Snick– BANG!

He started awake, piece in hand and finger on the trigger in half a heartbeat.

"Papa, papa, look what I drew!"

It took him a few seconds to realise where he was. Who he was with. And then he was flicking the safety on and tossing the gun aside, bile creeping at the back of his throat as he fell to his knees onto the ratty carpet. He'd almost– oh God, nonononono– he'd almost–

His daughter's bright face shone up at him, not far from where he had leapt off his bed. She kept babbling at him, holding up a sheet of paper with colourful squiggles for his inspection. She had no idea how close she'd come to– and she just kept chattering on like nothing had happened when he'd almost–

It was too much.

"Get out!" he snapped. She recoiled, and guilt stabbed him like a knife to the chest, sharp and uncomfortable. He hated it, hated the look on her chubby little face, but she couldn't be there, not while he was still shaking off the other guy. "Out!"

"Papa, what–?"

"I told you, get out! Get out! I don't want you here!" he yelled, his desperation straining his voice.

She burst into tears. Abruptly, she turned on her heel and fled, leaving her drawing fluttering to the floor beside him. He heard her running down the to her room, heard the banging of her door against the wall, and knew that later he would be cursing the damage her Irish temper doled out on the house.

But then, in that moment of self-hatred and panic, he couldn't think about the probable property damage.

Guilt gnawed his insides like a particularly vicious acid. He hated getting angry at her, despised it with his entire being, but he couldn't help it. When he yelled at her, he – he, the Man, James Buchanan Barnes, 32557038 – could feel him bubbling to the surface, triggered by the unknown threat. To have her in the same room as him when he didn't know what the Soldier would d– it was unthinkable.

The last mission he – he, the Machine, the Winter Soldier, areyoureadytocomplySergeant? – was given was a kill mission that, had it gone to plan, would've left his sweet Dashenka as dead as her mother. Lukin's revenge for his disobedience: making him the murderer of the family he'd given up to protect. That part of him, the part that was more Machine than Man, had complied without a second thought, and it frightened him.

What if he lost control? What if he lost control, and the Soldier finished what he started?

Just the thought of the last mission's aftermath sent him sprinting to their shared bathroom. As he rested his cheek against the porcelain of the toilet later on, the taste of vomit rancid in his mouth, the questions bounced around his already fractured brain. It was an argument he'd had with himself before; the consideration of how safe she was with him in light of his captors, and how safe she was with him in light of his instability.

He knew the Red Room or HYDRA or whatever-the-fuck-they-were-calling-themselves was after him, and if they knew about his Dashenka … well, he had to assume they were after her too, because being with him put her in danger. He'd thought, once or twice, about finding her a good home and leading his enemies on a wild goose chase away from her, but he'd done that before and Katya had died for it. And if he were honest, the idea of leaving her made his mouth go dry and chest tighten in panic. He couldn't do it, not while his enemies were out there and would see her dead – but to stay when he wasn't sure of himself, and when that lack of surety could end in her death, was something he couldn't do either.

And so he sat there on the cracked tiles of his shoddy bathroom, caught between two shitty options.

It brought to mind something he remembered someone (tall, taller than he should be, blond, lots of muscles) telling him once, about a brunette who asked, "And these are your only two options?" and promptly flew into a warzone. Were those his only two options? Leaving his daughter and everything going to shit, or staying with her and everything going to shit?

He got up, flushing the toilet as he went and reaching for the glass he kept on the sink, which he used to rinse out his mouth before refilling and downing it in one. Gripping the counter, he took a few deep breaths before his reflection in the mirror caught his eye.

The pale, bearded man that stared back at him wasn't Bucky Barnes. He knew, like he knew the sky was blue and the grass green, that he'd never be Bucky Barnes again, that that man had died on a mountainside while his brother cried for him. That man in the mirror wasn't Bucky Barnes, but it wasn't the Winter Soldier either. He was something else entirely; tired, worn, not good but not evil, not a murderer.

