises, though."

Jean-Paul stood his ground in front of Babs. "Take whatever you want and leave. Please. There's
no need to harm anyone. No one will stop you."

Much as I hated to admit it, that was probably the right thing to do. Just a gaggle of bangers out
looking to score some easy drugs. Kids, really. Yeah. Right. Kids who'd rip your heart out if you
let them. The leader smiled and I suddenly got a *very* bad feeling about this whole piece of
squeeze. In my cozy little hidey hole behind the door I tensed and got suddenly real cold. Taking
stock, I wasn't impressed. I was in no shape to deal with these mo fo's as they deserved. I bit my
lip. Reluctantly, I decided to let Valley play it out and see what developed. If worse came to
worse, I figured I'd have to do something. At least I was behind them, so the element of surprise
was in my favor. First strike was mine. But it was gonna have to be a good one. I didn't think I'd
get another one.

Things went sour almost immediately. They ransacked the place and came up practically empty. In
fact, they really came up with Jack Squat. Not exactly what they were hoping for. I started to
sweat. Babs sat quietly in her chair, her eyes watching their every move. Underneath the warming
blanket in her lap, her hands lay very still.

"They ain't got shit, Carlos!" snuffled the tall kid in disgust through his runny nose.

Cursing under his breath, Carlos glared at Jean-Paul, waving his gun. "All right, fucker!" he snarled.
With a gesture, he commanded his three remaining home boys forward, then pointed at Babs.
"Bring me the red headed bitch!" I swear my heart stopped in my chest.

OhGodOhGod

Smiling like circling sharks, the three moved to obey.

Everything happened at once after that. I jumped forward just in time to see Valley move to
intercept Babs' three would be attackers. I also saw Carlos level his gun at The Angel. I leapt,
grabbed his arm to throw off his aim and we went down in a tangle of arms and legs. My body
exploded with pain and I think I grayed out for a few seconds.

But not before I saw Jean-Paul clutch his temple in agony and crash to the floor in a bright splash of
flowing red blood.

Carlos sucker-punched me and it took me a minute or two to learn to breath again. Things were not
looking good for the ol' home team, folks. Not by a long fucking shot. Choking and gasping with my
chest on fire, I saw Babs toss her lap blanket in the short, fat kid's face, effectively blinding him. The
extendable metal bo staff clutched in her tight fist snapped to its full length and went to work. With
a scything gesture like mowing down standing wheat, she swept the remaining two of them off their
feet, spun the staff, then whacked the one still standing sharply under the chin. His eyes rolled up
into the back of his head and he crashed to the linoleum floor like a pole axed steer. Like lightning
the staff whirled again.

WHACK

WHACK

Fountoning blood from their mouths, and missing a few teeth I suspected, the unlucky bangers
howled in pain.

Then, before they could recover, she smashed them in the stomach for shits and grins.

God, I love that woman.

Unfortunately, the victory didn't last long.

Scrambling to his feet, Carlos kicked me once again in the ribs for good measure, then aimed his gun
at Babs. "This mutha's got a longer reach than yours, sweet meat," he spat. "Drop it!" Babs lasered
him where he stood with a gaze that would have melted titanium. She sat very still in her chair.

But she didn't drop the bo until Carlos pointed his gun at *me*.

As I heard it clatter noisily to the floor, I curled myself into a tight ball of pain. Oh, Jesus wept!
Great going Todd, you useless piece of shit! That's about all you're good for anymore, isn't it?
Robin, the Boy Hostage lives again! That was supposed to be Dick's gig, ass-wipe!

Oh, Babs ... Oh God, Babs ...

Carlos' two conscious side boys lumbered to unsteady feet, shaking their aching heads, dripping
blood and vomit "Get over there!" Carlos growled, pointing at the prone Jean-Paul. "Make sure
that sonofabitch is dead! And bring Fat Pony over here!" When they passed him dragging the
luckless Fat Pony, Carlos slapped one of them upside the head. "What's with you two dickless
wonders?" he cursed. "Mutha fuckin'
losers can't even handle some gimpy goddamned chica in a wheelchair! Useless shit for brains!"

"Hey! He be still breathin'!" exclaimed one surprised banger, kicking Valley. "What we gon' do,
Carlos?"

"Then kill him, you stupid bastard! Kill him!" ordered Carlos rolling his eyes heavenward at their
display of ignorance.

I guess they decided to enjoy themselves. No need to let Carlos have *all* the fun, right? Mister
My-Bandana-Is-So-Cool-My-Shit-Don't-Strnk was the first one of the four to kick Jean-Paul.
Right in the ribs and even *I* winced. It didn't take the rest long to get into the spirit of things and
join the party, though. The Frenchman moaned and tried to curl himself into a tight ball. Good
move. Smaller target that way.

It didn't help.

"Noooo," Jean-Paul gasped, pleading. "Pluh-please ... you - you do not - do not understand ...
please ... he - he will come ... he - he will - " Shakily, he made the sign of the cross with bloody
fingers. His voice grew stronger now, when he continued.

"Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis, et in
noimine Jesu Christi Filii ejus, Domini et Judicis nostri, et in virtute Spiritus Sancti,
ut descedas ab hoc plasmate Dei Jean-Paul Valley, quod Dominus noster ad templum sanctum suum
vocare dignatus est, ut fiat templum Dei vivi, et Spiritus Sanctus habitet in eo. Per eumdem
Christum Dominum nostrum, qui venturus est judicare vivos et mortuos, et saeculum per
ignem. "

"Shut the fuck up, man!" somebody shouted.

My eyes widened. I'd never seen the ceremony, of course. Never even heard of it being
performed. But my ragged, spotty Church Latin kicked in and I understood enough to know what I
was hearing. I didn't know whether to hope it worked or not.

~I exorcise thee, every unclean spirit, in the name of God the Father Almighty,
and in the name of Jesus Christ, His Son, our Lord and Judge, and in the power
of the Holy Spirit, that thou depart from this creature of God, Jean-Paul Valley which
our Lord hath designed to call unto His holy temple, that it may be made the temple
of the living God, and that the Holy Spirit may dwell therein. Through the same
Christ our Lord, who shall come to judge the living and the dead, and the world by
fire~

They kept on until they thought he was dead before they moved off.

Fat Pony was still sleeping the sleep of the unjust and the unconscious. But the five of them who
were still on their feet were all together again, now. A nice cozy little group just begging to be
bowled over and stomped. Rolling like a monogrammed sixteen pounder down a Bowl-O-Rama
alley, I tenpinned three of them and they hit the floor hard. But Carlos, damn his eyes, deftly
avoided me and I got another kick for my trouble. Jesus that hurt! Feebly, I struggled to do
something. Anygoddamnedthing. Something must have happened, I figured from the sound of
things. That and the fact that no one really paid any attention to me. But by the time I'd forced
myself to a sitting position, the three downed bangers were back on their feet, Babs was spilled from
her chair out onto the cold hard floor and Carlos loomed over her like a storm cloud.

"You and me ... we got bidnez, bitch," he said. "Teach you some fucking respect, puta ... "

I'd have thrown up then, but I hadn't really eaten anything solid for a couple of days so I was just
screwed there.

Carlos' battered none too clean jeans pooled at his feet and his bangers grinned and licked their lips
like the predators they were. Gritting her teeth, Babs flipped herself onto her stomach and grimly
began using her arms to crawl toward the bo staff she'd abandoned earlier.

Me? I was getting ready to do something really, really seriously fucked up and stupid when it
happened.

They never saw Azrael coming.

Carlos' first clue that he was torqued up something fierce came when one of his butt buddies let out a
high pitched girlish scream and went flying past him, pancaking into a wall. I had a primo seat for the
entire proceedings, I must say. Educational doesn't *begin* to describe it. By the time Carlos
reached down to grab his underwear the rest of his little crew were down and not moving a lot.

They seemed to be moving in slow motion as they tried to run away from The Angel. They didn't
make it. And that's who it was all right. Azrael. No fucking doubt about that at all. "Father
Jean-Paul" was a memory. A ghost dissipating on an errant breeze. This was the Angel of
Vengeance and Destruction, absolutely. Without the mask to cover his face, shielding others from
the sight, there was no way in Hell there could be any mistake.

And Hell ...

Hell was just where this *thing* belonged.

And pity the Devil.

Things happened so fast I couldn't really see much. But there was a lot of screaming, I remember
that real well. Azrael didn't have a weapon. Only his hands. That was all he needed. Blood flowed
like water, bones snapped and punctured flesh. Azrael moved - once, twice, three, four times and
as many bloody kids hit the floor whimpering and retching, pleading for mercy.

He had none.

But he *did* have other things to attend to.

Carlos' exposed and once tumescent dick shrank like a raisin in the sun and he tripped over his own
jeans trying to run away. He pissed himself. Without his gun, he wasn't much. Azrael plucked him
by the throat, one handed, from the floor like a noxious weed from a well-tended garden. His feet
dangled about a foot off the floor. His eyes bulged as he began struggling, desperate for escape,
kicking and pounding striking aimlessly in his terror Azrael ignored the blows as if they were
raindrops. It was like beating a rock.

And *almost* as useful.

Jean-Paul's face never changed expression. That was the really frightening thing. Smooth and still as
lifeless marble ... except for the eyes. There was just nothing there. Lights on ...nobody home. Just
a great
yawning, devouring void ... a ... lack ... that was gonna suck you in and consume you, too, if you
weren't
careful. A black hole of the soul.

"Animal!" Azrael hissed in a voice like the Winter wind. Low and deep, it sounded like a kettledrum
rattling around in his broad chest, ominous and foreboding. And so damned *cold* ...

"Know that you are anathema in the sight of God and man. *Know* that men call you defiler and
heretic. *Know* that you are guilty." He shook Carlos like a rat in the jaws of a terrier. Carlos
tried to scream. He did. But he couldn't. Not even a scream could get past that choking, killing
hand.

