"I don't judge. It sounds like a fine enough metric," Strange says. He's settled back in his seat — only for an expression of surprise to cross his face as he accidentally sits on the cloak, and it recoils like he's trod on a cat's tail, and they wrestle with each other for a second, then finally get comfortable when the cloak settles over the back of his chair. He straightens his sleeves as if the undignified moment never happened. (This is a common occupational hazard.)

"On my end, I usually drink a single malt scotch in the city, but here, I always get the mai tai."

After they order and when it eventually shows up, it's going to be in the most obnoxious tiki drink vessel like some ancient carved wooden idol, with a bright straw and colourful umbrella, the liquid smoking mystically for no apparent reason. It's fantastic.

He's eased in with an elbow slung over the back of his chair, surveying her. There's often something watchful and assessing in Strange's gaze when he looks at Wanda. Not like he's tiptoeing around a bomb about to go off (which so many people had done, handling her with kid gloves after Sokovia, Lagos, the Raft, Westview) — more like she's a Rubik's cube he's still trying to sort out.

"The bartender's usually a low-level telepath. We can just project our drink orders to them," he adds.