Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It wasn't so much that he didn't fit in, but that James didn't much care to. 

His classmates would huddle in cliquey chats and homework circles in the virtual community lounge, throwing emojis at each other and flirting as far as the language restrictions would allow, little electric pulses surging between avatars somehow even worse, even stickier than their actual hormones. Physically, in real time, the classroom was silent save for the occasional tapping on displays from three neat lines of students connected to visors and screens, but within that digital plane things were loud, bright, and fast. Each appeared the way they saw themselves, character avatars fully customizeable and often nothing like the real teens on the other side of the connection. It was an exercise in expression, ego, and that crippling self-loathing of adolescence that hovered in every high school since history could recall.

Technically, gambling was not allowed on these school computer systems. Still, James Barnes plugged in and wandered away from the gabbing hordes, shuffling morose and solitary. He found himself a children’s game, one more or less centered on popping bubbles, and sat in the corner idly jabbing at the rainbow spheres while externally he poked through the code. At school, James typically managed to pull apart one or two pay-to-play games in the forty-five minutes allotted to home room’s free browsing time. It wasn’t often a challenge; he knew where to dig his fingers into the weave of its make-up, where to apply pressure, how to exploit lazy programmers and pull the strings to his own designs like cat’s cradle. Children and bored adults from all over the world popped in and out of game rooms with credits to spare and James was able to weasel a few here and there from the interface to fund his own play; casual gamers were not hyper-aware of a single credit more or less in their accounts, and certainly weren’t expecting to deal with pickpockets in such a tame and low-stakes environment. James preferred to target systems rather than individual humans, but he wasn’t picky.

He appeared totally inconspicuous under a fake “Anonymous User” tag rather than his actual connection alias, “Bucky.” Child-sized avatars of “Pegasus_2035” and “Swizzle,” wearing the ever-popular fuzzy cat and dog ears that indicated their status as minors, asked him if he wanted to play with them (brave, he thought, as his avatar did not look friendly,) and he waved them away. He popped at more bubbles and idly noticed as a few minutes later, the kids ran past him screaming and disappeared from the room. Bullies, he suspected, and he was right. From his corner in the bubble room, he could hear a couple of jokers laughing and breaking pieces of the environment. Bucky idly wondered if they had any money he could tease away from their profiles but decided against it, popping bubbles and minding his own business as his points climbed impossibly higher with the aid of his code tweaks. His avatar sat inconspicuous in default blacks, a sort of backstage shorthand for anonymity preferred by users from the generic gamer all the way up to professional hackers. Nobody bothered him, his lithe avatar looking just short of a Casual Friday Dominatrix lurking about the deep net. The body, the expression, the visual impact was pointedly neutral if not a little frightening, anywhere between age 20 and 50 and wholly androgynous, a black bandana obscuring the lower half of his face entirely. He crafted his avatar specifically with this in mind. Not that he ever needed it, but he wanted to be totally forgettable if anyone needed to remember his face.

And if clothes are said to make the man, James knew entirely too quickly that user “Button” with its ridiculous avatar was trouble when they logged on. This guy was a neon sign in the desert, and James was certain there was a non-zero chance of having to break up a tussle as Button blasted through that pack of bullies plaguing the game room. They were goons, nobody’s babies, scraping together the kind of fun that meant other people couldn’t have it. Younger users signed out in droves, found other rooms to play. James hated players like this; they ruined the experience (and though he was doubly aware he, too, was breaking a couple of laws, he held himself to a particular standard that obviously included never stealing from a child if he could help it.) Bless them, their avatars looked like cartoon villains, characters bulked out to an ugly extreme with devil horns and animal mods that turned them into vaguely mythological uglies. James remained in his corner, unmoved by their displays. The room was quiet without the younger gamers and the enthusiasm that typically accompanied their virgin voyages into the common space of the internet. James regretted their ruined fun but made no move to confront the gang or the loudmouth circus performer who was taking them on single-handedly. He continued to pop bubbles and rack up credits he could use later for bigger hauls.

