ɪᴛ’s ᴀ ɢᴏᴅᴅᴀᴍɴ ʙʟᴀᴢᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋ
– and you started it
(Duke!Bucky Barnes x baron daughter!Katherine Pierce)
Summary: Bucky stared at the fire, the image of a razor-tongued girl he hadn't met yet flickering in his mind. He didn't know then that the Baron’s daughter was the only thing capable of drowning out the noise of the war...
Warnings: this isn’t bucky x reader, but can be read as if, duke/ ex military Bucky, trauma, angst, mature content, 1800s vibes, Bridgerton coded
My house of stone, your Ivy grows and now I’m covered in you…
Part 2
The invitation did not arrive on cream-colored vellum, nor was it delivered by a somber footman. It arrived in the form of a small, mud-caked boy from the village, who had been paid sixpence to scramble over the Barnes estate walls and shove a crumpled scrap of parchment through the library window where Bucky sat in his perpetual gloom.
The Fair at Oakhaven. Tuesday. My father thinks I am visiting Peggy. If you do not show, I shall assume the dragons finally won. — K.
Bucky had stared at the note for three hours. He knew the risks. A Duke appearing at a common village fair without a formal retinue was scandalous; appearing with a Baron’s daughter who was supposed to be visiting a Contess was a social death sentence. But the memory of her laughter on the lake—that bright, defiant sound—was a siren call he couldn't ignore. He was a man starving, and she was the only one offering anything other than the bitter bread of pity.
So when the Tuesday came, the sun touched his skin with a newfound unexpectedly brilliance, turning the dusty lanes of Oakhaven into a riot of color and noise, the air, a thick soup of smells: roasting meats, woodsmoke, crushed grass, and the sweet, yeasty scent of ale. For Bucky, the sensory assault was almost too much. Every crack of a whip sounded like a rifle shot; every sudden burst of laughter made his shoulders hitch.
Wearing a simple brown frock coat and a low-slung hat, the Duke tried to bleed into the shadows of the tents, but his height and the military rigidity of his spine made him stand out like a wolf in a sheep pen. And when he was about to turn around, changing his mind, he saw her.
Standing by a stall selling hand-carved whistles, her dress a simple frock of cornflower blue that made her look like a piece of the sky fallen to earth. She wasn't wearing a corset—he could tell by the way she moved, free and fluid—and her hair was tucked under a straw bonnet that she had clearly tied in a hurry.
“You came," she said, her eyes sparking as he approached. "I half-expected to see Earl Rogers here in your stead, bearing a formal apology and a bouquet of 'stay away' lilies."
“Steve is currently occupied trying to keep Sarah from eating her weight in sugar-plums," Bucky rasped, his hand instinctively adjusting his glove. "And I find I’ve grown tired of lilies."
“Good," she whispered, slipping her arm through his. The contact was electric. Through the layers of wool and silk, Bucky felt the heat of her, a grounding force that pulled him out of the trenches and into the present. "Today, Your Grace, we are not a Duke and a Lady. We are merely two people who enjoy bad music and overpriced cider."
Moving through the crowd with a strange, bubble-like intimacy for an hour, Bucky almost forgot himself. He bought her a ribbon the color of her eyes; she made him try a meat pie that burnt his tongue and made him laugh. And by the pass of those blessed minutes they ran into Natasha and Clint near the archers' clearing.
Natasha looked uncharacteristically soft, her hand tucked firmly into Clint’s arm. Clint, for his part, looked like he had finally found peace, his usual restlessness replaced by a quiet, steady pride.
“James," Natasha greeted, her sharp eyes taking in Katherine with an approving shimmer. "I see you've finally decided to rejoin the living. It suits you."
“We were just discussing a date for the wedding," Clint informed, grinning as he adjusted his bow case. "First week of October. Small ceremony. Just the people who won't spend the whole time gossiping about the bride's past or the groom's aim."
“It’ll be quiet," Natasha said, her gaze drifting to Katherine. "The world is getting loud again. We want our corner of it to be still."
“Sounds perfect," Katherine said sincerely. "I hope... I hope we can be there."
Bucky felt a pang of longing so sharp it nearly made him gasp.
We.
She had said we. As if they were a unit, a future, a possibility.
After exchanging a few more words, they left Clint and Natasha to their planning, wandering toward the edge of the green where a group of men had gathered around a large cask of ale. They were older men, their coats ragged, their faces mapped with the hard lines of the campaign. Bucky felt the hair on his neck rise.
As they passed, one of the men, a massive fellow with a jagged scar running from his ear to his chin, looked up. His eyes bleared with drink, then sharpened with a sudden, venomous recognition.
