His expression remains reassuringly blank throughout the introduction of her surname, just a blank nod, complete non-recognition; although he does file it away, with that steel-trap memory where he’s been noting as many details as he can recall about everyone he’s been meeting here. Faces, names, other worlds, he’ll practically need a rolodex to keep it all straight.

The distraction works, though, and he glances down where Gela’s looked at their near-matching scars. He arches his own eyebrow.

“Literally, maybe,” Strange says. Having let go, he flexes his hand self-consciously. “The elfroot’s for this,” he adds, voice carefully breezy and neutral. “Nerve pain. It’s been a few years. Doesn’t really get better.”

A beat, then: “Does that mean you’re a fighter? In Forces?”