Chapter 2
“You’re telling me he just. Showed up, after a week of radio silence? In a Dunkin Donuts?” Tony says, trying to fight off an incoming headache.
“Yes,” Clint hisses through the comms. “Yes he did. What do you want me to say? I’m looking at him right now, and he just—is he waving at me? I am 400 feet away, how did he see me??”
“Okay, okay,” Tony says, more to himself than to Clint. Okay. So it’s their first contact with the entity who, a week ago, had appeared out of nowhere, used Thanos as his personal punching bag, stole the Infinity Stones, then disappeared off the face of the planet (maybe even literally). No big deal.
Except it kind of is, because everyone’s scrambling and scattered. Thor had returned to New Asgard to inform them of Thanos’ defeat. All the Guardians except for Quill are off-world, preparing a funeral for Gamora. The Captain is still in Wakanda with Shuri, Bucky, T’Challa and Scott, bonding or whatever. He’d personally made sure that Peter was safely back home and had bid farewell to Strange just hours ago. Wanda is still mourning Vision in their shared home, which is in Tony’s opinion a Bad Idea, but he couldn’t talk her out of it.
With the Outriders fucking off somewhere with their tails between their legs, everything had finally started settling down, so the only people in the Avengers compound were himself, Bruce, Quill, that murderous blue woman, and Clint. Nat is, unfortunately, off on some Top Secret Spy Shit, which is such a shame because she's perfect for the job.
“Tony?” Clint’s voice sounds again, a little thin.
Tony stands correct. “Okay,” he repeats. “I’m going to send out a distress signal to—everyone else, and then we’re going to head over to your location.”
“Done, Sir,” FRIDAY says in the background.
Clint grunts, and there’s a sound of shifting and adjustment before a video feed flickers to life on a nearby screen. It’s grainy and blurry, but it’s unmistakable—Tony would recognize that shock of silver hair anywhere, given the number of times he’s combed over the shaky footage retrieved from Bruce’s suit. The thought of having to face down someone who has that kind of power, that can kill with such glee gleaming in his baby blues, lifts the hair on the back of his neck.
But Tony is an Avenger, and he has a responsibility to sus this guy out.
“You sure confronting this guy is a good idea? It smells like a trap to me.”
Tony rolls his eyes. “It smells like a trap to me too, Legolas. Has he made any other movements?”
“No,” Clint replies, confused. “I think he’s waiting for us, and he doesn’t look very concerned about it.”
“Fuck,” Tony says. Then, five seconds later, “I need a drink.”
And then, as if summoned by the mention of alcohol, Quill announces his arrival by tripping over a screwdriver Tony is sure wasn’t there before. Dum-E, probably. “Who’s drinking, and can I have some? Ow! Fuck.”
Rubbing his head, Quill seems to spot the video feed still open at eye level above Tony’s workstation. Visibly takes in the lanky silhouette perched in one of the Dunkin Donut booths. Grows nearly pale enough to blend in with the walls.
“Fuck,” Quill says again.
Tony claps him on the shoulder. “Suit up. Call everyone you can; they’re going to want to be here.”
Quill casts a morose glance in the vague direction of Tony’s wine cabinet then scrubs a hand across his face.
“Uuuughhh,” he groans, but sets off in a light jog anyways.
Same, Tony thinks.
---
In the end, they’re only able to gather everyone in the compound plus Strange via sparky portal. The rest—the Wakandans, Captain America, their off-world allies—will take a couple of hours to arrive, tops.
It may seem like overkill, but Tony disagrees. Now that Thanos is dead, this man is the greatest threat to their universe, even without the Infinity Stones. Yes, Thanos had been weakened by his use of the Infinity Stones. Yes, he might have been an easy (easier) target. Levitating and force-choking Thanos is something Wanda can do too. But to crush him so brutally without a hint of hesitation? To do that right after toying with him, like a cat playing with a mouse before mealtime? Even though Thanos had been wrung out, he was still the monster who had culled planets with his army.
Thanos is no joke, but this man made him look like one.
Tony can’t forget it—the way Thanos had no time to react. No time to speak. No time to think before he was crushed underfoot like some ant, reduced to something weak and humiliated in a matter of seconds.
(Something like them.)
And Tony can’t even be angry that this stranger did what they had been struggling to do for years in a matter of seconds.
It was a sight Tony had fantasized about in his most hopeless of moments, enough that seeing it happen through that grainy footage didn’t register until a couple of days later. And that’s not even talking about what the man did to Thanos after.
