Chapter Text
Mindy had anticipated this. Had planned for it. Had avoided the welcoming crowd this morning by using a side gate to Johnson Space Center and RSVP’d “No” to the reception this afternoon. She’d dressed in the standard navy NASA polo and straight-leg black pants. Her hair was pulled back, her glasses on.
She had satellite imagery to analyze for upcoming missions, so even though she’d known SatCon was on the Mark-Watney-Thanks-NASA tour, she couldn’t justify hiding in the bathroom all day. Besides, knowing Dr. Kapoor, it was going to happen one way or another. She was part of the Ares 3 team, and Mark Watney was here to meet the team. To shake hands and say thanks and schmooze. Venkut kept insisting on her importance; he’d probably drag Watney all over the building looking for her if she wasn’t at her station.
She really shouldn’t dread meeting him.
When the ambient volume in the hall increased tenfold a few heartbeats before the door to SatCon opened, Mindy had to stamp down the urge to flee for the bathroom after all. To not be seen by this man she’d spent over a year watching, analyzing, informing on. And before she could tell herself to get a grip on more than her armrests, he was there.
Mark Watney, astronaut.
Mark Watney, botanist.
Mark Watney, Martian.
Mark Watney, hero.
Mark Watney, rescued.
Mark Watney, still a bit gaunt.
Mark Watney, whose teeth had yellowed despite his vitamin regimen.
Not that flossing wasn’t the first hygiene routine to go after Mindy discovered Mark Watney was still alive on Mars. She could barely remember anything about that time that wasn't related to Watney.
Teddy and Venkat bracketed Mark on either side as they led him into SatCon. Mitch had positioned himself directly behind, a carefully constructed bubble to keep too many people from overwhelming Mark. He was still recovering, after all. He’d rejoined humanity a handful of humans at a time—his crew mates, the ISS crew—then all at once. Footage of him emerging from the capsule to the organized swarm of the landing crew showed him stumbling back, recoiling from touch and the chaos of so many bodies moving around him. His helmet had still been on, his face hadn’t been visible, but Mindy could read him.
She considered the watching Watney part of her life and job over, so it had startled her to recognize his stress response as he climbed out of that capsule. As did the intense shame that had washed over her.
Martinez and Vogul had taken Mark between them and walked him over to the decompression chairs for the obligatory “home safe” photo. And as they took it, Mindy swore that she would never again watch Mark Watney without his knowing. No more photos. No more news footage. No primetime interviews.
She wouldn’t watch him climb his way back out of the trauma she’d watched him endure, more than any one else in the universe had. Her one-sided watching was sick, and it was done.
The city of Chicago had thrown him an honest-to-God ticker tape parade, with Mark waving from the top of an open air bus, his parents on either side of him. Mindy had clicked away.
The Cubs had sat him directly behind home plate and promised him season tickets for the rest of his life. Mindy had turned the game off.
The noisy hum surrounding Watney prompted analysts around the room to stand and move away from their stations. They were drawn by the gravity of Mark’s smiling, easy charm and the knot of important-looking suits trailing along behind them.
She supposed, more generously, this tour was a way for all of NASA to close the book on this traumatic episode of their lives. Here’s the astronaut you all worked so hard to save. You’ve seen him in person, now you can relax. You can stop dreaming of Rover and MAV explosions. Or maybe that was just her.
There was spontaneous applause, a gregarious wave of the hand and a few words of thanks that Watney had no doubt shared in every room and hallway he’d entered since arriving on campus at 0900. Not that they weren’t heartfelt.
Then Dr. Kapoor and Teddy were leading Mark her way, and Mindy wished she had called in sick.
“This is Mindy Park,” said Venkat when they arrived at her station.
Mindy had stood at some point. She didn’t know when, but she was glad to find her legs under her. Not standing might make it seem like she wasn’t glad he had returned to earth safely. Which wasn’t true, obviously.
Kapoor continued, “She’s the person who first realized you were still alive.”
Mark blinked, took a quick breath that felt out of place, and grinned. “So you’re the nerd who saved my life.”
Everyone laughed except her and Dr. Kapoor.
Watney was nervous, straining a little to keep it all reined in.
