Title: Hail the King, Bro

Warnings: Ridiculousness, manly men doing manly things, 5-year-old grade humor.
Spoilers: Some for the Avengers movie.

Author's Notes:

Would you believe this was not intended as a Superbowl homage fic? I thought of the idea for this fic a few weeks ago, mostly to enjoy the image of Loki, Clint and Erik bonding together in a supremely manly fashion. The teams in the game were chosen entirely on the basis of their team colors (I wanted them to mirror Thor and Loki's colors) and it's total coincidence that one of them also happened to be in the 'bowl!

Also, this now makes three humor fics I've written about Loki. I think he's good for me.

"A distraction," Clint said. "And an eyeball."

"An eyeball? How gauche." Loki made a moue of distaste. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather have a heart? Perhaps roasted? I'm rather good at hearts," he offered.

The corner of Clint's mouth twitched upwards despite himself. "No, it pretty much has to be an eyeball," he said. "For the retina scanner. You'll have to grab someone who looks like he has clearance."

"Very well. An eyeball it shall be. Now!" Loki clapped his hands together, a gleam in his eyes. "We have laid our plans. Tomorrow we shall embark upon them. But tonight, we celebrate our victory!"

Clint and Erik Selvig exchanged a look, the latter's eyebrows rising. "Shouldn't we wait until after we've won the battle to celebrate?" Erik said.

Loki waved away such mundane considerations as cause and effect. "Nonsense. Tomorrow we ride into battle, and some of us may die," he said. "So tonight, we celebrate life. Have your men prepare for a grand hunt. We shall feast upon our kills before the night is through."

"Uh..." Clint scratched the back of his neck. It wasn't that he was anti-hunting, exactly; far from it. The problem was more... "Are you sure, boss? It isn't exactly hunting season around here."

Loki frowned. "How do you mean? Are there not beasts in every season? I know you mortals do hunt; I have seen it. Does not the testimony of your own chosen weapons declare that these practices are still fashionable upon Midgard?"

"Yeah, hunting is still a thing," Clint agreed, "but there are... laws and restrictions saying where and when it's permissible, and it's not right now. If we go out and start killing deer without a license, we're going to attract all sorts of the wrong attention."

"And besides, hunting isn't really a thing we do to celebrate," Erik chipped in. "Some people do it for fun, but it's not really common."

Loki pouted. "Very well," he said, the disappointment evident in his tone. "How do you mortals celebrate, then? I suppose if I am to rule this world, I must grow accustomed to the ways and culture of its peoples."

Clint and Erik did the eyes-meeting thing again, and the thought was clear before them: if they wanted to have a crack at enlightenment, they were going to need to keep their new god under wraps until the time was right. The hunt was sure to be up; if Loki showed his face in any public arena, he'd be caught on cameras and SHIELD would know of it in minutes. They'd need to keep him busy, quiet, and above all inside.

"Hey, it's Sunday, isn't it?" Clint suddenly realized. "Who's on this week?"

"The Eagles and the 49ers," Erik replied promptly. Clint wouldn't have expected a Scandinavian expat to be so familiar with the NFC schedule, but he supposed you could never tell. "The pregame starts in an hour. Should be good. All the bookies have 5-4 odds for the 49ers."

Loki was frowning at them again, obviously unhappy at being left out of the conversation, and Clint felt an unnatural twinge of anxiety at having displeased him. He set down the tablet and walked over to the Asgardian, slinging an arm over his shoulders. "Boss," he said, "it's time we introduce you to the game."

"And you say these 'football teams,' " Loki's voice dropped careful quotes in the air around the words, "are selected champions meeting in battle for the honor of each kingdom?"

"More or less," Clint said, settling into the couch. "Not so much 'kingdoms' so much as 'cities,' although not every city or region has one. But the honor thing, yeah, definitely. People get really wound up in the identities of their home team."

"I see." Loki inspected the TV screen with great interest. "And do you have a 'home team,' Hawk?"

Clint shrugged. "Neither of the teams playing today are my home town," he said, "but I've always been partial to the 49ers. Those are the ones in red and gold, on the left there. They're playing against the Eagles today, the ones in black and green."

