fic: between beginning and end (marvel comics, doomstrange)

[human_veil]

fandom: marvel comics
pairing: victor von doom/stephen strange
details: 3,115 | mature rating | doom character study
note: while this is a doomstrange fic it is also pretty heavy on doom’s relationship with his mother, and i know there’s been all sorts of variations of that relationship but i am basing mine off the story we get in t&t, with a lil bit of inspo from the books of doom series (though without doom’s impeccable memory, cause it’s more fun that way).

takes place during doctor strange & doctor doom: triumph and torment. canon compliant.

Pain? Pain is like love, like compassion! It is a thing only for lesser men. What is pain (love) to Doom?

 

i.

He hadn’t had much as a child, but he’d had his mother’s love: whole, pure, sweet, unconditional in her care for him, for all of them. Victor remembers that, if nothing else; the way her hands were cold but her heart warm, her dark secret shadowed by affection.

Her loss is one of many—a building block for disaster, for a childhood filled with despair.

The first of his scars to never heal. 

 

 

ii.

Assumption is latent with fragility, Stephen thinks. Susceptible to break in the face of fact.

Latveria welcomes them with cheers, applause, flowers, favour, all of it surprising in its sincerity, in the way Doom accepts it with familiar ease, and as Stephen watches, listens, observes, his mind races: whatever image he’d had of Doom shattering with the new knowledge, shifting to something else, something better, something unexpected.

It is the first shock of many. Distantly, he thinks he should have known better. 

 

 

iii.

He is his mother’s son, in more ways than one, Cynthia and her sorcery living on through him.

The Doctor asks him what he remembers, and Doom only thinks of this: flashes of memories barely formed, his mother’s dark eyes filled with warmth, with love, with compassion; the comfort in her phantom touch, long fingers combing through his hair, painted lips pressed to his forehead; softly whispered hymns covering the sounds of slaughter, of war, of impending danger; soothing in every sense of the word.

To Doom, his mother is peace, is passion, is power.

And later: pain.

  

 

iv.

“You underestimate me, Doctor.”

There is an edge to Doom’s words: cold, hard, metallic. His eyes behind the mask are narrowed, face angled to regard Stephen. Scrolls of spells sit before him, the air thick with the buzz of magic; a product of their hours spent studying.

“Initially,” Stephen admits. There is no point in lying, not to Doom, not when it had been so wholly true. He had underestimated the other man, but he has since realised the depth of his mistake; Doom’s skill in sorcery not far beneath his own. He has been transfixed, unable to look away as they prepare for Midsummer’s Eve, Doom’s talent reiterated in every session: ambition woven through every act, his dedication seeping through, obvious as hours move into days, into weeks. He has scarcely witnessed such a quick learner, and he feels honoured to play a part in it.

“A fool’s mistake,” remarks Doom.

Stephen quietly agrees.

 

 

v.

“The depths of Hades are filled with horrors,” Strange says one night, as they sit amongst a pile of books, the thick tomes plucked from the sorcerer’s personal collection. “We can’t be certain this will work.”

“I am aware of the complications,” Doom replies, the response harsh, spilled before he can stop it. 

Strange’s caution is familiar. He has felt it before, knows the intricate details of the uncertainty that comes with this task. Too many losses, Doom thinks. Too much failure. He is not a man accustomed to such incompetency, and he has no desire to fall to a similar fate again. 

In many ways, Strange is his last hope; his mystical powers greater than even his own, the sorcerer the only worthy ally Doom can envision. Quietly, he is rather grateful for the boon. For what it does to his chance of success.

“There is nothing I will not risk,” he says then, softer this time, the admission not one he’d been planning to make. But there it sits, true, his tongue burning with the taste of honesty. 

Strange smiles, a small twist of his mouth, not so much happy as it is accepting, and Doom watches as he shuts one book in favour of another. 

“So be it,” he says, and Doom listens as they transition into the next topic. 

 

 

vi.

Most nights, dining in Latveria is a lonesome affair. 

Stephen is offered the spot of a hostess, the rest of the table empty except for the rare occasion where Doom joins him, the dining hall the only place their conversation strays from the task at hand. Rarer still are nights where he is joined by Boris, Stephen’s careful insistence coaxing the assistant to take a spare seat. 

