6. Chapter 6

"Wow, pretty sure this is bad idea. And when I say that, you know it is a seriously fucked up idea." Tony leaned against one of the outlandishly huge and, to Tony's never-ending frustration, pointless columns located in Thor's palatial quarters. Architecture just was not supposed to work that way, and it annoyed him.

Thor shrugged, gnawing on a leg of roast beast (Tony had given up on trying to differentiate species of roasted animal, it was as pointless as trying to figure out how far up the columns actually went. How did they support their own weight?).

"Tony!" Steve snapped, pulling Tony's attention back down on the ground. "We all agree, but that's the stipulation. Coulson has to meet Heimdall on the battlefield before he can make a request like this."

"'Tis tradition," Thor intoned heavily, then started gnawing again. The man was a roast-beast eating machine.

"'Tis a good way to make sure no one is left to make requests, you mean. Have you met that guy? He's bigger than you! And no offense, but he's got better armor plating too."

"Of course he wears better armor. I simply protect the realm of Asgard -- and Midgard, on occasion -- while Heimdall guards all of time." Thor dipped his hands in a bowl to clean them while everyone stared at him.

Tony stepped towards him. "By 'all of time' you mean…?"

Thor gave him one of those infuriating looks that said "oh you puny humans and your pathetic sciences" before answering. "Time."

"Riiiiight." Tony turned to where Coulson was being hammered, literally, into a suit of armor. "Try not to seriously fuck up the guy guarding all of time."

"Stark, I'll be lucky to walk in a straight line wearing this get-up. I'm very much afraid that Heimdall will be very, very safe during this contest."

"You find the armor restricting?" Thor walked over to where two master smiths -- one of metal, one of leather -- were slowly encasing Coulson alive.

The leathersmith, an extremely tiny and scary woman who was 4000 years old if she was a day, frowned. "If the Hawk's Consort were, perhaps, bigger I would not have to use such thick underplates."

"Please call me Phil," Coulson said for the 478th time.

The leathersmith grumbled again, obviously personally offended by the minute stature of Midgardian consorts and unwilling to accept that they had first names. Tony kind of wanted to sic Pepper on her. Next time, definitely, he made a note. After all, leather. Could be fun.

Steve sighed and inspected Coulson himself. "Thor, I don't get it. Everyone knows that Phil can't beat Heimdall. I'd be a better match. Can't I be, I don't know, the Hawk's knight or something?"

"Protecting my honor, Captain?" Coulson almost smiled, which was the closest he had gotten to any emotion other than "raging homicidal fury" since they had left Clint's mausoleum.

"My team's safety is my primary concern, and my primary role. No offense, Phil, but I can take a hit better than you can. Even with all of…that." Steve cringed as he waved a hand up and down, indicating the intricately decorated armor what was going up around Coulson like a gold-plated, leather-lined steel cage.

"No, it must be the requestor who makes the challenge and meets Heimdall on the field." Thor shook his head.

"Coulson's gonna get broken, do you realize that?" Tony said. Steve grimaced and Natasha continued to just look pissed off but everyone knew he was right. He usually was, no matter their personal feelings about it.

"Small," the leathersmith grumbled again, pounding her little hammer against a joint while Coulson grimaced. The metalsmith, a stocky man who looked more like Santa Claus than a fierce Asgardian craftsman, nodded but never said a word.

"Probably." Thor sighed. "My friends, this is just the first step. They must meet in challenge. Then, if all goes well—"

"If Coulson survives," Tony hissed, almost but not quite avoiding the small kick Natasha sent his way.

"If all goes well," Thor repeated sternly, "Then Heimdall will demand tribute, and then assign our quest."

"Why do I get the feeling being a billionaire isn't going to help much with this tribute?" Tony sighed.

"What kind of quest?" Coulson asked, his voice loud through the hall. Seriously, that much textured stone and lush tapestries should not have carried an echo at all, and Tony wrinkled his nose in disapproval. Did sound travel the same in Asgard? Were they even talking, or what? He was busy knocking on one of the annoying maybe-stone-who-the-fuck-knows columns when Steve tapped his shoulder.

