Chapter Text
Chapter 13
Two days later...
Avengers Tower
The morning news murmurs in the background, the anchor’s voice too polished for the footage it describes. On-screen, Obadiah Stane; bound, bruised, and unmistakably alive, is being escorted into a Latverian transport craft. Victor von Doom stands beside him, delivering a clipped, imperious statement to the assembled authorities.
Tony doesn’t look at the screen. He sits at the kitchen island in sweatpants and a MIT hoodie, elbows on the counter, staring into a mug of coffee he hasn’t touched. His hair is still damp from a shower he’s taken an hour ago. He’s been up since before dawn.
Bucky is the one cooking tonight, because he’s declared that the team needs “real food” and not the protein bars Tony for example has been pretending count as meals. Steve hovers nearby, mostly supervising, mostly pretending he isn’t supervising.
“Eggs are done,” Bucky says, sliding a plate toward Tony.
Tony blinks, as if waking up. “Oh. Right. Thanks.” He doesn’t reach for the fork.
Steve steps away from the stove and leaned against the counter beside him. “You don’t have to eat if you’re not hungry,” he says gently. “But you should try.”
Tony’s jaw tightens. “I know. I’m trying.” He pushes the plate a little closer.
Bucky sets down the spatula and sits down across from him. “You slept at all?”
Tony shrugs. “Define ‘slept.’”
“That’s a no,” Bucky mutters.
Tony’s eyes flicker up, sharp for a moment. “You two aren’t exactly winning any sleep awards either.”
Steve doesn’t deny it. He just reaches over and nudges Tony’s coffee mug closer to him. “Drink. It’s getting cold.”
Tony takes a sip and instantly makes a face. “Barnes, did you make this?”
“No,” Bucky said. “But thanks for assuming I’m capable of that level of crime.”
Steve snorts. Tony’s mouth twitches into a smile.
The elevator chimes. Natasha steps out, hair pulled back, gym clothes on, towel around her neck. She takes one look at the three of them and raises an eyebrow.
“You all look like you lost a fight with a washing machine,” she says, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.
“Good morning to you too,” Tony mutters.
Natasha nods towards the TV. “Doom’s speech is everywhere. The UN’s already arguing about jurisdiction.”
Tony still doesn’t look. “Yeah. Well. They can have fun with that.”
Natasha studies him for a moment then walks over and squeezes his shoulder once, firm and grounding. “You’re safe,” she says quietly. “Don’t forget that.”
Tony swallows. “Yeah. I know.”
Bucky shifts in his seat. “We’re sticking around today,” he says. “No missions. No briefings. Just… normal stuff.”
Steve nods. “We were thinking of watching something later. Something terrible. Something with explosions that aren’t traumatic.”
Tony huffs. “So… all of my favourite movies?”
“Exactly,” Bucky says.
Tony finally picks up his fork. “Fine. But I’m choosing the movie.”
Steve smiles. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
For a few minutes, the kitchen settles into something peaceful. Tony eats a little. Bucky steals a piece of toast off his plate. Steve pretends not to see it. Natasha stretches and heads for the gym.
On the muted TV, Doom’s speech ends. The camera cuts to Stane being loaded into the transport, surrounded by Latverian guards.
Tony doesn’t look up.
At that same moment in Geneva...
A helicopter touches down on the rooftop landing pad with a deep, rhythmic thrum. Victor von Doom steps out before the blades fully slow, cloak snapping behind him in the cold wind. The sky is a heavy, unbroken gray, the kind that makes the world feel suspended in time.
Below him, the Geneva Forensic Institute rises like a slab of concrete and glass; functional, sterile, and utterly devoid of warmth.
A man in a lab coat waits at the edge of the pad, shifting nervously from foot to foot.
“Your Excellency,” he says as Victor approaches, bowing his head. “Thank you for coming.”
Victor does not acknowledge the greeting. “You claimed to have information regarding Obadiah Stane. I expect accuracy.”
“Yes, of course. Please, this way.”
They enter the building. The doors seal behind them with a soft hiss, shutting out the wind. Inside, the air is cold and antiseptic, humming with the low drone of refrigeration units. The man walks briskly, trying to match Victor’s long, deliberate strides.
“We retrieved the original autopsy files,” he explains, clutching a tablet. “Everything from the morgue archives. Photographs, DNA logs, dental records, burial documentation.”
