[His gaze drifts down, watching her toes slip under his knee. Awkward limbs staking out ground and then settling in a way that is simply peaceful. Gotham boys are raised to think that death is broken glass on pavement and screeching tires. But, Santa Muerte is comfort, peace and an assurance that the things wrong and twisty don't make up a whole person.
The statement about trouble makes his mind tick, little gears counting down against cogs. Eventually he looks up at her, dark eyes full of puzzles.] Do you think I could have ever done the domestic life, Muerte? [He doesn't seem hinged on a yes or no. He's already made up his mind that babies and families aren't for him, but he wants to hear what an all knowing has to say.]