“Fine, get carcinomas,” Strange mutters as he sets down the closed jar and sinks back into his folding fabric chair, head tipped back against it in defeat.

“Although honestly, a demon’s far more likely to get any of us first, so I don’t know why I bother. Old habit.”

It’s a bleak pronouncement, but one gets the sense he’s not taking it too hard; he likes a bit of gallows’ humour, fittingly enough for their environment.