“Good thing, then, that I don’t have many friends,” Stephen says drolly. Which is sort of, almost, the truth. It’s pretty much just Wong and one plucky teen in the doctor’s circumference. He’s not sure if exes count.
Which reminds him—
Well. He’s acutely aware that they’re not on that level, they’re likely not close enough for him to ask this question, but there is an automatic sort of kinship in the situations they’ve been stranded in. Knowing that they’re on the same team, that they speak the same figurative language. Tony Stark represents solid ground. An anchor, a tether, the only vestige of home (the real one, not this current ambiguous uncertainty). And so Stephen takes another sip of that coffee and broaches the question, delicate and yet uncomfortable with that delicacy, “Have you spoken to, uh,”
your wife sounds presumptuous and inaccurate, but,
no subject
Which reminds him—
Well. He’s acutely aware that they’re not on that level, they’re likely not close enough for him to ask this question, but there is an automatic sort of kinship in the situations they’ve been stranded in. Knowing that they’re on the same team, that they speak the same figurative language. Tony Stark represents solid ground. An anchor, a tether, the only vestige of home (the real one, not this current ambiguous uncertainty). And so Stephen takes another sip of that coffee and broaches the question, delicate and yet uncomfortable with that delicacy, “Have you spoken to, uh,”
your wife sounds presumptuous and inaccurate, but,
“Pepper?”