Marvel Cinematic Universe
The Path Not Taken
By Gabrielle Lawson

Chapter Seven

Steve knew what they were doing was important. Stopping Hydra and reclaiming the scepter were vital. Any Hydra holdouts could rebuild the whole organization. And the scepter could make people slaves and do lots of other very bad things. But it did mean more and more time away from Bucky. Sometimes Sam even came along. So Bucky was essentially alone.

Steve worried about him alone. He was remembering more and more, filling up what seemed a whole forest's worth of notebooks. Steve really wanted to read one to see what Bucky was really feeling. He wasn't happy. That much was clear. He seemed sad mostly, and that was understandable. If he remembered his family or the other Howlies, they were gone, lost to time and history. Steve shared that sadness. And for seventy years, Bucky was alone as well. The Winter Soldier didn't have friends or spend his nights down at the pub.

But Steve could only think about that on the way home from their missions. He had to be focused going in and doubly so during. The ride back was time for contemplation, for trying to find new ideas to entertain Bucky, to help him have fun again, or to at least give him a reason to leave the apartment. Nat still made time for him, which Steve appreciated. They had things in common. And Sam met with him regularly. Sam also met with Steve.

Steve was starting to work through the guilt he felt for losing Bucky on the train and not finding his "body." The next battle had had to be fought. No one could expect a normal human being to have survived the fall, and he had had no conception that Bucky was anything more a normal human being when he fell. It was only hindsight that revealed the possibility that the experiments might have allowed Bucky to survive. He simply couldn't have been there to prevent anything else that Bucky suffered from that point.

And then there was just the pain of it all. It had been deep when he'd thought Bucky dead. After he woke from the ice, he could tell himself that Bucky would still probably be gone, even if he hadn't fallen. But to have even just a clue to what he'd suffered, to what he'd been made to do, for seventy years, felt so much worse. He would have had it better if Bucky had died on impact or on the way down. Steve would still have missed him just as much.

But Bucky hadn't died. He had suffered all that, been made to do all he'd done. And that depth of hurt was hard for Steve to hold on to without looking for the way out. Sam said there was no way out but through it. And to remember that however much it hurt Steve to know that Bucky had suffered, Bucky had been the one suffering, and his pain was twice as deep. If Steve looked for the easy way out—'Just focus on the good stuff in life!'—then he'd leave Bucky behind.

So Steve had been trying hard not to turn Bucky away from the pain he was feeling with platitudes. And yet, he still felt Bucky was holding back from him. Maybe he'd already lost that trust or maybe he just hadn't gained it yet. Bucky wasn't the Bucky he knew before the war, before the fall. He was still a fish out of water. He knew he could breathe air; now he was learning to walk on land.

He stepped into the bedroom where Bucky was once more writing. "Hey Buck. We think we might have found it this time. I should be back in a couple days. Sam is staying behind on this one. He's got finals though, so you might not see him much."

"Okay." Bucky didn't even look up.

Steve had hoped for a bit more than that. Then he had an idea. "Hey, Buck?" He waited for Bucky to look up. "Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

A ghost of a smile crossed Bucky's lips before he looked down to his notebook again. "How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you."

When Steve turned to go, he had tears in his eyes.


Natasha felt Bucky had accomplished his mission. He was only too human now. He could live on his own while Steve was away. He had likes and dislikes, told jokes—very subtle jokes—sometimes. But he wasn't happy to have regained his humanity. She got that. Her past was heavy, too. She cared too much about what she had now to let it pull her down though. She knew how to let off steam with Clint, Laura, and the kids, or to pal around with any one of the men in her life. Where were all the badass women anyway?

As far as she knew, Bucky wasn't blowing off steam. He seemed stable enough when they talked. He asked questions about what Hydra did and why. He was almost emotionless when he did. But he couldn't hide his quickened pulse, the beads of sweat on his forehead. She worried he might one day explode. She didn't worry he'd turn Winter Soldier and try to kill them all. She worried he might one day hurt himself. She was glad Sam was taking his classes seriously. He had his work cut out for him.

She met Steve in the elevator just as he was wiping his eyes. "Everything okay?"

He smiled, so she knew they weren't sad tears. "We had a moment. Just like before."

Natasha put a hand on his back. "I'm happy for you. I think he's in there somewhere; he's just been tamped down and buried for so long."

The elevator opened and the Quinjet was waiting on the helipad. Hill filled them in on the latest intelligence and they boarded. Natasha put her thoughts of Bucky away for now. Once they landed, such a distraction could be deadly.