It plays again and again in his dreams. Thanos, compressed like an empty can in a black hole, twisting and twisting around some invisible center until he was not much more than a ball of flesh. The sound of bones snapping and flesh tearing; the screech of polished metal armor distorting and the pitter-patter of blood (purple, some part of his brain notes) onto the dirt of the ground. The clearing had been utterly silent. Tony had been too, sitting there, a can of beer crushed in his hand. The amount of kinetic energy at his fingertips; the look in that his eyes, like a god gazing down on a mortal.
And then there was still the fact that the man had resisted an Infinity Stone. As far as Tony knew, those things were absolute—no one just says “nah” and alters the fabric of reality like that.
It was terrifying. It was glorious. It was over.
It makes Tony doubt that this man bodes a future better than Thanos. If he treats all life like he did Thanos’, Tony’s not sure they can avoid another fight. The realization makes him sick.
He’s tired of fighting. He’s tired of burying his friends. Of attending the funerals of good people, of mourning the dead he doesn’t even know but feels for all the same.
But the other part of him not strangled by fear (fear of more fighting, fear of losing people he cares about--) is grateful. How can he not be, when Thanos is dead? This new guy could talk and reason and didn’t try to kill all of them immediately for speaking to him. At least the benefit of the doubt is better than certified Jackass Thanos.
Tony shakes his head to clear it. No matter what he feels, meeting this guy will have to happen eventually, especially if it looks like he’s waiting for them.
“What do we have on him so far?” Tony says into the cabin of the quinjet, trying to calm his nerves.
“Uh…that he can probably kill us?” Bruce offers, rubbing his eyes. His hair is in disarray, and he’s staring at the flooring of the jet like he wants to phase right through it.
“Anything else?”
Nebula grunts, tinkering in the open panel of her arm. “Don’t ask me. I am only here to see the killer of my bastard father.”
In the silence, Quill raises his hand like a high school student. “I, for one, am terrified right now.”
“Thank you for your contribution. Anything else that is useful?” Quill’s quiet hey is ignored, though Nebula’s mouth ticks up just the slightest.
“He is definitely not some god or higher-level dimensional being—known to us, at least. I’ve looked through what I could of the records of Kamar-Taj, and there’s no mention of someone with abilities like his.” Strange offers, casting a stern glance at Tony, who immediately shuts his mouth.
“Before you ask, no, he’s not using Eldritch magic the way the Masters of the Mystic Arts are. From the footage you shared with us, some of our elder sorcerers were able to find similarities in the way he has harnessed energy to cast his spells, but the similarities end there. I could contact some other magic users…but it’ll take weeks at least.”
Quill sighs. “Another dead end. Can’t you tell how strong he is though? I mean, I know he’s like crazy strong, but how strong? Like Godzilla strong or what?”
“If he is strong enough to kill my father, he is more than strong enough to kill all of us. If we fought…I do not mind falling to this Thanos-killer.”
Quill stares at Nebula in horror. “That was unnecessary and so emo, what the fuck. Why is no one normal here?”
“A bit rich coming from the guy with a planet as a dad,” Tony mutters under his breath.
Strange heaves a weary sigh. “His mastery of his own abilities are…strong. Teleportation and spatial manipulation are not unusual among sorcerers—Wanda Maximoff and Loki are capable of such feats. However, it takes talent to do so easily without the assistance of relics, like the sling ring. I can’t give a definitive answer, but…I felt him when he arrived.”
“Like Loki and Thor that time?” Bruce asks, looking up from where he’s fiddling with his datapad.
The comms quiet in a way that indicates Clint is listening in too.
Strange nods, sharp. “Yes. Strong beings have energy signatures that sorcerers can sense, and when our visitor arrived, I was nearly blinded. I would’ve have come to see you myself if you hadn’t contacted me first. If he was from this Earth, I certainly would have noticed him. Powerful beings often do not bother hiding their power.”
“Like a colourful dart frog,” Bruce murmurs, to which Strange makes a faint smile.
Tony holds up a hand. “Wait. You’re telling me that the new guy is from another dimension? And he’s stronger than Thor?” Well, Tony had assumed that, but hearing it from Strange firsthand…
Strange rolls his eyes. “Yes, Stark. Good to know you’ve been paying attention.”
“I live to please.” Tony shoots back without a pause.
