Steve Rogers turned Mjolnir over in his hands. The uru metal was heavier than it looked and lighter than it should have been.
He thought about Thanos.
Not the 2014 version Jordan had handled.
He meant the one from the original fight. The one who had taken Steve's shield apart blow by blow and kept coming, who had held the full Infinity Gauntlet and still had to be slowed by a man with a broken shield and no backup, and who Steve had understood, in that moment, he was going to lose to. If he'd had Mjolnir then. If he'd had time to learn what it could do —
He had a feeling the outcome of that minute could have been different.
"Just be careful," Jordan said, already moving on, "that you don't let anyone steal it."
Steve nodded once, sharply.
Jordan looked at him for a moment with the expression of someone trying to determine if this was a joke. Decided it wasn't. Moved on.
"Hey." Tony appeared at his shoulder. "What about me?"
Jordan turned. "What about you?"
"You gave the captain a gift. I'm clearly closer to you than he is. Where's mine?"
Jordan considered this for a moment, his expression genuinely thoughtful. "Tony. Has there ever been something you actually wanted that you couldn't have?"
Tony's brow furrowed. He rested his chin on his hand with the focused concentration of a man taking this question seriously. A few seconds passed. "No," he said finally, with the easy confidence of someone stating a fact. "I've basically bought everything I've ever wanted. Or built it."
Jordan pointed away from himself. "Then go enjoy your things somewhere else."
"That's — Jordan, that's completely unfair! Is it a crime that I'm—"
The ambient reaction from the nearby Avengers cohort communicated, collectively and without anyone needing to organize it, that Tony should perhaps finish that sentence somewhere Tony wasn't.
Tony didn't finish the sentence.
The captain found Wanda on the lawn.
She was sitting with her knees drawn up, staring at the middle distance with the specific quality of someone whose mind was operating at full capacity on things that weren't in front of her. Pietro was gone. Vision was gone. The grief wasn't sharp anymore — it had passed through sharp and come out the other side into something more structural, the kind of loss that becomes load-bearing.
Natasha sat with her for a few minutes before telling her Jordan wanted to speak with her.
Wanda came because Natasha asked, without particular curiosity. She stood in front of Jordan and waited, her expression composed around its underlying weight.
Jordan had thought about how to approach this. Wanda in this timeline was what she'd always been in the back of the films — a contained catastrophe, a person whose power exceeded her capacity to carry it safely, whose grief was not separate from that power but woven through it. Chaos magic didn't distinguish between what the caster wanted to do and what the caster needed badly enough.
She deserved a complete family. He had the means to provide one. The math was simple.
"Why did you call her here?" Natasha asked, giving Jordan the look she reserved for situations where she suspected the answer was going to be more complicated than she wanted.
"The Infinity Stones haven't been returned to their home timelines yet," Jordan said. "I'd like to put them to one more use before they go."
Silence.
"I can bring Vision back," Jordan said. "I've already prepared his body."
Wanda's eyes went wide. Her hand came up to cover her mouth.
Jordan released the card from the deck — F-boy's careful work, the vibranium chassis sealed away after Ultron's consciousness was erased, the Mind Stone quiet in its forehead socket. The body materialized beside him with the same peaceful weightlessness it had held in the mirror dimension: Vision's face, Vision's form, red and still and waiting.
He didn't snap his fingers this time. He'd learned to read the room on that.
The Space Stone opened a portal to Wakanda.
They stepped through into warm air and tall trees, the smell of turned earth and the distant sound of the country going about its life unaware of them. The site of the battle — twenty-three days ago now, measured in this timeline — was still visible in the scarred ground where the Outriders had come through, the places where the soil hadn't fully recovered from what had been done to it.
Clint Barker looked around at the landscape with the expression of a man who had been in retirement during the Wakanda campaign and was therefore seeing this particular location for the first time. The country was something, he had to admit. He kept that observation to himself.
Wanda led Jordan through the forest without hesitation — she knew the place, had stood here in the aftermath — to an open clearing where the light came through the canopy in long afternoon angles. Her fingers were pale at the knuckles.
Jordan set the vibranium body down carefully. It floated a few inches above the ground, the Mind Stone's yellow still quiet, waiting.
He glanced back at the assembled veterans. "I'd appreciate some space. The Gauntlet is about to do several things at once."
The veterans retreated with the coordinated efficiency of people who had spent three hours learning what the Gauntlet could do and had no interest in standing close to it for non-essential reasons. Within seconds, there was a clear forty-meter perimeter around Jordan and Wanda.
Wanda stayed.
Jordan gave her a brief look — you're sure — and she answered it by not moving.
He snapped his fingers.
The Time Stone's green light spread outward first, and the forest became two places simultaneously. The clearing as it was now, quiet and undamaged. And layered beneath it, like a film played against the sky, the battle — twenty-three days compressed and then slowed, scenes rising and passing. Stormbreaker finding Thanos's chest. Steve Rogers standing alone against the full weight of the Titan's contempt, shield raised against something he couldn't beat but wouldn't stop facing. Wanda herself, earlier in the sequence, holding Thanos back with her chaos magic while she did the thing she'd had to do.
The images moved.
Wanda's fingers went white against each other.
The timeline slowed, approached its focal point, and stopped. The scene that held: Thanos's hands on Vision's head. The Mind Stone in his grip. The moment of taking.
Wanda's breath caught.
Jordan held the moment steady with one hand and reached backward through it with the other, the Soul Stone blazing orange on the Gauntlet. Here, he directed it, this specific soul, this specific instance. The Stone understood intent the way all Infinity Stones understood intent — not as language, but as pure will applied to pure authority.
A light came free of the past moment.
Translucent, bewildered, pulling against the direction it was being moved the way something pulled against an unexpected current. Vision's soul — or the echo of it, the thing that had existed behind those eyes and that had not known where it went when it was taken — came forward through twenty-three days of elapsed time and arrived in the clearing, confused and blinking in ways that souls apparently did when disoriented.
Jordan directed it toward the vibranium body with the Reality Stone's red guidance. Here. This is yours. This is the shape you were made to occupy.
The soul and the body recognized each other.
The merge wasn't violent. It was more like watching water find its level — the soul settling into the body's architecture, every system reorienting around the returning presence, the Mind Stone on the forehead flickering from quiet yellow to something warmer and more awake. The light steadied. Held.
The closed eyes opened.
Vision blinked at the tree canopy. At the light. At the unfamiliar quality of existing in a moment that was not the one he had last occupied.
"What's wrong with me?"
His voice carried the particular confusion of a consciousness that had been mid-experience and then skipped — one second the cold certainty of Thanos's grip, the next the warm air of an afternoon forest and the sensation of a body that was, apparently, entirely intact. He sat up. Looked at his hands. The vibranium was red and familiar. He accessed his systems by reflex and found them responsive, his perception of the world reassembling around him in full fidelity.
He stood.
The blue suit assembled itself automatically as he rose — the habit of a mind that equated standing with being operational. The gold cape settled at his shoulders. He turned, taking in the clearing with the measured attention of a consciousness orienting itself, and his eyes found the woman at the edge of the space between them.
Something in his processing stopped trying to reconstruct the sequence of events that had led here.
Wanda ran.
Vision caught her.
The embrace held them both still for a long moment. His hand moved through her hair with the careful attention of someone making sure a thing was real — the texture of it, the warmth, the specific presence of a person who mattered past the capacity of systems to quantify. He held her the way someone holds something they were told they'd lost.
"For a moment," he said quietly, against her hair, "I was certain I would never see you again." A pause. The confusion hadn't left him, but it had moved to the back of the room. "What happened, Wanda?"