Thor inclined his head without hesitation. "I give you my word. When the Bifrost is rebuilt, the Tesseract will be returned."
Luke studied him for a brief moment, then nodded. "Good."
The cube shimmered into existence in Luke's hand as he pulled it from his inventory, its blue light washing over the room. Thor instinctively adjusted his grip when Luke passed it to him, handling it with care, like something sacred—and volatile.
"Just remember," Luke added casually, "this is me doing you a favor."
Thor met his gaze and gave a solemn nod. "Asgard will remember it."
Tony, who had been watching the exchange with crossed arms, finally spoke up. "Okay, diplomatic magic cube loan—great. Real touching."
Then he pointed over Luke's shoulder.
"But quick question," Tony continued, lowering his voice only a little. "Why are those two looking at me like I have personally ruined their lives?"
Wanda and Pietro stood near the doorway. Wanda's expression was tight, controlled—but her eyes were cold. Pietro didn't bother hiding it at all; his jaw was set, fists clenched, anger written plainly across his face.
Luke followed Tony's line of sight and sighed quietly.
"Yeah," Tony muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "That look usually comes right before I get punched."
Pietro didn't bother with words. He grabbed the nearest vase and stepped forward, arm swinging—
—and stopped mid-motion.
The vase froze in the air.
Pietro's arm was locked in place, muscles straining, eyes snapping toward Luke.
Luke hadn't moved. He'd just snapped his fingers.
"Enough," Luke said flatly.
With a small gesture, he pulled the vase out of Pietro's hand and set it aside, then pressed down lightly on his shoulder, forcing him back onto the sofa. Not roughly—just firmly enough that Pietro understood resistance was pointless.
"You," Pietro said anyway, voice shaking with restrained fury as he stared at Tony. "You killed our parents."
The room went dead quiet.
Tony blinked once. "I—what?"
His mind raced. He'd killed terrorists. War profiteers. Armed men shooting back. But civilians? Parents?
That doesn't fit, he thought. Unless their parents were criminals or terrorists he killed?
Before he could speak again, Luke stepped between them.
"Let me explain," Luke said calmly. "Because this is complicated, and breaking furniture won't help."
He glanced toward Wanda. "Wanda. Come here."
She hesitated, then moved to sit beside Pietro. Luke positioned them both facing Tony, like he was setting the stage for something that needed to be said properly.
"In Sokovia," Luke continued, voice even, "Stark weapons ended up in places they never should've been. Black market. Middlemen. The usual mess."
Tony's jaw tightened. He didn't interrupt.
"One of those weapons hit their apartment building," Luke said. "They were kids. Trapped. Waiting for it to go off."
Pietro clenched his fists. Wanda's gaze stayed low, fixed on the floor.
Tony exhaled slowly. "I shut that division down," he said. "Years ago. The moment I realized what my name was attached to."
"That doesn't undo it," Pietro snapped.
"No," Tony said quietly. "It doesn't."
Wanda finally looked up.
"So you know what it feels like?" she asked, her voice steady but tight. "To hold your brother and stare at a missile lodged in front of you… not knowing if it will go off in the next second. Not knowing if you'll die, or if you'll watch the only family you have die first."
Luke had to admit it—just hearing it was terrifying. Staring at death, not knowing when it would come, whether the next second would be the last.
At least when death is certain, there's clarity. This kind of waiting? The fear, the helplessness? And they were just kids when it happened. That made it worse.
"I get your anger," Luke said finally, voice calm but firm. "Both of you. Anyone would feel the same. But it's aimed at the wrong person."
Pietro's jaw tightened. "He's Stark. His weapons are the ones that killed our parents."
Luke nodded once. "You're not wrong about that."
He paused, then asked quietly, "But let me ask you something. If someone kills another person with a gun—do you blame the gun… or the one who pulled the trigger?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and unavoidable.
"Weapons don't choose targets. People do. And the ones who fired that missile weren't sitting in this room."
Wanda's eyes wavered, conflicted. The anger was still there—but now it had something else mixed into it. Doubt. Confusion. The start of understanding, whether she wanted it or not.
"Yes," Wanda said quietly. "He is partly to blame."
Her voice didn't shake, but there was weight behind it.
"Those weapons were made by him. Designed to protect his country," she continued. "But they ended up in the hands of terrorists and bad people. Maybe his intentions were right—but intentions don't stop missiles."
Pietro and Wanda didn't look angry anymore—just tired. What Luke said had landed. Until now, they hadn't really questioned it.
They had needed something solid to hate, something with a name. And Stark had been that name—the one stamped on the metal that destroyed their home.
It was easier to hold onto anger than to sort through who actually pulled the trigger.
Now, that certainty cracked.
"I'm sorry," Tony said at last.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't rehearsed. There was no speech attached to it.
He looked at them directly this time, not defensive, not sarcastic.
"I can't undo what happened to your parents," he continued. "And I won't pretend my hands are clean. I built those weapons. I let them out into the world. People suffered because of that."
"Well, he at least learned from his mistakes and shut down the weapons business," Luke said.
If there was one thing Luke genuinely respected about Tony Stark, it was that. After the kidnapping, after seeing his own work used to destroy lives, Tony didn't double down. He tore everything apart and rebuilt himself from the ground up.
And in the end, he became a real hero—someone willing to sacrifice himself without hesitation.
A man who started as the most selfish… and chose to become selfless.
*****
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