ext_195746 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
smaych.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
reddwarfslash2007-03-24 12:43 pm
smaych.livejournal.com) wrote in reddwarfslash2007-03-24 12:43 pm
Fic. Freaky - PG - Rimmer/Lister
Title: Freaky
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Stasis Leak
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Red Dwarf or make any money from this.
Notes: This is set before The End, so Rimmer is alive and so are the rest of the crew.
Beta:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kahvi, roadstergal
Arnold Rimmer liked control. He liked name labels, timetables, and the double underlining of important headings in his revision notes. He disliked the fact that there were things beyond his control, like Lister's messy scatter of belongings, his taste in music, the man himself - the idea of it scared and irritated him in equal measure. The thing Rimmer disliked most of all was when he felt that there were things about himself that he had no control over. He mostly tried not to think about these things, grateful that he had a choice over that, at least.
Valentine’s Day and the surrounding hysteria was one of the things that Rimmer disliked, precisely because of the lack of control exhibited by seemingly anyone at all. Anyone except the merchandising companies and bank managers who cashed in on the holiday, he thought - oh ho yes. The Love Celibacy chaps had been spot on with that one. He'd be damned if he was going to mope around, pining after some woman like a... well, like Lister.
Rimmer had never received any form of Valentine gift or card, no letters, not unless you counted the icily succinct epistles from his mother. Which he sometimes did anyway. Then again, he had never sent any, either; it would be such a waste to spend his money on that pointless tat.
As February 14th rolled around, all of these things combined to exacerbate Rimmer's already bad mood, and to increase his irritation with the the holiday which conspired to make a lot of inane, loved-up hippies out of Red Dwarf's normally at least semi-competent crew. Unable to concentrate on the astronavigation revision guide he had been uselessly staring at for most of the evening, he decided to cleanr up the quarters a bit. He straightened his bed he'd been lying on, re-arranged his books, and conscientiously avoided touching anything that looked like it had been anywhere near Lister's feet. He straightened the bed again, pulling an extendable ruler from his shirt pocket to ensure that the covers were turned down the regulation ten centimetres. He could not remember whether this was a Space Corps or a Rimmer directive, but either way, it was a smegging good idea.
He wondered what Lister was up to, and promptly grimaced at the thought of the man making eyes at some lower-class bint at the ship Valentine’s Disco. I mean, honestly, Rimmer thought - the man had ridiculous eyes. They always seemed to be laughing at Rimmer. Not for the first time, he considered looking up the penalty for twinkling cheekily at a superior technician.
He considered it again when Lister stumbled, giggling, through the door at smeg knew what hour, inconsiderately turning the lights on. Rimmer pretended to have been asleep, and yelled his indignation at being so rudely awakened.
“Oh what are yeh whinging about, Rimmer? Yer not even on duty tomorrow.” He'd been drinking - Rimmer could smell the lager-breath from his bunk, but compared to Lister’s usual state on returning from a binge with those friends of his, he seemed practically sober. At least he seemed to have perked up since earlier a bit. Lately he had been pining away for Kochanski; his obsession with her, unhealthy at the best of times, had only seemed to increase with the run-up to Valentine’s Day and the general sappiness that went hand-in-hand with it. “What are you doin' here anyway?” Lister continued. “It's Valentine’s Day! Shouldn't yeh be out tryin' to hypnotise whoever'll sit still long enough?”
“Valentine’s Day is a holiday invented by bank managers,” Rimmer replied somewhat smugly, trying to convey his sense of pity towards the poor saps who were taken in by this costly invention. “And duty or no, some of us have more important things to do with our days off than wallowing in a filthy bunk until the early evening, trying to drown a hangover in yet more lager.”
Lister lit a cigarette, grinning at the idea of what sounded like an almost-perfect way to spend a day; just throw in some nude female wrestling vids and an extra hot vindaloo.
“Lister!” Rimmer shouted. “Must you persist in disregarding the very obvious no-smoking signs!”
“You put up those signs!” Lister retorted.
“And you deliberately flaunt them constantly.” Rimmers nostrils were twitching in visible annoyance.
“Look, Rimmer, I don't mean to annoy yeh so much.” Rimmer snorted derisively at this. Lister ignored him and continued, “I didn't know you were that fussed about the ciggies. Here, look, I'll put it out.”
