AN: This is a short extract from something that was my attempt at a Russian Mob AU with a Winterhawk twist (because I can't do anything without Winterhawking it, apparently...). It's old and unfinished, and I stumbled across it again today and decided to post this fluffy, semi-complete section because why the heck not - it's Christmas, no? :-)

In a Perfect World

With the sheets resting at their navels, Clint props his head in one hand and uses the other to trace the scars lining Bucky's arm. Some are thin, some are thick, some are straight, others look twisted, but they all run in rivulets down from his shoulder to his wrist, barely an inch of skin left uncovered. They're testimony not just to Bucky's strength but also his vulnerability, though few people besides Clint know that.

"You still want these covered?" he murmurs.

Bucky shrugs his other shoulder, the fingers of his left hand playing with the edge of the bed sheets. "Dunno. Not sure what'd do it."

"Design-wise?" Bucky nods, and Clint gazes down at them thoughtfully. "How about… a waterfall? Lightning bolts? Oh, shooting stars?"

That last one earns him a snort. "You sound like my sister."

Clint ignores him. His wandering fingers reach the inside of Bucky's wrist, and he starts making his way back up, keeping his touch gentle. "Why not Morse code?"

Quirking an eyebrow, Bucky asks, "What do you mean?"

"You could have a different… I don't know, phrase, message, covering each one. All different sizes." He taps one out on a bigger stretch of tissue. "It would look cool."

Bucky hums thoughtfully. "It's a nice idea, but… not sure the Russians would appreciate that."

"Oh, right," Clint sighs, and drops his head back onto the pillow. Bucky shifts onto his side as well, right arm coming up to rest over Clint's waist as he leans in for a soft kiss, noses just brushing when he pulls back. "What are you gonna tell Becca in the morning?"

"Hm?"

"About why I'm still here. First time I've stayed over, Buck, she's gonna notice."

He blows out a long breath, eyes already half-closed. "Yeah, she will… Not sure. I'll figure something out at the time."

"You think she'll be okay with it?"

"She's five, Clint, not fifty."

"I know, but, y'know… She's the most important person in your life. If she doesn't like me –"

"She likes you. Now shut up and go to sleep."

Rolling his eyes, Clint moves onto his back, letting Bucky press closer and resting his own arm atop the one across his waist. "Is it weird," he asks again after a few minutes, "that I'm more worried about what your kid sister thinks of me than your comrades?"

Bucky snorts against the side of his neck. "Yes. Go the fuck to sleep."

He smirks into the dark. "Jeez, love you too, grumpy." Bucky pinches his side, and Clint takes the hint, grinning before he tips his head to kiss Bucky's hair.

When morning rolls around, he's up first, and takes the liberty of exploring the kitchen to see if he can whip anything up. The ingredients for pancakes are all present (of course, this is Bucky – Clint would be concerned if pancakes weren't able to be produced), so he sets about making enough for the three of them, humming as he works. He's probably out of tune, can only feel his throat vibrating with his aids out – he slept with them in again, thought maybe his ears would stop feeling sore if he had a quiet morning – and judging by the gorgeously confused expression on Bucky's face when he shuffles out later his humming is fairly loud, too. He laughs a little at the sight of Bucky squinting at him with his dark hair stuck up all over the place, but his sweat pants are low on his hips, his bare skin glowing, and it all makes Clint wish for a camera or photographic memory because he knows he'd melt every time he gazed upon such an image.

Digging the heel of his hand into his eye, Bucky's lips move marginally as if he's speaking, and he shuffles over to stand behind Clint, arms looping round his hips, face finding his shoulder. Clint's own face might split from grinning at the… the domesticity of it all, and he continues humming badly as Bucky mouths at his bare skin, moving from shoulder to neck to the hearing-aid-free spot behind his ear. It feels pretty damn good, so when Bucky pulls away without warning Clint's a little put-out; then he sees Becca's bedroom door opening, and reaches for his hearing aids.