Quill looks between them, quietly pained. “God, there’s two of them.” He mumbles, his face wrinkling in disgust. He’s touching his Walkman like he wants to escape into it. Bruce gives him a side-eye of pity then frowns, face going solemn.
“Do we know anything about his dimension? I was looking at the recording earlier, and it sounded like he said something in Japanese.”
Tony nods; he’d noticed that too. “Yeah, I had FRIDAY analyze it. Basically no accent, while his English has a little. He’s probably a native Japanese speaker, or whatever passes for Japanese in his dimension.”
“Wouldn’t that imply that his dimension may be remarkably similar to ours? Excluding his abilities. From what I know of, we’ve yet to meet alternate earthlings.”
“That we know if. You’ll probably have to ask Fury that,” Tony answers, scouring his own brain for any mention of alternate earths. There’s a high chance that he has heard something about it, and an equally high chance he’d been drunk out of his mind when he’d read that file. “I’ve also been trying to track the energy signature from his arrival, but no dice. I guess we’ll just have to ask him.” Tony says, making a face.
Strange sighs. “Whoever he is, the Infinity Stones must have found him equivalent to a life-halving snap to summon him instead. Perhaps it was a mercy. We didn’t see much of his abilities, but it would be unwise to underestimate a man judged worthy by the universe itself. I think it best we reason with him.”
The tense silence between everyone is interrupted by the crackle of Clint’s voice in their earpieces.
“I am here with this guy, right now. Can we please, please stop talking about how he can kill me with his pinky finger?”
“ETA 2 minutes,” FRIDAY chirps unhelpfully.
---
“Why didn’t we just use your portals to get there?”
“You didn’t ask.”
“Oh my god.”
---
“These are pretty good,” their show-crasher says, taking a bite out of the ninth donut he’s had (at least in front of them).
They’re crammed into a booth in that rundown Dunkin Donuts, empty except for a bored-looking employee idly texting on her phone behind the counter. It’s a clever move, meeting them in public like this, when their group is limited by civilians and the possible threat of a hostage, Tony has to admit, as much as it crawls under his skin. (still does, despite the years he’s spent working as a weapons manufacturer. He’s seen the worst of the worst in people, and he’ll never get used to it. Never will.)
Their mark doesn’t look like he’d stoop to using human shields. He looks like….well. A celebrity or something. The tattered rags of his clothing have been replaced by loose sweats that he wears like it’s a runway. It hadn’t been obvious when he was standing in front of a giant like Thanos, but he’s tall—his legs look uncomfortably cramped underneath the table, and Tony has the sneaking feeling that he’ll tower over them when standing. For some world-halver, he looks awfully like an off-duty supermodel, or, god forbid, one of those Asian idols.
If it weren’t for those conspicuous bandages wrapped around his eyes and his oddly gravity-defying hair. It should make him look like some tacky teen in the throes of poor adolescent life decisions, but it just looks like high fashion on him. First, unfair, and second, what the fuck.
Tony has long learned not to judge people by their appearances though, so it fools no one except his hindbrain, which has always had a soft spot for sparkly, shiny things. Apparently this guy fits the bill.
In the quiet, Tony watches with gross fascination as the man devours another donut at record speed, his fingers still somehow spotless despite the sugar glaze.
“You’ve kept us waiting,” Tony says, partially to break the awkward silence and partially because he’s mildly concerned for the guy’s blood sugar levels.
“So have you. I was here allll day, you know, and mister tree climber over there wouldn’t come over to play.” The man crosses his arms, a pout on his lips. There’s no real anger to him; he’s just putting on a show, like Tony is. What about it? his posture says. You gonna fight me?
Huh. So they’re playing this game. Tony turns over his next approach as Clint sputters in the background. Banter. Tony can do banter. He’s had to banter in Obadiah's parties before. This is nothing.
“How was I supposed to know you weren’t going to jump me or something?” Clint complains in the meantime. He looks marginally more relaxed, but his hand, positioned close to his bow, gives him away.
It’s disconcerting how Tony can tell the man is rolling his eyes even when they’re covered. “If I wanted to jump you, I would’ve already.”
It’s true; he’s powerful enough that if he wanted Clint dead, he would be. The thought isn’t exactly comforting to any of them.
Sensing their unease, the man waves a lazy hand. “Don’t worry. I don’t mean to harm any of you. I’m not that bored.” He reaches out to pluck another donut (chocolate glazed) out of one of the boxes, completely unconcerned. The precision of it makes it clear that he knows exactly where things are placed despite his bandages. Reassuring to know he probably has some sixth sense, fuck.