“Well, look 'ere, lads," the man shouted, his voice cutting through the festive music like a serrated blade. "It’s the High-and-Mighty Duke of Barnes. The Butcher of the Somme himself."
The music seemed to falter. The surrounding villagers turned, their faces pale with curiosity and dread. Bucky froze. The smells of the fair—the meat, the hay—vanished, replaced by the phantom scent of cordite and wet iron. He felt the metal of his arm grow cold, his fingers clenching into a fist inside his glove.
“Left us in the mud, didn't ya, Your Grace?" another man spat, stumbling forward. "While you were tucked up in your manor with your silver spoons, we were diggin' graves for boys who didn't have a title to save 'em. How’s the mind, Barnes? Still seein' the ghosts of the men you led to the slaughter?"
The whispers started. The Mad Duke. The Butcher. Bucky’s breathing became a series of jagged, shallow hitches. The ground felt like it was liquefying beneath his boots. He wanted to run; he wanted to roar; he wanted to disappear. He felt the darkness rising, that cold, screaming void that told him he was nothing but a killer wearing a Duke’s skin.
“James," Katherine whispered, feeling his arm turn to stone beneath her touch.
But he couldn’t hear her. He was back in the rain, hearing the whistling of the shells.
“Lost your tongue, 'ave ya?" the first man mocked, stepping into Bucky’s personal space, the smell of stale ale thick on his breath. "Maybe we should see if you bleed blue, or if you're just as yellow as the rest of—"
Katherine stepped forward, breaking her physical contact with Bucky and didn’t let the man finish, she placed herself directly between the Duke and the giant. She was half the man's size, a slip of blue silk in the path of a storm, but when she looked up at him, her eyes were the color of a sharpening blade.
“That is quite enough," she said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it had a crystalline, terrifying clarity that silenced the rowdy crowd.
“Stay out of this, little girl," the man growled, though he hesitated. "This is soldier business."
“Soldier business?" Katherine let out a short, bark of a laugh that was pure venom. "You stand here, hiding behind a cask of ale, attacking a man who carried the weight of a thousand lives while you were busy losing your own dignity in a bottle? You speak of graves? The Duke hasn't slept a full night in years because he carries the name of every man lost on his soul. He didn't leave you in the mud—he was buried in it with you, and he's the only one brave enough to still be trying to climb out."
She stepped even closer, her finger pointing at the man’s chest. “You call him a Butcher because it’s easier than admitting he’s a hero who broke himself so you could stand here and be a coward in the sun. Now, you will apologize, or I will ensure that the Baron hears exactly which of his tenants is harassing a Peer of the Realm at a public festival."
The man blanched. The mention of the Baron—and the sheer, icy authority in Katherine’s gaze—broke his drunken bravado. He looked at the ground, muttering something incoherent, and shuffled back into the shadows of the ale tent with his companions.
Katherine turned back to Bucky. He was still standing where she had left him, his face ghostly pale, his eyes wide and unfocused. She didn't wait. She reached out and took his hand—the metal one. She didn't care who saw. She gripped it firmly, her warmth seeping through the heavy leather. “James," she said softly, pulling him back to the present. "Look at me."
Blinking, the fog of the war slowly receded. He looked down at her—at this small, fierce woman who had just stared down a giant to protect his tattered honor.
“You... you shouldn't have done that," he whispered, his voice shaking. "The scandal..."
“To hell with the scandal," she countered, her chin lifting in that dangerously proud angle. "I believe we were headed for the ribbon stall, Your Grace. I have a sudden desire for something... green."
As they reached the stall, Bucky looked at the silk ribbons fluttering in the breeze
“Green," he murmured, picking up a spool of emerald silk. "It’s my favorite color."
“I know," she whispered, leaning her head against his shoulder for one brief, scandalous second. "That's why I'm wearing it tomorrow."
“Tomorrow?" he repeated, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion, his mind still reeling from the adrenaline of the previous confrontation
“I will be galloping across the north boundary of the Barnes estate," she declared, her eyes dancing with a wild, infectious light. "I’ve heard the ridge overlooking the valley is spectacular at noon. I expect a picnic, James. A proper one. Cold chicken, sharp cheddar, and perhaps a bottle of something that didn't come from an ale cask."
“A picnic? On my lands?" Bucky let out a startled, huffy breath that was almost a laugh. "Katherine, if your father finds out you’ve stolen away to the Duke’s private ridge, he won't just send you back to Bath. He’ll lock the doors and throw the key into the Channel."
“Then we had best be very fast, should we not?" she countered, patting his cheek before turning toward the edge of the fair. "Be at the old stone bridge by ten, James. Bring the stallion, I want to see if my mare can outrun a Duke."
