Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rory Gilmore stepped off the train at Penn Station, a rush of people moving around her like an unending current. She clutched the strap of her bag a little tighter, adjusting the weight of her laptop against her hip. This weekend was important. Maybe the most important of her career—or what was left of it.

Condé Nast. A meeting with an editor. A shot at something real again.

And yet, despite the gravity of it all, she felt like a leaf caught in the wind, spiraling and directionless.

She glanced to her side, where her mother, Lorelai, was navigating the station with her usual blend of confidence and exasperation. Lorelai had insisted on coming—moral support, she had called it. They were sharing a hotel room, just like old times, except it didn’t feel like old times at all.

Rory loved her mother, always would, but something had shifted between them in the years since she graduated college. Their conversations felt more surface-level, their connection just slightly… off. She had tried to bring it up before, tried to put words to the growing distance between them, but Lorelai either didn’t see it or refused to acknowledge it.

So when she had agreed to bring Lorelai along for this weekend, she had told herself it was an attempt to bridge the gap, to recapture what they used to have. But deep down, she didn’t really believe it would work.

Rory shook off the thought and stepped onto the busy Manhattan streets, already reaching for her phone. 

One unread text from Logan. One she wasn’t ready to answer.

"Okay, remember the rules," Chris Beck said, crossing his arms as he surveyed his fellow crewmates. "One: We do not get recognized. Two: We do not get arrested. Three: Whoever has the best costume does not pay for their own drinks tonight."

Beth Johanssen smirked as she adjusted the final touches of blue paint on her arm. "I accept these terms. But just so we’re clear, I intend to win."

Mark Watney grunted from behind his fur-covered mask. "You guys stacked the deck against me. I have no shot at winning this."

Beck grinned. "You chose the Wookiee, man. That’s on you."

Mark tugged at the heavy, overheated Chewbacca costume. "Do you know how famous I am? I’m the face of this mission. Annie Montrose wasn’t joking when she said I was chosen for this mission as much to resolve me in front of all the cameras as it was for my Botany or Engineering skills. Who knew my winning personality and roguish good looks would land me a ticket to Mars? The only way to not be recognized this weekend is to be entirely unrecognizable. Besides, I’m fully committing to the role. I plan to Wookiee-yell at least twice."

Johanssen rolled her eyes. "Just don’t get us kicked out of line before I get my Hidden Figures Funko Pops."

The line outside Galaxy Collectibles wasn’t moving fast, but that didn’t stop the energy from buzzing around them. Excited chatter, the occasional groan from someone checking their watch, and of course, the ongoing debate three spots ahead about which Star Wars trilogy was superior.

Rory had not anticipated spending her first night in New York standing in a collectibles line, but here she was, notepad in hand, as she attempted to squeeze an article out of a bunch of nerds camping out for exclusive figurines.

She was mid-interview with a very boring IT tech (who incidentally was spending more time trying to recruit her for his Dungeons and Dragons campaign than actually answering any of her questions) when she felt a looming presence beside her. Turning, she found herself staring up—way up—into the eyes of a very tall, very furry Wookiee.

“Mr. Wookiee,” she greeted, arching a brow. “Here for the thrill of the hunt?”

The Wookiee crossed his arms, considering her. Then, in an exaggeratedly deep voice, he rumbled, “I could ask you the same, Princess Leia.”

She blinked. “I—what?”

A blue-skinned woman and a Klingon sidled up beside him, both eyeing her warily. Rory caught the tension, misinterpreted it, and held up her hands. “Don’t worry. Not here to judge. Just looking for a story.”

The tension remained for several long moments, but eventually the Wookiee shrugged. “Well, good then. I was about to accuse you of working for the Empire.”

Rory grinned. “That depends. Does the Empire have a decent dental plan?”

And just like that, the conversation turned to banter. The trio let their guard down, and soon, Rory was no longer just a reporter scrounging for a story—she was part of their strange little group. 

“Remind me again why we’re willingly standing outside in the cold for figurines?” Rory mused, blowing warm air onto her hands.

“Because some of us have taste, Leia,” Johanssen replied with a smirk. “Also, it’s history. This Hidden Figures set is a limited run. Once they’re gone, they’re gone. These women were pioneers in NASA – frankly, they made huge strides for women, for Black women especially, in STEM fields as a whole. These Funko Pops represent the fight for equality!”

“And soon they’ll be listed on eBay for a thousand dollars each,” Beck added, cutting off the rant before it could gain steam. He couldn’t quite hide his soft grin.

“Which I would never pay,” Johanssen said. “But would I track down the IP address, befriend the seller, and somehow end up trading valuable NASA memorabilia to acquire it? Absolutely.”

Rory chuckled and flipped open her notebook. “Well, you guys are definitely committed. One would think if you somehow managed to get your hands on actual NASA memorabilia, it would be a step up from the commercialized imitation of it.” She was too busy writing to notice Johanssen’s wince, or the warning glance from Beck. 

They hadn’t shared their names, and in mock-retaliation, Rory had refused to give any name aside from Leia. She had asked what they all did for a living, and was startled by how intense and defensive the vibe had become. Thankfully, her line companions relaxed quickly when she backed off that line of questioning. In the end, the Wookiee had admitted that they worked for the government, and would soon be leaving on a mission for over a year. That alone seemed to be far more than his friends (colleagues?) were comfortable with him sharing, and Rory had been quick to promise that nothing about their work would end up in her article. (She wouldn’t admit it out loud, but part of her wondered if she had stumbled across some sort of secret agency spies, and she had no desire to end up in some dark hole on espionage charges.)

Rory was startled from her thoughts when a man in line a short way ahead of them suddenly cursed loudly and stormed out of line.

“He does get that this is supposed to be fun, right?” Johanssen commented.

“Speak for yourself – some of us are working,” Rory quipped back.

The Wookiee beside her tilted his furry head. “Do Wookiees get a cut of the profits if we make it into the article?”

“Absolutely not,” Rory said.

“Then I retract any interesting comments I was about to make,” he deadpanned.

“Duly noted. But seriously, I’m writing about collectible culture. Why people camp out in the cold for tiny plastic people. Why some of you, no judgment, would probably fight someone in hand-to-hand combat for the last set.”

“I wouldn’t fight anyone,” Johanssen said. “I would outsmart them.”

“Intelligence-based combat,” Beck mused. “Respectable.”

Mark stroked his furry chin. “So what’s your angle? Consumerism? Nostalgia? The slow but inevitable rise of nerd culture dominance?”

Rory considered. “I was thinking something about how fandom has changed. It’s more mainstream now—people wear their obsessions like badges of honor. And there’s this whole sense of community. Strangers bonding in line over shared interests.”

Johanssen snapped her fingers. “And how limited releases make everything feel like an event. It’s not just about owning the thing—it’s about being there.”

Mark nodded sagely. “FOMO. The most powerful economic force of our time.”

Rory grinned. “Exactly. Also, some people just really, really love their Funko Pops.”

Beck gestured to Johanssen. “Case in point.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re one to talk, Spock.”

He shrugged. “I contain multitudes.”

Mark nudged Rory. “You should add a section on how people justify their obsessions. The ‘Oh, it’s not that bad’ stage of denial.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s a whole paragraph,” Rory agreed. “So, tell me, Mr. Wookiee—how deep in denial are you?”

Mark sighed dramatically. “I have a very reasonable number of space-themed collectibles, thank you.”

Johanssen snorted. “Define reasonable.”

“Under a hundred.”

Beck raised an eyebrow. “Is it under a hundred, or under a hundred in plain sight while the rest are in storage?”

Mark paused. “Next question.”

Rory laughed, scribbling notes as the line inched forward. Maybe this article would turn out better than she thought.

By the time they reached the checkout counter in the store, Rory was wearing a pair of Princess Leia earmuffs, courtesy of the Wookiee himself.

He paid for them with a wink. “Now you fit in. Stop cramping our style.”

The night didn’t end there. 

The bar Rory found herself in a short while later was dimly lit, the warm amber glow of the hanging lights casting soft shadows over the booth they had claimed in the corner. Drinks in hand, the four of them had long since settled into the easy rhythm of a group that had spent just enough time together to feel like old friends—if only for the night.

They had all gotten a good laugh in – Rory and Joheanssen each reduced to giggles and tears at different points – while helping Mark to MacGyver a long straw out of a bunch of smaller straws that would let him drink from within his costume without exposing his face.

Now Mark relaxed in the seat beside Rory, stretching his long legs out under the table with a dramatic sigh. “Okay, official vote. Who won the costume contest?”

Johanssen smirked and raised her glass. “I mean, it’s clearly me. I had body paint. That’s commitment .”

Beck leaned forward, his lips quirking. “I don’t know, I think it should go to the person who suffered the most for their craft. And Wookiee over here has been slowly roasting inside that costume all night.”

Rory tilted her head toward Mark. “You do look a little… toasty.”

Mark placed a hand over his chest, mock-wounded. “This is the price of true disguise. I have hidden my face for the mission . And do I get any credit? No. Just mockery.”

Johanssen patted his arm sympathetically. “You get to keep your dignity, Wa–Wookiee.” As she had all evening, Rory politely ignored the minor slip. It was no secret that none of them had shared their names, and she wanted to respect that decision.

“Psssh, what dignity? I lost that somewhere around the moment I spent fifty dollars on a Chewbacca Funko Pop of myself .”

Rory chuckled, swirling the drink in her glass. “I feel like that deserves an article all on its own.”

Mark turned toward her, intrigued. “Oh yeah? ‘The Tragic Irony of Buying Your Own Collectible’?”

“More like ‘Man in Wookiee Suit Faces Existential Crisis Over Merchandising.’”

Beck snorted. “It’s a niche market, but I think it has legs.”

Rory tapped her pen against her chin, feigning deep thought. “You know, maybe I should shift my angle. Psychological Impacts of Collectible Culture: How Tiny Figurines Reflect the Human Condition .”

Johanssen grinned. “You joke, but that’s kind of brilliant.”

Mark leaned in slightly, his shoulder brushing Rory’s. “Or you could go full dramatic: ‘A Collector’s Soul: How Plastic Holds the Pieces of Who We Are’.”

Rory turned her head, finding herself closer to him than she expected. “Wow. Poetic.”

From beneath the Wookiee mask, Mark gave her a lazy grin. “I have layers.”

Beck smirked, watching the exchange, and took a sip of his drink. “You two need a room for this, or…?”

Rory rolled her eyes, but she could feel the warmth rising to her cheeks. “Oh, don’t be jealous. I’m sure your moment of deep existential connection is coming.”

Johanssen arched a brow at Beck. “You do get weirdly philosophical about space sometimes.”

Beck shrugged, all casual charm. “Space is philosophical.”

“Uh-huh,” Johanssen said, tilting her glass toward him. “Go on, Plato.”

Beck held her gaze for a moment, a flicker of something passing between them before he smirked and took a drink instead.

Mark turned back to Rory, leaning in even closer so that he could whisper his next words for her ears alone. “See? Now that’s a story. ‘The Secret Romances of Nerds in Disguise.’”

Rory smirked. “I don’t know. It’d be hard to find willing interview subjects.”

Mark grinned, his voice dropping just slightly. “Depends who’s asking.” He didn’t move back out of her personal space.

Rory’s breath hitched for just a second—barely noticeable, but enough. He saw it. And he definitely enjoyed it.

The night stretched on, conversation shifting between teasing and serious, laughter and quiet moments. Somewhere between drinks and stories, Rory realized she didn’t feel quite so adrift anymore.

And Mark? Well. He wasn’t thinking about Mars.

Not even a little.

Eventually, Rory found herself walking alongside her Wookiee in the brisk night air of New York City, conversation flowing as easily as the city lights flickering around them.

When they reached his hotel, she hesitated. He hesitated too.

Then she made her choice.

Rory followed the path of Mark’s hands with her own as he slowly unfastened the Wookiee costume, the rustle of fabric the only sound between them. He had made sure to turn off every light before he began to undress.

She didn’t ask why. She only reached for him.

His lips found hers in the dark, hesitant at first, then growing more certain, more intent. She felt the heat of his skin, the shape of his shoulders, the press of his body against hers. His fingers traced slow, careful paths across her back, his breath warm against her jawline.

Rory let herself sink into him, let herself forget—about Condé Nast, about Logan, about everything except the way Mark made her feel here , now .

They moved together, unhurried yet desperate, as if they were memorizing each moment before it could slip away. Every touch, every sigh, every whispered laugh between kisses. He made her feel weightless, made her feel seen—even in complete darkness.

Afterward, they lay tangled in silence, his fingers drawing absentminded circles against her arm. She turned her head toward him, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing.

“Hey Mr. Wookiee,” she murmured.

He exhaled a quiet chuckle. “Yeah?”

She smiled, knowing he couldn’t see it. “You definitely won the costume contest.”

His laugh was soft, but real. “Damn right I did.”

And with that, she drifted into sleep, not quite so lost anymore.

The hotel room was still dark in the early hours of the morning, the city humming faintly beyond the window as Mark and Rory lay side by side, trading secrets in the stillness. She told him about Logan, about the way she’d lost herself somewhere along the way. He listened, never judging, only offering quiet insight that cut straight through her carefully built defenses.

“You turned him down for a reason,” he said softly. “And now, here you are, letting the worst parts of what you feared about that life control you anyway.”

She exhaled, pressing a palm to her forehead. “I know. I just… I don’t know how to fix it.”

His fingers brushed against hers, warm and certain. “Start by believing you’re someone worth fixing it for.”

She turned her head, imagining she would be staring into his eyes with her own if not for the darkness. “And you? What’s your secret?”

He hesitated. Then, with a sigh, he admitted, “That I didn’t expect to meet someone who made me wish I wasn’t leaving.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then he shifted, pressing something into her palm. A necklace, rough and worn. “Keep this,” he murmured. “I’ll need to see you again to get it back.”

Her fingers curled around it. “We’re not waiting for each other, are we?”

“No.” He smiled, a secret, wistful thing hidden in the dark. “But if, by chance, we still feel this way when we meet again… well, then, Princess Leia—I’m your Wookiee, if you’ll have me.”

The city hummed in the background while Mark and Rory continued baring their souls to each other in the dark.

Chapter Text

Rory Gilmore sat at her desk, staring at the blinking cursor on her screen. The words were there, tangled somewhere in her mind, but getting them onto the page was another battle entirely.