"This is important," Steve pointed at where Thor was talking at Coulson.

"—a sign of your devotion and obedience to your master and king."

"What the fuck?" Coulson looked appalled and tried to shuffle backwards, only to get a hard zing on the elbow from the leathersmith's nasty little hammer.

"What?" Tony looked up at Steve.

"It's the quest part. We have to go on a quest to retrieve a symbol of, uh, Phil's love for Clint."

"Phil's obedience and devotion, you mean?" Tony grinned.

"You're next after Heimdall, Stark," Coulson snarled at him.

"Come and catch me, metal man. Oh wait, that's your line," Tony pointed at Thor.

"This is absurd. He can barely move." Natasha stalked over and both the metal-smith and the leather-smith scrambled to get out of her way. Coulson held very still while she poked at the joints and tested the leather. She eventually turned towards Thor, opening her mouth to speak, before whipping around with a high kick to Coulson's chest. It was like watching a cow tipping, Tony mused in horror, as Coulson toppled onto his back with a loud clang and flailed his arms and legs like a flipped turtle.

"Wow." Tony clapped.

"Natasha," Steve sighed, rubbing his face.

Natasha calmly turned back to Thor, who was looking like he wanted to laugh. "Thor, is wearing a suit of armor required?"

Thor thought for a moment. "No, but it is highly recommended. Heimdall was one of my tutors in hand to hand combat, he is without mercy in battle."

"But it's not required?" She asked again.

"No."

"Natasha?" Coulson asked from where he was stuck to the floor as if it was magnetized.

"You're not wearing armor. You can move faster without it, and you're almost as good at dirty fighting as I am. We brought clothes for Clint, including his tac suit. It will fit you." She knelt down beside Coulson and tapped the metal encasing him.

Thor shook his head. "I do not think—"

"No no no! This is a great idea!" Tony put his hands out to stop the debate. "He's Midgardian. He needs to wear Midgardian armor and fight in Midgardian style."

"We have a style?" Steve asked, amusement lighting up his face.

"We have lots of style, witness," He pointed at himself. "And lots of styles, fighting styles out the ass, but that's not the point. The point is Coulson doesn't have to do this Asgardian style."

"This is true. All realms have the right to adhere to their own cultural standards." Thor shrugged. "We do try to encourage acceptance of diversity."

"That's the social justice warrior we know and love!" Tony clapped Thor on the back.

The call to assemble for the challenge come for a goat's horn trumpet, if goats were thirty feet tall and weighed 60 tons. It was heavily decorated with gold filigree and sat precariously perched on a narrow rest that looked like bone or ivory, and Tony was getting really pissed off with Asgardian physics because there was no way the material of that perch could support the weight of the horn. Steve dragged him away before Tony even got to touch the thing.

The epic battle that Tony was already privately calling "Coulson's Doomed, Everyone Go Home" took place in an indoor sports arena with seating around the edges and ledges for plates of food and tankards of mead. The floor of the arena was big enough for a soccer pitch but covered in sand. "If we could have solved this with a trip to Medieval Times, I would have just flown us to Kissimmee in the first place," Tony grumbled as they took their places in what he had to assume was the "Challenger's Supporters" section, which was mostly empty except for Avengers, Thor, Sif, and the leathe-rsmith. Tony was kind of touched by that last one.

"I don't know what you are talking about. Be quiet." Steve shoved him down into his seat just as someone big and burly and (surprise, surprise) heavily armed announced the start of proceedings.

Heimdall was one majestic motherfucker, and took to the arena like a professional athlete, running up and down in his full armor to the cheers of the crowd. "Jesus fucking Christ, Coulson is so gonna die."

"Blaspheme," Steve hissed. He cussed with the best of them but always got his panties twisted when it came the great JC.

"That wasn't blasphemy, that was prayer." Tony took a swig of his mead.

