Archive of Our Own

Sol 44

Okay, so.

So, okay. The video logs are all well and good, but all I can think about the whole time I'm recording them is how someday, probably after I'm dead, they're going to send a mission back here, and they'll recover them, and then all of NASA and potentially Earth will see them. Including my mom and dad. And so... well, I'm trying to be upbeat. Upbeat Mark, solving problems, making the best of things. This has all been worth it, Mom, I love you, I'm going to make it back, here's how I'm growing potatoes, etc.

And that's fine, but right now I need to actually write what's happening in a private place where I don't have to worry about NASA, because it's been going on for a few days and I need to have a record of it for myself so I can figure out what the hell is going on.

So… this sounds crazy, but I'm hearing noises, like scratching. At night, outside the Hab. It's not sand or debris hitting the canvas, either, because it's happening when there's no wind. It—well, fuck me if it doesn't sound exactly like something trying to get in. Like something trying to claw through the wall. When I hear it, I jump up and try to get closer, see if I can see a shadow or any movement—turn off the water reclaimer and the oxygenator in the hopes that if it gets quieter in here I'll be able to hear better. But whatever this thing is doesn't like me moving around because that always seems to stop it.

When I go outside in the morning I don't see any marks in the dirt or any other physical signs, so no clues there. I don't even have any theories as to what could be causing it. I've done checks of everything I can think of around the area where it comes from, and there's not a trace of anything, even though the scratching was always incredibly clear the night before.

I mean, I'm sure there's an explanation. I'd just prefer it if I knew what it was before I put it in the official log, on the off chance that I'm just going crazy. If I'm going to die up here anyway, there's no need for my mom to worry about what my mental state was like before I, you know, starved to death.

Sol 50

The noises are still happening. They're freaking me the fuck out, to be honest. Weirdly, they're also making me notice how quiet it is on Mars. When the scratching starts up, I shut down the machinery to listen for it, and then... it's just so quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you feel like you're buried alive, like you might have gone deaf, makes you think about how there's not another living human for... oh, 20 million kilometers or so, depending on how far the Hermes has gotten by now. How no one has ever been this far from another person in all of history, and how every day that goes by the closest living human gets even farther away. Sometimes I wonder who the closest one is at this particular moment, who's at the end of the Hermes pointed towards me, if it's Martinez or Lewis, if Beck's doing an EVA and so a few dozen yards closer than the rest of them as they all speed away from me.

All that quiet, all that emptiness—well, it makes you wonder what other kinds of creatures might be up here in this empty godawful lonely place, swirling in the rusty Martian dust. Scratching at the Hab. I know it's just my imagination running away with me, but... Jesus, what is that scratching? Once in awhile I have to do an EVA at night, and the stars from here... they're so bright and so clear and there are so many of them. No light pollution, hardly any haze of atmosphere, just the cold clear empty light of the universe shining down on you. I'd never seen so many of them until I went into orbit; in the eastern half of North America, there's so much light pollution that even when you go camping, it's never dark enough to see this many stars. Once I read an Asimov short story set on a planet with six suns, and so night only came once in thousands of years, and when it did, everyone went crazy, terrified of all those stars, the lonely distances and vastness of the universe too much for them.

At night Earth looks like just another one of the stars, a pinprick of light, slightly brighter and larger than the others, but too far away to do any good. The whole planet could've exploded and there'd be no way to know. For all I know, I'm the last human left alive.

Fuck, I miss Beck.

Sol 58

I've done everything I can think of to track down what the noises are. They don't correlate to any meteorological activity and there's still no physical evidence. One night I set up a camera to see if I could capture anything on video, but of course that was the one night the noises didn't happen, almost as though whatever's causing them knew I was onto it. I even thought about whether anything I'm doing or did could've caused the noises to start, like, shifting dirt around or something, but I made sure to dig all the soil for the potatoes far enough from the Hab that it wouldn't disrupt its foundation, so I don't think it can be that.

Honestly the only relevant thing I did right before the noises started was cut up and burn Martinez's cross, which during the day is a mildly funny coincidence, and at night is... less funny. I think I made a joke about space vampires in my video logs. Ha ha, the funny upbeat Mark of the official logs, who is feeling more and more like a character I'm playing. Official Mark sure is cheerful what with facing certain death on Mars! What a trooper! Why would there be any negative psychological effects to this situation! I'm fine!

God, and I'm starting to feel like whatever's making the noises is watching me all the time. This prickle on the back of my neck, all the hairs on my arms standing up one by one. I mostly get that feeling when I'm out of the Hab, doing chores. I'll be clearing off the solar panels, and suddenly I know that something's watching me, just out of sight. I stop and scan the horizon, the sky, but I can never see anything. I just know it's there.

The worst is when I get that feeling when I'm inside. I mean, the Hab isn't transparent, so I know whatever it is can't see me specifically (unless it has infrared or heat sensors... oh God, and why do I assume it doesn't? Who knows what's going on with this Martian piece of alien shit). But I'll just be lying on my bunk, watching Happy Days, and then I'll get that feeling again, that crawling horror on the back of my neck. Like something's hunting me.

I wish I hadn't cut up that cross. I know it's superstitious as fuck, but I can't stop thinking about it, my brain going back to it over and over no matter how much I tell myself there's no way that could cause anything like this. I keep telling myself it's fucking embarrassing to be thinking like this, but in the meantime, I seem to have gone and found the drawer where I stashed Jesus' metal body that used to go on the crucifix, and I seem to be carrying it around in my pocket all the time now. Like, yeah, Watney, that's going to keep the space vampires away, the power of Christ compels them.

I just, I keep playing with that tiny metal Jesus while I watch TV or read Johanssen's mystery novels, stroking my finger over it like some kind of tic. If anyone else were here, they'd make fun of me like crazy—even Martinez would make fun of me. But whatever, those assholes left me on Mars, so I'll be as superstitious as I want, screw them. A man's gotta do whatever idiotic thing makes him feel better when he's maybe being hunted by the Predator.

Sol 59

I should not have fucking thought about the Predator.

Sol 64

I'm getting scared to leave the Hab at night. Luckily there are very few reasons for me to do so, but fuck, scared of the dark. I'm a grown man. And I leave all the lights on at night until I'm ready to sleep, because sometimes out of the corner of my eye the shadows startle me. I'm jumpy at every little sound, always listening for that damned scratching.

I feel like I'm falling apart, terrorized into patheticness by whatever's making the noises. And I didn't realize that after this long with no human contact, you'd start craving it in an overwhelmingly physical way. I find myself having elaborate fantasies about my mom's hugs, coming home for Christmas and her meeting me at the door, the big clinging mom hugs that I always found so embarrassing when I was in college.

And I find myself thinking about Beck a lot. Those memories are way less G-rated... but God, they're G-rated too, just thinking about him clapping me on the back, or hugging me after our first time in the sim. It feels so fucking pathetic, spending hours thinking about his hand on the back of my neck, especially when it was always just a casual thing, a couple of random hookups we agreed to stop once we were on the mission. But it's like when you let yourself get dehydrated and then all you can think about is a glass of water, or that semester in college when I was mostly living on pizza and beer until I finally started craving broccoli and oranges and crisp fresh lettuce. That deep craving that feels like it goes straight down to your bones, how badly you need someone to touch you.

Most pathetic image in the world: a grown man alone on an entire planet, crying about how he wants a hug from his mom? I feel like it's a contender, especially when you remember that NASA didn't send us up here with any Kleenex (fire hazard).

Sol 70

Here's a tip for any sad sack who finds himself stranded on another planet and hearing weird noises in the dark because probably there's an alien Martian race that we didn't know about till now because it was smart enough to avoid us when there were six of us and it'd be harder to kill and eat us: don't mentally start calling the alien that's hunting you a "demon," as a self-deprecating joke because of your weird obsession with a crucifix, because after that no matter how much you tell yourself you should be calling it an Extraterrestrial Biological Entity like on The X-Files, "demon" will stick. I feel like a goddamn fundamentalist.

Also don't start thinking about how it doesn't seem to have corporeal, or at least visible, form and maybe it's not even biological, so maybe "demon" is actually apt. You're losing your mind, Watney. For God's sake, don't accidentally say any of this in the official logs.

It's still scratching at the Hab at night. Once I swear I heard it howling. What am I going to do if it ever gets in?

Sol 82

I'm going to get Pathfinder, and God help me, I'm almost positive whatever's been watching me is following me. Since I'm in the Rover all the time, all the dark empty landscape of Mars is right out the windshield twenty-four hours a day, the barren wasteland of it all endlessly visible. I swear I actually caught a glimpse of this demon alien thing today though. It was just out of the corner of my eye, but I swear to God, I saw it, all white teeth and pale narrow face, just a flash before it darted out of view, around to the side of the Rover where I couldn't see.

If it's going to attack me, this would probably be the time. I mean, the Rover is pretty sturdy, but it's smaller than the Hab so I'm sure I look more vulnerable and alone. I feel more vulnerable and alone. When I'm in the Hab and near the Hab, it feels like being at a campsite, the world sort of small and familiar and manageable. But driving like this, Mars is vast and Phobos and Deimos circle overhead and the sheer number of stars is bothering me, and seriously, was it necessary to name this planet's moons Fear and Terror? What piece of shit thought that up?

Sol 83

If any planet would be haunted by a murderous demon, it would be a planet orbited by Fear and Terror.

Sol 86

Pathfinder's probably broken anyway. I don't know why I'm bothering. Even if it did work, it's not like anyone's monitoring its signal, and they all think I'm dead so why would they?