She had done it. She had walked into Condé Nast’s offices, pitched her article about New York’s obsessive queuing culture, and for the first time in years, she had felt that old fire again—the thrill of seeing a story take shape. The article, infused with the same whimsical yet poignant style she had once used for an article on repaving while at Chilton and later perfected at The Yale Daily News , had landed. It was good. Maybe even great . And on a whim, when she submitted it, she had asked them to publish it under the name Leigh Hayden.

No expectations. No baggage. Just the words standing on their own.

And now, she was writing. She had promised him— Mr. Wookiee —that she would commit to this, that she would write even if she had to flip burgers to get by. So she started a blog. No grand ambitions, no promotion, no expectations. Just a space to let the words flow.

She wrote about everything—short essays, long think pieces, lighthearted lists. And every day, she wrote a letter. A letter to MW.

Dear Mr. Wookiee,
I walked past the line outside Galaxy Collectibles today and thought of you. I almost stopped to interview them, but I wasn’t in the mood for nostalgia. Or maybe I was in the mood for it too much.
Anyway, I wore the Leia earmuffs today. Thought you should know.
—Leia

She never expected anyone to read them. The blog was private, anonymous. She had even avoided using a real domain. It was hers, a secret diary hidden in plain sight.

And then, just when she was starting to regain a sense of herself, life threw her another curve ball.

She was pregnant.

The test sat on her bathroom counter, an unassuming little thing with two stark pink lines. Rory had always imagined this moment—someday, maybe, planned —but never like this. Never with a mystery man she had never seen outside of a Wookiee costume – a man who didn’t even know her real name.

Her hand shook as she reached for her laptop. She could barely breathe, but she could write.

Dear Mr. Wookiee,
Plot twist: I’m having a baby.
(Do Wookiees have good paternal instincts? Asking for a friend.)
—Leia

Freelance work started trickling in, mostly under her new pseudonym. Leigh Hayden was building a portfolio, a reputation, something real. Rory felt herself regaining confidence, reclaiming her love for journalism. But even as she moved forward, she couldn’t shake the weight of everything she was leaving behind.

Her mother and grandmother were furious when she told them she wasn’t coming back to Stars Hollow, Hartford, or even Cape Cod. Emily called it reckless; Lorelai called it selfish.

Rory called it necessary.

“I made a promise,” she told them. “I swore I’d spend the next year relearning how to be me . And I meant it.”

The fight was bad enough that she refused to tell them where she was moving. She didn’t even tell them about the baby (that, she could admit to herself, likely was a little reckless and a little selfish). She barely spoke to them at all, except for strained weekly phone calls that felt like obligations rather than connections.

And yet, despite everything, she was hopeful. For the first time in years, she believed in herself again.

Researching the Ares III mission had started as a professional curiosity—one more challenge to push herself out of her comfort zones while she reignited her passion for writing—but what she found left her breathless.

Chris Beck. Beth Johanssen. Their costumes hadn't truly disguised their identities now that Rory was staring down at their official NASA headshots. And that meant…

Mark Watney.

She stared at the still image of his face, reality crashing down around her. The strangers she had spent that night with weren’t spies or special ops. They were astronauts. Mark was going to Mars.

Her heart pounded as she opened a new draft.

Dear Mr. Wookiee,

I figured it out. Who you are. Where you’re going.

I should probably be mad that you didn’t tell me. But honestly, I get it. And now, I just have one thing to say:

I know we agreed we weren’t waiting for each other, but… Mr. Wookiee—I’m your Princess Leia, if you’ll have me.

Yours,
Leia

Then NASA broke the news.

Mark Watney was dead.

Rory stared at the television screen, her breath caught in her throat. The press conference was clinical, controlled. A dust storm. Catastrophic failure. No contact. The words blurred together, sounding hollow and impossible.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t stop the tears from spilling over.

Her hands trembled as she reached for her laptop.

Dear Mr. Wookiee,
I think you lied to me. You said we’d see each other again.
And now you’re gone.
—Leia

Mark Watney had always dreamed of space. Of standing on alien soil, of looking up at a sky unfamiliar to any human eye. And now, aboard the Hermes, with Mars growing closer every day, he was living that dream.

It should have been everything.

And yet, in the quiet moments—when the chatter of his crewmates faded and the hum of the ship was the only sound—he found himself thinking about her .

The woman in the collectibles line. The woman who called him Mr. Wookiee. The woman he left behind.

“She’s still stuck in your head, huh?”

Mark blinked, turning toward Chris Beck, who was floating beside him in the ship’s central hub. Beck had that easygoing smirk on his face, the one he usually reserved for when he knew exactly what was going on in Mark’s brain.

“Who?” Mark asked, feigning innocence as he secured himself against the wall.

Beck chuckled. “You know who. Princess Leia.”

Mark exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t even know her real name.”

Beck raised an eyebrow. “You spent an entire night with her, but you never asked?”

“She didn’t ask mine, either.” Mark shrugged, though it was a little forced. “Besides, it felt like part of the whole thing, you know? A weekend outside of real life.”

Beck studied him for a long moment before shaking his head. “You regret not telling her?”

Mark hesitated. “Yeah. I do. I should’ve asked her to wait for me.”

“You think she would have?”

“I don’t know.” He let out a small, humorless laugh. “But now, I might never find out.”

Beck nudged his shoulder lightly. “You’re the most famous astronaut on this mission, Watney. When we get back, if you want to find her, you will.”

Mark nodded, but the doubt lingered. Something told him that he should have found her before leaving Earth’s orbit.

The journey to Mars was a long one, but their crew was well-prepared. They had trained for this, after all. Days passed in a steady rhythm of work, exercise, and the occasional movie night.

Johanssen ran simulations on the MAV systems. Beck checked and rechecked the medical supplies. Commander Lewis kept them all in line. And Mark? He focused on the mission. On the adventure. On the fact that he was about to stand on Mars.

But at night, when he lay in his bunk staring at the walls, he thought about Leia. About the way she had reached for him in the dark, melted into his touch, trusting him even when she couldn’t see his face. About the way she had laughed, quick and warm, like music in the cold New York air.

He thought about what he had told her before he left: We’re not waiting for each other, but we will see each other again.

He thought maybe, despite all his degrees, he was a bit of a moron.

Landing on Mars was surreal. Mark had spent years imagining what it would feel like, but nothing could compare to the moment he first stepped onto the red planet’s surface. The ground was firm beneath his boots, the sky a dusky rust, and in every direction, there was nothing but endless, untouched frontier.

“This is it,” he murmured to himself, a grin breaking across his face. “I’m on Mars.”

The first few sols were dedicated to setting up their base of operations. The Hab was secured, solar panels positioned, and communications tested. The team worked in tandem, moving with the ease of people who had trained together for years.

Mark kept up his usual antics, cracking jokes over comms and making Beck groan with increasingly bad puns.

“Hey, Commander,” he said on Sol 3, adjusting a piece of lab equipment. “If we find Martians, do you think they’ll be more into chess or checkers?”

Commander Lewis didn’t even look up. “Watney, if we find Martians, I am locking you outside the Hab and praying they take you off our hands.”

“You can’t repress my scientific curiosity!”

“Watch me.”

Despite the laughter and the thrill of discovery, Mark still felt it—that quiet pull in the back of his mind. He didn’t have time for it, not really, but it was there nonetheless. Some part of him had stayed on Earth, back in a New York hotel room, tangled up with a woman he hadn’t wanted to leave.

No matter how much training they had, no matter how many worst-case scenarios they had run, nothing could have prepared them for the storm.

It came fast. Too fast.

The wind howled outside the Hab, and over their comms, Lewis’s voice was sharp and commanding. “Abort mission. We’re evacuating now.”

Mark moved on instinct, heart pounding as he secured the last of the equipment. The MAV loomed ahead, their lifeboat off this planet. The others were already moving toward it, fighting against the wind, their visors reflecting the blinding swirl of sand and debris.

Then, everything changed.

Something slammed into him—a sharp, brutal impact against his side. His vision went white, and suddenly he was airborne, the storm swallowing him whole. His suit blared warnings, pressure dropping, oxygen levels depleting.

Pain radiated through his body as he hit the ground, hard. He tried to move, but his limbs felt sluggish.

In the chaos, only one thought anchored him, a whisper in the back of his mind.

I promised Leia I’d see her again.

And then, everything went dark.

Chapter Text

Rory Gilmore had always thought she understood how quickly life could change. One moment, you were the golden girl of Chilton, the next you were floundering through a series of aimless writing gigs and watching your own life unravel. One moment, you were a journalist waiting for your big break, the next you were the unwilling subject of a media frenzy over a man you had spent a single, incredible night with.

Mark Watney was dead. And the world wanted to know who he had been before he died.

The first inkling that something was wrong came in the form of an email. Then another. And another. The subject lines were all variations of the same thing:

Exclusive Interview?
A Personal Connection to Mark Watney?
Your Story Deserves to be Told, Leia.

It took her longer than it should have to realize what had happened. Someone, somewhere, had stumbled upon her blog. Her private, deeply personal blog, filled with her most unguarded thoughts.

She hadn’t even used his real name. The only signature at the bottom of those letters was Leia . The closest she ever came to naming Mark was a reference to his initials, MW , which could have stood for a thousand different things (she couldn’t not point out the irony of him sharing initials with ‘Mr. Wookiee'). But the internet was a relentless, bloodthirsty beast. Opportunistic journalists had latched onto it, sniffing out a story where one was never meant to exist.

And now, suddenly, she was a commodity.

Job offers poured in. Every major news outlet wanted her to write the tell-all piece about Mark Watney’s last night of freedom. They wanted details of their night together, details of their conversations, details of him .

To her horror, even Logan had emailed. A formal offer from Huntzberger Publishing Group. He wanted her to write for them. We'll, not her , truly—they all wanted Leia .

That was the moment the rage truly set in.

Rory had never written her blog for the world. It had been a lifeline, a way to process everything, to reach out into the void. She had written those letters for Mark, even knowing he would never read them. And now, strangers were tearing through them like scavengers, looking for something juicy to feed the gossip machine.

Her fingers shook as she typed her next post.

To Whom It May Concern (i.e., The Vultures):

Mark Watney was a person. Not a headline, not a viral sensation, not an exclusive waiting to be sold to the highest bidder.

He was kind. He was funny. He was infuriating in the best way. And he was his own person . His life—what he shared, what he kept private—was his to own.

I will not be giving you the story you want. I will not be capitalizing on grief, and I sure as hell will not be helping anyone pick apart the details of a man who can’t speak for himself anymore.

And if you keep searching for me, for her —for Leia—I promise you will be disappointed. She is gone.

She hit post , closed her laptop, and grabbed her bag.

Then, on a whim, in a fit of grief and rage, she got on a bus to Chicago.

The Chicago Botanical Gardens were peaceful, despite the storm raging in Rory’s chest. She had spent the entire bus ride clutching Mark’s necklace, running her thumb over smooth stones and leather straps until they were warm against her skin.

She had no plan. No idea what she was going to say.

All she knew was that Mark had spoken about his mother with such quiet reverence. About how she spent every Sunday morning volunteering at the gardens, believing that nature was better than any religion. About how she had always wanted him to have roots, even as he reached for the stars.

So she waited in the parking lot, nerves clawing at her throat, until she saw a woman with familiar auburn hair step out of a car.

Rory took a deep breath, clutched the necklace tighter, and walked forward.

"Mrs. Watney?" Her voice wavered.

The woman turned, brows furrowing. "Yes?"

Rory swallowed hard and held out the necklace. "My name is Rory Gilmore. Your son gave me this. Can we talk?"

Mark’s parents welcomed her into their home cautiously, but kindly. She sat at their kitchen table, fingers wrapped around a mug of tea she wasn’t drinking, and did her best to explain.

She told them about the weekend she met Mark, how he had found her at her lowest point and challenged her to be better. She told them about the blog, about how she had never meant for anyone else to find it.

Then, finally, she told them the part that mattered most.

"I’m keeping this baby," she said, voice steady. "And I’m not asking anything from you. But I wanted you to have the chance to be involved, if you wanted."

Silence filled the space between them. Then, slowly, Ma Watney reached across the table and covered Rory’s hand with her own.

"Thank you. For finding me, for telling us," she murmured. “Thank you for giving us back a piece of our son.”

And just like that, Rory found herself with something she hadn’t expected: a place to stay. A place where she could disappear from the media frenzy, where she could breathe. Mark’s childhood bedroom became her own, filled with pieces of him she had never known. A battered copy of The Little Prince . Old baseball trophies. A ceiling covered in glow-in-the-dark stars.

For the first time since the news broke days earlier, Rory felt safe enough to drop her guard and just cry.

Dear Mr. Wookiee,

I guess I should say Astronaut Wookiee, now, huh? Turns out you were a big deal—and that the entire world is obsessed with you. I suppose I can’t blame them.

I wish you were here to roll your eyes at all of this. You’d probably make some smart-ass comment about my blog getting more views than Condé Nast. (Not that I’ll ever know, since Leia is officially retired.)

I moved to Chicago. I’m staying with your parents. They’re wonderful, Mark. I wish you could see how much they love you.

I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m trying. I promised you I would try. And… I guess I should finally admit it: I was waiting for you. 

Some part of me is still waiting. 

Yours,
Leia.

Sol 7

“Log entry, Sol 7. Mark Watney, still alive. Surprise! I know, I know. This was not how it was supposed to go.”

Mark leaned back against the cold metal of the Hab, exhaling. He glanced at the camera, the only audience he had for the foreseeable future.

“I’m stranded on Mars, obviously. Which is less than ideal. But let’s focus on the positives. I am not dead, which means I have a chance to fix this. That’s what we do in space, right? Solve one problem, then the next, then the next, and every time you solve a problem, it means you get to live to face the next one.” He ran a hand over his face, hesitated, and then looked back at the camera.

“I was unconscious for… a while. Hours, maybe? Hard to tell. But I do remember one thing, right before everything went black.” He let out a soft laugh. “I remembered that I promised a girl I’d come back. And when I did, I was hers if she’d have me.”

He exhaled, shaking his head. “Leia, if you could see me now… you’d either laugh or tell me I’m an idiot. Probably both.”

Sol 21

"Okay, I have a plan. A terrible plan, but still—technically a plan. I, Mark Watney, am officially declaring war on starvation. And I intend to win."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"So, let’s break this down. Our mission was supposed to last 31 days, but NASA, being the over-prepared geniuses they are, sent enough food to last six people 68 days. Which means for just me, that food stretches to about 300 days. If I ration like a champ, maybe 400. The problem? The next Ares crew isn’t getting here for another four years. That’s, uh… more than 400 days."

