Harmless (Bucky Barnes)

epilogue

It was a fine day.

A good day, even, to watch your lair descend into complete chaos after your plan to take over the tri-state area with an army of clones fails.

Not to mention the unperformed musical number.

It smacks Bucky in the face right as he enters– an ocean of teal shades and a chorus of his name squawked at him like the seagulls from Finding Nemo. If he wasn't so damn used to it, he would have maybe had a faint blush at the occasional "you're pretty" thrown in there.

In greeting, he presses his lips into a thin line. A rather pathetic excuse for a smile, if you could even call it that.

"Well, hello. What an unexpected surprise." One of the voices is agreeably louder than the others, and so he diverts his eyes to the circular platform raised from the floor. "And by unexpected I mean completely expected."

"Y/N." He ignores the multitude of 'yeah?'s to zero in on you in the centre.

"Bucky."

He can tell it's the original– not because of the ultramarine tuxedo you have on, accessorised with a sparkly dance cane and definitely more feathers than should ever be on something that's not a bird– but because of the additional top hat. No one else in the crowd had one.

"Clone army? You serious?"

"You can't blame me, Bucky." You throw him a wide-toothed grin, eyes still hidden behind the masquerade mask you've got covering half your face. "I gave you the chance to destroy the blueprint and you never took it, so now we have to deal with it."

"Deal with what?"

"Us taking over the tri-state idea," you say, bringing your foot down loudly on the metal platform.

Scarily in sync and in a manner that leaves him speculating how long you had to practise this, your doppelgangers do the same before falling into the first position of a dance number.

He winces. Hands in the air, no one else moves.

"Where's Nico?"

"He said he was gonna get ribbons to tie around everyone's wrist so we can differentiate between the orignal and the copies."

Bucky stares at you.

"Wouldn't it be easier to just tie one around your wrist?" he asks slowly.

You blink at him, arms lowering. "He was excited so I gave him twenty dollars, leave me alone."

"You're the only one with a hat," Bucky continues emphasizing.

"You're the only one with a hat," you mock, voice high pitched and muffled. "Stop focusing on the technicalities, you killjoy."

"There is not a single person in this lair who thinks."

"And that includes you."

Rightfully, he walked straight into that one. If he tried hard enough, he could place the blame for the profound loss of his critical thinking ability on hanging out with you.

"You don't deserve our performance." You sigh dramatically.

"Thank God," he deadpans.

All of a sudden it's his one, lone metallic middle finger against an army of white-gloved middle fingers challenging him.

"Can you please finish with... whatever this is." He checks his watch. "We got somewhere to be."

"A hot date?" You lean forward on your palms, bodyweight precariously balanced on the cane.