[In silence, he surrenders to the idea that there's enough that's beyond even his control. And he's ultimately reminded of the appointments he hasn't scheduled for himself, the licensed doctors he hasn't turned to, the question of whether he inherited his father's bad heart left hanging in the air. For now, still able to push through his weaknesses without more of a struggle than his limp presents, it's easy for him to convince himself that he must be okay and that he will be for years to come. There's too much left to do in Gotham to slow down now.

He catches Ed's smile - a sad little thing that doesn't seem to do much for either of them - and offers none in return. Instead, he sighs out what's left of his irritation and pushes up off the armchair with a grunt, limping towards him.]

...We could spend the rest of our evening indulging fears and fretting over the infinite possibilities of what could happen every time we step out that door... Or, we could make the most of the time that we know we do have.

[He pauses a few feet from Ed with his hands stuffed into his pockets, looking up into his face thoughtfully.]

I, for one, have no intentions of going anywhere. Tonight, or for the next fifty-some-odd years.