It is here where Stephen is offered an inside eye; Doom explained with fond familiarity, Boris’ tales of his early days with the Von Doom family as endearing as they are distressful.  

“You are not like most guests,” Boris tells him in the third week of his visit, voice almost an echo, the emptiness of the room amplified as he refills Stephen’s wine. 

“I don’t imagine he has many,” Stephen comments, careful. “Not for extended stay.” 

There is a low hum of agreement as Boris fills his own glass, the local wine a deep, blood-like crimson. “No,” Boris admits. He looks to Stephen, silence settling between them as he pauses, a contemplative look in his eye. And then: “Not ones he respects so.” 

Boris’ words are sincere, surprising. Stephen conceals his smile with the glass of wine.

 

 

vii.

It starts with cold hands, always cold hands, the icy itch creeping from head to toe. Here is his mother: cruel and cold hearted. Here is his mother’s body: an empty and lifeless shell. 

He packs the dirt of an unmarked grave, his father’s quiet grief penetrating the peripheral as a demon talks in his ear, teasing and taunting and tempting, words of wonder filling little Victor’s head, showing him the truth. Here is his mother: ruthless in her slaughter, a manic glint to her eye as she chants, blood splatter, a merciless massacre, no love or care in si—

Doom wakes with a stuttered breath, eyes wide as his chest heaves; quieting as his heart rate settles. His reactions have subdued over time, impact lessened with familiarity. 

Still. He does not fall back asleep. 

 

 

viii. 

“No.” A quiet correction, Stephen’s voice careful. “Flick your left wrist as the spell nears its end. It will fail otherwise.”

He’s not far in front of Doom, standing with his back to the wall, eyes narrowed as he observes, searches for flaws, however small. Their studies have entered a physical territory, important as any other, and Stephen knows they must perfect it, knows that there is little room for error. Not in the face of Mephisto. 

He watches Doom attempt the spell once more: the twist of his wrist rigid beneath the gauntlet, the resulting sigh restrained, impatient—Doom’s ego taking a bigger blow the longer it takes to master.

Stephen moves, steps forward. A hand lifts, hovering mid-air, the expression he wears questioning. It is adventurous, this, the gesture. Wouldn’t do to be expectant. He has learnt many things about Doom in the past weeks, the other man’s aversion to being touched a well-established fact. And yet, Doom nods, small and stiff but permission all the same, his dark eyes meeting Stephen’s behind the mask. 

“This would be easier without the armour,” Stephen says, one hand curling around the titanium on Doom’s forearm, his other circling the base of a gauntlet.

“As would many things,” Doom says, his distaste at the idea obvious. 

Stephen concedes easily. “Merely a suggestion,” he amends. Partly due to his own curiosity, though he does not say. It can’t be helped—Doom’s armour is impeccable, the slits of his mask the only span of flesh that sits exposed. He has heard rumours, speculations, dreadful things; of what sits beneath the metal, of why it’d been needed in the first place. To want to see it for himself is only natural. Expected, even.

Or so Stephen reasons. 

Doom is staring at him, left arm still held between Stephen’s hands. “You suggest I make myself a vulnerable target,” he says, not a question though it almost sounds it. Stephen can feel his eyes drop, Doom’s gaze trailing over his own body, his own clothes: the blue shirt that falls to his upper-thigh, the tight trousers that hug his legs, the Cloak draped across his shoulders. When Doom speaks again, his voice has lowered, verges the edge of soft. “Doom is no fool. While you might consider a mere tunic appropriate protection, I do not.” 

It should shame him, Stephen thinks, to have Doom consider him inadequate. And yet it doesn’t. The first response to come to mind a quick, “But I look better.” 

He does not think before he says it, the words warm with a hint of flirtation. There’s a smile on his face: small and could-be teasing. He feels it drop a moment later as Doom’s arm slips from his grasp and reverses their position, Stephen’s wrist the one that sits caught between metal fingers. 

“Your bumbling attempt at seduction is most amusing, Doctor,” says Doom, and Stephen feels the pressure around his wrist tighten. Doom tugs lightly, bringing him closer. “Is this how you win the affections of your apprentices?”