It's so weird to be a dead man, to know that back on Earth they probably had a funeral for me, that I'm the only one in existence who knows I'm alive. That in all likelihood I'm going to die up here eventually anyway, and by the time anyone on Earth finds out that I didn't die on Sol 18, I'll be dead for real. Like this is a weird interim period between deaths, like I might as well not exist. If a Mark doesn't die in a forest, and no one's around....

I'm pretty sure the demon's circling the Rover, smart enough to stay just out of sight. I catch glimpses of it once in awhile, something moving on the horizon. When I was little and believed in monsters, sometimes I would take a running start and leap into bed, so the monster under there couldn't grab my ankles as I got in, heart pounding, sure it was under there no matter what my dad said. Knowing the demon's out there in the Martian landscape feels like that, this primal, infant terror. I almost wish it'd just make a move already so I could stop dreading what it's going to do when it does.

Unless... you know how there's that old movie where Nicole Kidman thinks her house is haunted, but it turns out she's actually the ghost and the people she thinks are ghosts are actually the live people she's haunting? I mean, Ares 4 is scheduled to show up just a few years after I "died," so you don't think....

Nah. I'm not dead. Gotta stop letting my imagination run away with me.

Sol 90

I saw it. I fucking saw it, for real this time, not just out of the corner of my eye. I woke up to see it pressed against the windshield, all eyes and teeth, leering against the glass. It darted away as soon as I was awake, so I only saw it for a second, but it was there, hating me with an intensity that was like a punch in the stomach. I don't think anyone or anything has ever hated me that much.

Now that I've seen it, you'd think I'd have a better idea of what exactly it is. But somehow it's hard to remember the exact physicality of it, like the shock of it made my brain resistant to the memory. It was just a pale, hateful flash. There were eyes, there were definitely eyes, but now I can't seem to remember... they were yellow-y, I think? Jaundiced? Or maybe they were red, with long, sharp pupils. There was something wrong with them, at least, alien, not human. Something wrong all around, wrong with its whole being. I guess I should be a little excited that I've discovered a new race of creatures, that there's alien life on Mars, but I mostly feel sick. I mean, I doubt a cop finding dead bodies is excited they've found a new serial killer. And there's something wrong here, something wrong with the whole planet, some personified malice, something empty and evil and terrifying.

I feel like it's gotten angrier since I've been heading to get Pathfinder, more aggressive and hateful. Maybe it's just that I'm away from the Hab and look more vulnerable, but it's starting to feel like I'm antagonizing it by trying to get into contact with NASA. Like everything I do that isn't just giving up and waiting to die makes it furious.

I'm almost to Pathfinder, but I don't want to get out of the Rover. I hate being in here, but that thing is out there, waiting for me.

Sol 109

It feels like some kind of miracle, not being completely and utterly isolated after all. Pathfinder works, NASA knows I'm alive, I can hardly believe it. I hadn't let myself realize quite how abandoned I'd felt, up here just me and the demon alien thing, the existential loneliness of being forgotten, no one even knowing I was alive. But my God, this feels good. Right now all we can do is Yes/No questions, but I'm going to figure something out.

Whatever, how good I feel about getting in touch with them is all in the official logs. Here is where I can write the private things, like how all I can think about is that this means Beck knows I'm alive too. I know the whole crew will feel shitty knowing they left me here, but hey, at least I'm not dead!

I've still been thinking about Beck all the time, which is epically pathetic, but I can't seem to help it. And hey, there's not a lot to do up here once I'm done tending the crops except watch '70s TV, freak out about the alien out to kill me, and jerk off, and, well, for the last one it helps to have something to think about. Someone to think about.

Sometimes I tell myself that I think about Beck so much during that last activity because he just happens to be my most recent sexual partner, but... yeah. I don't know. At the time I didn't think us hooking up was a big deal, and I never meant it to be a serious thing. But in retrospect, he's just... really great. And I miss him. I wonder if he's ever up on the Hermes thinking about me, knowing I'm alive down here, thinking about him.

(Ugh, now that I read that back, that sounds like the worst kind of song lyric. I know this is my private log but that's no excuse to embarrass myself.)

Sol 110

Holy shit, the scratching was so much worse than usual last night, furious, and there was definitely howling going along with it. In the past, it's been annoying and hostile, but more like how it sounds if there's a mouse in your wall. I mean, don't get me wrong, terrifying for sure, especially when you're on a planet where nothing's supposed to be alive, but this... last night was like being in a tent that an angry mama bear was attacking.

It's like getting in touch with NASA made it furious. I mean, that's nonsensical. But it does seem like getting Pathfinder up and running had something to do with it—maybe the radio signals annoy it?

Sol 110 (later)

NASA didn't tell the crew I was alive. Beck still thinks I'm dead. Fuck everything, fuck them, they've known I was alive for months and they've let him think that I'm dead? I'm so angry I could scream. Did scream, earlier in the Rover when that came through, let's be real.

Sol 112

One thing about my little worldwide profanity outburst: NASA told the crew I'm alive. Never let it be said that the f-word doesn't get things done. They still aren't letting me communicate with the crew directly, but just knowing that Beck knows I'm okay... yeah. That's good.

I'm kind of being an idiot about it, humming as I go about my chores, thinking about him, so yeah, basically losing my mind. He's not actually your boyfriend, Watney, he's just a friend of yours you hooked up with a couple of times. Though maybe it's just the human contact in general that's cheering me up—I never thought I'd want to cry from the emotion of being in touch with Vincent Kapoor, but here we are. Mars makes weirdos of us all.

Haven't heard any scratching since that first night I was in touch, when it went crazy. Maybe the demon's gone away. Just as well—I should probably tell NASA about it, but I'd rather not until I have some physical proof it's really happening. No point in giving the shrinks any more of a boner over me than they probably already have, and I'd prefer not to be institutionalized the second I get home if I can help it.

Sol 135

So. The Hab airlock blew. My crops are dead. Odds of me dying have skyrocketed. NASA thinks that the strain of cycling the airlock for so much longer than the Hab was intended to last stressed a weak spot in the canvas, so it finally just split.

I didn't tell them that the demon's scratching has been coming from that side of the Hab for the last ten days. But I'm sure that's what actually caused it, that this thing is out to kill me, that it wants to destroy me. I thought it would eventually manage to dig its way inside to kill me with its claws or whatever it has, but I guess it's going for a slower, more subtle death. Or it thought that the airlock would knock me unconscious when it blew so it could eat me more easily.

Maybe this thing is a scavenger, like a vulture or a hyena, something that doesn't actually kill its prey, that just waits for it to die. Maybe it's doing the demon equivalent of circling overhead when it can see that an animal on the ground is close to death, keeping its eye on me, hoping to weaken me more so it can eat me when I'm dead or dying.

Yeah, I guess if I were a demon vulture, I'd be circling me too. I should probably just shoot myself up with a lethal dose of morphine now, since I'm as good as dead anyway and starving to death doesn't sound too appealing.

No, I can't get this depressed now. They could get the supply probe to me in time, and I'm not dead yet, no matter what that fucking demon throws at me.

Just... my poor plants.

Sol 186

NASA let me write private letters to all my crewmates, now that the probe failed and I'm almost certainly going to die up here. It was nice, though it'd be nicer if I thought they were really private. I'm sure NASA's psychiatrists are reading them to check on my mental state, and to make sure I'm not getting the crew upset enough that they'll make a mistake that'll get them killed in space.

And not that anything would go out to the press, but from what I understand, I'm a big story. They're always telling me that what I type to mission control is getting broadcast to the whole world. So even if they are keeping my private communication to the crew private, I don't feel like there's any guarantee that some industrious reporter won't hack NASA and leak my letters.

So... all of that puts a damper on things. Not so much for writing to Vogel or Lewis, but I wanted to say stuff to Beck that I didn't want a NASA psychiatrist to read, or God forbid, the entire world press. So I thought about it for a long time, and I ended up telling him that he should "tell Johanssen how he feels."

Yeah. I know that's crazy. I just couldn't think of another way to communicate that... well, that maybe you should tell people how you feel when you have the chance, like maybe before you are stranded on an alien planet where you're going to die. That there were things I should've said to him—that I shouldn't have let him think it was just a casual sex thing, that I'm thinking about him now. Which I really am. Like, all the time. Those late night talks we had, playing darts at the bar, and just... his mouth, and the way he looked at me when we were back at his place that first night, the surprised delight of it, and the noise he made when... anyway.

So yeah, in order to communicate that I'm into him, I told him to go hook up with our other crewmate. Honestly, the amount of subtext I put into writing that letter made me feel like it's the 1970s and I'm using weird gay code involving handkerchiefs.

Sol 219

The demon's still scratching like crazy, moaning sometimes in the middle of the night. I saw its shadow against the wall of the Hab once. But dammit, you piece of shit, you're not going to get me after all, because the crew's coming back for me, those crazy fucks. Beck's coming back for me.

The longer this journal gets, the harder it's going to be to destroy, so I think it's time to get rid of it. I'm either going to get rescued or die trying, and either way, people are going to find this thing. That's a lot of awkwardness I'd prefer to avoid, whether I'm alive or dead, and it's not like it's helping me get rid of the demon anyway. I'm going to keep trying to kill it or scare it off, but there's no point in recording my efforts any further.

So I guess this is Mark Watney, Demon Slayer King of the Empty Wastes of Mars, signing off.

**

11 months later...