///
The next morning, the air was crisp, smelling of pine needles and the lingering damp of the dew. Bucky sat atop his massive black stallion, near the crumbling stone bridge that marked the edge of his property.
He felt ridiculous.
He was a Duke of the Realm, a man with a shattered mind and a metal arm, waiting in the shadows like a schoolboy for a girl who was currently committing social suicide for a piece of cold chicken.
The rhythmic, frantic thundering of hooves against the turf woke him up from his daydreaming.
Katherine appeared over the rise like a vision of the wild. She was true to her word—she was draped in a riding habit of that same mossy green, the heavy velvet catching the light as she pushed her mare, a lean, grey beast, into a full-out gallop. Her hat was already hanging by its ribbons at her back, and her hair had escaped its pins, flying behind her like a dark silk banner.
She didn't slow down as she reached the bridge. She let out a joyous, unladylike shout, her eyes locked onto Bucky’s. “You're late, Your Grace!" she yelled over the wind, her mare flying past him in a blur of grey and green.
Bucky’s competitive streak, a relic of his youth that he thought had died in the mud of France, flared to life. He felt a grin—a real, predatory, joyful grin—split his face. “Not for long!" he roared back.
Dugging his heels into the stallion’s flanks, he felt the powerful snort and lunging forward, the sheer power of the animal’s stride jarring Bucky’s bones in a way that felt like waking up.
The world narrowed to the sound of the wind whistling in his ears and the sight of the green-clad figure ahead of him. They tore across the open fields, the emerald grass a blur beneath the horses' hooves.
For those few minutes, the war didn't exist, there was only the heat of the horse, the sting of the wind, and the woman who was leading him into the light.
Katherine looked back over her shoulder, her face radiant with a fierce, untamed beauty. She saw him gaining on her, saw the way he handled the stallion with a casual, masculine grace, and she pushed her mare harder. They were two sparks flying through the forest, a goddamn blaze in the dark
He pulled his animal level with her, the two horses running neck-and-neck as they crested the ridge. Bucky reached out, his hand—the organic one—briefly brushing against her arm in the wind. “I have the chicken!" he shouted over the thunder of the hooves.
“Then you’d better keep up!" she laughed, her eyes shining like stars. "Because I'm starving, James!"
And she didn't stop until they reached the very edge of the cliff, the valley sprawling out below them in a tapestry of gold and green. As they finally pulled the horses to a halt, the animals heaving and steaming in the cool air, Bucky looked at Katherine. She was breathless, her cheeks flushed a deep rose, her hair a magnificent ruin.
He dismounted and walked over to her, reaching up to lift her down from the saddle. As his hands closed around her waist, the world went silent. The playfulness of the race evaporated, replaced by the same heavy, magnetic pull that had haunted them at the lake. He didn't let go of her when her feet hit the grass. He kept her close, his thumb tracing the velvet of her habit, his heart hammering a rhythm that had nothing to do with the gallop.
“You are," Bucky rasped, his voice thick with a sudden, overwhelming devotion, "the most troublesome woman in all of England."
“And you," she whispered, her hands sliding up to his chest, "are finally breathing."
The urge to kiss her was a physical ache, a pressure behind his ribs that made his hands tremble. He could see the pulse jumping in the hollow of her throat; he could see the dark gold flecks in her eyes, dilated and searching. He wanted to drown the memories of the war in her, to tether his soul to hers right there on the clifftop.
But he was James Barnes, and the ghosts in his head whispered of his own unworthiness. He forced his fingers to loosen, his hands dropping to his sides with a stiff, military discipline that felt like a self-inflicted wound.
“You said... you were hungry," he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. He took a step back, the distance feeling like a physical coldness.
Katherine watched him, her breath still coming in short, shallow hitches. She didn't miss the way his jaw tightened or the way he looked away. She knew he was retreating into his fortress, but she chose to let him. For now.
“I am famished," she said softly, her voice regaining its playful edge. "And I believe a Duke promised a feast."
He then moved with a slow, deliberate grace. He reached for the saddlebags, his movements steady despite the storm inside him. He pulled out a heavy, cream-colored wool blanket and spread it over the tall grass, smoothing the wrinkles with a meticulousness that spoke of a man who needed order to survive.
“Sit," he murmured, offering a hand to help her down.
He watched her as she settled onto the blanket, the mossy green of her habit blending into the landscape. He moved slowly, unpacking the small wooden crate he’d prepared. He laid out the cold roasted chicken, wrapped in clean linen; the wedge of sharp, aged cheddar; a loaf of crusty bread that still smelled faintly of the manor’s ovens.
