"Why not?" Triumphant, the expression on Loki's lean face, confused, the one on his hapless brother's. He curls close to him, with a wicked-looking blade in a hand that was previously empty. "Why would you have me refrain, Victor?" One moment he is at Thor's back, the next, by his side, with the knife raised. "How does it check, how impede your plans?"

Doom steps between the brothers. He puts both hands on Loki's shoulders and stands in the way of the blade. It is after all, an excellent way to test the relative strengths of extra-dimensional steel and adamantium armor.

"Step aside and you value your own life, mortal." Loki's voice is husky. "I sent the Destroyer. Think you I will hesitate for a moment to kill both you and he?"

"I faced down Mephisto. If you think I am frightened of you, you are wrong." Doom grabs Loki's wrist. There is a struggle. Loki is strong, but the nuclear-powered armor Doom wears is a match ...almost. Doom's hand moves slowly, but only very slowly, downward, along with the knife aimed at Thor's shoulder. "Stop being stupid, Loki. Do you think I would stand in your way for one minute if I thought you really could kill this loud-mouthed waste of oxygen? You won't because you cannot. Because he is your brother, and you love him."

Flat denial from the Trickster: "I don't."

At the same time, from the other one: "Does he?" Thor's blue eyes melt. "Are ...Are you sure, Friend Victor?" -

Friend: Proof of his idiocy that he should call Doom that. –

"Of course. You'd see it yourself if you weren't such a dunderhead." Doom looks at the Trickster. "I don't know what your excuse is."

"And I loved him," Loki says thoughtfully, "would I have tried to kill him so often? – What was it, brother? Three times? Four?"

"Five," Thor says, "counting when you sent the Destroyer. Six if... – Are we counting getting me banished as an attempt?"

"My intent certainly was to kill..."

Talkative nuisances! They will make Doom's head explode with this noise. "You are both equal in strength," he says, "but Loki is the smarter. Quite obviously, if he were going to kill you, he would have done by now. Now both of you shut up. I have plans, that certain Tricksters promised they would assist with."

"In due time," is all the response he gets from Loki. Thor is now hugging him. Loki, for his part, does not seem to be objecting. "What was it you wanted to do?" He waves a vague hand in Doom's direction. "Kill someone, wasn't it?"

"The Fantastic Four."

"Not Benjamin." Now they are sitting together. Loki's fingers are laced, schoolyard-style, with his brother's. "I find him pleasing." - He looks at Thor. "I hunger, brother. Fetch us provisions from the kitchen."

"Or we could go out for shwarma. It is a dish Friend Tony shared with me, wondrous indeed in its tastiness."

Shwarma. Good Saint Sarah grant patience! "The other three, then." Doom grits the words. "We will kill the other three. – Or Richards at least."

"Benjamin likes them. All of them." Loki looks at his brother. "No shwarma. Fetch me Pop Tarts."

Certain Tricksters had best be careful, or they will themselves be the ones eliminated. Doom has done harder things. "There are no Pop Tarts," he says. "Furthermore a promise is a promise, whether you think it should be or not."

"Fetch Pop Tarts," Loki tells Thor. "Fetch them from ...wherever one goes to purchase such. No, wait..." He lifts a slim hand in complex configurations, and a brightly-colored box appears on the table.

One box. "Best make more," Doom says. "Remember how much baby food your brother could get through in each feeding?"

A thoughtful nod. Five more boxes appear. "I will kill someone else for you," Loki offers Doom. "Who would you like it to be? That Tony What-Was-His-Name?"

"Stark? No." Doom shakes his head. "What possible benefit could there be in that?"

Condescending tone of the Trickster. "You have grown fond of him." He opens a box of Tarts in Thor's absence and shakes out one of the packets of pastries. "Have a Pop Tart?"

It is the Hot Fudge Sundae kind, which are an abomination. Doom reaches for the cherry ones. Loki swats his hand away. "Those are Thor's favorites."

Pointless even to mention that he could make more of them. He could make infinite numbers. The last thing a household need suffer from, with a spellcaster in residence, is a shortage of Pop Tarts. Doom stands. "I will make some for myself."

"Don't turn yourself into a baby again," Loki's mocking voice follows him from the room. "And don't use any spells with henbane in them," he calls. "I used the last of in the lutefisk. There's some mandrake left, I think. It's in the bottle marked 'newt eyes'."

More fool he; the spell for Pop Tarts calls for foxglove and boiling plutonium. Doom readies both, and traces the outlines of the pentagram, on the laboratory floor. He takes out his mortar and pestle, sets out the bottles he will need on the countertop.

Doom's spell for Pop Tarts is a good one, but somewhat buggy. The Tarts come out Brown Sugar, no matter what flavor he intends, and they will not brown no matter how long they are left in the toaster. What he needs, Doom thinks, is another pair of eyes. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials.

The voice on the other end: "Stark here." It stops, there is a splutter. Then, "what the hell! Doom? Does this mean we're friends?" He sounds pleased.

"Do not be ridiculous. I want to talk to someone about an experiment, and for an engineer, you have a fairish theoretical understanding."

The crackle of a laugh on the other end. "Then you're saying I'm smarter than you?"

Not even in jest. "Say that again and I'll fry you where you stand. The laser cannon is already in position. Come over and finish the experiment with me," Doom says, "and I might permit you to try one of the Pop Tarts."