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Mark was excited beyond belief. They were finally going home! It had been a stressful five months aboard the Hermes, months in which the ex-Martian had to handle broken ribs, bone density issues, and a nice spoonful of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Even with the constant comfort from his crewmates, Watney still felt like an outsider sometimes. It was when they celebrated their ”One week ‘til Earth!” milestone that Mark finally felt a sense of warm finality to the whole mission.
An end to the hellish past two years he’d had to unwillingly endure. He couldn’t wait.
He wanted to hug his parents, he wanted to smell non-space-crap coffee, he wanted to smell freshly cut grass. Hell, he wanted to roll around in freshly cut grass. Though that probably wouldn’t be beneficial to his immune system, practically cleansed of the resistance to Earth’s microorganisms from his stay on The Big Red Planet™.
Plus, he’d probably get shouted at by Dr. Bossy-Beck. Even though he was technically free of his duty of being the crew’s doctor, he had already arranged monthly meet-ups to hang out. Everybody really knew that he just wanted to use his super-special doctor glare to try and figure out if they had any ailment or illness.
But whatever comforted the man, they figured. He’d done so much for them and this was almost a way of subtly repaying him. Plus, they got to shoot the shit together on a monthly basis.
Mark was thinking about this when he looked at the digital clock on the wall of the Hermes, and realised, Shit, I haven't eaten since breakfast. This, usually, would have been dismissable, apart from the fact that Watney still wasn’t back up to one-hundred percent healthy, and Beck was extra stern with his food intake, knowing that Mark already had a habit of skipping meals
He still had a gaunt look on his face and he could count one-too-many ribs on his torso to be within normal weight range for someone with his stature. Also, by the look on Beck’s face every time he had to have a small X-Ray, his insides weren’t doing so well either.
Chris swore he wasn’t easy to read, but every time the black and white image of Mark’s body popped up on screen, the grimace he wore didn’t leave much to the imagination.
Mark was doing well mentally. Really, he was! But, still, nobody could go so far as to say he didn’t have his moments. Moments of panic, moments of unwarranted spits of rage, moments of sobbing until he fell unconscious. The usual.
Sometimes, it was against a crewmate’s shoulder. But usually, it was against the cold, unforgiving floor of a locked room while comforting, yet urgent, pleas to come out spill through from the other side.
And there was nothing they could do to get him to come out, bar the time he’d locked himself in the entrance leading to an airlock, which had an override system.
Still, by the time Johanssen had unlocked it from the control room, Mark had developed a stony blanket over his gaze, eyes still rimmed red. His replies were cold and his actions stunted.
He was stiff and defensive, but nobody missed the way his voice wobbled before he cleared his throat, nor the times his brow instinctively turned inwards, scowl into anguish, before Mark wrenched them back down into a steely expression.
Normally Mark could feel when these attacks were going to happen, a sense of heaviness on his chest for a few hours before. Sometimes, when he wasn’t too nervous to tell someone, the other crew members could calm him. They could stick an old movie on, dim the lights and settle down in the communal living area.
He usually told Lewis, feeling a strange and unexpected sense of maternal care radiating from the commander. Mark thought the rest of the crew did too, seeing as Lewis was the one they usually all went to with personal problems.
However sometimes the attacks would just jump out at him, no warning or any signs. On the rare occasion, he would get a rush of adrenaline beforehand, but it was usually a “Jump up, say ‘BOO!’ then punch you in the face!” type situation. It was sudden, unexpected.
These were the worst for both Mark and the crew, since the former Martian could be affected for days after these particularly rude awakenings. Violent mood swings, snappiness, extreme anxiety. Again, the usual.
But he’d been getting them less and less now, which was as amazing as ever. Dr. Shields claimed that it was the effect of knowing he would be home in a few weeks, therefore dampening Mark’s - and the rest of the crew’s - worry about the whole situation.
But, as mentioned before, some of these attacks could be very unpredictable. Caused by triggers that Mark didn’t even know existed. Sights, scents, feelings. They could be caused by literally anything and none of them knew how Mark would react to anything except through trial and error.
One of the most unexpected ones, though, Mark had got to say, was seeing the cupboard for the food packets when there was a week left of the mission. He’d just been going on his merry way, when his stomach grumbled.
Mark was used to feeling hungry, so passed it off until he realised, Holy shit! I’m on the Hermes, I can eat food whenever I fucking feel like it! And proceeded to head off to the kitchen.
Even after 5 months, he was forgetting things like the fact that he didn’t have to ration anymore, or that there were actually people on the ship. That one had caused many frights and flinches when somebody had stepped into the room, Mark totally forgetting that he wasn’t alone on an entire planet anymore. Plus, his high-strung demeanour was definitely not helped by the irritatingly little amount of sleep he’d been getting.