"And the guilty must be punished." Azrael said.

His knuckles whitened as The Angel tightened his grip slightly; there came a sickening *crunching*
sound, Carlos' purple lips parted, and he spewed bright red blood. Jean-Paul Valley was covered in
lifesblood. In his hair, in his face, and in his eyes. The heavy metallic scent of it burdened the air.
Already forgotten, The Angel tossed Carlos' body into a corner and turned to the struggling Babs.

Babs didn't flinch when he picked her up and sat her carefully in her chair once more. Not even
when he left a bloody hand print like a crimson scar on her cheek. I was almost proud of her for
that.

She was one hell of a lot more together than I was at that moment, better believe it. I was trembling
like a leaf and my stomach threatened rebellion. When he touched her my skin crawled.

"Jean-Paul?" she asked, calmly.

"No." he said.

She laid a hand on his cheek. "That was a request," she told him. "Azrael has done his duty. It's
time for him to go Home, now."

He stared down into her jade green eyes for a eternal moment and I didn't like to think about what
that must be like. Straightening, he nodded almost imperceptibly.

And just that simply, he was gone. Jean-Paul Valley was back, swaying on unsteady feet.
He gazed frantically about at the blood and destruction left in Azrael's killing wake. He buried his
head in his hands, leaving blood scars on his face.

"Ah, Mon Dieu!" he whispered in a shaky voice that twisted something deep inside me like a knife
just to
hear it. "Mon Dieu!"

He stumbled away, then, into the bathroom and the sounds of heaving and retching that emerged
soon sent me fighting for my feet. But Babs got there before I did. On his knees, clutching the cold
porcelain of the bowl, Jean-Paul Valley vomited again and again and again until he had nothing left to
give. At his side, Babs kept his long blond hair, still spattered with bright red heart's blood, from that
foulness, at least.

She laved his face with a cool cloth that came away the deep red color of the most precious ruby as
he choked and gasped. Then she stroked his hair. And I couldn't even work up the wherewithal to
be pissed.

"Not *now*, Jean-Paul," Babs insisted, as if it might, later, be permissible to shatter into a million
broken pieces like fragile Waterford crystal. "You still have work to do, Father. Carlos is dead, I'm
afraid... but you might still be able to help the others."

He staggered to his feet and closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he plunged forward, grabbing for
the sink and anything else handy to steady himself as he made his shambling way way back into the
central examining room.

Following him, Babs squeezed my hand. Her fingers were soft and dry and smooth and so perfect
resting in mine that I wanted to cling to them forever. Fat chance of that.

"Are you all right, Jays?" she whispered. The concern in her voice warmed me in places I didn't
remember that I had.

My hand was sweaty and clammy and cold. But it warmed up fast, sheltered in hers. I squeezed
back. "I'll live," I said.

For the next couple of hours we were all kept busy. Watching Valley, it came to me that this was
just another way of fighting for him. He was, I realized, still struggling, still battling an implacable
foe. This time his weapons were blood plasma and antibiotics, bandages and bone splints, x-rays
and painkillers. Babs and I fetched and carried as best we could. But if it hadn't been for Albert,
the clinic's volunteer PA, who sure as Hell wandered into work at the right time, I'm not sure what
we'd have done. God knows what Al thought. I was whipped, dead tired, but I kept on keeping on.
So did Jean-Paul. Didn't this guy ever quit, I wondered? Wasn't there any 'time out' between bouts
with Azrael, with the streets, with God, or whatever the fuck other demons he fought constantly?

I guess not.

I remembered Bruce, then. Hell of a thing, right? But suddenly I understood as never before exactly
*why* Bruce had once chosen this guy to replace him. I handed The Angel another pint of O+
blood and stepped back. 'Do you like driven people, Bruce?' I asked The Batman, silently. 'Or do
you just understand them really well? Jesus God. Is that what you saw in *me*? Did you take one
look into my eyes when you caught me trying to boost the hubcaps off the motherhumpin' Batmobile
and just *know* what you'd found? Did you?' My hands clenched themselves into hard fists.

'Well, you were wrong, damn you, wrong! I'm not like that! I'm not! I'm *me* ... Jason Todd.
Sure, Draco's a part of me. A damned important part. But only one part. I've got a life outside the
suit. When I'm under the hood of Gina's cranky, dying taxi, when I'm sitting on my favorite stool at
Aunt Danny Fanny's Tyler Texas Pitt Bar-B-Que scarfing down Atomic Chili, when I'm baby sitting
Gina's hellions ... I'm *me* Who are *you*, Bruce? Who are *you*? Do you even know
anymore?'

My eyes fell upon the struggling Jean-Paul Valley.

'And who the Hell is *he*?'

