There's an odd sort of symmetry to it. Barbara watches him close his eyes and rubs his head. It's for her, and it's not. It's her through the lens of what he experienced of that trauma with his Barbara. (Not quite living through it again, but incapable of understanding the price of it, the weight, the pain.) It's the same as wondering if it's an echo of what Dick was feeling when he wasn't there.

She doesn't quite have a lot of words to say about that (she doesn't always with her people either, not on the days she has to be stuck in the chair or quietly helped from it to a bed). She doesn't look away. She isn't hiding from it having happened, or the injury she'll have for life, or his grief, or apology, or acknowledgment. Her eyes are a solemn green, and her tightens a little in understanding.

There's the slightest nod of her head for that.
Barely there. Likely not seen from half the room away.

"Gotham's," Barbara hazards, letting the last syllable linger into silence. "A predictable known."

"This place isn't, so it's left only everything ever as the options of what could be thrown at us."