Searching for a food packet he wanted made Mark observe the food they had left very closely, scrutinising the metallic packages very closely in order to eat something nice that, A. wasn’t potatoes and, B. wasn’t whatever the folks at NASA had tried to pass off as fucking ‘Sweet and sour chicken’. Bullshit; it tasted like shower drain and they all knew it.
The close observation of the food packets ceased as Mark realised something. As his eyes passed over the pile of silver, he noted mentally that there weren’t many left. It should have occurred to him that Duh, of course there’s not many left, you’re only here for another week.
But that voice of reasoning was instantly flattened by the instinctual worry created by eighteen months of worrying about fucking starving. It had been wired in Mark’s brain to instantly spiral in anxiety when he saw anything of the likes; not enough food, broken Hab canvas, frozen-over potatoes-
And then, oh God, suddenly Mark was having a hard time getting oxygen into his lungs fast enough, with his body trying to combat this by simply attempting to speed up his air intake.
This, clearly, didn’t work, because the next thing Mark could clearly make out was the floor-cabinets being level with his head, his back against them, the hard press of cold metal against the back of his thighs. He didn’t even realise he had slid down, body suddenly extremely unfeeling to anything.
Mark tried just sitting down there and breathing hard for a bit, but when he realised that it wasn’t working in subsiding the tidal wave of panic crashing over him, his breathing got faster, and, subsequently, his panic grew.
He may have been numb a few seconds ago, but whoo, boy, he was now hypersensitive to just about everything.
He could smell the open food packet beside him, faint smells of some random powder, mostly musty scents, though. He could taste a small amount of salty blood in his mouth.
However some things didn’t add up for Mark. He could feel the harsh press of cupboard against his back, but now, all he could see was the inside of a cramped, beaten up old rover.
The more he blinked around, the less blurry his vision got, the more concise the image of Mars outside the dusty rover window became, and the more his worry ramped up.
Was it all just a dream? Did I imagine the Ares III crew picking me up? Was it simply a delusion helped to keep me as sane as possible in my last moments, dying of malnourishment, overexertion and untreated, forgotten injuries, stuck on Mars, with nobody to save me? A mirage to keep me hopeful whilst living out my last few days?
All of these thoughts occurred to Mark rapidly, yet were processed sluggishly. Mark was scared and confused. And so he did what he did best, threw a tantrum. Well, a tantrum of sorts.
It mainly included a lot of worried grunts as he tried to push himself from the floor that he wasn’t actually seeing, confused lashing as he tried interacting with the rover’s steering wheel but making no contact. Then, madly, Mark began to flail around trying to make sense of something, anything.
There was a raging storm and, Oh God, what if the rover can’t handle it? Mark tries to cry out as sand starts overflowing his boots, swallowing him up whole.
He was buried, trapped, but worst of all, alone. He’d really thought that the Ares crew had come back for him. Hell, he was elated. But it all turned out to be a fantasy created by a delusional brain.
The last thing Mark heard and turned towards before completely losing consciousness altogether was a rushed,
“Mark, holy shit! A-”
-
Chris Beck was no psychologist, but it was pretty easy to see that something was pretty fucking wrong with Mark when he walked into the kitchen.
He was walking -stumbling, really- around the length of the kitchen, eyes wild, reaching out into thin air. He wore a confused, hurt look on his face, and was making small whimpers as he tried to make sense of something.
After a split second he started repeating, “No, no no, please no,” and running fingers roughly through his wild hair. He looked extremely pale and Chris knew he had to step in and help the frenzied man.
He didn’t really process the situation fully, but tried to help in the best way he could. Mark hadn’t realised that Beck was there, he guessed, by the way that he wasn’t acknowledged by the wild man in the slightest.
“Mark, holy shit! Are you okay?”
But the doctor couldn’t get even halfway through his sentence before Mark’s head snapped in his direction, his face went slack and he crumpled at the knees.
Instinctually, Chris rushed forward to help Mark and guide him down to the floor gently in order to avoid any head injuries. The first thing he noticed wasn’t the sweat sticking to the limp astronaut’s forehead, not the skinny form that should be impossible for someone who was previously the same size as Mark was;
No, it was the way that trembles and shivers wracked Mark’s body, no matter how unconscious. It was inhumane in a way, watching the way Mark shook violently in Chris’ arms.
Martinez, hearing the Doc’s worried calls, stepped into the room to see what it was all about, when he got an eyeful of Beck worriedly running a hand through his hair, hunched over a limp form, whispering to himself as he checked the figure’s pulse.