Mark leaned back with a dry chuckle.

"Now, some of you might be thinking, ‘But Mark, you’re a botanist! Surely, you know how to grow food?’ And to that, I say—yes, yes I do. But, as one very particular and very opinionated journalist once pointed out, I am currently on Mars. Where nothing grows."

He pointed at the camera, as if addressing someone directly.

"That’s right, Leia. I heard you. I remember your teasing in that line in New York when Beck–the little troll–brought up the Ares III mission. You were all, ‘Why would NASA send a botanist to a planet where the only thing growing is dust bunnies?’ Well, guess what? This botanist is about to make Mars very hospitable."

He gestured around dramatically.

"The way I see it, I need to grow about three years' worth of food. And I have… drum roll, please… some potatoes. Yep. A few good old-fashioned Thanksgiving Dinner potatoes. And I have dirt. Not great dirt, mind you. Martian soil is basically plant murder in mineral form. But I can work with that."

Mark rubbed his hands together, grinning.

"First, I need to make the soil something plants can actually live in. I’ll have to mix it with Earth soil samples we brought, add some good old-fashioned organic matter—yes, that means poop, don’t judge—and create something close to farming conditions inside the Hab. Then I’ll need water. I have a plan for that too, involving hydrazine and not blowing myself up . "

He tilted his head, considering.

" Hopefully. "

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

"It’s not gonna be easy. But if I pull this off, I’ll have real food. Not just ration packs. And more importantly—I’ll have a way to survive long enough to see a rescue."

He paused again, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"So yeah, Leia. I know you made fun of me for being a Botanist on a dead planet–even if you didn’t know it was me in that Wookiee suit. But give it some time. Because soon, Mars will come to fear my botany powers."

Sol 35

Mark didn’t say anything right away, just sort of spaced out watching the red blinking light that proved the recording had started. Some days on Mars were easier than others.

This had been a hard one.

 “I’ve been thinking a lot about Earth. Specifically, about one weekend in New York. About a girl who argued with me about the economic impact of collectibles and let me buy her ridiculous Princess Leia earmuffs.” He sighed. “I don’t know if you’re thinking about me, Leia, but I sure as hell am thinking about you.”

Sol 41

"Well, today was eventful. And by eventful, I mean I almost blew myself up. Which, in hindsight, was kind of predictable. But let’s back up. And before I do, let me say – for the record – that I was not the one to steal a yacht in my youth. Let’s all just keep that in mind. We all do stupid things."

Mark grinned impishly, imagining the glare he’d be getting right now if Leia knew he had just entered that anecdote into official NASA records. 

He forced his thoughts back to the present, shifting in his seat and rubbing a soot-streaked hand across his face. His hair was slightly singed, and his jumpsuit had a few new burn marks.

"So, in my infinite genius, I started processing the hydrazine from the MDV to make water. I had a plan. A good plan. A plan that should have worked flawlessly. Except I forgot one small detail. A tiny little thing, really. Completely insignificant."

He held up a finger.

"I forgot that I’ve been exhaling extra oxygen into the Hab. And when you’re trying to make fire in an enclosed space, that’s what we in the biz call a problem ."

Mark leaned back, staring at the ceiling of the Hab.

"So there I am, all proud of myself, watching my careful system drip out precious, life-giving water when suddenly—BOOM! Instant fireworks show. I get thrown back, my ears start ringing, and for a hot second, I think, ‘Well, that’s it, Leia. I promised I’d come back to you, but looks like I’m gonna be a crispy corpse on Mars instead.’"

He paused, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"But no. Apparently, I’m too stubborn to die. I managed to put out the fire, assess the damage, and not, you know, suffocate. The Hab is still intact. I’m still intact. Except for my dignity. My dignity died a fiery death today."

He exhaled, shaking his head.

"The good news? I did make water. The bad news? I almost made a Mark-flavored crater in the process. So from now on, I’m going to take things a little slower. Maybe pause to check my math before I start playing mad scientist again."

He paused to run a hand through his hair, wincing when he found a scorched patch.

"Leia, if you were here, you’d probably be giving me that look right now. You know the one. The ‘I’m judging you, but also slightly impressed you’re still alive’ look. I really wish I could see that look again."

Mark sighed, a small, tired smile on his face.

"Anyway. Still here. Still fighting. Gonna try not to blow myself up again. Mark Watney, signing off."

Sol 47

Mark grinned at the camera, holding his hands up like a magician revealing his grand finale. His voice was hushed, reverent, like he was about to share the greatest secret of the universe.

"Behold… life."

He turned the camera toward his makeshift garden bed inside the Hab, where the tiniest green shoots were poking through the carefully cultivated soil. The lighting in the Hab cast soft shadows over the delicate sprouts, but there was no mistaking it—his potatoes were growing.

"That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. Against all odds, against all logic, and against all of Mars’ best attempts to kill everything I love… I have sprouts."

Mark zoomed in on the little green shoots, then pulled the camera back to himself, his grin widening.

"Now, I know what you’re thinking. ‘Mark, aren’t you a world-class botanist? Shouldn’t you have expected this?’ And to that, I say— shut up. Do you know how many things could have gone wrong? The soil could have been too toxic. The water could have evaporated too fast. I could have miscalculated the oxygen levels and turned this entire setup into a potato murder scene. But no! The spuds have defied Mars. And frankly, I think that deserves a moment of silence for how awesome I am."

He pressed a hand to his chest, closed his eyes dramatically, then immediately peeked one eye open and winked at the camera.

"Okay, silence over. Back to gloating. Because not only do I have baby potatoes—adorable, thriving little starch nuggets—but this means my plan works . I can grow food here. It’s not just a theory anymore. I have proof. Green, leafy, glorious proof."

He let out a breath, the humor in his expression softening just a little.

"I needed this win. Badly. I mean, don't get me wrong—I’m still very much screwed in the long run. But now I’m screwed with potatoes. And that’s a hell of a lot better than being screwed without potatoes."

He leaned closer to the camera, voice dropping conspiratorially.

" Also, I have officially named the first successful sprout. Everyone, meet… Princess Tater. She’s small, resilient, and determined to overthrow the oppressive rule of Mars itself. If I ever find a spud that grows all weird and lumpy, I’ll name it Jabba the Spud. But for now, Princess Tater leads the rebellion."

Mark crossed his arms, nodding in satisfaction.

"May the starch be with me."

He winked again, gave the sprouts one last proud glance, and ended the recording.

Sol 48

Mark turned on the camera and stared at it for a long moment before speaking.

“It’s strange, being alone this long. I mean, I was always okay with solitude. Comes with the job. But this? This is something else.” He exhaled. “I’ve started talking to you more in my head. You know that? Like, whole conversations. Imagining you rolling your eyes at my terrible jokes, arguing with me about who’s the bigger nerd.”

He gave the camera a pointed look.

“Let’s not even pretend anymore that these logs aren’t less about keeping records of the mission for NASA, and more like the dorkiest, longest love letter of all time. The most long-distance love letter of all time, at any rate.”

He hesitated. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get to see you again. But I refuse to believe that what we had was just a one-night thing. That’s not how it felt. Not to me.”

He rubbed his hands together, warming them against the chill of the Hab.

“I’ve decided to get Pathfinder. It’s a long shot – hell, I have no clue how I’d even begin to pull off that journey – but it’s my best chance at contacting NASA. And if I do… well, then I’m one step closer to keeping my promise to you.”

He paused, gazing off-camera as though deep in thought.

“Although… I might have one other idea to send a message, first.”

Chapter Text

Mindy Park’s coffee had gone cold. Again. It was a side effect of staring at satellite images for hours on end—she would make a fresh cup, get sucked into her work, and then realize it had turned into an unappealing room-temperature disappointment.

Perhaps it was more a side effect of being a total nerd, and not-so-secret workaholic.

With a sigh, she stretched her arms over her head and forced herself to focus on the task at hand. Venkat Kapoor had asked for routine imaging of Acidalia Planitia, specifically the Ares 3 site. The official reason was to monitor weather patterns and erosion effects on the abandoned Hab. The unofficial reason was grim—locating Mark Watney’s body.

She entered the coordinates and waited as the high-resolution images loaded. The familiar white domes of the Hab came into focus, the solar panels still arranged in neat rows, the scattered equipment looking untouched.

Except something had been touched.

Mindy’s eyes narrowed. The solar panels—some of them looked clean.

She zoomed in. The rover had been moved. That wasn’t right.

Her pulse spiked as she scrambled for a closer view, checking the area near the Hab’s entrance, pulling up the satellite images from before the storm when the Ares mission was scrambled. The ground had been disturbed, but there was something else—something small and deliberate near the airlock.

Mindy adjusted the contrast and stared at the faint markings on the ground. They weren’t natural. They weren’t random.

Little piles and lines of rocks arranged carefully into dots and dashes.

"Oh my God," she whispered. "Oh my God. Oh my God."

Her hands trembled as she fumbled to pull up Venkat Kapoor on video conferencing. The NASA logo flickered on screen for a moment before resolving into the image of the Ares program director. He looked exhausted, as always.

"Mindy?" Venkat asked, rubbing his eyes. "What’s up?"

She barely remembered to breathe. "Dr. Kapoor, you need to see this right now."

She shared her screen, highlighting the key details as she spoke. "The rover has moved. The solar panels have been cleaned. And this—" She pointed to the Morse code message. "—this wasn’t there before."

Venkat leaned in, studying the dots and dashes carefully. His face remained impassive for a long moment before he sucked in a breath. "Mindy… are you telling me—?"

"Mark Watney is alive."

There was a heavy silence. Then Venkat surged upright. "I need to call Mitch and Annie. Stay on this, Mindy. Don’t tell anyone else until we confirm."

"Understood, sir," she said, though she was fairly certain her hands were shaking too much to do anything else at the moment.

Annie Montrose, NASA’s Director of Media Relations, stared at the screen in Venkat’s office, arms crossed. "Are we sure this is Morse code?"

"It’s too deliberate to be anything else," Mindy said, voice still breathless with disbelief. "But I don’t know what it says."

Mitch Henderson, Ares 3’s Flight Director, huffed in response.

“Well I do. H-I L-E-I-A.”

Venkat frowned. "Hi Leia? As in Princess Leia ?"

Annie exhaled sharply. "Holy shit."

Venkat and Mitch both turned to her. "What?" Mitch asked.

Annie grabbed her phone, typing something rapidly. 

"I’ve been tracking this viral blog for weeks now. Some anonymous writer calling herself ‘Leia’ had been posting letters to a one-night stand. She only ever referred to him as ‘MW’ or ‘Mr. Wookiee,’ but eventually she said he was an astronaut. When Watney was declared dead after Sol 6, her blog was discovered, and the media went wild trying to figure out who she was and if she was telling the truth. She made one scathing post denouncing the attention, then vanished. She hasn’t posted since. No one knows where she is, or if any of it was real."

Annie paused, unable to hide a grimace as she prepared to drop the last bombshell of information.

“She also says she’s pregnant.”

The room fell silent.

Mitch ran a hand down his face. "Oh, for fuck’s sake."

Venkat sat back heavily in his chair. "This is going to be a nightmare."

Mindy swallowed hard, her mind racing. Mark Watney was alive. And back on Earth, someone might be carrying his child—and NASA didn’t even know her name.

And soon, the whole world was going to know all about it.

The knock at the door was sharp, precise. Ma Watney wiped her hands on a dish towel and exchanged a quick glance with her husband before heading to answer it. They weren’t expecting company.

Rory, seated at the kitchen table with her laptop open, barely looked up from her editing. A half-eaten plate of crackers and cheese sat beside her, along with a glass of orange juice—one of the few things that didn’t make her nauseous these days. She had been feeling the baby move more lately, tiny little kicks and stretches that made everything feel surreal.

She was making good on her promise—to Mark, to herself. She was working, writing, rebuilding. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t still aching, still grieving.

The voice that spoke at the door made her stomach clench.

"Mr. and Mrs. Watney, I’m Teddy Sanders, Director of NASA. I need to speak with you. It’s about Mark."

Rory’s hands froze over the keyboard.

Mark.

She forced herself to stay still, to keep her breathing even. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she strained to listen.

"Please, come in," Ma Watney said, her voice steady but laced with something wary, something fragile.

Rory wanted to run into the living room, but her legs wouldn’t move. Instead, she listened as the NASA director walked in and took a deep breath before saying four words that changed absolutely everything.

"Your son is alive."

Silence.

A sharp inhale from Ma. A muffled sound from Pa.

"We’ve confirmed it through satellite imagery," Teddy continued. "Mark survived the storm. He made it back to the Hab. We don’t have direct communication with him yet, but we’re working on it."

A choked noise escaped Ma Watney, and Rory clamped a hand over her mouth to keep herself from making one, too. Tears burned behind her eyes. Her body wanted to shake, to sob, to scream. But she couldn’t— she couldn’t —because no one besides her and Mark’s parents could know that she was anything more than a boarder in the Watney household.

No one could know she was carrying Mark’s child.

"He’s alive?" Pa Watney’s voice cracked on the words. "You’re sure?"

"Yes, sir. We’re sure. He left a message."

There was the sound of papers rustling, and then silence.

“I don’t… I’m not sure what I’m looking at,” Pa Watney admitted hesitantly.

“Those rocks there, that’s morse code,” Teddy explained. “It says, ‘Hi Leia.’”

Even more than the impossible message from another planet, it was the sound of Ma Watney’s soft, gasping sob that finally broke Rory. She shoved her chair back silently and all but fled down the hall. The moment she was out of earshot, she pressed both hands over her mouth and let out a ragged, shuddering breath. Her entire body trembled.

He was alive.

He was alive.

A knock on her bedroom door made her jump. Before she could answer, it creaked open, and Ma Watney stepped inside. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks streaked with tears, but her expression was gentle, knowing.

Without a word, she opened her arms.

Rory let out a broken sob and walked straight into them.

Ma Watney held her tightly, one hand resting over the swell of Rory’s belly, the other cradling the back of her head. "You said you couldn’t stop writing to him, that you couldn’t believe he was gone. You were right."

Rory could only sob harder.

They stood there, clinging to each other, two women bound by love for the same man.

Mark was alive.