But user Button launched into high gear, and started pulling them apart string by string.

“This is a community,” Button barked, the threat echoing in the room. James stopped popping bubbles and turned to watch. The largest avatar among them lifted Button by the collar as the brightly-colored firebrand began to glitch out. Button took a swing at him and landed it squarely, only to be tossed, solidly, into a glowing boundary wall that swooned on impact, landing in James’s lap. The avatar was male, a strong and solid American Jock type, totally human and wearing brightly colored spandex like a comic book character. His user profile was nothing but a name, and the name “Button” did not suit him for a minute. In a world where you could fully customize your appearance as a matter of course, James had a lot a questions about this guy’s choices, but at the moment his first was why Button hadn’t immediately jumped out of his arms. The moment lingered to say the least. 

“Sorry, Johnny Cash,” Button chirped and rolled off him, dodging a piece of environment that came hurtling at him. James didn’t see it coming and the disruption ended his game round, erasing his credits. Angrily he got up and turned to the three hostiles, Button recovering and twitching to maintain his apparently weak connection just behind him. James stood between them.  

“The hell is your problem?” He had the courtesy to ask but did not wait for an answer; the goons were not hard-connected like he was, physically, in their school homeroom, and it didn’t take much for him to boot them clear from the room, ripping at their network tendons which had been sloppily maintained (lazy fuckin’ teens, he thought,) with three sharp, pointed blows. The thugs disappeared and Button hazily got to his feet, a sloppy smile on his avatar’s face.

“I didn’t think you cut code,” he said. “You don’t look like a cyberlancer.”

“Says the rainbow scuba diver,” James sighed, pulling down the black handkerchief from over his mouth. “I know my way around. I don’t usually make a point of using it for trouble,” James said pointedly. “You a mercenary? Somebody paid you for that intercession?” He asked, wondering if the guy was the game’s security procedure, if he should cut his losses and run before he realized James had been stealing. He certainly looked like he could be part of a children’s game, after all. Button laughed, shaking his head as his connection lag left his facial features frozen for a moment.  

“Pro-bono justice,” he said. James looked at him levelly, about to tell him how his mother always said those looking for trouble will surely make what they can’t find, when the walls suddenly flashed red and went dormant. The two avatars turned to each other in shock: somebody had flagged the room and got them shut down. In a matter of moments a security code would fire, their profiles would be scanned, marked for misconduct, and their connection would get suspended. Internet security in public places was slow and inefficient but when it worked, it was a real headache.

“Cowards reported us,” James hissed. “We shouldn’t have stayed.” Though James was only mildly irritated, Button was in a panic. 

“Are you in public? Outside, are you on a public line?” He quickly asked, looking around desperately. James sighed. It was an inconvenience to be suspended from the grid while he was at school: red mark next to your name on the class roster for twenty-four hours. Two red marks and your access was restricted. Three and you had to sit down with your administrator.  

“Kind of,” he replied. “I’m at school.” Button put a hand on his shoulder, gripping tensely.  

“Kick me out,” he said, his voice strong and low. James frowned.

“What?”

“Kick me out of the room; I just saw you do it. Please, I’m buggy and if I get another suspension I have to go through diagnostics and I can’t drop out,” Button pleaded. “Please.” James stared for a second before executing the same lines on Button that had booted the thugs. He stood alone in the flashing red room for a moment before he was suspended, and opened his eyes to a blank screen in the classroom. He unplugged, irritated. He looked down the row of student users, connected in various stages via visor to glowing projection panels, and stood up. He would have to wait for the admin to issue another entrance code but she liked him and he liked his odds.

“Hi, ANGIE,” he said with as much sunshine as he could muster. The master screen at the front of the classroom flickered out of sleep mode and a woman appeared, the Artificial Neuro-Glass Interspatial Educator that served as proctor for their free time in homeroom. She processed his face and frowned immediately.

“James Buchanan, you are not to be loitering in public gaming forums!” She said, folding her arms. “Or using real money!”

