threads of an old life

After a while, Kyle couldn’t escape you from his mind. His sketches and paintings all became overwhelmed by the shape of you: every brush stroke on the canvas mimicked your movements, every penned line remembered your face, every smeared and mixed palette yearned for your color.

And it was precisely your color that he struggled with the most. At every possible moment, he tried to recreate the color of your lips, that unique shade that painted your smile brightly, that haunted his visions and constructs—both of pen and ring. It was as if this color, bright and lovely in its near-rosy hue yet soft and gentle in how sweetly it sat on your lips, was solely yours in the universe as the world yearned to remember that ethereal vibrancy. He had spent days mixing different paints in attempt to reach anywhere near the shade of your lips; but it, as if the world wished to mock his efforts, all looked wrong.

Kyle was thinking about this heavily one evening as he dragged himself up the lonely stairs of the studio building. He should’ve been at his apartment, letting sleep find him warm on his worn couch, but the thought of you, your smile searing bright in his mind and your lips that intelligent mystery color yet to be discovered by his canvas, kept him from his much-needed rest. No exhaustion or bleary-eyed vision could cure him of the lingering in which you held firm his mind, but perhaps, he rationed, some sort of solace could be found at the tip of his inked pen.

Struggling with the old studio door, near frozen by the dropping temperatures of winter in the city, he finally made it budge open only to be met by a large box to his chest, carried only—of course, in his disheveled and slightly bruised luck—by the keeper of his dreams.

He gasped upon impact, not at the running into a large weighty box, but at the mere sight of you, utterly unprepared for your presence so late in the evening. You usually left the studio earlier than this, leaving him in company with the emptied and darkened corners late into the twilight. But, tonight, his studio key opened the door right to you.

You murmured out an apology as you tried to readjust the box in your grasp.

“Let me help with that,” Kyle said shoving his bag off his tired, aching shoulder as he reached out to take the box from your hands.

“Oh,” you said, surprise kissing at your words. How lovely it is to be greeted by such a sound that exists within you. “You don’t have to; I can handle this.”

“No, really, let me. It’s way too cold out there to be running back and forth with trash this heavy.”

He grabbed the box—heavier than he expected—from you, his fingers ever-so-slightly grazing your gloved hand in passing and binding his heart at the faint gesture. How was it that, even gloved, the slightest touch of your hand burned a warmth through his skin, a warm sensation he can only ascribe to that of the sun whose light traveled through years of distance and layers of atmosphere to finally grace him the moment he returns to Earth; your dark gloved hand in union with his bare, a pigment birthed by friction of a mortar and pestle’s kiss.

You smiled at him, a hushed thank-you for his help, as you moved to pick up the remaining trash bags tucked at the studio’s back exit and began your descent down the stairwell and into the street. Kyle followed closely behind, grateful that the box veiled him from your view whenever you turned to check on him as he felt a creeping heat rise to his cheeks and ears. The stairwell, only two short flights of stairs until chilled concrete, felt a maddening maze. Each time you turned back towards him—noticed only by the slowing of your steps, the turning of your heel, and your echoing voice of care repeated by the concrete walls at each step he took closer to you—Kyle felt his heart’s pace quicken dangerously far into terrains he couldn’t imagine let alone reach. His mind, too, lost at seas unheard of, consumed only by the very moment of contact.  

Reaching outside, you mention leaving the box on the curb; but Kyle was too preoccupied by his body betraying him with reddened cheeks, dizzying vision, and a screaming heart to hear any word you said. You rush over, then, to toss the bags in your hand to the edge where pavement sleek with ice threatens to meet the sidewalk and move the box from his hands to the curb. Maybe he imagined it, maybe he dreamt it, maybe it was the biting cold of the building’s decrepit back entrance, but he felt a spark—electrifying, captivating, and entirely warm against the sharp, cool winds eating at their limbs.

Just as his body betrayed him, his mind unflinchingly followed. All he could think, see, understand, was your hand selfishly in his. Every blink brought him conjured images of your hand crossed between his fingers dyed with reddish, pink paint, your hand lost in the waves of his messy morning hair, your hand caressing his face with your thumb singing circles along his cheek and jaw before your lips—the color still haunting him, a question left unanswered in paint—softly loved his.

“Are you coming?” You called out to him, holding the door to the building open. He didn’t even notice you walk back towards the building, too lost in his own mind’s cinema. How long did he stay standing at the edge of the chilled evening street?

