"Prithee," begins the bullshit, a hand raising lax on his wrist, "howst wouldeth thou know if thou struck thine melon 'pon a rock or a hard place, when it is so extremely coiffed?"

The hand drops.

"Yeah it's me," Tony supplies, easy, flat affect as he wanders on closer, a slight realigning mid-step towards the stack of books at the edge of the table. He'd caught that long look, and he can do the arithmetic on it, and so becomes more interested in diverting his focus towards picking up the top most book with handsy familiarity, scanning the title, flipping it open.

So begins his vague inspection as to what Stephen Strange is reading voraciously and generally, plus he needs a prop. "Missed the welcome wagon, sorry about that. Coulda thrown a party."