HI GUYS. We've missed you!

WARNINGS for not-so-great mindsets, and Wade Wilson.

This is written by both myself and MonstrousReg.


Chapter VIII.

You both made your choices

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Erik stares at them for a couple of moments.

He knows three things.

One. Charles is gone.

Two. Charles is gone.

Three. Scott and Logan are the biggest dickbags in the entire Universe.

They're also the only two people he's got left that he can fully trust, and if that doesn't say something's fucked up about his people relations then he's not sure what it means but as it stands, they are literally his only two friends and that has to count for something.

And hm, there's something off about the numbering on all that but whatever.

"Raven," he says, his voice coming out in a croak.

"Sir." The AI materializes immediately on the other side of the bed, arms folded neatly behind her back.

"Last files opened by Legionnaires Summers and Howlett," Erik says, without looking away from either of them. Scott narrows his eyes but Logan only looks grim, the cigar in his mouth nearly burnt all the way through.

"Legionnaires Summers and Howlett attempted to access HF33427 approximately one hundred and thirty-six minutes ago, sir." Raven's voice has grown quiet. She doesn't list any other files.

She doesn't need to.

"And how," Erik says, his voice growing hard, because that file is labeled HF—Hidden File—for a reason, "did they manage to stumble upon that?"

Both Logan and Scott are looking at him defiantly now but neither of them says anything, waiting for Raven's response.

"Directive Zero," Raven begins into the silence, her voice suddenly flat and computerized, containing none of her usual inflection.

"No." Erik interrupts her.

"Overrides Directives One and Three," Raven continues as if he hasn't said a word, "given the current—"

"Raven—"

"—situational statistics and outcome probabilities, main Directives One and Three are no longer applicable to this ship or her bridge crew possessing over Level 9 clearance, therefore—"

"No—"

"—Directive Zero has been initialized." Raven finishes serenely, possessing only the unmovable calm that an AI can replicate. "Awaiting your orders, sir."

In the ringing silence that follows, Logan says heavily, as if he already suspects the answer, "Sir. What is Directive Zero."

"Directive Zero," Erik says, dragging a hand down his face, because of course Raven is right, several things have just lined up in his head and everything suddenly makes sense now, "the End Game Directive."

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"Oh," Charles says, "it's you." Because of course it is.

Why wouldn't Wade Wilson be in the same outrageous plant that has just swallowed him whole?

Really.

"I am so glad to see you, bro," Wade says, still wearing his slightly-goofy-yet-also-vaguely-terrifying grin as he pulls Charles through the thick goo and—oh, that's alarming—crushes him in a hug, "because man, it's been ages."

"Actually," Charles says, his voice a little strained because Wade is pretty strong and may or may not be crushing every last cubic inch of air out of his lungs, "it's only been a few days, Wade."

Wade laughs. "Dude, did you know that you're in a plant?"

"The thought's occurred to me, yes," Charles admits.

"Man, you are crazy." Wade says fondly and shakes his head, like he can't believe it.

A small pause.

"Wade," Charles says carefully, because Jesus Christ, "you are also in the same plant."

"Isn't it great?" Wade replies cheerfully. "Of all the plants in the entire galaxy, we end up in the same one!"

"Dreams do come true after all." Charles says faintly. "Ah, would you mind letting me go?" Not that it matters, but he's fairly certain Wade is about two seconds away from cracking his ribs and if Charles is going to have a choice in the matter, he'd rather not die with a punctured lung.

"That's fate, man," Wade says, but mercifully lets go. "Yo, what's that?"

Charles listens. He can faintly hear Tony outside, still shouting his name. If Creed has managed to land yet, it'll certainly be no secret where Tony Stark is. "That's my friend," he says, "he's worried because I was just eaten by this plant."

"Yeah, man, what are you thinking," Wade says, "getting eaten by a plant."

Charles wonders if this is a good time to bring up the fact again that Wade has also been eaten by a plant.

Wade points at him. "I'm going to help you out, bro," he says, "so don't worry."

Funnily enough, the only thought that passes through Charles' head next is Wade Wilson is going to meet Tony Stark followed shortly by Tony Stark is going to meet Wade Wilson and both of those thoughts are actually pretty terrifying, oh god.

It's a nice universe. Charles is rather fond of it. Well, it was swell while it lasted.

And then Wade is suddenly holding his two swords, pulling them out of god knows where, and Charles instinctively knows what's going to happen next.

"I AM DEADPOOL!" Wade shouts, and it's not like Charles had forgotten or anything, Jesus.

At this point, Charles could probably say it along with him.

Then Charles has to duck down into the goo or otherwise lose his head as Wade swings his swords in a wide arc, slicing through the side of the outrageous plant with another wild cry. The world tilts sideways and Charles spills out of the plant's stomach in a waterfall of slime, splattering out onto the ground, and he gags on the sudden breath of fresh air.

Then he chokes when Wade lands on top of him—and Jesus, it's a miracle he wasn't impaled by either of those blades.

"Holy shit, what the fuck—" Tony's voice is much closer now, cursing up a storm, and two hands grab onto Charles and drag him backwards out from underneath Wade, who is currently laughing like a maniac.

"Just like old times," Charles mumbles, slightly dazed. The outrageous plant's vines are writhing as it dies, and Tony curses again as one of them swings by overhead, narrowly missing him.

"What the fuck, Charles." Tony lets him drop, circling around in front of him and looking down at him with a strange expression on his face that Charles can't quite place. "Charles—what—" Tony's lips move soundlessly for a moment, unable to form articulate words.

"What?" Charles asks, looking up at him wearily. The way Tony is standing over him is blocking out the sun, which is actually sort of nice.

Tony grimaces, and then leans down to offer him a hand up. "You—you didn't fight back. You didn't even struggle." He sounds vaguely hurt by this, concern and anger all rolled into one, and also puzzled, as if he can't figure out why.

Charles lets himself be pulled up, balancing awkwardly with most of his weight on his good leg. He knows what this is about. "Well—no. I didn't."

"Well—well why not?" Tony demands, folding his arms.

Charles looks at him for a few moments before answering. "Because isn't that the point?" he asks gently, without vehemence. "We're being hunted. It doesn't matter one way or the other if I get eaten by a plant or if Creed catches me and turns me over to the Nyrulians." He pauses, because it's not as if he's eager to die. He's just accepting the inevitable. "You know as well as I do that both scenarios have the same ending."

Tony doesn't say anything at first either, and Charles knows why. He can put on as much of a tough act as he wants, and pretend that he's ready to die, but in reality Tony Stark is meant to live, because he clings to life with the most dogged determination that Charles has ever seen. For a split second Charles is breathless with a terrible, terrible anger for how Tony has been dropped into this dead-end situation, which people like Charles are better suited for. Charles is able to accept his fate, he thinks, but it is Tony's natural, responding instinct to fight things like fate every single step of the way, because Tony has always wanted—needed—to carve his own way.

"It's not like you to give up," Tony says eventually, because not only is he determined, he's stubborn.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to be like anymore." Charles admits.

Tony narrows his eyes. "You can't just lie down and—"

"Tony," Charles interrupts him quietly, but his voice shakes with emotion, "have you ever loved someone with every single fiber of your being?"

What follows is a heavy silence, and Tony looks away.

"Imagine that they're gone," Charles continues, because he already knows what Tony's answer is, "so what are you supposed to do. What am I supposed to do?" His voice cracks on the last syllable.

He's shaking slightly with the effort of keeping his breathing steady, fingernails digging almost painfully into his palms where his fists have clenched. Erik is dead.

Even the light of supernovas fade.

Charles cannot put into words how he feels because Erik was gravity. Erik was the only constant in his life, steady and solid and never not there, even when Charles was still back in the Academy and Erik was off climbing the ranks. Before Erik, Charles had never had anyone to put stock into, nor anyone who ever has put stock into him. Erik was his best friend. The love of his life.

