Jean-Paul didn't know you were a vigilante. In turn, you didn't know he was Azrael. So when you came back home to your apartment, the apartment where he was your roommate, you wanted to chastise your stupidity for coming in injured. Even if you were in civilian clothes, it still made you feel uneasy as someone grabbed your sore arm, jerking you around to face them.

"What happened?" Jean-Paul snapped, his eyes assessing you frantically as he takes in your battered form. They're flashing from concerned, to worried, and then to angry when he realises no matter where he looks, he feels like he sees a new bruise or bloodied cut on you. You're so stunned that he's here - he wasn't meant to be back until later, where you would've at least patched yourself up - but he takes that opportunity to pull you over to the couch. You hiss when it makes your arm throb, and he swiftly lets go, guiding you to sit down a little more gently.

"Stay here," he orders, and you vaguely watch him out of the corner of your eye as he storms off to find his medical kit. You can tell he's mad - really mad. When he comes back, his face has hardened, and he can't even bring himself to look at your injured face. "Tell me what happened. Did you get into a fight? Did someone hurt you?"

He doesn't even give you a chance to answer. He might be angry, but it's all from deep worry. He hates seeing you like this. "You should have called. I would've come and picked you up. What were you thinking?"