"Jokes on you," he says, bowing his head as he takes his second hit. "I was expecting the Marxism when you invited me in for tea and weed out of your quaint little cabin jars." His voice draws tight before he exhales, and he chases that hit with a third, enough stress stored in his body to threaten a headache that might rival Margaery's. "I'm glad you've taken up the cause, Comrade Watney."