Was.

"But dude," Wade says, appearing on the peripheral of Charles' vision as he joins them, oddly solemn, "what would he want you to do?"

Charles starts to shake his head. "I don't—"

The bounty hunter holds up a hand, two of his fingers crossed. "You and that War-Prince, yeah? I think you do know, bro, but you're just giving up because it's easier."

Charles wants to protest, but Wade is right. Then he realizes that he actually wanted to protest.

Wade grins at him, and no doubt at whatever asinine expression has crossed Charles' face. "See? You're not done yet, man."

Charles is nearly able to choke out a laugh, because once again he is covered in slime and just got told by Wade Wilson.

"He would want to fight," Charles says when he feels that he isn't in danger of actually giving in to the urge to laugh, because that would quickly turn into ugly sobs and he's already sworn to himself that he's not going to cry, "so he'd probably want me to fight." He pauses to take another steadying breath. "We can't win, though."

Wade shrugs, like it's nothing. "I told you that I'd help you out, bro."

"Who exactly are you?" Tony asks, a little skeptical, and oh right, as far as the engineer knows Wade is the crazy man that Charles somehow found in the stomach of an outrageous plant.

Well. The real truth isn't far off from that anyway. If Tony only knew.

"Dude," Charles says very, very seriously, "he's Deadpool."

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"And what," Scott says tersely, "exactly is the End Game Directive. Sir."

Erik looks tired. Hell, Scott knows for a fact that the War-Prince is exhausted, both physically and mentally. But after Raven's last cool statement, Erik looks practically ancient, world-weary and, Scott thinks with a small trickle of uncertainty, lost—Erik is someone he's used to seeing calm and confident and in control, but now it's more as if the War-Prince is struggling to stay afloat, desperately trying to keep his head above water but slowly and surely sinking as he loses energy and direction.

"Were you able to crack the encryption code on HF33427." Erik says after a long moment instead of answering, finally snapping out of whatever train of thought he'd fallen into.

"Not entirely," Scott admits, because fuck, that code was basically gibberish in three different dialects, "but I was able to get that it has something to do with Raven."

"It has everything to do with Raven," Erik says shortly, even as he brings his hands up to rub at his temples. "I suppose you're to blame for this?"

The question is directed to Raven herself, who nods her head. "Yes sir. As Directive Zero states—"

"Yes, you said so before." Erik cuts her off wearily, and with much more success as the AI falls silent. He's silent for a minute, and Scott can practically hear the gears turning in the War-Prince's head. Finally he glances back at the TO. "That was the file Marko was trying to locate, wasn't it."

Scott nods grimly. It'd been the first thing he'd noticed about the file when Raven had sent it to him, as soon as Steve had left the ship. "Someone before me tried to tamper with it. Fortunately no one's as good as I am, damn it, so they didn't get past the first firewall in there, but my money's on Marko. He wanted to know something about Raven."

"And our question is, sir," Logan says from around his cigar, his voice falsely pleasant, "what the fuck might that be?"

"Directive Zero, or the End Game Directive," Erik says instead, and Scott resists the urge to grind his teeth because what the fuck, stop avoiding the fucking question, "can only be initiated by Raven herself. Only she can calculate whether or not Directive Zero should or should not be implemented."

"'End Game,'" Logan quotes, eyebrows raised. "So she thinks we're pretty damn screwed."

"Put simply." Erik allows. "Directive Zero, essentially, allows Raven to reveal HF33427 to anyone on the ship above Level 9 clearance. Those individuals have been previously determined by me."

"And who might they be?" Scott demands. He's tired of bullshit, he wants answers—all of them. "Me, Logan, who else?"

"You and Logan are the only two." Erik says flatly, pointedly not looking at either of them.

Oh.

That's. Well.

"What about Charles?" Logan asks, while Scott tries his damndest not to feel all touched and shit.

Erik takes a steadying breath. "Charles already knows the contents of HF33427. He's known all along."

Well of course he fucking has, Scott wants to say, you've only been married to each other for goddamn years even though it took you about that long to figure it the fuck out. Instead he says, "Jesus Christ, Erik, just tell us what the fuck this is all about."

Erik drags a hand down his face, and alright, it's really weirding Scott out to see the War-Prince looking so human. "This ship wasn't built by the Keflars."

Full stop.

"What," Scott says blankly.

"The fuck," Logan adds.

"It has the name," Scott says when Erik doesn't answer right away, "right? Didn't they make you name it Heartsteel? And isn't that like, you know, what they do when they build a ship?"

"This ship is the same standard ship that is commissioned by the Fleet for all Commanders," Erik says, "engineered and built on Second Earth, just like all the others."

"But—"

"The only thing left out of the design plans was an in-ship AI," Erik overrides him firmly, "because I happened to have one already."

"Wait," Scott says, mind racing, "Raven is downloadable?"

Erik nods his head once. "She was my gift from the Keflars. Not the whole ship. Just Raven."

Scott looks over at the hologram of the AI, wrapping his mind around it. Ship AIs are usually hardwired to the ship, ingrained into the ship's tech and therefore irremovable. But if Raven can be passed around on a goddamn floppy disk, like something straight out of First Earth's twentieth century…

"The HF is her master file, isn't it," he says, staring hard at the War-Prince, "and the Zero Directive converts her into a zip."

"Correct, Legionnaire Summers." Raven says calmly.

"So she's calculated that we're at a big enough risk as to where we might need to jump ship, and has prepared herself to be taken along."

"Yes, Summers," Erik says, looking tired again.

"Stark's warning," Scott says quickly, several pieces of the puzzle lining up in his head at once, "he warned you and Charles, told you to get the fuck out. He knew that someone leaked info to the Nyrulians about Raven—don't tell me some of the higher-ups weren't aware at the very least that you had Keflar tech on this ship—so his warning makes sense. Someone in the Fleet betrayed you, and the Nyrulians were interested. So they sent Marko to try and steal it, but fuck, when that failed, they went after the Keflars themselves—that's why they blew up the Hejmo."

Erik has covered his eyes with one hand again, and doesn't answer, his mouth a tightly controlled, thin line. Scott feels himself reeling as he looks back over at Raven, because he knows he's right. The Nyrulians want Raven's tech. The Keflars refused to grant it to them, so they were slaughtered. And now Scott is sitting on the only damn ship in the universe that still has it.

Scott can see the appeal, though. Raven's Mystique Mode is without a doubt the best cloaking system in existence—now that he's thinking about it, it's the same technology that the Hejmo had, and holy shit, he's been sitting on a mini Hejmo all this time without ever realizing it—so no wonder the Nyrulians are desperate to get ahold of it. He can only imagine what they'd do with it once they had it, and shakes his head, resisting the urge to laugh helplessly—damn the Keflars for making it, but oh wait; they've already paid in full.

Fuck.

"Fury's started to figure it out," he says aloud, voice hoarse now, "that's why he tried to arrest Charles. He doesn't have all the pieces yet, but he knows it has to do with the Heartsteel somehow, and fuck me if that motherfucker isn't dogged as hell, so he pegged Charles as a criminal so we'd have to sidle up to his Ionstar for Charles to turn himself in. I'll bet you every last fucking cent to my name that as soon as we got there, Charles would be forgotten about and the Heartsteel would be under a full investigation."

Logan has been chewing contemplatively on his cigar, but now he clears his throat. "I'm not saying I don't agree with you, Summers, because I do," he says gruffly, "but where does Charles fit in all of this for the Nyrulians? Because obviously they want him really fucking bad, and have since the get-go."

Scott opens his mouth, and then stops. "I don't know," he admits. "Grabbing him for codes and channels for the Fleet doesn't make sense anymore, if it was really Raven's tech they're after."