Still, he gives no reaction to the laser focus Nebula is fixing his face with, despite definitely feeling it. Nerves of steel, this guy.
“Thanks, but that still doesn’t explain why you disappeared for a straight week. We were looking forward to meeting you in person.” Tony says, after a beat.
“Sorry about that,” their interdimensional traveler answers, visibly not sorry at all.
He takes a bite out of his donut. “I was sooo lost, you see. I can’t read the signs here. My English isn’t very good.” He continues in perfect English. His bullshitting level nearly rivals Tony’s own, Tony thinks with some admiration. Enough to immediately end a conversation through sheer shamelessness and invoke feelings of violence in the other party.
Surprisingly, it’s Quill who breaks the awkward pause. “Man, you are so right though,” he says, ignoring, or more likely, missing Strange’s frantic eye signals to stop. “When I returned to earth again after a couple decades, none of the signs made sense. Why are there so many when a good ol’ warning across the dash will do? Drax almost decapitated me for missing a stop sign. He’s literally Kylosian; how does he know earthen traffic laws?”
And then, to Strange’s visible horror, Nebula’s slowly increasing rage, and Tony’s amusement, Quill keeps going. Clint looks on the verge of pulling out popcorn.
“I mean, don’t even get me started on the road markings. Why are they coloured like that? What's with these weird dashes and solid lines and whatever? Intergalactic traffic laws are more like ‘don’t get hit’ and ‘survival of the fittest’.”
“The only reason you’d think that is because you were raised by Ravagers.” Nebula hisses, jabbing a blade from who knows where near Quill’s face. Tony should probably be more worried about her pulling what is obviously a weapon out in front of their visitor, but he’s too busy watching the drama.
Quill is hit with a look of realization. “So that’s why Mantis tried to tackle me when I was flying, too.” He furrows his brows, somehow giving off drenched cat energy beyond his usual aura of Loser energy. “That doesn’t mean Rocket can pull a gun on me though.”
“Backseat drivers are indeed annoying,” the man says, nodding sagely. “Especially when they start complaining about losing their limbs and feeling unsafe. That’s not my problem.”
Quill is worryingly touched beyond tears at meeting a kindred spirit. “Exactly. Those Nova Core bastards don’t understand at all—mmph mph!!”
Whatever he’s about to say next is cut off with a pinch of Strange’s fingers, sealing Quill’s mouth shut.
“As much as I’d love to hear more about your escapades, let’s continue the topic at hand. You said you were lost. Are you or are you not from this dimension?” he asks, throwing a straight ball over Quill’s panicked flailing. Wow, okay. Not even a warning? Tony tries to catch Strange’s eye, but Strange is too busy fixing the man with a glare. Someone didn’t pay attention during the teamwork module.
The man blinks at them—or at least Tony thinks he does. He’s still smiling, glossy lips pulled thin over perfect teeth, but it’s sharper, somehow. Heavier.
Are they finally going to get a real answer?
“Wow, xenophobic much? Are you assuming I’m a foreigner just because I look like this?”
Yeah no, asking him to be serious was too much.
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
The man sighs, running a dramatic hand through his pale hair.
“Do I? I told you. My Engrish no good, 何言ってるか分からないですよ~”
Strange, before their eyes, ages five years. This guy is good. He’s managed to do what took Tony a solid week in five minutes.
“You’re not going to give us a straight answer, are you.” Strange finally concedes, after a solid minute spent rubbing his temples. Bruce even stops dissociating to pat him on the back a few times, he looks so forlorn.
“Of course not! Where’s the fun in that?” their visitor cheers, with the air of a man with a PhD in Being A Little Shit. The fun in that, Clint mouths at Tony, face incredulous. “Finally caught on?”
“No, we caught on an hour ago,” Tony mutters under his breath. The beam the man throws him makes it no mystery he heard it. The amusement Tony had at the beginning is beginning to bleed away, replaced by an irritation that throbs behind his eyes like a pile driver. He’s starting to understand why Cap had (and still kinda does) hate Tony’s guts.
If this goes on, he’s starting to fear for the integrity of his arc reactor.
“I’ll throw you a bone though,” the man eventually says, mouth set in a wicked curve. It’s not hard to notice he’s enjoying this when he’s tapping his fingers with glee. “I’ve never traveled dimensionally before until that alien man—Thanos, you said? Summoned me.”