Bucky didn't eat. He sat back on his heels, his hands resting on his knees, and simply admired her, watched the way the sunlight caught the stray dark curls of her hair, turning them to spun silk. He watched the way she moved, the elegant line of her neck as she tilted her head back to catch the breeze. She looked so vital, so intensely present, that it made his chest hurt. She was the antithesis of the mud; she was the cure for the grey, she was screaming-color.
Katherine bit into a piece of the bread, then looked up to find him staring. "You're doing it again, James."
“Doing what?"
“Looking at me as if I might vanish if you blink." She reached for a piece of the chicken, but a small smudge of flour from the bread remained on her cheek, stark against her flushed skin.
Bucky didn't think, fishing into his pocket, pulling out a clean linen handkerchief. He leaned forward, his movement so slow it was almost a caress. He reached out, his organic hand steady as he cupped her jaw. His thumb, wrapped in the linen, gently brushed against her cheekbone, wiping away the white dust.
His touch lingered. The pad of his thumb traced the line of her cheek, his gaze dropping to her lips. The silence on the ridge became heavy, thick with the things they weren't saying. The air grew still, the birdsong suddenly cutting out as if the earth itself were holding its breath.
“Katherine," he whispered, her name, for him a broken vow.
A heavy, fat bead of water struck the back of Bucky’s hand, followed instantly by another on Katherine’s forehead. The sky, which had been a clear, taunting blue moments ago, suddenly bruised into a deep, violent purple. The wind shifted, turning cold and smelling of ozone and wet earth.
“The picnic," Katherine gasped, looking down at the spread.
“Leave it," Bucky commanded, his voice snapping back into its soldier’s authority. He stood up, pulling her with him just as the clouds opened in earnest.
Within seconds the rain came down in a silver sheet, so thick they could barely see the horses ten feet away. The mossy green velvet of her habit darkened instantly, turning heavy and sodden.
“There's a shepherd's hut!" Bucky shouted over the sudden roar of the downpour. He grabbed the blanket, throwing it over his arm, and caught her hand. "Near the treeline! Run!”
Bucky led the way, his large frame shielding her from the brunt of the wind. They reached the small, stone-and-thatch hut just as a crack of thunder shook the very ground beneath them.
He threw the door open—it groaned on rusted hinges—and practically shoved her inside, following he slamming the door shut, dropping the heavy wooden bolt.
It was small, smelling of dry hay, old wood, and now, the overwhelming scent of wet wool and the woman standing a foot away from him. The only light came from the narrow slats in the shutters, casting bars of grey across Katherine’s dripping face. She was soaked. Her habit clung to her every curve, her hair was plastered to her neck, and she was shivering.
“I believe," Katherine panted, a small, watery smile touching her lips, "that the dragons have sent reinforcements."
Bucky didn't laugh. He looked at her—wet, cold, and beautiful—and the restraint he had been clinging to for weeks finally, irrevocably, snapped, he closed the distance until he had her pinned between his massive frame and the rough stone wall. He didn't hesitate this time, cupping her face with both hands—the leather of his glove cold against one cheek, his bare palm burning against the other—the Duke crashed his mouth down onto hers.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was an explosion of months of suppressed longing and terrified hope. When his tongue swept against hers, Katherine let out a low, broken moan that vibrated deep in his chest. She didn't pull away; she surged forward, her hands flying up to grip the wet, dark hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as if she were trying to merge her very breath with his.
Bucky groaned into her mouth, a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender. He broke the kiss only to trail his lips across her jaw, his breath hot and ragged against her ear. “I was drowning," he rasped, his voice a jagged, terrifying whisper. "For years... I was under the mud. I was sinking into the dark, and I thought the water would finally take me."
He descended further, his lips finding the sensitive pulse point beneath her ear before moving to the elegant slope of her shoulder. He pulled the sodden velvet of her riding habit aside just enough to press his mouth to her collarbone “And then there was you," he choked out against her skin. "You were the light on the surface. You reached into the blackness and you pulled me out. You saved me, my angel. God help me, you saved me."
Katherine’s head fell back against the stone, her eyes fluttering shut as a sob caught in her throat. She tangled her fingers tighter in his hair, her body arching into his. "Then don't go back, James," she whispered, her voice trembling with the force of her own devotion. "Stay with me."
He leaned his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in the tiny, shadowed space, kissing her again, slower this time, a deep, soul-searching touch that tasted of salt and rain and the future. With that he knew, possessing a terrifying certainty, that he would never be able to let her go now.
He had tasted the air above the water, and he would die before he let himself sink again.
“You're freezing," he murmured against her lips, his protective instincts finally flaring back to life.