Mark makes it back onto the Hermes with broken ribs, general malnourishment, cuts and bruises, and no demon. The demon has been left behind on that godforsaken planet, where it followed him till the last, and Mark has never been so relieved in his life. He keeps wanting to well up with tears, to his embarrassment. It's just been so long since he's seen other human beings, and he was so sure he was going to die on Mars, and now he's safe and Beck is here, really here and touching him, just taking his pulse, warm fingers on his wrist like that's no big deal, and he's human and he's Beck and not a dark alien thing wanting to destroy him, and oh God, Mark is safe.

He sneaks a hand up to wipe at his eyes when Beck isn't looking, but must not be sneaky enough, because when Beck turns back around, he's smiling a little, crookedly. "You crying, Watney?" he says, that same old familiar way he always made fun of Mark, and that makes Mark's eyes well up a little more. Jesus, he's in bad shape.

"Shut up," he says. "Can't a guy get a little emotional when he gets saved from certain death?"

Beck's smile gets a little emotional himself, and he puts his hand on Mark's shoulder, big and warm. "Wimp," he says, but he squeezes reassuringly, the solid realness of his hand almost startling after so long with no one, and leaves his hand there as he draws some morphine up in a syringe. "Gonna give you a painkiller for those ribs," he says. "You might get a little drowsy and out of it. It'd be good if you slept."

The morphine kicks in pretty fast, probably because Mark weighs a lot less than he did the last time he had any morphine. Beck settles him down on his own bunk, the informal sick bay, and God, his ribs already feel better, that is nice. "Thanks, Chris," Mark says, hearing how he's already mumbling the words. His eyes close for a little too long with each blink, sinking down into a warm stupor, and he's back on the Hermes, everything's going to be okay. He watches as Beck putters around, disposing of the syringe into the sharps container, putting away the thermometer, the bandages and alcohol pads he used on Mark's scratches. Through the walls, Mark can hear the rest of the crew, the low murmur of conversation and oh God, there are other people around, Mark wants to cry. Out the window he can see the stars, still cold and clear like they were on Mars, but now they look friendly, the good homey feel of the stars when you're camping with your dad, or outside your apartment watching a lunar eclipse with the neighbors outside their doors too, how the night air feels fresh and warm and connected. Clear like they were the first time he went into orbit, the excitement of really being an astronaut in space, the brilliance of the stars reflecting deep inside him.

He's half asleep, idly following Beck with his eyes, still blinking slow, and Johanssen comes to the door. She smiles at Mark, then leans against the doorway to say something to Beck in a lowered voice, clearly trying not to disturb Mark. He can just hear the odd word, something about a data dump, an algorithm, then 'ribs,' and 'malnutrition.' Just people checking in on him, and that's nice, God, that feels good. Johanssen says something that looks like it's wrapping up the conversation, leaning in a little closer, and then she smiles at Beck.

It's a private, intimate smile somehow, hooded eyes, her biting her bottom lip a little. Mark blinks and looks and Beck's smiling back at her the same way, the way Beck used to smile at Mark when they were alone and post-coital, and then Johanssen reaches over and squeezes Beck's hand, fast and secret, and oh.

So... oh. They—okay, so they're—okay.

Mark's stomach is dropping, a feeling like you're in a plane that just hit an air pocket and unexpectedly fell, and at the same time he sees Beck's head start to glance over towards him, like he's afraid Mark might be watching them squeeze hands like that. Mark shuts his eyes fast before he has time to think about it, pretends he's sleeping.

He doesn't know why he thought nothing would've happened with the crew while he was gone. It's been 543 sols since he's seen them, a full year and a half, now mission day 687 when he left them on mission day 133. And Mark did tell Beck to go hook up with Johanssen, so in a way, this could be construed as his own fault. He just... didn't think he'd really do it.

His eyes are leaking. How embarrassing. He moves to roll over, pretending to be asleep, careful of his ribs, and when he's facing the other direction, he blinks his eyes open again. He feels low.

Stupid. Stupid to think Beck would wait for him, stupid to think their long-ago sex meant anything, stupid to spend all that time on Mars mooning over Beck like he was his boyfriend when he was just some guy he blew a couple of times when they were both drunk. Mark is so stupid.

The morphine's kicking in with a vengeance, making him feel groggy, but his heart is beating hard, and he stares blankly out the window. The stars look colder now. The light on the Hermes is always so cold. He'd forgotten. Behind him, Beck eases the door closed, finally finishing up tidying.

Once he's alone, Mark's heart slows down gradually, and finally he's getting drowsy again in spite of everything, his abused body needing rest. He's sliding off into sleep, muscles relaxing, when—

—red teeth, yellow eyes, flash of pale thin evil face—

"What?" Beck says, hurrying back in through the door. "Mark? You okay?"

Nothing's there. He—it—he just saw it—fuck. "Did you see?" Mark says, before he stops himself.

"See what?" Beck says. He looks a little wary, worried, like he's automatically assessing Mark's mental state. Like he'll be reporting all this to the shrinks back at NASA who are probably already salivating to write papers about the psychological effects of being trapped on Mars for 561 sols.

But fuck, if the demon followed him up here—if it's attached to him in some way, crawling on the hull, trying to hitch a ride back to Earth....

But no. Mark was probably just dreaming anyway. Just some PTSD-addled, drugged-up, old-fashioned seeing things. Everything's going to be fine. "Nothing," Mark says, trying to relax against the bunk. "Just dreaming, I guess." The morphine's making him feel fuzzy at the edges, sleep coming up to overwhelm him, and he lets himself give in to it. The last thing he sees is Beck's worried face, watching him from the doorway.

**

Mark feels better once he's slept and showered. His ribs are still killing him, and he's starving and feels vaguely weak and dazed, but it's amazing to be clean again, like, cry-with-helpless-gratitude-in-the-shower amazing. And someone's brought some of the clothes he left on the Hermes into Beck's room while he was asleep, so he can put on his NASA hoodie and, God, cozy clothes that don't smell like they could stand up on their own. Being rescued is the best. Even if Beck and Johanssen are really dating now, he has a lot to be happy about... and anyway, he was all doped up. Maybe he imagined that as much as he imagined the alien on the hull.

He makes his way down to the galley, and as he gets closer, it sounds like everybody's there. Breakfast time. Or dinner time. He didn't check the clock when he woke up.

"There he is!" Martinez practically cheers when he shuffles in, and then five faces are beaming at him, and God, it's good to see them. He can't get over it, how good it is, ordinary human faces after all this time. He feels so fond of the crew he can hardly stand it, like how the Grinch's heart must've felt when it grew three sizes, a feeling of pressure in his chest.

"Hey, guys," Mark says. He's grinning. He can feel the stretch in his cheeks. Beck is sitting next to Johanssen but that only dims his grin a little. He can see three stars framed between the struts of the window behind Beck's head, cold and bright.

Food is the best. Sitting at the table eating with his crew is the best. Martinez, who's next to him, keeps finding excuses to touch him, laughing and putting his hand on Mark's shoulder, ruffling his hair, and God, the warmth of another human hand after all this time. Mark does find himself looking anxiously at the windows once in awhile, just making sure he doesn't see the demon out there, following him, but so far, so good. It probably was just a doped-up hallucination, the drugs and the stress, his vision fuzzy from acceleration sickness.

"So I guess I can move back into my room, now that I'm up and at 'em," Mark says about halfway through dinner.

Everyone exchanges glances, looking a little worried. "Bad news," Lewis says.

Mark tries to laugh. "Don't tell me I went off to college and you turned my room into a gym," he says.

Everyone laughs even though the joke is weak—hey, guys, he doesn't need your pity laughs. "Nah, buddy, both our rooms got hosed," Martinez says. "Climate control issues. It's like 200 degrees in there. I had to move into Johanssen's room."

"But then where's Johanssen sleeping?" Mark says, like a dope, before he thinks about it.

Martinez snickers. Vogel and Lewis are smirking, and Johanssen's gone pink. Beck stares down at his plate. "Okay, prepare yourself for some grade-A gossip," Martinez says.

Before Martinez can say something obscene, Lewis says, "I told her to share with Beck." So... everybody knows. It's, like, an official thing that Beck and Johanssen are having sex. That's... great.

"Oh," Mark says, trying to have whatever reaction a non-involved party would have. How would he react if Vogel and Lewis had hooked up? Well, that's not helpful because that is literally impossible to imagine, but come on, Watney, make a joke or something. Don't let your face look as blanched as you feel like it is.

Beck is looking at Mark, eyes very blue in the cool light from the windows. He's shamefaced and worried, locking eyes like an apology, and around them people are laughing and making comments and Mark can't focus on any of them with Beck looking at him like that.

"I know, right," Martinez says. "I've been trying to get them to tell me what zero-gravity sex is like but they're holding out on me."

Mark forces a laugh, aware that it comes out weak and a little strangled, and pulls his eyes away from Beck. Fuck. Jesus Christ. "Good for them," he says, then tries to change the subject. "I can take a look at the climate control, if you want. Might be able to get it working again."

Lewis nods, but says, "Can he do that with those ribs?" to Beck, so great, they're babysitting him.

"Yeah, if I were you, I'd take the excuse to get out of chores for awhile longer, buddy," Martinez says.

"He'd just rather work with broken ribs than have to bunk with you, Martinez," Johanssen says, clearly mildly annoyed at Martinez for the gossipy comments and jokes. "Balloons for elephants."

Mark... does not understand those last words in that order, but everyone else laughs like she's just said the funniest thing they've ever heard.

"I—what?" Mark says, wanting to laugh along, but not getting it.

There comes an outburst of story, all of them talking over each other hurrying to tell him about this time that Martinez was out doing an EVA, and there are farts, or something, and Martinez saying, "Fuck you guys," and at the end of it Mark still feels like he doesn't get the joke.

