Chapter Text
Beck knows hopelessness. But not the kind of hopelessness that Mark Watney knows. It's different, more subtle. Hell, how can he feel at odds with the universe when he's been comfortably sitting in the Hermes throughout the entire ordeal. Not trapped on Mars, alone, abandoned.
Space spans out from the edge of the airlock where he stands, perched precariously with nothing but Vogel and a line secured to his suit keeping him from floating away. He stares into oblivion for long minutes, listening to Lewis over the comm, Mars hovers before him, under them, a giant frozen desert – the MAV slowly spins into view.
Seconds turn into hours, he scrambles, the line pulls taunt, the vacuum tries to find purchase. But it doesn't matter. He fights tooth and nail to keep hold of Watney, and when Vogel has reeled them in and the airlock is at one hundred percent he can't let go.
Watney is screaming in his ear.
“Those broken ribs really bugging you, hey,” Beck says as he slips into the physician. He strips Watney of his EVA suit with Vogel's help. His suffering is apparent. Watney's entire body is malnourished and bruised.
Beck draws in a deep breath. They came this close to losing him.
Watney shudders, chest heaving. A strangled noise escapes his throat, Beck looks up.
“You got me, yeah?” Watney asks and it's now that Beck realizes he's not the only one who can't let go. Watney's knuckles are white.
“I got you,” Beck assures.
Tears leave streaks in the martian dirt caked to Watney's face. Beck suddenly notices the smell, rank, sour, it fills the airlock, but he finds he can't make himself care.