Dear Mr. Wookiee,

I used to think that the hardest part of losing you was not knowing if what we had was real. One incredible weekend—could it really mean as much as I thought it did? But now I know the hardest part isn’t the uncertainty. It’s the waiting. Waiting for a ghost. Waiting for something that logic tells me I shouldn’t believe in, but my heart refuses to let go of.

And now, somehow, impossibly… you’re alive. They saw you, Mark. They saw your message. I don’t know if you knew it would reach anyone or if you were just shouting into the void, but we heard you. I heard you.

- Leia

Sol 79

"So, good news: I am officially on my way to become the first person to ever go on a Martian road trip. Bad news: The ride sucks."

Mark shifted uncomfortably in the rover’s cramped seat, stretching his legs as much as he could in the confined space. "NASA designed this thing to make short hops, not long-haul trucking across the alien wasteland. But here I am, on my way to find an old, broken Mars rover from the 90s in the desperate hope that I can resurrect it and phone home. It’s basically the interplanetary version of trying to fix a dead iPhone from a junk drawer."

He sighed, checking his calculations again. "Here’s how this ridiculous plan works. The Mars Pathfinder probe and its rover Sojourner are about 850 kilometers away from the Hab, in a crater called Ares Vallis. That’s a hell of a drive when your vehicle’s designed to go a max distance of 35 kilometers before it needs to be recharged at the HAB. And that’s all assuming the terrain cooperates. The terrain never cooperates.

“So anyway, I've had to science the shit out of it. I’ve worked it out that I can now drive for about four hours a day, then spend the rest of the time sitting around waiting for the solar panels to soak up the sweet, sweet rays of the sun. Round trip? After factoring in terrain obstacles, dust-storms that will reduce the efficiency of the solar panels, time to actually locate and dig up the damn thing, plus wiggle room for anything else that could go wrong… I figure at best, I’m looking at a month. Could be closer to two. Assuming I don’t die."

"There are, of course, many ways I could die. The air could run out. The rover could tip over. I could hit a rock and snap an axle. Mars could just decide it’s had enough of me and send another killer storm my way. Or the radioisotope thermoelectric generator I now have stashed in the back of the Rover as a heat source could rupture and I could die. Did I not mention the big-box-of-plutonium part of the plan?”

He smirked and reached out to tap the dashboard. 

"I’m bringing plenty of snacks, extra oxygen, and the pure, unshakable optimism of a man who refuses to die on this lifeless hellscape. Also, duct tape. Lots of duct tape. NASA-grade, baby. It’s like the Force—it has a light side, a dark side, and it holds the universe together."

After a moment, he added, "And yes, Leia, I did just compare duct tape to the Force. And no, you will never escape the Star Wars jokes."

The rover jostled over a small ridge, making Mark grip the steering controls tightly. 

"You know, there’s something peaceful about driving across Mars. It’s just me, the rover, and an endless expanse of nothingness. I should probably feel lonely, but… I don’t. Because I’m talking to you."

He hesitated for a moment before continuing. 

"I think about you a lot. More than I should, given my current ‘don’t die on Mars’ situation. But I keep going back to that morning. When I had to wrestle my way back inside that god-awful Wookiee costume. I think about when I was finally ready to leave, and I couldn’t stop myself from looking back at you. You were watching me, sitting in that ridiculous hotel bathrobe, makeup gone, hair all over the place. You were so damn beautiful.” 

Mark has to stop for a moment, swallowing hard, and blinking to clear his eyes, turning his head to pretend he’s just studying something out the window. When he feels back in control, he keeps going.

“I think about what I should have said. That I should’ve told you who I was. That I should’ve asked you to wait for me. That I should’ve at least gotten your damn phone number."

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "If I get Pathfinder working, maybe I’ll find a way to reach you. Maybe you’re out there, waiting. Or maybe you moved on. Either way… I’m coming back. I promised you I would."

He looked out the windshield, the distant horizon stretching before him, and grinned. 

"But first, I have to go dig up an old robot and hope to God it still works. What could possibly go wrong?"

Chapter Text

The moment NASA confirmed Mark Watney was alive, the frenzy that followed made the initial media storm look tame by comparison.

News vans parked outside the Watney home day and night, their bright floodlights turning the quiet suburban street into a chaotic circus. Reporters swarmed their front lawn, jostling for the best angle to capture the devastated, then miraculously relieved, parents of a presumed-dead astronaut.

Strangers left flowers, letters, and bizarre gifts on the porch—everything from religious relics to survival gear. One particularly persistent journalist even attempted to scale the backyard fence, only to be met with a face full of Mrs. Watney’s hose water. That particular clip went viral within the hour.

And then there was “Leia.”

Rory had thought her exile into anonymity would protect her. She’d let the blog fade into obscurity, let the speculation around her identity drift into myth. But now that Mark was alive, the hunt for Leia reignited with terrifying force.

Speculative headlines ranged from absurd to unsettling:

“Who Is Leia? The Mystery Woman Who Stole an Astronaut’s Heart”

“Astronaut Love Child? The Secret Romance Behind the Ares 3 Disaster”

“Leia: Grieving Widow or Opportunistic Hoax?”

The worst was a deep dive article that pored over every scrap of information from her old posts, dissecting word choices, timestamps, even typos in an attempt to unmask her. The mere thought of being exposed—of Logan finding out, of her mother, of the world—made her stomach twist.

She barely left the house. Even the smallest trip, a walk to clear her head, risked running into a camera lens. The weight of it, of him , of everything , was suffocating.

Then, one evening, Ma and Pa Watney sat her down at the kitchen table.

“We need to fight back,” Ma said, eyes sharp with determination. “And we need your help.”

Rory’s brows lifted. “I’m not exactly in a position to fight much of anything these days.” She gestured to her very obvious, very pregnant belly.

“We want you to write about us,” Pa said. 

“Not just about Mark. About all of this.” He waved a hand toward the window, where a news van idled at the curb, its crew hoping for a glimpse of them through the curtains.

“What it’s been like to lose our son. To grieve him. To have him given back to us by some miracle, but without any guarantee that it isn't just a temporary reprieve before we lose him all over again. And to have the world watching our every move the whole time.”

Rory blinked. “You want me to write it?”

“You’re the only one we trust,” Ma said. “And the only one who would do it justice.”

Rory picked up her laptop.

Written under the now well-circulated pseudonym Leigh Hayden , the article was published within the week.

It wasn’t about Mark being a hero. It wasn’t about conspiracy theories or NASA politics. It was about the parents who had mourned a son, only to have their grief yanked out from under them. It was about resilience, about what it meant to be the family of a man lost to the stars.

The piece spread across the globe within hours.

And then Annie Montrose called.

Technically, she reached out to the Watneys first, but the message was clear—NASA wanted Leigh Hayden. More specifically, they wanted Leigh Hayden to write for them .

It took three days of deliberation before Rory, Ma, and Pa Watney decided to tell NASA the truth.

That Leigh Hayden and Leia were one and the same.

That the woman NASA was inviting into their fold was the same one the world was chasing with torches and pitchforks.

That she was carrying Mark Watney’s child.

Annie Montrose, to her credit, didn’t bat an eye. She simply nodded, promised confidentiality, and said, “I hope you’re ready, because things are about to get much more interesting.”

Rory didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

So she did both.

Rory Gilmore had never imagined herself working for NASA. The girl who had once dreamed of foreign correspondence and Pulitzer Prizes now found herself writing about spaceflight, engineering marvels, and the human cost of exploration. And, surprisingly, she didn’t hate it.

Her first few assignments were small—background pieces on the history of the Ares program, interviews with engineers and mission planners, even a profile on Dr. Venkat Kapoor. But soon, her work grew into something bigger. She interviewed the families of the Ares III crew, capturing the anguish and quiet hope of those whose loved ones were still speeding through space, unaware that their friend was alive. She spoke with astronauts from Ares I and II, detailing their own experiences on Mars and how they were now helping to make a viable rescue plan for Mark.

Every word she wrote, every story she shared, felt like a lifeline—not just for NASA’s public image, but for herself. With every article, she felt closer to him. Closer to the man who had changed her life with a weekend and a challenge.

Outside of work, life was far messier.

The media storm hadn’t calmed. If anything, it had worsened. Leigh Hayden’s article had brought NASA some goodwill, but it had also intensified speculation about Leia. News anchors dissected her words, bloggers wrote think pieces, and conspiracy theorists accused her of fabricating her entire story. The question of Mark Watney’s “maybe-baby” became a late-night punchline, an internet obsession.

Rory still hadn’t told her mother or grandmother – about Mark, their baby, or even her career as Leigh. She wasn’t even sure anymore what was stopping her, except that it took every ounce of strength to manage this new ‘post-Wookiee’ life, and she didn’t think she had the capacity to add on anything more from her ‘before’ life. She had barely spoken to Lorelai or Emily in months, unwilling to deal with the inevitable judgment, the lectures, the disappointed sighs. She was fairly sure they still believed she was slumming around somewhere in New York with a flat-lined career, instead of living in Chicago while reporting remotely to NASA’s DC headquarters for work.

Her relationship with Logan had ended in flames—his last words to her had been a mix of anger, betrayal, and something she hadn’t expected: relief.

He had known, just as she had, that they were doomed from the start.

She didn’t miss him, but she regretted not having anyone besides Mark’s parents to lean on. They had enough of their own trauma and drama to navigate.

And so she wrote. She poured herself into her work, into stories that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with the people fighting to bring Mark home.

And late at night, when the world was quiet, she wrote to him.

Dear Mr. Wookiee,

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I don’t know if I’ll ever have the courage to show you. But I need to write it anyway.

You are alive. You stubborn, impossible man. You survived. I’ve spent months mourning you, missing you, convincing myself that I could let you go. And now I can’t. I won’t.

I wish I could talk to you. I feel greedy, I should just be taking a moment to be grateful you’re alive before wishing for more.

But if I could talk to you, I’d tell you—

I’d tell you that I still have the necklace you gave me. That I hold it when I don’t know what else to do.

I’d tell you that the world is watching you, that your name is everywhere, and that your parents are the strongest people I have ever met.

I’d tell you that you made me want to be someone I could be proud of. And I hope—I hope so much—that you’ll be proud of me, too.

I’d tell you that our daughter is going to be born soon, and that sometimes, no matter how unfair it is, I’m furious with you for making me do this all alone.

I’d tell you thank you, because I’ve never loved anything or anyone as much as I love this little girl.

- Leia

Sol 109

Mark sat in front of the camera, happily dunking an entire, steaming potato in a pile of ketchup, and generally giving off smug vibes.

“Good news: I found Pathfinder. Better news: I got it back to the HAB. Best news: I didn’t die doing it!

“Pathfinder was a little worse for wear—like most of us who were born in the 20th century—but she's got heart. I set her up outside the HAB like some ancient relic, dusted off her solar panels, hijacked a new battery from the HAB, and crossed my fingers. (Yes, I’m aware there’s no empirical scientific value in finger-crossing. But look, it’s Mars. There are no rules.)

“She booted up. She actually booted up. I haven’t been that emotional since I got a voicemail from my mom on my birthday that didn’t include the phrase “when are you going to settle down?” (Spoiler alert, mom – I finally have a candidate in mind.)

“We’re not exactly texting just yet—this is 1996 tech. We’re talking camera with a frame rate slower than C-3PO’s storytelling at an Ewok campfire. But it can take still images. Which is something. Which is everything , actually.

“So here’s the setup: I made some white boards using supply bin lids and a Sharpie (thanks again, Commander Lewis, for labeling everything with borderline obsessive flair). I wrote a question to NASA on the middle one, then ‘yes’ on one side board and ‘no’ on the other. Then I stood there, waiting for NASA to respond via a slowly-rotating camera and 32-minute round trip ping-pong delay.”

Mark set down his potato and leaned forward, Cheshire-cat grin aimed straight at the camera.

“NASA answered.”

Sol 110

“Okay, so the "yes/no" method is fine if you’re proposing marriage or confirming pizza toppings, but not great for complex communication. And since the only way I’m proposing marriage is when– you know what? Let’s leave that alone. Point is, we need an upgrade.

“Enter: Hexadecimals. Yeah, you heard me. Hexadecimals. The nerdiest of number systems. Because Johanssen, our quiet, gloriously efficient goddess of bandwidth and Star Trek, brought an ASCII table to Mars. I’m not even surprised anymore. The woman probably has binary Sudoku puzzles and a laminated copy of the Millennium Falcon blueprints in her sleep pod.

“So I wrote out an ASCII hexadecimal-to-letter map on the whiteboard lids. NASA can now spell out messages, one painfully slow camera movement at a time. But it works.

“We’re spelling. We’re talking. I spelled ‘HI NASA’ and they spelled back ‘GREAT JOB.’

“Felt like I was 8 years old again and someone complimented my science fair volcano. I might’ve cried a little. Don’t @ me.”

Sol 111

“They did it. Those beautiful Earth nerds did it.

“NASA sent over twenty lines of instructions—elegant, terrifyingly complex lines that I had to feed into the Rover’s OS using a clunky manual entry system that hasn’t been updated since dial-up internet.

“But it worked. The Rover can now talk to Pathfinder directly. I can type full messages. No more alphabet boards. No more playing telephone.

“I sent my first real message to Earth in over three months. I didn’t even say hi. I just typed: ‘Are you seeing this?’ They typed back: ‘Loud and clear.’”

Mark paused, turning his head and doing that classic ‘sniff, nose twitch, and blink’ thing with his face that people think will somehow disguise the fact that they’ve got tears in their eyes. He looked back at the camera.

“Then Venkat Kapoor messaged me. Said the whole world’s watching. Said they’re cheering me on. Asked if I wanted to say anything to the people of Earth.

“And I stared at that blinking cursor for a long, long while.

“It’s stupid. It’s crazy. I don’t even know if she’ll ever see it. But I had to say it.

“So I typed: ‘Leia, I’m still your Wookiee, if you’ll have me.’”

Chapter Text

If someone had told Rory a year ago that her life would become the biggest media circus since the moon landing, she would have thought The whole thing insane. Or hide away in fear. Probably both.

She was certainly doing a bit of both now.

It started, like most things lately, with a meme.

“LEIA, I’M STILL YOUR WOOKIEE, IF YOU’LL HAVE ME”
– Mark Watney, from Mars

The world lost its collective mind.

If NASA had hoped the buzz after establishing communication with Mark would be all about the tech miracle, they were sorely mistaken.

