![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
kahvi.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
reddwarfslashTitle: That Extra Little Bit
Pairing: Rimmer/Rimmer, Rimmer/Lister (implied)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own either Rimmers, any possible Listers, or, in fact, any part of Red Dwarf. Nor do I make money from this.
Beta: The amazing![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
roadstergal!
Spoilers: Me²
Notes: Originally written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
yuletide New Years Resolutions 2007 Challenge - check out their awesome archive of small fandom fics!
“A little more to the left... more... more... little bit more... not that far, you metal git!” Rimmer breathed through his nose in frustration at not being able to hang the smegging picture up himself, but there was no use dwelling on impossibilities. This was not a time to be discontent; finally getting away from that disgusting space bum Lister was cause for celebration, not annoyance. Rimmer had finally found the perfect bunk-mate - himself.
He eyed the picture as the skutter hurried to correct it - or did it? It seemed to respond more slowly than when Lister directed it. Come to think of it, the vending machine in the corridor outside his new quarters had not replied when he had jokingly wished it a good morning – had the machines on the ship started some sort of vendetta against him? He shook his head. No, that was a silly idea.
His musings were interrupted by the hiss of the opening door. Rimmer straightened his uniform and adjusted his tie. After all, if you couldn't be bothered to make an effort to look neat for yourself, why make an effort at all? He tried to smile cheerfully, but found that even his simulated facial muscles were out of practice; or perhaps it was just that his brain was not used to sending out the right signals. At any rate, his attempt faltered when he saw the irritated look on his double's face.
“God, that automated nitwit drives me spare!” The door closed behind Rimmer's other self, and Rimmer frowned at him. He'd been rather excited about showing himself the pictures he'd appropriated from various other quarters and public areas on the ship. He had no idea what they were supposed to be, but they seemed like the sort of things that the sort of person he was trying to be would enjoy having around.
“Is something wrong?”
His other self snorted in disgust. “That bastard vending machine. Twice I've told it 'good morning', and just now I threw in a 'good afternoon' for good measure, just to see what would happen.” He put his hands on his hips, nostrils flaring. It looked, Rimmer thought with some degree of unease, rather silly.
“And?”
“And nothing!” Rimmer's double shook his head. “What is the world coming to when the highest ranking offer on this ship gets snubbed by a vending machine?”
“It didn't reply to me either,” Rimmer revealed.
His other self's eyes widened, and he pointed an accusing finger in Rimmer's direction. Just why he was pointing it at him, Rimmer had no idea. “I knew it! There's some sort of vendetta going on, Big Man. They're out to get us!”
“You think so?” Perhaps it wasn't such a silly idea after all.
“I'm positive. What other explanation could there be?” His double seemed pleased to have come to this conclusion, and swung himself around triumphantly. He ended up facing the pictures, and frowned. “What on Io is that you've put up on the wall, Arnie? It looks like it was painted by a flock of deranged baboons.”
That familiar hot, churning feeling he always got when he was afraid he'd done something wrong started swirling around in Rimmer's stomach. “Erm,” he began, “I found it in Navigation Officer Blackwood's quarters. I looked it up in the ship's database.” Which was the same thing as saying that Holly had told him, but he knew his double wouldn't buy that, because Rimmer knew he wouldn't have. “The original is supposed to be very valuable; it's owned by the President of Iceland.”
The other Rimmer raised an eyebrow, half turning towards him. “Really?” Rimmer nodded, and his double turned back towards the painting, squinting at it this way and that. Finally, he nodded, with the implication of approval. “Aaah...” he said, drawing the syllable out far longer than Rimmer felt was strictly necessary. “I see what it is now. I was looking at it from the wrong angle.” He gave a quick, false-sounding laugh. “It's obvious when you turn your head like this.” He inclined himself at an awkward angle as if to demonstrate, and Rimmer turned with him, automatically. It didn't look any different to him, though he knew better than to say so out loud. What would his double think of him if he did?
“Yes,” he agreed, instead. “I see it too now.” After all, the other him was pleased, which was what he'd been aiming for in the first place. To please himself. He gave the other Rimmer a smile, and it almost worked this time. He was rewarded with one in return, and for a moment the two identical holograms stood there together, grinning at one another. Eventually, they began to giggle, then to laugh. And Rimmer closed his eyes, feeling, for the first time in he couldn't remember when, actually happy.