"Guess you had to be there," Lewis says, gentle at the look on Mark's face, and the five of them have been a crew without Mark for almost four times as long as they were a crew with him, their rhythms easy, even the way they talk over each other coming easy, the way it does in a family. Mark feels like an in-law doing Thanksgiving with them for the first time.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a now-familiar flash at the window, a flash that looks like eyes, but by the time he swivels his head toward it, it's gone. He stares, heart pounding, and thinks he sees another flash just over at the next window, but when he flicks his eyes there, it's gone again. Fuck.

"Um, you okay?" Beck says, and when Mark looks back at him, he looks worried. Everyone looks worried, actually, half of them looking at him and the other half at the window.

"I, uh," Mark says. If the alien has followed him, they deserve to know before it chews a hole in the hull, before it puts them all in danger, but right now he feels like if he tells them they'll either tell him he's imagining things or break out the antipsychotics. "Um... yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. It's nothing. Thought I saw something. My eyes are still kind of weird from the acceleration." He's going to have to handle this on his own.

They go back to their meal, the conversation shifting, but Beck keeps watching him across the table, eyes steady and concerned, and when Mark looks back at him he doesn't look away.

**

Mark doesn't much feel like talking to Beck right after dinner, kind of wants to get himself in order first, but Beck shoos everybody else away so he can check Mark's ribs back in his room. Where apparently Beck and Johanssen have been officially sleeping together for God knows how long. That's great.

And Mark has to take his shirt off, which also doesn't feel fair. He's all too aware of how skinny and pale and pathetic he looks, bruises and scrapes all over him, ribs visible through his skin.

"Hey, so," Beck says in a lowered voice, as he runs his hand down Mark's side. It's probably supposed to be a clinical, medical kind of touch, but it feels like a caress, Beck's hand warm and careful and slow, and it's bringing back memories that Mark would rather not think about at this precise moment. "I didn't—I was going to tell you. Sorry you heard it like that. Martinez is kind of a dick."

Even though it's stupid, Mark bristles. "No, he's not," he says.

There's a pause, Beck's hand stilling on Mark's side for a second. Mark's not looking at him, and his face feels hot. "No," Beck says after a second. "I guess I am."

He sounds miserable, and when Mark glances over at him, he's pale and drawn, biting his lower lip as he starts palpating Mark's ribs again. Mark sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "No, hey," he says. "It's not like you did anything wrong. I mean, and I told you to do it."

When he looks back at Beck, Beck's watching him very carefully, face serious. "You did," he finally says, but in a tone like he knows what Mark had really been saying in that weird, coded letter, and it's strange that they could've understood each other like that. "But still," Beck says. "I just—I missed you. When we thought you were dead, I..." He trails off, looking down at Mark's shoulder. Finally he shrugs. "I missed you," he finishes, but like he had been about to say something else but thought better of it.

Mark doesn't know what to say to that. He breathes in and out, way too aware of Beck's hands on him, his bare torso, feeling naked and exposed. Finally he says, "I missed you too."

**

That night, Beck insists that Mark still sleep on the bunk in his room, and he comes in and starts settling down on the floor like it's a matter of course.

"What're you doing?" Mark says flatly, staring at him. He's exhausted and his ribs hurt and he feels terrible all over, and he was kind of looking forward to just being left alone after a long, rough day. He thought it'd be a relief not to be alone anymore, but it turns out that maybe he had gotten used to it, and the Hermes is starting to feel crowded and claustrophobic. There are people everywhere. Mark feels like he can't get a minute to himself. Plus, it's just... hard to see Beck.

"You still have a concussion," Beck says. He had woken Mark up every two hours to check on him the night before, but to Mark's knowledge, you don't usually have to do that two nights in a row. "And I want to keep an eye on you with those ribs. You're not breathing deeply enough."

"Yeah, because it kills," Mark says. Beck shrugs, since he just gave Mark another shot of morphine, and keeps laying out the sleeping bag he had grabbed from the supply closet. When Beck doesn't seem like he's going to say anything else, Mark sighs and says, "Where's Johanssen sleeping, anyway?"

"She doubled up with Lewis," Beck says, not looking at him, fussing with the edges of his pillow like the fabric's not lying right.

"And she doesn't mind you sleeping in here with me?" Mark says. Because, c'mon. Beck just shrugs, making a face like, not really, or maybe not that she's told me, which makes Mark wonder.... "Does she know that you and I used to...?" Mark trails off.

Beck gives him a look Mark can't quite read. "Yeah, of course," he says, like that should be obvious. When Mark keeps looking at him, not really understanding, Beck says, "She's not really the jealous type." He's smiling a little, just vaguely, around the corners of his mouth, a secretive kind of smile Mark doesn't get.

"What's that mean?" Mark says.

Beck looks at him for a second, like he's weighing whether or not to say something, but then he shrugs. "It means she doesn't mind me sleeping in here," he says. "Why, what'd you think it meant?"

**

Mark wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of scrabbling at the hull of the ship, a high-pitched shrieking noise going along with it. It's dark in the room, and his heart is pounding, and on the floor beside him, Beck is breathing slowly and evenly, sound asleep. These rooms are small enough that if Mark dropped his hand off the edge of the bed he could touch Beck without reaching out, the two of them as close as if they were in a double bed, Beck just lower down.

Mark's probably dreaming the sounds, he tells himself. He's probably just dreaming it, because seriously, that demon had to be left behind on Mars, and beside him Beck is breathing, in and out, and Johanssen's in the next room breathing the same way, and when they get back to Earth the two of them will probably get married and have babies, and Mark will go back to his lonely apartment, try to pick up guys in bars. He'll be sad Uncle Mark to Beck and Johanssen's kids, and outside the hull the scrabbling is getting worse.

Fuck, it's going to damage something if it keeps scratching like that. Mark finally does drop his hand off the edge of the bed, reaching for Beck's shoulder. "Beck?" he says. It comes out barely louder than a whisper, his voice raw and hoarse. He clears his throat. "Beck?" he says again, this time almost normal volume, and he shakes Beck's shoulder a little.

"Mmph," Beck mumbles. "What?"

"Do you hear that?" Mark says. He can barely make Beck out in the darkness, the only light coming from the digital clock display on the wall. It's 3:30 am. He can see the curve of Beck's shoulder, the outline of his nose, his eyes blinking paler in the grayscale planes of his face.

"Hear what?" Beck mumbles. He never wakes up fast. Mark sees his arm come up to rub at his eyes.

"That scratching," Mark says. It feels like his heart is going to pound out of his chest, hearing that familiar sound outside the Hermes, and he thought it wouldn't be as terrifying with other people around, that having Beck next to him would banish the monsters the same way sleeping in his parents' bed banished the monsters when he was four, but Johanssen's in the other room and Beck's asleep and they're all grown up and the monster is still out there.

"Huh?" Beck says. He rubs his eyes again and props himself up on his elbows, finally seeming at least somewhat awake. "You okay, man? Are your ribs hurting?"

Mark's ribs do hurt, but that seems beside the point right at the moment. "Yeah, but listen," he says, and pauses... and then notices that the scratching seems to have stopped. All he can hear is Beck breathing beside him in the silence, the rise and fall of his chest, the warm sound of another human alive and next to him.

After a second of silence, of nothing but the soft sounds of the Hermes at night, Beck says, "What? I don't hear anything."

Jesus, this thing has gotten tricky, like it can tell when Mark is going to bring it to someone else's attention. Mark should tell Beck the truth, that there's this thing that's coming to get them, that it's hitched a ride with Mark and now wants to kill them all in space, that Mark's putting them all in danger.... But deep down, he knows Beck won't believe him.

"Nothing," Mark says. "Sorry. I, uh. I must've been dreaming. Go back to sleep."

In the darkness, Beck stays half-sitting up for a moment, looking at Mark, though it's too dark to read his expression. Mark lies back down, trying to act normal. There's still no scratching from outside the Hab—no, the Hermes, he means.

"Um, okay," Beck says, and in the morning when Mark wakes up, Beck gives him a full neurological workup, so, that's great.

**

Mark left Jesus' small metal body from Martinez's crucifix back on Mars. He didn't have room in his EVA suit, and he didn't think he'd need it once he was off the surface of the planet anyway, since obviously the demon would be gone then, right?

So yeah, now he's without it, and the demon's on the hull, and he's fucked, basically. Or—he knows it wasn't actually doing anything. It's just making him feel twitchy to be without it, is all.

He stops by Martinez's room one night before he goes to bed, chatting with him about what they've all been up to over the past year and a half, and is taken up short when he sees the distinct outline of a cross sitting on Martinez's nightstand. It's his rosary. Mark forgot that he'd have a rosary too, but of course he does.

"What?" Martinez says, following Mark's look.

Mark clears his throat—shit, he didn't mean to stare. "Nothing," he says. "Or... um, you have a rosary, huh?"

Martinez blinks. "Oh. Uh, yeah," he says.

"Does it keep you safe?" Mark says, before he has the sense to stop himself.

Martinez looks wary, like he thinks Mark is making fun of him. "Uh," he says.

"Sorry," Mark says. "I'm not—I'm not, like, making fun or anything. Just, that's the thing, right, it's holy? And it's supposed to keep you safe?"

Martinez rubs the back of his neck, looking a little embarrassed, still not sure Mark isn't making fun of him. "Well," he says. "It's not magic. But... God does, yeah." He clears his throat.

