"And how presidents are still referred to as Mr. President even after their term has ended? I'll still be Mr. Sorcerer Supreme?" The corner of his mouth twitches into a smile — a little sardonic, as ever, but he feels some vise in his chest loosen slightly, appreciating the words of reassurance. It's good to hear.

"Thank you for that, though. But ah, if only I were close to retirement. I think my watch is just beginning."

He actually doesn't know how long he went up against Dormammu; it could have been subjective centuries, which makes his whole tenure feel strange (ha) and immeasurable. He's been on the job both forever and not longat all. Time works in gnarled, tangled ways around here.

He tries to shake off his contemplative mood like he's shaking out his coat, shaking off the dust, the sea water. He throws an arm out to the portal, the red cloak draped theatrically from his sleeve. "After you, miss Maximoff."