He strode over to you, embarrassed at the curse his body and mind were teasing him with, only hoping you didn’t take notice of his delays. Just as he stepped into the threshold of the building, you placed your hand—gloved and warmed in the night—on the back of his shoulder, as if to urge him inside before the bitter cold affects them further, as if to shield him lightly from the chilling wind’s bites. You patted the site and before letting your hand leave him to walk in ahead, hoping to retreat into the heated studio. Kyle felt his heart tighten at this touch, a sharp pain pinching at his shoulder soon following. He had almost forgotten the injuries that decorated his body and bones from previous weeks’ work. But perhaps his shoulder whimpering in pain wasn’t already harbored on his being, but a newfound illness working to end him—an additional betrayal and embarrassment his body would cruelly enact only in your presence.

“Thanks again, it’s so much colder than the weather report said it would be,” you said with a grin holding onto each word, banishing any frigid air from the studio space. You were taking off your coat and gloves; at the sight of this, Kyle began doing the same with his coat, leaving it to hang on the rack next to yours. It was as if his mind lost its capacity to think for itself; had your gentle touch along the map of his shoulder numbed him whole?

“Yeah,” Kyle replied winded almost, as if this was the only words he could manage to say.

“Do you want some coffee or something?”

“Sure, yeah, coffee’s good.”

Kyle followed after you as you walked towards the open kitchenette that stood at the back of the studio for the residents and staff. You were rubbing your hands together, an attempt to banish the lingering cold that kissed your fingers not long ago; intrusively, he imagined his lips a better aid.

“So,” you began, your voice breaking him free from the tortuous path his mind of imagined futures taunted, a silent suffering vexing him the closer he reached your orbit. “How’s the residency going? Hopefully the studio’s been helpful?” You said as you started the coffee maker.

Your back was turned towards Kyle, sitting on the couch directly behind you. Despite, the comedown Kyle was masking, everything about this moment felt like a breathing painting: its near-stillness as the glow of the studios’ harsh lighting was drowned out by the golden lamps that decorated this secluded corner of the world, its honey-warmth framing you in the comfort of shadows—chiaroscuro reinvented at your presence. The chilling wind of the world outside occasionally scratching at the window stood no chance against the subtle warming beauty of this. You reached above, grabbing two mugs from the upper cabinets—the center of the frame re-imagined. Even in such practiced rituals, you moved achingly with grace, shadowed and sepia-toned hands hugging the base of one mug, your other hand caressed against the withered counter. A painting in motion, performed entirely for his eyes alone; and he craved the feeling of your hand close to his once more. The coffee dripped into the pot; he felt his heart threaten to explode.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s,” Kyle stumbling over his words, freeing himself from the hue of rich browns and golden streaks. “It’s going really well. The studio, it’s great—I like it.” If only his words carried the same eloquence as yours, the same suave as the imagined painting before his eyes.

“That’s good.” You turned to smile at him.

Another painting emerged at the sight. The unnamed color of your lips mocked him, but he didn’t care right then: there was poetry to be read in the light bathing your smile.

“What are you working on now?”

“What?”

You smiled again, giggling almost as the words came forth. “Like with your paintings and sketches. Or is it a secret?”

“It’s a side-project,” Kyle admitted, before realizing that the contents of his sketchbook, the mess of his studio room, are all of you. He couldn’t show you his mountain of sketches or the brush strokes attempted in your likeness; but, what were the chances you’d recognize your own lips etched a million times onto the well-loved paper of his sketchbook? Do people, scorned lovers or star-kissed angels, recognize themselves in this way? He watched you hand him coffee, your hand inching closer to his before departing so soon once more. Would you recognize the contours of your hand backing away from his? Would you remember the gap in space and time left unmarked and unmet by your hands with his? “A secret side-project.”

The night carried on like this, his eyes becoming the pen memorializing these moments shaded by the sound of your laugh, by the smell of evening coffee. The conversation flowed and expanded into every possible corner, of art and television, of music and shitty neighbors, of the studio’s owner no one really liked. He could spend a lifetime like this: sitting across from one another sharing coffee and laughter and smiles, the world moving at its own pace unbothered.

“Hey, do you want to get something to eat?” You asked, suddenly and quickly, catching Kyle somewhat off-guard with how your words stumbled, almost, before letting your question fall into the air.

