Compromised
🦾B.B. MASTERLIST
🏠BLOG HOME
C's corner: Just a soft little one shot to give me a break from the smut.
WARNINGS: fluff, mutual pining, awkward flirting, first kiss, mild mission violence, gunfire, brief mentions of Bucky’s time in hiding, Romanian used as a flirting weapon, Sam Wilson being nosy.
✍🏽WC: 3.6K+
SUMMARY: You survive gunfire without a problem. Bucky speaking Romanian? That's a different story.
The mission goes sideways in the least dramatic way possible. Not with explosions. Not with betrayal. Not with a villain monologuing in a warehouse with poor lighting and worse ventilation.
No, the mission goes sideways because James Buchanan Barnes opens his mouth and speaks Romanian.
That's it. That's the whole catastrophe.
You're crouched behind a concrete barrier in Bucharest, rain dripping from the edge of your jacket, earpiece crackling softly as Sam mutters something about the target moving south. The alley smells like wet stone, old cigarettes, and the kind of diesel fumes that make your lungs feel personally insulted.
Bucky is beside you, calm as ever, eyes tracking every shadow. He has his rifle tucked close, his hair damp at the ends, his jaw set in that unfairly sharp way that usually makes you annoyed because nobody should look that composed while being shot at.
You're fine, totally fine. Professional, even.
Then a door bangs open at the far end of the alley. A frightened older man stumbles out, hands raised, speaking too quickly for you to catch anything beyond the panic in his voice.
You tense, but Bucky steps forward before you can.
He lowers his weapon and then he says, low and steady, "Nu vă mișcați. Suntem aici să vă ajutăm."
The man freezes.
You also freeze. Not because of danger. Not because of strategy. Because Bucky's voice has gone soft and rough around the Romanian words, all warm gravel and velvet-shadowed consonants, and your brain immediately drops every file labeled mission protocol into a trash fire.
You blink.
What was that?
The man answers, still frantic. Bucky nods, listening, rain sliding down the side of his face. He responds again, smoother this time, a little faster.
"Înțeleg. Dar trebuie să intrați înapoi. Este periculos afară."
Your mouth goes dry, actually dry. Like your body has decided hydration is no longer compatible with the moment.
Sam's voice crackles through comms. "Everything good down there?"
Bucky glances your way.
You look at the wall. The wall is safe. The wall isn't speaking Romanian.
"We're good," Bucky says.
In English, a tragedy. A mercy.
The man hurries back inside. Bucky steps beside you again, brow furrowing when he catches your expression. "You okay?"
"Yes," you say too quickly.
His eyes narrow.
You nod with violent enthusiasm. "Mission. Great. Love those. Big fan."
Bucky stares at you.
You stare at the wall harder.
From the comms, Sam says, "Why did that sound weird?"
"It didn't," you snap.
"It did," Sam says. "It sounded like your soul tripped."
"My soul is agile."
Bucky tilts his head slightly. "You sure you're okay?"
You make the mistake of looking at him.
He's still damp from the rain. His lashes are wet. His mouth is set in a concerned little line. His voice is normal again, but your traitorous brain has already bookmarked the Romanian version of him.
"I'm perfect," you say.
"You don't look perfect."
"I look incredible."
Sam hums. "That part's true."
"Focus," Bucky mutters.
You nearly fold in half.
Because he mutters it under his breath, annoyed and fond, and for one horrifying second you think he might mutter something else in Romanian if the universe is feeling cruel.
Thankfully, the target chooses that exact moment to bolt from the building across the street. Gunfire cracks. The mission resumes. You throw yourself into it with the desperation of a woman fleeing not bullets, but feelings.
By the time the target is secured and you're back at the safehouse, you have made a decision. You're going to avoid Bucky Barnes until your body stops being ridiculous. This is mature This is tactical. This is self-preservation. It lasts eleven minutes.
"You're avoiding me," Bucky says.
You nearly drop your water bottle.