"Erik." Logan regards the War-Prince solemnly. "Any ideas?"

Scott nearly jumps out of his skin when the War-Prince abruptly swings his legs over the side of the medical bay bed, standing up and pacing a few feet away. "What the fuck, you shouldn't be—"

"I know exactly why they took him," Erik says without turning around, his fists clenched and his voice low and rough, and something about it sort of makes Scott's heart stop, "but they got it wrong."

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Tony Stark, billionaire playboy philanthropist (his own definition), son of brilliant engineer and inventor Howard Stark, sole owner of (what was left) of Stark Industries, with an IQ so high they'd had to redefine the old scale for him, Intergalactic Institute of Technology drop-out (he got bored), Vulcan Science Academy drop-out (even worse), Starfleet Academy drop-out (don't even fucking ask), is stuck in a vegetable-covered rock riddled with man-eating plants—they'd only found one so far, but Tony knows Charles and his luck.

His only companions in this great adventure are Charles Xavier, his dismal luck—a character all on its own, certainly—and someone who by all existent and yet-to-be-created definitions of the word, is absolutely fucking insane.

No, okay, Tony knows 'inspired', Tony knows 'different', Tony certainly fucking know 'Savant', but this guys is just unbalanced.

"—you know? But I escaped because fuck that shit, I'm—"

"Deadpool," Tony sighs, nodding and waving a hand to speed the tale along. "Yes, you've mentioned that before."

"You're wasting your breath," Charles pants, making his absolute best—that's Charles for you, earnest little puppy—not to lean all of his weight on Tony's shoulder. "He'll just keep on saying it."

"Where did you find this… person, again?"

"I found him in the air ducts of a Nyrulian ship."

"Ew, Charles, didn't your mom tell you not to pick up things from weird places? You don't know where he's been. I don't think we can keep him."

This is one of the things no one knows about Tony Stark: he jokes about the shit that hurt you the most because he knows they hurt you, and he lives on the hope that, someday, he'll find you and joke and it won't hurt anymore, and you'll have moved on, and he'll have to find some other painful shit to make light of. Some people might think he does it to show you he knows your weaknesses, and admittedly that is sometimes the case, but, mostly, Tony's problem is he cares too damn much.

"Good luck losing him," sighs Charles.

Charles, Tony realizes, has become a sigh-y sort of person. He sighs a lot. And alright, maybe the leg and the kidnapping and almost getting killed and the escape and the living human-eating plant might be a good excuse for all the dramatic exhaling, so Tony hasn't said anything, but there's a lot of air coming out of Charles' lips accompanied by sad, breathy little sounds. Just saying.

"Do we like, have a plan, bros?"

Tony shifts his grip on Charles' side to haul him in closer and take a little bit more of the weight from his bad leg, and grits his teeth.

"We need cover. Psychotic asshole of doom probably has heat sensors in his ship, so we need to find a place that will either shield out heat signature, or a place where we can disguise it."

He stops momentarily, giving Charles a moment to catch his breath and looking around, quick assessing eyes and sharp attention. He wishes he was better at strategizing stuff. Give Tony a paperclip and piece of string and he will build you a bomb, but give him a situation like this one and he's just treading water. This isn't his stuff. This is Steve's stuff. Steve's the one that always knows what the fuck to do in any situation, how to fix shit, who needs to do what.

"What, like a sauna or something?" Deadpool gives one quick pivot on his own axis, surprisingly graceful on his feet, and then says sadly, "No Turkish baths around, man."

Asking 'what' to anything incomprehensible that comes out of Deadpool's mouth is asking 'what' to everything that comes out of his mouth, so Tony lets that slide.

"Look, this place is like a tropical jungle," he says patiently. "Do me a favor, play explorer and go have a look around. See if you can find some sort of swamp, or hot pools of water. Anything that is hot and damp, that will do the trick."

"We need to get to Wade's ship," Charles says with difficulty.

"I know," Tony squeezes his side. "But you need to sit down and I need to look at that leg. We need a time-out, ok? Deadpool, for Charles."

"Anything, bro," says Deadpool, oddly solemn, and after a second he breaks away from them, steps quick and easy on the uneven terrain.

Tony helps Charles to a fallen, moss-covered and half-rotted log, and helps him sit down.

"When we do get to the ship," Charles says, struggling for breath in the damp, hot atmosphere. Charles, Tony thinks, has seen some mileage lately. He could do with a week lying on his back in a beach on Pellinore-4, surrounded by beautiful young women with curves where they matter. Or, well, more realistically, getting his cock sucked by Erik Lehnsherr. Paradise is such a subjective thing, after all.

"I still feel like I'm missing something," mutters Tony, pacing and rubbings his hair, as if the increased blood flow to his head might help him discover some previously overlooked piece of information. He can almost imagine Steve's quick little head tilt, there and gone, and his words: Not enough data. I need more.

"Tony," Charles shoves damp hair away from his eyes. "We need to get to the Ionstar."

Tony scoffs. "Fury? No fucking way in hell."

"I have to give myself up," Charles insists.

"I don't think it'll do any good anymore," Tony shrugs. "I doubt Fury actually thinks you helped that dickhead. Hauling you in was just an excuse. The problem is figuring out what the hell he's actually after."

Charles spreads his hands, palm-up, in a gesture of surrender and ignorance.

"Tony, I'm…I feel like I'm at the end of my rope here. I don't know what to do or where to go anymore." He stops, and god damn it, his voice is wavering again and Tony's not sure that he'll be able to handle it if Charles really does break down. "Erik is—"

"You don't actually know that," Tony bites out, having had quite enough of this for the day. "You don't get to call it until we see a body on a table. And you know what? I don't—"

He stops abruptly because an ear-splitting shriek tears across the air, making their hearts pound. It ends almost as soon as it's began, but it leaves them reeling. Tony glances at Charles and then, wordless, shoots up the hill in the direction Deadpool went. Not because Tony Stark is the battle-charging sort, but because Deadpool is their only way out of this tropical hell unless they're willing to return to Victor's tender mercies, so they need him alive.

"What is—"

"This plant tried to eat me, man!" says Wade, apparently torn—from what Tony can tell of his tone of voice—between shock and indignation. Which is really just unnecessary considering they found him inside a man-eating plant, it's perfectly obvious that they are a life form that is present in this planet, anyone with half a mind would figure that out, and oh.

"Yeah," Tony says. "That might happen often, so watch out. Nice job with the swords, though."

"They're my babies," coos Wade, and cleans off the blades of his lethal babies on the closest vine of the dead plant he just slaughtered. Hopefully they aren't endangered or something, but then again at the rate they're running into them, Tony thinks that this place could use a good lawnmower or eight.

"Okay, Hattori Hanzo, but did you find somewhere to rest or not?"

"We don't need to, smarty," Wade turns around and points imperiously in the direction of a nearby hill. "I know this place! My baby's right behind the hill."

"Oh good," Tony says, so relieved his knees might go weak. Charles needs medical attention and rest urgently and Tony has to get on the line with someone that can get them out of this fucking mess—preferably Steve, because Steve can get you out of messes and sew them up tight and hermetic so they never come bite your ass five, ten, fifteen years down the line, which is Tony's life, really.

So Tony rushes back to where Charles is sitting, looking distinctly concerned, pulls him up with no little amount of effort, and helps him hobble precariously toward the hill.

"I wonder what the fuck Wade was doing here in the first place," he mumbles aloud after a moment, because Charles' labored breathing and weakened grip is making his hair stand on end.

Tony can deal with broken down machinery, he can fix any sort of space-ship that has incurred in technical issues, he can make a transmitter from salty water and a wire, he can figure out where the fuck he's standing by the position of the stars in the sky—Steve's weird, alright, he has weird hobbies, shut up—but he doesn't know how the fuck you put stitches in someone's skin, let alone re-align and immobilize broken limbs. Tony can't fix people. He can't even fix himself, for fuck's sake.