A few more steps revealed that it was Mark, and if Martinez was worried before, now he was fucking hysterical. They’d already had far too many close calls with the man’s health, what with the broken ribs, punctured lung and internal bleeding.
Frozen in shock, Martinez could do nothing but stare helplessly at the unresponsive man, only moving when he heard the sharp call of, “Martinez get your ass down here and help me, God-damnit!”.
It was unusual for Chris to snap at anyone in such a way, so much so that it knocked Rick out of his daze, practically slamming his knees down on the ship’s floor in his hurry to get down there with Beck, who was now performing a sternal rub as carefully as he could, wary of Mark’s already bruised skin.
Being a doctor was very much not in Rick’s job description, but it didn’t take a medical license to know how to comfort someone. Taking Mark’s head in his lap, he uttered quiet reassurances as calmly as he could bring himself to be, carding hands through Mark’s hair, silently begging for them to stop trembling. What the hell was going on?
Rick hadn’t realised he’d voiced this latest concern out loud, but either way was glad when Beck responded, sounding reassuringly confident in comparison to Rick’s own panicked blurt.
“I think it’s something psychological. I found him here, just- just stumbling around, I think-” Beck had to take a moment to swallow thickly, blinking away the familiar burn of tears clogging his sinuses, “I think it was one of his episodes where he was back on Mars. He just fainted on me. He’s been having trouble sleeping again.”
The last part of Beck’s explanation was said with a certain amount of resignation that let Martinez know it would take a while to get Mark back to the standard of 8 hours a night he’d been working up to. Mark’s sleeping had been a real problem factor when he first adjusted to living on the Hermes. Months and months of physical exertion meant that, on Mars, Mark had simply allowed the exhaustion of the day to lull him into a heavy sleep, but, suddenly left with strict orders to do as little heavy lifting as possible, he was seemingly left with a reserve of excess energy that would force him to stay up to all different odd hours of the crew’s day cycle.
Rick sighed at the implications of this, more restless nights for Mark, leaving him hollowed out as he tried his hardest, but failed, to get his mind to rest.
In his lap, Mark stirs, and after a minute of gentle coaxing from the two of them, his waxen eyelids flit open to reveal red-rimmed, exhausted eyes. Despite the situation, Beck couldn’t help but smile up at Mark.
“Hey, Mark. You’re on the Hermes, with me, Beck, and Martinez. Vogel and Johanssen are both in the lab, and Lewis is, I’m pretty sure, in the shower area.” It was redundant, perhaps, but there was the odd occasion where Mark came out of one of his anxiety spells demanding to know where everyone was, and so it had become standard procedure, to reassure, if not to inform.
Mark kept staring up, gaze flitting between the two of them, swallowing with a click as his visage cracks into something vulnerable for a split second. With another stroke through his hair, courtesy of Martinez, the dam breaks and, with a heavy conscience, he spills what had been plaguing him every time he’d seen their food supply dwindle a slight bit.
“I- I was back there, and there, there-... There was no food, and I was, God, I was…” He scrunches his eyelids shut for a second, pressing his head back into the lap pillowing it as if forgetting Rick was there whilst trying to rid himself of the memories. “You guys didn’t come for me, I thought, I thought I was imagining it this whole time.”
Both Beck and Martinez take a moment to process what Mark was saying, looking to the silver food packet still clutched tightly in his hand, and up to the open food storage unit, and understanding washes over them at albeit different rates. It feels like a cold plummet in both of their stomachs, no matter what.
There’s a moment of silence as all three of them sit with the information Mark had just laid out on the table. Silence is a generous word, the sound of the Hermes working mingled with the distant, domestic sound of other life on board, but it’s still equally as calming, perhaps more so, than true quiet.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Beck starts, taking Mark’s hand in his own. “We’re going to get you up, I’m going to take your sats, okay?” Mark nods. “Then, we’ll get some food in you, considering,” He raises his voice ever so slightly at Mark’s apprehensive, uncooperative, pleading look, ”considering the fact we have more than enough, still, to last until we get back.”
Tears rise in Mark’s eyes, but he nods nonetheless.
Beck continues. “I know that might seem like a scary prospect, Mark, but you need to be eating. I’d rather go without food than have you surviving on the amount you used to have to, again. Plus, we truly do have enough food.”
This brings a small smile, weak, but there, to Mark’s face, and it seems to spread to the three of them pretty quickly.
It takes them a few moments to get situated at the table with food, Mark’s sats monitored - fine, if a little tachycardic, which was expected - but once they get to eating their sweet and sour chicken (”I still think it tastes like feet, y’know…”), and Vogel has floated down the hatch, complaining about something trivial to do with his kids, Lewis and Johanssen soon following, Mark knows that everything is, and will continue to be okay.