Yes, the man was certainly drunk. Rimmer eyed him suspiciously. “Lister, I tell you time and again exactly what you do that annoys me. How can you still claim ignorance?” Now this was a subject Rimmer could warm to. “You're lazy, you're irresponsible, you seem to feel a constant need to litter the room with toenail clippings and socks that set off the sprinkler system, you eat food which makes even the skutters' eyes water from just the smell.” Rimmer ticked off each item on his current list of grievances on his fingers. If there was one thing that was guaranteed to make him feel better, it was a good list. “You drink, you smoke, you mess with my things, you disturb my revision...”
“I only do those things because you wind me up so much, y'know? Because I want to talk and laugh and hang about with yeh, but yer so smegging uptight all the time!”
What in the name of arse was Lister talking about? The man had made it patently obvious that there was nothing he wanted less than to “hang about” with Rimmer, and Rimmer was convinced that if they were not forced by JMC regulation and the sheer number of crew members crammed on to the ship to bunk together, he would never see Lister's chubby face again.
“What could you possibly have to say to me, Lister? And I hardly think I need to remind you of the penalty for insulting a superior technician - not after the three write-ups I issued this morning - so if the word ‘smeghead’ crosses your lips, you'll be on report before you can finish the sentence.”
Part of Lister, the hopelessly optimistic part, had always hoped that Rimmer would change some day, lighten up a little, become the sort of person Lister could talk to about Wilma Flintstone and Krissie Kochanski and his plan. Smeg. maybe the new Rimmer could even become part of the plan; they could be neighbours on Fiji and drink beer and talk about the sheep and the horses and the women. Another part of Lister knew it was unreasonable to expect people to change, and that part told him he had two options. Either he could accept that Rimmer was Rimmer and try to get on with him anyway, or he could carry on with the sniping and insults, the practical jokes, and ignore him as much as possible otherwise.
Lister looked Rimmer right in the eyes for a moment. An idea, a hilarious idea, was working itself out in his head. If Rimmer wouldn't loosen up on his own, Lister would have to help him. Headbanger Harris was heading off to Titan tomorrow for a week's planet leave, and if anyone could get hold of what Lister was looking for, it was him. He grinned.
“Doesn't matter,” he said, jumping up into bed. “Night, Smeghead.”
Rimmer was suspicious. During the ten days following Valentine’s Day, Lister seemed to be attempting to act like a human being. There had been no practical jokes, fewer insults, and not so much as a strum of his guitar. “I know what you're doing, so you might as well tell me,” Rimmer snapped, although actually he had no idea what was going on inside what passed for Lister's brain. Lister, for his part, looked affronted at the very suggestion that he could be up to no good.
Rimmer considered himself an expert on routine of any kind, whether his own or Lister's. Normally Lister would fall out of bed at around 0920, still dressed from the previous day, and stumble out of the door to report for duty at 0930. On a good day he would find time to shave or brush his teeth, but this was by no means a regular occurrence. Usually Rimmer would wake up ten minutes before Lister and shower and dress as quietly as possible while Lister was still asleep, so that when Lister woke up Rimmer could claim to have 'been awake for hours, miladdio!' It was very unnerving, therefore, to be shaken awake by a madly grinning Lister at 0800 on the morning of the 26th.
“Hey, man, I was just headin' down to the kitchens, and I was wonderin' if you fancied some breakfast?”
Lister's hand is on my shoulder, Rimmer thought, groggily. He felt a sick stab of panic. “Lister, what on Io are you doing up at this hour?” he croaked, wondering if Lister had, in fact, been to bed at all. It wouldn't be the first time he'd spent the night drinking somewhere, only to stumble back to their quarters drunk and obnoxious come morning. Rimmer sniffed experimentally, expecting to encounter potent lager fumes, but smelled nothing. Lister was still grinning.
“Breakfast,” he repeated. “I was just wonderin' if you wanted some?”
Rimmer wasn't buying this for a second. “If you think that I'm about to eat anything you've cooked you've got another think coming, squire!”
Lister had expected this. “Why not?” he persisted.
Rimmer sneered. “How about because you have all the culinary prowess of a dung beetle, and I wouldn't be comfortable putting anything you've created as close to my mouth as my feet?” Lister actually looked offended by this, Rimmer thought. Good. Serves him right for whatever it was he was doing, and he was most certainly was up to something. In all the time they had bunked together, not once had Lister offered to do anything for him, not even so much as buy him a drink. Lister's hand was still on his shoulder.
“Come on, man, I've been tryin' my best the past few weeks. I wanna move on from all this, y'know?”