It’s an answer that only brings up more questions. Strange is right; a dimension traveler. It’s not the strangest thing they’ve encountered, what with the whacky powers Prof X’s mutants have and that whole ‘Thor is real wtf’ fiasco. He’s seen what the space stone can do. He knows what kinds of insane people are out there.
But where does that ability come from? Did everyone in his dimension possess that capability? Why can he resist an Infinity Stone?
Where the fuck are the Infinity Stones?
Bruce raises a hand. “That implies you do a lot of interdimensional travel. Of the teleporting, unconventional kind.” That snaps Tony back to the conversation, his mind twisting with the implications.
The man tilts his head, his white hair fluttering with the movement. “Well, yeah. How else are you supposed to travel? Walking? Bo-ring.”
“Some of us have legs for a reason,” Quill points out, mouth now unsealed. “We use them. Like we have for thousands of years? Or we get on a ship or something? Not everyone can go, ‘hey lets go flying haha’ and immediately jet off.”
“I can,” Strange says, primly raising his drink for a sip.
“I can,” Tony adds, just because he likes adding fuel to the fire regardless of context. He casts a dramatic look of pity towards Quill. “Skill issue.”
“Skill issue.” Nebula agrees for once, sheathing her blade into her arm.
“Skill issue.” Clint coughs into his fist.
Quill throws his hands up, uncaring now of the presence of their visitor, watching them with an amused slant to his mouth.
“Skill issue? Skill issue? Not everyone can just engineer flying body armor or have a magical cloak what the hell—” Quill finally turns to Bruce, hope shining from every pore on his body. “Please tell me you’re with me.”
Bruce hums, squinting as he bites into a donut from their shared order (glazed, cruller, chocolate). Chews. Swallows.
“No.”
“Oh come on—”
Whatever Quill is about to say next is forgotten, because he’s interrupted by a bark of laughter.
A bark of laughter from none of them.
All heads immediately swivel to stare at the man, who is chuckling as he props up his chin with a lazy hand. Maybe it hadn’t been intentional, but what they’re doing is somehow reaching past his defensive shell.
“You remind me of Utahime.” the man says, jabbing a finger in Quill’s direction. “No, don’t smile, it’s not a compliment. I like all of you. Far more than that ugly purple thumb.”
What ever remark Tony is about to make (some kind of quip or joke) is abruptly stuck in his throat. Purple thumb????
“Purple thumb?” Clint chokes out, his priorities clearly in order.
The man smirks. “I was just fighting to the death with a millennium-old genocidal curse user possessing the body of my student, a shikigami contracted by the body of my student, and some cockroach guy. I was winning and everything. Then I ended up here, in front of that ugly grape. Forgive me if I wasn’t in the best mood.”
“I understood about 0% of that,” Tony says, convinced that this guy’s just shoving random words together. What does he even mean by curse?
“I’d be surprised if you did,” the man says, shoving the rest of the donut into his mouth and chewing comically fast. His first answer opens a floodgate, and he doesn’t hesitate to continue before he finishes chewing. Strange makes a faint face of disgust, and it occurs to Tony that their visitor might be doing it on purpose. That does sound very in character.
“Anyways, I was in the middle of something, and your purple buddy—” “Not our buddy,” Clint says, apparently on reflex, “your purple man thing thought it would be a great idea to yoink me from my dimension or universe, more accurately. I did what I had to, you know.”
“Compress him to nothing?” Nebula asks, an odd note in her voice. The man faces Nebula, and his expression turns complicated before smoothing out into one of calculated cheer.
“Obviously. He was getting on my nerves, talking about yadda yadda halving the population or whatever. I don’t have a hobby of killing the innocent—that was my BFF’s niche. Thanos hurt to look at, so I did a kindness for all of ya.”
That was… a lot of information. Bruce makes a choking sound next to him, and Quill, (with an incredibly constipated look on his face) has to smack him on the back. Nebula’s looking at the man with an expression Tony can’t parse.
Fraternizing with murderers (what the fuck) aside, he says it like killing Thanos was just another Tuesday to him. The utter arrogance of it is familiar because Thanos wore it. It’s the kind of self-assuredness that comes from a background of power and wealth and the knowledge that it will always be this way, that the world will always bend to his whim.
It’s the insanity of the strong, and as much as he hates to admit it, Tony had it too in his youth. Still has some of it now. Maybe not a god-complex, but something awfully damn close.
