This is my first take at a story in the MCU and I'm nervous! To a point where I had to start this new ghost account. I have a thing for original characters but it'll be a new challenge characterizing Bucky and Steve. So bear with me! I appreciate any feedback.

As far as timeline goes, this happens about a year after Endgame. The only change to canon is that Steve does in fact return after travelling in time to redeliver the stones to their rightful places in history. And Sam doesn't get the shield just yet. If anything else needs to be explained outside of the story, I'll add it into future notes. Oh and, wether or not you consider it canon, in this story Bucky and Steve are partners. There will be some smut eventually. I'll include all appropriate warnings in the notes. Also, I don't have a beta and I'm too nervous to sit on posting this so I may come back and made edits as required.

The snap. The vanishing. The blip.

Whatever the fuck you wanted to call what happened, Avery Felix didn't ask for it.

Of course, no one asked for it. Some evil alien overlord decided on behalf of the universe or something. She couldn't wrap her brain around it.

It was the strangest sequence of events - something that even over a year later she couldn't comprehend. One second, she is in the middle of an argument with her boyfriend. Fists balled, water boiling over on the stove, her mouth open to shout.

Then, her insides felt sparkly. It was a weird feeling she had a hard time articulating - but it was if every molecule in her body decided to float away.

She heard her name being called out. Then darkness.

It felt like five milliseconds passed by and she was back, in the exact same spot, rebuilt. She felt the same - down to the sparkling feeling in her core, that slowly returned to the anger from her fight with Seth.

Only everything else was different. Somehow it was five years later.

She immediately fell to the ground from the shock.

Now, here she was, fourteen months after the blip or whatever the term people were using now - the return, the sequel, part two, the rebuild. Fourteen months after half the population of the planet returned and she was hardly surviving.

Avery pulled herself off of the couch and sighed. It was Friday night. Back in the old days - the BS era, Before Snap, as she liked to call it - Fridays used to be date night. For as long as she remembered with Seth, since the very first week of their relationship, date night was sacred. It was a time for the two of them, just the two of them for some amount of time at least, to get dinner or try to cook together or see a movie or go to an exhibit.

Even if Seth had to schedule her into his life, she knew they always had date night.

Now, Friday night was looking a lot less appealing.

She stalked away from her cognac coloured couch, letting the hunger in her stomach lead her closer to the fridge. She paused in front of her far window, taking a moment to carefully analyze the conditions of her plants. She smiled when she saw a new growth on her fiddle-leaf fig - ficus lyrata - then quickly pouted. It was a sad reminder that this is what was exciting to her now: new plants. She may not be great at taking care of herself lately, but she was not going to let her green friends perish by her hands.

Not that she hadn't always taken an interest in botany. In fact, it had been one of the lines of biochemistry she had excelled at when she was in university.

She grabbed the spray bottle that was nestled between a few potted plants on the table and let out a soft sigh. She spent every morning going through her plant routine, checking for bugs or worry spots in leaves, hydrating them all appropriately on a schedule. She gave an extra spritz to the plant she had been fondling and smiled to herself again.

"Keep up the good work, Frank," she said quietly, turning the pot slightly to ensure the best late day spring light hit the leaves. She returned the bottle to it's spot and glanced around the room. There was greenery throughout her small space and it gave her a very real sense of normalcy, a sense of routine and that this life was normal again.

Normal. She let out a short huff and shook her head, moving towards her kitchen area, using her hands to pull her sweeping grown-out blonde hair into a messy bun on the top of her head.

Date night. No, just Friday night in. She supposed she owed it to herself to at least attempt to cook herself a real meal.

It was something her therapist recommended.

'Avery, you experienced an unusual trauma with half of the world. You don't owe yourself any type of lifestyle right now. But, the first step to pulling yourself out of this depression is trying again. Trying anything to find yourself a new normal.'

What did Dr. Brightman know, anyway? She didn't lose five years of her life to a galactic war criminal.