It was impressive, Rimmer thought, how realistically his holographic body could simulate pain. It seemed to be rather better at it than other things, like making food taste like anything other than cardboard or sawdust, or getting any sort of proper, not dulled away into near-nothingness reaction to – well - touching himself. Slightly embarrassed by this train of thought, Rimmer went back to concentrating on jumping up and down, and on his double's ringing voice.
“Fifteen!”
“Isn't it sixteen?” Rimmer panted, jumping again.
“Fifteen!”
“Should be seventeen, now!”
“Fifteen! This is me, driving you on, like you asked me to, you lazy bastard! That extra little bit, remember? Now move!”
Every single one of Rimmer's non-existent muscles were aching. His brain was doing a splendid impression of being deprived of oxygen, which it didn't actually need. On top of all this, his cheeks flushed in shame. He – the other him – was right. Rimmer had asked for this, and now he was whining like a little girl, just because of some stupid pain. There was nothing wrong with pain; pain built character – at least that's what his father had always said. He should be thanking his double for pushing them both to their limits. “Eeerk,” he enthused, hoping it would sound at least vaguely like an encouraging 'yes'.
“That's better,” the other Rimmer shouted, leading them through a few more jumps before declaring “Rest!” in a sharp, commanding voice. It was the sweetest word Rimmer had heard in a long while.
“Is it time for revision now?” Rimmer asked warily. He wasn't sure he could read with his eyesight all blurry like this, but he didn't want to give the impression he was some sort of weak-willed, zero-stamina weakling. “It's my turn to do Astronavigation, isn't it?”
“Not tonight, me old buckaroo,” came the panting reply.
No revision? Rimmer longed for sleep, so desperately, but they did revision every night. Well, they had the night before, which was the only previous night they'd had together. Still, it already felt like a routine. “Oh? Why not?”
“I've asked Holly to wake us up with a pop-quiz. You shouldn't study the night before an exam; all the study guides tell you so.”
Rimmer knew this, of course, having the exact same memories of reading those guides. It always drove him to even further heights of angst, because the way his revision schedule always got cocked up, the night before the exam was usually the only night he could study. “But we've only had one day of revision!”
“Yes,” his double agreed, pulling his sweat-drenched shirt over his head, and throwing it away. It disappeared in a pretty little display of white sparks. Rimmer looked at it, dumbfounded. He'd never thought to take his clothes off himself; he always had Holly do it for him. Now that he thought about it, what an absurd thing that was – that smegging computer wasn't his nursemaid or his mother! Of course, if Holly had been his mother, that computer-senile moron would have left him in a pile of clean clothes, and let him to sort things out himself. Shaking himself, Rimmer realized he had missed a long tirade his other self had presented by ways of explanation. He concentrated, trying to make out the last bit. “...which will show us exactly what areas we need to work more on. Do you see, Ace?”
“Erm, yes.” The other Rimmer seemed to know what he was doing, and there was something in Rimmer that almost instinctively wanted to follow people who seemed to know what they were doing. He was a little disconcerted to see his double's socks going the way of the shirt, however. Rimmer had never been comfortable seeing himself naked; he even preferred to dress in the dark. “What are you doing?” he asked, nervously, wondering why the other him wasn't feeling equally ill-at-ease.
The other Rimmer paused, his hands on his hips, ready to pull his boxers down. “Getting ready for my shower, Arnie. And so should you.” He gave Rimmer a look of friendly chastisement.
“Oh.” Well, that made sense... except that you didn't need to get undressed for a holographic shower. “It's just I don't usually...” he gestured at his clothes, vaguely.
His double laughed. “Why ever not?”
Rimmer bit his lower lip. Was this some sort of trick question? “Because I don't have to?”
“Don't have to?” That was clearly the wrong answer, as his double's voice nearly went into falsetto. “What kind of lazy, shirking-off attitude is that? Oh no, Arnie-boy; there's to be no half-measures if we want to make it to the top!” He started taking off his underwear, and Rimmer tried to find some innocent place to rest his eyes. Something felt utterly, utterly wrong about this whole situation. He'd figured out why his other self didn't feel uncomfortable being naked, much good it did him. The very fact that Rimmer was embarrassed put the other him at an advantage. It gave him power over Rimmer, and the satisfying glow he got from that was enough to trump the ill feelings of being naked himself. Pondering this, Rimmer looked down in surprise, and realized he'd taken his own socks off. Dear god, was he so easy to influence? Then again, he did want to make it to the top...
