There's a lot about this that Dick understands, from the lens of someone who's gone through some weird points with memories and lost time and someone who's just experienced a lot of weird in his life, on top of knowing Barbara almost as well as he knows himself, but even then there's still some of it that's not quite within his grasp. If it were someone else, if it wasn't their relationship in a weird limbo, he could see himself shaking his head and telling her that she's overthinking it. That may be true, he just doesn't feel like he has the right to say so when he can't know everything that she's been through, or settle any lingering, nagging doubts that she might be contending with over there.

He can wish that it was that simple.

He's close to saying so, though he shouldn't. He wants to ask what they did do, though he doesn't know that he needs that knowledge kicking around in the back of his mind. It definitely wouldn't help to hear that all of this was easier before, if it was, and that against everything he feels deep down to his soul that there's always going to be that span of time wedged between them, a crack in a foundation that he's taken for granted too many times before. He won't let himself think like that, he can't.

But that he's unsettled in obvious, he's never been good at trying to swallow back emotions. The best he can really aim for now is not stumbling into saying something that's going to end with her pulling away from him again.

"A lot of things have happened here since then, and not just between us either." When he's tipping his face back down to hers, meeting her eyes this close, there's a familiar rush of warm anticipation, he wants to kiss her but he can't. Shouldn't. "I'd be kind of surprised if it wasn't different now."

Apologizing for not remembering, for not being exactly the way she remembers him last, would be ridiculous, but he almost feels like he should.