“And?” Victor’s voice is low and metallic, echoing faintly in the hallway.
“And… all evidence indicates that Obadiah Stane died two years ago.”
Victor’s mask tilts slightly toward him. “Show me.”
They turn down a corridor lined with reinforced glass. Behind it, technicians in gloves and masks work over stainless steel tables. Doom’s gaze flicks over them; clinical, assessing, unreadable.
The man leads him to a secured door. A scanner reads Victor’s diplomatic clearance automatically, and the lock disengages with a heavy click.
Inside is a large examination room. Two forensic specialists look up as Doom enters, startled. They step aside immediately, giving him space as though he carries a gravitational pull.
The man gestures toward a large lightboard on the far wall. He switches it on.
A series of high-resolution photographs illuminate the room.
Obadiah Stane’s corpse stares back at them; broken, burned, unmistakably dead.
“These were taken during the original autopsy,” the man says, voice hushed. “Full documentation.”
Doom steps closer.
The photos are brutally detailed: The Y‑shaped incision across the chest and abdomen, sutured neatly after examination. The cranial incision behind the hairline, the scalp peeled back in the image to reveal the skull. The saw marks where the skull cap was removed to examine the brain. The internal injuries, shattered ribs, ruptured organs. The thermal damage from the explosion. The unmistakable postmortem lividity and stiffness.
This is not a staged corpse. Not a construct. Not a clone.
This is a man who died violently.
Victor studies the images with absolute stillness. His mask reflects the corpse; burned flesh, slack jaw, the unmistakable emptiness of death.
“DNA?” Victor asks.
“Matches Stane perfectly.”
“Dental?”
“Also a match.”
“Scarring?”
“Every scar corresponds to his medical records.”
Victor turns his head slightly. “You verified the remains?”
“Yes. The Y‑incision, the cranial cut, the injuries... They’re identical to the autopsy photos. It’s the same body.”
Victor’s silence is heavy.
The technicians shift uneasily, sensing the tension in the air.
Finally, Victor speaks.
“This corpse is authentic,” he says. “It bears the marks of a true autopsy. The injuries are consistent with the Iron Monger incident. The decomposition aligns with two years in the ground.”
He steps back from the lightboard, hands clasped behind him.
“And yet,” he continues, “the man I encountered two days ago was alive. Breathing. Speaking. Threatening me.”
The man swallows. “We… we don’t have an explanation.”
Victor turns sharply, cloak sweeping across the floor like a shadow.
“There are only three possibilities,” he says. “An impostor of extraordinary skill. A manipulation of identity on a scale that borders on the impossible. Or…”
He pauses.
“Resurrection.”
The room goes still.
The man stammers, “Your Excellency, with respect, there’s no known technology—”
“There is much in this world you do not know,” Doom says, voice soft and dangerous. “And far more that I do.”
He walks toward the door, then stops.
“Someone has orchestrated a deception,” he says. “One that involves a dead man, a living double, and a trail of bodies.”
He turns his masked face toward the man.
“And they believed they could deceive Doom.”
The man lowers his gaze.
Victor gives the room one final, sweeping look, memorizing every detail, every photograph, every implication.
“Your work is sufficient,” he says. “If I require further information, I will summon you.”
He leaves without waiting for a response.
The technicians exhale only after the door closes.
Outside, the wind picks up as Doom approaches the helicopter. The blades begin to spin, stirring his cloak around him like a storm.
He pauses at the steps, looking back at the building.
A corpse in the ground.
A living man wearing the same face.
A deception woven with surgical precision.
Victor boards the helicopter.
He intends to unravel this mystery.
And he intends to punish whoever believes themselves clever enough to fool him.
The tower hums with morning activity, the kind that only happens on mission days. FRIDAY’s alert echoes through the halls, crisp and businesslike:
“Priority level: medium. Unauthorized tech activity detected in Midtown. Team deployment recommended.”
Tony is already awake, he’s been awake for hours. He stands in the workshop, tightening a bolt on a repulsor with a precision that borders on obsessive. The alert doesn’t startle him; he just exhales, sets the tool down, and rolls his shoulders.
“Of course,” he mutters. “Because God forbid we get a quiet Tuesday.”
Steve appears in the doorway, already suited up, shield magnetized to his back. He looks steady, calm.