If he wasn’t mistaken, it sounded like you were nervous. But what was making you nervous? And why? And, if you were nervous, should he, too, be nervous? He felt the earlier thrashing of his heart again, that violent beating against his chest, reigniting his nerves. It didn’t help that he was distracted by you once more, but only now did he observe the subtle tint of rose and spring that emerged glowing from the depths of your skin, a dusting of a rosy color hiding behind the well of beauty across your face. Perhaps it was just him now noticing the winter-bitten redness to your nose and cheeks, or the way your lips were slightly reddened by the warmth of your drink—how beautiful the color looked on you in this moment, and how near impossible it was to recreate.  

Then, it finally hit him, the color that has evaded him for weeks, but kissed the depth of your features and lips: blackberry jam. Somewhere lost in the sweet and tang, the complexity of this rouge was entirely yours. It was this color, the one that caressed the upper corners of your eyelids and brushed your cheeks into a winter life, that tinted his dreams in a blackberry-jam haze that acrylic or oil or reality—other than what chance was held on the contours of your lips—couldn’t recreate. It was, beautifully, only yours, and his heart constricted at this truth.

“There’s this sushi place around the corner,” you continued, your voice in its melodic cadence dragging him back to reality again. “If you—”

“Yeah, yea- yes,” Kyle blurted out louder than expected. He hated the way his words always betrayed him in moments like these, announcing their anxiety instead of protecting his cool. He cleared his throat, attempting to reclaim his last shred of dignity: “I could go for some sushi.”

You smiled, another of those life-altering smiles, a love letter from the stars. “Great.”

You smiled, and Kyle thinks he could die right there on this old, dusty couch carrying the art and lives of so many; but none like you, none like this.

“Let me just put this stuff away and we can head over.”

for example in no man’s land storyline she has pale skin and white features and she helps bruce in this one:

when i first saw her i didnt think she was talia lmao. and i always can guess even from her shadow.

another example is talia in tom king’s run. talia appears in these issues and starts a fight with selina— which is a ridiculous plot to mention.

and as you can see she is depicted as a brown skinned woman— in a story where she is told as evil and jealous ex.

in her first appearances, she was also depicted as pale and she was a much more different character than she is now. she was passionate, brave, loyal, loving and caring and she was not afraid to cry in front of people. she was so well with her emotions. and she was such a colorful person.

in shadow war, she was depicted as a brown skinned woman and she was neither good or weirdly evil. she was morally ambiguous mostly. i liked this depiction of her more, esp when we consider how her depiction have been since 2000s

in one of my favorite talia stories, batman chronicles #8, she was depicted as pale skinned and personally i have no problem with that. she is an arab chinese woman and both arabs and chinese people can be pale and dark skinned. this “color skin range” is not just one stereotypical thing. in a lot of regions throughout the world, it changes.

and another example is gotham city sirens (16-19 ? not sure) in the cover she has paler skin but in the story itself she is brown and eventually (spoilers) we learn that she had evil intentions.

so personally, it might not be my place to talk about this since i am neither arab or chinese let alone being an arab chinese woman, i dont have any problem when she is depicted as pale or dark skinned; the problem is her being “evil” while she is brown skinned and “good” when she is pale skinned. for me, her skin color shouldnt keep changing according to the stories because imo that’s racist af. i hate it when writers decide her skin color according to her intentions.

he's just so mysterious and attractive. after months of coming in, he finally talks to you? and more than 3 words, on top of that giving you his personal number? crazy. you attempt to do your work now that your clients have all come and gone. the store looks a bit more messy, the result of not tending to what needs to be done. you could have sworn you saw him pass by the store once while you were with a client.

you remember pouring the young couple a glass of wine, you feel someone staring and you looked over your shoulder, only catching a blob of a figure. he was about the same stature as Jason, but it was probably your eyes playing tricks on you, you weren't wearing your glasses either way. the man walked away quickly.

