100 More One Shots ✔️

Down To Earth >> Mark Watney X Reader

At once he's off like a shot, and following Mark, he jumps into the SUV, and you're both driving to the farm down the way which seasonally sells their homegrown trees. The CD in the dashboard begins to play the last thing you had in it - an NSYNC best hits compilation - and he grins. Without words, you question his smile.

"Just glad you're not a fan of disco," he chuckles, and sings along.

But not too long later, you're at the farm, and having picked out a cute little tree that's about five feet tall, you're on the way back home. The hard part is bringing the tree in.

"Lounge room, or what?" You ask him.

"Yeah, lounge room." He nods, "Under the window, by the sofa that looks like a grandpa used to own it."

You huff, but it's hard to huff around a Christmas tree when the branches are pressed close to your face. "That sofa was a wedding present, an antique!" You remind him, "I thought you liked that sofa!"

The pair of you move the tree into the lounge room to the spot you chose, carefully stepping over the half-untangled mess of Christmas lights left on the floor. You'll decorate the tree tomorrow, it's not like there's any infants around to make the ornaments into hazards.

"I do like that sofa, I fall asleep in it a lot," Mark confirms, standing the tree up in the bucket. "like an old grandpa."

-

It's December 20 when you hear a shout in the middle of the day, from somewhere in the house. Scared out of your wits that there was an accident, or that Mark had let the neighbourhood raccoon into the house again (he stole Mr. O'Malley's prosthetic leg last autumn), you leapt up from your laptop and rushed toward where the hullabaloo was at. But when you get there, Mark is okay, albeit sad.

He's standing over a blackened tray of what probably was supposed to be cookies, but the tray appears to have twelve scorched circles, and reminds you of the coal that Santa Claus gave to naughty children.

"Honey, you baked." You hum, pushing the hair that had fallen into your eyes away, waving your hand to waft the smoke away. "How nice of you."

Mark shakes his head. "I'm shitty at it. I'm a shitty baker. Shitty!" He drops the ruined cookies onto the rack, his hands up in defeat. But he doesn't look as depressed as he could be - he's wearing your flowery apron, and has purple oven gloves on. "I was trying to make the cookies to bring to NASA; Vogel's kids'll be in tomorrow and I'm not Fun Uncle Mark without cookies."

You go to open a window, and give him a kind smile. "How about we make Cookies 0.2? I'll help out." You ruffle Mark's hair, and peck his cheek. His hair has a few grey hairs, and his face has stubble. You wouldn't blame the grey hairs; he's survived living alone on a planet all by himself. You'd say he earned them. "There's no Fun Uncle Mark without Fun Aunt ______, remember?"

When you get back from NASA the next day, you realise that in the span you had both been out, there was a lot more snowfall that anticipated, and the driveway is piled high with freshly fallen snow.

"I'll get the shovels," you open the car door, leaving Mark idling the car in the street, as you grab the tools from the shed. Not five minutes later you have two shovels, and with Mark helping with the task it makes quick work of the driveway. It's after dark when you finish, and with the car parked in the garage, you both warm yourselves up with warmed milk and the surplus cookies. In the orange light of the dying bulb in the kitchen, you take in Mark's profile, and smile. "You're cute, you know that?"

Mark laughs, a ripe blush taking over his face. "I was under the impression you married me for my money, not my looks," he jokes, and putting his cookie down, takes you in for a kiss. "How about we make this evening about Netflix, leftovers and warm hugs?" He proposes.

"Mark, you sure know how to make a girl swoon."

-

On Christmas morning, it's cold inside, and waking, you wonder if you forgot to adjust the thermostat, or maybe if Mark had changed it to be more earth-friendly (money wise, he is, your father had noted on your wedding day, and chugging his champagne, added, hope it works out, the botanist and the artist). But it feels good, being cold – the blankets are close around your face, the tip of your nose feeling the cold, and is probably red like a cherry. You turn in the sheets, a smile growing on your face.

Mark too is waking, his eyelashes fluttering as he rises through the layers of sleep from the land of dreams. He seems to notice you're waking too, almost like he's a mind reader amongst being a famous astronaut and a fantastic husband.

"Hey," you whisper.

"Hey," he whispers back. His voice is hoarse, just like it always is in the mornings, and this morning, you roll to his side of the bed, and wrap your warm arms around his. "Your hair is all messy this morning," his fingers move to run through it, slowly detangling sleep's touch. "Happy Christmas, ______."

You give him a kiss, happy that he's back with you, back on Earth, alive and well. "Happy Christmas, Mark."