“Hm?” Rimmer replied. He had no idea what Lister was up to. All he knew was that his personal space was being invaded, and that it was much too early for this smeg.
“So I'm gonna go make yeh breakfast, and you're gonna try to cheer yerself up a bit, all right, smeghead?” The man shook Rimmer's shoulder gently again, as if to shake some sense into him. Which was futile, Rimmer thought, as he was already absolutely tip-top full of sense.
“Oh, fine, whatever, Listy; breakfast, yes, just please leave me alone, let me have ten more minutes of rest!” Just take your hands off of me, Rimmer thought irately. Honestly, the man was clingier than a starving leech. Rimmer had always had a problem with physical contact; he sometimes thought he would be happier if he never had to touch anyone ever again.
“Yeees!” Lister exclaimed, smashing his smeggy hat on his head before practically bouncing out of the room. Rimmer groaned and settled back, closing his eyes. True to his word, strangely enough, half an hour later Lister returned, bringing with him a plate containing two eggs, three rashers of bacon, a grilled tomato, two sausages, a small portion of fried potatoes, and a rather large quantity of mushrooms.
The next day Rimmer lay on his bunk, trying to sleep off what might possibly well have been the worst 24 hours of his life. He felt like an idiot. He knew Lister. He knew that the man must have been up to something, and yet he'd gone along with it, eating those smegging mushrooms and enjoying, actually enjoying, the idea that perhaps there was one person in the whole smegging universe who had learned to tolerate his company. And what did he have to show for it? Eight weeks painting the ship, a hangover, and the mortifying memory of reporting for duty naked except for a pair of mock leather driving gloves and his lucky blue swimming goggles. He'd never forget the look on Lister's face - the inane grin, the eyes twinkling all over the place like the twinkle of a laser gunsight.
The door slid open with a quiet whoosh as Lister walked in. Rimmer pointedly turned to face the wall.
“Look man, I've said I'm sorry. It was an accident.” Rimmer didn't reply. Lister exhaled deeply and shook his head.
Rimmer didn't turn around, but he heard Lister moving about the room, pulling up a chair and sitting down by Rimmer's bunk. “I thought it'd be a laugh, that you'd see the funny side. I thought it'd help yeh relax. I didn't realise the effects would be that... noticeable.” Rimmer heard a hint of a smile in Lister's voice and felt something inside him snap.
“Don't act now like you thought any of this through, Lister! Why don't you just admit that you thought of nothing at all except how supremely hilarious it would be to see Arnold Rimmer make a prat out of himself once again?” How dare Lister not understand this? How could he think for a moment that Rimmer would relax under the total loss of control he'd experienced? He started shaking slightly for some reason he couldn't fathom; he presumed it was rage.
“Oh eh,” Lister's voice was quieter now as he reached out to Rimmer’s shoulder and turned the man around to face him. “Don't be like that,” he said, leaning down to brush his lips against Rimmer's.
Absurd, thought Rimmer, absently; this was absurd. Lister's lips were warm and soft on his own, and he could feel the man smiling, his eyes closed while Rimmer kept his resolutely open and staring, shocked, ahead. That smile - that had to mean that this was all some sort of sick joke at Rimmer’s expense. Now Lister was leaning in closer, now his hands were on Rimmer's lower back, warm and confident.
“Good one, Listy,” Rimmer squeaked, pulling back, his face frozen. He was met with a look of confusion from Lister, who then started once again to lean his face towards Rimmer. Rimmer's eyes roved desperately around their quarters, expecting Petersen to jump out at any minute with a camera, waiting for the laughing to begin.
Lister lifted a hand to Rimmer's face and ran his thumb gently across one of Rimmer’s eyebrows, willing some of the tension there away, before catching Rimmer's lower lip gently between his teeth.
At that point Rimmer realised that he wanted this, wanted to give in to it, and it was precisely this terrifying thought that made him pull back suddenly and fix Lister with a sharp, intense look before jumping up and marching hastily from the room.
Rimmer strode through the ship, heading blindly away from crowded areas, choosing neglected corridors in which to pace out the adrenaline and panic, and in the end found himself moving towards the cargo bays. The stale taste of cigarettes burned in his mouth until finally he stopped and retched, slumped against a wall and feeling feverishly warm against the cold metal.