“Was it really just a kindness, though? I think you knew what was going on. Why kill the man who might have been your only ticket back?” Tony presses. He’s straying into dangerous territory here, but he has to know. It’s been on repeat in his head all week. Did he even want to go back? Even worse, what are they going to do if he doesn’t?
He feels cold, suddenly. It had been easy to forget that his man had killed Thanos on a whim, that this man still has the Infinity Stones somewhere, when he’s disarmingly playful and attractive. They’re lucky he does like them because the alternative is the nothing that Thanos is now. The reminder is sobering.
The man pauses at that, his hand freezing from where he’s retrieving another donut. Slowly, he returns the donut to the box. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even blink.
But the air is suddenly different, somehow, charged and heavy and syrupy. It’s a visceral feeling of soul-deep fear; of hindbrain survival screaming in defeat; of an apex predator, turning one (or is it six?) omniscient eye upon them all. It’s a little like Tony imagines what Pandora felt when she pried the lid off that box, excitement mingling with fear and visceral horror. Bruce is stock stiff beside him in a way that Tony knows begets disaster (a hulk on a murderous rampage), but he can’t look away from where his gaze is fixed on the man’s face because something tells him it would otherwise mean his demise.
Behind his bandages, glowing in the shadows cast by the failing light of dawn, are two points of luminescent blue.
Curiosity kills the cat indeed.
Tony is going to smack Strange after this; not an eldritch god my fucking ass.
“I dislike being ordered around,” the man says, and it strikes them all how different he sounds without that lilt of good humor and mischief in his voice. “I hate being left without choice.”
And against all odds, against the frigid fingers of fear gripping his throat, Tony hears: I hate being powerless.
Tony’s chafed against control his entire life. Against his parents, who wanted him to be the perfect heir; against SHIELD, who wanted his autonomy; even against Pepper, who just wanted him sober. Afterall, you could be rich and powerful all you want and still be helpless. (still kidnapped and locked away in a dark prison, waiting for pain. Crying for help. Praying for retribution.)
“Me too,” Tony says, and it comes out startlingly honest and raw. “I hate being forced to fight battles I know will cost me everything. I hate having my wealth, my strength, my Iron Man suit, and still losing my friends. I hate feeling small.” The confession burns in his throat, but he doesn’t regret it even as the gazes of his comrades drill into the sides of his face.
He looks up, his eyes meeting bandages. “And that’s what Thanos made me feel.” And that’s what you stopped. This guy might be a bit of an asshole and yet— he’s killed Thanos, and just for that Tony is willing to give him a chance.
The man looks at him, really looks at him, and Tony gets the sense this is the first time he’s seeing them. It’s here, pinned in place by his glowing blue gaze, that Tony finally pinpoints what about this man makes him uncomfortable. He seems like an incredibly expressive man; big movements, exaggerated facial expressions, lilting speech. And yet…Tony can’t read anything from him at all. He wears that mischievous cheer around him the same way Tony wears his philandering, his sarcasm, his wit—armor and cloak in equal measure. This...this is him being honest--a hand, taking his olive branch.
“I see,” he says, smoothing his fingers over his bandaged eyes (does he even have eyes?). Slowly, a smile makes its way onto his lips. It looks just like all the other quicksilver smiles he throws out cheaply, but something about the way it sits on his face is more real. More sincere. The man huffs a laugh and finally, finally, lays his cards out into the open.
“How about this? I tell you where your Infinity Stones are, and you help me get back home.”
Tony lets go of a breath he doesn’t remember holding and pretends he can’t hear his teammates’ matching sighs of relief. This is the best-case scenario, him handing over the stones and then heading home. It’s definitely going to be a nightmare with SHIELD, the general public, the other Avengers, but for now, this is enough. This is more than enough.
“Deal.” Tony holds out a hand.
“Deal.” The man says, clasping Tony’s hand. His grip is warm and startlingly real. “Pleased to make your acquaintance…?”
Tony suspects he knows but obliges anyway. “Tony Stark, at your service.”
“Bruce Banner,” Bruce offers with a grin.
“Hawkeye, or just Clint.” Clint says.
“Nebula.”
“Starlord, at your service.” Then at Strange’s elbow jab, “—Ow, Peter Quill.”
“Stephen Strange. Doctor Strange is fine. And you?”
If their uninvited guest is unnerved at all by the six pairs of curious eyes on him, he doesn’t show it all.
He flashes them a peace sign, another donut halfway in his mouth.
“Gojo Satoru. The Strongest."