“I suppose you're right, old chum.” Rimmer grabbed the edges of his shirt, and pulled it over his head, slowly. At least while it was covering his face, he didn't have to look at his other body. Eventually, however, his face emerged, and he was treated to a full frontal view of his double, who was smiling again.
“Excellent! Now the rest of it. Go on, it's just us lads in here!” The double laughed again, in that wholly unconvincing way Rimmer did himself when he was trying to be reassuring.
Swallowing, Rimmer took his boxers off. “Yes indeed,” he tried, copying that laugh. Wrong, his brain yelled at him - wrong, wrong, wrong!
The other Rimmer nodded, and stood to attention. “Shower, Holly. Nicely cold and brisk. For the both of us,” he went on, before Rimmer could open his mouth. Immediately, a sensation of shocking cold water running down his body overcame him, and he gasped, hugging himself.
“Brilliant,” Rimmer wheezed.
“Invigorating,” his double shot back.
“Makes a man out of you,” Rimmer gulped, even as he felt his penis retreat into the relative safety and comfort of his body.
“Makes you feel alive!”
No, it smegging well doesn't, Rimmer thought. Nothing could make him feel alive when all his senses were constantly screaming 'you're dead, you git'. Still, he supposed it was just a manner of speech. His double hadn't been dead as long as he had, and hadn't gotten as sick of the near sensory deprivation you had to endure as a hologram. He had closed his eyes the moment he had felt the water start, because it was eerie to feel it and not see it. Now, when it finally, mercifully, stopped, he opened them again. Then he wished he hadn't.
“Anything the matter, Arnie?” The other him, that naked, very, very familiar body who was standing all too close to him, was lazily rubbing his cock with one hand.
“I...” Rimmer began, before realizing he had no idea what to say. This just wasn't a situation life or death had prepared him for. He'd look it up in one of his etiquette books if he'd been able to open them, but somehow he doubted that 'what to say when you encounter a duplicate of yourself masturbating in front of you' was among the topics discussed in any of them. “What are you doing?” he managed, finally. He seemed to be saying that a lot.
Lips identical to Rimmer's own quirked up in a near-smile. “What does it look like, Big Man?” The last two words were delivered with a poignant nod in the direction of Rimmer's still hiding penis. It began to emerge, tentatively, as though curious about what they were saying about it. “I'm draining the old lizard. Relieving some tension. Better Revision tells you to do that, you know.”
Rimmer couldn't remember that chapter. “It tells you to wank?”
“Of course not! It tells you to relax. 1001 Relaxation Techniques tells you to wank to relax.”
“It does?” Rimmer couldn't remember that chapter either.
The double hesitated, pausing in his strokes and cupping his groin with his hand. “Well, not in so many words, perhaps, but it's clearly implied. Chapter 47, that bit about needing to let go of any pressing concerns and distracting feelings or urges.”
Oh right. Chapter 47. Rimmer did remember that. There were all kinds of implications in chapter 47. He'd put a bookmark in there. “Yes...” He wasn't quite sure what was supposed to come next. The other him appeared to have similar difficulties. They stood there, looking at one another, and eventually, because he was trying so very hard not to do so, Rimmer's eyes fell to his double's groin. He had removed his hand, but was still erect, in a half-hearted sort of way.
“What are you doing?” It was his double's turn to ask now.
“Nothing.” Does mine look like that, Rimmer thought, unable to tear himself away from the sight of that pale, slightly bent erection. It was so strange seeing it from this angle.
“Are you looking at my cock?”
Rimmer glanced up for a moment, and met a wide-eyed, irate stare. “Sorry...” he began, before he was interrupted by himself.
“Faggot!” Because he wasn't used to being intangible yet, the other Rimmer shot out his hand, intending to push at Rimmer's chest. And because Rimmer was used to being intangible, he didn't move to avoid it. And so, quite roughly, palm met chest.
Both men froze, looking like a pair of Greek statues. His double's hand didn't quite feel human, but it was a touch! After those first few seconds of confusion, Rimmer couldn't help but whimper, weakly. It had been so long...
The other Rimmer seemed to recover more quickly, not unnaturally. Everything about being a hologram was new to him, and being able to touch other holograms was no more or less surprising than anything else. He pushed Rimmer towards the wall, snorting dismissively. “You little sissy faggot,” he mumbled.
Oh no, not that wall. That was Lister's wall! Smeg only knew what the man was up to now that he was alone. Rimmer didn't want to see it, any more than he wanted Lister to see him, stumbling through the wall; naked, helpless, vulnerable, exposed. “No!” he cried, grabbing his double's arm to stop from falling, hanging on to it as he tried to sort his balance out.