Are those your only two options? he asked himself, not breaking eye contact with the man in the mirror. An idea began forming in the back of his head. With a bracing breath, he told himself, No, those are not my only options.

Then he stalked out of the bathroom.

It was dark by the time he trusted himself enough to see her.

His Dashenka was curled up on her bed, faced away from the door and snuffling quietly into her pillow. From his spot in the doorway, he couldn't tell if she was still awake. Knowing her, she was probably awake and ignoring him out of spite. He paused a moment, then steeled himself and knocked on the door frame.

She twitched but didn't move to face him.

"Can I come in?" he asked softly. She ignored him. Well that answered that question then, he mused to himself, quirking an eyebrow. "Alright then."

Careful not to step on the crayons strewn across the floor, he picked his way over to her and sat down on the end of the bed. He opened his mouth but closed it again just as quickly as she shifted further away from him. Hurt panged in his chest.

They existed in uncomfortable silence for a long moment. He contemplated just leaving for a split second, but reminded himself that they'd have to talk eventually, even if the topic was painful.

"I yelled at you earlier," he murmured. His Dashenka tensed up. "I yelled at you earlier, and it wasn't fair of me. You didn't do anything wrong, sweetheart, I promise you that, it's not your fault."

She rolled over and stared him down, her eyes flinty but red-rimmed. Pinned by her searching gaze (and feeling like he was being tested), he continued.

"A long time ago, around the time you were born, some very bad people did bad things to me, and sometimes it makes me scared when I sleep or remember it. And when I get scared and I hear loud noises, there's a part of me that tries to fight the noises … and the people that make them.

"When you opened the door, I was very afraid. I know," he smiled half-heartedly, pre-empting her protest, "that you think papas don't get scared, but I do. I'm scared of hurting you, because I love you so much and I don't want you to be hurt."

"You wouldn't hurt me," she rasped. Her small hand reached up and clasped his right where it braced him on the bed. His heart thudded painfully, excruciatingly aware that her voice was hoarse from tears. "I know you wouldn't hurt me, papa."

"I would never want to hurt you," he corrected, mouth dry and stomach roiling unpleasantly. "You are the most important thing in the world to me. I couldn't survive if something happened to you and it was my fault.

"But I don't think I can do it alone," he murmured. "So I need you to help me, Dashenka. You need to promise me that you won't try and wake me up while I'm sleeping unless it's an emergency. And if I ever frighten you, if I ever seem like I'll hurt you, you need to run. This book–" here he held up one of his spare notebooks "–has words in it for if I ever scare you, ok? But you should run and only use them if you have to. Do you understand?"

"I understand, papa," she said. She sat up, her teeth worrying at her lip. Suddenly she was avoiding meeting his eyes. The reason became apparent a moment later when she told him, in a voice that shook with the weight of hiding her tears, "I was really scared."

That snap? That snap was the sound of his heart breaking in two.

"Oh my baby," he whispered.

Almost of their own volition, his arms wrapped her up in a hug which she returned with the clingy fervour of a girl her age. Inwardly he cursed himself again for his weakness, for making her scared. He was supposed to be her father: it was his job to protect her from such things, and to make sure she was happy. It couldn't happen again.

"I'm so sorry," he said into her hair. His shirt where her face was pressed against it was damp with tears. "I'm so sorry, solnishka, you didn't deserve that at all. It isn't your fault."

"You said I scared you though," she sobbed. "I didn't want to scare you papa! I just wanted to show my drawing!"

"Dashenka, milaya, this is all on me. Not you, never you," he soothed. "Never think that I blame you, a thaisce, this is my problem and it's my fault, like when I'm sad all day and don't want to play. It's not you, darling, it's not you."

They sat there for a long time. He murmured endearments and apologies into her hair, hugging her close to him and assuring the both of them that they weren't alone. Eventually she nodded off, the tears long dried on her face, but he sat there, unmoved.

It had only hardened his resolve. He had to be better.

For her.