Sam was actually thankful for his work with Bucky Barnes. Abstract examples and case studies of various psychological disorders could be bland. Having a real case he could lean on for some of them—at least glean some insight to help his patient—kept the material fresh and present. Which was good because he'd never studied so hard before. Bucky's life might just depend on how well he could use all he was learning. And he still felt the Winter Soldier was so far above his pay grade.

Of course, he couldn't name Bucky in any of his papers, or even really plumb the depths of his trauma in them. He would either come off as exaggerating or he'd reveal too much and risk Bucky's future. Presently, the world did not need to know that the Winter Soldier was real and still living in Stark Tower.

He'd given Bucky something to work on while Sam focused on his studies. A story. A true story of one part of his life, whichever part he chose. One meant to be read. He could even write it in third person so it didn't feel as close or immediate. It would be a start. Bucky was holding on to so much hurt, so much grief, he might drown in it.

This was it. The first of his final exams. But this wouldn't be the last finals week he'd ever have. He'd already signed up for more classes. Because Bucky was above his pay grade. And he was all Bucky had. So he had to up his pay grade.


"Please be a secret door. Please be a secret door. Please be a secret door." Tony gave the wall a slight push and the door slid open. "Yay."

He proceeded cautiously. There was no telling what was down this poorly lit hallway. There was an "enhanced" in the field. That didn't happen naturally. There could be failed human experiments—

"Guys, I got Strucker," Cap reported.

—or a mechanical dragon from the Battle of New York. "Yeah, I got something bigger." This was a lab, an evil scientist's lab, but a lab. And if there was one place Tony felt at home, it was in a lab. He moved from table to table, past the Chitauri scraps to a blue glow. Yes!

"Thor, I've got eyes on the prize."

"Sir, you need to come home quickly!"

Tony spun around, half expecting someone to be behind him. But it was Jarvis's voice. And the AI had sounded a bit, well, panicked.

"What's up, J? You're interrupting my moment."

"Our 'guest' has locked himself in your lab."

"Well, unlock it and send Sam in after him."

"Mr. Wilson is not in the building, and our 'guest' has locked me out of the lab."

Tony spun back around, raced to grab the scepter then sprinted back toward his suit. "I have it," he called over the radio. "I have to get back to the lab ASAP."

"Tony, we're supposed to let Thor take it," Cap reminded him. "And Clint's hurt."

"This isn't about the scepter," Tony argued as he stepped back into the suit. "It's about our 'guest'. I'll call Cho in for Barton. Get him back to the Tower."

As soon as the suit closed around him, he took off, heading into the sky and away from Sokovia. "J? How long until I get back?"

"At least six hours, sir. I'm very concerned. I can't see in there."

"Cut the electricity to the lab, drop the temperature, slow him down any way you can. And boost efficiency to my rockets while you're at it."

Tony didn't know why Bucky would lock himself in his lab, but it didn't bode well. He could have been compromised, somehow. Bucky hadn't let himself out of his and Steve's apartment since the brain scan. The Winter Soldier might. And if that was the case, he could very well do some serious damage with what he could find in the lab.

But Tony was worried about another scenario. Bucky knew the team was out. He knew Sam was off at school. He knew Bucky had at least fifteen notebooks locked in a trunk that he wouldn't let anyone near.

Tony touched down on the helipad in five hours thirty-seven minutes. Once inside, he blasted the door to his lab, opening a hole about half his size. He left the scepter on the floor outside and slipped out of the suit and through the hole. He immediately regretted leaving the whole suit. He might have kept a glove for light. "Jarvis, can you up the lights?" he whispered. "Keep 'em dim."

The lights immediately raised enough for him to see the smoke he could smell. It was acrid and stung his throat. He kept going, hoping he was wrong about both possibilities. He didn't have his suit to protect him from the Winter Soldier, and he didn't feel qualified to step into someone's existential crisis.

"Aaah!" That was a scream of agony. Tony rushed forward toward the sound and nearly tripped on the man's legs and the blood on the floor.

"Leave me alone," Bucky snarled.

"I can't do that," Tony told him, kneeling down for a better look. The titanium arm was caught in a vice. Not just caught. The pincers sunk at least a centimeter into the metal of his arm. And there was a gaping hole in the man's chest where it used to meet that metal. Blood was pouring from the wound, pulsing.

Swallowing his own bile, Tony reached his left hand for the gap to try and stop the bleeding, but Bucky's other hand clamped onto his arm with a strength Tony couldn't match. "I have to stop the bleeding," he told Bucky.