Lister had kissed him. Somehow, unintentionally, Rimmer had been giving off the impression that he was the sort of man who let other men kiss him. How had this happened? He was sure he'd been so careful. Childhood memories of playground bullies (including his brothers) played themselves over and over in his mind. Now this was going to eat away at him like a... wait, eat. ! The breakfast, the mushrooms. Of course! This whole thing -, Lister apologising, kissing him -, it was nothing more than a hallucination brought on by that psychedelic meal. It would even explain how he felt now, his skin so hot and his hair clinging sweatily to his forehead, more messiery than he would ever normally allow it to be, his pupils widely dilated as they stared back at him from the mirrored surface of a metal cargo canister. He contemplated returning to his quarters to sleep it off, but decided against it just in case the hallucination was still there somehow. He started to walk towards the medi-bay, almost dizzy with relief.
Things between Rimmer and Lister soon settled back into their usual routine - the bickering, the insults, the reports of the insults sent to the Captain. But sometimes in the morning, before Lister was awake, Rimmer felt like he could remember the nicotine taste that had stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he made sure to brush his teeth twice. It was all a hallucination, he thought loudly to himself; none of it was real. And if he saw something glint occasionally in Lister's eyes which contradicted that, well, Arnold Rimmer wasn't the man to acknowledge it.
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Stasis Leak
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Red Dwarf or make any money from this.
Notes: This is set before The End, so Rimmer is alive and so are the rest of the crew.
Beta:
kahvi, roadstergalArnold Rimmer liked control. He liked name labels, timetables, and the double underlining of important headings in his revision notes. He disliked the fact that there were things beyond his control, like Lister's messy scatter of belongings, his taste in music, the man himself - the idea of it scared and irritated him in equal measure. The thing Rimmer disliked most of all was when he felt that there were things about himself that he had no control over. He mostly tried not to think about these things, grateful that he had a choice over that, at least.
Valentine’s Day and the surrounding hysteria was one of the things that Rimmer disliked, precisely because of the lack of control exhibited by seemingly anyone at all. Anyone except the merchandising companies and bank managers who cashed in on the holiday, he thought - oh ho yes. The Love Celibacy chaps had been spot on with that one. He'd be damned if he was going to mope around, pining after some woman like a... well, like Lister.
Rimmer had never received any form of Valentine gift or card, no letters, not unless you counted the icily succinct epistles from his mother. Which he sometimes did anyway. Then again, he had never sent any, either; it would be such a waste to spend his money on that pointless tat.
As February 14th rolled around, all of these things combined to exacerbate Rimmer's already bad mood, and to increase his irritation with the the holiday which conspired to make a lot of inane, loved-up hippies out of Red Dwarf's normally at least semi-competent crew. Unable to concentrate on the astronavigation revision guide he had been uselessly staring at for most of the evening, he decided to cleanr up the quarters a bit. He straightened his bed he'd been lying on, re-arranged his books, and conscientiously avoided touching anything that looked like it had been anywhere near Lister's feet. He straightened the bed again, pulling an extendable ruler from his shirt pocket to ensure that the covers were turned down the regulation ten centimetres. He could not remember whether this was a Space Corps or a Rimmer directive, but either way, it was a smegging good idea.
He wondered what Lister was up to, and promptly grimaced at the thought of the man making eyes at some lower-class bint at the ship Valentine’s Disco. I mean, honestly, Rimmer thought - the man had ridiculous eyes. They always seemed to be laughing at Rimmer. Not for the first time, he considered looking up the penalty for twinkling cheekily at a superior technician.
He considered it again when Lister stumbled, giggling, through the door at smeg knew what hour, inconsiderately turning the lights on. Rimmer pretended to have been asleep, and yelled his indignation at being so rudely awakened.
“Oh what are yeh whinging about, Rimmer? Yer not even on duty tomorrow.” He'd been drinking - Rimmer could smell the lager-breath from his bunk, but compared to Lister’s usual state on returning from a binge with those friends of his, he seemed practically sober. At least he seemed to have perked up since earlier a bit. Lately he had been pining away for Kochanski; his obsession with her, unhealthy at the best of times, had only seemed to increase with the run-up to Valentine’s Day and the general sappiness that went hand-in-hand with it. “What are you doin' here anyway?” Lister continued. “It's Valentine’s Day! Shouldn't yeh be out tryin' to hypnotise whoever'll sit still long enough?”
“Valentine’s Day is a holiday invented by bank managers,” Rimmer replied somewhat smugly, trying to convey his sense of pity towards the poor saps who were taken in by this costly invention. “And duty or no, some of us have more important things to do with our days off than wallowing in a filthy bunk until the early evening, trying to drown a hangover in yet more lager.”
