It's almost going to smooth out, and then he turns—and it's the earnestness that always gets her, isn't it? For all that confidence, he is a book, and there are miles, and years, that go into that hesitation she watches hitch his movements, his words, before he decides. Before he's holding out his hands, and he's. Saying that.

She doesn't move closer. Doesn't reach out her hands,
or move them at all, from still holding her towel.

(It's like, at the beginning, with the other!Dick, except she doesn't have Dick to go home to after it,
stuck in the weird deja vu of it all. Except. There is no Dick to go home to.
And this is him now. Again.)

"Dick. It's just a bed. It's fine."

Yes, she can hear herself as she says it. Hear a half dozen other words, across those miles and years, that all alluded to the same fact, as though it wasn't a mutually understood, and sometimes mutually bulwarked, fabrication. But it is. Too. It's just a bed. And they both need to sleep. These missions don't slow down for any of the shocks or horrors (or surprises) they decide to throw out. And he's already gone through so much today, back home, and being pulled into this place, without a normal 'welcoming' stop by Aurora. (Which she still hasn't worked out the why of that has happened, again, either.)

"Just get some sleep." She turns back toward the bathroom to return the towel. (Or, maybe it's because she's not certain she wants to watch if his expression falls?) "Tomorrow will probably have a whole new list of mission things we're either required or 'encouraged' to do."