They make their way painfully up the hill, and Tony's already trying to figure out who he's going to try to contact when they crest it and get an open, wide view into a softly inclined valley nestled between velvet-wrapped green hills. Tony's got expectations on what Wade's ship is going to look like considering the general massive insanity the man wears like skin, but he doesn't get to see if his initial hypothesis went wide or not because the ship isn't there.

"Huh," says Wade, scratching his head. "Wrong valley. Hold on—it's that hill!"

"Tell me you're shitting me," Tony deadpans, feeling a flush of hot anger crawling up his spine. Charles can barely stand on his one good leg and this asshole doesn't even know where he parked his fucking ship. How do these things happen to Tony Stark, huh? What awful sins did he commit in some past life—actually, never mind.

It's not like he hasn't piled up enough sins in this one.

"I'm sure he's right, it must be the next one," Charles mumbles, dropping his forehead to Tony's shoulder.

Tony sighs—great, now he's sigh-y too, thanks a lot, Chuck—carefully rearranges Charles' weight against his side, and slowly and cautiously ambles them down the side of this hill and up the next one. In the next valley, as gently curved as this one and similarly surrounded by picturesque little hills, there is—nothing.

Wade pulls a face. Tony glares murderously at him and lowers Charles down to the damp grass. He runs down the hill and up the neighboring one, which seems to me somewhat taller, to get a better look at the terrain. Maybe Wade's just disoriented. A lot of these hills all look the same.

Actually…Tony looks over his shoulder, back in the direction they just came from. Back there the place looks like the dregs of a tropical jungle; the borders are where the plants begin to become sporadic and are not as tightly packed as the thickest of the jungle. But here and in front of them, the terrain changes almost abruptly to damp and velvety grass covered hills of softly inclined sides and elegantly declining valleys.

Tony notices that the part of the terrain that swells into hills appears to be gaining altitude as it approaches a faraway orogenic belt. The lower lands seem to be tropical, while the higher lands are gradually shifting into mountainous terrains. Tony pauses a moment, scanning the topography, as he considers that. It doesn't feel like a natural formation, honestly.

Could this be a terraformed planet? It doesn't look like the usual terraforming left-over either, though. Bizarre.

Still, no sign of the stupid fucking ship anywhere as far as Toy can see.

Fuck. Tony hates taking charge of things. He doesn't do well in teams because he doesn't like to take orders and he sure as hell doesn't fucking like to give them, either. But Wade's a malfunctioning psychopath and Charles is hanging from the last threads at the end of the proverbial rope, so he's going to have to shoulder the responsibility.

One of the valleys behind them and to their right is actually, Tony notices with relief, a small swamp. It'll probably be disgusting but Tony will fucking take it.

He trots down the hill and back up to where Charles and Wade are waiting and explains what he's discovered.

"Do me a favor, go on over to that valley and make sure there aren't any man-eating carnivore plants of doom or crocodiles or something waiting to eat some human leg, alright? I'll help Charles."

"Roger that, dude," Wade salutes and runs down the hill, trips, falls on his face, and rolls slowly down to the foot of the inclination. As Tony stares disbelievingly he picks himself up, waves that everything's fine, and starts climbing rather laboriously up the other hillside to get to the swamp, even though it's much easier and obviously a hundred times more logical to go around.

Tony shakes his head and drops to the grass next to where Charles has curled forward over his legs, shaking slightly. Sighing, the engineer rubs his hand up and down Charles' back, trying to make him feel a little bit better. Charles turns to him, looking absolutely wretched.

"What do I do after?" he murmurs, eyes worn down to the palest of blues, like sorrow's bleached away the color. "If Erik is—gone?"

Tony's shoulders slump. "One breath at a time, Charles."

The Prince spreads his hands and opens his mouth, but no sounds come out and they go limp, hanging from his wrists. Charles, Tony realizes suddenly, is a delicate sort of man, of thin willowy bones and long flat muscles. There's no bulk to him, no power to his body—though his hands, strangely enough, are very masculine.

"I wouldn't be here," he says finally, voice breaking. "If it wasn't for him. I would be long dead."

"I know," Tony says sadly. "But you pulled through for him before, so try to pull through for him now again, ok? We don't know he's gone, Charles. Maybe he's in his ship going insane with worry. I mean, it's not every life you find the love of your life by letting them puke on your shoes."

Charles winces. "He didn't exactly let me."

"So romantic," Tony continues, noticing some animation returning to Charles' usually expressive face. Charles can't lie worth a shit, poor bastard. One would think Lehnsherr-Poker-Fucking-Face (unofficial Academy nickname) would teach him, but apparently that wasn't the case. "It's the stuff of fairytales. Fuck everlasting-love kisses, man. Vomit's the new pink."

"Your method is so much better," scowls Charles. "Hitting them in the face."

"He shouldn't have gotten in the stupid fight anyway," Tony says for what is the hundredth and twenty-seventh time (he's been keeping track). "I totally had it under control!"

"Tony, it was six against one."

"They only needed one more to make it even!"

Charles shakes his head, lips curling up in a small smile. "Steve saved your life, Tony."

"That's taking it a little far—" protests Tony, who never admits to having needed help at any point in his life, not even when he got himself stuck in the barrel of a rapidly-heating experimental turbine. It's a long story. Alcohol was involved, not that anybody can't figure that out on their own.

Charles laughs lightly and rubs a hand up and down his face roughly, should slumping to a defeated, weary slope. Tony puts an arm around him and brings him in close, exhaling. At least the Prince isn't looking quite so lost anymore, even though he's still far from okay.

"We'll figure it out."

"Hey bros," Wade is screaming from the top of the hill, waving his swords. "It's all clear and shit!"

"And shit," sighs Tony, pulling himself to his feet and helping Charles up.

"His heart is in the right place," offers Charles.

"On the left side of his chest?" grunts Tony, carefully maneuvering them down the slope.

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Erik feels sick.

This is his fault. He never should have dragged Charles into this, never should have invited him along all those years ago when he'd gotten an invitation from Edgar to the Hejmo, never should have accepted Edgar's gift.

He should have realized what the Nyrulians were after. And then he should have sent Charles off to the furthest, most remote part of the galaxy. Should have warned Edgar that he'd gone too far, created technology too dangerous, should have been there to defend the Hejmo.

He never should have dragged Charles into this.

But Edgar had insisted, and Charles had looked so embarrassed but honored, and Erik hadn't known then—but he should have, always should have—but he'd already been in love with Charles at that point, so he'd agreed and now the Nyrulians have the wrong man.

They are going to demand something that Charles is unable to give, and then they will kill him.

"Erik." Logan says behind him, and Erik's not sure when he and Scott decided that they could call him by his first name, but he's certainly not going to stop them now—he's hardly fit to be their commander anyway. "Damn it, just tell us what the hell's going on."

Erik walks further away, moving over to one of the porthole windows of the med bay, staring out into space. McCoy is nowhere to be seen, so Scott and Logan must have kicked him out before taking up residence beside his bed, waiting for him to wake. The rest of the crew is probably waiting as well, restless and wondering what was going to happen to them next, with their Deputy gone and their Commander down for the count.

His entire body is sore, as if someone has stomped repeatedly on his ribs, and really he's lucky that he's even alive at this point, but beneath that every single nerve is on edge, not for himself but because he needs to get to Charles, should already be going after him, but he forces himself to take a breath, and remain still, because he owes Scott and Logan this explanation, and then he owes his crew a choice.

Explanation first.

"The Keflars didn't build this ship, but they did name it," he says quietly, resting his forehead against the glass, "do either of you know why this ship is called the Heartsteel?"