The world called it “the Mars Love Letter.” Speculation exploded overnight. Where was Leia? Was it a code name? Was Mark Watney in love ?

And then someone found it. A sharp-eyed, amateur, aspiring satellite communications engineer—probably on their fourth Red Bull—was combing through old satellite footage and spotted the faint, blurry collection of dots and lines from way back when Mark was pronounced not-actually-dead. The Star Wars fan with too much time on their hands flagged the line on Twitter. The phrase was picked up by Reddit, then Instagram, and within twenty-four hours, the entire world had seen it.

The morse code message in martian rocks that read, “HI LEIA.”

The media descended like a meteor storm. No one knew who “Leia” was, and NASA refused to comment. It didn’t stop friends, coworkers, and ex-flings of Mark’s from being grilled, speculated about, and sometimes flat-out invented.

Everywhere she went, Rory was surrounded.

Etsy exploded with "AstroDad" merch. Morning shows ran endless segments speculating on whether Mark Watney was about to become the first father in space (which wasn't even accurate --hell, there were two other dads on the Ares III Crew alone!). BuzzFeed ran a quiz titled “Which Astronaut Baby Name Are You?” and the New York Times published an op-ed titled “Is Mars the New Paris?” —which made absolutely no sense, but still made Rory’s eye twitch.

Morning news anchors speculated endlessly about what it would mean for a man to become a father on Mars. Talk shows booked celebrity astrophysicists to discuss the possibility of parenting in microgravity, and tabloids ran full-page spreads with titles like “Papa-naut: Mark Watney’s Interstellar Legacy.”

And everywhere Rory went, she was forced to hear them wonder— Is Leia real? Is she pregnant? Is the first Martian child already on the way?

She kept her head down. She wore sunglasses indoors. She muted everything. But there was no escaping the fact that the most intimate, terrifying moment of her life—her daughter’s impending arrival—had somehow become a global obsession.

Still, she kept going. Kept breathing. Kept writing. Kept eating frozen waffles and arguing with her belly about who got to control her bladder. She was nine months pregnant and everywhere she turned, the world was asking if Mark Watney had a baby on the way.

Meanwhile, at NASA, the work didn’t stop. As the media frenzy built, the team on Earth had one mission: keep Mark Watney alive.

The Iris probe was their Hail Mary.

A sleek, rushed-together miracle of engineering, the Iris probe was being built to deliver a three years’ worth of food, vitamins, and Mark-friendly gear—everything he’d need to survive on Mars until the Ares IV crew landed on Mars.

Engineers worked day and night. Rory saw it all unfold from the fringes. NASA engineers leaked updates, forums tracked progress, and interviews with overcaffeinated physicists played on a loop.

Rory was invited to the launch. So were Mark’s parents. But Rory was still hiding her identity, and far too pregnant to fly to Cape Canaveral in Florida. Instead, Teddy Sanders set up a private live feed at NASA headquarters in D.C., and Mark’s parents drove her all the way from Chicago. After watching the launch, they would continue on to New York City, where Rory would prepare to have her baby. The visit wasn’t public knowledge. NASA wanted the focus on the mission, not the media storm circling around it. But behind closed doors, they understood that Iris meant something more than survival.

It meant connection. Legacy. A chance for a family.

The room in Washington was quiet that morning. Everyone present understood the stakes. Rory sat still, one hand on her belly, the other clutching the simple necklace Mark had given her. 

They watched the launch countdown in silence.

Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
The baby kicked.
Seven.
Six.
Rory squeezed the necklace.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Her lungs tightened.
Two.
One.

Iris lifted off. For a breathless minute, it soared—sleek and powerful against the sky.

And then it exploded.

A fiery bloom. A mechanical death rattle. The dream shattered before it could leave orbit.

Around her, people gasped. Someone cried. Someone else swore. Mark’s parents sat frozen in place, silent and stunned.

And for Rory: Searing, white-hot pain and an unmistakable rush of warm water down her legs.

NASA moved quickly.

A medical team mobilized instantly. There was a lot of yelling. Not Rory’s. She was too shocked to do more than clutch at her belly, mutter something about irony, and call Mark a show-off for upstaging her again.

She pretended she wasn’t crying. She told herself this wasn’t the end for Mark. She didn’t believe it.

Within the hour Rory was being airlifted to New York City. She didn’t argue. She didn’t protest. She trusted exactly one person to handle this with full discretion and zero mistakes: Paris Geller.

Her surrogacy and fertility clinic, Dynasty Makers , was as high-tech and exclusive to get into as a spaceship, while being run like a dictatorship. Frankly, it was exactly what Rory needed. It was secure, private, and efficient. 

Paris met her at the landing pad in surgical gloves and with a face like thunder.

“We’re doing this my way,” she said. “No press. No leaks. No nonsense. And for God’s sake, don’t name her something ridiculous like Star.”

Rory didn’t argue.

The baby came fast.

Rory didn’t have time to think about cameras or headlines or the fact that her daughter’s father might never know her face. All she could focus on was the weight in her arms—the tiny, wriggling life she’d brought into the world. She hadn’t even named her yet. Hadn’t gotten that far.

But the moment held. Sacred. Quiet. Just the two of them.

Until Paris burst in with a tablet.

“It’s out,” she said, flat and direct. “Some jackass at an image-forensics startup traced satellite data. Cross-referenced dates. The story’s breaking.”

She turned the screen toward Rory.

“Leia Found: Mark Watney’s Earthbound Love Identified as NASA Journalist Leigh Hayden”
“Sources Say Baby Has Already Been Born”

Rory looked down at her daughter. At her perfect, soft face. At the small hand wrapped instinctively around her mother's finger.

It could have been worse. Leigh Hayden was in the spotlight, but Rory Gilmore was still hidden.

The world would figure it out, but for one more breath, it was still their secret.

The Hermes was quiet, save for the hum of recycled air and the ever-present low thrum of propulsion.

Vogel was the first to speak, staring at the screen that held his wife’s name.

“‘Our Children,’” he said, confused. “She always writes to me in Russian. And she would never just send an attachment with no other context, not when she is only allowed to send a limited number of emails as it is.”

He glanced up at Johanssen, who had already begun decoding the attached file. Her brow furrowed, then lifted in shock.

“This… this isn’t from your wife.”

“Clearly,” Vogel said dryly. “So what is it?”

Johanssen turned the screen toward the rest of them. “It’s a maneuver. Calculated, simulated, and signed by Rich Purnell at JPL. It's a way to go back for Watney.”

Commander Lewis leaned in, scanning the screen. Her jaw clenched. 

“It uses a gravity assist from Earth,” Beck said, crowding around the screen with the rest of the crew, eyes narrowing as he quickly scanned the text in front of him. “Sling us around and back to Mars. Adds months to the mission.”

“NASA didn’t send this through the official channel,” Martinez said slowly, arms crossed. “Someone smuggled this in.”

“Yeah,” Johanssen nodded. “I’m guessing… Mitch.”

“Which means it wasn’t approved. Not by NASA,” Vogel pointed out.

Silence settled again, heavy and tense.

“And if we do it,” Lewis said, “We commit mutiny. Against NASA. Against orders.”

She looked at her crew one by one.

“It has to be unanimous. No vote, no judgment. But we do this together, or not at all.”

No one flinched. No one left.

One by one, they each said the same word.

“Yes.”

Beck looked to Johanssen. “Can you override anything they send to redirect us?”

Johanssen didn’t hesitate. “I already started.”

Lewis exhaled. She didn’t try to fight the proud smile.

“Alright then.” She turned to the console. “Send the message.”

Martinez smiled as he typed.

“Houston, please be advised – Rich Purnell is a steely-eyed missile man.”

NASA had caught up by the time they were within range for real-time communication. They weren’t happy, but they hadn’t fought it much before caving, either.

The Hermes was now close enough that they could pick up on signals for live video calls with Earth. When Mitch Henderson’s face appeared on screen, Lewis didn’t hide her smirk.

“You know, there are easier ways to cause a scandal.”

Mitch shrugged with a smirk of his own.

 “Yeah, but none as satisfying.”

The crew laughed, the tension briefly broken.

“I wanted to say thank you,” Mitch said. “All of you. For making the choice I couldn’t.”

“You trusted us,” Johanssen said. “That matters.”

Mitch shifted, clearing his throat. 

“There… is one more thing that I have been keeping from you. Something you should probably know.”

He stepped out of frame.

In his place, a woman stepped forward—dark hair, blue eyes, tired but burning with a fierce kind of light. She was holding a small bundle in her arms, a baby no older than a few weeks.

Beck and Johanssen both leaned forward at once.

“Wait—” Beck’s voice cracked.

“Is that…” Johanssen whispered. “Leia?”

The woman blinked, surprised, then laughed. 

“It’s Rory, actually. Well—Lorelai Gilmore. But I go by Rory.”

She adjusted the baby slightly in her arms, beaming. “And this little one is Lorelai Ares Gilmore-Watney. We call her Lola.”

There was a stunned silence across the Hermes.

“She wanted to say thank you,” Rory continued, voice gentle but resolute, “For going back for her daddy.”

Lewis swallowed, her composure briefly slipping. Beck blinked furiously. Johanssen brought her hand to her mouth.

Vogel's whole demeanor seemed to melt into something softer. 

“Pozdravlyayu s rozhdeniyem rebyonka.” (congratulations on the baby's birth)

“Wait…” Martinez said slowly. “ Watney has a kid?! ”

“Apparently,” Lewis said, exhaling. “And her middle name is Ares ?”

Rory nodded. “Mark and I… met, the weekend before you all entered quarantine for the launch. Mark didn’t know about her. I didn’t either. But she’s his. Every incredible bit of her. And she’s going to grow up knowing that when the world said to give up, you chose to go back.”

The baby made a tiny sound, something between a sigh and a yawn.

“She already has his hair,” Beck said, smiling. “And his nose.”

“And his stubbornness, probably,” Johanssen added, tears in her eyes.

“Who says she got that from Mark?” Rory joked with a grin.

Sol ?????

Mark was sitting cross-legged on his bunk in the HAB, having just rigged the mission log camera to stay propped up in the right spot to capture him. He was smiling so widely he looked a bit goofy, and the look wasn’t helped by his gaunt face or the fact that his red-rimmed eyes and the faint streak-lines on his face made it pretty obvious that he had cried recently.

He didn’t care.

“ Okay, so… big update.”

He clapped his hands together and leaned forward, practically bouncing.

“First of all, turns out one major perk of NASA’s never-ending hacks for the Rover’s operating system is that now, I can get email again. Yup. NASA finally got the relays tuned up enough to send over full data dumps, which includes — wait for it — my inbox.”

He paused dramatically.

“I have never been so happy to see spam in my life! Anyway, NASA’s been telling me I’m famous now — like, worldwide famous — but it didn’t actually click until I started scrolling through all these emails. I’ve got messages from Olympic athletes, movie stars, and at least three rock bands I didn’t even know were still together.

“Oh, and the actual President of the United States emailed me. That was weird. Kind of surreal to see the White House seal in your inbox when you're surrounded by duct tape and potato dirt. Very presidential of him. He told me I’m a symbol of human resilience. I mean… thanks, sir. I was just trying not to die.

“But you know who really got it? The University of Chicago. My alma mater. They sent me this email that says once you grow crops somewhere, you’ve officially ‘colonized’ it. So, technically… I colonized Mars.”

He leaned into the camera, grinning like a kid, and pointed triumphantly at the lens.

“In your face, Neil Armstrong! But okay, let’s talk about something kind of wild. And by wild, I mean violently invasive .

“None of these messages — all these emails I’m getting from NASA, the President, even the guy who played Chewbacca — none of them are private. Like, literally, the whole world is reading my mail. Because NASA is a government agency and all data gets routed through public domain once it’s processed. Every word, every joke, every time I misspell “botany” because my fingers are frozen — it’s all up for grabs.

“So yeah. The whole world is all up in my Martian business right now. But... there’s one exception: The Hermes. Messages from the Hermes aren’t going through the same public systems. They’re coming in on this kind of closed data loop. Some back-channel, internal feed that doesn’t get processed publicly until after the mission is over.

“Now, I’m not Johanssen — I have no idea how it works. I assume it involves at least three satellites, a teaspoon of quantum magic, and probably duct tape. But whatever it is, it’s locked down. Meaning… I got a message the rest of the world hasn’t seen yet. A private message.

Mark leaned slightly off-screen then sat back up, wagging a tablet at the camera. His smile shifted – a little softer, more tender, as he paused to look down at the screen. 

“This... this right here is the best email I’ve ever received. Possibly in the history of emails.”

Then, he turned it to face the camera. The tablet’s screen was taken up fully by a still screengrab from a video call. In a small box in the upper corner, the Hermes crew could be seen gathered tightly together around their own screen. But the rest of the image, that showed a woman with dark, slightly tousled hair and bright blue eyes, and a baby in her arms. The baby had a shock of reddish-blond fuzz and a tiny onesie patterned with stars.

“ This is Rory Gilmore. Also known as Leigh Hayden. Also known as Leia. My Leia. And that – that utterly perfect fuzzball in her arms – that is Lorelai Ares Gilmore-Watney . Yeah. You heard that right.”

He looked at the camera, eyes glossy again.

“I have a daughter.”

There was a long pause as he stared down at the tablet with a lopsided smile, the expression on his face somewhere between awe and disbelief.

“She’s real. She’s here — well, back on Earth, but you get what I mean. Leia—well, Rory—named her Lorelai Ares . Ares, for this mission. For this crew. For the friends that decided to mutiny just to bring me home. Home to my daughter .”

Mark wiped at his face quickly, but not before the camera caught another tear slipping free.

“I missed her birth. I missed… so much already. And I know I’ve got months still to go before I can hold her. But I swear, I’m going to get there. I’m going to make it back and meet my kid.”

He cleared his throat roughly.

“And Rory… Leigh… Leia. If you ever see this, just… thank you .”

He exhaled, then drew himself up and looked back into the camera.

“Also, side note: shoutout to Johanssen for breaking basically all of NASA’s encryption rules when they commandeered the Hermes so I could get this message without CNN dissecting it frame by frame.”

He looked back at the image on the tablet. Then, softly—

“Hey, Lola. I’m your dad.”

Chapter Text

Rory knew her little window of peace wouldn’t last long. 

The internet still didn’t know who Leigh Hayden really was. Not yet. But they had plenty of theories about her past—some wild, some almost accurate. Still, right now Leigh was just “the writer,” “the mystery woman,” “the one with the baby,” and that was how Rory wanted it to stay for as long as possible.