The newfound closeness makes Stephen stumble for only a moment. “It has varying degrees of success,” he says, notes the way Doom’s hand continues to tighten, twist, take control. 

Doom steps forward, the act forcing Stephen to step back, again and again and again until Stephen’s shoulders hit the wall, his head following. He swallows as he accepts this new position, whatever control he might’ve had disappearing as Doom watches him, gaze intent, not missing a thing. 

“Does it?” Doom inquires, low, murmured. Curious.

Stephen holds his breath. 

  

 

ix.

Strange submits easier than Doom thought he would. Had he thought of this? Strange, melting beneath his hands, his touch. Compliant as metal fingers strip away clothing and press to heated skin, indulge the doctor in his desires. Is it mere indulgence, Doom wonders, or is there want there, too: latent for days, weeks, even, since he’d seen Strange in the midst of battle.

There’s something to be said about the appeal of power.

“Is this what you expected?” Doom asks. His fingers, gloved, trail over Stephen’s flesh. Almost teasing as they circle the head of a cock, slowly form a fist. He almost wishes he’d stripped himself of the gauntlet, wishes he could feel the weight of Stephen against his palm, could feel the heat.

There is no response to his question. Merely a groan, low and guttural, Stephen’s hips pressing off the wall as he bucks toward Victor’s hand: seeking more, seeking something. 

Doom prompts, then, his hand stilling as he speaks, almost as if to reprimand. A threat is veiled in his words, if only thinly. His tone every bit the established monarch. “I asked a question.” I expect an answer.

A different reaction, this time. Interesting, Doom thinks, as the sorcerer’s breath hitches, his hips stuttering at the display of power. The thought is quickly followed by another (beautiful) as he takes in the sight of Stephen’s body: the red flush across his cheeks, the hooded eyes, the way his back arches, leans into Doom’s body, into his touch. Takes everything Victor allows himself to give. 

“No,” says Stephen, voice thick, and Doom rewards the response by resuming his actions, efforts doubled as his body answers his own private question. Is there want, there, too? Yes, Doom thinks. White hot and burning.

It is not quite unexpected, this. Any of it. A culmination to their brewing dance. A mutual desire. Strange is unlike anyone he has encountered before: alluring in his absurdity, in how Doom could ruin him if he wanted to, in the simple fact that he does not.

He ignores his mind’s murmur of yet and watches as Stephen’s hips stutter, breath heavy, the sorcerer’s eyes closed as he comes: white strips across silver armour.

 

 

x.

The portrait is too high to touch, set neatly above the fire in Doom’s rooms, Cynthia painted in cool hues of greys and blues and purples and blacks, her face picked mostly from Doom’s memory, or so Boris had said. It is beautiful, at any rate.

“He dreams of her, still,” Boris tells him one night, as Stephen skims her journals a second time, indulging his curiosity as Doom is away. Dealing with matters of state, he’d said, and Stephen had opted not to ask. “Nightmares, mostly,” adds Boris, sounding as if he’d admitted a secret. Said something he shouldn’t have.

Stephen hums. He looks to the portrait of Doom’s mother, trails his gaze from the mane of curls to the full lips, the small nose, the dark eyes. He wonders if there are similarities between her and her son, if the man beneath the mask had once resembled the beauty before him. Wonders if Doom had once been kind before disaster had struck: compassion beaten by cruelty.

He thinks of Doom drowsing beside him: calm and seemingly content in the aftermath, his presence a quiet comfort as Stephen had drifted off to sleep.

He does not think of how he’d woken alone.

 

 

xi.

The air is warm, the room not exactly silent but still quiet, nothing but the distant drip of a tap, water splashing against stone, the rustle of expensive sheets, two figures in the bed, clothes and skin dragging against cloth, the hum of breath, the soft whistle of a snore: Stephen’s, not Doom’s, never Doom’s, not here, with someone else in his bed. Vulnerability, Victor thinks. Vulnerability is not an option, and yet there is a traitorous voice in his head that asks if this is not already it. If he has not already succumbed to it by allowing Strange to be here; in his home, in his room, in his bed, his armour replaced by little more than bandages, scars concealed by a lack of illumination, the high moon the only source of light. 

