Irene prided herself on not being fazed by very much. She was always as calm as she was confident, even in the strangest of situations. It's how she'd done her job, this whole time. How she'd gotten through the world and its myriad trials and tribulations alone all these years. She could handle herself. She could handle just about anything, no matter how ridiculous. She'd even handled herself around mad people before. Not always well, but she'd gotten out of a couple of scrapes with James Moriarty before, and he was certainly no slouch.
She was sure, as she'd walked into the bar, what whatever greeted her here, whatever they said, she would play through it. And at the start of all of this, she did. She listened, lips pinched, as the Doctor told her not to mind the details of this theoretical infinite number of universes. As she talked about two hearts and a man called Strange (how many doctors were there in this place?). She was skeptical, but she was handling it. She was had it.
Then Peter crawled up the wall and onto the ceiling and very suddenly, Irene did not have it. Not at all. Her mouth fell open, and every word spoken to her blurred into into nothing, her knuckles tight against the bar, clinging to it as if it were a raft and she was drowning. She just stared for a long while, her throat tight, a vein her neck pulsing, and when she spoke, her demand (request?) was directed at both of them and neither of them at the same time.
"Tea," she gasped, her head swinging low, eyes fixing one one point on the bar, her fingers cinching tighter (if that was even possible) around the woodwork. "I need. Some tea."