It was late Saturday evening, and Mark Watney had a hot date-with his first hospital-issue tray of actual, solid food. Not Jell-O, not potatoes, not Oaiea's space sludge. It appeared to be chicken and vegetables, and he felt like crying.

"Am I interrupting something?" Beck grinned, poking his head into the room.

"Come in, don't be shy. Unless you've come to haul me off to physical therapy again. In that case, go away." Mark grinned.

"We'll have another session tomorrow morning, you're safe for tonight. The way you're looking at that tray though, man. Just make sure whatever you're planning there is... consensual." Beck smirked.

Mark cheerfully flipped him the bird, and motioned for him to come in and sit. "You headed home soon?"

"Yep. The crazy hours I've been keeping this week. I'm bushed."

"What did you think about that meeting earlier? Crazy, huh?"

Beck laughed. "No kidding. Our hillbilly president managed to hold it together. Thought he was going to piss himself there at the beginning. It's funny to think that no matter what else that guy has failed at or managed to do in his career-nobody is ever going to remember him for anything else besides THIS. And he said the Ares program was a waste of money."

"I know, right? I've missed most of this clown's presidency; I certainly didn't vote for him. He didn't vote for us. I wonder what the world is going to make of all this," he mused.

"By the time he has that state dinner next month, he'll either be the second-most popular guy in the world," Beck genuflected to Mark, "Or he'll be impeached."

"Should be interesting, either way." Mark grinned, with his mouth full. "Tell me what's been going on during the cloak and dagger meetings with Sanders and all of them?"

"Oh, you wouldn't believe some of this shit. They're leaning on me to start coaching you-" Beck put his palm to his face, to indicate his opinion.

"Coaching me to do what?" Mark inquired, good-naturedly.

"Talk to your alien girlfriend. Ask her questions. Get her to submit to a medical study. Let NASA poke around her ship. All kinds of stuff."

Mark was doubled over laughing. "Oh, no. Stop, seriously. Oh geez, you're killing me." He rubbed his sides, still laughing. "Ow."

"I know. I know. It's nuts. But prepare yourself; the crazy, it's coming for you."

Mark shook his head, ruefully.

"I guess they figure this is their one shot, they might as well go for the brass ring." Beck grinned. "How are you feeling? Starting to get some strength back?"

"A little bit, I guess. Mostly I feel sore. My back hurts."

"Well, that's to be expected."

Mark was quiet for a minute. "You can tell them I'll ask her. But I really, really doubt that any of those things are going to be happening."

"I figured as much."

"She thinks that any huge technological breakthroughs could destabilize humanity. She's probably right."

"Yea. I get that. I guess we're like toddlers with machine guns, to her, as it is."

Mark nodded, thinking. They were both quiet for a few minutes.

"Mark?"

"Hmm?"

"I've got a question, actually. It's none of my business, I know. But I'm just curious."

Mark groaned. "She's not my girlfriend. Jesus Christ." He rolled his eyes.

"Not that." Beck laughed. "How'd you manage to hide that?" he pointed at Mark's hand. "I could swear that we gave you a pretty thorough inspection, when you were unconscious."

Mark relaxed. "Oh, that." He smirked. "It's easy, check this out. I just put it into camouflage mode." He prodded and tapped at it for a few moments, and then Beck watched, as it changed colors, blending seamlessly into his skin. "Neat, huh?"

"If by 'neat' you mean, 'freaky as hell', sure."

"Yea, well... it goes both ways, you know." Mark grinned. "Imagine how some of our crazy human stuff looks, to her."

"Still can't believe you let her watch The Dukes of Hazzard."

Mark laughed. "Actually, she found it pretty easy to relate to. The idea of humans that treat their vehicle like it's a member of the family-I think it gave her some hope for humanity, after all."

"Good lord. Don't tell Lewis that. Alright, man. I'm out. See you tomorrow."

"Drive safe. No barrel rolls."

x x x

Even after nearly two months aboard, Mark was still discovering nooks and crannies he'd never noticed before. And as small and cramped as the ship was, there were certainly areas that he was not welcome to go. He suspected that his unlikely companion wasn't easy to get to know, under the best of circumstances; before the language barrier was accounted for. She was intensely private, and once their work on the translation app was finished for the day, she usually retreated to the kitchen area and interacted with him as little as possible. She spent hours upon hours, studying and making notations on star charts and other unfathomable documents written in her strange code. She rarely smiled, and never laughed, not since she'd made the decision to make the journey to Earth. The early comradery they'd shared in the Hab had evaporated, somehow, and now he felt more alone than he ever had.

He'd spent the first month of their voyage slowly recovering from starvation; his digestive tract a constant bother. He slept for long stretches, mainly waking up for meals and then finding himself exhausted again after just a few hours of sedentary work. As his health began to slowly return, his sleep schedule swung to the other extreme. Sleep was difficult to come by, and anxiety had begun to eat away at him. Was she his rescuer? His jailor? He got the feeling that there was something about him, on some very basic level, that she just didn't like very much, though she remained politely remote in all their dealings together. Was she secretly planning to throw him out the airlock? He just didn't know. He began to spend too many hours, obsessively reorganizing his small storage cache, with only claustrophobia and anxiety to keep him company. It wasn't healthy behavior, he knew, but he didn't seem to be able to pull himself out of it, as dark thoughts occupied his mind for longer and longer stretches. He'd begun to suspect that he would never see Earth again.

He also suspected that she hadn't always been alone. There were two seats, in the small cockpit niche, as well as two seats in the lowest level of the ship that Mark had privately dubbed "the living room". There were two closet-like sleep chambers, also; although one of them had been converted into a storage area at some point. They were designed for much smaller occupants than himself, unfortunately, and he had to make do with sleeping curled in the area near the airlock, in between two NASA-issue blankets he'd duct-taped together. His "bedroom", such as it was, was a irregular little space about 1.5 meters cubed, and did nothing to alleviate his feelings of claustrophobia.

Today, he'd learned that what he'd previously understood to be the bulkhead, in the area beyond the kitchen, was actually a panel, that provided access to an area of the ship that he'd never seen. Probably more storage. But now, the unknown space was yet another irrational thing to add to his list of worries.