ɪᴛ’s ᴀ ɢᴏᴅᴅᴀᴍɴ ʙʟᴀᴢᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋ
(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, hurt/comfort, mature content, 1800s vibes, Bridgerton coded
“My pain fits in the palm of your freezing hands…”
As the manor started to roar in conversation and the hush of aiding the one whom they hoped would live up to become the future Duchess, Bucky refused to let anyone else carry her; despite his shaking limbs and the cold sweat still clinging to his skin, he gathered Katherine against his chest and bore her up the grand staircase. He laid her in the center of his massive, four-poster bed—the very place where he had once imagined a life with her—and now, she looked like a marble effigy, swallowed by the dark silks of his sheets.
Every time she let out a shallow, pained whimper in her sleep, Bucky flinched as if he were being flayed. He stayed by her side, his hand never leaving hers, while Banner and Spector moved in and out of the candlelight like shadows.
When the sun finally began to bleed through the heavy velvet curtains, it didn't bring hope. It only revealed the stark, sickly pallor of Katherine’s skin. The bandage around her head was a stark white contrast to the dark bruise blooming across her temple.
Bucky hadn't moved. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw shadowed with a thick, dark stubble. He looked up as Banner approached, his heart stopping at the expression on the doctor’s face.
“Your Grace," Banner started, his voice soft, "the arm is as stable as it can be. But she hasn't stirred. Not even when we applied the caustic salts to her nose."
“She’s just tired," Bucky rasped, his voice cracking. "She’s resting."
“It’s more than rest, Buck," Sam said, stepping forward from where he and Steve had been keeping a silent vigil by the hearth. "She’s retreated. Spector says he’s seen this in the field. When the trauma to the mind is as heavy as the trauma to the body... sometimes the soul just stops trying to find its way back."
“The next forty-eight hours are critical," Banner added, placing a gentle hand on Bucky’s shoulder. "If she doesn't wake... if the swelling in her brain doesn't subside... she may simply slip away in her sleep."
Bucky didn't scream. He didn't roar. He simply bowed his head, pressing Katherine’s limp, cold hand against his forehead. The silence in the room was suffocating.
The quiet was shattered by the sound of boots on the marble below—heavy, entitled footsteps that didn't belong in a house of mourning.
“Where is she?!" the Baron’s voice boomed from the foyer, vibrating through the floorboards. "By God, Barnes, if you have ruined her, I will see you hang!"
Bucky’s head snapped up. The grief in his eyes didn't vanish, but it was suddenly overlaid with a cold, murderous flint. He stood up slowly, his joints popping, his metal hand clenching into a fist that made the leather of his glove groan.
“Stay with her," Bucky commanded Steve and Sam, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. "Do not let them in this room. I don't care if you have to use your service pistols."
The Duke walked out onto the landing, looking down into the foyer. There stood the Baron, purple-faced with rage, and beside him stood Helmut Zemo. Zemo looked immaculate, his coat perfectly tailored, his expression one of mild, clinical annoyance—as if Katherine’s near-death experience was a slight breach of etiquette.
“She is my property, Your Grace," Zemo said, his voice smooth and cold as ice. "I have a contract signed by her father. You will return the Lady Katherine to our care immediately so that we may prepare her for the journey to my estate."
Bucky descended the stairs slowly, one step at a time, like a god of war coming down from a mountain. He didn't look like a Duke; he looked like the Winter Soldier they claimed him to be.
“She is not property," Bucky whispered as he reached the final step, standing inches from Zemo’s face. The Baron tried to speak, but Bucky’s gaze silenced him. "And she is not going anywhere. She is in my bed, under my protection. If you want to take her, you’ll have to step over my corpse to do it."
“This is a scandal, Barnes!" the Baron sputtered. "The Ton will—"
“I do not give a damn about the Ton," Bucky growled, his metal hand reaching out to grip the lapel of Zemo’s expensive coat, bunching the fabric. "She is dying because of the world you built for her. If she wakes up, she will decide where she goes. Until then... get out of my house before I show you exactly why they called me a monster in France."
Zemo looked into Bucky’s eyes and saw the absolute, jagged edge of a man with nothing left to lose. He stepped back, adjusted his coat, and signaled to the Baron.
“We will return with the Constable," Zemo said calmly. "You cannot hide her forever."
Bucky watched them leave, his chest heaving. He didn't feel like a victor. He felt like a man standing guard over a grave. He turned and ran back up the stairs, returning to the only thing that mattered.
He sat back down, took Katherine's hand, and leaned in close to her ear.