Shame prickled along her hairline. He was a stranger. She shouldn’t know this, shouldn’t be able to tell.
“I was just in the right seat, on the right shift,” she said.
He was a stranger with a too-handsome face.
She didn’t trust people who were too good-looking. Or charming. Charm is a weapon. It’s only ever used by people who want something.
But she couldn’t hold on to her annoyance, because Mark probably just wanted to get through this so he could go home and not come out again for a year.
She wanted that for him. She wouldn’t mind a few months of hibernation herself.
Venkat leaned closer to Mark, who was shifting side to side now that they weren’t walking. Venkat continued, “Mindy was more than in the right seat. She took initiative to look at the imagery I'd ordered and called me in here in the middle of the night. She analyzed your satellite imagery from Sol 49 until you took off in the MAV. She managed the satellite orbital rotations and kept Martian time for over a year so she would be watching whenever you were awake. Mindy even learned morse code so she could translate your messages faster.”
Mitch spoke up, “We all got a lot of 2 and 3 AM emails from Mindy while you were on Mars.”
Mark reached out his hand and Mindy took it automatically, though her gaze slid to one side. No more watching.
“It sounds like I was right,” he said. “Life saver.”
“It got creepy,” Mindy objected, her voice flat. “Intrusive. Especially because it was just me watching you, not a team.” And immediately she flushed that she’d said this not to Dr. Kapoor for the thousandth time, or in front of Teddy who heads all of NASA, but to Mark himself. She pulled her hand back. “How was the deep dish?”
A few people whooped. About half the group clapped, but it didn’t take off.
Mark, however, had stilled. His forehead creased, and he no longer seemed aware of the dozens of people around them. His focus had narrowed to just her.
“I probably scared the shit out of you a couple of times,” he said. His tone was somber, and the direct way he was looking at her, and the fact that he said “you,” not “everyone” or “NASA,” made Mindy feel like she was the one with 11 satellites aimed at her.
“Well, sure,” she said, shrugging to hide a flinch. “The Hab breach. The time you threw your back out. Going after Pathfinder.”
Mark answered in a similar deadpan: “The time I fried Pathfinder. The sand storm. Rolling the rover.”
She and a few other people chuckled, smiled. “Yeah.”
Mark inclined his head a few degrees, his eyes darkening slightly. “Sorry, Mindy.”
She shrugged. “I mostly blame Mars.”
“Yes,” agreed Mark, nodding earnestly, his voice growing louder as he leaned away from her again. “Mars is an asshole.”
Some tension Mindy hadn’t been conscious of broke.
Addressing the rest of the room, Mark called out with a grin, “Mars is an asshole.” Which got the entire retinue of suits and hand-jittery SatCon analysts laughing again.
Mark reached out again, Mindy took his hand again, but he wasn’t shaking it this time. He touched his second hand to hers and squeezed. “Thanks, Mindy Park.”
Mindy took in a thin breath. Trying for lightness, she said, “We nerds are glad you made it home safe, Mark Watney.”
Mark winked. “I have a big soft spot for nerds, you know. Next time you’re in Chicago, the deep dish is on me.”
And that brought sweat to her forehead, which just made no sense. It wasn’t like Mark Watney was flirting with her.
Teddy and the rest of the Watney bubble led him out of the room then, the retinue following.
Her fellow analysts took forever to drift back to their work stations and offices, preferring to chat in knots and glance at Mindy, who was not chatting. Mindy was analyzing.
Mark Watney was a winker. Ew.
And she wasn’t only sweating on her brow—she was warm all over. Double ew.
It wasn’t like they’d actually have deep dish together. She never went to Chicago, even if she had kind of gotten into the Cubs these last few seasons. No matter what time she was home, there always seemed to be a Cubs game on, or a replay of a game, and she could let it play in the background as she made herself some toast or a sandwich, sit on the sofa, avoid vacuuming, and fall asleep.
As Mindy sat back down, pulled her chair back up to her screen, she itched for the fountain pen she’d bought the day the Ares 3 crew had landed in Kazakstan. She wanted to write until her mind made sense to her.
She’d been dreading meeting Mark Watney, and now it was over. So why was she disappointed? And why did she still feel as though a bunch of satellites were aimed straight at her?