He pulled back just enough to shrug out of his heavy, wet coat, wrapping it around her shoulders over the damp velvet. He led her to a pile of dry hay in the corner, pulling her down beside him and wrapping the cream-colored blanket around them both.
Eventually, the storm settled into a rhythmic, soft patter against the thatch—a gentle shush that seemed to lull the world into a temporary truce. For a moment, Bucky allowed himself to just be a man holding a woman. He watched the grey light flicker across her features, his heart feeling dangerously full. But the reality of the Ton and the Baron’s temper was a ticking clock. If she didn't return soon, the migraine-excuse would wear thin.
“Angel," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. "The rain has eased. We have to go."
She stirred with a reluctant hum, her dark eyes blinking open. She looked at him with a sleepy, soft-focused affection that nearly broke his resolve to be proper.
They made the trek back to the Barnes manor in a quiet, shared bubble. The horses were damp and steaming, and the air was heavy with the scent of wet pine. When they reached the servants' entrance—discretion being their only shield—Bucky helped her down, his hands lingering on her waist.
“You're still shivering," he noted, his brow furrowing. "You can't ride back to your father’s estate in a sodden habit. You'll catch your death."
He led her into the manor, bypassing the grand foyer for the smaller, more intimate morning room. He called for a maid he trusted and had a set of dry clothes brought—a simple, high-collared gown that had been stored away, and a heavy wool shawl.
“Drink this," Bucky commanded softly, handing her a cup of steaming Earl Grey once she had changed.
Katherine took the cup, her hands wrapping around the warmth of the porcelain. She looked around the room, her gaze finally landing on the massive, dark wood of the grand piano sitting in the alcove, the ivory keys gleaming like teeth in the dim light.
“You told me once that you play when the world gets too loud," she said, setting the tea down and walking toward the instrument. She ran a finger along the polished mahogany. "The world is very quiet right now, James. But I want to hear what’s inside your head."
Bucky stiffened. The piano was his sanctuary, but it was also where he housed his demons. To play for her was to strip away the Duke’s coat and the soldier’s armor entirely.
“I'm out of practice," he demurred, though his feet were already moving him toward the bench.
“Liar," she whispered, leaning against the curve of the piano, her eyes expectant.
Bucky sat. He looked at his hands—the organic one, scarred and calloused, and the other, hidden beneath a glove, cold and unfeeling. He took a breath, and then he began to play. As the notes filled the room, Katherine closed her eyes. Bucky watched her, his fingers moving with a fluid, haunting grace. He played the incandescent glow she had brought into his life, the music swelling into something hopeful before dropping back into a minor key of lingering fear.
The music faded, but the vibration of that final, haunting chord stayed in the air, humming between them. Katherine didn't pull away; she leaned further over the mahogany, her eyes locked on his with a heat that made the steam from the tea look cold.
“You play like a man who has too many secrets," she whispered, her voice a low, velvet lure. "And I find I want to know every single one of them."
Bucky didn't answer with words. He rose from the bench, his movement fluid and predatory, and caught her waist. He hoisted her up, her silk skirts bunching around her thighs as he sat her atop the polished lid of the grand piano. The instrument let out a dissonant, jarring groan from the strings below as her weight settled, but neither of them cared.
He stepped between her knees, his hands sliding up her thighs, the friction of the fabric a sharp contrast to the raw heat of his palms. He kissed her again—a deep, territorial claim that tasted of the rain they’d just escaped. His breathing a heavy, jagged rasp that echoed in the quiet room.
“Katherine," he groaned against her lips, his forehead resting against hers as he fought for air. "I want to... I want to try something. Something they don't teach in the ballrooms. But you tell me to stop. The second you want to, you tell me."
“I don't want to stop," she panted, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling his head back so she could see the dark, naked hunger in his eyes. "I want everything,”
Bucky let out a low, guttural sound and dropped to his knees between her legs, pushing her skirts higher, his hands—one warm and trembling, the other firm and steady through the leather—spread her thighs, exposing the pale, velvet skin he had dreamed of since the lake.
He looked up at her, his eyes dark with a devotion that bordered on agony. "You are an angel," he rasped, his voice a low, vibrating hum against her inner thigh. "A goddamn angel sent to save a man who didn't deserve it."
The Duke leaned in, his breath hot against her skin, sending a fresh wave of shivers through her. "Mine," he whispered, the word a possessive vow against her flesh. "Every inch of you. Tell me I’m not dreaming."
