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Once again, his hand moves without permission, brushing a few loose platinum strands of hair away from her face. He longs to do it again, to let her hair trickle through his fingers, to feel it brush against his skin again.

A single finger crosses yet another boundary, moving down to touch her lips. He should fight the urge, but it is too strong. And he doesn’t want to fight it, because he remembers how her lips feel. He remembers her kiss—urgent, passionate, and experienced. He allows himself to remember the desire to kiss her so deeply, so fervently and desperately that she will forget everything else. He remembers how it felt to hold her against him, and he wants to feel her body against his again, just one more time.

Her lips are as warm as he remembers, soft and dark and smooth. He feels to urge to lean forward, to kiss her lips just once more. And it takes every fiber of his will power to not give in, not yet.

Just as his hand prepares to draw away from her face, there is a touch to his wrist. It is warm and hesitant, careful and yet deliberate. He knows the touch immediately, and for a moment he panics, curses himself for crossing so many boundaries, breaking so many personal rules in one night.

But then he looks up and he finds himself staring into shocking blue depths. And he cannot help but feel a strange sense of peace, in spite of the predicament he has found himself in.

Her gaze is confused, uncertain. She looks as though she cannot quite determine whether or not this is a dream, whether or not he is real, or yet another dream that she must awaken from. Her eyes slide from his face—barely visible to her in this darkness—to his hand, which she cannot see but most certainly can feel.

And then she speaks, and he remembers how much he loved her voice. How much he will always love her voice. How much he has missed her voice.

“I thought it was you.” she whispers, eyes never leaving his face, “I just wasn’t sure. But now that I know it’s you…why are you here?”

He’d like to answer her, of course, but the truth is he doesn’t know the answer himself. He only knows that he is here, and he doesn’t want to leave know. He doesn’t want to leave at all, but he knows that when this night ends, he must.

But he doesn’t have to leave yet.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks quietly, keeping his eyes level with hers. She cannot see his eyes, and though he wishes she could, he knows better.

A pause follows, and for a moment, he fears her answer.

Both hands slowly rise, coming up to touch his wrists, first only with the very pads of her fingers, then the slender digits slowly descend, wrapping around his wrist to cradle his hand against her face. It feels strange—she has only done this to Terry McGinnis, never Batman. She’s never wanted to touch Batman this way before…never.

But he wishes she would always touch him like this.

Her eyes flicker back up to his face. “No.” she says quietly, “I don’t think I do.”

Never had it become so important to cross so many boundaries in one night. And yet regrets will be few, despite what may come tomorrow.

Terry McGinnis/Batman and Melanie Walker/Ten belong to DC Comics.
Artwork belongs to me.
Text is from "At Midnight", a oneshot posted on my fanfiction.net page.

Disclaimer: This pose was not taken by or influenced by any work here on dA. It came from imagination and a lot of hard work. Thank you.

Description
PLEASE COMMENT IF YOU FAVORITE THIS PIECE!

Once again, his hand moves without permission, brushing a few loose platinum strands of hair away from her face. He longs to do it again, to let her hair trickle through his fingers, to feel it brush against his skin again.

A single finger crosses yet another boundary, moving down to touch her lips. He should fight the urge, but it is too strong. And he doesn’t want to fight it, because he remembers how her lips feel. He remembers her kiss—urgent, passionate, and experienced. He allows himself to remember the desire to kiss her so deeply, so fervently and desperately that she will forget everything else. He remembers how it felt to hold her against him, and he wants to feel her body against his again, just one more time.

Her lips are as warm as he remembers, soft and dark and smooth. He feels to urge to lean forward, to kiss her lips just once more. And it takes every fiber of his will power to not give in, not yet.

Just as his hand prepares to draw away from her face, there is a touch to his wrist. It is warm and hesitant, careful and yet deliberate. He knows the touch immediately, and for a moment he panics, curses himself for crossing so many boundaries, breaking so many personal rules in one night.

But then he looks up and he finds himself staring into shocking blue depths. And he cannot help but feel a strange sense of peace, in spite of the predicament he has found himself in.

Her gaze is confused, uncertain. She looks as though she cannot quite determine whether or not this is a dream, whether or not he is real, or yet another dream that she must awaken from. Her eyes slide from his face—barely visible to her in this darkness—to his hand, which she cannot see but most certainly can feel.

And then she speaks, and he remembers how much he loved her voice. How much he will always love her voice. How much he has missed her voice.

“I thought it was you.” she whispers, eyes never leaving his face, “I just wasn’t sure. But now that I know it’s you…why are you here?”

He’d like to answer her, of course, but the truth is he doesn’t know the answer himself. He only knows that he is here, and he doesn’t want to leave know. He doesn’t want to leave at all, but he knows that when this night ends, he must.

But he doesn’t have to leave yet.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks quietly, keeping his eyes level with hers. She cannot see his eyes, and though he wishes she could, he knows better.

A pause follows, and for a moment, he fears her answer.

Both hands slowly rise, coming up to touch his wrists, first only with the very pads of her fingers, then the slender digits slowly descend, wrapping around his wrist to cradle his hand against her face. It feels strange—she has only done this to Terry McGinnis, never Batman. She’s never wanted to touch Batman this way before…never.

But he wishes she would always touch him like this.

Her eyes flicker back up to his face. “No.” she says quietly, “I don’t think I do.”

Never had it become so important to cross so many boundaries in one night. And yet regrets will be few, despite what may come tomorrow.

Terry McGinnis/Batman and Melanie Walker/Ten belong to DC Comics.
Artwork belongs to me.
Text is from "At Midnight", a oneshot posted on my fanfiction.net page.

Disclaimer: This pose was not taken by or influenced by any work here on dA. It came from imagination and a lot of hard work. Thank you.