In the end, we lost all five of them to shock and blood loss. Christ, it was like trying to fill the ocean
with a goddamned thimble. There weren't enough drugs, enough time, enough *us* to make a
difference. One by one they died. Just like that. Poof. No more bangers. No more kids. No
more mother's sons. Just five corpses, five dead bodies, now. Five times I heard Jean-Paul
stammer his way through Extreme Unction and The Office For The Dead. "E tu absolvo ... " When
the last of them slipped silently away Valley just stood there, sweat dripping off his forehead, still
covered in blood, still clutching his scalpel with a white knuckled grip, his head bowed, staring at the
floor like it was a holy relic or something. I had to look twice to make sure he was still breathing.

"Jean-Paul? You did your best, okay?" an exhausted Babs said. "We all did."

Silence.

He didn't move a muscle. Not one.

"JP, dude?" Albert Strosser pushed his granny glasses further back on his aquiline nose. Al still lives
in the sixties. No one's had the heart to tell him yet that it's 2001. To him, that's just a far out film.
You drop acid before you watch it. "Man, don't zone out on us like that. Creep City, brother."

More silence.

Babs wheeled herself hastily to my side and touched my elbow to get my attention. "Jays? Do
something for me, okay?" I nodded absently. Anything, Babs, anything. Swear to God. "I'll get
some clean clothes," she said. "You take him into the shower and get him clean. Nice warm water,
all right? He doesn't need any more shocks right now."

Trapped and trying hard not to look as pissed as I was, I lead him away wordlessly, docile as a child
to the waiting shower.

"Cleanliness is next to Godliness," I muttered under my breath.

Shit, I even had to undress the bastard.

No, nothing happened. Get your mind outta that garbage can, ya perv, before I scrub it with a steel
bristled brush, got me? You gotta mind like a sewer, you know that?

While Valley and I were in the shower, Babs took care of everything. I never did find out exactly
what all she told the cops. I'm betting they didn't ask a lot of questions. I mean, this is The Corner,
after all. Gang fights and dead bodies happen around here. A lot. Just another day in paradise.

Babs was waiting with a pair of pajamas when we were done. Yeah. JP actually sleeps in
pajamas. Imagine that. I wasn't at all embarrassed when I undressed him by myself but I sure as
Hell was red as a fucking beet when I dressed him again with Babs watching. She'd have grinned
even bigger if she hadn't been so tired, I know she would have. Women are natural sadists, I tell ya.

Between the two of us we got him to bed. Watching Babs tuck him in like a little boy, I wrinkled my
nose in unseen disgust and started peering around for a teddy bear to stuff under his chin. Christ on
a Cruise missile what is it with some women and damaged people? Waaaay damaged in this case.

But ... you know what?

It was the damnedest thing. My jealousy meter didn't even twitch. Not once. I watched her fuss
over him and brush the hair from his haunted eyes. I saw the compassion in her own eyes when she
kissed his cheek and it didn't bother me at all. It took me a minute or two to figure out why, I'll
admit. It's simple, really.

I wouldn't be Jean-Paul Valley if he were the last man standing on earth. Not for love nor money.
Not for *anything*.

Not ... not even for Babs.

I hit the sack and was gone and out instantly. I don't even think my head actually hit the pillow first.
I was one tired little dragon, let me tell you. I have no idea how long I slept. Not nearly damned
long enough, though, I can tell you that. I was still groggy and aching in my bones when Babs' urgent
voice woke me.

"Jays? Jays, get up. C'mon, up and at'em, kiddo. We've got to find Jean-Paul."

Turns out I slept away another half a day. So did Babs, I guess. Because when she woke up the
small bed in the clinic's tiny apartment/kitchenette was empty. Jean-Paul Valley was nowhere to be
found. She wanted to search the clinic again but I took her hand before she could roll grimly off. I
thought I was beginning to get the hang of Jean-Paul Valley, now. Sorta, anyway. Just a little.

I shook my head. "No," I assured Oracle. "I know where he is."

Hey, I may not be Bruce (you couldn't *pay* me to be Bruce!) but, it didn't take a genius to figure
this one out, okay? Babs would've thought of it herself if she hadn't been so damned distraught and
still dead tired. Had to figure, right? Where else was a priest gonna go, I ask ya?

And I was right, too.

Father Doyle met us on the steps of St. Annunciata's looking like he'd just attended the Crucifixion
personally. With what happened later, I guess maybe he had, in a way. The poor man tried to be
cheerful and all pleasant and shit. He really did. Got to give him points for that at least. But it sure as
Hell wasn't working. His eyes were wide and kinda wild looking around the edges.

"C-Can I help ye?"

I don't do the religious thing so it was Babs who answered, "We're looking for Father Valley. Have
you seen him, by any chance?"

The guy turned white as a choir robe.

'Score one for the Gipper!' I thought in triumph. 'And the crowd goes wild!'

Oh, yeah. He'd seen him all right. Better believe it.

