And Stephen might have rolled with it, might still have been tidily wrapped up in this comforting and comfortable illusion — an uncomplicated world of wonders that he does, in fact, wish he lived in — except. That Benedict’s mouth moves and nothing comes out, just the vague idea of speech and dialogue and specifics, a glitchy blur in the tape,

and Doctor Strange, accustomed to picking his way through dreams and the Fade and diving through astral dimensions, hesitates.

He is holding a cocktail. He can’t remember what he ordered; it’s sweet and cloying and strong as a punch, is the most important part, except that his memory is usually a steel trap. What was the name of the artist Benedict just mentioned?

Something prickles on the edge of his senses, his hackles rising, the sense of the room tilting slightly beneath his feet. Disorientation. Vertigo.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch the name,” he says after a moment, his brow crinkling; searching out and finding that fault-line, applying pressure.