She leaned against the small island, pulling her phone from the back pocket of her jeans. She skimmed through some recipes she had added to her latest Pinterest board (aptly titled Recipes Any Kitchen Idiot Can Manage) and narrowed her eyes to the small stack of produce on her counter. She had picked up a small package of corn tortillas and she knew she had a few chicken breasts in her freezer. She could probably manage chicken tacos. That seemed reasonable enough.

She moved around and started to collect what she needed. Above the stove was a hanging rack of pans and pots, then a modest spice rack (though she still hadn't dared cook anything with the small jar of smoked paprika). The counter ran from beside her stove, took a hard corner and the L shape ended with a sink, nestled beside her fridge.

Her apartment wasn't perfect by any means.

She was lucky to find a half decent place After Blip (AB). It took only a few weeks after everything and she was grateful her sister had helped her fill out the form on the Stark Foundation website for subsidized housing opportunities - Project Square One. Although, if she had waited just a few months later, she could have snagged a brand new unit in one of their relief apartment buildings in Harlem.

Instead, she got a one bedroom in a refurbished seven storey unit in Brooklyn.

Avery was grateful she had a home to call her own. Really, she was. She appreciated the subsidized rent, the constant reassurance that she could stay there as long as she wanted, the usually hot water in her shower. But the building was old and her unit had a lot of what her father called character. Like crown-molding and narrow door frames. Small closets and textured ceilings. Crystal doorknobs and original hardwood floors.

The Stark Foundation had done some basic renovations to most of the units in the building - the lights were on a voice command, the doors locked electronically and she had air conditioning and new appliances.

The location wasn't ideal and even though all the Square One housing opportunities touted having security staff on site, it had quickly proven to be misleading. Security just meant outsourced rotating guards who patrolled sometimes. Avery truthfully hadn't seen anyone in her building doing any sort of patrol work in months. Not that she felt unsafe (she had told her father very blatantly she didn't need a weapon, although he gifted her a wooden bat when she moved in) - but she knew sometimes there were illicit things going on in the building.

She kept to herself mostly though. She made casual smalltalk with people in the hall but really only had a relationship with an older woman who lived down the hall. Beatrice was in her 70s and when she blipped back, her husband had sold their house and moved to Florida. Bea was kind and Avery felt she was like her live-in grandmother. They often watched The Price is Right on her Fridays off work and she knew if she ever wanted a cup of English Breakfast tea, the kettle would be on in moments.

As soon as everything was laid out on her kitchen island, Avery took a deep breath and nodded. She paused to take off her red plaid shirt, tying it around her waist. She stretched her arms above her head and did her best to ready herself for her cooking conquest.

"You got into medical school, Avery. You can manage one chicken taco recipe. Let's go."

James 'Bucky' Barnes had a fairly easy work day, considering. Not that his day to day life had a specific schedule, but he was happy to be heading home on a Friday while the sun was still shining. He had declined Sam's invite to go for beers, telling both him and Steve he just needed some time to decompress. His day had been filled with enough people, from project debriefs and research meetings. He wanted some time alone.

The last few years of Bucky's life had been a whirlwind, to say the least. His former life as a trained HYDRA assassin seemed so long ago now but the memories came forward constantly. Since his reawakening after his clinical brainwashing, he was always learning and retraining his mind. His time spent in Wakanda had been ideal rehabilitation.

Ideally his time there wouldn't have ended with another war.

He had enough war under his belt to last a lifetime.

Time, as a concept, was lost on him, too. Decades of his life were lost to HYDRA. More time was lost when he went back into cryo for his own mental safety. Five years gone thanks to Thanos.

Now, his life had a bit of normalcy. In a sense.