Without a word, he lead us through the quiet corridors of his aging Church until he came to a small
chapel off the main lobby. St. Annuncie's is like most of the rest of the Corner; slowly decaying and
waiting to die. If it weren't for some of the older people like Mama and Papa Beldacci, who
scrubbed and cleaned, painted and polished, then built and repaired, the place would probably fall
down tomorrow. Not too many young people at St. Annuncie's. The Church of The Streets usually
got them first. Which reminded me in a sad way to worry about Gina's younger brother, Paolo. The
priests who are assigned there by Monsignor Hardy, Bishop of Gotham City, are usually *not* in
anybody's good graces. Fact is, St. Annuncie's is considered a "hardship" post. For which polite
words read "punishment" post. Suddenly, I wondered just what Jean-Paul had done to end up
here. Besides being Jean-Paul, that is.

Heh. As if that weren't enough.

Carefully cracking the door just barely enough to let the two of us see into the darkened room,
Father Doyle stepped back, chewing on what was left of his fingernails.

And there was Jean-Paul Valley. On his knees, praying, with the flickering candlelight of the small
room glinting off his long, disheveled blond hair like a softly glowing golden halo. He clutched the
silver cross around his neck with white knuckled hands as if it might flee from him first chance it got.
His lips moved, murmuring Latin prayers. Occasionally his broad shoulders shook as he drew a
shuddering breath.

Son of a bitch.

I think Father Doyle heard my low curses, but if Babs heard them she didn't let on. The only thing in
her world right now was the tortured figure of Jean-Paul Valley. Her green eyes grew wide as I
watched. Father Doyle crossed himself with quick but stumbling fingers. A gesture he must've made
about a zillion times a day and his goddamned hand shook so badly it almost wasn't recognizable.

"He's been like that since yesterday," the priest whispered. "I found him this morning when I came to
Mass. He wasn't there. He's *always* at Mass. Have ye any idea what troubles the lad so?"

"It's a long story, Father," Babs said wearily.

Doyle shook his head and stared at Jean-Paul with concerned eyes. "Tisn't natural, I tell ye," he
opined and crossed himself again. I had to agree. There was sure as fuck nothing *natural* about
Azrael. I glanced at Babs. Swear I saw tears in her eyes and that was enough for me. I took a firm
grip on my rising temper but I could still feel my lips begin to curl back from my teeth in anger. Ass
hole made Babs cry. Sure, my eyes were stinging, too, but that was only from the candle light, got
me? Or maybe a dust mote, okay? Not because I gave a damn, that was for fucking sure.
Somebody had to do something, right? And it looked like it was up to me to save the stupid bastard
from himself.

Grimly I stalked forward, intent on my rescue. To my surprise Babs grabbed my hand and pulled
me to a halt.

"Let him alone, Jays," she said softly, squeezing my hand. "Let him alone."

"Babs, I don't think he needs to *be* alone right now," I countered, frowning. Shit. What the Hell
did I care, anyway? Who the fuck appointed *me* Jean-Paul Valley's Keeper for Christ sake?

Babs studied Jean-Paul Valley's beatific face, shining in the votive candle light for a long moment.

"He's not alone, Jays," she said simply. "Don't worry."

I stirred uneasily and looked quickly away. "Yeah, I guess maybe you're right."

In silence, she wheeled herself away and I followed, muttering imprecations. My teeth set when I
thought of Jean-Paul Valley. And hey, if maybe it took a little longer than usual to work up just the
right degree of pissed and if those teeth weren't quite as tight clenched as times before, what of it,
huh? My business, nobody else's.

'We've all got probs, Angel Man,' I thought sarcastically. 'So what makes yours so much worse than
anybody else's, huh?' I glanced at Barbara Gordon, wheeling herself along at a steady clip. 'How'd
you like *them* apples, bud?'

And just as suddenly as *that*, I knew that Jean-Paul Valley might switch places with Babs in a
heartbeat. That he'd much rather be trapped in that chair than trapped where he was; as *what* he
was. After all, from that chair there was only so much damage that Azrael could do, right? It also
occurred to me that a handicapped Jean-Paul could fill Oracle's shoes handily. Babs has a lot of
respect for the guy's talents with a computer keyboard and she should know.

Babs flying across the rooftops of Gotham again, laughing and free. Oh yeah. In a heartbeat, baby.
A heartbeat.

Savagely, I pushed the thought aside, then stomped on the quivering remains.

Valley used God like a crutch, limping along with his hands folded, crawling on his knees toward
Salvation. Or whatever the fuck he was looking for, anyway. I decided if I were God I'd think
seriously about cutting those apron strings. Let the son of a bitch stand on his own two feet for once
like the rest of us. See how well he liked it.

It was a real struggle for Babs and I both to get her up those stairs at the clinic. She wouldn't let me
pick her up and carry her the way The Angel had. My back and ribs were really grateful for that but
the rest of me was pretty pissed, I've gotta admit. Sure, her independence is important to Babs.
Christ, I can get behind *that* for real. But how did Valley rate so much, huh?

The strain on her face tore at me as I watched her grimly wrestle with that chair and her own inert
body. Kinda like Jean-Paul, actually, I realized suddenly. Always fighting something; struggling to
overcome. No wonder she sympathized so with The Angel. She must understand a lot about
battling constantly the way he's forced to.