Stephen is asleep. He is spread across Doom’s mattress, naked save a sheet that tangles with his limbs, his bruised body a token of their activities, proof of their desires. Stephen is asleep and Victor is watching him, is waiting. Calculating the best time to leave. 

There are things he still needs to do. A workspace that waits for him: the early-morning hours a chance to finalise his plans in peace; his scientific counterpart to Stange’s sorcery an edge that they will need. He does not have time for this. Does not have time to watch sleeping beauties in his bed, does not have time for Stephen’s brand of affection: the way it wants to linger, to morph into something more. That is not what they are here for, Doom thinks. There is the task. There is his mother. There is the boon. There is not room for something more.  

Something more is for other men, Doom thinks. For men like Strange. For men like what he could have been, should have been, would have been if not for a series of unfortunate twists of fate. More was mourned with the loss of his mother, the loss of this father, the loss of everything else since. Burnt to shreds alongside the shrapnel that’d hit his face.

 

  

xii.

Assumption, Stephen thinks again, as a crystal prison entraps him, Mephisto’s cruel laugh loud as Doom’s bargain clicks into place. Susceptible to break in the face of fact.

He should have learnt his lesson.

Cynthia von Doom looks almost as he’d expected her to, the images in Doom’s castle a near replica of the woman before them. Unexpected is the way Doom clings to her, desperate as if reduced to a little boy who wants naught but his mother and her love. It makes it all the more surprising when Cynthia turns him away; outrage at his betrayal outweighing whatever warmth had been expected.

It is a short-lived shock, replaced by another as crystal shatters, his body freed by means other than his own.

Assumption, his mind whispers for a third time, Doom’s device heavy with meaning as he holds it in his hand.

 

 

xiii.

Here is his mother: freed. 

Here is his mother’s love: absent. 

Doom watches the fire with a heavy heart, his eyes glazed, unfocused as he sits lost in thought. Lost in memory: a body held tight, secure in his arms, his mother out of Mephisto’s reach, a relief so strong it makes his eyes sting, his throat burn; pride forgotten. Too quickly it is overshadowed by anger, bright and bubbling. Outrage. The growing heat of Mephisto’s flames. His hands grappling, fingers clinging, clutching, his mother falling through his grasp. 

You are no son of mine. 

He closes his eyes. No better reality to wake up to, this time.  

 

 

xiv.

There is a moment, before his hand touches the door, where Stephen hesitates, Doom’s words and Boris’ warnings in his near. The Master wishes to be left alone. Had it been a week before, Stephen would oblige. Had it been a day before, Stephen would oblige. But their battle with Mephisto is too raw, Doom’s efforts to save him lingering in the back of his mind. He cannot leave now and be at peace. 

“I’ve told you,” Doom says as the door opens, no questioning to who it is, “your presence is no longer required. Go.”

He sits hunched before the fire, hues of red, orange, yellow dancing in his armour’s reflection, eyes closed as his head rests, bowed. Stephen is silent as he takes in the sight. It should hurt, he thinks, to be discarded so easily. Put aside as if he were nothing—a mere pawn in Doom’s plan. He should not bother to be here.

And yet.

He does not step forward. Does not move from the room’s threshold, weary of Doom’s request for space. “Which is not to say it will never be needed again,” he says, takes care to keep it neutral. A pause follows where neither of them move. When Stephen does speak again, his voice has softened, emotion creeping through. “You know where to find me, Victor, shall you require me.”

Doom looks up then, his eye catching Stephen’s from behind the armour, exhaustion evident even with the distance between them. When the connection breaks, it’s Doom who looks away, gaze dropping from Stephen’s face to the floor, the fire, back up to his mother’s portrait. 

“Your assistance does not go unappreciated,” Doom admits, then, and Stephen feels his mouth twitch. The barest hint of a smile. 

With that, he goes.

 

 

xv.

It’s not until Stephen’s step has faded, the echo in the hall long gone quiet, that Victor speaks again, voice soft as he whispers a single word: “Fool.”  

He is not entirely certain who he means to address.