Loki's lips twisted in distaste. "What an appallingly gaudy color scheme," he scathed. "Green and black is much more pleasing to the eye. Besides, the Eagle is a sacred and noble bird, crowning the great tree of Yggdrassil, and his mantled wings shelter the Nine Realms from the dark rain of the void while the squirrel Ratatosk brings him rumors of the world below. Yes. You shall cheer for the Eagles from now on, Hawk."

Since he'd been hit by the scepter, Clint had changed allegiances, shot his boss, helped to blow up one of his own bases, and gathered a small army of anti-SHIELD reprobates in pursuit of putting his own world under the heel of an alien invader. Now he was given an order which reallyhurt. "Yes, boss," he sighed, even as he felt his own thoughts shifting around to accommodate these new instructions. He added after a moment, "You know, the eagle is the national bird of the USA, too."

"Really?" Loki's eyes lit up, and he practically rubbed his hands together with glee. "All the more reason that I am destined to rule, then."

A mean, petty spark that somehow escaped the Tesseract's control drove Clint to point out "Also, the coaches of the two teams are actually brothers."

"Is that so." Loki's brows drew down in a scowl, and he folded his arms as he stared at the television screen in renewed hostility. "So these teams battle in lieu of the civil war that would otherwise brew between these two brothers?"

"Yup," Clint said. "I gotta say, I'd hate to be the younger brother if his team loses. Having grown up all his life in the shadow of his father who was a coach, and his elder brother who was a coach, it sure would suck if he ended up being beaten at his own game by that same older bro."

"He shall not lose," Loki snarled, and Clint hid a smile to himself. Loki's eyes were drawn back to the screen. "Why do they call it 'football,' anyway? It seems they hardly use their feet but to run. Why not call it 'handball?' "

"I brought the beer," Erik announced as he barged into the room, staggering under the weight of a half-dozen cases of glass bottles. Rustling bags bulged with the promise of chips, pretzels and other snacks carrying enough sodium to kill an elephant.

Loki took his first sip of the beer, then leaned over and promptly spewed his mouthful over the side of the couch. "This drink is vile!" he complained.

"Yeah, Americans just don't know their ass from their hands when it comes to alcohol," Erik agreed cheerfully, as he plopped down on the couch and took a swig of his own drink. "If we were anywhere near civilization, I could go to the import section and find you some realbeer, Norrlands Guld, that's the proper stuff."

"It's the traditional drink for watching football," Clint told his master artfully. It was inconceivable that he could possibly take joy in the Asgardian's discomfiture, no siree. He was simply helping him become accustomed to Earth culture.

Loki took another wary sip and made a face, but refrained from watering the carpet with any more beer. "It tastes like the urine of a pregnant horse," he complained.

Erik whooped with laughter. Clint scratched his head. "Do I want to know how you know that?"

Erik wouldn't stop chortling, but Loki sniffed and looked almost prim. "If you found yourself stranded in a barren valley for eight months with nothing but your horse for company, you would soon learn to be less picky with your beverage."

"A regular Bear Gryllis, you are," Clint told him. "We should follow you around with a camera, the networks would eat it up. You'd be a reality TV superstar."

Loki preened. Beside him, Erik looked like he was doing some mental arithmetic. "Wait," he said. "If you were stranded for eight months alone in a valley, then how did your horse even become pregnant in the first pla -"

"Silence!" Loki interrupted loudly, and his minions perforce silenced. His prominent ears were very red, though. "The game resumes."

After the Eagles intercepted a second pass from the 49ers, the mood of the crowd - and the players - began to get uglier. More and more players crowded around the scene of the pile-up, grabbing and shoving each other in a decidedly un-gamelike way. The helmets and padding prevented them from getting into outright fisticuffs, but the field soon approximated a mob scene as opposing players grabbed and grappled until they fell into heaps.

"Is this meant to be combat?" Loki wondered aloud, gesturing at the screen with his bottle. "This heaving mass of limbs and torsos, their muscular flesh sliding along each other as they grapple for control of each other's limbs, with sweat dripping down fiercely between them - it seems more like an orgy than a melee, really."