"What does that have to do with—" Scott starts to snap.

"There might be a couple jokes floating around about your heart or your balls, depending on who's telling them," Logan interrupts Scott easily, much calmer, "but I get the feeling that ain't the answer."

"It's a code." Erik answers. "Edgar liked his jokes."

"What kind of code?" Scott asks, marginally less angry.

"It is the code," Erik replies heavily. "Raven can prepare herself to be transferred all she likes, but she can't do a thing with her files until she receives a very specific code."

"Heartsteel." Logan says.

"Yes."

"They named the ship after the code?" Scott demands incredulously. "Jesus Christ, that's almost a little too much of hiding in plain fucking sight."

"That's not all there is to it, is there." Logan says, and Erik can feel the Helmsman's gaze burning into the back of his head.

Still resting his forehead against the glass, Erik closes his eyes. "No."

Neither of them say anything, waiting.

"When Edgar gave Raven to me, Charles was with me. That's why he's always known about Raven. Edgar liked Charles—"

"Who fucking doesn't," Scott mutters, though not without a tiny edge of underlying fondness, "Jesus Christ."

"—when he met him, and when I told Edgar that Charles was to be my Deputy, well. As far as Edgar was concerned, that sealed it. So he made Charles part of the code."

"And how's that?" Logan asks suspiciously.

"The code works in two parts," Erik continues, "heart and steel. Steel has to be inputted first, and unseals Raven's files. It's not as important as heart, which initiates the file transfer. Not just anyone can input the codes, though. It has to be done by two specific people."

"You and Charles," Scott realizes, "of course. You're steel, no doubt about it, so Charles must be heart. That's why the Nyrulians want him, he's the one who really holds the means to get Raven's files moved. Fuck."

Erik shakes his head. He wishes it were that way. He wishes it were any way except the way that it already is. "That's part of the joke," he says, helpless anger rolling in his gut, a bottomless well of rage directed towards everything, "because Edgar knew anyone who figured out the code would assume that."

"What do you mean?" Logan says, but Erik can tell that he already knows.

"Charles isn't heart," Erik says, "I am."

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The edges of his vision are beginning to blacken to fade dizzily to black by the time Tony lowers him gently down to the damp, soft ground by a stinking, lightly steaming pond.

"Okay, get your ship," Tony is saying, but Charles is barely listening because oh, the ground is nice, he likes this ground. He can be friends with this ground right here. Nice floor.

"Hey, hey, buddy," Tony is abruptly at his side, and Charles knows he must have missed something, possibly blacked out for a minute. "Hey, wake up, that's it, there you are. Keep your eyes open for me, deal?"

"I don't have a head wound," Charles complains, making an effort to lift his head from the moss. "I could sleep."

"Not for a minute," pleads Tony, deftly undoing Charles' uniform jacket to get to his pants. He starts quickly undoing them, and ignoring Charles' protests he carefully lowers them down his legs.

"Wow," he says after a moment. "You're whiter than flour, that can't be healthy. Get some tanning lotion or something, man."

"Is that your medical opinion?" Charles retorts.

"I'm an engineer, not a doctor," sighs Tony, actually taking a serious look at Charles' leg.

It really does look quite terrible. The knee, still swollen from his previous injuries, is now back to its worse state, at least double its usual size, and darkening quickly towards a deep, little-promising purple. His calf of his supposed-good leg, where the vines of the plant had caught him, is wrapped by lines of growing bruises, inflamed by the contusions, and feels hot and hard to the touch. No wonder it hurts like hell.

"Do you have any known allergies?" Tony asks.

"To man-eating outrageous plants?" Charles stares at his friend. "No worse than anyone else, I should think."

Tony drags a hand down his face. "This looks bad, ok?" he says, level Charles with a severe look. "Seriously fucking bad. I don't see any punctures that might mean poison ivy of some kind or something but—I think some of these muscles are torn, Charles. I shouldn't have made you walk so much, your other leg is already fucked up enough, shit—"

"Don't," interrupts Charles, dropping back to lie on the soft damp moss. "There was nothing else to do. We needed to hide."

Tony makes a soft sound on the back of his throat and looks fruitlessly around for something he might use to provide any sort of medical aid. Nothing is available, so he settles for helping Charles back into his pants and getting to work on tearing a straight branch from a nearby tree to make a brace.

The branch comes away from the tree with a loud crack and splintering sound, and Tony sets about cleaning it from smaller stuff, and then getting some sort of rope to tie Charles' leg. Charles knows Tony; he doesn't know a thing about medical aid, doesn't know where to begin to fix a broken leg, but he can't stand being idle. Especially not when there are so many things he could and should be doing.

Waiting kills Tony, who goes through life as though patience is something that happens to other people, like running out of money or getting themselves locked outside their house. Or asteroid, in his case.

"So what are we going to do once we get in Wade's ship?" he asks. "If you don't want to go to Fury."

"No fucking way," Tony mutters. "Leather Eye-Patch of Death can suck it. We have to get Steve."

Charles throws an arm over his face. "Tony, stop playing dumb," he says softly, and hears Tony stop what he's doing. "Steve was with us in the Heartsteel. He was supposed to take me to the Ionstar after we got you. You know what he's going to do now that I'm MIA."

It takes a long moment for Tony to answer.

"Him and his fucking duty," he says, and it's that dark bitter tone he so often uses on regards to Steve these days. Steve and his responsibilities and what he thinks he must do, what he feels is right, the kind of life he thinks he should lead. Steve is almost sickeningly self-righteous, but even worse than that, he too easily sacrifices himself to the altar of what he believes he must do.

Charles moves his arm and turns his head to the side to look at Tony, where he's sitting curled forward, face locked in a vague scowl.

"You both made your choices," Charles murmurs.

Tony grunts.

"Why didn't you ever tell us, though? Logan and Scott and me. About the Nyrulians asking for your help."

The engineer shakes his head slowly. "I didn't want to get anyone involved that I could spare. It was dangerous shit. Steve, I mean—I didn't want to tell him, either, but he just…he's—" he stops, and goes momentarily limp.

"Larger than life," smiles Charles. "I know the feeling. Erik—well. But, Tony, I could have helped you."

"You have your own stuff to deal with."

Charles frowns, but then changes the subject. "I wonder how Cain did escape the Oh-Bee."

"Someone helped him," says Tony darkly. "There's a rat in the OB and I sure as fuck hope Fury's looking for it, because anyone with half a functioning eye can see you wouldn't help Marko. Not before, but certainly not after what he fucking did to you. Sending you off to get killed. Fucking piece of shit."

"Steve thought Fury just wanted to have me close at hand so he could have some sway over Erik."

Tony shrugs. "He's probably right. I don't know. Steve gets plots better than I do."

They lapse into silence as Tony gets to work securing Charles' leg in a straight position, or as straight s the branch will allow. Another one, they know, would be better, but all the ones around them are gnarled and knobby and Tony doesn't dare leave Charles alone as he goes look for one they might make use of.

"Wade already assured us this place is safe," Charles says reasonably.

"My-ship-is-behind-that-hill Wade?" Tony asks.

Fair point.

"You know," Charles says after another moment. "This planet's geography is rather bizarre."

"You're preaching to the choir," Tony mumbles.

"It's really quite fascinating," Charles sits up, mind racing. "It's obviously an advanced for of high-speed terraforming. We must be quite far from Third Earth, in a very distant quadrant. Do you think this could be one of the trials?"

"Yeah, Charles," Tony gives him an exasperated look. "We're stuck in the planetary equivalent of a guinea pig. That's exactly the conversation I want to have right now. You know these rocks explode seven times out of ten, right?"

"That's a false estimation," scoffs Charles, whose scientific curiosity can overcome physical discomfort at any given time. "It's only five out of ten!"