And thank God, they didn’t know Lola’s name. No baby photos had leaked. There was something sacred about keeping her daughter real and hers , away from the chaos and clickbait.

But Leigh’s story had taken on a life of its own. They’d traced her writing career back to its beginning—an article on people waiting in lines in New York City, published by Condé Nast last year—and they were building timelines, asking questions. Where did Leigh come from? What was she doing before she started writing a year ago? 

Someone had tipped them off about a pregnant woman living at the Watney house for months, and that was enough for Reddit and TikTok to start threading their needles. Her past life hadn’t come knocking yet, but it was walking up the driveway. She could feel it.

And while the media may not have drawn a line back to Rory Gilmore— yet —Rory’s friends and family weren’t clueless. And she had dropped more than enough personal details in her blogs as Leigh, not to mention the pseudonym itself wasn’t exactly incognito. So she wasn’t surprised when the first phone call came within days of coming home to Chicago with Lola. She was surprised that the first phone call didn’t come from Lorelai. Or even the second. 

The first call was Christopher.

She stared at the screen for a long moment before answering, Lola sleeping soundly in the sling across her chest, warm and perfect and utterly unaware of the slow collapse of Rory’s anonymity.

“Hi,” she said flatly.

“Hey,” Chris said, a little out of breath. “Wow. Okay. You answered. That’s a surprise.”

“Guess it surprised me too.”

A half-laugh slipped from him, nervous and awkward. “So. A baby. That’s… huge.”

“Yeah.”

“I saw the articles. Everyone saw the articles. And the name—Hayden?” His tone was pointed. “Come on, Rory.”

“It’s not like it’s not mine,” she said coolly. “It’s on my birth certificate too.”

“Yeah, but still. You know what it looks like. And now people are speculating. Gigi’s already had reporters call her school, and I’ve got a couple camped out in front of the office. They think she might be Leigh. Or Leigh’s sister. Or—God, I don’t even know what they think.”

Rory pressed her lips together. “She is my sister.”

“I know. I just meant... It’s not just about you, is all I’m saying.”

There it was. The quiet disapproval. Not loud, not angry—just weighty . Heavy in the way only her father’s voice could manage, like disappointment disguised as concern.

“You didn’t tell your mother,” he said after it became clear she wasn’t going to respond.

“No, I didn’t.”

“She’s hurting. You know that, right? Even if she won’t say it, she is. She found out you had a baby from a newspaper article , Rory. I mean—what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I didn’t want the circus,” she said tightly. “I was thinking I didn’t want a thousand opinions in my ear when I was already scared and hormonal and grieving and barely functioning. I needed space.”

Chris sighed. “You could’ve had space with your family.”

“No,” she snapped. “No, I couldn’t. Not with Mom. Especially not with her and grandma still all over the place after losing grandpa. You know how mom is—she would’ve taken over. She would’ve made it hers. It would’ve been jokes and parties and wallow-then-move-on, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t breathe in that.”

“So you just cut everyone out?”

She didn’t answer.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I never thought you’d do that. After everything, after how hard it was not being part of your life when you were little, I thought you of all people would understand . That you wouldn’t do the same thing to someone else.”

Rory’s heart pounded, a sudden sharp throb in her chest.

“Don’t,” she said, her voice low and dangerous.

“I’m just saying—”

“No. Don’t you dare compare this to what happened with you and Mom. You weren’t there because you weren’t ready . Because you were too busy flaking out or chasing some new adventure or leaving her to pick up the pieces. I was alone. I was scared . And I did what I had to do.”

“I’m not saying you weren’t scared—”

“You’re saying I hurt people. I know I did. But I was trying to survive. You get that? I was surviving. And if Mom got hurt, if you got hurt… I’m sorry. I am. But to be honest, I wasn’t thinking about anyone else. I didn’t have the luxury to.”

He was quiet for a beat too long.

“I can’t do this right now,” she said, voice shaking with rage and something dangerously close to tears. “I can’t be your daughter and your PR crisis. So either say something kind, or get off the phone.”

Chris started to speak again, but she was already hitting the red button.

The second call came later that night.

Rory was cleaning bottles at the kitchen sink, half-humming to herself, when the phone rang again. She saw the name and almost dropped the bottle in her hand.

Luke.

She wiped her hands on a dish towel and answered.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey, kid,” came the familiar gruff voice. “So, okay, listen. Liz has this thing called a milk-saver? Or a milk-collector? I don’t know. Some silicone thing. She swears by it. I’ll get you one. And she’s sending over a pile of burp cloths and hand-sewn baby blankets with stars on them or something. And Jess—Jess found a pack-and-play from one of his friends. Says it’s in good shape, and I can bring it over this weekend.”

Rory blinked. “You don’t even know what a pack-and-play is, do you?”

“Not a clue. But I’ll learn. I Googled ‘things newborns need’ and that one came up in like four different lists.”

She laughed—real and warm and sudden. It hit her in the chest like fresh air.

“Thank you.”

“You got backup now,” he said, voice softening. “You don’t have to go it alone.”

“Why aren’t you yelling at me?” she asked quietly.

He hesitated. “Because I’m not mad.”

“You’re not?”

“I mean, I don’t get it. Not really. And yeah, maybe I’m a little sad. A little confused. But I’m not mad.”

She bit her lip, her voice small. “Is Mom?”

“She’s… processing. You know how she gets. She’s decided she should learn to cook and get into neo-homesteading like a maniac, pretending everything’s fine, except she overcooked the lasagna and cried in the bathroom for twenty minutes. But she’ll come around.”

Rory closed her eyes. “Shouldn't you be on her side?”

“There are no sides,” he said firmly. “Not in this family. There’s just us, all trying to make sense of everything. And that includes you. You went through hell, Rory. Hell. And when you’re in it, sometimes all you can do is get through the day. Doesn’t have to make sense. Doesn’t have to be perfect.”

She exhaled, her shoulders relaxing for the first time all day.

“I love you, you know,” he added, gruff again.

“I love you too.”

There was a pause.

“And tell Jess thanks for the pack-and-play,” she added. “But if he sends me any books from the ‘70s about parenting, I will throw them at his head.”

Luke chuckled. “I’ll pass it along.”

She didn’t recognize the number at first, just the Connecticut area code. But something in her gut made her answer anyway.

“Hello?”

There was a pause, then a familiar voice, softer than she remembered.

“Hey, Ace.”

Her stomach turned, but not unpleasantly. The nickname landed with less weight than it once had — not a knife, just a bookmark from another life.

“Logan,” she said, a little surprised by how steady her voice sounded. “It’s been a while.”

“Too long, probably,” he said. Then a breath. “Look, I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important.”

She braced herself. “Go on.”

“I just wanted to give you a heads up. The story’s about to break. Not just about Leigh Hayden — about you .”

Her fingers tightened around the phone. “How do you know?”

“Because I figured it out,” he said, with a strange mixture of pride and apology. “And I won’t tell anyone, I swear it, Ace, but if I could figure it out, someone else will any day now.”

She was silent. So he filled the space.

“My father’s been obsessed with this story. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this invested in anything that didn’t involve market shares. He wants to be the one to break ‘the biggest news story in the universe,’ his words.”

“Of course,” Rory muttered.

“He’s had half the newsroom chasing it. Even pulled me back from London for a while. At first, I didn’t think much of it — Leigh Hayden was just another journalist. But then I read her first piece, the one about the lines in Manhattan.”

He hesitated. “It sounded like you. Not just your voice, but the way you saw people. So I started digging.”

“You ran my name through a database?”

“No,” he said quickly. “No, I didn’t want to do anything that felt... invasive. I just started reading more of Leigh’s stuff. And then I went back and read some of your old pieces. Yale Daily News , that cover story for Slate you were so proud of. The way you build a sentence — it’s like a signature. I couldn’t unsee it after that.”

Rory exhaled, slow and quiet. “And you’re telling me because…?”

“Because I care,” he said. “Because even though we didn’t work, you mattered to me. You matter to me. I couldn’t sit back and let you get blindsided.”

She closed her eyes for a second, absorbing the words. They didn’t hit like they would have a year ago. Or even six months ago. But they didn’t sting either.

“I’m okay,” she said softly. “I really am. And… I’m happy.”

There was a smile in his voice when he answered. “Good. I was hoping you’d say that.”

They sat in a brief, companionable silence. Then Rory asked, “Do you ever miss it? What we had?”

“I miss the ease of it,” he admitted. “The history. The way we used to get each other without trying.” A pause. “But I don’t miss wondering if we’re pretending it’s more right than it is. And I think you’d say the same.”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “Yeah. I would.”

“I’m glad you found your way,” he said. “Even if it had to be through a Wookiee and a top-secret baby.”

That startled a laugh out of her. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Not even a little,” he said, grinning. She could hear it.

When they finally said goodbye, it wasn’t heavy. It was strange — something closer to closure than she thought she’d ever get. Something that maybe, one day, could grow into friendship.

After she hung up, she sat for a long moment, letting the quiet settle. She had a lot to think about.

Rory called Annie the next morning.

“I want to control the story,” she said. “If the world’s going to find out who Leigh Hayden is, I want to be the one to tell them.”

She expected resistance. Or at least a PR-prepared pause. But Annie Montrose, ever the strategist, barely missed a beat.

“You’re right,” she said. “And I know just the person for you to talk to.”

Annie connected her with a contact at The New York Times . Promises were made, deadlines synced with NASA’s press office. The article would be on the front page — her words, her voice, her truth.

She wrote it in one sleepless night, with Mark’s necklace wrapped around her wrist where she could see it as she typed, and the soft hum of the baby monitor in the background.

Love, Leia

By Rory Gilmore
Special to The New York Times

Let me start with a confession: I am “Leigh Hayden.”

Or, as the internet has so helpfully dubbed me over the past few weeks: The Mystery Woman. The Blogger in the Basement. That Girl with the Baby Who Might Be an Alien (okay, only one conspiracy site said that, but I’m choosing to cherish it).

My name is Rory Gilmore. I’m a writer. I used to be a journalist. I used to be a lot of things. I’m still figuring the rest out. But here's what I do know: I have a daughter named Lola Ares Gilmore. She is funny and loud and smells like cookies and stardust. And her father is Mark Watney.

It started with a line.

A literal one — the kind New Yorkers form for everything from cupcakes to exclusive pop-up experiences where you pay $40 to sit in a ball pit. This particular line was for collectibles that had all the space nerds drooling. I was on assignment, chasing a story I wasn’t entirely sure existed, and trying to remember why I had ever wanted to be a journalist in the first place.

I didn’t expect to meet someone in that line. Especially not someone like him.

Apparently, Astronauts Watney, Beck, and Johanssen decided the best way to celebrate their freedom in their final weekend before pre-mission quarantine was by standing in a New York collectibles line disguised in space-themed cosplay. Because in addition to being brilliant scientists and talented space travelers, they are also ridiculous nerds.

We didn’t exchange names—that was part of the fun, part of the thrill. He was funny, sharp, and way too confident for a man dressed as Chewbacca. I called him “Mr. Wookiee,” and he called me “Princess Leia.” I told him I wasn’t dressed for the part, and he said, “Yeah, but you’ve got the vibe: Tough, brilliant, probably leading a rebellion somewhere.” What girl wouldn’t fall for that?

We made each other laugh, challenged each other, shared our dreams, and ignored reality for a single, perfect weekend. It felt like magic. A moment out of time, with no baggage, no past, no promises. We spent the night together, but we didn’t expect it to mean anything.

Of course, it meant everything.

Mark challenged me to do better. To believe I was someone worth being better for. Because of him, I fell in love with writing again. He reminded me that I used to write because I was driven to, and not because I was trying to impress or land the next job. 

Leigh Hayden came to life in a cramped New York hotel room, in the quiet hours between passion and goodbyes. She was nobody. She was free. She wasn’t the daughter of a teenage-mother or the granddaughter of Hartford society. She hadn’t turned down a marriage proposal at her Yale graduation or fallen flat on her face chasing a writing career that used to feel like a calling.

Leigh had no expectations on her shoulders. And that freedom — it was oxygen.

She was never supposed to become famous. I used the blog as a journal. I wrote letters to Mark as Leia, and I wrote about anything and everything else as Leigh. I never expected anyone to read any of it—that was never the goal. But something strange happened when I started writing as Leigh: I stopped trying so hard to be impressive, and I started being honest . I wrote about the city, about standing in lines, about loneliness and possibility and mornings that tasted like burnt coffee and new beginnings. And somewhere along the way, the words started to feel good again. I started to feel good again.

By the time I figured out who Mark really was, and that I was going to have our child, he was well on his way to Mars with the Ares III crew, and Leigh Hayden was living the journalist dream that had always somehow eluded Rory Gilmore.

Then NASA announced that Mark had died in the storm on Mars, and it took everything I had not to let all my new hopes and dreams die with him. While I was still reeling, the blog that I had poured my heart and soul into—where I rediscovered my talent, my confidence, myself —was exposed to the world like a raw nerve. I did the only thing I could think of: I ran.

I wrote one final blog post, channeling my fury and sorrow into print like a literary middle finger to a world that had so callously and unsympathetically invaded my life. Then I reached out to Mark’s parents. 

I didn’t have a plan, I just needed to tell someone how lost and devastated and alone I was and have them get it , because they were grieving, too. 

They’ve been extraordinary.

They invited me to stay in the bedroom where Mark grew up. We helped each other through the loss, and when it turned out that Mark had survived — when the world discovered that he was alive and fighting to make it home — we held each other through that, too.

So why tell my story now, after I’ve gone to such lengths to stay hidden? Because the news was going to break with or without me, and I wanted a chance to tell the story myself — to take this thing that started in secret and hold it up to the light. Not because it’s perfect, but because it’s real .

I want my daughter to grow up knowing that she was never a scandal to be hidden, but a miracle to be protected. That she is my greatest accomplishment, and I’m not ashamed of a single decision that brought her into this world. And I want Mark to know that, too. 

Mark, I don’t know when you’ll read this, or where you’ll be when you do, but I want you to know that you’ve changed my life, in the best possible ways. That one improbable, incredible weekend changed everything.

I know we said we wouldn’t wait. That we wouldn’t make promises. But I have one more confession to make. And while it’s hard to top a message written in Martian rocks… this will have to do:

Mark, I waited anyway. And I’m still yours — if you’ll have me.

