"Watney?" Lewis sounded somewhat hesitant. Afraid of what he might say, when she was unable to affect the situation, either way. She and Martinez were out of the equation.
Airlock 2 was cycling at maximum speed, and Beck was, well, Mark wasn't sure what kind of shape he was in. Nothing good. His heart had stopped and restarted. Stopped again. Blood pressure had been all over the place, as Beck drifted in and out. The breach kit had managed to seal the glove, though Mark wasn't quite sure how Beck had managed to do it, semi-conscious, injured, and one-handed. And people thought that he was stubborn about staying alive.
Mark winced when he saw it, though, a scramble of soft resin and blackened, sublimated blood residue.
"A minute, minute ten," he replied, to the unasked question. How long was the vacuum exposure? He had an odd feeling of deja vu as he floated Beck's suited figure down the corridor towards Beck's quarters, as quickly as he could.
He performed the fastest EVA suit removal that he could remember, and shrugged it aside to unlatch Beck's helmet.
Just as Beck had done that day, Mark drew in a horrified breath. Not because of any smell; it was just rather shocking to be confronted with what a minute of decompression in space would do to a person's skin.
Beck's face and neck were deep pink and looked bruised and blistered. The skin around his eyes and nose had fared even worse. Beth burst into the room then, just as Mark was removing the top half of Beck's EVA suit, and got his first look at the blackened left hand, thick with sublimated blood around the wrist.
"Oh my god," she whispered, off microphone.
Mark nodded in agreement, as he grabbed the medical scissors to cut Beck's clothes off, revealing more damaged skin.
Can a man really come back from this? Mark wondered.
Beth's eyes were full of tears, as she went for the defibrillator, in the corner cabinet. They'd all drilled on the use of that particular device, at least. Though as he sheared off Beck's flight suit, he wasn't sure how advisable it was to use the paddles on skin that was already compromised like this.
It was the only option they had, though, and they were racing the clock. Beth powered the paddles, as Mark threw the telemetry strap around his crewmate, and cinched it closed, backing away.
WHAM.
Beck's body jolted against the restraints.
He was floating.
Hermes was, as far as Beck knew, short on warm bathtubs full of water to float around in, but that's what it felt like. It felt good and soothing, whatever they'd done.
The battle they'd fought, to keep him alive, seemed to be over and won. He was really back aboard Hermes. Not dead.
He wasn't in pain now, or not much, anyway. But he jumped, a little, as his eyes were suddenly being rinsed with saline. He was able to open them a little, as the saline was gently wiped away. His vision was hazy, but he recognized Watney's silhouette.
This was real, then. He was really waking up, here on Hermes. Back where he belonged. With his crew, against all odds.
Watney leaned in and spoke to him, then, but the words were lost. One of his ears seemed to be tuned to the channel of rushing wind, while the other featured only ringing and squealing. Did none of his senses work properly?
He recognized the floaty, warm and snuggly feeling of morphine in his system. That wasn't the source of the giddy feelings, though. He'd really made it back, somehow. His crazy idea had worked.
He raised one hand, with a half-formed notion of gesturing to Mark, to ask him about his condition, and then realized that he wouldn't be feeling like doing much talking anytime soon. The inside of his mouth felt cracked and swollen, like he'd been breathing fire. His hand and arm were completely encased, and there was the bumpy, nubby feeling of rows of fresh stitches at his wrist. The memory of digging that shard of G-31 into his skin came rushing back. Experimentally, he wiggled his fingers and was gratified that they all seemed to work, although the joints felt very stiff and swollen. His other hand had the IV line placed in it. He admired it for a moment. It was nicely placed. He made a mental note to congratulate Mark on his handiwork; his veins could be pretty challenging.
His eyes widened another degree when he took a closer look at it. The IV stood out sharply against his skin, which looked like one solid bruise. All those broken blood vessels. He shook his head. It would look terrible for a few weeks but it would fade out as it reabsorbed.
There was a cannula, and his airway seemed a bit more restricted than usual, but he was breathing okay.
Watney was facing him again, talking to him. And then, with dawning comprehension that he wasn't being understood, he paused for a moment, and mouthed, very slowly and distinctly,
"IRON.
MAN."
and then he pointed with both hands to Beck, grinning. Without even needing to think about it too much, he knew that Mark meant that he was basically okay. It was just his goofy Watney way of summing it up for him.
Having his friend back, it seemed like an unexpected gift. They were okay again, he and Watney. It felt good. The bonds that held them together as crew, as family; they'd stretched, but they hadn't been broken. Mark had his back after all. He always had.
He managed to smile back, before he drifted back into heavily medicated slumber.
"We can work in shifts, until the EVA is done," Beth said. "It's all we can do." She looked at Beck, snoring away in his bunk.
"Okay, go get some sleep, then," Mark told her. She looked exhausted. This had been a very exhausting mission day, for both of them. "Wish I could join you," he said, with an eyebrow waggle, and a grin.
She rolled her eyes at him.
"Watney." Vogel's voice came over the com link. "Houston is…" he paused, "They are anxious for you to give them the more information on Dr. Beck's condition."
"Tell them." Mark grinned, "Tell Houston he's stable now."
Beth smiled at that. Stable. Back on Hermes. Those two had really done it. She glanced back at them once more, on her way to her bunk, as though she couldn't quite believe it.
"Copy that," Vogel replied.
Let the ground crew have that to think about, he thought, smirking. He could almost hear the committees forming from here.
The crewmate on Hermes in the center of the worst medical emergency in the history of the manned space program, had had to make do with the ship's botanist.
They were probably shitting themselves.
Awesome.