maybe the dust in the air was getting to your head, or maybe it's the antiques haunting you. which reminds you, you have to dust soon. perhaps he can help you, since he's so tall. you wouldn't have to risk falling off a stool, if you did, he could catch you in his big muscular arms.. no! you wouldn't have him help you.. again. he probably would though, you remember when he carried the heavy box for you like it weighed nothing. his face so close to yours, the warmth of his arms seeping into your skin. you were way too out of it to feel his muscles flexing. if only he stuck around to help haul the other boxes. that was not fun to do on your own, and you broke a nail while picking up a box, that shit hurt!

~~~

the day is dragging on, and you decide to drink some more coffee.  you're lucky to have a small kitchenette at the back of the store. you have a tiny stove that you decided to keep after it was donated. no one really buys old appliances like these here anyways. grabbing your trusty french press, you scoop in enough coffee grounds for two coffees "just in case" you want more. all you have to do now is wait for the water to boil.

the bell rings, startling you a bit, you always lock the door when you're back here. one can never be too safe in this city. sighing, you just really need a another cup of coffee. hopefully you don't have to entertain your customer too much today.

you walk to the window, drawing the curtain a bit to peek who's outside. in your line of view is a broad chest, your eyes trail up and you see Jason with his hoodie on. he turns to the curtain opening a little and you wave at him and go to open the door. 'i'm sorry i had to lock the door i was making myself a cup of coffee.' you let him in and walk to your desk.

'sorry for interrupting' you wave him off signaling it was okay.

'don't worry about it, you weren't really interrupting anything . would you like a cup of coffee as well? totally understand if you don't want some it is quite late, don't feel obligated to say yes' you say while trying to look busy moving things around your desk.

'sure' he takes his hoodie off and you try not to sigh. his hair falls perfectly over his face. how can someone look so handsome and hot in a plain black long sleeve. your hand twitches and you get sucked back into reality, you walk back to your kitchenette. the water is boiling thank goodness. you pour the water into the french press, and turn the knob on your little ladybug timer. you walk out to your desk, and see him browsing around the store, he goes to the same corner he always likes to go and immerse himself in.

you bring over two mugs and sugar, you look for some cookies or bread you could share with him. you get cookies and take them with you. the timer buzzes and you go back to the french press. pressing down and immediately pouring the coffee into the mugs, the aroma of coffee draws him out of his corner.

you sit on your chair not expecting him to sit right across from you. 'sorry i don't have any milk or creamer'. he looks over at you his expression unreadable.

's'okay i usually like it black and a little sweet' you nod at his words, taking note of how much sugar he puts into his mug. not like you will need the information anyways.

'thanks for this, i could have helped you bring this out, y'could have put me to work' you chuckle at that.

'no problem, and it's okay, not like i had to bring out anything too heavy for the coffee' you say lightly and he smiles a bit at that.

the silence looms over the both of you as you stir your coffee. you stare into your mug looking at the black liquid swirling, trying to think of something to talk to him about.

'no books yet?' he says while sipping his coffee. you're still trying to cool your coffee down. you hum and turn over to your calendar.

'a couple more days i think, they were supposed to come in last week, but they keep flaking on me. i understand though, my supplier, he's a bit older. so i don't really mind. i'm sorry to keep you waiting' he nods along to your words.

'thought you might have lost my number' you laugh a little at that, as if you could lose it. the second he wrote it down you began to memorize the numbers.

'nooo, i'm not that unorganized' you drink some of your coffee. he finishes his and sets the mug down. he stands up and you track his movements.

'thanks for the the coffee, it was really good' his green eyes meet yours, and you nod. you will your face not to flush too much with his intense stare.

'n-no problem, go ahead and look around , i did put up some new stuff, see if you can find it' you point at him, and he turns. what? why did you do that? you drink your coffee and try not to yell out of embarrassment, you slump into your chair. you fight the urge to run back into your kitchenette so you can avoid him.

avoid looking at him that is, you want to trail behind him, pick his brain about what he thinks. he is always awfully quiet when he comes in, you reach for your tablet and press play on your 'classical’ music playlist. you felt bad after last time when he came in and you were playing your usual music. you play something softer and somber its not Bach or Beethoven, its your playlist of musical arrangements some are guitar heavy, or very synth heavy and melodic its odd music to some, but you think he might like it.

you get lost listening to the music and scrolling on eBay. you like to see what other people put up, to figure out what the person collects. browsing like this really works your brain, you try to accurately describe the product or guess the time period. you do it to pass time and it can be very amusing to see the pretty things. sometimes people are way off or have one word descriptions, and you fight the urge to send them a message of what you would put.

