"From what I've heard, that list of visitors might be a long one."
It isn't like Stephen Strange has exactly earned a warm and fuzzy reputation. But Steve can respect someone who, despite a temper here and there and a lack of patience (sounds like yet another hero he knows), speaks honestly and directly. Sometimes, in the modern world he now calls home, people waste their time on mincing words more than they should.
He follows the man up the stairs to the sweeping parlor lined with bookshelves. In another life, he might have liked a room like this - wall to wall with books and trinkets, with just enough light let in through a window to be comfortable. He was a simple man with simple comforts once - he's not even sure much has changed now. Strolling up to one of the cases with hands in his pockets, he peers inside at some of the mystical artifacts, but it's the books his eyes skim past - ornate, worn spines and the occasionally gilded page.
"Haunted fridge and energy slug? Sounds complicated. I might know a guy," he says as though they're talking about simple electrical repairs or plumbing. Not inter-dimensional creatures and whatnots. Once he makes it to the halfway point of shelves it turns back. The magical teapot won't fail to surprise him. He's used to a lot - new tech, new terminology, new abilities - but even this feels like the stuff of storybooks sometimes.
Moving toward the table and pulling out the chair set out for him, he sits, a wry sort of smile pulling at the corners of his lips. Ah. People of Import. Steve isn't stupid.
"Potential threats. Hazards."
Better to call a horse a horse, is it not? He'd figured as much when he was called here - after all, despite working together toward the same cause? They hadn't exactly had time to become friendly.
"You can phrase it how you like, Doctor, but that doesn't change the fact that I've heard it said before. I was still fugitive of the State not too long ago, and I'd imagine that me being in any way who I am and what I am? I understand why you'd need to keep tabs on me."
He reaches for the cup, pleased by the warmth of the cup. He can't guess the flavor until it he breathes in the steam of it - black tea, steeped overlong to the point of near bitterness. It's honey he adds to his after a sip.
"I've been helping the cleanup. Getting people back to their families. Helping those who didn't have families to come back to."
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It isn't like Stephen Strange has exactly earned a warm and fuzzy reputation. But Steve can respect someone who, despite a temper here and there and a lack of patience (sounds like yet another hero he knows), speaks honestly and directly. Sometimes, in the modern world he now calls home, people waste their time on mincing words more than they should.
He follows the man up the stairs to the sweeping parlor lined with bookshelves. In another life, he might have liked a room like this - wall to wall with books and trinkets, with just enough light let in through a window to be comfortable. He was a simple man with simple comforts once - he's not even sure much has changed now. Strolling up to one of the cases with hands in his pockets, he peers inside at some of the mystical artifacts, but it's the books his eyes skim past - ornate, worn spines and the occasionally gilded page.
"Haunted fridge and energy slug? Sounds complicated. I might know a guy," he says as though they're talking about simple electrical repairs or plumbing. Not inter-dimensional creatures and whatnots. Once he makes it to the halfway point of shelves it turns back. The magical teapot won't fail to surprise him. He's used to a lot - new tech, new terminology, new abilities - but even this feels like the stuff of storybooks sometimes.
Moving toward the table and pulling out the chair set out for him, he sits, a wry sort of smile pulling at the corners of his lips. Ah. People of Import. Steve isn't stupid.
"Potential threats. Hazards."
Better to call a horse a horse, is it not? He'd figured as much when he was called here - after all, despite working together toward the same cause? They hadn't exactly had time to become friendly.
"You can phrase it how you like, Doctor, but that doesn't change the fact that I've heard it said before. I was still fugitive of the State not too long ago, and I'd imagine that me being in any way who I am and what I am? I understand why you'd need to keep tabs on me."
He reaches for the cup, pleased by the warmth of the cup. He can't guess the flavor until it he breathes in the steam of it - black tea, steeped overlong to the point of near bitterness. It's honey he adds to his after a sip.
"I've been helping the cleanup. Getting people back to their families. Helping those who didn't have families to come back to."
Staying busy so his mind won't run away on him.