Title: Down To Earth
Paring: Mark Watney X Reader
Spoilers: yeah. Make sure you've seen/read The Martian.
Warnings: fluff fic, set in Christmas and loads of fluff. Did I mention fluff? Yeah, there's fluff.
Request: from my tumblr!
Author's Note: I know I put a song from Wall-E alongside a Christmas fic, but tbh, it reminds me a lot about of Mark Watney, and I've always wanted to have it in a fic with him. Anyways. Hope you enjoy reading!
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When Mark returned to Earth, it had been the greatest day in your life. Yes, even greater than the day you were married, or perhaps met the guy. It felt like all the worrying and the fear that followed the phone calls – Mrs. Watney, your husband has been left on Mars and has died and Mrs. Watney, your husband is alive and stranded on Mars and Mrs. Watney, your husband is returning to Earth – had dissipated. After the quarantine and debriefing and all the protocol that followed returning from space travel, you were strangling Mark with one of your famous hugs.
He doesn't mention this, and neither did the NASA psychologists, but he's different since returning to Mars. His quirks are accentuated, and humour seems to be something he relies on heavily. Mark never wastes food, conserves energy meticulously. It's almost like a PTSD thing, but with Mark being the first human to have survived so long on Mars, there's not enough facts to back up the condition. It's okay. It saves the electricity bill a lot. But it's been months since he's returned home to you, and now it's December. The world around the family home is starting to be covered in the seasonal dusting of snow. It's like you're living in a snow globe, this Yuletide, with Mark in the house once again.
On the first day of the Christmas month, you're woken to find him not in the bed. It's funny, Mark usually tries his best to sleep in most days when he doesn't have classes to teach at NASA, and when you're not at your laptop freelancing art to major stationary companies, it's a snugglefest. But it's December one, and his side of the sheets are cooling, slippers missing, the bedroom door ajar.
"Mark?" you call out, wrapping your dressing gown around you, following your nose to where he might have ended up. "Honey?"
There's a small crash, from the cupboard under the stairs. "I'm here!" He calls back. As you wipe the sleep from your eyes, you find yourself staring at the back of Mark, his ass sticking out as he wrangles the backed boxes in the storage space below the staircase. It's a nice view – you're not going to start complaining – but the early hour isn't quite as nice. "It's right where we left it, before I went to space," he muses, and at that, straightens, holding a cardboard box labelled XMAS.
"I thought you wanted a quiet Christmas," you blink, realising that your assumptions hadn't lined up with his intentions. "Didn't think you'd want all the tinsel and lights this year."
His face grows a smile so bright it could cure cancer. "You kidding? I'm home with my wife, I'm alive, and we're going to make this place look like it's the place where mall Santa goes for a holiday."
True to his word, Mark gets out the boxes of baubles and Christmas lights, little ornaments of half-dressed baby angels with chipped wings, popsicle stick Christmastime art, the whole shebang. Halfway through untangling the lights, you see him pause, eyes wide.
"What's wrong?" you ask.
He's off like a shot, grabbing his keys to the car, and motioning you to follow. "We don't have a tree!"
YOU ARE READING
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