'Yeah, Babs,' I thought with a strange sadness, 'we've all got our crutches, don't we?' The thought
thrummed through me that Babs' cherished independence was her crutch. She used it all the time to
fend people off, to turn them away. It was so much safer that way, wasn't it? 'You just pity me and
I don't want your pity so go away!' No messy romantic relationships to worry about there. No
"significant other" to fuck up the smooth course of an orderly life. Simple and logical as one of her
computer programs.

And just about as empty of joy, too.

If it weren't for her independence, she might be with Dick. I faced that a long time ago. It doesn't
bother me anymore, honest to God. I used to wonder sometimes if Dick and Garth would ever have
gotten together if things had been different ... if Babs had been willing ... And then I realized that it
didn't matter one way or the other. Not where it counted.

All right, I'm an idiot, okay? We all know this. Fuck you. I should've been back home two days
ago kicking the tires on Gina's ratty, rattling taxi, preying on the lady customers who liked their men a
little rough looking around the edges, and guzzling beer with Barry. But, Hell no. Where was I?
Sitting in this goddamned clinic like an ass waiting for Jean-Paul Valley to finish wrestling with
Jehovah. For two days I waited. Waited until I was about ready to suit up and pay St.Annucie's an
unannounced night time visit. Close encounters of the Draco kind. What the Hell was he *doing* in
there, anyway? Shit.

Except I was pretty sure that I knew *exactly* what he was doing in there. I'd bet my life that he
was still on his knees, still praying. Like a fresh coat of gleaming white paint slapped on a
ramshackle, tumbled down house to disguise the rot beneath from prying eyes.

Babs collected her laptop. "Jays," she husked, "I've got to go. Tim can't handle Oracle all alone for
much longer, okay? I'm sorry." She ran her fingers nervously through her flaming locks. "Damn! I
feel like the rats deserting a sinking ship, here."

What could I say? I sure as Hell didn't want her to leave.

But she did.

I had to call Barry again, but he was cool with taking care of business at the garage until I got back.
Whenever that turned out to be. A great guy, Barry. I don't deserve friends like that. But, then,
does anybody, I wonder? Gina dropped by a couple of times so that was fantastic. She and Al
and I stuffed ourselves on Mama Beldacci's pasta until we groaned under the assault. Hell, we even
got pizza out of the deal. From Mama, again. And I'm talking the real deal here: deep dish Italian
pizza *pie*; none of this skanky American squeeze. Aunt Danny Fanny personally dropped by to
ply us with ribs and Atomic Chili. And to "pester" me, naturally, about being more careful. We
shared some beer and some bad jokes and I lost twenty bucks on the Knights. Monday Night
Football sure is better when you share it with good friends, isn't it? It was like Grand Central
Station. Dick and Garth and Tim. Hail, hail, the gang's all here.

Bruce even came by but that's a story for another time.

On the third day, I woke up to the sight of Jean-Paul Valley sitting by my bed. Rubbing my eyes
hard and shaking my head to clear it of the morning fog, I regarded him closely. Pale and shaken, he
gazed back at me with tired eyes. Not surprising, I guess. Unless I was very much mistaken, he
hadn't slept in about three days.

"I am sorry," he began without preamble. Neither of us paused to ask what he was sorry about.
We knew. "Has Albert been taking care of you?"

I nodded. "Al is aces," I assured him and watched him settle back into the uncomfortable chair with
a small sigh, closing his eyes. He looked whipped, defeated, like a boxer about ready to toss in the
towel. I bit my lip. Well, what the Hell was I supposed to do, anyway? He'd either get through this
or - or he ... wouldn't. Not my prob. At the moment, I wasn't taking any bets either way. I was
already long overdue to go home and start living my life again damnittohell. I've got one of those,
you know. A life, I mean. Surprised the fuck outta me, all right.

*Screw* Jean-Paul Valley.

'Freudian,' whispered Dick and I sat on him.

If the son of a bitch couldn't pick himself up and truck on, deal with this, then it wasn't my
goddamned fault. No way! If he wanted to spend the rest of his life on his knees sobbing and puling
like some weak-sister, that was his look out, not mine. I had about decided to pack up my torn and
bloodstained long underwear and leave him to wallow in his own misery. In fact, I was examining
my costume, trying to decide if the damned thing could be repaired or was a total washhout destined
for the ragbag, polishing chrome and removing grease, when I heard her voice.

"Father?"

When she stepped into the room I frowned. Young. Very young. Sixteen, maybe seventeen.
Yeah. Sixteen going on fifty if her eyes were any clue and I thought they might be. And almost
painfully thin. She was kinda pretty, I'll admit, with long black hair and deep, dark eyes that shone in
the low light. It was weird. I'd never seen a black girl wearing a 'fro before except in pictures. On
her it looked dy-no-mite, though. My frown deepened. Yeah, she was really pretty; but around
here that can be a curse, you know? Gina was really pretty once. And look what it got her: Louis
Brown, two kids and twice that number of scars. Hell, I think she's still pretty, okay? But, then, I'm
prejudiced.

