[Iris looked down when he sighed, hearing nothing but frustration and disappointment in it, the way she heard it from everyone she encountered - whether it was truly there or not. The truth of it was that it would take so, so much more before she could feel as if she had a place, and this penthouse was that place. She would always, she was certain, feel like she was intruding. It seemed to her that the only place she hadn't felt like an intruder in too, too long was when she was in the hospital or in jail. And (not for the first time since she appeared in Gotham) part of her wondered if she should have gone to Arkham instead of the journals for help.
Not that she would say that to him. Not yet, at least.
But she didn't know what to say to him. Her eyes lifted again to look at him, finding him still looking at her, and her next breath was unsteady with strange nerves that too much attention gave her. He looked... almost confused, like he was trying to figure her out, and she wanted to tell him not to bother. That no one had been able to, not even a host of doctors. And whether she wanted him to stay or go? She still didn't feel like she could decide for him. It wasn't her place, it wasn't her right... and yet... she didn't necessarily want to be alone now that someone was there. Maybe it was using him, but she managed to find her voice just long enough to tell her decision. Not that it sounded very decisive. Maybe a little needy, but not decisive.] You don't have to go. I could... make tea? [Her voice tipped up at the end. Tea. If there was some. Would there be something so simple in the kitchen of this too-huge place? Would it be something he would want?]