The corner of his mouth twitches. A smile which is also a little pained. “Experience,” he says, “is a rough teacher.”

Stephen Strange has died so many times. He’s lost count. Dozens, hundreds with Dormammu, and then millions with Thanos; carrying around those memories of your own death gave you a certain maturity over time. He can still be a complete ass, but it’s cut through with a streak of ineffable cosmic responsibility. Grim acceptance.

“You also seem wiser than your years, kid,” he points out after a second, heedless of how blunt that might be, a pronouncement on a complete stranger— but the thought’s there, so he’ll say it. “Must be the whole zombie apocalypse thing.”

A pithy way of putting it, but.