His other self pulled him up, angrily. “My god, but you're a wimp! What happened to you, Arnold?” And because it was the sort of thing Rimmer did, this other Rimmer now licked his lips in concentration. Rimmer looked at that tongue; those lips, felt the sinewy skin of the arm that was just like his own, and something in him snapped.
“Please,” he moaned, fumbling his way along his double's arms, touching as much as he could as quickly as he could, pulling close up against himself. It felt... it felt really, really, incredibly good, and above all, it made him stop thinking, the way touching himself always did. He felt his other self struggle, trying to push him away, but they were equally matched in strength, and Rimmer was in some state of frenzy. Their cocks, both erect now, Rimmer's own jumping to attention with this newfound excitement, brushed against one another. That felt even better, and Rimmer tried to encourage the movement by rubbing up and down, erratically. Aching all over, just needing, he pressed his lips to his double's, and was rewarded with a hard, stinging slap across the face from his other self, who had just managed to wrench his right hand from Rimmer's grip.
Panting, almost wheezing, looking like he'd seen Lister's underwear drawer – where he kept his secret stash of half-eaten sandwiches – the other Rimmer stumbled backwards. “Pajamas, Holly!” he yelled in falsetto. “Both of us. Now!” Identical light-blue garments appeared on both bodies, as Rimmer's double scrambled backwards towards his bunk. “Pervie!” he spat out, settling himself on it and seeming, all at once, more comfortable. Well, Rimmer thought, he always did feel more comfortable with his back against the wall, so long as no one was pushing him up against it. Anyone, he corrected himself, that wasn't a scantily clad buxom blonde nymphomaniac.
Rimmer shook. He touched his cheek where the slap had impacted. Even the pain had been somewhat enjoyable; his cock still ached, unsatisfied. Maybe the other him was right? Only a pervert would get off on pain, right? “I didn't... I mean, I don't...” he stuttered.
“Pervie! You're a smegging gay pervie twonk! What, getting yourself killed wasn't enough for you, you dead, dirty deadie? You had to go get a taste for cock while you were at it?”
Now that was crossing the line. The other him knew perfectly well that it wasn't Rimmer's fault he had died! “That's not true,” he shouted, “you know that's not true – it wasn't my fault!”
The other Rimmer snorted. “It wasn't your fault you started getting off on guys? Who was it, sissy-boy? Who was it you fancied? Not exactly spoiled for choice here, are you?” A look of utter horror crossed his face. “My god, it's Lister, isn't it? You're hot for smegging Lister!” He made some rather unconvincing retching impressions.
Rimmer really didn't want to think about that right now. You get a lot of strange thoughts when you're stuck in space for months with another man, even if it's someone you utterly despise. There are too many late nights and too much boredom for that not to happen. But he really, really didn't want to think about that right now! “I'm not a pervert, and I'm not a dirty deadie – that's a derogatory term, and you shouldn't use it! I'm not, I'm not!”
“Shut up! You make me vomit, you degenerate twonking shirt-lifter – shut up!”
“I make you vomit?” Their eyes met across the room, and the pure, distilled hatred flowing between them felt like beams of pure energy. And in the pit of his stomach Rimmer knew, with utmost certainty, that this was definitely not going to end well.
Pairing: Rimmer/Rimmer, Rimmer/Lister (implied)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own either Rimmers, any possible Listers, or, in fact, any part of Red Dwarf. Nor do I make money from this.
Beta: The amazing
roadstergal!Spoilers: Me²
Notes: Originally written for the
yuletide New Years Resolutions 2007 Challenge - check out their awesome archive of small fandom fics!“A little more to the left... more... more... little bit more... not that far, you metal git!” Rimmer breathed through his nose in frustration at not being able to hang the smegging picture up himself, but there was no use dwelling on impossibilities. This was not a time to be discontent; finally getting away from that disgusting space bum Lister was cause for celebration, not annoyance. Rimmer had finally found the perfect bunk-mate - himself.
He eyed the picture as the skutter hurried to correct it - or did it? It seemed to respond more slowly than when Lister directed it. Come to think of it, the vending machine in the corridor outside his new quarters had not replied when he had jokingly wished it a good morning – had the machines on the ship started some sort of vendetta against him? He shook his head. No, that was a silly idea.
