A report crosses his desk. Newly closed rift, new rifter. He has been here for years, has been doing this gig in particular for long enough that Tony should not anymore feel some stab of apprehension as his eyes track to whatever name has been recorded by whatever agent did the intake. But he does anyway, never really knowing what he's hoping for, or—hoping not for.
In his spacious office, he barks out a laugh.
And it's later that he goes seeking him out. Nerds are predictable, so Tony tries the library, content to just kind of roam around the expansive fortress until he gets lucky, but turns out he does not have to, turning his head in the direction of a curse breaking studious silence.
"Kiss your mother with that mouth?" is as automatic as breathing, Tony coming to a stop just in sight. He is—to Strange—a younger version of himself, at least by a significant handful of years. Dressed in renfaire chic, rolled sleeves and jerkin and trousers all in earthy tones, scuffed boots of a more Robin Hood sensibility than, say, dress shoes or custom trainers.
library.
In his spacious office, he barks out a laugh.
And it's later that he goes seeking him out. Nerds are predictable, so Tony tries the library, content to just kind of roam around the expansive fortress until he gets lucky, but turns out he does not have to, turning his head in the direction of a curse breaking studious silence.
"Kiss your mother with that mouth?" is as automatic as breathing, Tony coming to a stop just in sight. He is—to Strange—a younger version of himself, at least by a significant handful of years. Dressed in renfaire chic, rolled sleeves and jerkin and trousers all in earthy tones, scuffed boots of a more Robin Hood sensibility than, say, dress shoes or custom trainers.
The corner of his mouth pulls rueful. "Sup."