"If we were going to go under cover, sir, I really think you should have gotten the prosthetic eye," Maria says. She's leaning close to him -- uncomfortably close -- and wearing too loose civilian clothing that does not suit her, and at the moment, she hates him for dragging her out into the field.
"I'll take that under advisement, Agent," he hisses through clenched teeth, too close to her ear for comfort.
"Well, sir, while you are taking things under advisement, pretending to be married is shitty cover and I hate it." Because a black man with an eye patch and a skinny white girl stick out in fucking Connecticut. Because Agent Romanoff will kill them both with her pinkie if she doesn't get back up. Because Maria Hill would never, under any circumstances, get married and if she did, it would not be to Nick Fury.
Fury puts an arm around her waist and pulls her in close. Very narrowly, she checks her urge to stomp on his instep, elbow his solar plexus, and put a fist to his groin.
"The situation is under control, and I will thank you to remember that."
"With all due respect, sir, the situation is completely out of control." Every goddamned KGB and Hydra agent on this block is giving them the side-eye, and everyone on the bridge of the Helicarrier is recording this for blackmail and posterity.
"Then fix it, Agent Hill," Fury orders, his hand snug around her hip.
"Fine." She seizes him by the lapels and spins him around, and she doesn't hesitate to let her teeth graze his lips when she kisses him. They look enraged and horny, the perfect facsimile of a married couple -- as far as she's concerned, anyway -- and now Coulson owes her twenty dollars and a martini.
"We are never doing this again," she snaps, and Fury raises a lone eyebrow above his patch.
"I'm not so sure about that."