"Oh," Mark says. "No, that's nice." His fingers feel itchy, he wants that rosary so badly. God, what's the matter with him? He's just been feeling so vulnerable since that thing showed up on the hull of the ship, and he would feel so much better if he just...

"You okay, man?" Martinez says. Shit, Mark must be acting weird. He starts to nod, play it off, but before he can get any words out, Martinez says, "You wanna borrow it?"

It would be so horrifically embarrassing to borrow Martinez's rosary when he's not even religious, but he wants to so badly he can hardly stand it.

"Seriously, it's cool," Martinez says.

"Um," Mark says, and wants to say no, but what comes out of his mouth is, "I mean, if you really don't mind."

Martinez scoops it off his bedside table, and gets up to bring it to Mark. "Here you go, buddy," he says, as he passes it over to him. Then, to Mark's surprise, he puts his thumb against Mark's forehead like a priest and makes the sign of the cross. Maybe the motion surprised Martinez as much as it did Mark, because after he does it, he looks surprised and abashed, pulling his hand back sharply.

Mark can feel himself blushing too, and quickly changes the subject back to something normal, to what looks like Martinez's relief. But when he goes back to his room later he can still feel the warm path Martinez's thumb traced on his forehead, like a blessing, a mark of safety, and he's holding onto the rosary so hard the edges of the cross are cutting into his palm, and he feels so much better he could cry.

**

He's pretty sure the demon is following him around the ship, using whatever weird alien sensors it has to feel out where he is so it can creep along the hull parallel to him. At the sections of the ship where the hull is thinner, he hears its steps, claws clicking, and he has the same crawling feeling on the back of his neck all the time that he used to get at night in the Hab. He knows he's putting everyone at risk by being back here, that the thing is looking for a way in through the hull so it can get at Mark. He just has to figure out a way to kill it—it'd be better if he could tell everyone else, so they could all work on destroying it together, but they're still treating him like he's fragile, and he knows saying anything is just going to get him put into restraints. So he just has to take care of this, or find a way to get definite evidence so he can prove to them that it's out there.

In the meantime, he's having trouble sleeping. He thinks Beck is worried, but it's hard to be too concerned about that when the demon's stalking him.

**

It's really annoying to be treated like an invalid, everyone making him eat small portions of bland foods, acting like he's going to break if he does anything other than sit around. And yeah, he looks like a skeleton compared to everyone else, all sharp elbows and knees, ribs jutting through his skin, but he kept himself alive for a year and a half alone on Mars, it's not like he's not capable of doing some work. He's getting bored.

A week or so after his rescue, he finally manages to go take a look at his plants. They've been growing in zero gravity for three times as long as they were supposed to, and he knows the rest of the crew have taken turns keeping an eye on them, taking measurements and watering them and everything, but it'll be nice to get in the groove of doing some botany again.

When he gets there, Johanssen is bent over them taking some cuttings, alone in the workshop. Mark almost turns around and walks right back out again—so far he's avoided being alone with her—but before he can, she turns around and smiles at him.

"Hey," she says, that sensitive, devious mouth curving upward, the mouth she apparently kisses Beck with, probably does other things with. He'd thought she might be a little weird around him, since he's, you know, had sex with her boyfriend, but she looks like it hasn't occurred to her to be bothered. Maybe she really isn't the jealous type. "Come take a look at these guys, they're doing great."

So he sucks it up and goes over to look at the plants. Which are, as it turns out, doing pretty great. "Wow," he says. "Looks like you guys didn't need me on board after all." He means it to be a joke, just kind of dry, but it comes out sounding a little more passive-aggressive than he intends. Shit.

But Johanssen just snorts and bumps his hip with hers. "Yeah, right," she says. "We were all so terrified that you'd come back to find we'd neglected them that we almost watered them to death."

Mark can't help laughing a little. It does make him feel a tiny bit better, them thinking about him while he was gone. He was starting to feel like they had all adjusted so there was no space for him left here.

Johanssen tucks her arm through his, leaning her head against his shoulder companionably. It's the kind of gesture that could feel lazy and casual, but the way Johanssen does it, it feels purposeful, something she's doing with a goal in mind. He just doesn't know what the goal is. Reassuring Mark, maybe.

It is reassuring, actually. And she's tiny enough that Mark feels more like himself next to her, not the skinny fragile mess he feels like next to Martinez or Vogel, like the lightest touch could snap his bones.

"So I guess I can take the botany back over," Mark says. For some reason her warm skin against his is making his mouth a little dry, and he can't stop thinking about her and Beck together, Beck on top of her, inside her.

"Eh, take a few more days off," Johanssen says. "I just finished up anyway. Come play Uno with me."

Mark can't seem to think of a good reason to say no, so he helplessly goes to play a children's game with the dude he's in love with's girlfriend. She keeps touching him casually, punching his shoulder, tapping his shin with her toes, putting her hand on his arm when she laughs. Even though it's Johanssen and so incredibly awkward on a million levels, her touches feel way too good, going to that contact-starved place inside him—shamefully good, like a secret Mark has to keep. It's like getting tiny sips of water when you're dying of thirst, making him feel young and needy, feeling like he's looking at her with big innocent toddler eyes, desperate for more, never wanting her to stop.

Later on Beck joins them, and Mark thinks Johanssen will stop touching him then but she doesn't. Instead Beck joins in like it's the most natural thing in the world, shaking his shoulder affectionately when Mark wins a hand, ruffling Mark's hair, hand stroking across his scalp, how badly Mark wants him, how he can't have him anymore. The emptiness in the pit of his stomach makes him wish Beck would stop but he can't ask him to, he's too weak and he needs it, and on the hull Mark can hear the endless clicking of the demon's feet, coming for him.

**

At the breakfast table, Mark's staring at the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the demon he knows is out there, when he feels a small foot touch his, then start sliding up his calf, stroking and suggestive. He glances down. It's Johanssen. Beck's sitting next to him, so that's clearly a mistake, but yikes, that's awkward. He scoots back, trying to ease himself out of the line of fire, but her foot follows him no matter how he tries to get out of the way, moving higher until it's on his thigh. Finally he's bullied into saying, "Um, Johanssen, that's not Beck, that's me."

Across the table, Martinez snorts juice up his nose, but instead of looking embarrassed, Johanssen smiles a wicked little smile and says, "What makes you think I don't know that?"

Mark blinks, then glances at Beck because, um, what? Weirder still, Beck looks entirely unperturbed, smiling a little to himself as he takes as sip of coffee.

"Johanssen," Lewis says, mildly reproving, like she doesn't really care but she'd rather not have her spaceship turn into a den of sin, thank you very much.

Johanssen smirks a little more, but moves her foot away. So Mark guesses she was just messing with him, even if that's weird teasing when you think about it.

"Geez," Martinez says, wiping his face with his napkin, having coughed enough that he seems back under control. "Are you putting the moves on all the single guys on this ship?"

"Mark was stranded on Mars for over a year," Johanssen says. "Are you saying he doesn't deserve some action?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying," Martinez says, not missing a beat. "Also no fair flirting all over the place when some of us are still…" His eyes go up and to the left, doing quick mental calculation. "... two hundred and four days away from our wives."

"Yes, that's very sad," Mark says dryly, thinking about the empty apartment he's going home to. "Having a regular sexual partner at home waiting. My heart's bleeding for you."

"Whatever," Martinez says. "You're like the most famous dude on earth, people are going to be throwing themselves at you when you get home."

"You think?" Mark says. That never occurred to him—is that true?

Beck clears his throat. "Let's change the subject," he says, being the mature one for an historic first time ever on this whole mission, and he starts talking about how tired he is of these freeze-dried scrambled eggs. Mark blinks and looks at him, but Beck's face is unreadable, and Mark can't tell if he wants to change the subject because he doesn't like the idea of Mark getting laid when he gets back to earth, or if he's not crazy about Johanssen flirting with Mark. Or maybe he's just hungry. Beck is hard to read sometimes.

**

Mark is getting really sick of sleeping in the same room with Beck and having to be cool and asexual about it, so it is really time he took a look at that broken cooling system so he can get back to his own room. If Beck insists on checking on him and his stupid ribs at night, that's one thing, but please, a little space.

He runs some diagnostics, and it does look like there's some kind of problem in the tubing that circulates the coolant. Martinez is right that it's built into the hull and hard to get at to fix the clog or whatever, but he's pretty sure that if he gets creative, he can figure out a way to patch it from the inside. He grew potatoes on Mars, for fuck's sake, how hard can this be. He's in his shirt sleeves with a wrench and his head halfway inside one of the wall panels when he hears Johanssen say, "Looking hot, Watney," with amusement in her voice.

He startles and bangs his head against the inside of the wall. "Fuck," he says, and when he gets his head out, Johanssen and Beck are both standing in the doorway, laughing at him. "Hilarious pun," he says, rolling his eyes at them. It's not quite as hot in this room as his own bunk room, but he's only been in here five minutes and he's already drenched in sweat. "The highest form of humor, really."

"You staying hydrated?" Beck says, being the annoying, overprotective mother that's he's been the whole time since Mark got back on the ship.

Mark waggles his water bottle at him, rolling his eyes.

Johanssen laughs. "Get lost, Chris," she says, shoving Beck in a flirty way that makes Mark feel sad. "I'll babysit."

"Make sure he only works for fifteen more minutes," Beck says. "If he gets heatstroke, mission control is going to kill me."

As Beck leaves, Johanssen wanders over to sit next to Mark on the floor. Mark rolls his eyes at her again. "Well, at least make yourself useful and hand me that wrench," he says, pointing at a smaller one.