Katherine couldn't answer; her voice was trapped in her throat as his lips pressed a searing, sinful path upward. He didn't rush. He nipped at the tender skin of her thighs, his tongue swirling in damp, torturous circles that made her hips buck instinctively against the mahogany. When he finally reached the heart of her, the scent of her arousal—sweet and sharp—made him let out a guttural moan, he breathed, his nose brushing against her before his tongue made the first, sweeping contact. “You taste divine,”
Katherine’s head thrashed back against the piano's music stand, a strangled, choked sound of pure shock escaping her. It was a localized fire, a lightning strike to her senses that she was entirely unprepared for.
“James—oh, Bucky, please—"
He didn't pull back. He cupped her bottom, lifting her slightly to meet him, his tongue flicking against her with a relentless, rhythmic focus. He watched her face, wanting to memorize every flicker of pleasure, every gasp. Then, he slipped one finger inside her, finding her tight and aching. A moment later, he added a second, his fingers pumping in deep, steady strokes
“That's it, angel," he urged, his voice thick with a dark, velvet hunger. "Give it all to me. Just feel me."
He increased the pace, his fingers working inside her while his mouth stayed locked on her center, suctioning and swirling until the tension in her body became unbearable. Katherine’s fingers dug into his shoulders, her nails scratching the wool of his waistcoat as the world began to fracture. She couldn't remember her name, her title, or the rain outside; there was only the friction, the heat, and the man who was devouring her.
She shattered. Her body convulsed in a violent, beautiful climax that sent her screaming his name into the empty room, her legs locking around his neck as she shook with the force of it.
Bucky held her through the tremors, rising only when she began to drift back to earth. He leaned in, his face inches from hers, and kissed her—a deep, messy, honest kiss that tasted of her and of the promise they had just sealed
“You're mine," he whispered against her lips, his thumb wiping a tear of overstimulation from her eye. "Always."
Loving as real as the sun, burned into their veins still when reality knocked on the door of the music room.
“Your Grace! The shipment! The War Office clerk says it cannot wait!"
Bucky pulled back, his hands dropping from her waist as if he’d been burned. The light in his eyes—the blue that had finally begun to look like a clear sky—filmed over with a grey, deadening fog. He stood up, smoothing his waistcoat with trembling fingers, his movements suddenly mechanical.
“The shipment," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "It’s the personal effects. The things left in the trenches."
Katherine scrambled off the piano, her silk skirts rustling as she straightened her gown, her heart still hammering from the peak of her release. She reached for his arm, her fingers desperate to find the man who had just worshipped her on his knees.
“Bucky, don't," she pleaded, her voice thick with the remnants of her passion. "Whatever is in that box, it belongs to a world that tried to kill you. You don't have to open it. Not tonight. Stay here, with me. Let the dead stay buried."
Bucky turned to her, and for a terrifying second, she didn't recognize him. The Duke was gone; the lover was gone. In his place was a hollow-eyed shell of a man, his jaw set in a line of grim, military endurance.
“I can't let them stay buried, Katherine," he rasped, his voice cold and distant. "I’m the one who put them there. Those men... their mothers are waiting for these trinkets. Their wives are waiting for letters I was too coward to send when the blood was still wet."
“You aren't a coward!" she cried, stepping into his space, trying to force him to look at her. "You’re a man who survived. Don't let a wooden box steal the life we just found."
He looked at her then, but he didn't see the woman he loved. He saw a girl who was too pure for the filth he carried in his head. The guilt flared up in him, hot and poisonous. He looked at his hand—the metal one hidden beneath the glove—and saw only a weapon.
“You need to go, Katherine," he said, his tone flat and final.
“Bucky—"
“Go home!" he snapped, the sudden volume of his voice making her flinch. He instantly regretted it, his features contorting in a mask of self-loathing, but he didn't reach out to comfort her. He couldn't. "The rain has stopped. I’ll have the carriage brought round to the back. If you stay... if you see what I am when I open that trunk... you’ll never look at me the same way again."
“I love you," she whispered, her eyes filling with tears of frustration and fear. "Nothing in a box will change that."
“You love a ghost," Bucky countered, turning his back on her to stare at the door. "Now, please. For the sake of whatever is left of your reputation, leave this house. I have work to do."
Katherine stood there for a long moment, the coldness of the room seeping into her bones. She realized that the glow hadn't been put out by the rain, but by the shadows Bucky refused to leave behind. Without another word, she gathered her shawl, her head bowed, and slipped out of the room.
///
The month that followed was a slow, agonizing descent into winter—both in the air and in the halls of the Barnes manor.
True to his word, Bucky had entombed himself. He stopped answering the door for Steve; he stopped attending the Sunday dinners at the Rogers’ home. The War Trunk sat in the center of his study, its lid yawned open like a jagged wound that refused to heal. He never closed it. It became his altar of penance. Every time he tried to think of Katherine—of the smell of sandalwood or the feel of her hair—he would force himself to look at a blood-stained map of the Somme or a dented locket from a boy who never made it past twenty.