‘could i buy this?’ that startles you, one hand adjusting your glasses the other over your heart.

‘oh i forgot you were still here’ you extend your hand out and he passes you a small frame. the frame is intricately decorated, its a still life with a skull on it and some rotten fruit you peer up at him. your face warms. ‘good choice Jason’ you clear your throat, that came out way more intimately than intended. ‘uh i’ll just wrap this for you’ you open a drawer full of wrapping paper and get a bag to give him. ‘cash or card?'.

‘depends’ you laugh at that.

'15’ you say softly, biting your lip nervously.

‘hundred or?’ he says seriously, that makes you laugh more and nod your head.

‘no 15 dollars’ he tilts his head ‘um, actually, i painted this, i had my friend do the frame for me, but i didn’t even know they returned this to me.' you stare at the painting then look up at him. 'hmm i probably shouldn’t sell it to you’ you wrap it for him and pass him the bag. ‘keep it’.

his hands dig into his pocket and he slides you a crumbled $20, you laugh and slide it back. his hand goes over yours ‘no keep it. for the coffee and the beautiful painting’ he says softly, you look at his scarred hand over yours, then up at him. he makes you speechless you nod and he grabs the bag. ‘thanks’ he nods at you, and you smile at him softly, he walks out into the chilly air.

ahhh i was kinda scared to upload this i didn't think people would want part 2, but u guys voted for it ! (thank u🫶🏼) pls let me know if this was cute and not corny , as always feedback and comments are appreciated , i will be posting again very soon promise 🖤✨ (also sorry if the ending is abrupt again)

Even the rain gently pattering at your window isn’t enough to soothe Jean-Paul back to sleep.

He’s stiff as a board, sitting upright on the mattress next to you, his mind racing. You’re sound asleep next to him, comforter tugged up to your chin, blissfully unaware of the horrors he’s experiencing.

He should wake you up. He knows he should—you’d asked him to—and yet, he can’t. You’re too peaceful, too warm, too wrapped up in the cozy comfort of whatever it is you dream about every night. He wouldn’t dare disturb you, not for something as silly as this.

Still, the things he’s done as Azrael continue to plague him when he closes his eyes, blurry visions of gore burned into the backs of his retinas. 

He swipes a few long, blond strands from his face and reaches to the nightstand to put his glasses back on. Squinting at the alarm clock on your nightstand, he cringes when he sees the time. Well past three in the morning.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, mind set on washing those few extra dishes you’d left in the sink before bed. He’s not getting sleep anytime soon, he might as well make himself useful.

He’s just about to stand, half of his weight already in the balls of his feet pressed against the floor, when he feels your soft touch on his wrist.

He glances at you over the shoulder, forcing a smile when he sees the sleep-ridden concern on your face. Your eyes are still half-closed, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Jean?” You yawn, “what time is it?”

“Late, sweetheart.”

You nod, tugging at his wrist, drawing him into you. He gives in, letting himself flop back into the mess of pillows and blankets, laid flat on his back next to you.

He frowns, “did I wake you?”

“Told you to wake me if you couldn’t sleep.”

The guilt sets in, a new weight over the already unbearable weight he carries every day. “I’m sorry.”

“S’fine,” you murmur, rolling over to lay on his chest.

He’s warm, chest radiating heat like the sword that plagues him. You press a hand against the bare skin of his stomach, snuggling close to him. Jean drapes an arm over your side, pulling you in.

“What was it tonight?” You ask.

“Same as usual,” he admits quietly. “Thinking about the things I—Azrael did.”

You look up at him through your lashes, tracing soft circles on his skin. Goosebumps raise where you drag your fingers, muscles relaxing beneath his skin.

You press a kiss to the side of his pec. “You’re not your past.”

“I know, it’s just—“ 

Sometimes the voice get so loud. Sometimes they roar at him in the dead of night until it’s all he can hear. Punish the guilty, be the avenging angel, seek vengeance.

“It’s too much,” he admits. “Some nights, it’s just too much, and the world is so quiet and—and my head is so loud.”

You prop yourself up on an arm to look at him properly. “What helps to quiet it?”

He pauses for a moment to think, remembering the techniques he’s used to get himself through nights much worse than this one. Nights before you were at his side, before the safety net that he finds in your arms came to be.

“Stories, mostly. About the Saints and other things.”

“Tell me one,” you say.

And he does. He starts to regale you with a story about a Saint you’ve never heard of, spouting off each detail like it’s second nature to him. The sound of his voice soothes you, has you relaxing back into his chest, your breathing steadying.

Telling you the story has him soothing himself, too. The voices aren’t so loud, the guilt doesn’t plague him as heavily, he doesn’t see the snapshots of violence behind his eyelids anymore.

Before he knows it, he’s reached the end of the story. You’re fast asleep on his chest, chest rising and falling rhythmically. He finds his own eyes feeling heavy for the first time tonight, sleep finally clasping his hand.

He brushes a thumb over your temple, “I love you so much.”

dc masterlist | navigation