“But I’m saving up for our honeymoon in Cabo, ANGIE,” he replied with a smile. She processed the charm and flustered slightly. James found that he could escape all sorts of punishment when he used the right tone of voice. “When are you gonna let me make an honest program of you?”

“You know school rules. No gambling, no hacking, no illegal activity, sweetheart, in case you have forgotten,” she said, pulling up the list of regulations and the waiver that James had signed promising to follow them. “Why’d you get red boxed, honey?”

“Got in a little scuffle,” James said, waving dismissively. “Don’t worry, ANGIE, you should see the other guys.”

“You’ve got fifteen minutes of homeroom left so it’s not worth me issuing a new key with permissions, sweetie. Just sit tight and do homework, please. And you,” Angie peered around James, who did not even notice the quiet, emaciated little fellow behind him, “did you get red-boxed, too, Steven Grant?” The boy shook his head, blue eyes wide and innocent. If Bucky had to guess, he was maybe 70 percent android hardware, from what he could see, and none of it looked particularly stable. He was a real mess of a hybrid boy.

“No, ma’am. Just booted by a good samaritan. The older guys pick on me in there,” he said with an overdrawn sort of puppy look that ANGIE seemed to eat up with a spoon. James knew her empathy programming was through the roof, but was not aware that anyone else knew to exploit it. If that wasn’t enough to pique his curiosity, the smaller boy had a dead-ringer voice match for the ridiculous anti-bully campaign in spandex that just got him in trouble.

“Steven, you poor little bear,” ANGIE cooed. James narrowed his eyes as the boy looked up at the display through long lashes. “Good thing you didn’t get another red box. One more suspension and you’d be in a spot of trouble, mister,” she said. “Why don’t you and James sit down at the tables and wait for dismissal? Please limit your aggressive interactions on the student servers, if possible, and stay out of community rooms that are prone to volatility,” she said, and went back into power-saving. James turned around to Steve, who swam in the school-issued uniform just shy of his line of vision.

“Just booted, huh?” He said, suspicion growing. “A good Samaritan?”

“Yeah,” Steve replied, squaring up. James had a few inches on him in all directions but you wouldn’t know it from Steve’s demeanor. They’d been in homeroom together all year and only now were speaking one on one, though that wasn’t surprising. James had only superficial friendships, easy and worthless, and Steve attracted the wrong kind of attention more often than not. James quirked an eyebrow, remembering the bulky, superhero avatar the guy wore online. His bright eyes and big attitude all but compensated in reality. He repeated himself. “A good Samaritan.”

“A fall guy, you mean,” James pointed out, hitching his backpack over his shoulders. His specs were made visible as the sleeve of his uniform rode up with the straps and Steve couldn’t help but peek at the ports there, ports that had up until moments ago connected him via a physical wire to the virtual grid.

“There’s a romantic joke there about falling that I’m not going to touch,” Steve said idly, getting closer to James in order to get a read on his parts better. “You’re hardwired?” He asked, suppressing something of excitement. “I thought everyone in our class was wireless.”

“Yeah, no, not me,” James shrugged. “The kind of gaming I do is easier on old and custom mechanics. I’m a traditionalist, I guess.”

“You sure are, Johnny Cash.” Steve smirked up at him as they walked together to a corner table that was always empty, one reserved for kids who were not connected, lovingly referred to as “time out” by the students. The surface glowed faintly in a dormant work-station state.

“Small fuckin’ digital world, it is you,” James sighed. “I wondered. Does Button always rely on the kindness of strangers to get out of shit he starts?” He asked, sliding into a chair opposite his apparent partner in crime.

“Button goes by Steve out here,” the other said pointedly, “and Button is a survivalist so yeah, he relies on and believes in a certain level of inherent goodness in others. Unlike you, I’ll wager.”

“Why’s that?”

“I noticed you don’t even display your handle publicly,” Steve said with a raised eyebrow, “Bucky.” The name tripped off his tongue with percussive flair. James had only ever called himself that in private; even at home his ma called him Jamie. Steve invoked it like a spell and a piece of it belonged to him now. “That’s about as twee and unsuspecting as mine. Bucky and Button sounds like an adventure duo from a children’s book. Probably mice with hats.”

