"She would. I think that's pretty much the whole point of them, that they love each other and like each other regardless." He sounds— a little sentimental over it, perhaps? — strangely, surprisingly sentimental, considering Stephen Strange presents to all the world an image of being crisp, logical, scientific, and certainly not one to moon over the idea of hashtag #marriagegoals.
But. Somewhere beneath that ribcage, that heart is more vulnerable than he'd like. Somewhere in his desk drawer sits an envelope and a wedding invitation in a familiar hand.
Strange absentmindedly touches the strands of his hair which had just glowed red; there's a faint tingling against his fingertips like faint electric static, the fizzing after-effects of Wanda's magical signature. He opens his mouth, on the verge of promising something pithy: next Halloween, we're dressing up and sending you round the block to trick-or-treat to all the kids, but he thankfully remembers just in time. Remembers the potential pitfall and bites down on the suggestion.
Quick— swerve.
"And ah, but I'm not chic enough to be Cousin Itt. No one is. I'll probably have to try for Gomez." Strange tips his drink, drains the rest of it in one fell swoop, then his fingers toy with the now-empty glass, turning it in restless half-circles against the condensation on the table. "Do you want a refill? Is it dangerous for a witch to get drunk?"
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But. Somewhere beneath that ribcage, that heart is more vulnerable than he'd like. Somewhere in his desk drawer sits an envelope and a wedding invitation in a familiar hand.
Strange absentmindedly touches the strands of his hair which had just glowed red; there's a faint tingling against his fingertips like faint electric static, the fizzing after-effects of Wanda's magical signature. He opens his mouth, on the verge of promising something pithy: next Halloween, we're dressing up and sending you round the block to trick-or-treat to all the kids, but he thankfully remembers just in time. Remembers the potential pitfall and bites down on the suggestion.
Quick— swerve.
"And ah, but I'm not chic enough to be Cousin Itt. No one is. I'll probably have to try for Gomez." Strange tips his drink, drains the rest of it in one fell swoop, then his fingers toy with the now-empty glass, turning it in restless half-circles against the condensation on the table. "Do you want a refill? Is it dangerous for a witch to get drunk?"