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Wally spits soda halfway across the living room, choking in disbelief, and Dick makes a face, wiping a few stray drops off his sunglasses.
“So not cool, dude,” he says.
“You want to cuddle up with Superboy,” Wally manages, still choking and also slightly gagging, agh, not comfortable. Dick looks affronted.
“Nobody said cuddle,” he says. “You said cuddle. I said ride like a trick po—”
“YOU'RE THIRTEEN.”
“Seriously, what was being thirteen like for you?” Dick asks doubtfully, and Wally has to concede the point, because yeah, he would've said the same thing when he was thirteen. And did, albeit translated through “straight as an arrow” (goddammit Artemis needed to get out of his head RIGHT now) and “crushing on normal girls, not Superman's socially inept clone.”
Still, oh God, he did not need that mental image ever. Also Dick is tiny, tinytinytiny, and Superboy? Superboy is not. Superboy is what tiny lives in righteous fear of.
Or should, anyway.
“You're crazy,” he says, wiping soda off his mouth, and Dick just shrugs nonchalantly.
“Not my fault the guy's got abs I could bounce a quarter off,” he says.
“He's Kryptonian, you could bounce a boulder off his abs! People have!” Wally squawks, although the dreamy look Dick gets at that makes him think it didn't really help. “Oh for—seriously, he's like sixteen! Or four months. Worse, he's both.”
“Miss Martian's forty-eight,” Dick points out.
“That is not my problem!” Wally protests indignantly, turning bright red. “That's a—that's a weird Martian aging thing, totally not the same at all!”
“Because growing up fighting crime in Gotham and being aged in a vat like a fine wine are totally normal ways to mature,” Robin says like he's agreeing, and Wally shoots him a dirty look. And then an incredulous one.
“Did you just call Supey a fine wine?” he asks disbelievingly, and then Robin's the one who's bright red.
“If you ever repeat that I'm telling Flash what happened to the first set of doors on the Flash Museum,” he threatens.
“You wouldn't dare!”
“Not if you don't make me.”
“I can't believe you like Supey,” Wally says, just making a face at him. “He's so . . . pissy! And cranky! And broody! And pissy!”
“I know, it's so hot,” Dick says, getting that dreamy look again, and Wally tries not to die but probably comes pretty close.
“Oh God never do that again,” he manages, taking a fast swallow of soda. “No seriously, how is that hot?”
“Do you know how impassioned somebody has to be to be that pissed off all the time?” Dick asks, still looking horrifyingly dreamy, and at that thought Wally is feeling slightly less straight as an arrow but it is not his fault the Red Arrow uniform was such a drastic improvement over that McDonald's mascot Robin Hood nonsense, dammit. “Like, forget just passioned, this is a full-on im situation. Dude, can you imagine how good that'd be in—”
“NO,” Wally says loudly, dropping his soda and clapping his hands over his ears, and Dick gives him a sulky look and folds his arms over his chest in a kind of Supey-ish way, if Wally squints, ohGodwhy.
“Well it would,” he says.
“No. No it would not,” Wally says, because for one thing he never ever needs to think of Red Arrow in that context, ever. “Also Batman is going to kill me for even being in the same hemisphere as this conversation, how can you possibly think that brooding and emotionally brain-dead is a good—wait.”
Batman is pretty brooding. Also . . . well, maybe not totally brain-dead on the emotions front but about two skips short of it, and . . . aw, hell.
“This is totally because Batman is your dad,” Wally accuses unthinkingly—and probably suicidally, it occurs to him a second later, because you really never know where there are going to be Batbugs. But he's already in the hole, so might as well start digging. “He reminds you of Batman! This is one of those things where girls marry their dads!”
”Girls?!” Dick demands indignantly, and Wally groans in despair and falls backwards against the couch, covering his face with his hands.
“It is!” he says disbelievingly. “Oh my God I cannot believe this, you want to marry Batman. Should we get Supey a Dracula cape, would that make it better? And somebody's got to have a spare mask lying around—”
“Oh my god, shut up,” Dick groans, kicking him off the couch. “I do not want to marry Batman, I want to marry Superboy! Just because they're ficially similar—” superficially without the super, presumably meaning “more than just passingly”, Wally's brain supplies automatically, because speaking Robin-ese is officially hardwired into him now—“doesn't actually make them that alike, okay?” And Wally technically gets it, as much as any guy can get his best friend wanting a ride on the “Superman's clone” train, but there are way more important concerns here.
“You totally just said you wanted to marry Superboy,” he says, and Dick turns bright red.
“The first set of doors and the third,” he threatens immediately, but Wally just starts sniggering.
“Did you make sure Supey wasn't here before you brought this whole secret crush thing up?” he asks.
“He and Aqualad are gonna be training with Black Canary for another hour, he won't walk in on us,” Dick counters haughtily, waving him off. Wally raises both eyebrows, not even bothering not to smirk.
“Uh-huh. And how does that make him suddenly not have super-hearing?”
“. . . um.”
“So how's that whole 'trained by the world's greatest detective' thing working out for you, dude?”
“Shut. Up.”