Pietro noticed him first, calling out in a language Arthur couldn't quite place—maybe Sokovian, maybe Russian. Wanda followed his gaze, trembling.
"It's alright," Arthur said softly, in English. He didn't know if they understood, but tone mattered more than words. "I'm here to help."
He extended his hand, magic flowing through the gesture. The rubble around them began to lift—floating upward with gentle precision, clearing space around the children without disturbing the missile's delicate balance.
Pietro grabbed his sister's hand as they were lifted free from their tomb, floating through the air until Arthur set them gently on stable ground outside the building.
The moment they were clear, Arthur turned his attention to the missile. A flick of his wrist, and it was encased in a sphere of hardened air—if it somehow detonated now, the blast would be contained.
The twins clutched each other, staring at him with a mixture of awe and terror.
"You're… magic," Pietro said haltingly in broken English. "You superhero. Like on TV."
Arthur smiled faintly. "Something like that." He knelt to their height. "Are you hurt?"
They both shook their heads. Wanda's lower lip quivered, but she stayed silent.
"What are your names?"
"Pietro," the boy said, pointing to his sister. "Wanda." He hesitated. "Are you… here to save us?"
"Yes," Arthur said quietly. "You're safe now."
His mind raced. He couldn't leave them. The city was a death trap. But taking them meant responsibility. Complications. Two traumatized children who'd need care, protection, a future.
He wasn't ready to be a parent. It was too much hassle. Too many variables.
Then he looked at Wanda's face—small, terrified, covered in blood—and saw himself at ten years old, standing over his parents' bodies, alone in a London townhouse.
Damn it.
"Your parents," he asked gently. "Where are they?"
Both children's faces crumpled. Wanda pointed with a shaking hand toward the collapsed building. "Inside. The bomb—Mama and Papa—"
She couldn't finish. Pietro pulled her close, his own eyes wet.
Arthur stood, his jaw set. He extended both hands toward the ruins. Maybe there was hope.
Magic surged. Not subtle now—raw, powerful, caring nothing for concealment. The entire collapsed building began to rise. Tons of rubble, twisted metal, shattered stone—all of it lifting into the air with deliberate precision.
The twins watched with wide eyes as their destroyed home floated above them like a nightmare given form.
And there, in what used to be their apartment, Arthur found them.
Two bodies. A man and a woman. Buried under debris.
Arthur's magic reached out, assessing. Multiple fractures. Internal bleeding. Punctured lung on the man. Severe head trauma on the woman. But their hearts were still beating. Barely.
Alive enough.
"Stay here," Arthur told the twins. He stepped through the floating rubble, reaching the parents. His hands glowed with healing magic as he worked—stabilizing organs, sealing wounds, restarting systems that had begun to shut down.
Finally, he stepped back. Not fully healed—that would take days of recovery—but stable. They'd live.
Arthur looked at the twins. At their parents. At the ruins of their life.
Then he opened a portal.
Golden light split the air, revealing the comfortable interior of Hayes Manor in London.
"Come on," Arthur said, gently levitating the unconscious parents through first. "All of you."
And with that, the Maximoffs' story changed forever.
—
The Maximoff parents awoke a day later in the guest bedroom of a London manor—confused, terrified, and alive.
Arthur had explained everything patiently. The war. The rescue. The healing. The impossible magic that had brought them back from the brink.
Oleg Maximoff—the father—had stared at Arthur as though seeing a divine apparition. "Why?" he'd finally asked. "Why save us? You don't know us. We have nothing to offer."
Arthur had weighed several answers. That he'd sensed Wanda's latent magic. That he valued her potential. That he saw himself in her. That he wanted to change the fate she was destined for.
All true—but perhaps too strange for ordinary people to understand.
"Fate led me to your family," he'd said at last. "I was drawn by something. And it cost me nothing to help. So don't worry about anything."
Iryna—the mother—had tears streaming down her face. "Our children… where—?"
"Safe," Arthur reassured her. "Downstairs with Winky. Traumatized, but unharmed."
At his signal, Winky had appeared with the children in tow.
The reunion that followed was tearful and desperate, filled with sobs, laughter, and clinging embraces.
Over the next few days, the Maximoffs began to heal. Pietro's energy returned first; the boy was practically bouncing off the walls by day two. Wanda stayed quieter, more reserved, but Arthur caught her smiling every time her brother did something foolish.