He's standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, black Henley clinging to him in a way that feels frankly unnecessary. His hair is still damp from his shower, pushed back from his face. He looks domestic and dangerous, which should be illegal in every country you operate in.
"I'm not," you say.
His eyebrows lift. "You walked out of the room when I walked in."
You twist the cap off your water bottle and take a sip, except you're nervous, so you choke on it immediately.
Bucky steps forward. "You okay?"
You wave him off while coughing. "Fine. Water attacked me."
His mouth twitches.
You point toward the hallway. "I have to go do something."
"What?"
"Inventory."
"We already did inventory."
"Emotional inventory."
You flee.
The second you reach the living room, Sam looks up from the couch. "You look like you just saw a ghost."
"Worse," you whisper. "A bilingual man."
Sam slowly lowers his phone. His grin blooms like a terrible sunrise. "No."
"Don't."
"He spoke Romanian, didn't he?"
You glare at him. "Don't make this a thing."
"Oh, it's already a thing. It entered wearing boots and kicked the door down."
You throw a pillow at his head. He catches it. Unfortunately, Sam Wilson has reflexes and no respect for your suffering.
From the hallway, Bucky calls, "You two fighting?"
"No," Sam says, grinning at you. "She's just emotionally compromised."
You hiss, "I will put salt in your coffee."
Bucky appears in the doorway. "Compromised how?"
"No way," you say. "Absolutely not."
Sam stands, pats Bucky on the shoulder, and says, "Man, good luck." Then he leaves.
Traitor.
Bucky looks more concerned now.
You feel bad immediately.
That's the problem with Bucky. He can look like a thundercloud given human form, but the second he thinks he's hurt someone, all the storm drains out of him.
He steps closer, cautious. "Did I do something?"
Your panic skids to a stop. "What?"
"Earlier. After the alley, you got weird."
"I'm always weird."
"Different weird."
"That's rude."
"That's accurate."
You should laugh, normally you would. But his face is too serious. His eyes are too careful. He's watching you like he's already bracing for a hit, and the whole ridiculous situation folds in on itself inside your chest.
You weren't trying to hurt him. You were just trying not to combust.
"No," you say softly. "You didn't do anything wrong."
His shoulders don't relax. "Then why are you avoiding me?"
You look away. Terrible decision. There's a window beside him, and in the dark glass you can see his reflection watching you. There's no escape. There's only Bucky Barnes and your own poor life choices. "I'm not avoiding you because I'm mad," you mumble.
His head tilts. "Then why?"
You say nothing.
He waits. Bucky Barnes has many talents. Patience is one of the worst ones.
You sigh so deeply it may alter the pressure in the room. "Because," you say, "during the mission, you spoke Romanian."
His brow furrows.
You continue, each word dragging itself out like a prisoner. "And apparently my brain decided that was attractive enough to become a medical problem."
Silence.
The safehouse creaks around you. Rain taps the windows.
Bucky blinks. Once, then twice. Then his lips part slightly. "That's why?"
You cover your face. "Please don't make me repeat it."
"You've been running away from me because I spoke Romanian?"
"When you say it like that, it sounds stupid."
"It sounds..." He pauses.
You peek between your fingers.
Bucky is smiling. Small and stunned and soft at the edges, like you've handed him something fragile and unexpected. "It sounds kind of nice," he says.
You drop your hands. "Don't be sweet. I'm humiliated."
"I'm not being sweet."
"You're absolutely being sweet. Your face is doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"The dangerously tender thing."
His smile widens.
You point at him. "Stop that."
"Stop what?"
"Having a face."
He laughs then. Quiet and rough and warm, and it goes straight through you like a match struck in a dark room. "You're unbelievable," he says.
"I'm suffering."
"I can see that."
"No, you can't. You're the cause."
His expression changes. A tiny flicker. An idea landing.
You know it's bad before he says anything.
He takes one slow step closer.
Your spine hits the counter.