"Don't," Bucky breathed. "Let me go."

"Don't let you go. Got it. Please don't hurt me."

"Your father's face caved in the second time I hit him. It crunched like stepping on dried twigs."

Oh, Tony did not need that visual. "You didn't have a choice."

"I do now."

"And I have to take it away," Tony replied. "I'm sorry about that, but I can't let you die in my lab. Steve'll think I was trying to take your arm."

Bucky looked away with a sob. But he didn't let go. He pulled away from the vice again, nearly pulling Tony off his balance. "I felt your mother's throat as it crushed under my fingers!"

That hurt worse than the grip, but Tony fought against the grip anyway. "They made you. You were after the serum. They were collateral damage."

"He recognized me. I killed him anyway."

Tony blew out his breath. "You can't make me hate you. I can choose my reaction. Let me save you."

Bucky's breath hitched. "I'm a monster!"

"You're a man."

"I killed dozens."

"I killed thousands," Tony argued. "Tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of them. But it's not a competition. I used to make weapons, bombs. Sold them to both sides of any conflict. I changed. You can change back."

The grip slackened. Tony wasn't sure if he was getting through to the man or if he was growing weak from blood loss. He pulled free then reached in, feeling for the gusher and trying not to barf. "You're a good man," he told Bucky. "A monster wouldn't feel this bad. You think Hitler cried over the Jews he had slaughtered in the millions?"

"I deserve to die."

Tony changed his grip and put his right hand in as he shifted position to pull Bucky toward him. "You deserve forgiveness." Tears slid down his own cheeks. "I forgive you. My dad would've forgiven you if he'd known what they'd done."

Bucky wept openly, sobbing. He tugged weakly against the vice. "This arm killed him."

"Then I'll remove it," Tony offered. "Safely. I promise. I'll build you a better one. One that never killed anyone."

Bucky lifted his other hand. "This one killed your mom."

"Tony?"

Cho! "Clamps," he yelled over his shoulder. "We need clamps. Bandages. Blood." Tony took hold of the hand with his own bloody fingers. "I forgive you," he whispered into Bucky's ear. "Someday the whole world will."

Cho and a nurse appeared at their side. "I need lights."

"Light it up, Jarvis." The lights came up and Cho reached over his fingers and followed them to the artery. Tony pulled his hand out. "Tell me when to release the arm."

The nurse put an IV in and Cho nodded. Tony found the manual release and helped to lay Bucky back on the floor. His eyelids were heavy and Tony knew they had sedated him.

"We gotta get it off," Tony told the doctor. "He needs a new one."

"He's already started to heal," she said, surprised. "I can feel it." She concentrated for a moment. "Tony, he's got nerves going down the arm. He's torn some. They're knitting back together."

"Then we'll have to chip it away, piece by piece. I promised him." Tony backed away, letting them work. He felt nauseous and weak-kneed. But he knew the Quinjet wouldn't be far behind him. He staggered back to the hole and went through it just as a man was about to push a stretcher into it. "I'll get the doors open," he told the man. "Jarvis."

He went downstairs to the workroom where the Iron Legion were returning for repair. He looked at his hands, still covered in Bucky's blood, but started punching in commands at the terminal there anyway. Bucky's Winter Soldier skills were good, but not as good as Tony Stark's. The lockdown released and Jarvis had control of the room.

Tony went back upstairs just in time to see Cap and Natasha, with the others behind.

Cap stopped short at the sight of him. "Tony?" he asked, fear dripping from the question.

"He's gonna be okay," Tony replied in a daze. "Cho's with him." He was shaking. "I hope Sam's done with his exam. Break the lock. Sam has reading to do."

"No, Tony," Cap tried. "He doesn't want—"

"He tried to rip the arm off," Tony told him. He held up his hands. "His blood. He wanted to die. I've talked him out of it. For now."

With a sob, Steve collapsed to the floor. Natasha hid hers behind both hands on her mouth. Banner and Thor had Clint between. All three looked stunned.

"I can wait," Clint said. "Just need a pain-killer and a bed."

Tony nodded. "You'll get it. Bucky needs this one." He lifted his arm in the general direction of the med bay.

Tony suddenly felt completely exhausted. The elevator opened, revealing Hill and Pepper. "We were trapped in there," Hill said.

"Tony?" Pepper engulfed him. "What happened?"

"Barnes attempted suicide," he replied, more blunt than usual. "Barton here is injured and requires a bed."