Clint bristled. "It's not like that!" he contested hotly.

"Really?" Loki's eyes slid over to him, and the God of Mischief's smile took on a sly tinge. "Look again, and I'm sure you'll see my meaning."

Reluctantly, but compelled by the Tesseract's command, Clint felt the patterns in his brain began to shift once more. A small part of him whimpered at the thought of football becoming desecrated for him forever, but it was quickly drowned out. "I guess you're right," he said unwillingly. "With all the writhing... and... grunting..."

"If you don't like it, we could always change the channel to something else," Erik said, quickly and loudly.

"No, no," Loki said, munching enthusiastically at a handful of stale bagged popcorn. "It's quite entertaining. Let them continue!"

Despite this, and despite his continued insistence on old-fashioned terminology, Loki was actually very quick on the uptake when it came to learning the rules of his new game. Before the first quarter was out he was cheering each passing play, groaning wildly when the Eagles running back was dragged down and shouting with outrage when the referee failed to call a flag on the play.

"That was most definitely holding!" Loki yelled, shaking his fist at the television screen. "Perjury and damnation! Have your wits and your sight both deserted you in your senility, ruleskeeper?!"

"I gotta say, it's weird to hear someone with your accent yelling about football," Clint chuckled, well into his 4th beer. "I keep expecting you to switch to talking about polo, or curling or something."

"What in Helheim are you blabbering about, Hawk?" Loki said irritably.

"Your accent, Loki," Erik explained kindly. "It makes you sound - well, British."

"I don't have an accent. I'm not even speaking in your vulgar Midgardian tongue. This is simply what words sound like when they're pronounced properly. No -" Loki half-rose from the couch, as on the screen a red-and-gold bedecked figure made a wild leap in the air and intercepted an Eagles pass. "No, no, NO! AH! SOMEONE STOP HIM, YOU WORTHLESS LOT OF INSECTS!"

His shouting was to no avail; the 49ers player feinted and doubled, somehow twisting in a spin between two black-clad defenders and sprinted off down the field. He was in the clear, no defenders within a league - the crowd erupted in a roar as he crossed the end zone for a clean touchdown, spiked the ball to the ground and began a hot-dogging victory dance.

The safehouse living-room erupted, too, as a furious Loki snatched his scepter from where it had lain along the back of the house and blasted a white-hot bolt of energy into the television screen. Clint managed to spring across the couch to find cover behind the back, but Erik could only duck and shield his head futilely with his arms as shrapnel rained down around him. "What did you do that for?" he cried, bristling with indignant outrage.

Loki stood proud and unrepentant, nostrils flaring as he took in deep breaths and lowered the scepter from attack position. "It was no more than the fate he deserved," he said icily. "When I am king, I will make sure the dog is found and put to death for allowing the enemy to wrest possession of the ball from his hands."

Cautiously, Clint raised his head. "Loki, it was just one touchdown, it wasn't the whole game," he said placatingly. "The Eagles could still come back from this - but we'll never know unless we have some way to watch the rest."

"You broke our TV!" Erik accused.

Loki snorted, but slowly began to relax from his posture of righteous fury. "You underestimate me again, mortals," he scoffed. "I am a god. These puny works of technology are but child's toys to me." He gestured, and the pieces of the television picked themselves up off the floor and flew together through the air.

"Wow," Clint said, impressed despite himself. Erik made a noise of disgust.

The reconstituted television, however, was far from its old self - it leaned and sagged dangerously to the side, and the staticky picture that blipped and flickered over the glass screen bore no resemblance to CNN.

"Needs some work?" Erik offered.

Loki frowned at his creation, and gestured again: a fountain of sparks squealed out of the back of the box, but the picture did not improve. "Hmm. The inner workings of this device are sho-somewhat more complex than they first appeared."

"Plus you're drunk as a skunk," Clint pointed out helpfully.

"Abate your tongue, mortal," Loki snapped, and Clint obediently abated. "Very well. Send one of your men to fetch us another."