She grins and hands it to him as he sticks his head back in the wall. "So what'd you do the whole time you were on Mars?" she says. "I mean, besides listen to disco." She starts humming Stayin' Alive, so Mark has to take his head out of the wall to glare at her.

"Please," he says. "You're going to have to do a deeper dive than that into ABBA's back catalog to get to me." He starts fitting the lug wrench around one of the bolts that should get him to the coolant tubing, wiping sweat out of his eyes and starting to wiggle back into the wall.

Johanssen laughs. "Okay, okay," she says. "But seriously, what'd you do? Jerk off?"

"If you're asking me if I found Leather Goddesses of Phobos on your laptop," Mark says, "the answer is yes, you pervert." The bolt is sticky, and Mark puts his hand out. "WD-40," he says.

Johanssen hands it to him. "And now you're asking me for lube," she says. "Be still my heart."

Mark snorts. "You wish," he says.

"Oh, right," Johanssen says. "Because you're only into guys?"

Wow, okay, suddenly this conversation is taking a turn for the intrusive and personal, and getting a little closer to discussing his relationship with Beck than Mark is really comfortable with. "Um," Mark says.

Before he can think of a way to joke it off, she says, "Or are you bi? Because, I mean, I'm bi, Chris is bi, you know, all the cool kids are."

Mark doesn't know why she's talking about any of this—like, does she honestly want to have a heart-to-heart about the fact that he has boned her boyfriend? "That's debatable," he says, out of reflex, because, uh, top nerds Beck and Johanssen are not exactly cool.

Johanssen laughs, and through the panel he can just see her hand reach out and take his water bottle, taking a drink from it without even asking, her mouth where his mouth has been like he's her boyfriend or something. She's sitting close enough that her thigh is bumping his. He tries to move away as surreptitiously as he can, even though honestly the human contact still feels pretty good, even when it's uncomfortable-touching like the context makes this. The place inside of him that still craves human touch is deeply mortifying and it doesn't seem to be getting any better. He probably needs two years of continuous skin-to-skin contact to get him over it.

"Jesus," he mutters, to try to distract himself. "Why would they put the coolant so deep in the hull anyway? This is bullshit."

"Yeah," Johanssen says. "It's almost like they didn't expect this thing to go like two years without maintenance. Assholes."

"Whatever, NASA should expect the unexpected by now," Mark says, waving his hand at her dismissively, and gets the bolt off the inner panel, finally. Which still appears to be like two layers out from wherever the coolant is. Goddammit.

Outside the ship, he hears the unmistakable clicking of claws, walking on the siding, and he jumps, banging his head against a pipe. "Fuck!" he says. "Did you hear that?"

"Uh..." Johanssen says. She sounds a little wary. "The sound of you slamming your head for no reason? I did, as a matter of fact."

"No, the—" Mark starts, before he remembers that he doesn't want to get put in a straightjacket, and stops. "Um, I mean... nothing."

"Maybe it's time for a break," Johanssen says. Now she sounds worried, so that's great. And she pats Mark's leg. "C'mon, man, let's go."

Five minutes ago, Mark would've been a little uncomfortable about how high her hand is on his leg, but right now he's distracted, listening for those goddamn claws on the sensitive equipment of the ship. "Shh," he says.

But he can't hear anything now. "C'mon, Watney," she says, rubbing his leg now. "Don't make me drag your skinny ass out."

Maybe he needs to come at this cooling from the other side of the hull anyway—there might be access to it from the outside. Even if the thought of going out there with that thing out there, waiting for him, makes Mark terrified, the primitive fear he hasn't felt as strongly since he left the surface. Fuck.

**

Mark finally has to give up on trying to fix the cooling system, which is bullshit because he just wants his own room back, dammit, but that thing really is buried so deep in the hull he doesn't think it's accessible. And the thought of trying to do an EVA kind of makes him want to have a panic attack no matter how much he psyches himself up. So instead he turns his mechanical attentions to fixing the airlock door that the crew blew up when they rescued him.

It's awkward not to have the VAL, and... well, Mark doesn't like the fact that they've just got one door there keeping the demon alien out instead of two. He knows one is keeping it out as well as two would, but, you know. It makes him nervous, and the rosary is only helping so much.

The airlock might not be fixable, but it's at least something to do, examining the hole they blew in the door with that bomb—and God, Mark can't believe he missed that decision, because Jesus. Blowing up your own spaceship is a ballsy move; he wouldn't mind getting some of the credit for that.

Amazingly, the mechanism to open and close the door still works, so fixing this thing is just going to be patching the hole. A little more difficult than it should be since they don't exactly have any blowtorches on board, but an interesting challenge. And it's kind of transfixing, watching the door open and close as he tests it. Mark can't help thinking about all the sci-fi he's watched where people got thrown out of airlocks, picturing someone sucked backwards out into the depths of space to die. It wouldn't be the worst way to go, he guesses. A lot better than starving to death on Mars, just smothering quickly as you float in the emptiness, less than fifteen seconds to think about it before you pass out and die. Of all the ways to go that he's imagined over the past year and a half, he might pick that one in the end.

**

It's been over a month, but Beck's still sleeping on the floor of his room with Mark in the bunk, as though he has no interest in reuniting with Johanssen. Mark really wishes he'd been able to get the climate control working again, because it would be a huge relief to just have a tiny bit of space to himself, where he could jerk off without the actual presence of the guy he is still, somehow, persisting in jerking off over.

"Hey," Johanssen says, sticking her head in their door as he and Beck are puttering around before bed. "Whatcha doing?"

Mark's about to tell her to get lost, because he's tired and he really doesn't enjoy endlessly being the third wheel in this relationship, but before he can, Beck says, "Nothing, what're you doing?"

Yeah, that flirty tone isn't making Mark feel any better.

"Nothing, you wanna play cards?" Johanssen says, and comes over to sit on the bed next to Mark, idly fiddling with the cards in her hands.

"Uh," Mark starts to say, but before he can, Beck's talking over him. "Sure, what game?" he says. "Poker?" The door's shut behind Johanssen, so it's just the three of them, and Mark is feeling a little claustrophobic.

"How about strip poker?" Johanssen says, that gleam in her eyes.

"Ugh," Mark says, feeling helpless. "C'mon, guys. Keep me out of your foreplay." He's already feeling a little sick in the pit of his stomach, that deep loneliness that comes from knowing they're together and he's alone, that he and Beck are never going to happen ever again. It's really not fair of them to rub it in his face all the time.

"Oh, come on, Watney," Johanssen says. "You sure you don't want to be in our foreplay?"

"Johanssen," Mark says, his tone finally showing as much irritation as he feels over all this constant, teasing flirting. It's mean. "Cut it out, I don't appreciate—"

But before he can get much farther, Johanssen heaves an enormous, amusedly annoyed sigh and throws her hands up, looking at Beck. "The subtle approach isn't working," she says.

"I don't know that I'd call what you're doing 'subtle'," Beck says, laughter in his voice.

"Well, he hasn't seemed to have noticed so I don't—" Johanssen starts.

"What are you guys talk—" Mark says over her, and that's when Beck leans forward and kisses him on the mouth.

Mark is so surprised he doesn't shut his eyes, so he can see a delighted look come over Johanssen's face as Beck's tongue moves into his mouth, kissing him the same sweet, quick way he always used to, mouth soft and careful and so endlessly familiar. Mark's spent the last year and a half remembering this kiss, constant use making the memory dog-eared and ragged at the edges, and he thought he remembered every detail, but the reality of it is somehow fresh and new, a revelation. Oh, right, that's how Beck kisses his lower lip, that's how his hand feels against Mark's face, that's how warm his skin is, the reality of it so much sharper and clearer than Mark thought possible.

"I, um," Mark says dumbly when Beck finally pulls back, but then Johanssen is moving to kiss him too, her hands on either side of his face, and this is very unexpected. After a few seconds, it finally occurs to him to kiss her back, that skin-hunger inside him coming surging up all at once, so he's got his hand on her shoulder and her back before he thinks about it. He pulls her closer, kissing her hard and desperate, wanting her and Beck to touch him all over, wanting to crawl inside their bodies and absorb them into his bloodstream. Beck's hand is on his thigh, and he makes a hum of approval, squeezing Mark's leg, hand big and warm.

"Oh," Johanssen says, breathless and surprised as Mark starts kissing down her neck, her skin addictive and supple and alive, her pulse speeding up against his mouth. Mark's hand is under the back of her shirt now, touching the soft skin over her spine, and it's been so long since he's kissed a girl, touched a girl. Softer, no scrape of stubble, Johanssen's mouth curving up that teasing, delighted way she smiles, her eyes wide when he looks up at her.

Now that he's pulled back, Mark feels a little self-conscious, because oh fuck, what is happening here, but before he has much time to think about it, Beck leans in to kiss him again, like he's just been waiting his turn, and Johanssen says, "Good boy," dimly in the background. Mark can't focus, Beck's tongue is in his mouth and his hands are running up under Mark's shirt, touching his side now not to palpate his ribs but just because he wants to touch, hands gentle. There's a movement in the air from Johanssen that feels like the motion of her taking her shirt off, and when Mark makes a choked noise in surprise and moves back from Beck, yes, that is in fact exactly what that rush of air was.

Those sure are Johanssen's boobs, right there in front of him, small and round and, uh, yup, nipples and everything. That sure is Johanssen, looking like this is no big deal, casual, like she takes her shirt off in front of Mark and her boyfriend all the time. "I, uh," Mark starts to say, but Johanssen shakes her head at him. "Shut up, Watney," she says, and leans forward to kiss him, and when he's too in shock to react, she takes his hand and moves it to her boob.

