"No. Not that." Barbara shakes her head, a small movement when her chin rests on his chest, and then pauses—her brow knitting, because it feels impossible not to touch, doing this. "Sure, I am still thinking about that. What I can tell you and can't about the year back home, and whether that connects to the other entrance from that time, without breaking the standard rules of time travel Bruce drilled into all of us—"

And god if that's not part of why some part of her has the wherewithal to look at his eyes this close in the dark, reflective only now and then, and not blue in this inky deepness, and end up turning her head, putting her cheek back against his skin.

"—but I didn't mean that." That was ... its own box, which could sit somewhere, over there, off the bed, until morning, unless he absolutely needs to pick at it right now. "The older you, we did come in together. But he bounced up ahead of me about a month, one night, not long before he left. We went to bed one night—everything normal, or as normal as everything ever gets around here—and when I woke up to this deeply unfamiliar slightly longer hair and beard?"

"I may have decked you with a pillow." Beat.
A scrunch of her nose. "While falling off the bed."

Only realizing it was still him in the middle of that fall.

(She's diverting but only briefly. It was a little comedic after the fact.)