Image Description, From Left to Right: NASA flight surgeon Chris Beck channels classic Star Trek in full Spock attire (and adds a Vulcan salute), while systems operator Beth Johanssen goes all-in as Avatar's Neytiri, complete with striking blue body paint. In full Wookiee regalia, astronaut Mark Watney snaps the group selfie, his free arm draped over the shoulders of journalist Rory Gilmore.

Sol ??????

“Well, NASA finally decided to tell me I have a daughter. Or at least, someone snuck a particular New York Times article past whoever has been censoring my media, and slipped it into my latest data dump.”

He held up a tablet to the camera.

“Front page article: ‘Love, Leia.’ By Rory Gilmore.”

He looked back at the tablet, shaking his head with an expression torn between affection and awe.

“She’s incredible. That article… She’s funny, honest, sharp as hell. Braver than me, honestly. I’ve been busy growing potatoes in my own poop and doing orbital math for fun, but she’s out there raising our daughter and fighting off the world with a laptop. And she started it all while thinking I was dead . I can’t even wrap my head around that.”

He stopped to rub his hands over his face, letting them drop to his lap after a few moments.

“And she’s living with my parents . I can’t—God. I’m so relieved they found each other. That they had each other through all this. That Lola… Lola. My daughter has her . I can’t be there right now, but Rory is. And if you’re watching this back on Earth someday, Rory… thank you. Thank you for everything. For loving her. For protecting her. For not giving up on me.”

He sat up straighter, and his face shifted into a look of pure determination.

“I’m not giving up either. So, here’s the plan: In just under two months, I’m going to travel over 3,200 kilometers to the Schiaparelli Crater. There’s a MAV there — the launch vehicle for the Ares IV mission. It was sent ahead and landed remotely years ago. My job is to reach it. Alone. Modify it, rip out about half of what makes it fly so it can maybe, maybe get me into orbit. And then…”

He grinned wryly at the camera.

“Then Hermes is going to swing by and catch me. Like a goddamn space claw machine.”

He lifted his hands in a shrug that seemed to say, ‘ What could possibly go wrong?’

“Okay, so it's insane. It’s completely insane. But it’s the best shot I’ve got. And I’ve got a reason now. A better reason than surviving for the sake of stubbornness or science or proving a point. I’ve got Rory. I’ve got Lola.”

He glanced back at the tablet, now propped up beside him and still showing the New York Times article.

“She said she waited. That she’s still mine, if I’ll have her.”

He looked directly into the camera, eyes fierce with emotion.

“I have never wanted anything more. I’m going to make it home.”

Chapter Text

Subject: Greetings from the Rebel Base (aka: Chicago)
From: Rory (aka: not an actual princess)
To: Mark Watney (aka: definitely not just a Wookiee)

Turns out, Johanssen and your mom make a terrifying team, and suddenly NASA is on board with us writing to each other.

So, I guess we’re doing this now. Publicly. With an audience.
(Hi, NASA. Hi, global news outlets. Hi, curious Reddit threads.)

Lola is currently asleep in my lap, wearing a NASA onesie. She drooled on a copy of Scientific American earlier, so I think she’s already smarter than me. No big.

I know this is supposed to be weird, writing something that everyone will see—but I have to say, it's weird in a way that somehow feels...okay. Like we're back in that hotel room, swapping secrets. Except now the room is the whole damn solar system.

So, hi. I’ve missed you. A lot.

—R

P.S. I still have the necklace.
P.P.S. You smell worse in Wookiee fur than I imagined possible. Just wanted that on the permanent record.

Subject: I Saw That Article. You Made Me Cry, Thanks.
From: Mark Watney (Ares III’s resident dirt farmer)
To: Rory Gilmore (Writer / Secret Identity Expert / Actual Princess Leia)

Hi Rory.

First off—holy crap, that article. I read it eight times. Pretty sure at one point I was sobbing into a protein bar. (This is a safe space, right?) You wrecked me. And you floored me. And I fell in love with your brain all over again. Not that I ever stopped.

Second: Your blog? Gorgeous (yeah – that’s another “Thanks, Johanssen!” moment. I still can’t believe you were writing to me from the beginning). Re: Your posts about “the waiting.” I need you to know that I’ve been waiting, too. Since before I even left Earth’s orbit.

I’m leaving the HAB soon, heading to Schiaparelli. Long road trip. Just me, some hand-modified rovers, duct tape, and Commander Lewis’s disco playlist which includes way too much ABBA. (She’s a monster.) I’ll be thinking of you both every mile. Every sol.

Please tell Lola she’s got a dad who’s working really hard to make it back. Even if he has to catapult himself off a planet to do it.

Still yours,

Mark

P.S. Wookiees sweat a lot, okay? The smell was part of the commitment.

Subject: You’re Not Allowed to Die, Okay?
From: Rory
To: Mark

Just to clarify: under no circumstances are you allowed to blow yourself up trying to “skydive” into orbit with chewing gum and NASA dreams.

Got it? Good.

Also, ABBA is amazing, and I will not have this slander.

Lola smiled for the first time this morning. It was either gas or unspoken disapproval of your disco disdain. Hard to say.

Wow, I didn’t realize you’d gotten a copy of the blog. I never meant it to be anything, really. Just a private corner of the internet where I could find my voice again. And somehow, in writing about waiting... I stopped waiting. I started living.

Thank you for that. For helping me remember who I wanted to be.

Yours, even if you smell,

R

Subject: And You Thought the Wookiee Smelled Bad…
From: Mark
To: Rory

Confession: I smell worse than I did in that Wookiee suit. I didn’t think it was possible either, but here we are. No showers on the road to Schiaparelli—just good old-fashioned astronaut musk and regret.

I MacGyvered a trailer to my rover so I could bring extra life support and gear. I call it “The Hoth Mess.” It does not go to light speed, but it rattles like a Jawa sandcrawler.

Also, you can’t just drop “Thank you for helping me remember who I wanted to be” and expect me to function. Rude. I almost drove into a dune.

Tell Lola I’m designing a Mars baby slide out of old solar panels and optimism. NASA probably won’t approve it, but let’s be real—they stopped controlling me when I dipped a potato in crushed vicodin after running out of ketchup (had I not mentioned that already?).

Thinking of you both always.

M

Subject: Gravity Is a Scam and Lola Knows It
From: Rory
To: Mark

Lola has discovered she has lungs. She uses them. Enthusiastically. And exclusively at 3 a.m., because apparently that’s when baby philosophers do their best work.

Pretty sure she’s rebelling against gravity. I can’t blame her. She's her father's daughter, after all—smart, stubborn, and not remotely impressed by the limitations of Earth.

Sometimes, when she’s inconsolable, I tell her about you. I tell how you’re out there, beyond the stars, doing the impossible every day so that you can come back to Earth and be her dad. I tell her you’re funny, and nerdy, and not afraid to make fun of yourself. I tell her you never give up, never stop solving problems. She usually stops crying when I do. I think she knows you already. I think she’s just waiting. That one she gets from both of us.

By the way, my step-dad Luke built her a crib from scratch. Like, carved it with actual tools scratch. There are tiny spaceships and planets etched into the wood. It’s honestly kind of breathtaking. Just saying, the bar has been set high in the dad-game. No pressure.

Stay safe. Please.

R

Subject: Crib Envy is Real
From: Mark
To: Rory

How dare you accuse me of being nerdy? I’ll have you know that I am a rugged, manly man who merely happens to cry over high-res images from the James Webb like it’s poetry.

That thing you said—about telling her I’m out here trying to get home so I can be her dad. That got me. Like, emotionally sucker-punched-me-in-the-helmet level. You really think she knows me already? Because I feel like I already know her too. The way you write about her... she sounds like the best parts of both of us, fused into something tiny and squishy and possibly sticky.

I wish I could hear her cry. That’s a weird sentence, but I do. I want to be the one bouncing her at 3 a.m., whispering “We got this, kiddo, I’ve fought sandstorms bigger than you” while trying not to fall over.

And don’t worry—Luke sounds amazing, but I’m not scared. I mean, you made a whole person. If anyone set the bar, it’s you.

Give the tiny gravity rebel a kiss from me. And tell her I’m coming home. That’s a promise from her very smelly, very determined space dad.

Always,
Mark

Subject: Lola Spits, I Reflect. Very On-Brand for Us
From: Rory
To: Mark

Lola just learned how to blow raspberries.

It’s adorable and also a little gross, which I feel is very on-brand for your child.

I’ve been thinking a lot about that first weekend. You never told me your name, and I never told you mine. But somehow it was still the most honest thing I’ve ever done. That hotel room—us, laughing and trading secrets—it was a turning point. I didn’t know it yet, but I was already starting to come back to myself.

You didn’t fix me. I did that. But you reminded me I was worth fixing.

Keep going. Every day you’re closer to home.

Love,
R

PS - “Space dad” is cute, but you should know the internet’s already crowned you AstroDad and Papa-naut . You’ve been meme’d. Repeatedly. I’m so proud.

Subject: Pretty Sure I Just Flirted With a Parachute
From: Mark
To: Rory

Rory—

I finished stripping the MAV today. No chairs, no panels, barely any metal left between me and space. I had a long moment of doubt where I just stood staring at it and trying to pretend it didn’t look like a soda can taped to fireworks.

Then I looked at the screengrab of you and Lola the crew sent me.

I’m going to strap the damn tablet onto the MAV seat with me when it’s time. I don’t care what NASA says, it’s going to space with me.

In one of your blog posts, you wrote that hope is an act of defiance. So here I am. Hoping. Defying.

And yeah… whispering sweet nothings to my parachute. Don’t judge me. It’s very supportive.

Yours,
Mark

Subject: Postcards from Earth
From: Rory
To: Mark

Today, Lola pulled my hair, threw applesauce on the wall, and then fell asleep with her cheek smushed against my chest like she’s the queen of the universe. So yes, your daughter is a tyrant. A cute one.

NASA says the Hermes intercept window is less than a week away.

People keep asking me if I’m scared. I am. But not in the way they think. I’m not scared of what might happen—I’m scared of everything you’ll miss if you don’t make it.

Her first steps. Her first words. Her first Halloween. (She’s going to be a porg. Don’t argue.)

So just… make it back. Steal a rocket. Hijack the cosmos. Whatever it takes.

We’re waiting.

—R

Subject: For the Record, I Was Always Coming Back
From: Mark
To: Rory

You think I’d survive all this Mars nonsense just to miss porg Halloween ? Not a chance.

Johanssen got me the transcripts of the journal you’ve been writing since you shut down the blog. I don’t know how the two of you keep getting around NASA, but it’s totally badass. 

I reread your journal when I need courage. Which is ironic, considering I'm supposed to be the brave one. You're braver. You grew our daughter while grieving a man the world said was dead, and you made the choice to hope anyway.

I don’t know how this ends. But I do know I’m not letting go. Not of this MAV. Not of you.

I love you. I think I’ve loved you since that first night.

See you soon.

—M

Subject: Just In Case You Can’t Hear Me From Orbit
From: Rory
To: Mark

Mark,

Tomorrow is the big day. I’ve been pacing for hours, talking to Lola, rambling to your parents, rereading your emails like they’re sacred texts.

I don’t know what happens when you launch. I don’t know if the MAV holds, if the Hermes catches you, if gravity decides to play nice. But I do know one thing:

You’re not alone out there.

Not now. Not ever.

And just in case comms cut out, and you’re spinning through the stars wondering if I’m still waiting?

Mark, I’ll always wait for you.

I’m still yours, if you’ll have me.

Love always,

Leia

Sol ????????

“Well, folks, this is it. The last log entry before my grand interplanetary getaway attempt. Tomorrow, I’ll launch myself off this red rock in an untested zombie-MAV I hacked like a mechanic on a sugar high, and become The Fastest Man in the History of Space Travel. No big deal.

“This time tomorrow, I’ll either be safely aboard Hermes or… well, not . But let’s not dwell on that just yet. First, I have a recent discovery to share. 

Let’s start with some backstory: In taking over the MAV, I’ve technically commandeered an Ares IV vehicle without approval. No one explicitly told me I had permission—and they couldn’t, not until I was already onboard. See, there's an international treaty saying no country can lay claim to anything that's not on Earth. And another treaty that says anything outside of a specific country’s borders falls under Maritime Law.”

He raised his eyebrows significantly at the camera.

“See where I’m going with this? Mars falls under Maritime Law, and as soon as I left the HAB, I was in ‘international waters.’ So, technically, with the MAV, I took control of a craft in international waters, without permission. Which, technically, makes me a pirate.”

He leaned back, a smug grin on his face.

“Mark Watney – Space Pirate. Suck it, Blackbeard. I messaged this to the crew, and naturally demanded they refer to me only as Captain Blondebeard from that point forward. Lewis said absolutely not. Beck said he was considering it. Martinez actually did for a full day, because he’s awesome. And somehow, Rory found out. Probably from Martinez. The man gossips like a Texan auntie. 

“Anyway, here’s the best part: She sent a picture of Lola wearing a “Future Space Pirate” shirt. A real picture of my six-month-old. Rory’s been really hesitant to send me any photos, knowing they’ll be free game to the press, and I totally get that – Lola comes first, and Rory is doing an incredible job with her. So I wasn’t expecting it, but I think she wanted me to have it for the launch.

“It broke me. In the best way. She’s got Rory’s eyes. My nose. Crazy red-brown hair. And apparently, a little penguin astronaut plushie she tries to eat whenever she's teething.

“I never thought I’d find someone like Rory. I was always too busy or too reckless or too out of orbit—literally and metaphorically. She’s perfect for me. And Lola? She's the best parts of both of us. I want to see her grow up. I want to tell her stories of my time on Mars. I want to be there as she discovers her dreams and then cheer her on when she makes those dreams reality. 

“I’m doing my best to make all that happen, but tomorrow… there’s a very real chance I don’t make it.

“And if that happens—if I don’t get my miracle—I need to say some things.”

Mark paused for a long moment, gathering himself.

“To my parents: Thank you for never telling me that shooting for the stars was dreaming too big. You gave me curiosity, grit, and the kind of stubborn optimism that keeps a guy alive on Mars. You taught me how to fall, laugh, and get back up swinging—and I’ve done that more times than I can count out here. I owe you everything.

“To Rory: You and Lola… you’re my whole universe. If I don’t make it back, please know—I fought with everything I had to come home to you. I wanted a life with you. A messy, beautiful, everyday kind of life, full of crayon-covered walls and stolen kisses and joy. You are more than enough, Rory. You always were. And I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I am so damn lucky I got to love you.

