Day One📌: "Orbiting You" – Captain!Bucky Barnes x Engineer!Reader
Summary: You’re the only engineer on board stubborn enough to keep fixing the starboard wing, and the only one unbothered by Captain Barnes’ deadly glare. He’s cold. Precise. Brooding. So obviously, you irritate him on purpose.
But when a system malfunction traps the two of you inside an emergency shelter with the corridor about to eject into space, the walls close in—and so do the miles he keeps between you.
Word Count: 5.9k
Warnings: enclosed space, oxygen deprivation risk, brief danger of depressurization
General Content: slow burn, forced proximity, space mission mishap, flirting in life-threatening situations, tension you can cut with a blade, mutual pining, reluctant soft Bucky, engineer chaos, emergency alcove intimacy, unresolved sexual tension, banter, near-kiss, emotional shift
Rating: T (for language, flirtation, and suggestive romantic tension)
masterlist • day two
The ship hums. You hate that about it—how it always sounds just a little off. Like it’s thinking. Waiting. Watching.
Or maybe it’s just the bad wiring in the starboard wing that refuses to stay fixed. The same one Captain Barnes has glared at every day for the last three weeks.
You’re back in that corridor now—heat sticking to your skin, cable in your teeth, wrench in your hand, body half-folded inside a hatch that wasn’t built for someone with your temperament.
“I said temporary patch, not a full rewire.” His voice cuts across the corridor like a command. Cold. Precision-cut.
You grunt, not bothering to pull your head out of the hatch.
“I said I know, Captain Grumpypants. "Temporary" just means it'll break again in twelve hours instead of four. I’d rather not get fried mid-wank, thanks.”
Silence.
Then—“You’re not supposed to be using the emergency sockets for personal activities.”
You twist your head just enough to throw a smirk over your shoulder. “Who said anything about sockets?”
The look he gives you could freeze plasma.
Captain James Barnes is the kind of man people follow into black holes.
Sharp jaw, sharper mind. Every hair in place, every system logged, every heartbeat counted. You’ve heard rumors about him—about the Hydra mission, the Nebula Rift, the month he spent alone on the dead station.
You didn’t believe half of them. Now that you’re under his command, you believe worse.
He doesn’t talk unless it’s about the ship. Doesn’t smile. Ever.
You tried calling him “Cap” once.
He stared at you so long you started checking for space-time fractures with your eyes.
════════════════════════════════
You slam the hatch shut and sit back, breathing hard, sweat beading at your brow.
“Done,” you announce.
Barnes steps closer. Too close. You smell jet fuel and something colder—metal, ozone, command.
He crouches beside you. Checks your work.
“Looks stable,” he mutters. “Finally.”
You glance sideways at him. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
He doesn’t answer that. Just stands again and says, “Suit up. We’re entering debris orbit in twenty. You’re on interior systems backup.”
You sigh, wipe your hands on your coveralls, and mutter under your breath, “Can’t wait to spend another day in space with sunshine incarnate.”
He stops at the end of the corridor. Looks back.
“What was that?”
You grin. “Nothing, Captain.”
Later — The Bridge.
The control deck is quiet except for the low drone of orbit stabilization thrusters and the occasional ping of a console recalculating.
You sit at your panel, legs crossed, hair still damp from the rushed rinse you managed before strapping in. You catch your own reflection in the polished screen—smudged, tired, stubborn. You’ve been in space too long.
Captain Barnes stands with his hands behind his back, observing the starfield through the main viewport. His uniform fits him too well—stitched tension in every line, dark sleeves rolled just enough to expose the black veins of his cybernetic arm.
“Entering debris field in sixty seconds,” you say, not looking at him.
“I know,” he replies, clipped.
God, he’s insufferable. And hot. Which is worse.
You don’t hate him. You can’t. That would require him giving you enough to actually feel something real.
Instead, he just… stands there. Watching space. Acting like the stars belong to him.
Forty Minutes Into Orbit
The ship rocks once, hard, like a slap to the hull. You barely stay in your seat.
“External arm took a hit,” Barnes says, adjusting controls. “No breach. Sensors reading flux interference.”
You scan diagnostics. “Backup climate stabilizers offline in D-Level. And there’s a pressure dip in the storage corridor.”
Barnes is already unstrapping. “I’ll go.”
