"This is quieter? I thought the Avengers Compound was supposed to be massive. Spread-out." He had only seen it the once: the day it was destroyed during the Battle of Earth, the day they won, the day he sent Tony Stark to die. Strange had held back a lake over the wreckage of that building, all twisted metal and collapsed storeys, and he'd only been able to imagine what it had looked like in its prime.

"And that's my favourite corner," Strange says, leading the way towards it, the slightly fire-blackened table (what had happened there?) with its wobbly chairs. "You can see the entrance, such as it is."

He'd been more for the bar counter, once upon a time: schmooze and be seen. He hadn't been a playboy as a neurosurgeon — simply hadn't the time for it, there was a reason his last fling was someone he worked with — but he'd still been flashy. Spending money, buying drinks for his coworkers, chatting to a group. Nowadays, though, he likes to take a backseat. Sit somewhere he can keep an eye on things.

"What's your poison?"