He's not crowding you, not really. There's space between you. Enough space to run if your dignity had legs. But he's close enough that you can see the amusement in his eyes.
Then he says, very softly, "Îmi pare rău."
Your knees nearly file a formal complaint. You grab the counter behind you. "That was deliberate."
"It means I'm sorry."
"You're not."
"No," he admits. "Not really."
"Barnes."
"Da?"
You make a strangled noise.
He looks delighted. Bucky Barnes, former Winter Soldier, current pain in your entire existence, looks absolutely delighted.
"You're enjoying this," you accuse.
"A little."
"You were worried five seconds ago."
"I'm adaptable."
"You're evil."
His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then returns to your eyes.
The room gets very quiet. Not awkward quiet. Not dangerous quiet. Something softer. Something with teeth hidden under its tongue.
"I didn't know," he says.
"Know what?"
"That you liked hearing me speak Romanian."
"I didn't either. It attacked me in real time."
His smile settles into something warmer. "I used it a lot when I was hiding here."
That pulls you gently out of your embarrassment. Your hands loosen on the counter. "Yeah?"
He nods. "Had to. Groceries, rent, staying unnoticed. It helped."
There's an ache beneath the words, old and quiet. Bucharest wasn't just a city to him. It was survival. It was stolen peace. It was a tiny apartment, notebooks, plums in a market bag, and looking over his shoulder every day.
You soften. "I didn't mean to make it weird," you say.
"You didn't."
"I ran from you."
"That part was weird."
"Thank you."
"But not bad."
His metal hand rests on the counter beside you. Not touching, just there. An offer, a question without words.
Your fingers twitch.
Then, because apparently you have decided to continue making brave and foolish choices, you set your hand over his.
His eyes flick down. The smile fades, but only because something gentler replaces it. "You could've just told me," he says.
"You underestimate how embarrassing it is to look a man in the face and say, 'Hey, the way you told a civilian to go inside made me forget how knees work.'"
He huffs a laugh. "You liked that part?"
"Don't fish for compliments."
"I'm not."
"You are. You're standing there with your big sad blue eyes and your stupid tactical shoulders fishing."
"Tactical shoulders?"
"They're classified."
His thumb moves over your knuckles. Slow and careful. "Stai aici," he murmurs.
Your stomach flips. "What does that mean?"
"Stay here."
"See, that's the problem."
"What?"
"You can't just say things like that in that voice."
His eyes warm. "What voice?"
"The voice."
"I only have one voice."
"You absolutely do not. You have mission voice. Grumpy old man voice. I'm-going-to-pretend-I-don't-care-but-I-do voice. And now Romanian voice, which needs a warning label."
Bucky leans a little closer. "Should I stop?"
You swallow. You could say yes. He would. That's the worst part. He would stop immediately, no teasing, no pushing, no disappointment. Bucky would step back and never use it against you again.
But your heart is pounding, and his thumb is still moving over your knuckles, and he's looking at you like maybe this silly, flustered confession means more to him than you realized.
"No," you say quietly. "Just... maybe don't surprise me with it during missions unless you want me to get shot."
His face goes serious instantly. "Not funny."
"It was a little funny."
"No."
You squeeze his hand. "Okay. Not funny."
He exhales through his nose, gaze dropping again. "You scared me earlier," he admits. "Thought I crossed a line somehow."
Your chest pinches. "Bucky."
He shakes his head like he's brushing off the vulnerability, but you catch it anyway. "I know. I just..."
You step closer this time.
His eyes lift.
"I wasn't avoiding you because of anything bad," you say. "I was avoiding you because I like you, and my brain has the survival instinct of a spoon."
His mouth curves. "You like me?"
You stare at him.
He stares back.
"You know what," you say, "I take it back."
"No, you don't."
"I do. I like Sam now."
"Sam snores."
"So do you."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do. Quietly. Like a haunted lawn mower."
Bucky's face does something complicated. "Haunted lawn mower?"
