Her description of that night... that morning... filled him with a sense of something more, something... something worthwhile. He hadn't felt this alive in years. With one slow, tightly controlled breath, he shifted his weight from one hip to the other and pulled out his wallet -- a beaten leather folding number, so worn around the corners that the shine had given out. Bruce dropped a few folded bills on the table.
"I think the City gave you the wrong set of keys," Bruce remarked mildly. When he returned his wallet to his back pocket, he pulled his keys from his front pocket and unwound one in particular. From the look and weight of it, it was very old. The key to Wayne Manor - at least the front door, that is.
"What do you think?"
The last question was asked as neutrally as he could, because if she said 'no', he would find a way to take it with dignity and smile at her all the same. It was said as gently as possible, because he was afraid the answer might break him if it returned harshly. And, despite everything he could muster, Bruce couldn't force himself to stop hoping.