“You ready?” Steve asks.
Tony glances down at himself, sweatpants, grease on his hands, hair a mess. “Define ready.”
Steve gives him a small, patient smile. “Suit up. We’ll meet in the common room.”
Tony nods, and as Steve leaves, he calls out, “Hey, Rogers?”
Steve turns back.
Tony hesitates for half a second. “Thanks for the wake‑up call.”
Steve nods once. “Anytime.”
Ten minutes later in the common room...
Natasha is loading gear into a tactical bag, moving with the kind of efficiency that makes everyone else look slow. Clint sits on the counter, swinging his legs, sharpening an arrowhead with a small whetstone.
“Medium threat level,” Clint says. “So… what’s that? Some idiot with a stolen Stark battery pack?”
Tony walks in, now fully suited except for the helmet. “For the record, my tech is not ‘stolen.’ It’s… involuntarily redistributed.”
Natasha zips the bag. “By criminals.”
Tony winces and shrugs. “Same thing.”
Bruce enters last, tablet in hand, glasses sliding down his nose. “I’ve got visuals. Looks like someone’s trying to power up a Stark Industries generator. One of the older models.”
Tony groans. “Great. My embarrassing teenage inventions are coming back to haunt me.”
Steve steps into the room, adjusting his gloves. “We’ll handle it. Standard containment.”
Clint hops off the counter. “Translation: don’t blow anything up.”
Tony gestures at him. “That rule is specifically for you.”
Clint gestures back. “And you.”
Tony pauses. “…Fair.”
The jet hums as it cuts through the sky. Steve stands near the cockpit, reviewing the mission layout on a holographic display. Natasha sits beside him, tying her hair back with practiced precision.
Clint is sprawled across a seat, checking arrowheads. “I swear, if this is another group of wannabe Hydra rejects—”
“It’s not,” Bruce says, scrolling through data. “More like… opportunistic tech scavengers.”
Tony sits across from him, helmet in his lap, tapping through diagnostics. He’s quiet, but not withdrawn. Focused.
Steve glances over. “You good?”
Tony nods. “Yeah. Just running checks.”
Steve studies him for a moment. “You’ve been doing better.”
Tony shrugs. “Trying to make it a habit.”
Natasha looks up. “You’re doing fine.”
Tony gives her a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Mom.”
Clint snorts. “If Nat’s the mom, who’s the dad?”
Steve raises a hand. “Absolutely not.”
Tony points at him. “Too late. You’re the dad.”
Steve sighs. “Let’s just focus on the mission.”
The Quinjet hovers above a rooftop. The ramp lowers, wind whipping through the cabin.
Steve steps forward. “Alright. Contain the tech, neutralize the threat, minimize collateral damage.”
Clint grins. “So… keep things nice and clean.”
Tony points at him again. “Stop stealing my lines.”
Natasha jumps first, landing with perfect grace. Steve follows, shield raised. Clint leaps after them, firing a grappling arrow mid‑air.
Tony steps to the edge, helmet sliding into place.
“Alright, Manhattan,” he says. “Let’s go clean up someone else’s mess.”
He rockets off the ramp, repulsors flaring.
It’s not a world‑ending threat. Not even close. Just a group of mercenaries trying to power up stolen Stark tech.
The Avengers move like a well‑oiled machine: Steve deflects a blast with his shield and takes down two men with clean, efficient strikes. Natasha flips over a crate, disarms a mercenary, and uses his own weapon against him. Clint fires a shock arrow that disables the last power conduit.
Bruce stays in the Quinjet, monitoring vitals and comms, ready to intervene if things escalate. Tony hovers above the scene, scanning the equipment. “Okay, who wants to explain how they got this? Because I’m about to be very offended.”
The mercenaries surrender quickly.
Steve looks up at Tony. “You good?”
Tony lands beside him. “Yeah. Actually… yeah.”
Steve nods. “Good.”
That night back at the tower everything’s quiet. The team is tired, sweaty, and bickering lightly.
Clint flops into a seat. “Next time, can we fight somewhere with air conditioning?”
Natasha smirks. “You want a spa day, Barton?”
“Maybe.”
Bruce checks the readings on his tablet. “Everyone’s vitals look good. No injuries.”
Tony drops into a seat across from Steve, helmet off, hair a mess. “I give this mission a solid six out of ten. Points deducted for lack of dramatic flair.”
