There are several people here on the campgrounds who would be glad to extend the same mercy, but Barbara's not looking for it. Or, perhaps, she's not looking for it in the way people expect her to, or expect her to exhibit it. There's a cooler logic to it than Jason wants, and of the others, the next person—the first person—would have been Dick, and he's proved time and time again, after all these years, he'd hardly need the words even when she doesn't want to say them.

(Somehow, being Dick Grayson, he'd find a way to coax them out despite that, too.)

He'd be out there. Balancing like it was no business of his, that gravity or the oscillation of waves happened to be part of the equation not everyone else could skate right over. But Harold's response pulls her back, and she looks over at him again. The faintest raise of brows above her glasses is the only hint of the words that come out at a tilted angle.

"I think it's still surprising your dignity has deigned to wear tie-dye."
Could not everything, perhaps, be an option outside his fastidious suits?