His musings were interrupted by the hiss of the opening door. Rimmer straightened his uniform and adjusted his tie. After all, if you couldn't be bothered to make an effort to look neat for yourself, why make an effort at all? He tried to smile cheerfully, but found that even his simulated facial muscles were out of practice; or perhaps it was just that his brain was not used to sending out the right signals. At any rate, his attempt faltered when he saw the irritated look on his double's face.
“God, that automated nitwit drives me spare!” The door closed behind Rimmer's other self, and Rimmer frowned at him. He'd been rather excited about showing himself the pictures he'd appropriated from various other quarters and public areas on the ship. He had no idea what they were supposed to be, but they seemed like the sort of things that the sort of person he was trying to be would enjoy having around.
“Is something wrong?”
His other self snorted in disgust. “That bastard vending machine. Twice I've told it 'good morning', and just now I threw in a 'good afternoon' for good measure, just to see what would happen.” He put his hands on his hips, nostrils flaring. It looked, Rimmer thought with some degree of unease, rather silly.
“And?”
“And nothing!” Rimmer's double shook his head. “What is the world coming to when the highest ranking offer on this ship gets snubbed by a vending machine?”
“It didn't reply to me either,” Rimmer revealed.
His other self's eyes widened, and he pointed an accusing finger in Rimmer's direction. Just why he was pointing it at him, Rimmer had no idea. “I knew it! There's some sort of vendetta going on, Big Man. They're out to get us!”
“You think so?” Perhaps it wasn't such a silly idea after all.
“I'm positive. What other explanation could there be?” His double seemed pleased to have come to this conclusion, and swung himself around triumphantly. He ended up facing the pictures, and frowned. “What on Io is that you've put up on the wall, Arnie? It looks like it was painted by a flock of deranged baboons.”
That familiar hot, churning feeling he always got when he was afraid he'd done something wrong started swirling around in Rimmer's stomach. “Erm,” he began, “I found it in Navigation Officer Blackwood's quarters. I looked it up in the ship's database.” Which was the same thing as saying that Holly had told him, but he knew his double wouldn't buy that, because Rimmer knew he wouldn't have. “The original is supposed to be very valuable; it's owned by the President of Iceland.”
The other Rimmer raised an eyebrow, half turning towards him. “Really?” Rimmer nodded, and his double turned back towards the painting, squinting at it this way and that. Finally, he nodded, with the implication of approval. “Aaah...” he said, drawing the syllable out far longer than Rimmer felt was strictly necessary. “I see what it is now. I was looking at it from the wrong angle.” He gave a quick, false-sounding laugh. “It's obvious when you turn your head like this.” He inclined himself at an awkward angle as if to demonstrate, and Rimmer turned with him, automatically. It didn't look any different to him, though he knew better than to say so out loud. What would his double think of him if he did?
“Yes,” he agreed, instead. “I see it too now.” After all, the other him was pleased, which was what he'd been aiming for in the first place. To please himself. He gave the other Rimmer a smile, and it almost worked this time. He was rewarded with one in return, and for a moment the two identical holograms stood there together, grinning at one another. Eventually, they began to giggle, then to laugh. And Rimmer closed his eyes, feeling, for the first time in he couldn't remember when, actually happy.
It was impressive, Rimmer thought, how realistically his holographic body could simulate pain. It seemed to be rather better at it than other things, like making food taste like anything other than cardboard or sawdust, or getting any sort of proper, not dulled away into near-nothingness reaction to – well - touching himself. Slightly embarrassed by this train of thought, Rimmer went back to concentrating on jumping up and down, and on his double's ringing voice.
“Fifteen!”
“Isn't it sixteen?” Rimmer panted, jumping again.
“Fifteen!”
“Should be seventeen, now!”
“Fifteen! This is me, driving you on, like you asked me to, you lazy bastard! That extra little bit, remember? Now move!”
Every single one of Rimmer's non-existent muscles were aching. His brain was doing a splendid impression of being deprived of oxygen, which it didn't actually need. On top of all this, his cheeks flushed in shame. He – the other him – was right. Rimmer had asked for this, and now he was whining like a little girl, just because of some stupid pain. There was nothing wrong with pain; pain built character – at least that's what his father had always said. He should be thanking his double for pushing them both to their limits. “Eeerk,” he enthused, hoping it would sound at least vaguely like an encouraging 'yes'.
“That's better,” the other Rimmer shouted, leading them through a few more jumps before declaring “Rest!” in a sharp, commanding voice. It was the sweetest word Rimmer had heard in a long while.