"…ey Becks," Bucky says, pulling on a t-shirt as Becca trudges into the kitchen.

"Dobroye utro," she says around a yawn, and Bucky chuckles.

"It's Saturday, Becca. Russian day's tomorrow." He helps her into a chair, picking up the doll she drops and kissing the top of her head. "Clint's made us pancakes. What do you want on yours?"

"Chocolate."

"Chocolate and?"

"Syrup."

"Chocolate or syrup and one fruit."

"Chocolate and… 'nana."

From the stack Clint's already made, Bucky slips one onto a plate and cuts it in half, adding chocolate spread to one side and sliced banana to the other. Clint takes the jar back to the table, along with some syrup and the actual pancakes, and Bucky rolls his eyes as he liberally applies both syrup and chocolate spread to a fair number on his plate.

"Might not let you stay if you're a bad example," he grumbles good-naturedly.

"It's pancake morning, Bucky. And I'm a guest. Lighten up." Bucky stares at him, and he sticks his tongue out in response, earning a loud giggle from Becca.

Bucky sighs dramatically. "I'm the only healthy person in the room."

"I'm healthy!" Becca chimes.

"Only when I tell you to be."

When breakfast is finished, and Clint's managed to get syrup in his hair, Becca stays at the table while he and Bucky clean up. They're working quietly, elbows brushing occasionally, and Clint's still surprised to find that he likes this, wants more of it. He's mildly disappointed when Bucky goes back to the table to get Becca into proper clothes.

"Bucky?"

"Yeah?"

"Why's Clint still here?"

Clint can't help but overhear. "He stayed over last night."

"With you?"

"Yep. Now come on, clothes."

"Was it like a sleepover?"

Bucky sighs. "Yeah, I guess."

"As friends?"

There's a pause, and Clint has to remember to keep washing. "What do you mean?" Bucky asks slowly.

"Was he sleeping over as a friend or was he sleeping over as a, um, boy girlfriend?"

Clint stifles a laugh at her choice of vocabulary before he realises what she's clocked onto. Behind him, the sound of a chair sliding across the wooden floor indicates Bucky's sat down. "What's a boy girlfriend?"

"Like a girlfriend but a boy."

"Ah… Yes, Becca. Clint's my boyfriend."

Another pause follows as Becca lines up her next question: "So are you in love with him?"

"Yeah."

"How?"

That catches Clint off-guard, and he almost turns around to see Bucky's reaction. "How what?" he asks, sounding as perplexed as Clint feels.

"How do you love him?"

"I don't understand what you're asking, Rebecca," Bucky says slowly once more. "Do you mean 'why' do I love him?"

"How do you love him if, if he's a boy? Because, I thought boys are s'posed to fall in love with girls, like the princes and princesses do, only… Is Clint really a girl?"

Clint laughs at that, unable to hold in his surprise. He hears Bucky disguise his own laughter as well, saying "No, Becca, Clint's not – he's definitely a boy."

"Does he have a willy?"

"Becca!" Bucky all but growls as Clint drops the pan he's cleaning into the sink, bracing himself on the sideboard as he doubles over laughing. He sighs wearily. "Yes."

"Have you seen it?"

"Okay, that's enough – now listen." Clint tries to mute his laughter, biting his lip and focusing very hard on cleaning the pan. "Even if princes fall in love with princesses and most boys fall in love with girls, it's okay for boys to fall in love with boys and for girls to fall in love with girls. Anybody can love anyone they want to – understand?" She must nod, because Bucky finally manages to shoo her into her bedroom. "I was not expecting that line of interrogation," he mutters, and Clint laughs again.

"She's got your no-bullshit attitude," he says, turning to see Bucky groan into the doorjamb.

"Don't mention this to Natasha?"

"You're no fun."

"You make excellent pancakes."

"Mmm, okay."

It's the domestic bliss Clint never knew he wanted.