"Emotionally complex machinery."
He laughs again, and this time you don't try to hide how much you like it. His hand turns under yours, fingers sliding between your fingers.
Your breath catches.
Outside, the rain keeps tapping the windows. Somewhere down the hall, Sam is probably pretending not to listen and absolutely listening with his whole nosy chest.
Bucky looks at your joined hands. Then at you. "Pot să te sărut?"
Your brain blanks. "Translation," you whisper.
His voice softens, dropping low enough that it almost disappears beneath the rain outside. "Can I kiss you?"
Your answer comes out embarrassingly fast. "Yes."
Something in his expression melts.
The corner of his mouth lifts into the smallest smile, equal parts relieved and disbelieving, like he'd been hoping for that answer but hadn't let himself expect it.
He gives you one last chance to change your mind. He doesn't rush. His flesh hand rises slowly, warm fingertips brushing your cheek with such care it sends a shiver racing down your spine. His thumb lingers just beneath your eye before tucking an escaped strand of hair behind your ear.
His forehead rests lightly against yours. "Still okay?" he murmurs.
You nod, smiling before you can stop yourself. "More than okay."
His breath catches in the smallest, quietest way. Then he closes the distance.
The first brush of his lips is impossibly gentle. It's less a kiss and more a question. As though he's memorizing the feeling instead of trying to deepen it.
You lean into him instinctively, your hand finding the front of his Henley, fingers curling into the fabric.
That's all the encouragement he needs.
The kiss deepens only slightly, still unhurried, still impossibly tender. His hand cups your cheek while the other settles lightly at your waist, holding you like you're something precious instead of something fragile.
Time seems to loosen its grip.
There's only the warmth of his lips, the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips, and the quiet realization that after everything he's survived, Bucky Barnes kisses like someone who's grateful he finally gets to.
When he finally pulls away, he doesn't go far. His forehead rests against yours again, both of you smiling without meaning to.
You keep your eyes closed for a second, breathing him in.
Then from somewhere behind the wall, Sam yells, "Finally!"
You both freeze.
Your eyes snap open.
Bucky closes his eyes like a man begging for strength from several gods at once.
You shout, "Wilson, I swear to God!"
"I've been emotionally invested for months!"
Bucky groans.
You bury your face in his chest, laughing so hard your shoulders shake.
His arms come around you automatically, holding you close. You feel his laugh rumble against your cheek.
"Months?" you whisper.
"Apparently."
"You knew?"
"No," he says. "I hoped."
Your laughter softens. You lift your head and he's looking at you with that tender face again, the one you told him to stop doing. He doesn't stop. Not even a little. "You hoped?" you ask.
Bucky brushes a damp strand of hair away from your temple. "Yeah."
You try not to melt. You fail with dignity. "Well," you say, "that's inconvenient."
"Why?"
"Because now I'm going to be unbearable."
His mouth twitches. "Now?"
You gasp. "Rude."
"Accurate," he says again.
You poke his chest. "Say one more thing in Romanian and see what happens."
His eyebrows lift. There's a challenge in his eyes now. A tiny spark. A flicker of playful danger.
You regret everything immediately.
He dips his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, "Ești frumoasă."
Your entire skeleton tries to leave. You shove at his chest with both hands. "Nope. Absolutely not. Too powerful. Banned."
He laughs, catching your wrists gently. "You asked."
"I didn't understand the consequences."
"That means you're beautiful."
"I know what it means now, Barnes. The damage is done."
His smile goes so soft it almost hurts. "Good."
You narrow your eyes. "You're going to be a menace about this, aren't you?"
"Maybe."
"Bucky."
"Do you want me to stop?"
There it's again. The real question beneath the teasing.
You settle. Your fingers curl lightly around his wrists. "No," you say. "Just don't use it for evil."
He pretends to think about that. "Define evil."
"Making me walk into furniture."
His mouth twitches.
"Making me forget I'm armed."
A nod.
