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A few moments alone, snatched and hasty; even rulers of the world needed to visit the bathroom. He could hear the sound of Doom's armoured heels on the floor as he paced back and forth outside. He could wait.

The Red Skull stared into the mirror at Steve Rogers, a distorted Rogers; the Red Skull knew Rogers' face, his mannerisms and quirks and tells, and the face in the mirror was wrong. He curved the lips in a half smile, and relaxed the tension in the jaw; posture a little less rigid, and he blinked and looked at himself with neutral eyes. Not quite perfect, not quite; he could never have the look of pathetic concern for his lessers that Rogers prized so much. But it was close enough. The Red Skull's victims would see the face of their idol looking at them while they died.

He put one broad, strong hand up and traced the line of the jaw on the mirror, rested his finger on the reflection of the pink lips.

"You and I," he said in his best Brooklyn accent, and then swallowed and softened his voice, "You and me, Steve, we're going to go places together."

The smile in the mirror turned wicked, just for a second. It suited him.