The soldier, hunted to the very flesh that covered his bones, convinced himself that the butcher had no right to the bonfire that was the angel of his life.
And while he waited for his final breath in the dark, the Baron was busy reclaiming his "investment." The scandal of the village fair and the whispers of Katherine’s disappearing acts had reached his ears, and he moved with the cold efficiency of a man protecting his ledger.
Katherine was summoned to her father’s library on a Tuesday evening. The room smelled of expensive cigars and the stale breath of old men. Her father sat behind his desk, a glass of amber scotch in his hand, looking at her with an expression that held no warmth—only a grim, satisfied finality.
“You have had your fun, daughter," he began, his voice like the grinding of stones. "The lake, the fairs, the 'illnesses' that coincide with the Duke’s movements. It ends tonight."
Katherine stood in the center of the room, her chin lifted, though her heart was thudding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. "I do not know what you mean, Father."
“Do not lie to me child! You are a Lady, not a common tavern wench. Your reputation is hanging by a thread, and I have spent too much on your polishing to watch you throw it away on a man whose mind is a shattered ruin." He set the glass down with a sharp clack. "I have accepted a proposal on your behalf. The contracts are being drawn as we speak."
The world seemed to tilt. "A proposal? From whom?"
“Baron Helmut Zemo," her father stated. "He is a man of order. A man of standing. He does not play the piano in the dark or weep over old battles. He is looking for a wife to manage his estates, and he has found your... spirit... to be a challenge he is willing to oversee."
“I won't do it," Katherine whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of fury and terror. "I will not be sold to a man who wants a manager instead of a wife."
“You will do exactly as you are told!" the Baron roared, standing up and looming over the desk. "Or you will find yourself in the streets with nothing but the clothes on your back. Zemo arrives in two days to formalize the engagement. You will wear the white silk, you will smile, and you will forget that James Barnes ever existed!”
Her eyes shone with the despair of obligation
“Return to your chambers, and. Stay. There.”
As soon as the oak double doors to the library closed behind her, Katherine didn't wait. She didn't cry. She moved with the desperate, jagged energy of someone running out of air. She slipped out of the estate under the cover of a mounting storm, riding her mare until the poor beast was lathered in foam, arriving at the Barnes manor just as the first crack of thunder broke the silence.
It was like a fractured flashback, the soothing sound of the downpour now a reminder of what she lost.
She didn't knock. She shoved past the startled butler and burst into Bucky’s study.
The room was freezing. The fire had gone out hours ago, and the only light came from a single, guttering candle. Bucky was slumped in his chair, his head in his hands, looking like a man who had already died but forgotten to lie down.
“James!" she gasped, her chest heaving.
He didn't look up. "I told you not to come back, Katherine."
“My father is marrying me to Zemo," she shouted, the words tumbling out of her like a prayer for help. "He’s accepted the proposal. He says I’m an investment he’s finally cashing in. James, look at me!"
She stepped further into the room, and that’s when she saw it. The trunk. It was exactly as he had left it a month ago. She saw the contents spilled out across the floor—the muddy, rusted medals; the stacks of letters tied with fraying twine; a pair of cracked spectacles; and a map that was so heavily stained with dark, dried blood that the names of the towns were illegible.
She recoiled, her stomach turning at the sheer, concentrated grief radiating from the box. "Is this it?" she asked, her voice turning high and brittle. "Is this what you’ve been choosing over me for thirty days? A box of dead things?"
Bucky finally looked up. His eyes were hollow, the blue gone grey. "They aren't just dead things, Katherine. They’re the truth. This is what I bring to the table. This is what you’d wake up to every morning for the rest of your life. Zemo... Zemo can give you a home that doesn't smell of a graveyard."
“I don't want a home!" she screamed, stepping over a pile of maps to grab his lapels. "I want you! I want the man who played the piano! I want the man who worshipped me! Don't you dare use these ghosts as an excuse to be a coward!"
“I am trying to save you!" Bucky roared, standing up so abruptly his chair toppled over. He grabbed her arms, his grip tight and desperate. "Look at this room! Look at me! I am a monster, Katherine! I have killed boys who were younger than you! I have blood on these hands that will never wash off! You deserve a life of light, and I am nothing but a goddamn soldier made of sheer winter!”
“Then let me be the damn bonfire!" she countered, her tears finally falling, hot and fast.
“No," Bucky rasped, his voice breaking as he pushed her away, his gaze falling back to the open trunk. "Go home, Katherine. Marry Zemo. Be the Lady of someone who can actually see you through the fog. Because I can't. I'm already gone."
