He is hugged again. And that's when Tim becomes absolutely certain that his brain isn't firing on all cylinders, if at all. He stands still, trapped once again, like a mangy lil kitten gone limp in its mom's mouth.

Except, y'know, fuck that.

"I said, back off!"

He ducks out of the hold, turns on his heels to face this monster; and there goes Tim's carefully crafted cool.

"What do you even want from me? Do you want to be there to see me get all turned around again? It's not that exciting."

This is a test.

This is his proctor.

This is Tim standing his ground and snarling because he's done nothing to deserve being tailed in his humiliation. Live and learn, live and learn. Paranoia ain't it when eyes really are following your every step, every mistake. Tim is now older, and wiser. And he's fucked up worse than he will be now, challenging Neal to dare to move into his space again. Timothy Drake, for all of his fucking faults isn't helpless.

This isn't personal.

This is a test.

This is his proctor.

This is Tim saying he's already fucking submitted his scores.

--he kinda feels bad about blowing up in the hallway. But he's not even blowing up. Really. This is just. Boundaries.

So... he softens, eyes still keen and the rest of him still sharp. But this isn't personal. "I think I have a good enough idea of what I'm getting into. You..."

--and boy if that's not accusatory--

"You have some important things to discuss with Malcolm. Alone. Right? So we'll all catch up later. That's all."