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The first thing out of your mouth is, “Dick hates us.”
Wally rolls his eyes and unhelpfully supplies, “He loves us.”
It doesn’t feel like that while you’re staring at the lone bed in the centre of the room. Shame on you for ever trusting Dick Grayson to choose appropriate accommodations.
There’s nowhere to go that isn’t within a couple of metres of the annoying red head. You groan aloud.
“Jeez,” Wally says. “Tell me what you really think.”
You immediately retort, “You’re sleeping on the floor.”
He gawks. “No, I’m not!”
“Fine. Then I am.”
His head drops into his hands as he wants to claw his eyes out. He curses you under his breath. “He calls me the problem child,” Wally mutters.
You glare at him. He raises his palms in defeat.
“Why’re you so against us sharing for a night, anyway?” he asks, sounding the slightest bit hurt. He thought you were friends. Maybe teetering on more.
“Because…” The excuse dies on your tongue. You don’t have a reason that’s acceptable to voice. It’d be humiliating to admit that you’d more than likely end up tangled in his arms.
Wally’s brow raises as he observes you, closer now. Your face heats up.
“You probably run in your sleep,” is all you can manage.
“I don’t,” he insists with a huff. “And if you don’t get in that freakishly small bed within the hour, I’m gonna tell everyone it’s ‘cause you can’t control yourself around me.” His mouth curls as he catches your grimace. “Capisce?”
It feels like he has you cornered, so you just grumble your agreement and push past him.