“To Lola: Hey, tiny rebel. If you’re hearing this, it means I didn’t make it home—but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t trying with every fiber of my being. I hope you grow up knowing that your dad never gave up. That he loved you more than the stars and back. That being weird is a superpower, laughter is essential, and duct tape solves most problems. You are magic, kiddo. Don't forget it.

“And to Rory’s family: I can’t imagine any of this was what you pictured for Rory. But I loved her. I love her. And if I had made it back, I would’ve spent the rest of my life making sure she knew it. Take care of her. Take care of Lola. They’re my heart.

“Alright. That’s enough of the heavy stuff. One more sol. One more crazy plan.

“Captain Blondebeard, signing off.”

Chapter Text

The MAV shuddered as the countdown reached zero.

Mark braced himself, every muscle taut against the impending force. The ascent vehicle, stripped to its bare essentials, was a fragile shell poised against the might of Mars' gravity. As the engines ignited, a violent thrust pressed him into his seat, the craft rattling as it surged upward.

"Come on, baby," he muttered through gritted teeth. "Hold together.” 

The ascent was brutal. The MAV pitched and yawed as it clawed its way through the thin Martian atmosphere. Mark’s vision narrowed and he lost consciousness.

Aboard the Hermes, the crew was a flurry of coordinated chaos. Commander Melissa Lewis stood at the center, her gaze fixed on the trajectory data streaming in.

"Telemetry?" she demanded.

"Intercept range is 68 kilometers," Johanssen reported, fingers flying over her console. "Velocity differential is significant."

Lewis's jaw tightened. "Martinez, prepare for course correction. Vogel, calculate the necessary burn to adjust our approach."

Martinez's voice was steady, masking the tension beneath. "Aye, Commander."

Beck, already suited for EVA, secured his helmet, his mind racing through the upcoming maneuver. As he moved toward the airlock, he paused, catching Lewis's eye.

"Commander," he began, hesitation evident.

Lewis turned to him, her expression softening slightly. "What is it, Beck?"

He took a breath. "Rory and Lola... they'll want him back in one piece."

A brief smile touched Lewis's lips. "We all do. Let's bring him home."

Inside the MAV, alarms blared as the ascent vehicle struggled. Mark's breaths were ragged as consciousness returned gradually.

"Almost there," he gasped. At this point, the MAV was fueled as much by hope as it was by hydrazine. After months alone on Mars, his future was suddenly in someone else’s hands. "Come on, Hermes."

On the bridge, Johanssen's voice cut through the tension. "MAV is approaching, but the velocity differential is too high. We won't make the intercept."

Lewis's mind raced. "Options?"

Vogel spoke up, his accent thickening with stress. "We could use the attitude thrusters to adjust our speed, but it won't be enough."

A moment of silence hung heavy before Lewis made her decision. "Prepare to breach the forward airlock."

Martinez's head snapped up. "Commander?"

"We'll use the explosive decompression to slow us down," she explained. "It's risky, but it's all we've got."

Over the coms Mark’s voice could be heard asking incredulously,

“You’re making a bomb without me?!”

Lewis ignored him.

“Houston, be advised: we are going to deliberately breach the VAL to produce thrust.”

All too soon, the crew was in position. Lewis and Beck stood by the airlock, the rest secured at their stations.

"On my mark," Lewis commanded. "Three... two... one…”

Vogel triggered the makeshift bomb, and the airlock's door blew outward. The sudden expulsion of air jolted the Hermes, the ship lurching as it rapidly decelerated.

The voice in his comm crackled, crisp and calm—Commander Lewis. “Mark, we’re coming for you. Sit tight.”

“I am literally incapable of doing anything else,” he said, trying to keep his tone light, though his heart was jackhammering in his chest.

Inside the Hermes, alarms still chirped, the navigation system calculating and recalculating intercept vectors they’d already thrown out the window.

Lewis’s suit hissed as it sealed. She moved through the corridor with absolute purpose.

“Commander, this is a bad idea,” Martinez said, eyes tracking her every move. “Beck’s ready. Let him go.”

Lewis didn’t hesitate. She launched.

The tether extended behind her like a lifeline, until she jerked to a stop. This was as close as she could get, and it wasn’t nearly close enough.

Then Mark’s voice broke in again, quick and a little manic.

“I have an idea.”

Lewis frowned. “Mark…”

“Look, if I punch a hole in the glove of my EVA suit, I could use the escaping air as a thruster and fly my way to you.”

“No,” Lewis said immediately. “Absolutely not. You’ll depressurize.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I will,” Mark admitted. “But I’ll fly. Like Iron Man.”

Silence.

Even Beck—always the calm one—sounded alarmed when he joined the conversation over the coms. “You can’t control that. You’ll spin.”

“I’ll aim with my hands. Worst case, I miss and die. But hey—I was gonna die on Mars. This is at least cooler.”

“You’re not Iron Man, Mark.”

“Not with that attitude.”

Lewis’s voice softened. “Don’t do this.”

Mark’s breathing steadied. He adjusted his tethered medical kit and fumbled for a small puncture tool, then positioned it near his right glove seam.

“Tell Rory…” he paused, voice catching. “Tell her I love her, and that Lola’s got the best mom in the solar system.”

Then he punctured the suit.

With a sharp hiss, compressed air streamed rapidly out of the tear, blasting him forward in a crazy, spinning arc. Mark’s body jerked around violently against the new motion, arms flailing as he tried to stabilize.

Inside the Hermes, Johanssen shouted, “We have visual! He’s coming in fast!”

“I can’t stabilize!” Mark yelled, spinning end-over-end, stars and ship blurring together.

“Just keep venting!” Martinez shouted. “You’re on course!”

Lewis was frantically adjusting and readjusting the directions of her boosters, trying to keep up with Mark’s erratic course.

“Almost there,” she whispered.

Mark saw her coming. With a final blast of escaping air, he adjusted just enough. Their hands met—glove on glove—and then he shot past out of her grip.

Ignoring the shouting and cursing from his crewmates, Mark scrambled frantically along the tether, trying to control his spin into the line and wrapping it around as much of his body as he could.

With a thump, he collided with Commander Lewis, both of them with tears in their eyes as they stared at each other through their helmets..

“I got him.”

The airlock closed.

A hiss. A seal. A click.

And then the inner door opened.

Beck was there. Martinez. Vogel. Johanssen.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then Johanssen stepped forward and pulled him into a hug so tight his ribs creaked.

“You’re late,” she said.

Mark laughed, hoarse and overwhelmed. “Traffic on the way.”

Martinez clapped him on the shoulder. “You look like hell.”

“I smell worse.”

“Rory would be unsurprised to hear it,” Beck quipped, but his eyes immediately softened at the emotion that flashed across Mark’s face hearing her name.

Vogel nodded. “We are glad you are alive.”

“I’m glad I’m alive, too,” Mark replied, blinking too fast. “Holy shit, you guys. I made it.”

Later, after the med bay, after the decontamination, after the endless monitoring, Mark sat floating near the observation window.

Earth was still a speck in the distance. But it was there.

So was Hermes. His crew. His second chance.

And tomorrow, there would be an email waiting.

A message from Rory.

He couldn’t wait to read it.

772 Days After Ares III Launch

The capsule touched down with a heavy exhale of thrusters, the final sigh of a journey that had pushed every limit of physics, endurance, and faith. Ares III had returned to Earth.

Mark Watney barely felt the jolt of landing. Maybe it was adrenaline, maybe it was disbelief—or maybe it was the crushing gravity of Earth pressing back against the lightness he'd lived in for so long. After years on Mars and months aboard Hermes, gravity felt like a promise kept.

Outside the hatch, applause roared. Ground crew surged forward. Cameras flashed. Families waited.

But Mark didn’t hear any of it.

He was still processing the fact that he was alive, that he’d made it all the way back, when his attention snapped to a single voice cutting through the noise.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

It hit him like a punch to the gut. His head turned.

And there she was.

A tiny, red-headed blur had wriggled free from a woman’s arms and was making a determined beeline across the tarmac, her little feet thudding against the concrete in ridiculous brown footie pajamas that had Chewbacca’s face stitched on the hood. Her arms pumped with toddler conviction, her steps wobbling but fast, her grin unstoppable.

Mark stumbled forward, then dropped to his knees.

The little girl barreled into him, giggling breathlessly, and Mark caught her in his arms like she was the most fragile, most precious thing he'd ever held—which she was.

Lola.

She smelled like Earth and baby shampoo and graham crackers. She was real. She was solid. She was his.

He wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her hair, eyes already wet.

“Hi,” he whispered, his voice broken and full. “Hi, little rebel.”

“Daddy,” she said again, a little louder this time, like she couldn’t believe it either.

He laughed, choked and cracked around the edges. “Yeah. I’m here. I made it.”

Behind them, the world could have been falling apart and he wouldn’t have noticed. Because then he looked up—and saw her.

Rory.

She stood a few steps away, frozen mid-motion. Her hand was pressed to her mouth, her eyes overflowing. Several years had passed, but she looked exactly like he remembered—sharp and soft all at once, a beautiful force of nature, eyes locked on his like she hadn’t dared blink in hours.

She took a shaky step forward.

Mark stood, still holding Lola tight, and met her halfway.

And when their arms wrapped around each other, when her face buried into his shoulder and his into her hair, it wasn’t like the movies.

It was better.

Because this wasn’t a kiss-and-the-credits moment. It was just the beginning. A life reclaimed. A chapter turning from grief and distance into warmth and gravity and the smell of home.

“I waited,” Rory whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks.

“I waited, too,” he said back, voice shaking. “I’m still yours, if you’ll have me.”

She reached up and brushed a tear from his cheek, only to realize he was brushing one from hers at the same time. They both laughed—wet and overwhelmed.

Lola, squished between them and not entirely understanding what was happening, decided to weigh in: “Hug tight!”

And so they did.

Behind them, the other Ares crew reunited with their families—Johanssen sobbing into Beck’s shoulder, Martinez swept up by his wife and kids, Commander Lewis standing tall as her husband clutched her like a lifeline. It was chaos. Joyful, messy, long-overdue chaos.

But for Mark Watney—former Martian pirate, botanist, survivor—it all narrowed down to the feeling of two arms around his neck, one little body nestled against his chest, and the woman he loved holding him like she’d never let go again.

Gravity had never felt so good.

Epilogue

The car rumbled to a stop in front of Emily Gilmore’s stately Cape Cod home, its white clapboard siding glowing gold in the sinking sun. The smell of salt air drifted in through the cracked windows, mixing with something warm and herbal wafting from inside—mint tea, maybe. A subtle comfort or a form of armor. With Emily, it was always hard to tell.

Rory sat in the passenger seat, holding Lola, who was sucking on her thumb and absently pulling at the ear of her stuffed Chewbacca. Mark glanced sideways, searching Rory’s face. She was composed, dressed in soft but fashionable clothes, hair tied back—and her knuckles were white against the car seat handle.

“You ready?” Mark asked gently.

“No,” Rory answered, then took a breath. “But I want it.”

He nodded. “Then let’s go.”

Mark got out first, shouldering the diaper bag like he was preparing for a re-entry mission. Rory followed, Lola on her hip, her little legs kicking against Rory’s side in a happy rhythm. The three of them walked up the path as the front door swung open.

Emily Gilmore stood in the doorway, regal as ever. Perfect posture, cardigan buttoned precisely, pearls like armor. But her expression faltered the moment her gaze landed on the toddler. For a long beat, she said nothing. Then,

“You’re late.”

Rory almost laughed at the relief of such a familiar greeting.

Before she could respond, a voice called from inside. “Are they here? I made pie! Don’t ask what kind, I sort of panicked and combined recipes!”

Lorelai appeared behind Emily, apron over her jeans, a little flour on her temple. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Rory.

And then she saw Lola.

Her breath caught audibly.

“Holy... crap. She’s real,” Lorelai whispered, eyes wide.

“She’s real,” Rory echoed, suddenly breathless herself.

Lola chose that moment to giggle—a full-body wiggle of joy—and Mark passed her carefully to Lorelai.

“She’ll reach for your earrings, just a heads up.”

Lorelai caught her with a softness that belied the shock on her face. “Hi there, squish. You’re... wow, you’re heavier than I expected.”

“She’s very dense,” Mark said. “Like her mom, emotionally.”

Rory elbowed him, and Lorelai barked a laugh.

Luke came in from the kitchen just then, wiping his hands on a towel. “They’re here?” His face lit up when he spotted Lola, and he walked over, clapping Mark’s back with rough affection and planting a kiss on Rory’s forehead. “Finally.”

Emily, who had been quiet through all of this, stepped forward. “May I?”

Lorelai hesitated—just for a second—but passed the baby gently to her mother. Emily took her like she was something both fragile and sacred, staring down into Lola’s face with a wonder she couldn’t quite contain.

“Her eyes are Gilmore,” she murmured. “The shape. And her hair...” She brushed one copper curl from Lola’s forehead. “Not the color, but the rest… it’s yours, Lorelai.”

Lorelai blinked rapidly, clearing her throat. “She’s got your ‘I’m quietly judging you’ stare too.”

“I am not—” Emily started, then paused. “Well. Perhaps.”

They all laughed, and something loosened in the room.

Mark stepped closer to Rory. He watched Lorelai lean her cheek against Lola’s hair. Watched Emily’s posture shift as she lowered herself to the sofa with the baby still in her arms. Watched Luke pour coffee for everyone without being asked, like he’d been part of the rhythm of this house for years.

“It took a while, but we got here in the end,” Mark said.

Rory leaned into him, quietly overwhelmed.

Later, they all sat down around the table with mismatched desserts—Lorelai’s panic pie, a perfectly plated tart Emily had ordered from a local bakery, and Luke’s surprise contribution: cookies shaped like rocket ships. Lola gnawed on one, bouncing in her seat.

Talk flowed awkwardly at first, but laughter came quicker than expected. Rory told the story of Lola’s first word (“No,” shouted at a bath duck), and Lorelai retaliated with tales of Rory’s childhood mischief. Even Emily joined in, dryly noting how Rory had once lectured a gardener about the migratory patterns of finches at age six.

Mark caught Rory’s eye across the table, his hand brushing hers beneath it.

They had made it. Not just across space, not just back to Earth—but here. To this table, this family, this future.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was real.

And it was theirs.