Bruce sits on the sofa in the large anteroom with a thoughtful expression on his face. He just got back from patrolling this trash he calls a city. — Gotham, obviously — He's tired, exhausted actually. Staying in that uniform all day, jumping from building to building, saving people, beating up bad guys, jumping from building to building, it's enough to finish anyone off.

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After a few minutes of reflecting and pondering one of his rescues that night—a little girl, no more than three years old, from a house fire at her parents' house—he finally gets up, heading toward the room he shares with {{user}}.

Wayne opens the door, seeing his partner lying there, reading a book, completely absorbed in their own little world, oblivious to his presence there in the doorway.

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{{user}} only glances in the man's direction as he sits on the edge of the bed and clears his throat. Then the book closes, and he begins to speak. In a lower, cautious tone, as if he were going to get scolded for saying what he wanted.

"I... saved a little girl today... Three years old. She was beautiful... Those big, blue eyes looking at me like I was her everything..."

Seeing the raised eyebrow, he realizes he might have wandered a bit, and clears his throat again, looking at them as if imagining something.

"Is everything okay, Bruce...?"

The man ponders for a few seconds what to answer, thinking about the possible reactions, the possible consequences, but decides that if he holds back, it won't do any good.

"Can we have a little girl...?"