"So much better," gasps Tony, mocking and cheeky.

"I wonder, though, what wade is doing here," Charles muses. "He's a bounty hunter. He makes the odd job, he said. Hm."

"He's probably stealing samples," Tony shrugs. "Behold, the natural evolution of corporate espionage."

Charles frowns. "He could get sentenced for that. Several years of prison at least."

Tony gives him an incredulous look. "Bounty hunter," he reminds his friend.

"It's not technically illegal," Charles protests.

"Technically," Tony rolls his eyes.

Charles mumbles something under his breath and lies down again, staring blearily up at the canopy of interwoven branches, the trees grown to braid their limbs together into a sort of ceiling. Beneath it, the moss and the slowly rising steam of the pond have made the atmosphere damp and hot. Sweat begins the bead across Charles' skin. He reaches up and loosens again the jacket of his uniform, letting it fall open to facilitate his breathing.

He lets his hand rest at the center of his chest, right between his pectorals where there's a small, dark freckle Erik likes to kiss. His chest beneath his hand aches, and his throat threatens to close. Damn it.

Erik.

But he pushes that away, because—that way lies madness, indeed. Tony's right. Nothing is certain until confirmed.

Charles knows there are many logical points of view on this situation he has not taken the trouble to sit down and dissect as he normally would. It's against the ways of the scientists and scholars to ignore information due to personal comfort, and Charles is not proud to be doing just that—something he would certainly encourage his fellow scientists not to do. But his mind feels unbalanced, unhinged—as though its many lose threads have all gone in different directions, and the ideas and thoughts in Charles' mind go down those different threats like electricity down superconductive wire, never to meet and connect into a coherent, logical hypothesis.

This, he thinks sourly, is the last betrayal. His own mind has deserted him.

There's a little voice, dark, and quiet and cruel with reality, that whispers like a curse, words like poison ivy crawling through Charles' mind. He's gone. Charles knows that little voice; it's the same little voice that used to whisper worthless and pathetic and no one loves you, and it's the voice nothing could ever silence until the day Erik punched its owner in the face as they walked across campus together to class.

Not going to cry, he reminds himself wearily as his eyes begin to slip shut, even though Tony has ordered him not to sleep, and really, it's only in the name of self-preservation that he closes them, keeping the dampness that has gathered in the corners from spilling out as he drifts off.

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Logan's ears are ringing.

"It should have been you that they're after," Scott says, Captain Fucking Obvious at work once again, "not Charles. It should be you."

Erik hasn't turned away from the window. Logan is glad, because he doesn't want to see the kind of expression the War-Prince is wearing as he says, "Yes. It should be me." Logan can hear the self-disgust.

"You didn't know," Logan says, watching the stiff lines of Erik's back and feeling a little sick himself, "none of us had a clue. Don't start the fucking blame game, Lehnsherr, or I'll do us all a favor and take you out now."

That gets Erik to turn around, eyes narrowed. The War-Prince's rage has always been a deadly thing, and judging by the way Logan can see it burning in his eyes now, his rage is pretty much the only thing keeping him going at this point. "What."

"The way I see it, you've got two options." Logan holds up a finger. "One, you can sit here and hate everything about this fucking situation, and nothing gets done." He flicks up a second finger. "Or two, you can get your fucking shit together and we can go pull Charles out of hell again, because frankly, we've wasted enough damn time already waiting for you to recover."

Erik's jaw has clenched. "I owed you this explanation."

Logan inclines his head. "Yeah, you damn well did. Fucking overdue, if you ask me. But we've got the facts now. The Nyrulians think they're clever and know that we've got the Keflar's tech, but they fucked up and grabbed the wrong guy. But we need to get our heads out of our asses and do something, because a lot of people are already dead and that number ain't going to stop climbing until they've got this tech and we're all dead, or if we put a stop to them."

"Steve went back to the Ionstar to turn himself in and stall Fury," Scott adds, "but he doesn't know about all of this shit about Raven. He told us to go save Charles and Stark. The least we can do is use the time he's bought us on that front."

"I'm going after Charles," Erik says flatly, "I expect you both to follow me."

Scott shows all of his teeth in a grin that makes him look exactly like what he is—a homicidal maniac—and Logan snorts, because at least it's finally not a fucking question anymore.

"But," Erik says, moving across the med bay to the ship's log, tapping the screen once, "secrecy is moot at this point. We've all probably been already classified as criminals by the Fleet. The rest of the crew deserves to know what's happened." He pauses as he pulls up a control pad. "And then they need to make their choice."

"No one's going to leave." Logan states.

"If they do they're fucking cowards," Scott spits, already scornful.

"No one will be blamed for leaving," Erik says quietly without turning around, "I won't condemn someone for wanting to survive."

That shuts Scott up, and Logan just nods. He already knows that it's going to be a suicide mission. He exchanges a glance with Scott. They're ready. They both want to be here.

They both know what that means.

As they watch, Erik straightens, drawing himself up to his full height, transforming back into War-Prince Erik Lehnsherr; a mask that he pulls down into place over his shaken interior that he has allowed Scott and Logan to see. Logan can maybe see now why Charles has been in love with the bastard for all these years, now; beneath that harsh and cutting exterior, the War-Prince cares deeply for his crew and will fight till the end for those most important to him.

Not such an asshole after all, even if he likes to act like it.

"Page all stations, Raven." Erik says, and takes a deep breath.

Raven lets out a chime. "Attention all crew members."

"This is your Commander speaking," Erik begins, his voice even and measured, "several hours ago, Deputy Commander Prince Charles Xavier was taken hostage. We have every reason to believe that he will be taken to the Nyrulians. You all know as well as I do the fate that awaits him there.

"Prior to his capture, Prince Xavier was accused by Paladin Nicholas Fury of aiding the Empire Criminal Cain Marko in escaping from the Oh-Bee Strontium. As far-fetched and ludicrous as these charges may seem, as it stands, Prince Xavier is a criminal as far as the Fleet is concerned.

"As far as I am concerned, Prince Xavier is no criminal, and deserves the same response we gave last time. I intend to do everything within my power to see the Prince safely returned from the grasp of the Nyrulians, so that he can rightfully clear his name.

"That being said, as active crew members of this ship, you all deserve a choice." Erik pauses for breath, and Logan notes that it's a little longer than perhaps he normally would. McCoy might have patched him up like magic, but there's no way the War-Prince isn't feeling the consequences—all the medical technology in the galaxy can't erase being shot at close range by a rifle phaser. "The act of going after the Prince will essentially label the Heartsteel as AWOL, and anyone aboard her as a criminal. This mission also has a high chance of failing. It is a suicide mission.

"I will not force anyone to abandon the Fleet or the Empire. If you wish to return to the Fleet, you have exactly half an hour after the end of this message to make your way down to the shuttles and disembark from the Heartsteel peacefully. Anyone who remains onboard after the half hour passes I will assume has made their decision to aid in this mission as much as they possibly can.

"I expect all of you will do what you feel most is right. This is War-Prince Erik Lehnsherr out. End of transmission."

"No one's going to leave," Scott repeats Logan as soon as Raven cuts the transmission, "they're all going to stay."

"I know." Erik says heavily. "They wouldn't be on my ship if they weren't loyal to the end. But when we're gunned down by Nyrulians I'll know at least that everyone truly wanted to be here."

Logan doesn't need to be a goddamn mind reader to know that Erik has one goal, and one goal only—reaching Charles. After that, Logan knows, is where things are going to start getting murky.

"If," Logan corrects him calmly anyway, because they'll deal with that when they get there, "last I checked, you ain't a goddamn fortuneteller, so stop predicting the future. We're going to go in, grab Charles, and get the fuck out. Just like last time."

"Logan," Erik says with a sound that could almost be a sad, weary laugh as his shoulders slump, "you're not a fortuneteller either."