Clint opened his mouth to point out - again - that they were supposed to be keeping a low profile, but a steely blue-green glare from his new master caused the words to shrivel on his tongue. With a sigh, he pulled out the walkie-talkie and keyed one of the sentries up, ordering him to go to the nearest Wal-Mart and acquire a television. Thank goodness the Senator that Loki had sticked was footing the bill for all this; there was no way to make thislook good on a post-mission expense report.

The new television arrived with gratifying promptness, and the three of them settled back onto the couch. Perhaps Loki had actually learned his lesson, because his temper was much more subdued. Or perhaps it was all the beer kicking in.

Loki inspected the pretzel in his hand, turning it over. "These twisted breads are palatable enough," he said. "I do not understand, however, why it is necessary for them to be quite so salty."

" 'S tradition," Clint said solemnly. Erik chuckled.

"It comes from when you used to watch the game in a bar," he explained. "The bartenders want you to keep buying beer, of course, so they serve pretzels and peanuts for free and make them extra salty, to keep you thirsty."

"Really?" Loki's face lit up with unholy glee, and he bit into the salted snack with great enthusiasm. "What a marvelous strategy! I shall have to remember that one for when I am king. Truly, you Midgardians are full of cunning ideas."

Clint uncapped a new beer and took a draw; the frothy head bubbled up in him, and he belched loudly.

After a moment, Loki did too.

Erik, on the other side of Loki from Clint, took a deeper swig and let out with an ear-ripping burp. Impressed despite himself, Clint leaned back to meet Erik's gaze with a wide-eyed admiring one of his own; Erik winked at him.

The two of them continued to practice their belching, escalating to louder and louder eruptions of noise, while between them Loki got steadily more agitated and annoyed. Finally, he snapped, "Silence!" he snapped. "Cease this vulgar and unseemly display."

"He started it," Erik said innocently, while Clint laughed hysterically from his half of the couch.

Loki scowled. "You are like two dogs competing over a scrap of bone." After a moment he added, hypocritically, "And besides. If there is to be a competition, I will of course be the victor, as I am a god amongst you mortals."

"Oh, really?" Clint deadpanned, and leaned back against the arm of the couch with his arms spread invitingly. "Whatever you say, boss. Go on, show us what's what."

There was a long pause as Loki tried and failed to muster a suitable belch. A smirk played at the edge of Clint's lips, cruel humor fighting with artificially-induced subservience. "Ran out of gas?" Erik offered sympathetically.

Loki's eyes flashed dangerously, and he stood from the couch abruptly. "The God of Chaos," he declared, "does not run out of gas."

He turned around, flipped up the edge of his green leather coat, and let loose with a fart of godlike proportions.

Erik's mouth hung open in shock; Clint couldn't help but take up a slow clap. "Not bad," he said approvingly; Loki sketched a courtly bow, then turned to sit back on the couch.

Onscreen, one of the Eagles lay flat out on the turf as field medics stooped over him. Clint winced in sympathy; he knew just how much a torn shoulder like that hurt. Erik shook his head disapprovingly. "All this padding, it softens them up," he said. "In a real game, they don't have any of this namby padding - they take their hits like men."

Clint shot Erik an irritated scowling at this European one-upmanship, but Loki took no notice of it. "When I am king," he said, "the winning team shall be executed, as a sacrifice worthy of the victory."

There was a short moment while both humans digested this, then Erik found his tongue. "I don't, uh, think that would exactly encourage the players to do their best," he said.

Loki scowled. "Surely they would not dishonor the game by deliberately throwing a match?" he said. "Oh, very well. The losing team. If this game is to simulate battle, then only in death can they redeem their honor."

Clint took another gulp of beer. "I think we'd run out of teams pretty fast if we did that," he temporized.

Loki heaved a great aggravated sigh, as though to call on the gods for patience when dealing with recalcitrant children. "Very well. I shall have their families killed, instead. Does that satisfy you?"

"Oh, look! They're going for a field goal," Erik interrupted, drawing Loki's attention back to the TV.

Loki was immediately diverted. "Why, you - Offsides! Offsides! You shall be hung from a post and flogged from the feet up, you miserable cur!"

"Why have they stopped?" Loki demanded. "The Eagles are still behind, twenty-one to seventeen. Continue!"