Mark thought he was mostly gay, but huh, how about that. The little inhalation of shocked, turned-on breath that Beck just gave is probably helping, but Mark's dick definitely seems interested and her breast is soft and intriguing and when he moves his thumb over her nipple it tightens up, her inhaling sharply. Now Beck's fumbling at Mark's fly, little movements grazing Mark's cock, and he's been longing for touch for so long and now there are hands everywhere, Johanssen pushing Mark's shirt up so she can touch his stomach, trace over his hipbones showing through his skin, and Mark knows he looks like shit but he wants her to touch him so much.

"Take this off," Johanssen mumbles, pulling back to tug at Mark's shirt. Mark shifts to try to help her get it off, his ribs twinging a little as he does. They’re so much better now but he still has to be a little cautious of them.

"Careful," Beck says, watching closely, finally kneeling up to help. Between the three of them they manage to get Mark's pullover off—stupid Mark, not thinking to bring button-downs on this trip, not thinking about the possibility of crushing his ribs in a daring escape from the surface of Mars and how he might quickly need to disrobe afterwards while banging two of his coworkers—and Beck's grinning at him fierce and electric, and he took his shirt off sometime while Mark and Johanssen were kissing and Jesus, Mark's had this dream a thousand times, Beck half-naked and here and smiling at him. It feels too surreal to be happening.

Since Beck's been sleeping in here so long, he's dragged in a couple of the unused mattresses from the over-hot rooms to lay on the floor here, and he's kneeling on them now between Mark's legs, tugging Mark's pants down to get Mark's dick out, and then oh, Jesus, Beck's mouth is on him, that wide, clever mouth, as hot and wet as Mark remembers it.

No one's touched his cock in two years, and fuck, he's been dreaming about this but it's so much more than he remembered, so concrete and specific, the exact curve of Beck's mouth stretched around him, the slick feel of his tongue working, and Johanssen is naked and plastered against Mark's back, her arms around his neck, her breasts pressing against his skin, kissing his neck and making little noises as she watches. Beck looks up at the two of them, his eyes bright and amused and turned on, and he's touching himself, his dick thick and red and beautiful, and somehow everyone is naked now, and when Mark makes a noise that's a little louder, Johanssen chuckles softly and kisses his cheek and says, "Shhh, this ship is small," laughter in her voice. "If Lewis hears, she'll kill us."

"Oh," Mark says, dazed and overwhelmed, and Beck smiles up at him and sucks hard, and when Mark groans Johanssen presses her hand over his mouth, laughing and running her other hand down his chest. Hands and skin and Beck's mouth and Johanssen's mouth and it's hot and sweaty and Mark feels so needy for it he wants to cry.

"Chris, I want—" Mark starts, and chokes it off, his hand in Beck's hair, and then he says to Johanssen, "Can he, I mean, is it okay if he fucks me?"

Johanssen laughs a light, delighted laugh, like it's so cute that Mark just asked her that, and she says, "I don't know, what does your doctor say?"

Beck pulls off, grinning and wiping his mouth, and says, “How're those ribs treating you?"

Mark feels like normally he would make some kind of joke here but Beck is stroking his cock carelessly with one hand and Johanssen's sucking on his neck in a way that suggests she's trying to give him a hickey and his head is a haze. His ribs are fine, screw his ribs, they barely twinge anymore, he doesn't care. "Please, just fuck me," he says, voice more shaking and needy than he was expecting, and Beck smiles.

They end up with Mark on his side, carefully, Beck behind him and Johanssen in front of him, assigned to make sure he's really not in pain, her watching his face with the challenging, amused look she gets so often. As Beck gets settled, Mark reaches out to rest his hand on Johanssen's bare hip, stroking down, moving his hand toward the juncture of her thighs.

"Look at you," she says at his movements, mouth twitching up, but she spreads her legs accommodatingly so Mark can slip his hand between them. He hasn't touched a woman like this in forever, so somehow it comes as a shock to find her as slick as she is. He doesn't remember it being like this, and she must be really turned on, because he's barely touching her and she's drenched, like watching Beck suck Mark’s dick really got to her. He moves his thumb over her and she gasps, her face going softer and younger looking, that impish knowing grin suddenly turning more vulnerable and open as he slips a finger into her. “Mmm,” she says, and leans in to kiss him. She feels so good inside, wet and warm and soft.

When Beck's fingers stroke over Mark's ass, they're slick too, and Mark blinks. "You have lube?" he says. He kind of thought they'd be forced to do this with spit or something gross, but that honestly feels like regular lube, which, did Beck bring that along as one of his personal items?

Beck laughs. "Yeah," he says, teasing at Mark's asshole, sliding his finger around it so Mark shifts. "It's from the medical supplies." When Johanssen giggles, Beck says, a smile in his voice, "You know, in case I need to check anyone's prostate."

Mark can't help laughing, groaning a little at the terrible non-joke, and Johanssen snorts. “Shh,” Beck says at their giggling, trying to hush them before everyone on the ship hears them, his voice amused, and he kisses Mark’s shoulder as his finger presses in.

God, it feels good, the little bit of burn that comes with it, the strange, familiar sensation of being penetrated, of Beck being inside him. It's been so long since they've done this that Mark's tight, that just Beck's finger feels huge, but Mark groans and presses back on it, wanting more. Beck has his other hand braced on Mark's hip, and he kisses Mark's shoulder, and Mark's got his own fingers inside Johanssen, who's glassy-eyed and leaning in to kiss Mark, and it feels so good to be pressed in between them.

"Okay?" Beck says, corkscrewing his finger farther into Mark, and Mark pants out, "Yeah, good, don't stop."

He's hard as anything, his dick red and straining, leaking a little at the tip, and Johanssen gets it together enough to palm his cock, making Mark groan even more. "Shh," Johanssen says, laughing helplessly, and she leans in to kiss him again to keep him quiet, wrapping her hand around his dick at the same time. It's intense—Mark's never had a threesome before, and it's so many hands, so many legs bumping together, Mark enveloped on either side, the two of them both completely focused on him.

Beck takes his time working Mark open, and Mark can't concentrate on fingering Johanssen anymore, it's too much, but she doesn't seem to mind as his fingers slip out of her. She's just watching his face avidly, stroking his dick to keep him hard, like Mark's the only one who matters here.

"Does that feel good?" Johanssen says, her voice intimate and secret, like she's just talking to Mark and no one else is even there, like she wants to know every detail of Beck's fingers inside him. He manages to nod and drops his forehead to rest against Johanssen's shoulder, letting out a giant sigh as Beck moves his fingers in and out, and Johanssen laughs and kisses the side of his head and says, "Yeah, that's good, baby," the endearment like it comes naturally, like she and Mark talk this way to each other all the time.

When Beck finally works his fingers out, the blunt head of his dick moving to rub against Mark's asshole, Mark takes another giant inhale, trying to get ready. He can't believe this is really happening, that Beck's really going to fuck him with Johanssen right here, that this is possible after everything.

Johanssen's still watching his face, apparently so turned on by watching them together. She cranes her head to look over Mark's shoulder, down his body to see what Beck's doing, and when she does she makes a little noise. “Chris has a nice dick, doesn’t he?” she says. "It's so pretty, just like the rest of him."

Mark has to take a deep breath, close his eyes, thinking about them both liking Chris's dick, about him fucking both of them, both of them sucking him off. It's so strangely hot now, thinking about him and Johanssen sharing that. And Beck really does have an extremely pretty dick, long and elegant. “Yeah,” he says when he can talk again.

Behind him, Beck laughs. "Shut up," he says. "I'm not pretty. I'm extremely rugged."

Johanssen snickers, grinning challengingly at Beck over Mark's shoulder, and Mark laughs too. "Whatever, pretty boy," he says. "Put your rugged dick inside me already."

Beck laughs, but he does start to press forward, his dick catching at Mark's asshole, wanting in. Mark's so tight that at first he can't get inside, but Mark relaxes and finally the head slips into him, thick and tight, feeling so intense and huge. It's so tactile, so much more real than his imaginings, all sweaty skin and the rough feel of the NASA-issue sheets, Beck breathing hard and Johanssen palming Mark's dick, her hand small and hot, and that's really Beck's cock, going into him, Beck's hand on Mark's hip bracing himself, Beck kissing his cheek as he presses inside.

Mark takes deep breaths, letting it happen, Beck moving slow and careful, letting him get used to it, and Johanssen's stroking him, taking a firmer grip, moving her hand up and down. "I wanna see," she says after a second, and she moves forward to rest her chin on Mark's side, so she can look down at where Beck's cock is going into him. "Mmm," she says. "That looks nice, does it feel nice?"

She's talking right to Mark again, that low intimate sharing between the two of them that she's got going on, and Mark takes deep breaths and nods, not able to get it together enough to form words, but his dick twitches, spitting out more pre-come and Johanssen grins when she feels it.

Johanssen's getting squirmier, moving her other hand to her cunt, rubbing a little bit as she watches, and Mark thinks he should try to finger her again but he can't focus on anything besides Beck's cock going into him, that thick goodness of it, how deep it's getting. Johanssen squirms closer to him, still stroking his cock, and she moves to hook her leg over Mark's hip, her breath hot on his cheek, her stroking him faster, the three of them pressed close together.

Beck is almost all the way inside him, just a little bit further to go, and Mark is breathing deep and trying to let him and when he can focus again he realizes that Johanssen's rubbing his dick along her slit, the slick wetness of her letting her slide him along easily, the feeling so good on his cock. It makes him gasp and he can't catch his breath and Beck's finally all the way in him now, holding still, his balls pressed against Mark's ass.

