Dick Grayson, known as Robin to his friends, his boyfriend, and a small collection of the Gotham underground, is ridiculously small for his age. Ridiculously small. And Bruce won't let him anywhere near the bench press.
"It's stupid." Dick tells Alfred, kicking his feet against the side of the table (and surprising the bats up ahead) as Alfred injects the Lupron into his thigh, "I could be just as ripped as... Superboy even."
"Is that so, sir?" Alfred says in that perfectly noncommittal way of his, discarding the needle into the handy receptacle and raising one eyebrow.
"Well, okay, maybe not. But it's just not fair! Even Wally is buffer than me."
"I'm sure, Master Dick, that Master Barry is also unlikely to allow young Wally to ruin his joints at so young an age, buffness aside."
"I don't even know what that means." Dick admits, throwing himself into a handstand, "but if Bruce would just let me start on the T, I could--"
Alfred watches Dick walk across the cave on his hands, sighing as he does so, "Is there some reason you wish to, hmm, 'rush things along' Master Dick?"
The eyebrow arches upward.
"Okay, but you have to promise not to tell Bruce."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
Dick inhales shakily, lets himself fall out of his handstand, and looks Alfred in the eye, "WallyandIaregoingout."
"Ah. I see."
"You see? That's it? Arrgh!" With that, Dick throws himself up into another handstand. Maybe the blood rushing to his head would help everything be less confusing.
"Yes." Alfred tells him, "I see that you are entering into young adulthood. That you are anxious to... move things along, as it were."
"You have no idea."
"But I would caution you against haste, Master Dick."
"Who's hasty? I'm not hasty. I'm, like, lengthy. I'm taking my time."
Dick growls (if growls were high-pitched and squeaky), "Don't 'ah' at me! I don't need that! What I need is--"
The eyebrow, once again, makes itself heard.
"--a cock, okay? Oh my God. I can't believe I'm saying this to you."
"--and what happens when he finds out. I mean, I'm not sure if Wally knows this, but he's gay. Really gay. Queer as Folk, gay. Gayer than a--"
"--on nitrous oxide! What's he going to do when he figures out that I'm not packaged as advertised?"
Dick's down on the mats, his arms wrapped around his knees and his face drawn into a tight frown. He reminds Alfred very much of the little boy who first arrived at the Manor just five years ago, lost and alone. Even more, he reminds Alfred of the frightened child who came to him in the night to whisper that he was bleeding and he was wrong. Alfred and Bruce had taken the problem in hand, they had given Dick the space he needed to find out who he was.
Alfred thinks, perhaps, that Dick is doing just that.
"I would advise you, young sir, to think long and hard about what you want from your relationship with Master Wally. I would hope," he adds, "that you would be able to prevent any-- ahem-- accidental revelations for a good long while. But if it becomes necessary, perhaps you might ask yourself whether the person you wish to attach yourself to would be of the sort to make such severe judgments."
"Err... so if Wally doesn't like me the way I am, he can go shove it?" Dick asks.
"Just so, Master Dick."
"I guess." Dick has his head up now, resting on his knees and looking to Alfred the way many generations of little boys have, "I just-- I just want to be real."
"I do not think that you could be anything but real, Master Dick." Alfred tells him, "Now if you will come with me to the kitchen, I have ginger snaps and cocoa that were prepared especially for the real boys on the premises."
"Bruce not getting any, then?" Dick snarks, rolling himself into a standing position.
"Perish the thought, Master Dick."