the threadless warning flags waved as though the wind was mad
but i chose not to notice and got caught in your snare

beware, please beware

two years after getting together, they started trying for a child.

tony brought it up first, smooth and casual, like it was just an offhanded comment and nothing else. maybe it was only natural for him—he was born a carrier, the desire must be innate—but bucky still couldn't fathom that train of thoughts. i think i want a kid, he'd said, chocolate eyes unbearably fond, whilst bucky could do nothing but give a full-body shudder. they'd brushed it off instantly; tony was well in his forties, and the ineluctable risk of this whole ordeal could easily punch the roof open. then steve had whispered to him one quiet night, a muddled string of almost unintelligible words: what do you think about having children, buck?

and bucky was no fool. of course, he understood.

his partners, his husbands, his beautiful soulmates wanted offsprings of their own, wanted a family bucky couldn't give. a family he didn't deserve. he wished he could say no. he wished he could convince them that children were not the essence of a functional marriage, that they were just fine without kids, that no child should be born to a cold-blooded assassin who had taken one too many innocent lives. he yearned to make them understand. yet his gaze brushed against steve's fierce baby blues, gleaming in the darkness of their bedroom, and his resolve gave in easily like a flimsy house of cards.

so they made their attempts.

take it from me
beware, please beware

what do you want to name them, tony asked him as they lounged around in the communal living room. steve had gone out to fetch some watermelon. across the coffee table, natasha was listening in, her eyes sharp and mouth curling into a barely visible smirk. she was not even trying to be discreet. bucky knew she was anticipating this child just as much as they did.

he, however, could not help but worry constantly.

the doctor—a lovely woman by the name of miranda kinston, aged sixty-two, thirty years of experience in the field—had warned them of the risks early on, before the actual pregnancy took place. she was kind and gentle when she said the words, but she did not beat around the bush. she hammered out every threat with candidness, ever-smiling yet somehow also frowning, and bucky got it. the odds were against them. between tony's pre-existing conditions and their superhuman genes, the unborn child would eventually have to give way.

tony didn't relent. neither did steve. and bucky, no matter how reluctant he was, could not stand a chance before these two bullheaded dumbasses he'd gotten married to.

we'll cross that bridge when we get to it, doll.

(if there could ever be a bridge, that was.)

***

the baby section in ikea was wildly large, and bucky found himself at a loss for what to get. tony had insisted they get a decorator and let them do the work, but steve wanted to personally prepare for their baby, thus, here they were, amidst a sea of cots, high chairs, and palm-sized nightlights. they had a plan—well, steve always had a well-formulated plan—but it had quickly been dismissed upon entrance. tony laid eyes on a pretty little turquoise cot, and steve was looking at a wardrobe of the same shade with more enthusiasm than he ever gave a new set of watercolour paint, so off they went.

he was alone, with the impulse to buy everything in sight.

he also wanted to cry.

the wooden closet seemed overly brittle. the mattresses stretched an inch too thin. the beddings—oh, do not get him started on it—was delicate to a fault. the feeding chairs were just short of keeling over. everything was small and weak and soft. he'd effortlessly ruin them with a snap of calloused fingers.

and who's to say he won't do the same to the kid when he inevitably loses control?

he squeezed his eyes shut, and now all he could see was his own hand crumbling his child to their premature demise.

the patchwork i'm tailored from is ripped at the seams
beware, please beware

joseph. i want to name him after father.

then you do, capsicle.

but he is our child, tones. i can't get the naming done by myself– it's unfair to you both.

he can be a stark. and snow white here does a middle name.

george. if stevie's honourin' his pa, i might as well do, too.

so it's joseph george stark?

joseph george rogers-barnes stark. i like that better.

of course, doll. of course.

***

his therapist said it wouldn't be so long before his father's instincts kicked in, and he would be fawning over the child like there was no tomorrow. his therapist couldn't understand.

he was not fit for the role.

back in the forties, he used to flirt, to woo every girl with a suave smile and neat uniform, to banter and buy drinks one after another. he'd kiss them sweetly, all those bold little women, latch his mouth onto theirs until they gasp brokenly, wantonly, their bodies melding into his. he'd touch them where he shouldn't have—the small waists, the curvy rumps—and laugh in fresh, childlike peals when they pouted coyly. with these girls, there was no future, no consequences. never, never had he thought he'd build a family with any of them. never had he bedded them also, and he did not regret it.

he'd only ever had heart for steve, and now tony too.

maybe it was the resignation. the blatant notion that no, no, you'll never have a chance at the people you truly love. the old criminalization of same-sex love. the firm belief that families were entirely unsustainable, unmanageable, and there was no hope whatsoever. he'd nailed every word into his own traitorous heart like an ancient mantra, a sacred statue; and now, in this moment, when he needed to break them down, he couldn't raise a hand.

he was weak. he knew he was, though steve had always insisted otherwise, though tony had always told him that you're our brave, beautiful husband and i hope you see that too, though sam had muttered to him countless reassurance where the government-assigned therapist couldn't be bothered to. he was inept, soft and wimpy in a way he could not afford to be if he wanted to love, to provide, to protect his precious people. he used to say, decades ago, that steve's body didn't match his heart. maybe the same thing could be said about him, just the other way around.

maybe he shouldn't have come back from the dead.

i snagged myself on your barbed defences
and my chainmail unravelled as if woven from wool
and so to lead by example i had to get out before i was trampled

(i should have gotten out)

the baby—they had a name and it was joseph george, he had to remind himself—kicked his palm fiercely, and the effect was immediate.

he was crying and he was laughing, reeling breathlessly in utter disbelief, because this unborn child, the purest form of being in this world, the one who held the power of judgement and yet never judged, had acknowledged him willingly and lovingly as part of their family. the gesture was curious but gentle, strong but forgiving, saturated in love, and bucky wanted to hoot out loud like a victor emerging from a gruesome war, but he also wanted to punch a hole in the wall to crawl in and weep himself an amazon.

the baby was kind; he was not, never.

he was not deserving of this luxurious privilege.

he might have voiced his thoughts. he didn't know anymore. what he knew was the pairs of arms encircling him, their warm breath on his neck, their chests folding in around him, not unlike a cushioned cage yet soothing all the same. he laid pliantly, a puppet with mangled strings, as they whispered sweet nothings in his ears, as baby joseph continued his happy kicking, as his mind scorched itself into a pile of argentine ashes.

you were not made for this, you man-killing spawn.