"Hey," Johanssen says. "Can I? Do you mind?" She's sliding Mark slowly over her clit, then letting the head of his cock catch at her cunt, and um, wait, is she asking if she can put him inside her? Because uh, yeah, that would be okay, and he nods, and then all of a sudden she's pressing down on him, taking him inside her all at once, and he's surrounded by all this wet heat, soft and easy, the feeling so different than fucking somebody's ass. Beck's still all the way inside him, Mark's ass slowly opening up around him, getting used to it, the burn slowly subsiding. They're both pressed against his body, front and back, sweat and heat and skin everywhere, and Beck's inside him and he's inside Johanssen and this is what he's been needing, to be this close to people again, surrounded and taken care of, so intense he can't tell where the borders of his own body are.

"Oh," he says, shaky and overwhelmed. "Oh, oh my God."

"Mmm," Johanssen says, shutting her eyes, looking like Mark's dick feels so good inside her, and she puts her hand on his face and kisses him, deep and long and breathless, and Beck's starting to move his hips, just a little bit, a slow rocking.

"You okay?" Beck says, low in his ear, stroking down his side, long, soothing movements. Mark knows he can feel him shaking.

"Yeah," Mark manages to say. "Don't stop." He's so full, and Beck moves at a little bit of a different angle, so suddenly he's pressing against Mark's prostate, fat and blunt, leaning into it, and Mark moans and squirms back onto him, the movement of his hips moving Beck's dick inside him and his own dick inside Johanssen, rippling through the three of them so they all gasp.

"Mm, do that again," says Johanssen, and Beck moves his hips, and it rocks through all of them, and then he's reaching across Mark to put his hand on Johanssen's hip, so he can get the leverage to fuck both of them, pressing Mark into Johanssen, moving them all together, so they're like one organism.

Beck leans over Mark to kiss Johanssen as he starts to set up a rhythm, and then when he pulls back from her he moves so Mark can twist his head to kiss him too, all of them together, and then they're rocking together, getting faster, Beck's dick hot and thick inside him and Johanssen this tight wet heat and the sensation is so much that Mark feels like he's going to explode, his body keyed up and muscles tight and shaky, the contact so much to take. Johanssen's looking him right in the eye as Beck fucks into them, her face open and defenseless, watching Mark get fucked. She's slick around him, squirming closer to him to get him deeper, mouth a little open, and Mark stares back at her and can't look away.

Johanssen comes first, her cunt squeezing down on Mark's cock in a way he wasn't expecting, her closing her eyes and gasping for breath and digging her fingernails into Mark's hip, making little "oh" sounds. Beck says, "That's my girl," his voice low and hot, and speeds up a little, thrusting into Mark's prostate, and between that and Johanssen clamping down on him, he's so close, it only takes a few more strokes to put him over the edge, coming so hard his vision goes dark around the edges. He'd almost forgotten how much better an orgasm feels when it's not just your own hand, and Johanssen's stroking his face and smiling at him, and as he goes loose and limp Beck speeds up even more, pounding into his ass, Mark going soft inside Johanssen, and then Beck's coming too, the three of them in a satisfied heap, laughing for no reason, Beck kissing Mark's shoulder and Johanssen kissing his face, and Mark's hand on her hip and Beck's knees against his and his dick still inside him. Mark twists his head to look at Beck, and when he does, Beck kisses him, long and thorough and satisfied, and Mark thinks he's happy.

**

Mark wakes up in the middle of the night, his body pressed between Beck and Johanssen, the skin against skin warm and a little sweaty, nothing like waking up on Mars. For a second he's confused, not sure where he is, who he's with, and then he remembers the strange surreal evening before, that he's been rescued, that he had a very unexpected threesome. It's 3 am and he's not sure why he's awake, but then he hears it, that scrabbling on the hull, the thing trying to claw its way in to get him, the sounds that must have woken him.

He feels dreamy and sure of himself, slipping out of the bed, careful not to disturb them. Something has to be done, and he looks at Beck and Johanssen, both fast asleep, Johanssen drooling onto Mark's pillow. The claws speed up, getting more aggressive—he's pretty sure this thing can read his thoughts, knows his mindset at any given time. And looking at Beck and Johanssen, lying there together, he starts to think about how the two of them are together, how tonight didn't change anything, how Mark is still alone and on the outside. He lets himself sink into the deep loneliness that somehow sleeping with them made worse, emphasizing how he's not really with them. How this was probably a pity fuck, that empty ache in the pit of his stomach that he's felt since he was abandoned on Mars surging up.

He pulls on his pajama pants and slips out the door of their room, thoughts groggy and miserable, like moving in a dream, and makes his way to the airlock. The working one, this time, the one that could function to suck you out into space. He's sad and lonely and nothing will ever get better, and he thinks about his empty dusty apartment on earth, how much longer he has in space, how he's missed his shot with Beck for good, and he opens the inner airlock door, watching it go down with its slow, deliberate mechanical pace. Now there's only the outer door between him and space, him and pure emptiness. Earth is still millions of miles away and the sun itself is more like a bright star than a sun way out here. The sky is black.

The inner airlock door is down now, fully open, and Mark can see the black sky and stars clearly out the window of the outer airlock door. It would be so easy to open it. But he feels uncertain, and instead closes the inner airlock door again without going inside, watching the door shut and thinking about his lungs going empty, that terrifying moment of no oxygen before your brain goes soft and empty, how brief the smothering would be, how soon it would be over. The relief of it, your heart ceasing to beat. He can hear the demon outside the window of the outer airlock, that scratch of metal against bony carapace, the endless malicious tapping. It's getting closer. If he opened the outer airlock it could come in, or if he let himself fly out the airlock, it would have him immediately, it could vulture-claw its way into his flesh. That's what it wants. That's what it's always wanted. He knows the demon can sense his thoughts, how death feels like a friend, how close he is to it.

He sees a long, red leg cross the glass of the window. It's close now. So close, not worried about Mark seeing it anymore. Once the inner airlock door is shut again, he looks at the button for the outer door, thinks about his misery, lets that misery float up to fill his body, the empty desolation of abandonment. Beck moving on without him, wanting to fuck him and go back to being buddies, Mark not part of him the way Johanssen is, Mark always alone, not important enough to really belong to anyone. The relief it would be to stop existing. He presses the button for the outer airlock door, watches it start to fold down, the mechanism slow and easy, the movement he's seen a thousand times. He feels hypnotized and hazy.

As the door comes down, the demon's long arachnid legs start climbing in, the way he knew they would. They stretch over the edge of the door, reaching for him, trying to climb through, get close enough to do whatever it's been wanting to do to him, to claw and tooth into his skin. Even though there's still another airlock door separating Mark from it, he can feel its malice, how it's going to fling itself at him. The door slides smoothly down, Mark keeping it on the slow setting so it eases careful and gradual, the demon legs scrabbling, trying to get in.

Then it's far enough down that the demon's head can move into the space, so Mark can see that flash of teeth and malice, the horror of it still too much for his brain to take, so when he thinks about it later, it's like the memory of a dream, the emotion stronger than the visual. As the leering head gets fully in the space, without thinking about it Mark suddenly hits the button that shuts the door, the one that shuts it at the fastest speed, so suddenly the airlock slams shut, too quick and unexpected for the demon.

The demon's crushed in the airlock, half its body outside and half inside, its head bursting like a grape as the door comes down on it, its legs spasming one last time, a death clench as its spine is severed, legs twitching and then going still.

Mark's heart is pounding and he's breathing fast and he lets go of the depression he was summoning, lets go of the suicidal thoughts he was using to lure it. They fly out of him like a bubble that pops, and his real feelings flood back again, the warm relief of Beck and Johanssen, back there alive and perfect and asleep in his bed.

The thing is dead, he's killed it, and without him noticing in the elation his hand has hit the switch to open the outer airlock door again, so the air rushes out and the demon's body goes with it, surprisingly light, flying into space before Mark has time to change his mind. It's gone into the emptiness in the blink of an eye, so the airlock is left shining and clear and normal, like it may all have really been a dream.

When the outer door is shut again, he repressurizes the airlock and opens the inner one, goes inside to see if there's really not a speck of blood or guts, but the plastic and metal is white and silver and when he runs his finger along it, it's cool and clean. Maybe it's just as well he won't have to explain to Lewis why there's blood all over her airlock—maybe the thing doesn't even have blood. But he wishes he had a body, something to show for the last year and a half of terror. Still, it's good have the demon dead, strange and good and triumphant to have killed it. He still feels like he's sleepwalking, hazily goes back into the ship, shuts the doors, makes his way back to Beck's room.

Beck and Johanssen are still asleep. They haven't moved since Mark left them, so there's still a space in between them, Johanssen curled in towards the Mark-shaped hole, Beck's hand on the pillow reaching out for where it was in Mark's hair. Mark watches them for a second, their faces relaxed and lovely, guileless in sleep, skin soft and vulnerable and waiting for him.

He crawls carefully back in between them, trying not to wake them, fitting himself back in the space they left for him. Beck sighs behind him and rolls a little closer, nuzzling his face into the back of Mark's neck. Johanssen makes a little mumbly noise in her sleep and Mark pulls the blanket back up over her, so she snuggles down, her small body fitting into his chest. It's close and warm and their skin is against his and everyone is safe, they came back for him, he's not alone. He lies there trying to stay awake, to memorize the feel of them against him, but sleep is coming up for him, the utter relaxation of being safe and cared for too much for him, and he falls asleep as fast as he ever has.