Chapter Text
When Charlie slides into the bar seat the next night, that same fucking kid is there serving. They give him a narrow-eyed look, but don’t try to talk to him – just slide over a glass brimming with whatever cheap swill’s on tap tonight. Charlie downs the first half in one swallow, then runs his tongue over his teeth. Whatever this brew is, it’s even fouler than yesterday’s.
“Here to keep drinking yourself to death?” the kid says, “At least tonight you’ll have your buddy to keep you company.”
Buddy? There’s another Ravager here? Charlie lets his knife, Yondu’s knife, slide out of his sleeve. He checks his comm religiously every morning, and there wasn’t any talk on the comm about a faction coming this way. Who the hell besides Stakar would even have known he was here?
“Flark,” the kid jerks back, “you in trouble with other Ravagers or something, what the hell.”
Charlie rubs along the blade and up the handle as he scans the room. His thumb traces red to gold, red to gold. There’s no Ravagers at the bar top, but out of the corner of his eye something glints sharp and bright, tucked in the back corner. He shoves his boot against the stool, twisting him around.
Oh. Martinex.
What the hell is he doing here?
Seems like Martinex realizes he’s been noticed, because he pushes himself to his feet, starts towards him. His leathers are scuffed and marked, dirtier than Charlie’s ever seem them on the weirdly neat Martinex, and his boots are three days out from their usual polish. Whatever drink hanging limply from his hand isn’t his usual, something kind of viscous blue-black paint-thinner of a drink.
“Still have that, huh?” Martinex nods at Charlie’s knife. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you without it.”
“Why are you here, Marty?” Charlie slides the knife back into its sheath, gropes for his glass.
Martinex bites his upper lip, and lets himself slump into the seat next to Charlie.
“What, couldn’t just be here to check on a friend?”
Charlie snorts. “Right.”
They’ve never been close, the two of them. Charlie had always had Stakar, for long amiable nights drunk away mellow, Charlie complaining about the shenanigans of the younger crew, or Stakar moping about whatever way he’d let his lunkheadedness fuck things up with Aleta this time.
And Martinex had always had Yondu.
The kid takes one look at the tension in Charlie's shoulders, the way Martinex is etching circles into his glass with a stony finger and sidles slowly towards the opposite end of the counter.
Martinex watches him, then says abruptly, “I’m here about Yondu,”
Charlie snorts. “Isn’t it a little late for that?”
He still remembers the wariness in his eyes the first time a newly-freed Yondu had met him. He still remembers the way Yondu’d bared his teeth, looked him up and down like he was just daring Charlie to start something, the fierce little fucker. Most people were intimidated by Charlie’s size, but not him.
Charlie still remembers the first time Yondu had looked up at him with something like trust.
“Charlie,” Martinex worries at his lip harder, starts to reach a hand out but Charlie jerks away.
“We should have handled it differently,” he bites out.“We failed him.”
“The council voted,” Martinex says weakly.
"The council was wrong,” Charlies slams his glass down hard enough to rattle the others out of line. He ignores them, gropes for the bottle the kid had left when they retreated to the other end of the bar.
“There isn’t anything you could have done, Charlie,” Martinex is biting his damn lip again. Maybe if he gets punched in it, it’ll make him stop. “This isn’t Jupiter.”
Charlie’s shoulders hike up.
“I was drunk when I told y’that,’” his voice is hoarse and he turns his head, clear his throat. “Gonna throw it in my face now?”
Martinex looks at him for moment, then turns back to stare at the shelving like he’s trying to will a bottle closer.
“I needed to let you know…” he stops, shifts.
Charlie scrubs a hand across his face. “Just tell me.”
Whatever it is, waiting won’t ward it off.
Martinex’s hands flex. He looks back straight at Charlie and says soft like broken things, “Yondu’s alive.”
Charlie can’t breath.
“Bullshit,” he keeps his face blank. “The code’s clear.”
He doesn’t know what kind of game Martinex is dealing him here, but he isn’t gonna play.
“Except that first mate of his,” Martinex voice wavers, “that first mate of his broke it. They were seen on Knowhere, the both of them, still wearing the Ravager flame.”
Yondu’s not dead. Charlie’s elbows slide apart, buries his face against his fists and tries to breathe. Yondu’s alive. And he still has his ship, and his crew, and–
Stakar.
“Does Stakar know?”
“Of course he knows,” Martinex’s voice is bitter. “He probably knew before anyone else did.”
Of course he did, the unhelpfully precognitive bastard.
“And Aleta?”
“She hasn’t been taking calls, but I sent a message to her comm,” Martinex says. “Krugarr and Mainframe too. Stakar sent me to bring you back, I figured you’d rather get the news in person.”
Charlie nods, but he isn’t really listening. That first mate of Yondu’s broke the code for him? Got himself and whatever crew stayed with them put under exile too? If anyone was gonna break the code for Yondu, Charlie would’ve thought it would have been Martinex. The stupid bastard’s been in love with him for years, not that he’s ever gotten up the guts to say anything about it.
Charlie’s breathes slow and measured, in and out. They’ve chosen a rough road for themselves, Yondu and his first. They may wear the Ravager flame, but the code is clear. No one that wants to deal with Ogord will deal with a code-breaker flaunting his flame.
But Yondu’s still alive – still probably strutting around in his ridiculous fur-hemmed getup, snarking and tumbling himself head-first into whatever seems like the most amount of trouble – alive and whole and breathing.
And Charlie decides.
“I’m not coming back,” he says low, “‘Not to Stakar’s crew.”
Martinex looks gutted. “You’re leaving the Ravagers, what–”
“Not leaving the Ravagers,” Charlie cuts him off, “Leaving to start my own faction.”
Martinex only looks marginally less upset at this. “Your own faction…?”
“It’s time,” Charlie drains the last of his glass, sets it down firm. “Stakar’s been mentioning it for years after all.”
“You know he was only saying that because he felt he should, he doesn’t really want you to leave–“ Martinex voice pitches higher and faster with each word.
“To hell with what Stakar wants,” Charlie shakes his head sharp, slides the knife out to thumb over it again methodically, blade to handle. He’ll always be a Ravager, owes too much to Stakar and the others to ever abandon them, but it’s time to be his own captain, control his own piece of space.
And if Yondu ever happens to find himself running around that patch of sky, well, Charlie might have to look hard the other way.
Martinex swallows, but doesn’t argue with him anymore.
“I’ll tell Stakar, if you want,” he offers quiet, “Give him time to get used to it, before you start the whole process.”
Charlie grins at him, humorless. “I’ll do it. Gotta pull out my funds for a ship outta the system there, anyways.”
“Your own ship,” Martinex gives him a half smile back. “What’ll you call her?”
Charlie breathes, pushes himself to his feet.
“Think I’m gonna call her the Utolo.”
Martinex inhales sharp.
“Isn’t that Jovian for..?”
“Arrow,” Charlie says over his shoulder as he walks towards the door, “It’s Jovian for arrow.”
He doesn’t look back.