How [watch, he won't cringe or shrink back at the voodoo, though he will hold his breath in a way he thinks is subtle-- he doesn't know the endgame is to dry off his tee] are you feeding your powers? There's supposed to be a tradeoff.

[Speak clearly, she says, and Tim breathes out and he shudders just because it will never stop being weird, man. The whole magic thing. Feeling something dry hang off his body in the literal blink of an eye when logic tells his brain he should be wet.

Way to flex the power imbalance, but no, he's not going to shrink back from this.] I just want to know how you're doing this. [--he could reiterate that he, honestly, does appreciate the (selfless?) aid, even maybe confess that saving him from a cold may honestly save his life.

Look, White Ghost never dove into specifics with the whole-- spleen, thing. what does Tim know.

He steals the moment to uh... slip his shoes back on. That's important.] I'm Tim Drake. I work with ADI.