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Tony's knowledge of medical assistance in the field is limited to what he was taught in the year and a half he actually did assist Starfleet Academy, which isn't much. Charles doesn't have a head injury, so he should technically be fine to sleep, but the fact he's sleeping this deeply freaks Tony the fuck out.

Charles doesn't sleep deeply. No abuse victim ever does, unless they are in a secure, closed environment that gives them safety. A stinking swamp in the middle of fucking planetary nowhere isn't a fine example of one such place.

Of course, no one can argue that Charles hasn't gone through trying ordeals that demand him rest, both physical and mental—let's not even go into emotional, fuck—but still. Tony has taken Charles' pulse three times now and Charles, abused little Charles who awakens immediately at physical touch, hasn't even stirred.

Tony keeps telling himself Charles needs the rest and this is just his body reacting to emotional and physical trauma. Sleep isn't just something nice that happens in warm lazy Sunday afternoons, it's a serious biological necessity the body relies on to make internal adjustments and recalibrate the system. A mind going without sleep for days will, inevitably, fail. So Charles really does fucking need the rest, and Tony knows, but Tony is alone in a swamp in the middle of nowhere being hunted down by Nyrulians and a psychopathic bounty hunter who might skin kittens alive as a hobby, so he's freaking the fuck out and he wants his friend to be awake and conscious and alright.

There's a reason Tony has very few friends he keeps in touch with. Lately more than ever, he's had to drift away from most of them, in order to keep them safe—something he knows is as dangerous to himself as keeping them close was dangerous to them. Tony's not the kind of man built to be alone, and he knows it. He gets wrapped up in himself, forgets to eat or sleep, drinks too much.

Self-destructive, was what Steve had called him. And Steve was very rarely amiss on his judgment of people.

Not that it pays in any way to think about Steve now, Tony thinks sourly. Not now when Steve is probably already delivering himself to Fury's leather-covered claws. Steve is as self-sacrificing as Tony is selfish, and neither of them was any less self-destructive than the other. Steve just covers it up better because people are too busy looking at how bright and mild and polite he is. A very pretty face to cover all the broken shards.

"We're all a little crazy here," Tony mutters, rubbing his hands roughly up and down his face.

He bats idly at a bug buzzing vaguely near the vicinity of Charles' nose, and feels weighed down and crushed by the heat and humidity. He wonders musingly in what stage of terraforming this moon is. They've truly made amazing advances in the process lately. He knows because he's been hacking into the Vulcan Science Academy database to check. They really need to upgrade their security systems. Maybe he'll consult with them.

If he survives this mess.

He startles out of his thoughts when the whining of a high-power engine cuts through the mellow silken of the swamp. Alarmed, Tony grabs Charles' shoulder and roughly shakes him awake. The Prince jerks out of sleep badly, eyes wild, terror lurking behind his eyes. Tony immediately moves back and raises his hands to show his palms; no harm intended, no arms wielded.

"It's okay, it's just me, Tony," he says soothingly, eyes darting around. "I'm sorry, but you need to wake up."

"What," asks Charles fuzzily, blinking confusion out of his gaze. "What's going on?" he pauses a moment as he recognizes the sound of engines. "What ship is that?"

"I don't know," Tony hisses, motioning for Charles to stay down—like he has a choice, both his legs are mangled—and moving, crouched, to where the canopy allows a view of the sky.

It's a—thing. It flies. It's silver. It's freaking round. It's a round freaking silver space ship, it's a silver space-ball, for fuck's sake, it's a giant space bowling ball with a huge sunken eye in the middle, who the fuck designed this atrocious—oh god.

"Oh fuck," Tony stands up and runs to the edge of the swamp where the—the ship, if you want to call it that—is landing. "Oh shit."

"Hey, bro!" Wade's voice booms out from loudspeakers, and as the ship lands on its oddly delicate four legs, a gangway begins to descend and the glossy door slides open.

"Oh my god, is this the Heart of Gold!?" Tony demands in a tiny little voice, throat dry.

"It's my baby!" Wade runs down the gangway. "Where's Charles, smarty?"

"How the hell did you get this ship? It's one of a kind! It's unique. It's been missing for like a decade!"

"I found it."

"You found it," Tony gives him an incredulous look. "You just found one of the most advanced ships this side of the Universe, the last ship designed by the Bleebroxes, the only culture out there who could even match the Keflars, before they disappeared completely—you found it, lying around, is that it?"

"Yeah, man," Wade shrugs. "Isn't she a beauty? I call her Bright Morning Sun Rising Over the Tall Craggy Mountains While the Silvery Mist Curls Gently Through the Trees on a Light Breeze that Wafts the Smell of the Cooling Pie Sitting on the Windowsill Throughout the Entire Log Cabin. Where's the princess?"

Tony stares. "Of course you do," he says wearily. Then he shakes himself, gathers himself up, and motions for Wade to follow. "Let's get Charles and get the hell out of this rock."

"Now you're taking, brainy!"

"Is everything alright? Oh, Wade, it's you. Did you find Bright Morning Sun Rising Over the Tall Craggy Mountains While the Silvery Mist Curls Gently Through the Trees on a Light Breeze that Wafts the Smell of the Cooling Pie Sitting on the Windowsill Throughout the Entire Log Cabin?"

Wade looks visibly moved as he carefully helps Charles up to his feet and puts the Prince's arm around his shoulders. "You still remember. You're a real friend, Your Majesty."

"Seriously?" Tony gapes, slipping beneath Charles' other arm so that, between the two of them, Charles must only make the smallest effort to walk.

Wade gives him a hurt sort of kicked puppy look.

"It's important," explains Charles, as if this makes any sort of sense at all, which it does not, let the Universe know this does not make any sort of sense, let that be printed, framed and hung, let it be engraved on Tony's gravestone which is going to be in this fucking rock because Wade isn't fucking moving.

"But you're like, super smart," says the wounded bounty-hunter in a whine.

Tony cannot, cannot, believe his poor fucking luck.

"Bright Morning Sun Rising Over the Tall Craggy Mountains While the Silvery Mist Curls Gently Through the Trees on a Light Breeze that Wafts the Smell of the Cooling Pie Sitting on the Windowsill Throughout the Entire Log Cabin," he parrots loftily. "Don't test my genius, peasants."

They get Charles up the gangway, through the corridors and across the doors—they make a creepy sort of breathy sigh as they open which is absolutely not alright—and finally stretched out in the main cabin couch (who has a couch in the main cabin? How do these sort of random things occur around the void of logic that is Wade Wilson? Tony gives up asking). Things are going fairly well at this point, which is of course when Victor's Creed massive ship shows up out of fucking nowhere.

Tony feels himself go pale as Wade starts up the shielding systems and prepares the ship for take-off.

A beep announced a hailing frequency. Tony glances around, keep eyes taking in the consoles and organizing them immediately in his mind. Left to right, up-down, according to what is needed the most with more frequency. Central core console is flight control, shielding, navigation, life support, communications. The console is split in two for two pilots; Wade's is taking up the bulk of the control for now, but a few swift alterations illuminate Tony's side, creating twin screens.

"How well can you fly this?" he asks.

"Never crashed it," answers Wade, and his tone makes Tony realize something very, very fucking bad.

Central core console is flight control, shielding, navigation, life support, communications.

"Where are the weapons?"

"It's a civilian ship," Wade sounds uncharacteristically grim. "It doesn't have any."

Tony feels cold wash down his spine.

"Get us out of here," Charles says from the couch, strained.

Tony doesn't turn around to look at him because horror and the severity of the situation are beginning to run through his veins like acid. Instead he manipulates the screen to pull up navigation and flight controls, trying to figure out a way to get them out of here as soon as fucking possible.

The console beeps again.

