The not-so-secret secret of the Avengers (well, actually, it's just Tony) is that Tony Stark has an Iron Man plushie. It’s the worst kept secret this side of the Atlantic.
It's kept down in the lab, by Dummy's charging station, and it’s the only piece of Iron Man merchandise that Tony really likes. Sure, he’s got the shirts and the figurines and the games, but for some reason, the plushie’s the only thing that he absolutely adores.
He’s in the lab, fixing up the suit, when Dummy rolls over, chattering sheepishly with his lens downcast, and Tony’s immediately on the alert. “Dummy, what did you do?”
The AI does the robotic equivalent of a flinch, and raises his claw. He’s holding the toy in his claw, the plushie's leg dangling, hanging on by a few threads.
And that’s when Tony finally registers what he’s looking at.
“Dummy!” Tony cries, scandalised, staring, horrified, at the mutilated soft toy. “What the hell did you do?”
The AI chirps softly, pressing the plushie into Tony’s hands and backing away, wheels swerving frantically on the floor of the lab as he zooms backwards to his charging station, lens still downcast and crashing into just about everything in the lab.
Tony just stares at the soft toy in his hands in disbelief and shock. “JARVIS, what the hell do I do?”
“Perhaps it would be wise to seek out Dr. Banner, Sir. I am sure the good doctor will be willing to sew it back together.”
“Good idea, Jar.”
Tony exits his lab, barging into Bruce’s, where the man is conducting some sort of experiment with chemicals, a bottle of concentrated corrosive acid at his side and protective gloves on his hands.
“Brucie! Science Bro!”
Bruce starts slightly, but, thankfully, does not drop anything. He turns, head tilted in question. “What do you want, Tony?”
Tony grasps at his chest. “Why, Bruce! I’m hurt! How could you automatically assume that I want something?”
Bruce just stares unamusedly at him.
“Fine, fine,” Tony relents. He holds up the ruined plushie. “Fix it, Brucie! I don’t know what Dummy did to it!”
The scientist rolls his eyes, groaning good-naturedly. “Pass it over. I’ll sew him back up for you.”
Tony fistpumps, grinning broadly. “Yes! You’re my favourite, Science Bro! I love you forever! I’ll buy you a car -do you want a car? Or I can get you more equipment! You can never have too much equipment!”
Bruce smiles lopsidedly. “You’re rambling, Tony.”
The man reaches out and neatly plucks the soft toy from Tony’s waving hands, and turns to rummages for a needle and thread when Tony lets out the most abject gasp of horror.
Bruce looks down at the plushie in his hands, and he immediately throws it down into the lab sink, frantically peeling off his gloves and switching on the tap. “Oh God, Tony, I’m so sorry!”
The toy is smoldering, but thankfully has stopped being corroded -Bruce had totally forgotten about the concentrated acid on his protective gloves.
Tony pulls the Plushie from the sink, where is is sitting, the fabric covering burnt and eaten by acid and soaking wet. He hugs the sopping wet thing to his chest, huddling over it and shielding it from Bruce. “Nuh-uh. You’re not touching this. I’m gonna ask Steve for help.”
Bruce shrugs, mumbling under his breath, already absorbed in his experiments yet again.
Tony pouts and leaves.
He gets in the elevator, JARVIS taking him to Steve’s floor without any need for direction.
Tony pushes the door to Steve’s room open, where the soldier is sitting cross-legged on the floor by his floor-to-ceiling windows, sketchbook in hand and charcoal pencil scratching away at the paper.
“Ste-eve!” Tony singsongs as he waltzes into the room. “Do me a favour?”
The supersoldier puts aside his art materials, standing and brushing the eraser dust off his pants. “What is it, Tony?”
Tony holds up his poor plushie, the leg still dangling by rampant threads and now covered in half-corroded patches in the shape of Bruce’s fingers. “Help?”
Steve sighs and somehow a needle and thread appear from thin air, and Steve threads the needle with an expert eye and ties off the thread.
He takes the toy from Tony and begins reattaching the leg and is about a quarter of the way done when the call to assemble sounds.
He stands, putting away the needle and thread while Tony runs to get his suit.
The battle is over in barely twenty minutes. It’s Amora again, and with Loki on their side, the Enchantress’s magic is almost child’s play.
Tony flies alongside the Quinjet, keeping pace with the aircraft as it touches down smoothly in the hangar Tony had installed just for it.
Tony lands beside the jet, his suit removal machines whirring to life and removing the pieces from his body.
Then he sees the smear of red and gold that is his plushie on the floor of the hangar. He dashes over and picks it up, cradling the toy in his arms as he studies the squashed form of his little baby.
The Quinjet must’ve run it over. Chances are, the little guy had gotten hooked onto Steve’s belt and dropped off in the hangar when Steve jumped into the jet. Tony looks down mournfully at the poor plushie, eyes sad and grief-filled.
The wheels of the Quinjet had gone right over his little plushie, squashing it and gouging two parallel tracks into the toy. The little guy is not so much red and gold now as a tarry black and dull red-yellow, stuffing peeking out and the leg almost detached yet again.
It’s a sorry sight.
Thor comes over, Mjolnir in his grasp, and he sees Tony kneeling on the ground with that miserable look on his face, arms cradling a nearly falling apart, mutilated toy.
