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Even in the field, amongst the noise and pain and dirt, Natasha finds a moment to watch them both. Clint is the most obvious about it, at least to her eyes. After he's taken the shot – and it was, as always, completely on target – the fingers of his left hand slip beneath the leather wrist guard on his right arm. It's only for a second, but as she watches she can see a smile cross his face.

Phil is more subtle, tugging at his collar as though the heat and stress of sitting on the sidelines is getting to him. She knows better, of course – it takes a lot more than this to get under Agent Coulson's skin. Nonetheless, his fingers graze the skin on his neck and his eyes flutter shut for the briefest moment.

She remembers the feeling of skin between her teeth only hours before, when their only priority was which of them would be getting up to make breakfast. The pulse point on Clint's wrist had sped up as soon as her lips touched it, and she'd taken her time over the marking, licking and sucking first, her teeth only biting down when she heard him gasp.

In turn, she had watched as Clint made his way from Phil's lips to his throat, licking a stripe along the other man's adam apple before scraping the skin with his teeth. The bite had been gentler than the one she had left on Clint's wrist, but it was no less possessive.

Clint calls her name over the comm and she knows she's been caught. She flips him off, even as she leaps from the mound of rubble that was once a building, landing steadily on her feet. She places her hands on her hips, hoping that the stance appears natural to anyone watching.

The bruise is perfectly round, as neat and purposeful as anything else that Phil does, and it stings when she presses her fingers against it, beautiful and sharp. She knows it's not conventional, the way the three of them mark each other so often, but nothing about them is.

What it is, though, is perfect.