"Making me agree to things before my brain comes back online."
His expression turns innocent in a way that should terrify governments. "I would never."
"You absolutely would."
"Maybe a little."
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.
Then Sam appears in the doorway with a bag of chips. "Are we done being emotionally constipated in here?"
Bucky turns his head slowly.
Sam pauses mid-crunch.
You step in front of Bucky, holding up one hand. "No murder in the safehouse."
Sam points at you. "Thank you."
Bucky mutters something under his breath in Romanian.
You slap a hand over your face. "That one sounded mean."
"It was."
Sam squints. "Was it about me?"
"Yes," Bucky says.
"Fair."
You look between them.
The warmth in your chest unfurls, ridiculous and bright. You had spent half the day dodging Bucky like he was a live wire, and now he's standing close enough that his hand keeps brushing yours, smiling like he has just discovered a new way to make your life difficult.
Which he has... unfortunately.
"You know," Sam says, "this explains a lot."
"No, it doesn't," you say.
"It explains the time he said your name during training and you dropped your knife."
Bucky looks at you.
You glare at Sam. "That knife was slippery."
"It was dry."
"Emotionally slippery."
Bucky's smile grows.
Sam grins. "Or the time he caught you staring, and you walked straight into the safehouse door."
You groan.
Bucky blinks. "That was because of me?"
"The door came out of nowhere."
Sam deadpans, "It's been attached to the wall for six months."
You point at the door. "Leave."
Sam holds up both hands, chips and all. "Fine. But for the record, this is great. Weird, but great."
He backs out of the room. Then pops his head back in. "Also, Barnes, please speak Romanian responsibly. She has bones made of soup."
You grab a spoon from the counter and throw it. Sam disappears before it hits the wall.
Bucky is laughing again.
You turn on him. "Don't encourage him."
"I didn't say anything."
"Your face did."
"My face has been accused of a lot today."
"And found guilty."
He reaches for you again, slower this time, giving you space to step away. His arms settle around your waist. "You gonna keep avoiding me?" he asks.
You pretend to consider it. "Depends."
"On?"
"Whether you're going to keep ambushing me with sexy vocabulary."
His cheeks tint pink, just enough.
Your entire mood lifts. "Oh," you say. "That got you?"
"No."
"It did."
"No."
"Bucky Barnes, are you blushing?"
He looks away.
You gasp softly. "You are."
"Drop it."
"Absolutely not. This is my emotional compensation."
He grumbles something again in Romanian.
You point at him. "Translation."
His eyes flick back to yours. A beat passes. Then he says, quieter, "I said you're trouble."
Your smile softens before you can stop it. "Yeah?"
His thumb traces a small line at your waist. "Yeah."
You rise onto your toes and kiss him again, quick and sweet. When you pull back, his eyes are half-lidded, expression dazed in a way that does marvelous things for your ego.
"Look at that," you whisper. "Romanian isn't the only weapon here."
Bucky's laugh comes out low. He tucks you closer. "Guess not."
You rest your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath.
For a moment, neither of you says anything. The safehouse is still cold. The rain is still falling. There's a mission report waiting, a target to transfer, a world full of sharp edges waiting outside the walls.
But Bucky's arms are warm around you. His chin rests lightly against your hair and when he murmurs, almost too softly to hear, "Rămâi cu mine," you don't need the translation right away.
You feel it in the way he holds you.
Stay with me.
You smile against his shirt. "I think I'm going to need you to keep translating."
His eyebrows lift. "Forever?"
You look up at him. "Seems like the safest option."
His smile softens into something almost impossibly fond. "I can do that."
He kisses your forehead.
A quiet settles over the room, comfortable enough that neither of you feels the need to fill it.
Then Sam's voice drifts in from the hallway. "So... should I download Duolingo or am I just going to be excluded from conversations now?"
You laugh.
Bucky kisses your temple again. "I vote excluded."
"Rude!" Sam calls.
You grin. "He's learning."