"It's just halftime," Clint explained. "They'll be back to play the rest."

"Halftime?" Loki eyed the television consideringly. "What does this tradition consist of?"

"Oh - everyone clears the field, and there's some sort of show," Erik said vaguely. "Marching bands, cheerleaders, that sort of thing."

"Sometimes streakers, if someone is feeling bold," Clint snickered.

"Streakers?" Loki's ears pricked up.

"People who run out on the field bare-ass naked," Erik explained. "It's against the rules, of course, but…" The older man trailed off, perhaps belatedly realizing what a bad idea to tell the God of Mischief that something was against the rules.

Loki's eyes widened with delight, then narrowed with cruel cunning. "I like it!" he said, clapping his hands together. "Let there be one who streaks, then."

He turned to Clint, an evil gleam in his eyes. Clint backed up, holding his hands up. "Oh, no. No way. There's no time for me to get down there, and -"

Loki sniffed. "Foolish mortal, do you underestimate my magic? I can easily cast an illusion into the stadium even from this distance. It is child's play."

"But then, if it's an illusion anyway, it doesn't have to be me, does it?" Clint said quickly. "You could make an illusion of anyone. Besides, you don't even know what I look like naked."

"That could be rectified," Loki murmured, eyeing him up and down. The unnatural, Tesseract-fueled urge to obey his master's whim and doff his clothes right on the spot filled Clint, and he fought back against it to the best of his ability.

"We're supposed to be keeping a low profile, remember?" Clint argued. "Believe me, if I'm spotted on prime-time TV, SHIELD will triangulate on our position in a second."

Loki looked like he was seriously considering whether blowing their cover might be worth it. Somewhat desperately Clint argued, "Look. There has to be somebody besides me that you know well enough to know what they look like naked, and hate enough that you don't care what it does to their reputation."

Loki's eyes lit with unholy glee. "Indeed, I do," he said, and wiser men had quaked at the tone in his voice.

Clint had only met Loki's brother, the God of Thunder, once before - if met wasn't too generous a word; he'd only seen him from a distance, in the dark and pouring rain, as he'd cut his way through a small army of SHIELD guards. But he was quick enough to recognize that shiny blond hair, and the broad sweep of the shoulders.

That was about all he could recognize of Loki's illusion, now hot-footing it down the empty field in the stadium as the cameras wheeled dramatically to catch it. He certainly couldn't recognize it by the clothing, since the Thor onscreen wasn't wearing any.

Loki stood in front of the television, eyes narrowed in concentration and hands outspread as though holding invisible marionette screens, his little fingers twitching just slightly. Clint and Erik clutched each other and howled with laughter as the little figure onscreen leapt and bounded, avoiding all efforts of stadium security to apprehend him, jumped into the stands and waggled his hips in the face of the blanching coaches and cameramen. Cameras and cell phones flashed like lightning in the stands, and Clint had no doubt it would be all over the internet by tomorrow.

At last, security and a handful of burly players caught the fake-Thor in a swiftly shrinking circle of bodies. There was a flash of light, and then the field was empty but for a faint green sparkle; Loki raised his hands with a regretful sigh.

"Well played," Erik assured him, chortling.

"That was awesome," Clint said earnestly.

"There may be something to these crude Midgardian traditions after all," Loki said with a dismissive sniff, but his lips were curling upwards as he did.

By the time the game ended (an Eagles victory, by two points) the safehouse was littered with discarded sticky brown bottles of beer, padded by the crumbs and crumpled detritus of the snacks they had consumed. Clint staggered to his feet and stretched his back to work the kinks out of it; Loki was flat out of it on the sofa, and Clint kind of wanted to just let him sleep. Erik, somehow, had managed to stay more-or-less upright and dignified, despite having kept pace with him through the entire game.

"Well, that was fun," Erik said in a deadpan voice; Clint couldn't tell, through the brainwashing, if he was serious or not.

"When I am King," Loki said drowsily, the whole ridiculously lanky length of him stretched out along the sofa, "there shall be a football game every day."

Clint couldn't really argue with that, and neither could Erik. "Hail to the King, bro," he said, and glass bottles clinked together as they toasted.

~the end.