Absolutely, positively inebriated beyond the point of responsible.
“I'm so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I am saying.”
Chris laughed and pushed him down onto the hotel bed, “Whatever you say, King of Mars,” he said. “Make sure you don't tell that to any of the reporters tomorrow. Annie will have your head.”
“Annie loves me. I tell the media to fuck off,” Mark declared, throwing his arms up and punching the headboard without a flinch.
“I'm pretty sure you're mixing up love and hate, Watney.”
“Kind of the same thing, aren't they?”
“Sure. If you're into really aggressive sex. You want this comforter over you or should I leave it off so you can run to the head?”
“I haven't had aggressive sex in years. Well, any sex.”
“Yep. Mars is a bitch that way. Comforter, on or off?”
“Chris, did you get laid while I was on Mars?”
A snort from the doorway had Chris refusing to turn around: he knew the rest of the crew had followed him as he'd dragged Mark away from the bar. “Last time, comforter?”
“You got laid. Johanssen, you tapped that ass. I'm proud.”
She laughed as she told him, “I'm glad you approve.”
“All right, comforter off. Head's to your left, balcony is off to the right, though please don't fall over the railing and die. It'd be really stupid for us to bring you home from Mars, only to die at the fucking Pasadena Hilton. Now go to sleep.”
Fill. The Martian (Book), Mark Watney, Chris Beck. Post-Canon.
Soused.
Absolutely, positively inebriated beyond the point of responsible.
“I'm so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I am saying.”
Chris laughed and pushed him down onto the hotel bed, “Whatever you say, King of Mars,” he said. “Make sure you don't tell that to any of the reporters tomorrow. Annie will have your head.”
“Annie loves me. I tell the media to fuck off,” Mark declared, throwing his arms up and punching the headboard without a flinch.
“I'm pretty sure you're mixing up love and hate, Watney.”
“Kind of the same thing, aren't they?”
“Sure. If you're into really aggressive sex. You want this comforter over you or should I leave it off so you can run to the head?”
“I haven't had aggressive sex in years. Well, any sex.”
“Yep. Mars is a bitch that way. Comforter, on or off?”
“Chris, did you get laid while I was on Mars?”
A snort from the doorway had Chris refusing to turn around: he knew the rest of the crew had followed him as he'd dragged Mark away from the bar. “Last time, comforter?”
“You got laid. Johanssen, you tapped that ass. I'm proud.”
She laughed as she told him, “I'm glad you approve.”
“All right, comforter off. Head's to your left, balcony is off to the right, though please don't fall over the railing and die. It'd be really stupid for us to bring you home from Mars, only to die at the fucking Pasadena Hilton. Now go to sleep.”
“Yes, sir, Dr. Bossy Beck.”