Katherine stared at him, her heart breaking in a way that felt permanent. “I don't care about my father’s order," she sobbed, reaching for him again, grabbing his face, her warm palms clashing against his cold, stubbled skin. She tried to pull his mouth down to hers, to force the life back into him with a kiss that tasted of salt and desperation. "James, look at me. Use your heart, not your ghosts!"
But Bucky felt like he was made of stone. Every time her warmth touched him, the images from the trunk—the sight of boys gasping for air in the mud—flared up like a fever. He couldn't phantom the thought of her being near those memories. He felt like a contagion, a sickness that would eventually rot her spirit if he let her stay.
“Don't!" he roared, his voice cracking the heavy silence of the manor. He didn't just pull away; he shoved her. It wasn't enough to hurt her physically, but the force of his rejection sent her stumbling back against the edge of his desk. “Go away!" Bucky screamed, his eyes wild and bloodshot, pointing a shaking finger toward the door. "I am a butcher, Katherine! I am a hollow, broken thing! You are talking about love to a man who only knows how to kill! Get out of this house before I ruin you any further!"
Katherine stood there, her hair disheveled, her mossy-green shawl slipping from her shoulders. She looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the wall he had built was too high for her to climb tonight. Her tears were no longer just from fear; they were from a soul-deep exhaustion.
“Fine," she whispered, her voice trembling but laced with a final, bitter clarity. "I will go. I will put on the white silk. I will stand in the church and I will give my hand to Baron Zemo."
She took a step toward the door, then stopped, looking back at him over her shoulder. Bucky was hunched over the trunk again, his broad shoulders shaking, looking like a man drowning on dry land.
“But know this, James Barnes," she said, her voice a low, haunting knell. "When I say my vows to him, when I lie in his bed and carry his name... I will be loving you. I will be thinking of the man who played the piano and the man who held me in the rain. I am marrying another man, but I am doing it while loving a ghost who was too afraid to live."
She didn't wait for his reply. She turned and ran, the sound of her sobbing echoing down the marble hallway until the heavy front door slammed shut, leaving Bucky alone.
///
He was still slumped on the ground, hours later when the heavy oak doors were thrown open with such violence they hit the stone walls like a cannon blast.
“Your Grace! God save us, Your Grace!"
It was two of his strongest stable hands. They weren't just frantic; they were terrified. They were carrying something—a bundle of moss-green velvet and pale, limp limbs.
His gaze dropped to the woman in their arms, and the world—the war, the trunk, the ghosts—simply ceased to exist.
It was Katherine. She had tried to ride back in the storm, her heart shattered by his rejection, and her horse must have lost its footing on the slick, treacherous mud of the East Ridge.
She was deathly pale, her skin the color of parched bone. A deep, jagged gash across her temple was weeping blood, staining her dark curls a sickening crimson. But it was her arm that stopped Bucky’s heart. It hung at a truly unnatural, sickening angle, the bone clearly displaced, the silk of her sleeve torn to reveal the brutal bruising already blooming beneath the skin.
“We found her by the old stone bridge, sir," the taller one choked out, his voice trembling. "The mare was spooked... she must have taken a hard fall onto the rocks."
A sound escaped the Duke’s throat that wasn't human—a raw, guttural howl of agony that made the men flinch. He crossed the room in two strides, his hands—the metal one and the flesh one—snatching her from them with a desperate, crushing strength.
He collapsed onto his knees right there on the rug, cradling her against his chest, her head lolling back against his shoulder. The blood from her temple smeared onto his white shirt, marking him, tethering them together in a way the medals never could.
“Katherine," he croaked, his voice breaking, vision blurred with tears "angel, look at me. Open your eyes. Please, god, Katherine..."
She didn't move. The silence from her was louder than any explosion he had ever heard in the trenches. The sight of her—broken, bleeding, and discarded because he had pushed her away—shattered the last of the Duke’s icy armor. The soldier was dead. There was only James, and he was losing his soul.
He looked up at his men, his eyes wild and bloodshot, tears streaming down his face unhindered.
“GET THEM!" he roared, the command shaking the very foundations of the manor. "Send riders! Now! Get Doctor Banner! Find Rogers and Wilson Tell them the Duchess is dying!"
He looked down at her again, pressing his forehead against hers, his tears mingling with the blood on her skin. "And get Spector," he whispered, his voice a frantic prayer. "Tell him if he can find a way to save a man in the mud, he has to save her. He has to."
He pulled her tighter, his metal hand hovering over her broken arm, terrified to touch her and terrified to let go.
“Don't go," he sobbed into her hair. "Don't leave me in the dark, angel. I’ll close the box. I’ll burn the maps. Just stay. Please, just stay."