“I closed the trunk, Katherine," he whispered, a tear falling onto her pale cheek. "I closed it. Please... just come back and tell me you heard me."
The following weeks passed by in tortured twilights, Bucky lived in the chair by her bedside, a skeletal sentinel who refused to acknowledge the passage of time. The grand master suite, once a symbol of his status, had become a hushed infirmary where the only clock that mattered was the shallow, uneven rhythm of Katherine’s breathing.
It was the day that marked the first fortnight when Steve and Sam finally decided that if they didn't intervene, they would be burying two people instead of one.
Earl Rogers walked into the room, the morning light cutting through the heavy drapes, and found Bucky exactly where he had been six hours ago: hunched over, his forehead resting on the edge of the mattress, his fingers entwined with Katherine’s limp hand.
“Bucky," Steve said, his voice firm but laced with a deep, aching concern. "You’re done for the morning. Sam has the water heated in the dressing room."
Bucky didn't move. "I’m staying. Banner said her pulse felt stronger an hour ago. If she opens her eyes and I’m not—"
“If she opens her eyes and sees a corpse sitting in that chair, you'll scare her right back into the dark," Sam interrupted, stepping into the room with a tray of high-protein broth and bread. He set it down on the nightstand with a definitive thud. "Look at yourself, Buck. You’re grey. You’re shaking."
“I don't care," Bucky rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel.
The blonde didn't argue. He simply stepped forward, his massive strength making itself known as he gripped Bucky’s shoulders and hauled him out of the chair. Bucky stumbled, his legs nearly giving way, his hand clutching at the air where Katherine’s fingers had been.
“I’ve got her, James," Steve promised, his blue eyes steady and fierce. "I will sit in this chair. I will not move. Sam is going to walk you into that washroom, and you are going to scrub the scent of this room off your skin and eat that bread. That is an order from your Captain."
Bucky looked at Steve, then at Katherine’s pale, unmoving face. The fight left him all at once. He slumped against Sam, his head bowing. "She's been gone so long, Sam. What if she's forgotten the way back?"
“She hasn't forgotten," Sam whispered, leading him toward the steaming tub in the adjoining room. "She's a bonfire, remember? You don't just put out a fire like that. It’s just smoldering."
The month that followed was the longest Bucky had ever lived, longer even than the months spent in the trenches. He developed a ritual. He would wash, he would eat enough to keep his heart beating, and then he would read to her. He read her the forbidden poetry she loved, the sharp-witted plays of the Ton she mocked, and sometimes, he just whispered the names of the men in the trunk—telling her their stories, finally purging the secrets he had tried to hide from her.
He kept the room filled with the scent of sandalwood and fresh-cut greenery, a desperate attempt to remind her of the ridge and the lake.
The Baron and Zemo returned twice with the Constable, but Bucky’s legal team—and the sheer, looming presence of Earl Rogers and Lord Wilson at the front door—kept them at bay. The Duke of Barnes was a broken man, but he was still a Duke, and he was a man who had declared a private war on Death itself.
It was a silent Monday when she came to mind, thirty-two days after the fall.
Steve and Sam had gone to the village to handle the mounting legal threats from the Baron. Bucky was sitting in his usual spot, his head resting on the mattress, his thumb tracing the faint blue veins on the back of Katherine’s hand. He was half-asleep, drifting in that grey space of exhaustion, when he felt it.
A twitch, so small he thought he’d imagined it—a faint, fluttering movement against his palm. He held his breath, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
“Katherine?" he whispered, his voice a terrified prayer.
Her fingers curled, just a fraction, catching against his. Then, with a slow, agonizing effort that seemed to take everything she had, her eyelids flickered. She groaned, a low, dry sound of confusion and pain.
Bucky surged upward, his face inches from hers. "Katherine. Angel, look at me. It’s James. I’m right here."
Her eyes opened. They were unfocused, the dark gold flecks clouded with the remnants of the long sleep, but they eventually found his face. She stared at him for a long time, her brow furrowing as she took in his gaunt features and the tears streaming down his face.
She tried to speak, but her throat was too dry. Bucky reached for the water, his hands shaking so violently the glass rattled against the carafe. He helped her take a tiny sip, supporting her head with a reverence that was almost holy.
She swallowed, her gaze drifting to her arm, encased in a stiff splint, and then back to the room—his room. Finally, her eyes landed on the door of the study, which stood open. The trunk was visible, but its lid was closed, a heavy iron lock now securing the ghosts inside.
Katherine looked back at him, her voice a ghostly, cracked thread, but it held the same defiant spark he had fallen in love with.