Steve chuckles. “Not every mission needs dramatic flair.”
Tony leans back. “Tell that to my brand.”
The tower settles into its nighttime rhythm. Lights dimmed, hallways quiet, the hum of the city far below. After the mission, after the debrief, after the joking and the exhaustion, everyone drifts back to their rooms.
Tony stands in his bedroom doorway for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. It’s been a long day, but a normal one. A good one. He changes into a worn T‑shirt and soft pajama pants, the kind he never lets anyone see, and crawls into bed.
He checks his phone one last time. Purely habit.
A few notifications. A message from Pepper about a board meeting. A meme Clint sent to the group chat. A reminder from FRIDAY about a maintenance check tomorrow.
And then, at the bottom of his message list, a name he hasn’t touched in weeks.
Obadiah Stane.
The chat is muted. The last message is from Stane, sent the night Tony was taken. A message Tony never opened. Never wanted to.
He stares at it for a long moment.
Then he exhales, slow and steady.
“Not tonight,” he murmurs.
He presses Delete Conversation.
The screen goes blank. The name disappears.
Tony sets the phone on the nightstand, turns off the lamp, and sinks into the pillow. For the first time in a long time, he falls asleep quickly.
The tower grows quiet.
Steve is the last one awake.
He moves through the darkened kitchen with the soft, steady steps of someone who doesn’t need light to navigate. He fills a glass with water, the faucet’s sound loud in the stillness.
He takes a sip, then opens his small notebook and grabs a pen.
“Run with Bucky – 2 PM tomorrow.”
He writes it down neatly. Routine. Structure. The things that keep him grounded.
He then pockets the notebook again and finishes his drink. He then walks toward the common room to turn off the lights and TV.
The TV is still on, volume low, casting flickering blue light across the empty couches. Steve reaches for the remote... and freezes.
A name drifts from the speakers. A name he hasn’t heard in two weeks.
“Obadiah Stane”
Steve lowers his hand slowly.
The news anchor continues, voice calm but tense.
“—has reportedly escaped from Latverian custody. Sources inside the Latverian government claim Stane has been missing from his cell for approximately three days—”
Steve’s jaw tightens.
The screen shows grainy footage of the Latverian prison complex, then a blurred image of Doom walking past reporters, refusing to answer questions.
“—no official statement from Victor von Doom at this time, though leaks suggest the escape was discovered during a routine inspection—”
Steve steps closer to the TV, eyes narrowing.
Three days.
Three days Stane has been gone.
Three days no one knew.
The anchor continues, “—international authorities are urging caution. This man, identifying himself as Obadiah Stane, is considered extremely dangerous—”
Steve turns off the TV.
The room plunges into darkness.
He stands there for a long moment, the silence heavy around him.
Then he exhales, steady and controlled, and sets the remote down. Slowly, deliberately, like it might break if he drops it too fast.
He walks to the window, the city lights stretching out below him. He stands there for a moment, breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth. Steady, controlled, grounding himself the way he learned decades ago.
He then takes out the notebook again. He opens it and writes one more thing down under his last reminder to go running with Bucky.
“Stane escaped. Tell Tony in the morning. Prepare team briefing.”
He stares at the words for a long moment, then puts back the notebook and pen.
He turns off the last lamp in the common room, plunging the space into darkness.
As he walks toward his room, he moves quietly. Out of training. Out of the knowledge that the tower is no longer the safe place it was an hour ago.
He doesn’t sleep for a long time.
Not because he’s afraid.
But because Captain America is already planning. Preparing. Ready for what’s next.
And because Obadiah Stane is out there. And Steve is determined to not let him escape again when they meet once more.
Latveria – Doom’s Private Residence, Late Evening
The palace is quiet at this hour, but not peaceful. Latveria never truly sleeps, and neither does its ruler.
Victor von Doom strides down a long marble corridor, cloak trailing behind him, the weight of the day still clinging to his shoulders. His armor is scuffed from a diplomatic “discussion” that escalated into something less diplomatic. His gauntlet still carries a faint scorch mark from an energy malfunction he had to personally correct. And his patience, which was already thin, has been worn down to a razor’s edge.
Today has been a parade of problems.