“Well, you are a little rat,” James conceded, almost affectionate towards the kid’s sleuthing. “When did you dig that out of my profile?”

“Somewhere between when I watched you steal a hundred credits from thin air and when I got clotheslined by one of those big ugly doofs,” Steve said levelly. Bucky froze. “Didn’t think you could make that kind of money on a public screen-saver game but I’m really impressed. If I made money like that, I could fix up some of my--- everything,” Steve laughed and absently flicked at an exposed copper wire coming from a shoddy little board behind his ear. Bucky calmed a bit, hoping there was some honor among thieves.

“So why don’t you? If you break codes, why don’t you?”

“Not my style,” Steve waved off the idea. “Button does a lot of smashing and not a lot of grabbing. I don’t know as many tricks as you, Buck, otherwise I might be able to extract myself without getting so many red boxes,” he said, referring to the state of a room when it had been security flagged prior to suspension. Steve began to idly doodle on the table-top screen. Bucky watched him.

“You pull that shit a lot?”

“I pull that shit a lot. You might call it a hobby,” the smaller boy said with a smile. “Or over-compensating.”

“Is Button a little computer joke or something? Since you’re mostly ‘droid?” Bucky asked. Steve glanced up at him quickly.

“I guess it could be,” Steve shrugged, “but honestly no. Named after Button Gwinnett. And when you’re born as broken as I was and all the medical answers are mechanical, then yeah, you’re part droid and it isn’t by choice.” His tone clipped just so and Bucky nodded, catching his tongue between his teeth and wishing he’d known to be a bit more sensitive to Steve’s condition. Bucky had elected to have older, well-integrated systems because he preferred them. He could afford compatible refurbed pieces to replace the expensive wireless systems his parents had bought for him and his siblings. By lottery of birth, many did not have such plush options and Bucky immediately regretted pointing it out.

“Right, of course. Button Gwinnett. The, uh, circus clown, I’m sure, right?” He offered arbitrarily, backpedaling to humor as best as he could.

“Close. Signer of the Declaration of Independence,” Steve said, looking up at him with a tired eye roll.

“Fuckin’ nerd. Never heard of him,” Bucky said. He folded his arms defensively. The smaller boy considered him for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to engage. But the challenge couldn’t go unanswered, and Bucky knew it. Steve huffed.

“Button Gwinnett was a founding father but he managed to leave almost no paper trail. His signature on any other piece of paper, just--- receipt, kid’s birthday card, anything--- is worth more than George Washington’s. It’s nearly impossible to get your hands on any trace of him.” He blew a stray piece of hair from his forehead, a rebellious blonde wisp.

“Ah. Up in smoke. Your idol,” Bucky said, keeping a smile at bay. Steve glanced at the rest of his classmates, swept up in the internet world that existed just beyond vision. They sat stock still, brains sending signals wirelessly through implant chips without the necessary wiring the Steve required and Bucky preferred; it was common practice now for children to go wireless as soon as they were old enough to access the internet. It was not, however, a free provision nor a citizen’s right, and tech companies were highly aware of obsolescence as a profit tool, upgrading systems right and left and leaving behind those who could not afford to keep up. It struck Bucky that perhaps Steve was one such human, whose tech was old and patchwork not by choice but by necessity, financial or medical or both.

“In that posthumous regard, yeah, that part of his legacy is great. Otherwise all those colonist guys were dicks in one way or another. Humans are a mess. Code is simple,” he said, lovingly patting the projection screen embedded in the table, older tech by a couple of years that had since been relegated to pure furniture, “and much easier to hide in.”