I balled the costume up before she could see it and stuffed it into a plastic bag that was gonna serve
as a suitcase. Then I made myself scarce. Valley stirred and looked up at her.

"N'juma?"

Her frown was deep. "My name's Contessa, Father," she insisted.

Jean-Paul smiled. It was kinda wan and way too brief, but it was a smile. "To me," he said softly,
"your name will always be N'juma."

She dismissed it with a wave of her bracleted hand. The bangles on her wrists tinkled merrily.
"'Contessa' mean some kinda noble lady, Father. It's Eye-tal-yun or somethin'. I'd rather be some
Eye-tal-yun blue blood than have some stupid African name, anyways."

I didn't have a Hell of a lot to pack, so I sat down in a chair. I tried not to listen, honest to Christ.
But it didn't work. Valley looked sad.

"It's a lovely name," the Angel told her. "Like you. I looked it up. In Swahili it means, 'abounding in
joy'."

Like a deflated balloon she sank into a nearby chair and covered her face with her hands. "Ain't got
too much of that left, Father," she wept. The tears leaked between her fingers, rolling their salty way
down her forearms, leaving bright trails to mark their passage.

Jean-Paul Valley closed his eyes again. He released a ragged breath, running his hands through his
thick hair. From my hidden vantage point I could almost see him pull the shattered pieces of himself
together. I gulped and tasted blood where I bit my tongue to remain silent. On cat feet he padded
to N'juma's side and knelt down before her. His strong arms reached for her and he embraced her
tightly as if she might be something precious he ws in deadly danger of losing. Gratefully she sank
into his arms and buried her head on his broad shoulder.

"I hate Africa!" she whispered. "This disease come from Africa, they say. This AIDS. It gonna kill
me and ain't nothin' I can do. Soon I be dead. I'm scared, Father. Oh God! I don' wanna die!"

He stroked her hair and let her cry, offering her the only comfort that he had: the nearness and
warmth of his body. "I know, I know," he whispered back. Not once did he loosen his tender hold
on her or let go. "I heard a song once. 'Eve'ybody Wants To Get To Heaven (But Nobody Want
To Die!)'. So very true, non?"

She clutched at him. "Ain't you scared, Father? Ta - ta be close to me like this? Lord, that 's the
worst part of all this. Ain't nobody wants to touch me! Not hug me or kiss me friendly like or
nothin'. It's like I was already dead."

He kissed her mahogany cheek.

"No," he said, "I've never been afraid to die. In some ways I was made for that. But touching? Oh,
yes. I am greatly afraid of that. Because I am not worthy of it."

Confused, she roused herself from the depths of her pain and sadness. "Not worthy?" she
questioned. "I - I don't understand. You're one of the nicest men around here, Father! I don't
know how's I'd get on without you."

"Camouflage," he whispered. "If you really *knew* me ... knew the *thing* that lurks inside me ...
you would not think so." He touched the collar around his neck with shaky fingers. "Even this, I
fear, may be only camouflage. God forgive me, am I only hiding within the womb of the Church?
Sometimes I fear so. To make restitution for the evil within; my sins. And - and I can never do that.
Never."

She set her own grief and agony aside, shouldering his, and lay a hand on his smooth cheek. "It don'
matter why you do it, Father," she said in a voice ringing with truth to my ears. "Not to *me*. And
not to old Mrs. Boraslavsky and them heart pills of hers you deliver to her door, neither. Or to
Rabbi Zuckerman and that new copy of his Holy Book, that Tor-rah, you got for him. Him and his
people wouldn't even have a place to worship if you hadn't convinced Father Doyle to lend them
space here at St.Annucie's. Why never mattered to any of us."

He swallowed, hard.

"I- I ... " His voice trailed off.

Tears squeezed their painful way past Njuma's rich, chocolate colored eyes. "Father, I don' know
what to do," she pleaded. "You've got to help me. I'm scared to die ... but I'm scareder to live, I
guess. It's gonna be bad, them doctors tell me. I - I ain't sure I wanna hang around for that, you
know? Lately I been thinking, thinking hard .... I'm tired, Father. I cain't fight no more. I just cain't.
I wanna ... I wanna go Home ... "

'Oh shit,' I thought. 'Here it comes. The big "suicide is a mortal sin" speech.'

I couldn't have been more wrong.

Slowly, like futilely trying to roll back a sea tide, he pulled up the sleeves of his shirt. With one blunt
finger he traced the long, thin angry red scar there. Even from here I could see it. My eyes
widened. Springing from the pulse point on his wrist, it snaked up his arm like a flame. Holy God. I
guess he meant to do it right, though, because the serpentine path of the ugly thing didn't end until it
almost reached the joint of his elbow. I began to realize just why he always wore long sleeves.
Even in the heat of summer.

Unconsciously, he caressed it for an instant. "I have often thought of Home," he murmured, closing
his eyes. "No more battles to fight; no more struggles. Only peace ... at long last peace. I might
even be *me*. If such a creature even exists. But, best of all, *he* would be gone. I have longed
for it; prayed for it. God forgive me, I have even tried to kill for it."