“Friend Anthony!” Thor booms. “Are you looking to destroy that horrendous rendering of yourself? Perhaps I may assist in this chivalrous endeavour!”
Before Tony can even process the god’s words, much less protest, Thor is bringing Mjolnir up above his head, the heavy war hammer smashing down on the hapless toy, electricity flowing through the weapon to the poor toy.
When Mjolnir is lifted, Thor walking away satisfactorily, convinced of a job well done, Tony’s poor baby is not just corroded and squashed out of shape anymore.
It is smoldering and covered in blackened, sooty patches, the stuffing peeking out and the limbs practically severed. It is also completely shapeless.
Tony gingerly picks the toy up, cradling the deformed thing to his chest and moaning. “Nooo… Why is this happening? My poor baby has never done anything to you guys!”
He pushes to his feet, pouting and hugging the delicate toy, making his careful way to the Avengers commonfloor.
He places Iron Man Jr. on the couch, heading into the kitchen to get his dose of scotch -God, he can't handle this.
Natasha and Clint wander onto the commonfloor while Tony's getting his scotch, and Natasha flops gracefully onto the couch, not even noticing the little destroyed plushie that sat beside her. In fact, she actually thought the poor thing was a cushion.
And Natasha has an annoying habit of burying her knives in the couch cushions.
Iron Man Jr. gets a knife to the head.
Natasha slouches on the couch, polishing and sharpening her knives while Clint's on the opposite couch, inspecting his arrowheads for damage.
When Natasha reaches to pull her knife from the plushie, the momentum of the knife sliding from being embedded in the poor toy sends the little guy flying through the air.
Out of pure instinct, Clint grabs an arrow and his bow, aims, and shoots.
The projectile makes contact, embedding itself in the fabric.
Then it explodes.
There is the crash of breaking glass and the muffled thump of someone slumping to the side that comes from the kitchen door, and both assassins immediately turn to the sounds.
Tony is collapsed against the doorframe, a puddle of glass and scotch at his feet, mouth gaping open and eyes wide with horror. "No..."
He regains his footing and dashes out to the pile of blackened ashes and stuffing, scooping it up in his palms and cradling the once-beautiful plushie to his chest. "Nononononono!"
He glares at Clint, still hugging the pile of red-gold and black ashes and stuffing. "How could you?" Tony half-sobs. "What did he ever do to you? He doesn't deserve this! Fix him!"
Clint stares at the genius, gaping. "Erm. Tony? I'm not magic, you know. I can't fix him. He's completely obliterated. Not much I can do."
Tony just continues glaring at the archer, scooping Iron Man Jr.'s remains up and backing out of the room, never losing his glare.
The moment Tony's out of earshot, Clint sags back onto the couch, laughing hysterically. "God, Tasha, that was gold. Gold."
Even Natasha cracks a smile at Clint's hysterics. "It was a little creepy though."
Clint shrugs. "What d'you think Tony's gonna do?"
Tony shoulders open the door to the Tower library, still carefully cupping the ashes of Iron Man Jr. in his palms.
He sees the Trickster sitting in his armchair, curled up around a book with green sparking around his fingers, and grins. "Reindeer Games!"
Loki's head pops up from where it was buried in his book. "What is it, Stark? And don't call me that Norns-forsaken name!"
Tony walks right up to Loki, showing him the ashes in his hands.
"FIX HIIIIMMM!" Tony wails as he cups the mess of charred ashes that bear the vague look of fabric, with just a speck of red and gold, in his palms.
The Trickster casts Tony an unamused look, before his brilliant emerald eyes flick back to his book.
"By the Norns, Stark, go bother someone else."
"FIX HIIMM!!!"
"No," the Liesmith replies bluntly, not even paying the conversation the slightest attention.
"Lokiiii..." Tony whines, pouting.
The genius flings himself down, arms clinging to Loki's feet. Pleading dark brown eyes stare up at the Trickster, soot settling over Loki's golden armour and coating Tony's calloused hands. "Pleaseeeeee..." Tony whines, dragging out the 'e', the plushie a pile of ashes and stuffing at Loki's feet.
"No. Now get out of my sight, Stark," Loki sighs, exasperated.
"Plaesepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease."
“Why can’t you just take no for an answer?”
Tony pouts, widening his eyes. “I won’t stop bothering you unless you fix him. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease fix him!!!!!”
“Oh for Asgard’s sake,” Loki sighs. “You are the single most annoying person in the Nine Realms. Why won’t you just leave me in peace?”
“Fix him!”
Taking a deep breath to calm himself and stop himself from removing Stark’s ability to talk -or worse-, Loki closes his eyes and snaps his fingers, and the pile of ash at his feet reassembles itself.
“There. Now leave me alone!”
A roll of his green eyes, and the god disappears in a flash of emerald.
Tony’s smile is blinding, and he picks up the reassembled plushie, tilting his head down to gaze upon its brilliance once again.
And he is met with the most horrendous sight he has ever seen.
The plushie is not its beautiful, flawless red and gold anymore.
It’s black, gold and green. It’s not Iron Man.
It’s Loki.
Tony stares down in utmost dismay at the once-beautiful soft toy, genius brain taking almost a full five minutes to process what he’s seeing.
“LOKIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”