Her words ping something, some buried recollection in his memories, a voice saying Oh, we’re using our made-up names? but when Strange tries to remember how Spider-man had initially introduced himself, the details are gone. Like it’s smudged charcoal. But he doesn’t have time to think about it too closely, because he’s distracted by the misunderstanding, amused.
“No, that is my name.” Why does this keep happening to him? “Doctor Stephen Strange. A pleasure, Gela. No surname or family name?”
Like Cher or Bono or Beyonce, but he can’t crack that joke again, let alone with someone unfamiliar. He’s realising the single names more common here with everyday people than back home.
He reaches out and takes Gela’s hand, gives it a firm and professional squeeze; his grip is sure but there are ugly scars running down the lines of his fingers and the back of his hands. (And he hasn’t forgotten about the drugs, there’s still a pin in that—)
no subject
“No, that is my name.” Why does this keep happening to him? “Doctor Stephen Strange. A pleasure, Gela. No surname or family name?”
Like Cher or Bono or Beyonce, but he can’t crack that joke again, let alone with someone unfamiliar. He’s realising the single names more common here with everyday people than back home.
He reaches out and takes Gela’s hand, gives it a firm and professional squeeze; his grip is sure but there are ugly scars running down the lines of his fingers and the back of his hands. (And he hasn’t forgotten about the drugs, there’s still a pin in that—)