The look he had trained on Malcolm evolves into a weary glare; it makes little brothers proud across the globe in its futility. "I thought you preferred number 2 pencils," Tim mutters dryly. He finally pushes himself to a more appropriate sort of sitting.

His back protests some. Tim wonders about curling up in a tight ball and falling and staying asleep, the deep ache in his bones soothing.

And then...

Well, he's lied to Batman.

Staying genuine in the face of-- this, all of this, is comparatively less demanding. The burn of the spreading blush on his face is as good an alibi as any. Tim raises his hands in the defensive and turns his head to Neal.

"I didn't do anything," he insists. "What Malcolm meant is if I had changed my mind. He told you, didn't he?"

What better way to deflect, to protect, than to throw himself at the fire to put it out.