“Is it time for revision now?” Rimmer asked warily. He wasn't sure he could read with his eyesight all blurry like this, but he didn't want to give the impression he was some sort of weak-willed, zero-stamina weakling. “It's my turn to do Astronavigation, isn't it?”
“Not tonight, me old buckaroo,” came the panting reply.
No revision? Rimmer longed for sleep, so desperately, but they did revision every night. Well, they had the night before, which was the only previous night they'd had together. Still, it already felt like a routine. “Oh? Why not?”
“I've asked Holly to wake us up with a pop-quiz. You shouldn't study the night before an exam; all the study guides tell you so.”
Rimmer knew this, of course, having the exact same memories of reading those guides. It always drove him to even further heights of angst, because the way his revision schedule always got cocked up, the night before the exam was usually the only night he could study. “But we've only had one day of revision!”
“Yes,” his double agreed, pulling his sweat-drenched shirt over his head, and throwing it away. It disappeared in a pretty little display of white sparks. Rimmer looked at it, dumbfounded. He'd never thought to take his clothes off himself; he always had Holly do it for him. Now that he thought about it, what an absurd thing that was – that smegging computer wasn't his nursemaid or his mother! Of course, if Holly had been his mother, that computer-senile moron would have left him in a pile of clean clothes, and let him to sort things out himself. Shaking himself, Rimmer realized he had missed a long tirade his other self had presented by ways of explanation. He concentrated, trying to make out the last bit. “...which will show us exactly what areas we need to work more on. Do you see, Ace?”
“Erm, yes.” The other Rimmer seemed to know what he was doing, and there was something in Rimmer that almost instinctively wanted to follow people who seemed to know what they were doing. He was a little disconcerted to see his double's socks going the way of the shirt, however. Rimmer had never been comfortable seeing himself naked; he even preferred to dress in the dark. “What are you doing?” he asked, nervously, wondering why the other him wasn't feeling equally ill-at-ease.
The other Rimmer paused, his hands on his hips, ready to pull his boxers down. “Getting ready for my shower, Arnie. And so should you.” He gave Rimmer a look of friendly chastisement.
“Oh.” Well, that made sense... except that you didn't need to get undressed for a holographic shower. “It's just I don't usually...” he gestured at his clothes, vaguely.
His double laughed. “Why ever not?”
Rimmer bit his lower lip. Was this some sort of trick question? “Because I don't have to?”
“Don't have to?” That was clearly the wrong answer, as his double's voice nearly went into falsetto. “What kind of lazy, shirking-off attitude is that? Oh no, Arnie-boy; there's to be no half-measures if we want to make it to the top!” He started taking off his underwear, and Rimmer tried to find some innocent place to rest his eyes. Something felt utterly, utterly wrong about this whole situation. He'd figured out why his other self didn't feel uncomfortable being naked, much good it did him. The very fact that Rimmer was embarrassed put the other him at an advantage. It gave him power over Rimmer, and the satisfying glow he got from that was enough to trump the ill feelings of being naked himself. Pondering this, Rimmer looked down in surprise, and realized he'd taken his own socks off. Dear god, was he so easy to influence? Then again, he did want to make it to the top...
“I suppose you're right, old chum.” Rimmer grabbed the edges of his shirt, and pulled it over his head, slowly. At least while it was covering his face, he didn't have to look at his other body. Eventually, however, his face emerged, and he was treated to a full frontal view of his double, who was smiling again.
“Excellent! Now the rest of it. Go on, it's just us lads in here!” The double laughed again, in that wholly unconvincing way Rimmer did himself when he was trying to be reassuring.
Swallowing, Rimmer took his boxers off. “Yes indeed,” he tried, copying that laugh. Wrong, his brain yelled at him - wrong, wrong, wrong!
The other Rimmer nodded, and stood to attention. “Shower, Holly. Nicely cold and brisk. For the both of us,” he went on, before Rimmer could open his mouth. Immediately, a sensation of shocking cold water running down his body overcame him, and he gasped, hugging himself.
“Brilliant,” Rimmer wheezed.
“Invigorating,” his double shot back.
“Makes a man out of you,” Rimmer gulped, even as he felt his penis retreat into the relative safety and comfort of his body.
“Makes you feel alive!”