“If it’s so easy for you to hide, how come you got destroyed in there?” Bucky asked bluntly. Steve chewed on his bottom lip, gesticulating as he explained 

“I need to physically interact in order to get source information. I’m not good at poking around from afar, like you seem to be, Mr. fuckin’ invisible pickpocket sniper like the Artful Dodger without anybody even noticing,” he grinned and Bucky almost blushed. “I’ve been following those dudes for a couple of days. I was hoping to shut them down tonight if I could get to a cafe and corner them somewhere but honestly, I think between the two of us we picked them apart pretty hard. They’ll be licking those wounds for a good while. I might go home and read a book or something, shoot. All this free time,” Steve marveled.

“You do that bully busting shit from cafes?” Bucky gawked. “That’s risky, isn’t it?” Using a public space like a cybercafe for any illegal doing wasn’t strictly unheard of, as the connections were heavily traveled and provided a vaguely decent cover if you relied on anonymous crowds but no protection whatsoever from trackers, bugs, advertisements, or worse. Steve shrugged, sweet smile halfway smug. Bucky tripped over his own admission of ‘sweet’ and shook the thought.

“I try to slip under the radar. Doesn’t hurt that my real life persona looks like I accidentally wandered away from Club Penguin,” he explained. “Of course, some assholes hone in on that. Love to pick on the little guy.”

“I noticed. You don’t know how to pick your battles.”

“Sure I do. I just pick all of them.”

“Can’t just stick to the important ones?”

“There wouldn’t be a fight if it wasn’t important, Bucky,” Steve replied, smiling down into the projection of a little dog he had doodled. “Do I get to ask you where that name came from?”

“Middle name’s Buchanan.” 

“That’s it?” Steve asked, watching his face for a lie. Bucky shrugged and something honest struck Steve clear and strong like a tiny silver bell: he liked him. “Boring but cute.” 

“Just like me,” Bucky said with a wink. Steve choked on a laugh and coughed into his sleeve. Bucky couldn’t help the reflexive twist in his own lungs. “You alright?”

“Cheap parts and bugs.” Steve shrugged it off. “There’s only so much you can fix when you’re inherently broken. And broke.” It occurred to Bucky that there were some things you couldn’t hack your way into; one of them was physical health. Early body tech and custom hardwire builds like his were harder to upkeep, in spite of their agility in the deeper networks, and weren’t always effortlessly compatible with the human body, especially if it wasn’t in peak condition to begin with. From the looks of him, Steve wasn’t particularly healthy. Veins and wiring protruding from skinny arms, incision scars here and there. His entire right earpiece connected with what looked to be LED watch parts if he didn’t know any better. “But hey, you ever hear of a programmer named Erskine?”

“No,” Bucky said, though he was caught staring. Steve grinned. 

“Tech doc. He came in on the ground floor with the android apps twenty years ago with Stark but went off the reservation, just wildcard inventing and postulating. He’s been--- I’ve been kind of watching him. He has a little community, and he vids about upgrades for old wires like mine,” Steve said, gesturing to the shoddy connectors on his left shoulder. “He’s brilliant. His whole thing is about improving present tech instead of leaving it behind so like, we don’t get swept under and obsolete. I think he’s going to be the one to come up with something for us manual connections, to be better and stronger. Upgrades.” 

“Yeah,” Bucky said with some dwindling enthusiasm. Erskine sounded like a quack if he was honest, but Steve was all stars and hearts talking about him. Bucky filed away the name for later. “You ever think about applying to join SHIELD when we graduate? Go into web security?”

“They won’t take me,” Steve groused. “Too many bugs, too much of a liability. I’ve tried patches and pseuds and I get kicked out of the clearance check every time. I’d kill to join SHIELD.” Bucky could hear the hurt behind the wall.

“Sounds like it would be a natural fit for you, Mr. Crusade.”

“Yeah, well. Not in the cards. Maybe someday. More likely to get arrested and forced into state servitude and even then, they’d stick me behind a desk. But until then,” he said, cracking his knuckles dramatically, “vigilante justice.”

“That why you wear that ridiculous avatar?”

“Okay, first of all, that look is very striking,” Steve said, straightening in his seat and sticking his tongue out. “Second of all, at least I didn’t just finish a performance at Folsom Prison, okay? I happen to like getting into character.”

“Whatever, Button.” 