"And pain-killers," Clint repeated.

Hill nodded. "I'll see what I can find."

"I need a shower and a nap," Tony told Pepper. "Not necessarily in that order."


"What're you doing, Steve?" Sam was in the open doorway behind Steve. Steve had Bucky's lockbox on the kitchen table and his fist cocked back.

"Breaking the lock."

"Don't," Sam told him. "I kept the second key."

Steve's arm lowered and he turned around. His cheeks were tear-stained and his eyes puffy.

"Steve, where's Bucky?" Sam had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"He tried to kill himself."

Whoah. Tried. At least he wasn't successful. Sam fished in his pocket for his keys and opened the lock. The notebooks were neatly stacked and helpfully numbered. Sam dug around for numbers one, five, ten, and fifteen.

Steve grabbed a few then set the box back on the floor. They both sat down to read. Sam put Steve out of his mind and started reading with number one. It was a list of facts, quotes, memories. Clinical in a way. 'I'm with you 'til the end of the line,' was the first one. The one that broke the programming. New ones were added without any particular order as he hadn't had the notebook when he'd made those first few memories in the helicarrier, on the banks, in the dam. Sam read the rooms of his own house and their functions, about a woman at a stove cooking, a little girl standing on his toes as they swayed to music. These were gentle, innocent memories. Things of the present and of the distant past. Page after page until about halfway through the book. There the writing was upside down.

Sam flipped the book and opened the back cover. More lists. But these were names. Nick Fury was there, Black Widow, Captain America, Sitwell. Farther in were the Starks, further still President Kennedy. Then some of the names repeated, but with more details: the location, the method. They repeated again with more names added and still more details: descriptions of body guards, witnesses, without names. Sam put that book down and picked up number five.

It was formatted the same. Safe memories in the front. Memories of kills in the back. Only now they were interrupted with torture, Bucky's torture. And the kills themselves had even more details: mission dates, who ordered them, precise addresses. Google-able stuff. New names, the body guards and bystanders who were just in the way. The back pages took more than half of the book.

Book ten continued the trend. There were only eight pages in the front of the book. Fifteen was detail after gruesome detail. The smell of the blood, the sound of a knife as it penetrated a throat. Sam now knew why they routinely took his memories away. Bucky's brain, if left to heal, remembered everything. He couldn't forget if he wanted to. Sam closed the book.

Steve raced to the bathroom and Sam heard him retch. Sam went to the door. "You okay, Steve?"

"No," Steve replied. He washed his mouth out. "Maybe I will be, but not right now."

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Where's Bucky?"

"Med bay. He locked himself in Stark's lab, tried to rip his arm off."

Oh man, that would be a brutal way to go. Bucky probably felt he deserved it.

"I didn't know," Steve said, sitting down on the toilet lid.

"He didn't want you to," Sam said. "He wanted to be who you remembered. But he couldn't get away from his memories. They haunt him."

"All the detail.…"

"He wasn't reveling in it, not like a serial killer reliving his murders. His torture, the experiments were in there, too. He remembers. He can't not remember. He writes it that way to punish himself, as proof of his sins. And to keep them, like he said, in case they're taken again."

"Why would he care? Those are awful."

"Because they were taken. Over and over, painfully ripped from his brain. They're precious to him, even as they tear him apart." It's like everything was suddenly making sense, terrible, awful sense. This was why Bucky was holding back. He didn't want anyone to know what a monster he was. And Sam felt ashamed at once agreeing with that assessment. Bucky wasn't a monster. He was a victim of horrible crimes, made more sinister by the idea that Hydra made a good man kill all those innocent, probably very decent, people. So even if he ever got free, he'd be tortured still by guilt.

Sam would have tried suicide, too, under those circumstances. "He suffered alone for seventy years," he said, "even when he didn't know he was suffering. We can't let him suffer alone anymore. We can't stop him suffering. That's up to him. But we can be with him. One of us needs to always be with him."


Sometime after midnight, a clean but still exhausted Tony made his way to the darkened med bay. Clint, patched up, was sleeping in a bed just inside the open doors of the lab. Bucky was asleep, slowly absorbing bags of dark red blood through an IV line. His metal arm and shoulder were bandaged in a way that would look comical if he hadn't held the man's artery closed with his own fingers. Sleeping like that, he looked as innocent as he deeply wanted to be.

Tony carried a tablet and held it over the inert titanium arm. "Deep scan, J," he whispered. "We're going to have to take it apart."