You’re unstrapped before he even finishes the sentence. “You’re not going alone.”
His jaw ticks. “You’re not on hull detail.”
“I’m on interior systems. That’s where the damage is.”
A stare-off. You win by saying nothing. Just grabbing your gear, walking out the door.
Behind you, he growls something about stubborn women and protocol. You smile.
The Storage Corridor.
You’re suited up. Breather masks on standby. The lights flicker—soft red glow casting jagged shadows on the walls.
“We’ll check the pressure seal first,” Barnes says, voice low, echoing in the narrow hall.
You nod, eyes on the screen in your hand. “Reading instability in this panel.” You squat down, running your gloved fingers along the seam of the airlock access.
You don’t hear the system alert until it’s too late.
The corridor doors seal shut behind you with a slam. Emergency lighting kicks in. The airlock roars to life.
“Shit—” You scramble up. “It’s isolating us—!”
“Manual override’s not responding,” Bucky says. He’s already crossed the floor, arm braced against the console. “Something triggered an evac protocol.”
You feel the pressure shift. The hiss of air being sucked out—not fast, not deadly, but enough to mean danger.
And the realization hits cold in your gut: If the system thinks this sector is compromised, it’s going to eject it.
You and Bucky both.
Minutes stretch. He works in silence, focused. You’re backing him up, hands trembling slightly as you reroute power and try not to panic.
Then the screen flickers. Red turns white.
“Airlock disengage countdown initiated,” the system announces. Calm. Deadly.
60 seconds. You look at Bucky. He looks at you.
And something cracks in his expression—just a flicker.
No anger. No cold. Just the raw, terrifying clarity of choice.
Then—He shoves the panel aside. Hooks his vibranium arm around your waist. And pulls you into the emergency shelter alcove at the far end of the corridor, slamming the seal button as the outer door begins to unhinge.
The sound is thunder in your ears—metal splitting. Air rushing. The ship groaning around you.
Inside the tiny compartment, it’s just the two of you. Chest to chest. Breathing hard. His arm is still around you.
You blink. “You—should’ve saved yourself.”
“I did,” he says, low.
The system locks the door behind you. Silence falls. Then the gravity stabilizers shift, and the ship pulls back into calm.
The lights flicker. Your heart too. You’re close enough to feel the heat of him.
His fingers brush your back as he steadies you. You meet his eyes. They’re darker now. Hungry. Human.
The compartment was built for emergencies—not comfort. The walls are smooth steel. The floor just wide enough for two people to sit with their knees tucked in.
It’s silent, except for the low hum of life support and the distant whir of the ship recalibrating. You’re both strapped in, barely a foot apart. The emergency lighting bathes everything in a pulsing, red-tinted glow.
You shift. The sound of your suit brushing his makes him flinch.
“How long do you think we’re stuck?” you ask, trying to keep your voice casual.
He doesn’t look at you. “Until someone manually resets the fail-safes and depressurizes the corridor.”
You blink. “So… hours.”
He nods.
You sigh, tilting your head back against the wall. “Great.”
More silence.
You glance at him again. “So. Got any hobbies? Besides terrifying your entire crew with glares and one-word sentences?”
He turns to you slowly. Raises one brow. “You’re seriously doing this now?”
“I mean, we’re already trapped in a box together. Might as well pass the time before we both suffocate.”
“We’re not going to suffocate.”
“Oh good. So you are listening.” Another glare. You grin.
An Hour In.
You’ve told him about the worst dates of your life. The time you accidentally shorted out half the ship’s gravity on your first assignment. How you’re banned from three mess halls because of “an unfortunate soup incident.”
Bucky, in return, has said maybe twelve words. Mostly consisting of No. That’s stupid. Stop talking. You’re going to make me lose it.
You tell him about the time you tried to modify a vacuum bot to bring you snacks.
“It exploded,” you add, deadpan.
His jaw clenches. “Shocking.”
You pause. “Was that sarcasm, Captain?”
“No.”
You lean in slightly. “You sure?”
His eyes flick to yours. And for a second, you see it—amusement. The tiniest tug at the corner of his mouth.
But he covers it fast. “I’m sure.”
Two Hours In.
You’ve kicked off your boots. Your legs are practically over his lap, there’s no room left. Your suit's jacket is half-unzipped, heat rising from the sealed compartment.