No, it smegging well doesn't, Rimmer thought. Nothing could make him feel alive when all his senses were constantly screaming 'you're dead, you git'. Still, he supposed it was just a manner of speech. His double hadn't been dead as long as he had, and hadn't gotten as sick of the near sensory deprivation you had to endure as a hologram. He had closed his eyes the moment he had felt the water start, because it was eerie to feel it and not see it. Now, when it finally, mercifully, stopped, he opened them again. Then he wished he hadn't.
“Anything the matter, Arnie?” The other him, that naked, very, very familiar body who was standing all too close to him, was lazily rubbing his cock with one hand.
“I...” Rimmer began, before realizing he had no idea what to say. This just wasn't a situation life or death had prepared him for. He'd look it up in one of his etiquette books if he'd been able to open them, but somehow he doubted that 'what to say when you encounter a duplicate of yourself masturbating in front of you' was among the topics discussed in any of them. “What are you doing?” he managed, finally. He seemed to be saying that a lot.
Lips identical to Rimmer's own quirked up in a near-smile. “What does it look like, Big Man?” The last two words were delivered with a poignant nod in the direction of Rimmer's still hiding penis. It began to emerge, tentatively, as though curious about what they were saying about it. “I'm draining the old lizard. Relieving some tension. Better Revision tells you to do that, you know.”
Rimmer couldn't remember that chapter. “It tells you to wank?”
“Of course not! It tells you to relax. 1001 Relaxation Techniques tells you to wank to relax.”
“It does?” Rimmer couldn't remember that chapter either.
The double hesitated, pausing in his strokes and cupping his groin with his hand. “Well, not in so many words, perhaps, but it's clearly implied. Chapter 47, that bit about needing to let go of any pressing concerns and distracting feelings or urges.”
Oh right. Chapter 47. Rimmer did remember that. There were all kinds of implications in chapter 47. He'd put a bookmark in there. “Yes...” He wasn't quite sure what was supposed to come next. The other him appeared to have similar difficulties. They stood there, looking at one another, and eventually, because he was trying so very hard not to do so, Rimmer's eyes fell to his double's groin. He had removed his hand, but was still erect, in a half-hearted sort of way.
“What are you doing?” It was his double's turn to ask now.
“Nothing.” Does mine look like that, Rimmer thought, unable to tear himself away from the sight of that pale, slightly bent erection. It was so strange seeing it from this angle.
“Are you looking at my cock?”
Rimmer glanced up for a moment, and met a wide-eyed, irate stare. “Sorry...” he began, before he was interrupted by himself.
“Faggot!” Because he wasn't used to being intangible yet, the other Rimmer shot out his hand, intending to push at Rimmer's chest. And because Rimmer was used to being intangible, he didn't move to avoid it. And so, quite roughly, palm met chest.
Both men froze, looking like a pair of Greek statues. His double's hand didn't quite feel human, but it was a touch! After those first few seconds of confusion, Rimmer couldn't help but whimper, weakly. It had been so long...
The other Rimmer seemed to recover more quickly, not unnaturally. Everything about being a hologram was new to him, and being able to touch other holograms was no more or less surprising than anything else. He pushed Rimmer towards the wall, snorting dismissively. “You little sissy faggot,” he mumbled.
Oh no, not that wall. That was Lister's wall! Smeg only knew what the man was up to now that he was alone. Rimmer didn't want to see it, any more than he wanted Lister to see him, stumbling through the wall; naked, helpless, vulnerable, exposed. “No!” he cried, grabbing his double's arm to stop from falling, hanging on to it as he tried to sort his balance out.
His other self pulled him up, angrily. “My god, but you're a wimp! What happened to you, Arnold?” And because it was the sort of thing Rimmer did, this other Rimmer now licked his lips in concentration. Rimmer looked at that tongue; those lips, felt the sinewy skin of the arm that was just like his own, and something in him snapped.
“Please,” he moaned, fumbling his way along his double's arms, touching as much as he could as quickly as he could, pulling close up against himself. It felt... it felt really, really, incredibly good, and above all, it made him stop thinking, the way touching himself always did. He felt his other self struggle, trying to push him away, but they were equally matched in strength, and Rimmer was in some state of frenzy. Their cocks, both erect now, Rimmer's own jumping to attention with this newfound excitement, brushed against one another. That felt even better, and Rimmer tried to encourage the movement by rubbing up and down, erratically. Aching all over, just needing, he pressed his lips to his double's, and was rewarded with a hard, stinging slap across the face from his other self, who had just managed to wrench his right hand from Rimmer's grip.
