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Precision
People forget that Wally is first and foremost a scientist. His deductive reasoning is excellent, he is observant - almost to a fault. He can be silent and patient. He likes having answers – and he likes having to work for them (though he'd never admit it) and most of all he loves precision.
And that's why it is a sheer, unadulterated pleasure to watch Dick Grayson.
The team trains together as a rule, learning how to read one another - to predict what your team mate will do before they've decided themselves. Wally may never know exactly what walks the twists and turns of the corridors of his teammates' minds – but he knows their favourite battle moves as if he were them.
When they're in the field, Robin's acrobatics cause joy to explode across his own face. He is so very very good. Good enough to look casual. Good enough that the average onlooker would never guess just how practiced each move, just how well-trained their executor.
He laughs, grins, sniggers, makes stupid jokes and deconstructs the English language as if it were made of children's building blocks. His energy is infectious, his enthusiasm astonishing and his limbs are everywhere at once although his feet never touch the ground.
But here, in the base gym, he possesses a solemn gentleness– a serenity in his actions present even as he somersaults through the air. He treats every movement with respect, reverence –for each one is a sacred gift from ancestors long since gone, passed down through parents still fresh-dead enough to hurt.
While training, he is no longer Robin – he is Dick Grayson, proud descendant of 5 generations of Flying Graysons, last bearer of a legacy of hard-won perfection: talent born from years of toil, secrets forged in Romany blood; Grace built right into the bones.
And above all: Precision. Ridiculous, remarkable, stupefying precision.
From his hidden vantage point by the training equipment, Wally can observe every move Dick makes (because whatever Artemis may think, Wally can be as still and quiet as he needs to be – and he knows Dick well enough to know how to hide from him, if only for a little while). There's a voice in Wally's mind that says it's probably a bit creepy to spy on your best mate like this.
This still small voice shuts the hell up the minute Dick places one utterly meticulous foot on the floor.
Dick practices the same somersault 3 times in a row…and each time lands in exactly the same place, the same pose, the same angles.
Every arm movement is measured, every head tilt is timed and there's never a toe out of place.
Depending on his movement, Dick's waist sets at a bend that is just so – just right.
Words can never do justice to such a display. If only Wally could calculate the angles of Dick's hips, plot the varying curves of his back and the tangents they produce, map the striking parabolic flight of his triple somersault – maybe he'd come close to explaining the punctilious beauty, the fastidious allure.
All he can really say is that, if Dick Grayson were a clock, Wally would set his watch by him.