Work Text:
Nov. 22, 2012
"I call foul!" Tony spread his arms in an offended gesture, shooting a glare in Happy's direction. "Why is the ref sleeping on the job?"
Happy shaded his eyes. "I didn't see a foul."
"There was definitely a foul." Tony turned to his teammate. "Rhodey, didn't you see the foul? Little Miss Spider attacked the face," he made a circular motion with his palm at the referenced area, "and thinks she can get away with it because she's beautiful." He paused and raised his eyebrows. "Actually, on second thought—"
"Nah, I'm with you, Tony." Clint smirked at his friend. "Nat, that's your third in the first quarter." He hooked his thumb in the direction of the Stark tower. "You're out, darlin'."
Nat's jaw dropped. "Okay, first of all, who's keeping track of quarters? Second, I haven't had three fouls. And you," she shoved a finger in Clint's face, "are a bona fide traitor."
"Can't be a traitor if you're not on the same team."
Tony's mustache twitched. "Ref!" He called. "Get your patooty over here and settle this."
Happy jogged across the field, wheezing by the time he reached the players. He bent over, hands on his knees, pulling in gulps of air. "What's the dispute?"
Steve ambled toward them, jaw clenched in annoyance. He glared at the opposing team captain around the gauze taped over his nose. "Just let it go and keep playing, Tony."
" You keep your mouth shut, Rosie." Tony gave him a wave of dismissal. "This is a discussion for young —Thor, what are you doing?"
Thor grinned, never taking his focus off of his feet. "These shoes are marvelous for dancing!" he shouted. He hummed an unrecognizable tune off-key. "The spikes grip the ground and cause great balance improvement. See? You can hardly notice my limp!"
"Yeah, they're called cleats, and they're tearing up the field with all the…twisting and…" Tony rubbed his forehead as if trying to rid himself of a headache. "Just…stay away from people when you do that. You're going to poke someone's eye out."
"...say I fouled Tony," Nat was saying. "I didn't foul Tony, I was reaching for the ball and he ran into my elbow—"
"I saw that smirk on your face—"
"—It wasn't a personal—"
"Everyone, shut up! " Happy's entire body quivered with the shout. He ran a hand through his hair, sweat staining the armpits of his black-and-white pinstriped polo shirt. He closed his eyes, heaved a sigh, and pressed his hands together. "Hey doc, what's the verdict?"
Bruce's eyebrows shot up, and he shrugged, can of LaCroix glinting in the sunlight. He shifted in his seat next to Pepper. "I say no blood, no foul. I've already treated a broken nose and bruised kneecap."
Happy nodded. "Okay, okay, yeah, that sounds good. Nat?"
"What."
"You've already had two fouls. This one counts as an accident, but one more and you're out for a quarter. Got it?"
She scoffed. "Since when does anyone take Thanksgiving football this seriously?"
"Since when does anyone not? " Clint's eyebrow quirked.
Steve clapped his hands to get everyone's attention. "All right, let's play." He jogged back to where both team captains had carefully placed the football after a five-minute debate about the line of scrimmage. "Hey Pepper, what's the score?"
Pepper glanced up from her phone scrolling where she sat on the makeshift bleachers—a row of lawn chairs with STARK splayed across them in bold letters. "It's tied so far," she called, "at zero."
Clint groaned. "We've been out here for an hour and this is all we have to show for it?"
"If you guys would quit calling fouls right and left, we'd be in the third—"
"No one needs that kind of negativity," Tony interrupted Steve. "It's not our fault that we're playing a bunch of cheaters , Mr. Oops, I can't help using my super strength ."
Steve rolled his eyes. "You're just so out of shape that you call timeouts after every play." He turned to Happy. "Isn't there a limit on timeouts?"
"I-I’m not sure," Happy stammered, sending nervous glances at Tony's scowl as he backed away. He fumbled for the whistle hanging around his neck and raised his to his lips, giving it two short bursts of air. "Play ball!"
Thor trotted back to his spot next to Steve, the smile still on his face in obvious reference to his cleats. "Stark, these are magnificent."
Tony nodded. "I know, I special ordered them from India, so I'll need them back, m'kay? Preferably after you've bathed them in Lysol."
Rhodey placed his hand on the football, shouted "Hike!" and faded back.
Everyone became a blur. Nat sprinted after Clint, determination and rivalry warring with camaraderie on each face. Tony took two steps past the invisible line and turned back to Rhodey, who sent the ball spiraling into his stomach. He folded his body around it with a groan and turned to make a dash for the end zone. "Ease up on the mustard there, Rho—" he was cut off abruptly when the air was knocked from his lungs, his head spun, and he suddenly realized he was lying abandoned on the ground.
"Was that right? Did I do that right?" Thor's voice held way too much excitement. "That was a fumble, yes?"
Rhodey's face appeared above Tony, and he held out a hand to help his friend to his feet.
"What happened?" Tony muttered, rubbing his temples where a dull ache was forming.
"You ran into Thor." Rhodey sighed. "And, unfortunately, you fumbled the ball and Thor ran it to the endzone."
"The dude can't even dance. How does he understand football after just two hours of lectures?"
"Happens to the best of us." Clint clapped Tony's back and handed him the ball. "Care to do the honors?"
Without waiting for the opposing team to return to their end of the field, Tony punted the ball as hard as he could. It bounced off the tower wall and landed on the ground with a thud. "Listen, ladies," he held up his hands to hold his teammates back. "This is stupid. We shouldn't be letting them win like this. I vote we start playing hardball."
Rhodey raised an eyebrow. "Define hardball ."
"You heard the doc: no blood, no foul. Besides, they have powers and we don't. I'd call that an unfair advantage."
Clint's lips lifted in a smirk. "Hardball sounds good to me."
"Tony, they're not even using their—"
"Good. Because I'm not going to let the three stooges walk all over my Thanksgiving event." He started jogging to the other end of the field, wheezing. "Next year, we're playing poker."