The aesthetic in here gives very comfortable corporate, shag carpeting insets and art-piece lighting fixtures and the air mildly perfumed and sharply cool. It is a different sort of luxury than the summery minimalism of his Malibu home, and a world apart from a little cabin upstate that, time discrepancies aside, Tony has not let himself check in on.

No alarms go off, no lights start flashing, no electronic who goes there, but Strange's appearance nevertheless mobilises some invisible high-alert protocols that are easily calmed with a private word to the air, and a moment later—

"Hey," greets a voice from a nearby staircase. Tony has wasted very little time at all in re-adaptation, dressed in comfortable and customarily form fitting athleisure, with a watch on his wrist and product in his hair. He has a tablet wedged in one hand and a cup of coffee gripped in the other, held steady as he roams on down to greet the other man.

From up in the air, sourceless, a gentle male voice of British persuasion queries, "Another one of your guests, sir? Shall I arrange accommodations?"

"Sure," Tony says. "Jarvis, this is Doctor Stephen. Stephen, Jarvis."