A border dispute with Symkaria. A malfunction in the energy grid. A scientist requesting more funding. A minister requesting less oversight. A councilman requesting Doom’s presence at a ceremony Doom has no intention of attending. And, threaded through all of it, the ongoing fallout of Obadiah Stane’s escape.
Doom’s jaw tightens at the thought.
24 hours missing before anyone noticed. 24 hours of unanswered questions. 24 hours of incompetence he has had to correct personally.
He reaches the end of the corridor and dismisses the guards with a flick of his hand. They bow and retreat instantly. Victor enters his private chambers, the heavy doors closing behind him with a deep, echoing thud.
Inside, the room is dimly lit by warm golden lamps. The air smells faintly of cedar and old books. His armor stand waits near the wall, an intricate mechanical frame designed to remove the suit piece by piece.
Victor steps onto the platform.
The machinery whirs to life.
Metal plates unlock. Hydraulics hiss. The armor separates from him with practiced precision.
The chest piece lifts away first, revealing the dark tunic beneath. Then the gauntlets. Then the greaves. Finally, the mask, his face hidden from the world, but not from himself.
The mask detaches with a soft click.
Victor lifts it off.
He sets it gently on its stand.
Without the armor, he looks… smaller, quieter. The weight of the metal gone, leaving only the man beneath, still imposing, still sharp, but undeniably human.
He rolls his shoulders once, easing the tension.
He crosses the room to a wardrobe and pulls out a dark green robe, heavy and soft, embroidered subtly with Latverian sigils. He slips it on, tying the belt loosely around his waist.
The palace is silent now. No ministers. No soldiers. No advisors. No demands.
Just Doom.
He walks into the adjoining bathroom, the lights flickering on automatically. The room is sleek stone and polished metal, minimalist and immaculate.
Victor picks up his toothbrush.
He turns on the tap.
For the first time all day, he exhales.
The bathroom is quiet, lit by a single warm lamp above the mirror. Steam curls softly from the sink as Victor von Doom brushes his teeth with slow, methodical strokes. Each movement precise, almost ceremonial. His robe hangs neatly from his shoulders, dark green fabric heavy and immaculate. Without armor or mask, he looks like a man at rest, though his posture never fully relaxes.
He spits, rinses, and turns on the cold water to wash his face. The shock of it is grounding. He presses the towel to his skin, patting dry with the same disciplined efficiency he applies to everything.
For a moment, there is peace.
He opens the mirrored cabinet to put the toothbrush away. The shelves inside are perfectly organized; rows of glass bottles, metal tins, and neatly folded cloths. Doom places the toothbrush in its exact spot.
He closes the cabinet door.
And freezes.
Because reflected in the mirror, standing in the small doorway behind him, is a figure.
A man.
The man who has been wearing Obadiah Stane’s face for weeks. The man who kidnapped Tony Stark. The man who infiltrated the summit. The man Doom arrested. The man who escaped.
But now, in the harsh bathroom light, the truth is unmistakable.
He is not Obadiah Stane.
He never was.
This man… this thing… has been pretending to be him all along.
The seams are visible now. Ragged, uneven stitches running along the jawline, across the cheeks, disappearing into the hairline. The skin doesn’t sit right. It puckers in places. It sags in others. It is a mask made of flesh, worn too long, stretched too thin.
Stane’s face. Stolen. Cut away. Sewn onto this stranger’s skull like a grotesque disguise.
And in the man’s hand, glinting under the bathroom light, is a knife.
A long, thin blade. Surgical. Precise.
Victor does not gasp. He does not flinch. He does not whirl around in panic.
He simply goes still.
Utterly still.
His eyes meet the intruder’s through the mirror; cold, sharp, calculating. The intruder’s eyes, visible through the grotesque mask of Stane’s face, are wrong. Too bright. Too hungry. Too aware.
The man tilts his head, the stitched skin pulling unnaturally with the motion. The knife glints again as he steps one inch closer.
Doom’s reflection watches him with the calm of a man who has faced gods and monsters and found them wanting.
His voice, when it comes, is low and steady.
“…You are not Obadiah Stane.”
The man’s lips, Stane’s lips, pull into a smile that splits the stitches at the corner of the mouth. A bead of blood trickles down.
He says nothing.
He doesn’t need to.
Doom’s fingers curl slightly at his sides. Not fear. Not surprise.
Preparation.
Calculation.
The air between them tightens, heavy with the promise of violence.
And then...