N'juma was shaken. "F - Father? Why - why didn't you? Do it, I mean?"

I took a quick breath and held it, waiting for his answer. The tips of my fingers went numb and I
was suddenly shivering. Hey, it didn't take a genius to see that this was an important question, okay?
For both of them. And ... maybe for me, too.

He touched his forehead to hers and their tears mingled, two streams coming together to form the
beginnings of a turbulent river. "Why? Because I am not yet worthy. Because, cursed and flawed
as I am, perhaps I may make a difference in the world. If there is even a single person, one life, that
I may save or aid, then I will be there for that person. Because nothing is forever, not even pain."

Sobbing, the lovely, dying woman buried her face in his shoulder once more, anointing him with her
tears. He held her tightly and let her cry, because that's what she needed to do. He didn't stop her.
When she lifted her head, she was almost smiling, I could see. She kissed his cheek and he blushed.

"Would it help if I told you you suceeded?" she asked softly. "Making a difference, I mean? With at
least *one* person."

His eyes shone with happiness, great faceted sapphires glowing in the low light.

"God never burdens us with more than we can bear," he said. A look of wonderment settled deep
into his blue eyes, as if he might be hearing, really hearing, those words for the very first time. "He
has many different ways of making us the people we are destined to be. Of shaping us in His
Image. And not all of them are pleasant."

"Not hardly," N'juma agreed, her voice acerbic and still troubled. "If -if I ain't goin' Home, Father,
then what *am* I gonna do? Ain't trained for nothin' but whorin'. Ain't got long to make that
difference. So what am I gonna do?"

"Whatever you can," he answered. "Whatever you can."

She grew thoughtful. "I gots a sister," she finally said. "Her no count man done left her and she's
near 'bout to having a baby. Maybe ... maybe ... could be she might need some help when the child
comes. 'Spect I'll ask, now. Might be nice taking care of a baby. For as long as I'm able,
anyways."

Valley squeezed her hand. "Your sister will need all the help you can give her," he said. "And there
are breakthroughs in AIDS research every day," he pointed out. "And even now there are
medicines, drugs, that may help."

"Not for *me* there ain't, Father," N'juma's voice was bitter. "Them drugs is 'spensive. Ain't got no
money to pay for that."

He squeezed her hand again, frail and sallow, now, from the ravages of the disease. "There is
money, if you need it." His voice was low and kind. "Do not worry."

I frowned. 'You son of a bitch!' I cursed him roundly in the privacy of my thoughts. 'And just
*where* is that money supposed to come from, huh? God? You're not living at Wayne Manor any
more, buddy. This is the real world. You just gonna snap your fingers and *poof*! Money
appears? '

And then it hit me. Valley had money. Unless he gave it all to the Church when he took Holy
Orders.

Apparently not.

On unsteady feet, I rose and headed for the back door and freedom. Freedom from Jean-Paul
Valley and his pain. Freedom from a kid named N'juma I didn't even know and *her* pain.

And, most of all, freedom from my own pain. In my mid I saw Bruce again, sitting on the cold stone
floor of the 'Cave in his torn Armani, still wet with my tears of anger and frustration. I left him there, alone
in the shadows, in the *dark* and I've never really been back.

Maybe ...

The last thing I heard as the door closed behind me on it's squeeky hinges was the voice of
Jean-Paul Valley.

"We shall journey together, you and I," he promised N'juma. "Stumbling and falling, occasionally
laughing, I hope, we will make our way through the days to come."

"How gonna do that, Father?" she wanted to know.

"One day at a time," he told her. "One day at a time."



**********************************************************************************



I tossed my plastic bag cum suitcase over into a corner and looked around. Looked around at the
stained sink with the rusty pipes that bled water the color and consistency of mud. I looked at the
aging heater in the corner that somehow always seemed to fry itself in the middle of the goddamned
Winter, leaving Barry and me to freeze our balls off. Looked at the dying refrigerator in the other
corner stuffed with Mama Beldacci's mouth watering pasta and ribs with Atomic Sauce from Aunt
Danny Fanny. Looked at Gina's shitty taxi, lurking like a spider in its web, waiting for me to repair it
so Gina could support her two kids.

I smiled.

Home Sweet Home.

Then I thought of Jean-Paul Valley and N'juma.

I picked up the phone with chill uncertain hands. I almost dropped the damned thing and my fingers
itched to slam it back into it cradle, safe and inert.

I must be a braver man than I thought, because I didn't.

It rang almost a dozen times before someone picked it up. It was strange how I still expected to
hear those clipped, cultured British tones come singing over the line. They didn't, of course. It just
didn't seem right for Al to be ... gone. Some things should be eternal, you know?

"Hello?"

At the sound of that deep baritone voice my grip on the phone tightened. It took me a moment to
find my voice.

"Bruce? I just wanted to say thanks for coming to see me ... "


The End