Ever after losing Nat and Tony, the Avengers carried on in their absence. In their honour. Steve retired in the only way he knew how, running things from a ground level at the new headquarters in Manhattan. They resided in large underground space, well hidden under the newly constructed Stark Industries block in Midtown. They had also rebuilt their training space outside of the city. The Avengers worked alongside what was left of SHIELD. Fury consulted, Maria Hill showed up to support, too. But between Steve and Sharon, most of the work was run seamlessly from their spaces in New York.

Bucky spent most of his time with Sam. Their unlikely friendship had developed into a partnership. And for the first time in weeks, their schedules were free.

He split his nights between his place in Brooklyn and Steve's place in Greenwich Village.

Steve was his constant, a stable force when things were unsteady in his mind. After Thanos, it was Steve who vouched for Bucky to the federal government. It was Steve who stood in front of a panel of military personnel and high ranking directors and said Bucky had paid for his actions. It was Steve who vowed to protect him, his mind, when things went dark.

Slowly but surely, Bucky stopped living in fear of his mind and started just living.

He and Steve had an understanding, it was never said out loud. But they were companions, partners. A source of comfort and safety. Sam often teased them with the phrase boyfriend but it wasn't like that. It was more than that.

It was a connection and familiarity they always had, since their friendship had sparked so long ago.

Sometimes that meant sharing Steve's bed or an arm tucked over a shoulder. Sometimes it was dinner together or going to the movies. A kiss on the forehead, a neck rub. It was Steve talking Bucky down from a nightmare, repeating the phrase 'I'm here, you're safe, I'm here. I love you, Buck.'

Bucky was so grateful for his best friend. There was a lot of comfort in having someone you could make fun of but who loved you through the good, bad and the ugly.

There was, at times, a feeling like something else was missing.

As he crossed over the George Washington bridge, air whipping past him, Bucky felt content.

Although it was never said out loud or written in any kind of contract, one of the main reasons Pepper had insisted Bucky take up residence in their housing unit past DUMBO was to keep an eye on the place.

Not that most of the world knew who he was. He remained half masked when working with Sam and kept his head down when it came to any press related to the Avengers. His life was quiet. His missions were always for a good reason and while he still wrestled with guilt, years of it, layers, plenty of guilt - he knew he was on the other side of it.

On this particular Friday evening, he used the south staircase of the building. Usually he used the North entrance, but he had borrowed Steve's motorcycle and locked it in a gated area in the back near the parking lot and his feet took him to the closer side of the building.

He passed by a few people walking through the lobby, keeping his eyes alert. Not that he was looking for anything in particular, but he always tried to be aware of what was going on. He picked up on a conversation a young man was making across the foyer, there was a vague mention of weed as he spoke. Bucky just rolled his eyes.

While marijuana was illegal, he wasn't going to intervene with something so juvenile. He was tempted to make a quick comment to the kid, maybe remind him drug deals were better made via electronic message and not over phone calls, but he let it go.

He tucked his motorcycle helmet under his arm and started his journey upstairs. He paused on the fifth floor, hearing a repetitive alarm going off somewhere down the hall. He peered through the glass door with the large painted number indicating what level he was on, and for a second, he thought he was seeing a smokey haze far down the hallway.

Bucky opened the door and hurried down the hall, trying to find the source of the smoke. The smell was strong and he stopped when he saw a door propped open.

A robotic voice sounded out, louder as he approached. 'There is a fire. There is a fire.'

Unit 509.

Bucky dropped his helmet and hesitantly pushed the door open as the repetitive noise grew even louder. The hazey grey air was dissipating as he took a step in, quickly scanning the room.

One bedroom unit. East facing. Standard reverse set up. No heat or visible flames. One occupant, female, non-distress.

The young woman, presumably the one who lived in the apartment, stared at him with open eyes as he stood at her doorway. She dropped the butter knife in her hand as she looked at him, taking a step back away from her island.

"Sorry, I thought there was a fire or something." He said quickly, throwing his hands up to show he was unarmed and, well, not meaning any harm to her. Standard civilian protocol."Are you okay?"