“You... closed the box," she whispered.
Bucky let out a sob, a jagged, broken sound of relief. He collapsed against her, careful not to touch her arm, burying his face in the crook of her neck. "I closed it. I’ll never open it again if you just stay angel,”
Katherine’s good hand rose slowly, her fingers trembling as she brushed them through his matted, dark hair. "The dragons..." she breathed, a tiny, weak smirk touching her pale lips. "I told you... I’d handle them."
After a couple weeks, Katherine was still fragile, her body thin and her strength a flickering candle, but her spirit had returned with the roar of a furnace, although, she had grown tired of the four walls of the bedroom.
“I want to see the sky, James," she had whispered, her voice gaining its melodic edge. "I want to see the world without the filter of a glass pane."
Bucky wouldn't dream of letting her walk, and he wouldn't risk her sitting in a stiff chair. Instead, he coordinated with the servants to move a plush daybed out onto the grand terrace that overlooked the valley. He carried her there himself, her head resting against his chest, moving with a meticulous, liquid grace, as if he were carrying a holy relic.
He laid her down as the sun began its descent, the sky bruising into shades of violet, apricot, and deep, burning red—the exact color of the dress she had worn the night they first danced.
“It’s beautiful," Katherine breathed, her good hand reaching out to catch the dying light.
Bucky sat on the edge of the daybed, his gaze never leaving her face. The sunset was spectacular, but to him, the way the light hit the bridge of her nose and the defiant sparkle in her eyes was the only masterpiece worth noting.
“You're beautiful," he countered, his voice a low, gravelly vow.
Slowly, painfully—his own joints stiff from the weeks of sitting vigil—Bucky moved. He didn't just sit closer. He slid off the edge of the daybed, his knees hitting the stone tile of the terrace with a muffled thud.
Katherine’s breath hitched. "James, what are you doing? Your leg—the doctors said you should rest—"
“I do not care,” he rasped, his voice thick with a sudden, overwhelming vulnerability.
He stayed there, kneeling before her, his large frame silhouetted against the dying light. He looked up at her, his face stripped of the Duke's pride and the soldier's mask. He took her good hand in both of his—the metal and the flesh—cradling it as if it were the last spark of light in the world.
“I have spent my life following orders," he began, his voice trembling. "In the army, I moved when I was told. In this house, I lived according to a title I didn't want. And for a long time, I let the ghosts tell me who I was allowed to be."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring. It caught the final rays of the sun, glowing like a coal.
“I used to think I was saving you by pushing you away. I was wrong. I was just being a coward," he whispered. "You are the only person who ever looked at the winter soldier and saw a man worth loving. You are the fire that kept me from freezing to death in my own silver haze."
He looked her directly in the eye, his gaze steady and pleading.
“The Baron is coming for you. Zemo is coming with his contracts and his coldness. I can stand at the door with a rifle and keep them out, but I don't want to just be your jailer, angel. I want to be your home."
He swallowed hard, his thumb tracing the line of her knuckles. "I know I am a broken man. I know the shadows will still come sometimes. But if you’ll have me... I will spend every day making sure you never have to be property ever again. I will give you my name, my lands, and every beat of my heart."
He paused, the silence on the terrace so profound they could hear the distant rustle of the trees below.
“Katherine... will you do me the greatest honor a man like me could ever ask? Will you marry me? Not because your father demands it, but because you choose me?"
Katherine stared at him, her eyes filling with tears that weren't born of pain. She looked at the man on his knees—the Duke who had finally found his soul. She didn't answer immediately; she reached out with her good hand and cupped his jaw, her thumb brushing over the stubble of his cheek.
“You're a fool, James Barnes," she whispered, a watery, radiant smile breaking across her face. "You’ve been my husband in my heart since the day you played that piano. Yes. A thousand times, yes."
Bucky let out a breath that sounded like a sob, leaning forward to rest his forehead against her knee. The tension that had held his spine rigid for years finally, truly snapped.
Two days later, the chapel was filled with the scent of beeswax and the quiet presence of their chosen family. Steve stood behind Bucky, his hand on his shoulder; Peggy and Sarah stood with Katherine, who looked like a queen in her simple lace.
When the vicar pronounced them husband and wife, Bucky didn't look at the door to see if the Baron was there. He didn't care. He looked at the woman in his arms—his Duchess.
“You're a Barnes now," he murmured against her hair as they turned to face their friends. "And nobody is taking you back."
“Let them try," she whispered back, her eyes flashing with that old, beautiful fire. "I hear the Duchess of Barnes has a very protective husband."