Panting, almost wheezing, looking like he'd seen Lister's underwear drawer – where he kept his secret stash of half-eaten sandwiches – the other Rimmer stumbled backwards. “Pajamas, Holly!” he yelled in falsetto. “Both of us. Now!” Identical light-blue garments appeared on both bodies, as Rimmer's double scrambled backwards towards his bunk. “Pervie!” he spat out, settling himself on it and seeming, all at once, more comfortable. Well, Rimmer thought, he always did feel more comfortable with his back against the wall, so long as no one was pushing him up against it. Anyone, he corrected himself, that wasn't a scantily clad buxom blonde nymphomaniac.
Rimmer shook. He touched his cheek where the slap had impacted. Even the pain had been somewhat enjoyable; his cock still ached, unsatisfied. Maybe the other him was right? Only a pervert would get off on pain, right? “I didn't... I mean, I don't...” he stuttered.
“Pervie! You're a smegging gay pervie twonk! What, getting yourself killed wasn't enough for you, you dead, dirty deadie? You had to go get a taste for cock while you were at it?”
Now that was crossing the line. The other him knew perfectly well that it wasn't Rimmer's fault he had died! “That's not true,” he shouted, “you know that's not true – it wasn't my fault!”
The other Rimmer snorted. “It wasn't your fault you started getting off on guys? Who was it, sissy-boy? Who was it you fancied? Not exactly spoiled for choice here, are you?” A look of utter horror crossed his face. “My god, it's Lister, isn't it? You're hot for smegging Lister!” He made some rather unconvincing retching impressions.
Rimmer really didn't want to think about that right now. You get a lot of strange thoughts when you're stuck in space for months with another man, even if it's someone you utterly despise. There are too many late nights and too much boredom for that not to happen. But he really, really didn't want to think about that right now! “I'm not a pervert, and I'm not a dirty deadie – that's a derogatory term, and you shouldn't use it! I'm not, I'm not!”
“Shut up! You make me vomit, you degenerate twonking shirt-lifter – shut up!”
“I make you vomit?” Their eyes met across the room, and the pure, distilled hatred flowing between them felt like beams of pure energy. And in the pit of his stomach Rimmer knew, with utmost certainty, that this was definitely not going to end well.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-01-15 07:45 pm (UTC)After all, if you couldn't be bothered to make an effort to look neat for yourself, why make an effort at all?
Giggle.
That familiar hot, churning feeling he always got when he was afraid he'd done something wrong started swirling around in Rimmer's stomach.
Oh yes.
I found it in Navigation Officer Blackwood's quarters.
Awww! ;D Hmm, I wonder if Blackwood is like Blackadder in the descendant-thing...
It seemed to be rather better at it than other things, like making food taste like anything other than cardboard or sawdust, or getting any sort of proper, not dulled away into near-nothingness reaction to – well - touching himself.
Lovely details.
There was nothing wrong with pain; pain built character – at least that's what his father had always said.
Speaking of details - sigh.
It always drove him to even further heights of angst, because the way his revision schedule always got cocked up, the night before the exam was usually the only night he could study.
Oh, so live!Rimmer...
Holly vs. Rimmer's mum! Penis-retreat!
Nothing could make him feel alive when all his senses were constantly screaming 'you're dead, you git'.
Yeeeeep.
He'd look it up in one of his etiquette books if he'd been able to open them, but somehow he doubted that 'what to say when you encounter a duplicate of yourself masturbating in front of you' was among the topics discussed in any of them.
Love.
I'm draining the old lizard.
Eeeyaah!
There were all kinds of implications in chapter 47. He'd put a bookmark in there.
I bet.
Both men froze, looking like a pair of Greek statues.
Oh my.
Oh no, not that wall. That was Lister's wall!
Meep.
The double-touching - glurp.
And in the pit of his stomach Rimmer knew, with utmost certainty, that this was definitely not going to end well.
Hee!
no subject
Date: 2007-01-16 05:17 pm (UTC)I wish they could have gone further, but you know how it is... *sigh* Poor things.
Thank you! *blushes*
no subject
Date: 2007-01-16 10:03 am (UTC):) Much liking the pre-series II Rimmer. The "have I changed?" Rimmer.
Much love. More. Yes. (I am a bit tiddly so no big comment tonight *wave*)
no subject
Date: 2007-01-16 05:19 pm (UTC)Thank you. :)
no subject
Date: 2007-02-13 09:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-09-16 09:13 pm (UTC)u may have warped me..
love it though XD u can so tell the differance between bad rimmer and good rimmer (as i have dubbed them)