They sat next to each other every day that followed. Bucky eventually made a point of splitting time between the petty credit theft that sponsored his gaming addiction and following Steve around, just to make sure he wasn’t getting into scrapes bigger than he could handle. Eventually Steve was coming by the Barnes house regularly to connect via Bucky’s mom’s protected line, the two of them an easy and inseparable team. Steve was steadfast and bold, making tactical maneuvers that Bucky would never attempt, and Bucky was refined and precise in his code breaking, the sniper behind Steve’s brash break-ins.

“I don’t need you to white knight for me all the time,” Steve groused, disconnecting one afternoon just before dismissal. “I had that last one on the ropes.” Bucky detached his own cable, winding it idly in a coil.

“I know you did. I just like to see you get frustrated,” he said. “Probably the only thing that brings me joy.”

“That’s sick. You should talk to a therapist.”

“ANGIE’s my guidance counselor.” 

“She is? No fucking wonder,” Steve laughed.

“She understands me.” 

“It’s a miracle she even passes the Total Turing Test, Buck,” Steve laughed.

“She loves me,” Bucky smiled. Steve picked up the coat Bucky was about to leave behind; he was constantly leaving things behind and Steve now mindlessly picked up little pieces wherever they went. Bucky suddenly realized he’d forgot it as they reached the classroom door and turned only to find Steve holding the leather jacket out for him. “Thank you.”

“It’s in her programming to love you,” Steve brushed it off. Bucky looked at him sideways.

“Is that jealousy?” 

“Don't worry, I would never ask you to love anyone as much as you love a projected hologram of a beautiful woman that calls you sweetheart,” Steve joked.

“You’re welcome to call me sweetheart anytime you want, babe,” Bucky smirked. “Hey, reminds me. You should come over for dinner. My mom’s getting bored with our Nourish allotment and she keeps futzing with the flavors. She loves feeding you,” Bucky added hastily, in case his intentions weren’t clear after indirectly asking Steve to call him ‘sweetheart.’ Steve sighed heavily.

“I’m not feeling so hot, I think I need to reboot tonight,” he said, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably, an improper click and snap following. Bucky winced.

“Not feeling so hot like how?”

“Why do you have to know? You’re not a doctor. Or a mechanic,” Steve huffed. Bucky swung his coat over his shoulder, an attempt at cool that hopefully read better than it felt.  

“I just wish I could help, is all.” 

“It’s fine,” Steve assured him, though it was a mantra rather than a reality. “As soon as Dr. Erskine’s patents go public, I’m going to be healthy as a horse. You’ll see. I’ll look like a tank.”

“You’ll always be cute as a button to me no matter how small you stay,” Bucky said with a grin, “but healthy as a horse takes top priority.”

“A boy can dream,” Steve said, wiping his nose. A streak of oil followed across his upper lip like a mustache. “God, I’m leaking from everywhere.” Bucky coughed involuntarily. “What?”

“Gonna pretend I didn’t extrapolate on that immediately."

“You’re gross,” Steve groused. Bucky shrugged.

“You’re falling apart.”

“My body can be fixed. You’ll always be gross.”

“All you do is hurt my feelings,” Bucky laughed. “How are we even friends?”

“Are we friends?” Steve asked, grinning lopsidedly up at him as they stood shoulder to shoulder at the computer lab’s exit waiting on dismissal.

“My mother brought an extra chair to the table permanently. If you’re not my friend you owe her an apology.”

“I accept the terms of your friendship.”

“Terms?” Bucky repeated. “You sure you’re not all bot in there?” He playfully knocked on Steve’s shoulder as if it would make a metal clang.

“I wish,” Steve grinned. “Someday." 

“Hey, how about I come over by you? I can hang out with you while you recharge if you want,” Bucky offered. “Do your homework for you or something, huh? Good deal?” Steve winced.

“No. That’s okay.”

“How come you never let me see your place?” Bucky asked, but the dismissal sounded and Steve was already on his way out the door in the throng of kids, not bothering to wait up for Bucky. He stood for a moment in the door, turning back to the the time-out table they often shared after a successful code break or theft. He sat down wearily. ANGIE popped up on the projection.