"He's got a chance." Steve leaned in closely, his voice low. "And I told Bruce to hulk out if things looked dicey."

Tony nodded. "Good plan. Dishonor before death, any day."

Phil walked out, looking meek and incredibly small in his basic black field uniform, which was no more than BDUs, knee pads, a longsleeve black shirt and a tac vest. He did not have any guns on him, but there were a lot of knives strapped to his body. A lot of knives.

"Your work?" Tony leaned out to look at Natasha.

She nodded but never looked away from Coulson. "And the leathersmith."

Tony turned and raised his tankard at the old bat, who solemnly raised hers in return then chugged the whole fucking thing. Tony eyed his own warily, because that much high-octane mead all at once would likely cause instant liver failure. He would know.

As the two contestants came to stand together in the middle of the field, Phil held out his right hand for a shake. Heimdall looked at him, then at his hand, then held out his own hand, mimicking the move perfectly but not actually taking Phil's hand. Phil sighed heavily then clasped his hand into Heimdall's and gave it a firm shake before releasing it. Heimdall looked like he was trying not to laugh from the three feet or so of height advantage he had on Coulson.

"Is that customary for opponents?" Sif asked.

"Yes," Steve replied when it became clear no one else would.

"Such a gentle, effeminate tradition. You are a people of delicate mores, unbowed by crass showmanship." She looked really pleased by this while Steve looked confused and Tony made a note to tell Pepper that in Asgard, shaking hands was ladies thing, or something more gender neutral, he'd figure out the right words later.

"Is it a display of your feminine spirit before being taken by the heat of battle?" Thor asked, turning to look up at Steve, who continued to look confused.

"Yes. Yes, it is." Tony nodded. Bruce shoved his face in a tankard trying not to laugh, and it was probably a bad idea to get the berserker drunk but Tony figured that was the least of their problems.

King Odin stood up, clapped for silence, then promptly sat down and motioned at his wife. Frigga stood in turn and spread her arms out.

"Today the consort of the King of the Midgardian Hawks comes to challenge Heimdall for the right to make a claim on his beloved's spirit. This man, Phil, Son of Coul, appears before us dressed in the, ah, hmmm, battle armor? Battle gear of his people." She frowned at the tiny figure in black standing in front of her. "He must survive the onslaught of Heimdall's mighty fury. Should he make it to the end of the timed challenge without grievous harm, he will have earned the right to present himself to Heimdall and the Court as a supplicant."

Phil raised his hand, as if they were in class. Frigga stared at him in astonishment for a moment before responding. "Yes?"

"I don't have to kill him? I just have to not get hurt?"

The whole place erupted in laughter and Frigga covered her mouth.

"Well shit if we had known that earlier!" Tony bitched and threw his fork at Thor, who caught it with a smile.

"I assumed you understood the rules. My mistake."

Steve grumbled but Natasha looked pleased.

"No, Consort of Hawkeye, Son of Coul. You must only survive the attack." Frigga grinned at him, transformed in that moment into a feral, brutal goddess of war.

"I take it back, this does not make me feel better about anything," Tony said.

There was another bleat of the over-sized horn and suddenly it was on, Heimdall swinging his mace and nearly braining Coulson on the first move.

"Shit!" Steve yelped and scooted onto the edge of his seat. Bruce slowly lowered his tankard and glared at the contestants, obviously just holding the Other Guy back.

But Coulson was a hell of a lot more mobile and flexible than Tony would have ever guessed, based on his business suits. Which was good, because Heimdall, weighted down with armor and size, still met him at every zig and zag. Coulson sprinted like a rabbit around the field, jumping over mace swings and barely missing Heimdall's heavy fist.

"How long does this go on?" Tony asked Thor, absolutely not chewing on the edge of his tankard.

"Usually? Three days." Thor took a swig of his mead while the other Avengers around him stilled with quiet dread. "But, Mother shortened the contest given the fragile nature of Midgardian constitutions. Did she settle on three hours?" He looked at Sif, who shook her head.