“Did you really almost punch Commander Torres once?” you ask, eyes lidded with boredom and exhaustion.
He exhales sharply. “He called me Buckaroo.”
You snort. Loud. Then laugh. Really laugh.
He tries to keep the scowl. Fails.
“Are you drunk on oxygen deprivation?” he mutters.
“No,” you grin. “I’m just high on the thrill of being tolerated by you.”
“I don’t tolerate people,” he says, voice lower. “I do make some exceptions.”
You blink. “Oh?”
Something shifts in the space between you.
It isn’t the air pressure.
Three Hours In.
You’re leaning against him now. Not by choice—your head just kind of found his shoulder somewhere between story six and seven. You were getting tired. His metal arm was cold.
He didn’t push you off. His fingers rest near your knee. You swear they twitch when you laugh.
The tension is thicker now. Different. You’ve stopped talking. The silence isn’t awkward anymore. It’s electric.
When you glance up at him—close, eyes shadowed in red glow—your breath catches.
He looks down at you.
And just then—The seal hisses open.
Bright light floods the alcove. A voice crackles through the comm: “Uh—Captain? Engineer? You’re clear. Airlock’s stable again.”
Neither of you move.
You stay like that for another beat, heartbeat loud in your ears, pressed close in a space that suddenly feels too big.
Then Bucky shifts away. Grabs your jacket. Hands it to you without looking.
“Back to work,” he mutters.
You swallow hard. “Right. Work.”
But as you climb out of the alcove and step into the hall—his hand brushes your lower back.
Just once. Just enough to say: This isn’t over.
════════════════════════════════
You’re sipping something. Avoiding the crew. Trying to recalibrate your brain after three hours pressed against someone whose very existence seems engineered to make your thoughts short-circuit.
The seat across from you shifts. You don’t look up.
“You always this loud in emergencies?” he asks, voice low, amused.
You smirk into your cup. “You always this broody when you save people?”
He hums. A low sound. And then—he sits.
This man has ignored you in mess halls for weeks. And now he’s sitting across from you like that’s normal.
“You were calm,” he says after a moment. “In the alcove.”
You shrug. “I figured panicking wasn’t going to help.”
“No.” A pause. “But it would’ve been understandable.”
You finally glance up. His eyes are on you. Clear. Focused. Seeing you.
“I wasn’t scared,” you say, and you mean it.
He nods. “I was.”
That stuns you for a second. You try to make a joke—try to defuse it—but nothing comes.
He leans in a fraction. “I thought I was going to lose you. And that was... unacceptable.”
Your throat dries. “Captain—”
“Bucky.”
Your eyes widen. He never uses his first name.
“Bucky,” you repeat, and it tastes strange on your tongue. Soft. Intimate.
He watches your mouth like he’s memorizing the way it moves.
Then stands. “We have work to do.”
And he leaves.
But you know—something changed.
That Night — The Engine Room.
You’re working late. Again. Alone. Or so you think. You hear the door open, and don’t turn.
“You lost?” you call. “Command’s two decks up.”
“I know where I am.” His voice sends a ripple down your spine.
You turn. He’s leaning against the bulkhead, arms crossed, still in uniform, eyes locked on you like you’re some kind of puzzle he’s about to take apart.
You hold his gaze. “Let me guess. Just doing your rounds?”
“Something like that,” he says. “Or maybe I’m just making excuses.”
He crosses the room slowly. Carefully. Like you’re something volatile. Dangerous.
You straighten, pulse jumping. “Excuses for what?”
He stops inches from you. His breath warms the space between you.
“For being here,” he says softly, “when I know I shouldn’t be.”
His eyes drop to your lips. “When I know what I want.”
Silence.
Your voice is a whisper when it comes: “And what’s that?”
His jaw flexes.
“You.” But he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet.
He leans in just enough for his breath to brush your cheek. Then he steps back.
“Get some rest, Engineer.” And just like that—he’s gone again.
Leaving you stunned. Buzzing. Burning.
Orbiting something that feels like it’s about to ignite.
I decided that instead of waiting a whole month, I’m just going to start dropping these now. One each day—you know the drill. 😌
It’s Buckytember… in August.
More tropes, more tension incoming.
Stay tuned.