“James, the dismissal bell has rung, sweetheart. Is there a reason you don’t want to return home?” She asked in a programmed supportive tone. “Are things alright?”

“Things are fine at home, ANGIE. Don’t worry. Hey, can I ask you for advice?” He found the words falling out of his mouth. Her generated expression became intent.

“Yes! What’s wrong?” She blinked without needing to. Bucky sighed.

“How do you get somebody that is very proud to let you help them out?” He asked the screen. ANGIE seemed to consider it.

“Somebody that is very proud isn’t likely to accept help,” she said finally. Bucky rolled his eyes. 

“I know that. How do I make him?”

“You cannot make another person accept your love, James.” Bucky twitched at the word 

“Hey, I didn’t say---”

“You just have to love him in spite of his faults and hope his heart isn’t as dense as his pride. Show, rather than tell,” she continued, nodding succinctly. Bucky stared at her for a moment.

“How’d you know?”

“The details of my analysis would bore you, sugar.”

“But you know.”

“I know lots of things,” she said brightly, a stock phrase from the factory settings. “Steven Grant is not well-behaved, but he is good. He is careless, but not unthoughtful, and does not consider himself worthy of much,” she summarized. “And moreover, somehow seems to stare at you in the precious moments you are not staring at him.” Bucky looked around the room wildly, grateful to find it empty.

“Hey, I don’t---!”

“I have eyes in the back of my head, James Buchanan,” she smiled benevolently. “Go home, please. I need to shut down all systems after a security check before I may wipe and go to sleep.” Bucky stared into her, recognizing that she was coded like anything else, but sensing somewhere deep and quiet that it didn’t matter.

“Thanks, ANGIE.”

“Of course, honey. Glad I can be useful. But you didn’t hear that from me. I’m just an electronic babysitter,” she huffed. Bucky frowned, defensive in a way he hadn’t expected.

“Who called you that?”

“I hear most things,” she said, and Bucky was surprised to note some sadness there. “James, there have always been small prejudices against androids and hybrids. I know you and Steven have felt them.” Bucky had never considered that ANGIE felt any kinship with him or Steve because of their hardwire technology. They were closer to hybrids than anyone else in their classes, Steve most of all. Most kids had the wireless chips and embedded tech that looked for all intents and purposes like expensive jewelry, like his siblings had, like he had before he customized himself. Looking anything like a real android was passe. Next to all the shiny accessories the other kids had, Steve seemed like a self-made rag doll. “I hope you will take good care of him. Goodnight.”

Bucky walked the long way home, thinking about it. A message was waiting on his system when he got there.  

<<BUT REALLY YOU CAN STILL DO MY HOMEWORK FOR ME IF YOU WANT ;) ;) >>

He folded his arms, glaring at the screen as he considered a response. He would spend the evening alone, playing away his credits in cheap games, and leaving Steve alone as Steve had previously wished, and tried not to recognize the cheap resentment he felt in that loneliness. He couldn’t yet balance taking care of him and leaving him alone, much less making himself happy by way of achieving either. Taking ANGIE’s advice to heart wasn’t as easy at it sounded; the kid infuriated him when he put up walls. So Bucky took a deep breath and, instead of tearing it down, knocked at it softly, at two in the morning, noticing User: Button was still active.

<<FEELING BETTER? >>

     <<NOT REALLY. >>

<<WHY DID THE SHIITAKE THROW A PARTY? >>

     <<LEMME GUESS, BECAUSE HE WAS A FUN---GUY? >>

<<NO, THE PORTOBELLO WANTED TO HAVE IT AT HIS PLACE BUT THERE WASN’T MUSH---ROOM. >>

     <<UGHHHH DAAADD. >>

<<FEEL BETTER NOW? >>

     <<SO MUCH WORSE :) >>

<<SLEEP. >>

     <<YOU TOO. >>

It would be a waiting game, and Bucky had time.