Winky had taken to them instantly, fussing over the siblings as though they were her own—making sure they ate, entertaining them with small bits of magic, and even joining in their games. The manor felt different, lighter somehow. Alive in a way it hadn't been in years.
On the fourth day, Arthur had sat down with Oleg and Iryna for a serious talk about their future.
"You can't go back to Sokovia," he said plainly. "The war won't end soon. And even if it does, you'd return to rubble. No home. No work. No future."
Oleg nodded slowly. "We know. But what choice do we have? We have no money, no papers—"
"I can help with that," Arthur cut in. "I can arrange safe passage to America. Any city you choose. New identities if you need them. And enough money to start over—call it a loan, if that helps you feel comfortable."
The parents exchanged uncertain glances—hope and disbelief warring on their faces.
"Why?" Iryna whispered. "You've already saved our lives. Why give more?"
Arthur's eyes flicked toward the door, where Pietro's laughter echoed faintly from below. "Let's just say your kids have grown on me," he said softly. "And I'd like them to have a better future."
He didn't mention the rest. The Chaos energy sleeping inside Wanda was still dormant, years away from awakening with the Mind Stone. This quiet, ordinary life could be her sanctuary. Let her and Pietro have the childhood that canon had stolen from them.
"America…" Oleg murmured. "The children could go to school there. Be safe."
"Yes," Arthur said with a faint smile. "Build something new. Better."
Iryna wiped at her tears. "We don't know how to thank you."
"Then don't," Arthur replied. "Just live well. Be happy. That's enough."
They stayed at Hayes Manor for two more days while Arthur finalized the arrangements. Winky, more sentimental than usual, fussed endlessly over the family—packing meals, polishing shoes, triple-checking luggage.
Arthur watched from the margins, content to observe, and felt something quietly unexpected.
This is nice, he'd thought.
Children's laughter echoing down the halls. The clatter of footsteps. Winky's delighted chatter. For once, the manor felt less like a fortress and more like a home.
But he knew it wouldn't last. Couldn't last. They had a future to build, and he had work to do.
On the seventh morning, he drove them to Heathrow Airport himself. He'd arranged first-class tickets to New York, a furnished apartment in Queens, and a bank account with enough funds to live comfortably for three years.
At the terminal, Oleg had shaken his hand firmly. Iryna had hugged him, crying into his shoulder. Pietro had flashed a gap-toothed grin and promised to keep practicing the martial arts forms Arthur had taught him "so I can be strong like you!"
Wanda had looked up at him with wide, sincere eyes and said simply, "Thank you for saving us."
Arthur had knelt beside her. "Take care of your family, Wanda. Remember—you're special. And if anything strange or magical ever happens, don't be afraid to call me."
She'd nodded solemnly, too young to understand but believing him all the same.
Then the family had walked into the airport, toward their new life. Toward safety.
When Arthur returned home, the manor felt achingly silent.
"Winky will miss them," she'd said quietly. "The manor was nice with children."
"Yes," Arthur had agreed. "It was."
Then they'd gone back to their routines—to study, training, research—and the halls fell quiet once more.
But sometimes, late at night, Arthur found himself wondering. Would the Maximoffs remember him? Would Wanda remember the wizard who'd pulled her family from the rubble? Would Pietro keep his promise?
He hoped so.
Everyone deserved a happy life—even in a world that rarely allowed one.
—
Present: Bern Party
Arthur pulled himself from the memory, his focus settling once more on the glittering ballroom around him.
The Maximoffs were safe in America now. Oleg had steady work, the children were enrolled in school, and every few months, a quiet update would reach him—just enough to confirm they were alive, healthy, and moving on.
That was enough. They didn't need him hovering in the background like some watchful guardian. They needed peace. Normalcy. A life untouched by magic or war.
Still, sometimes—when his thoughts wandered—Arthur couldn't help but wonder what would happen when Wanda's powers eventually surfaced. If they surfaced at all. The timeline had already shifted so much that nothing felt certain anymore.
"Arthur Hayes."
The voice cut through his thoughts. Young. Confident to the point of arrogance.
Arthur turned.
And there, approaching with a glass of whiskey and an expression of supreme self-satisfaction, was Tony Stark.