His voice was loud as he tried to communicate with her over the loud obnoxious sound of her fire detector going off. 'There is a fire. There is a fire.'

She nodded her head. She was calm, but apprehensive as he spoke to her. "I've emailed the building maintenance people like five times about my fire detector. It's a bit sensitive."

Bucky's eyes scanned the room quickly, locating the small round smoke detector that was blinking and yelling at them.

"There's no fire," he called out, as a question or a confirmation he wasn't sure, to no one in particular as he reached up above her entryway and tried to press the reset button on the white box.

"I tried that already," Avery called back to him.

Bucky let out an annoyed sigh and tried again. His determined press of the button caused absolutely nothing to happen.

'There is a fire. There is a fire.'

He swore under his breath and tried to take off the front panel of the annoying safety precaution. As he grabbed for it, he unintentionally pulled it off the wall entirely. The noise stopped.

"Damnit," he said to himself. He turned around, clutching the broken smoke detector in his left hand. He still didn't know his own strength sometimes.

He met the woman's eyes and gave her an apologetic smirk.

"My hero," she said, rolling her eyes. Avery swept her gaze over him as he stood across from her. Short messy brown hair, deep blue eyes, stubble that must have only been a few days old. He wore a dark grey Henley, black jeans and what appeared to be military grade combat boots. He looked..weathered.

"Well, at least the noise stopped," he responded. "Sorry. I saw the smoke in the hallway and.."

They were suddenly both very aware he had just barged into her apartment. Well, the door had been propped open, at least.

As the room cleared of any leftover smoke, he surveyed the space again. The space was flush with greenery and mostly tidy, save for some paperwork and a laptop on her small round dining table.

A few feet from them on the glass stove was a very charred frying pan and a glass dish, similar to a pie plate. On the counter was a half melted food package. Flat. Tortillas. His eyes darted back to the girl, who was still staring at him.

He couldn't help but scan his eyes over her for a moment, too. On top of her head was a stack of blonde hair wrapped into a bun but the rest of her crown was brunette. Her face was tired, her blue eyes lost behind the dark bags underneath them. Her face was round, friendly, but apprehensive. Her mouth was drawn into a straight line, but small lines around the side of her lips indicated some age, but also a well used smile. Her face seemed sad to him, although he may have been misreading the situation. She had just ruined her own dinner.

She wasn't tall, really. Maybe the same height as Wanda. She had on a plain tshirt (he could see part of a tattoo inside her right forearm), ripped jeans, a plaid shirt hung tightly around her full hips. There was something about her figure that sent Bucky's brain back years and years - it reminded him of some of the USSR entertainers with thick strong thighs, rounded hips, pulled in waists. It was a far cry from the stick thin women he was used to seeing in advertising in this century.

He shook his head slightly and met her eyes. "I'll contact the maintenance team and have them come and replace this."

She rolled her eyes and shrugged. "Good luck. My water pressure has been shot for weeks and they won't even reply to my messages anymore."

He could sense she felt defeated by the whole thing. For a second, he wondered why this young woman with sad blue eyes was eating alone on a Friday night. He wanted to ask her more, maybe find out her name, but he struggled to bring the words to his mouth. He swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to smile.

"I'll make sure they come by this weekend and fix it. Tomorrow, even." His words sounded like a promise.

"Well, let's hope there's no real fire in the next few days then."

He liked how she smirked.

Bucky let out a laugh at her commentary and for a moment wished he could see her smile, really smile.

He watched as she grabbed a cracker from the open box in front of her then dipped it into the jar of peanut butter she steadied with her left hand.

"What was for dinner?" Bucky asked her, shifting his weight as he stood between the island and the door. She hadn't kicked him out and while her body language wasn't especially inviting, her cautious stare had disappeared.

Avery laughed and finished swallowing her gourmet cracker before responding. "Plan A was blackened chicken tacos." She watched as he opened his mouth to make a comment. "Please, don't. I know how ironic this situation is. How I managed to screw that up so badly is beyond me. Actually, no. It's par for the course."

