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These fragile bodies of touch and taste

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She's fully dressed when Clint opens his eyes, cases the room out of habit. She's sitting in the window seat, steam from a huge mug of coffee cradled in her hands writhing through the air like smoke, legs curled up under her. She looks comfortable, domestic, her fiery red hair a soft cloud around her face, just another girl waking up with the sun, sipping her first coffee of the day while the early Budapest light fills the room.

"Morning," Clint rasps, throwing back the covers and shifting to sit on the edge of the bed, shoving both hands through his short, tousled hair and yawning hugely.

"Good morning," Natasha answers with an edge of friendly mocking. She doesn't turn to look at him, but she does shift, drawing her knees to her chest, making space for him if he wants it, an unspoken invitation. A stray ray of sunlight glints off the surface of a blade, uncovered by the movement. Clint smiles at that, a small quirk of his mouth. It's not the threat it would have been a year ago, when she'd yet to believe he meant her no harm, that the choice to bring her in had been a permanent decision, not a quirk. Still, he can't help but think back to the time they'd spent circling each other, testing, waiting. She is magnificent; there are few people Clint respects as much as he does her.

He pushes to his feet lazily, secure in the knowledge that if there had been a threat levelled at them, Natasha would have been all over it already. The smell of coffee lures him to the kitchen, where Coulson sits at the small dining table, papers and maps and files spread all over the narrow surface, fighting for space with another giant mug. Clint smirks at it, decides not to rub in Coulson's capitulation -- he'd given Clint such a look of derision when Clint had returned with three of the enormous, brightly coloured mugs from the small shop across the road. Looks like he'd changed his mind.

Of course, he doesn't have to speak for Coulson to know what he's thinking; Clint receives an arched eyebrow, a self-deprecating twitch of his lips.

"Morning," Clint sings out cheerfully, pouring the rest of the cooling coffee in his mug, tossing it back black. "Where we at today?"

"Moving on to Lucescu, more surveillance," Coulson says shortly, looking back down.

He starts when Clint sidles closer, tips his chin up with a crooked forefinger and kisses his lips firmly, a smacking peck that's as much a tease as sentiment. Coulson blinks, as startled as Clint has ever seen him. It's amusing, seeing his unflappability shaken by the change of status quo that he and Natasha had sneakily engineered last night. It had been a long time in coming, almost a foregone conclusion by that point; Coulson had gone along with it with satisfyingly little fuss. His lips curl now, and fuck, there's a spark in his eyes that makes Clint go half-hard to see it, a challenge, a declaration of intent.

A soft sound at the doorway, and he pulls back to see Natasha's full lips curved in a rare smile, happy and indulgent.

"Where's mine?" she purrs, accent exaggerated for their benefit. Clint laughs and goes to her, draws her in until she's flush against his front, pressing him into the wood of the doorframe at his back. He dips his head and she leans in, and then their mouths are touching, opening for each other. She sneaks a lick along his tongue, making him gasp; he bites at those plush lips of hers, strokes the tip of his tongue over the bottom one to soothe the sting. When she pulls back, there's suspicious silence in the room. Coulson is still sitting at the table, but he's not even pretending to work; he's staring at them, a glazed look in his gorgeous blue eyes.

Clint loves to see him like this, as much as he loves the calm competency he displays at all other times. It's the fact that he lets the two of them see him unguarded, human, that Clint appreciates, cares for more than he should. Coulson swallows and drops his eyes, like he's not certain whether he's allowed to look; and oh, hell no, they can't have that.

He and Natasha move as one, prowl over to the chair; Natasha grabs Coulson by his ever-present tie, perches on the edge of the table and tugs him into a kiss, deep, messy, plenty dirty. Coulson gasps quietly, strong hand curling around her waist and dragging her closer; the smack of wet lips is loud in the silence, makes Clint grit his teeth against a moan. They are so, so fucking beautiful like this; he wants to debauch the two of them until they are a sweaty, sated mess tangled in the sheets.

Suddenly, Natasha's head jerks back, breaking the kiss; she twists to stare unerringly through the window, at the building across the street. Clint snaps out of his daze of lust, and he and Coulson share a look, straining to hear, to feel what Natasha's caught. It's right there, at the edge of their perception; a hum that shouldn't be present at all, an itch at the back of Clint's neck.

"Go," Coulson snaps, and Clint is racing for his bow, safely stowed away under the bed. Behind him, he hears the snap-click of a clip sliding into a gun, knows Natasha's already armed, assessing, watching both their backs as they arm themselves and prepare for a fight.

The bow is supple in his hands, the quiver a familiar, comforting weight, the arrow straight and true. He draws the string, turns to look at Natasha, waits for Coulson's signal.

All things considered, there isn't a single place in the world he'd rather be.