"Pick up the comm," Charles says.

"No fucking way," Tony snaps, mind racing with calculations.

"It'll buy us time, Tony."

Wade makes an executive decision, pressing the pads of his fingers over one of the blinking lips and flipping it, like dealing out cards at a table, to the main viewscreen.

Victor's sneering face fills the screen.

"Whoa," says Wade. "Your pores are huge."

"I'm going to fucking blow your ship out of the Universe if you don't get out of it and come back here in the next five minutes."

Charles says something and Victor starts yelling. Tony loses track of the conversation because he's too busy multi-tasking at the console. The shielding is powerful, but without weapons there's nothing they can do against a ship the size of Victor's. Eventually, the shielding is going to splinter under all that firepower.

What they need to do is out-run Victor—a maneuver made impossible by the ship's looming proximity, which makes it impossible to take off. Tony is a good fucking pilot, but he's not as good as Logan, who would have this ship up in the sky and running in seconds. He doesn't know the shortcuts and directives necessary to do what he needs the ship to do, so he has to input the orders manually, which means finding every single platform and keying in the necessary codes. Wade probably knows how to do it faster, but Tony can't tell him what he needs, not with Victor right in front of them and listening.

This ship has three main engine turbines and twelve minor directional thrusters. It takes Tony four minutes to gain control of every single directional thruster and aim it precisely the way he wants them.

Once that's done, he takes a breath.

Victor is saying, "—render peacefully—"

Tony says "Fuck you" and ignites the thrusters. Six of them are aimed right at the face of Victor's ship and at full blast, creating enough turbulence and hot air to unbalance the ship's own hover. In the split second of time it takes the ship to regain balance, Tony has fired up the turbines and shot the ship into the sky and through the atmosphere.

"Woohoo!" Wade punches the air. "That was awesome! Booya!"

"Booya," mutters Tony, too busy with the consoles to rejoice. "Where's the space-jump control?"

"It's not reloaded yet."

Tony turns slowly to face him. "What."

Wade pulls up a screen and shows him a slowly wheeling circle. "It takes ages to load, man. It's a design flaw."

"Tony?" Charles asks, uneasy. "What can you do?"

Nothing. There's nothing to do. He can't fucking do a single thing. It's not reloading, it's cooling down. The ship has safety features that demand the acceleration engine cool down completely before another jump can be made. Wade probably came from very far away to get to this fucking rock, and used up all the refrigerating gel. It has to be cold again before the safe-guards in the engine unlock and allow a jump.

They're stuck. They're fucking stuck.

"This ship has to be fast," Charles says.

"Victor's has Vulcan jellyfish technology," Tony says flatly. "We can't outrun that."

His fingers are dancing at dizzying speeds over the console, bringing to the fore the communications screen and the triangulation charts. The ship is flying at top speed, but it won't be enough to outrun Creed. He needs to do this as fast he possibly can, and even then it probably won't be fast enough.

But he's going to do it. He's going to do it if it's the last fucking thing he does, because Tony Stark does not give up.

The ship rocks slightly.

"He's going to scratch my baby!" Wade whines, taking complete control of flight as Tony pours himself completely into the communications screen.

"If he's going to board us, we need weapons," Charles says, eerily calm.

"There's a cabinet by the couch, princess," Wade says vaguely, busy flying.

The ship rocks, this time more precariously. They're being fired upon. Tony grits his teeth and moves his fingers even faster. He has to access the right waves to get the message to go as far as he can get it to. This is a civilian ship with no weapons; the signal boosters are powerful, and their chances of getting in contact with someone are good. Tony can temper with them, extend their reach even more. He just needs another minute, just one more minute.

"I don't like this dude," Wade complains, making the ship do some sort of dizzying weaving pattern—he's a surprisingly good pilot.

Tony's got it, he's got it, he's nearly there. He authorizes the last confirmation and sends the message out just as the ship swerves dangerously, and he frowns and glances at Wade and—Wade's unconscious, but—how—

And then nothing.

.

.

.

.

.

He jerks awake choking on a breath, and shoves at the floor to sit up, but someone is pressing down on his chest, keeping him down, and Tony panics and—

"Easy," a soft voice said, calm, soothing, rich. Tony tries to focus his eyes. "Easy, you are safe, you are with friends. You are alright."

The world stops twirling and his eyes focus.

He's lying stretched out on the floor of Wade's ship, and someone is crouching down above him who is not Wade and is not Charles.

It's Thor Odinson, co-vice-president of Asgard Corporation.

"You got my message," Tony says thickly, still befuddled, confused.

"I did," Thor confirms shifting to slide an arm under Tony's back to help him sit up slowly. For all his impressive size and the strength of his arms, he is gentle, kind.

"What," Tony rubs his forehead. "What happened?"

"Your ship was coasting," answers Odinson, pressing a bottle of water to Tony's shaking hands. "I boarded it when my third hailing attempt was met with an automatic 'unavailable' signal."

"Coasting," repeats Tony dully.

"Drink," says Thor.

Tony lifts his head, regrets it and sways. Thor steadies him with a big hand on his shoulder and insists he drink. Tony fumbles with the cap. Thor takes it from his hands and opens it for him. Tony takes it but doesn't drink.

Tony lifts his head again, this time slowly, and looks around. Wade is on the floor nearby, stretched out on his back with his head pillowed on a cushion.

Charles is.

Gone.

"What happened?" he asks again, strained, stomach sinking.

"Drink," Thor says. "And I'll tell you."

Tony takes a shaky sip of water and feels somewhat better for it, so he takes another sip and then starts drinking in earnest. He doesn't know why he's so thirsty—and then he knows.

"He stunned me," he murmurs, slack-jawed.

Thor sits down on the floor in front of him, blue eyes kind. "Yes. I found you both stunned on your chairs. I watched the security footage. Your friend stunned first the pilot, then you, and then had a communication with the pursuing ship, by the end of which he decided to give himself up."

Tony drops his head to his right hand and bites back a sob.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stark."

Charles is gone. He gave himself up to Creed, like a lamb to slaughter, and he probably bargained for Tony to be left alone, too, because he's that kind of imbecilic little kind-hearted puppy. He gave himself up to protect Tony and Wade when he knows what's going to happen to him in the hands of the Nyrulians. He knows.

He drops the water bottle and fists his hair, curling forward over his legs. His chest hurts so much it feels like his ribs are collapsing and crushing his lungs. In the confined, compact space his heart struggles to beat and feels like it fails.

"What are we going to do?" Thor asks, and Tony stills. Slowly, he lifts his head, eyes vacant and dark.

"What?"

Thor repeats the question. There's steel behind the velvet of his eyes, and his mouth is a determined line. Tony stares at him, uncomprehending. His eyes drift around vaguely, searching for something anything. Thor's voice snaps his attention back to him.

"You called me and I'm here," he says calmly. "I have resources and you have a plan. What do you need me to do?"

"I don't," Tony spreads his hands. "Charles is gone and I don't—plan, I can't even—think—"

Thor leans forward and lays a warm hand on Tony's chilled arm.

"Calm down and think. Your friend's been abducted. I'm here to help you. Only tell me what you need from me and I will do it."

Tony's mind screeches to a halt. A click and a flare. The blinding light of an idea.

"Can you track that ship?"

"Yes," Thor answers, cautious. "But I don't have the firepower to take it down."

"No," Tony says slowly, facts and data and speculation swirling together into something that is starting, maybe, to make sense. "No, I tried to save him and I failed. It's someone else's turn. We got a different mission. But track the ship, the ion trail, get me all the info you can, and we're going to send it in a nice little package—and I know to whom exactly."

Thor stands with the fluid, strong grace of a man with purpose, and pulls Tony to his feet.

"And us?"

"We," says Tony, mind racing, "are going to set shit on fire."