Suddenly, another noise started. They both turned their heads as the glass dish on top of her stove started to hiss. Her eyes flew open when she realized she must have left the front element on when she was chaotically moving things around in the smoke. She had seen this happen before to one of her mother's casserole dishes.

She took a step towards the stove as Bucky called out. "No, just leave it, it's might -

A loud popping noise sounded off as the glass dish exploded. Shards of glass flew outwards.

Avery felt him grab her shoulders and swiftly pull her away from the stove, passing by her to put himself between her and the appliance. She swore loudly as something had hit her exposed cheek.

As Bucky stepped carefully through the shards on the floor to turn off the element, she brought a hand up to her cheek. She was bleeding. She could tell it wasn't deep, maybe just a bad scratch from the hot glass. She tried not to panic.

Tried not to.

He turned back towards her, watching as her chest heaved with shallow breaths.

"Hey, you're okay," he said as he took a few steps to close in the space between them.

As he carefully grabbed her hand to move it away from her cheek, for the first time Avery noticed he was still wearing black gloves on his hands.

His eyes narrowed as he looked at the cut. It was small, not deep. He knew the correct procedure was to clean it. "Do you have a first aid kit or…

She nodded, letting out a few slow breaths. She motioned her head towards the bathroom, opposite the kitchen, and he followed her in. She opened the cabinet and pulled out a small green canvas bag.

For a moment, Bucky could have sworn it was a government issued army satchel. Small, designed for shaving kits and personal items.

She turned, closing the cabinet. "You don't have to -

He waved a hand to her, pointing to the toilet. "Sit. Breathe."

She did as he said, offering a small, grateful smile in return.

Finally, a smile.

He unzipped the pouch and pulled out a few things, opening up the small bottle of rubbing alcohol and dabbing some of it on a few squares of toilet paper.

"This might hurt," he warned, as he crouched down to her level.

"I know." She squeezed her eyes shut as he reached out to wipe the cut on her cheek. "Fuck."

Bucky stifled a smile as he heard her curse. It was still something he wasn't used to in this century - hearing women swear so freely. He liked it.

She opened her eyes a few seconds later and found herself staring directly at him. She swallowed hard and her eyes looked down.

He stood up again and returned to the kit, pulling out a bandage.

"Do you think it needs a Band-Aid?" She asked him, standing up. He shuffled to the side and let her look in the mirror.

"Maybe for 24 hours to keep it clean and unexposed," he replied with a nod.

Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he tore open the packaging.

Bucky started to laugh.

"They were on sale, okay?"

He carefully took the colourful Captain America Band-Aid out of its paper packaging. He reached one hand up and took a gentle hold of her chin, turning her head so he could look at the cut. She held her breath. A few seconds later, she could feel the adhesive against her skin.

Bucky still couldn't believe that his scrawny best friend's face was printed on bandages for kids. And adults, apparently. He couldn't wait to make fun of Steve about it.

"Thank you," Avery said as they exited her bathroom. "For the first aid help, not for breaking my smoke detector."

"I guess that leaves me neutral," he responded with a half smile. He glanced down at the floor, where the glass was still scattered. "Do you need help cleaning up?"

"No, it's okay. I've stolen enough of your time." She waved her hand, sighing as she looked down at the floor.

"Will you be home tomorrow?"

She scrunched her face in confusion as she looked back at him.

"I'm going to get a hold of maintenance to come by and replace that." He pointed to the discarded remains of the plastic smoke detector on her counter.

Oh right. Yes. That made sense.

"I'll be here in the afternoon."

Bucky nodded, making a mental note. "Enjoy your dinner." He smirked as she rolled her eyes. "Maybe avoid the stove for a few days."

Before she could think of a witty response, he was walking out the door, pulling it shut behind him.

Avery leaned into the kitchen island and sighed, realizing she didn't even get his name.