The tapping alone would have roused him, but the crystal activating on his nightstand is like a sudden jolt kicking him immediately awake. Stephen rolls out of bed, fumbling for an oil lamp then cursing as he almost knocks it over, giving up on it, muttering, “Tony should’ve installed a Do Not Disturb setting on the crystals,” but then he’s maneuvering through the darkness toward the window. The real delay was due to the brief disorientation on waking (where is he?), then accidentally stubbing his toe on inopportunely-located ottomans, a chaise, good god, why there so much furniture in this guestroom?
He eventually yanks the curtains the rest of the way open, which lets moonlight illuminate the room, and shows Gwenaëlle perched improbably on the rooftop outside, balanced against his windowsill. For his part, Stephen’s looking rumpled, barefoot in the equivalent of pyjamas here: comfortable long braies, and a loose shirt hanging open at the neck (he’s terrible at tying the laces, and so never really bothers at night).
As she looks at him through the glass, he stares owlishly back at her, trying to make the scene compute — it doesn’t — but then he flips the latch and swings the window open, inward.
“Gwenaëlle,” he says, slow, “you do know people use doors here, right?”
Then, because Stephen Strange remains hopelessly paranoid even when he’s not being unexpectedly woken in the middle of the night: “Is something wrong? Do we need to make a rooftop escape before people come to kill us, or…”
no subject
The tapping alone would have roused him, but the crystal activating on his nightstand is like a sudden jolt kicking him immediately awake. Stephen rolls out of bed, fumbling for an oil lamp then cursing as he almost knocks it over, giving up on it, muttering, “Tony should’ve installed a Do Not Disturb setting on the crystals,” but then he’s maneuvering through the darkness toward the window. The real delay was due to the brief disorientation on waking (where is he?), then accidentally stubbing his toe on inopportunely-located ottomans, a chaise, good god, why there so much furniture in this guestroom?
He eventually yanks the curtains the rest of the way open, which lets moonlight illuminate the room, and shows Gwenaëlle perched improbably on the rooftop outside, balanced against his windowsill. For his part, Stephen’s looking rumpled, barefoot in the equivalent of pyjamas here: comfortable long braies, and a loose shirt hanging open at the neck (he’s terrible at tying the laces, and so never really bothers at night).
As she looks at him through the glass, he stares owlishly back at her, trying to make the scene compute — it doesn’t — but then he flips the latch and swings the window open, inward.
“Gwenaëlle,” he says, slow, “you do know people use doors here, right?”
Then, because Stephen Strange remains hopelessly paranoid even when he’s not being unexpectedly woken in the middle of the night: “Is something wrong? Do we need to make a rooftop escape before people come to kill us, or…”