"No, six."

"Oh my God." Steve slowly collapsed in his seat, defeat written all over him. "Oh, my dear God."

"He can do it." Natasha sat up straight in her chair, looking more determined than convinced.

"I'm not sure I can." Tony raised his tankard to get a refill.

The hours ticked by slowly despite the heated battle going on before them. There was a break every hour for refreshments, and by hour three Phil was standing at the refreshment table wavering a little while he chugged a large glass of water.

"Heimdall is making this quite a challenge. I feel he is more interested in testing Coul-son's mettle than extracting defeat," Thor said thoughtfully halfway through hour four.

"What happens if Coulson loses?"

"Traditionally it will only end when it times out or Heimdall lands a killing blow, but it is clear that is not his intent."

"You sure?" Tony asked, trying to balance on his seat. He had lost count of the times his tankard had been refilled.

"Pretty sure," Thor nodded. Even Steve did not look very convinced by that.

Hour six saw Coulson winding down like an old clock. His movements were sluggish and he was drenched in sweat. Heimdall had toyed with him more than actually confronted him, and Tony had seen the SHIELD agent pull out every trick in the book including some gravity defying parkour moves around the arena's wall, but the end was coming up fast. Heimdall did not even look winded.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Bruce said, leaning heavily on Tony because he had actually managed to keep pace with Tony's mead drinking, which at almost six hours in was fairly respectable. Around them the Asgardians were still drinking and eating merrily, but the Avengers realized that it was finally coming down to the line where Coulson might actually get himself killed.

Coulson slogged forward, a knife in each hand. He had lost most of the ones he started out and was down to two short, curved blades. He had also lost his tac vest (stripped it off during the break at hour four), his knee pads (hour two) and his shirt (a close call sometime in hour five). He was balanced on his feet but just barely, and Heimdall was circling him, swinging his mace.

"SERPENTINE!" Tony yelled out, the compulsion out of nowhere. Bruce, of course, was the only one who laughed, although Coulson clearly heard him because he cracked a smile. The next flurry of battle was shockingly fast, despite Coulson's evident exhaustion, but he did actually do a serpentine move which had Tony cackling with laughter. Coulson managed to turn Heimdall around just quickly enough to roll between his legs and kick out a knee. Heimdall went down onto his knee and slammed his mace into the ground where Coulson had been, but threw one arm back and hit Coulson directly in the chest with a meaty fist that sent him flying through the air, landing face down in the sand.

The great goat horn bleated and the whole place fell silent.

It was a long, agonizing moment as Heimdall stood up and slowly turned around to face Coulson, who hadn't moved. Tony was holding his breath, or trying to, while Steve and Natasha were both squirming in their seats, clearly holding themselves back from leaping into the arena.

Phil twitched, then slowly pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. After a moment, he crawled up on wobbly legs to stand, still clutching one of his knives in his hand. He was sweaty and dirty and covered in sand, and there were a number of scratches bleeding freely from all the close calls. He stood, dazed and possibly confused, waiting for Heimdall to finish him off.

Person by person a loud thumping started to fill the hall as people stomped their feet and slammed their tankards down, a slow roar blooming through the crowd and turning into a full-throated cheer as it become clear that Coulson had, indeed, survived.

Tony jumped up shouting, because if it was wrong to yell like a maniac in a proto-Viking hall of the almost-gods of Asgard while waving around a tankard truck-full of mead, then Tony didn't want to be right. He turned and slapped Steve's shoulder. "Coulson LIVES!"

Bruce finally collapsed in hysterical laughter-maybe-stress-crying while Natasha grabbed the old leather-smith in a crushing hug. Clapping and more stomping accompanied Tony's cheer, and the hall filled with the sound of hundreds of Asgardians yelling "Coul-son LIVES!" over and over.

Coulson himself slumped down onto his knees, saluted Heimdall and then fell over. Tony figured that was about as good as could be expected, so in the best of Midgardian traditions dumped his tankard of mead on Steve's head.