Lister lit a cigarette, grinning at the idea of what sounded like an almost-perfect way to spend a day; just throw in some nude female wrestling vids and an extra hot vindaloo.
“Lister!” Rimmer shouted. “Must you persist in disregarding the very obvious no-smoking signs!”
“You put up those signs!” Lister retorted.
“And you deliberately flaunt them constantly.” Rimmers nostrils were twitching in visible annoyance.
“Look, Rimmer, I don't mean to annoy yeh so much.” Rimmer snorted derisively at this. Lister ignored him and continued, “I didn't know you were that fussed about the ciggies. Here, look, I'll put it out.”
Yes, the man was certainly drunk. Rimmer eyed him suspiciously. “Lister, I tell you time and again exactly what you do that annoys me. How can you still claim ignorance?” Now this was a subject Rimmer could warm to. “You're lazy, you're irresponsible, you seem to feel a constant need to litter the room with toenail clippings and socks that set off the sprinkler system, you eat food which makes even the skutters' eyes water from just the smell.” Rimmer ticked off each item on his current list of grievances on his fingers. If there was one thing that was guaranteed to make him feel better, it was a good list. “You drink, you smoke, you mess with my things, you disturb my revision...”
“I only do those things because you wind me up so much, y'know? Because I want to talk and laugh and hang about with yeh, but yer so smegging uptight all the time!”
What in the name of arse was Lister talking about? The man had made it patently obvious that there was nothing he wanted less than to “hang about” with Rimmer, and Rimmer was convinced that if they were not forced by JMC regulation and the sheer number of crew members crammed on to the ship to bunk together, he would never see Lister's chubby face again.
“What could you possibly have to say to me, Lister? And I hardly think I need to remind you of the penalty for insulting a superior technician - not after the three write-ups I issued this morning - so if the word ‘smeghead’ crosses your lips, you'll be on report before you can finish the sentence.”
Part of Lister, the hopelessly optimistic part, had always hoped that Rimmer would change some day, lighten up a little, become the sort of person Lister could talk to about Wilma Flintstone and Krissie Kochanski and his plan. Smeg. maybe the new Rimmer could even become part of the plan; they could be neighbours on Fiji and drink beer and talk about the sheep and the horses and the women. Another part of Lister knew it was unreasonable to expect people to change, and that part told him he had two options. Either he could accept that Rimmer was Rimmer and try to get on with him anyway, or he could carry on with the sniping and insults, the practical jokes, and ignore him as much as possible otherwise.
Lister looked Rimmer right in the eyes for a moment. An idea, a hilarious idea, was working itself out in his head. If Rimmer wouldn't loosen up on his own, Lister would have to help him. Headbanger Harris was heading off to Titan tomorrow for a week's planet leave, and if anyone could get hold of what Lister was looking for, it was him. He grinned.
“Doesn't matter,” he said, jumping up into bed. “Night, Smeghead.”
Rimmer was suspicious. During the ten days following Valentine’s Day, Lister seemed to be attempting to act like a human being. There had been no practical jokes, fewer insults, and not so much as a strum of his guitar. “I know what you're doing, so you might as well tell me,” Rimmer snapped, although actually he had no idea what was going on inside what passed for Lister's brain. Lister, for his part, looked affronted at the very suggestion that he could be up to no good.
Rimmer considered himself an expert on routine of any kind, whether his own or Lister's. Normally Lister would fall out of bed at around 0920, still dressed from the previous day, and stumble out of the door to report for duty at 0930. On a good day he would find time to shave or brush his teeth, but this was by no means a regular occurrence. Usually Rimmer would wake up ten minutes before Lister and shower and dress as quietly as possible while Lister was still asleep, so that when Lister woke up Rimmer could claim to have 'been awake for hours, miladdio!' It was very unnerving, therefore, to be shaken awake by a madly grinning Lister at 0800 on the morning of the 26th.
“Hey, man, I was just headin' down to the kitchens, and I was wonderin' if you fancied some breakfast?”
Lister's hand is on my shoulder, Rimmer thought, groggily. He felt a sick stab of panic. “Lister, what on Io are you doing up at this hour?” he croaked, wondering if Lister had, in fact, been to bed at all. It wouldn't be the first time he'd spent the night drinking somewhere, only to stumble back to their quarters drunk and obnoxious come morning. Rimmer sniffed experimentally, expecting to encounter potent lager fumes, but smelled nothing. Lister was still grinning.
“Breakfast,” he repeated. “I was just wonderin' if you wanted some?”
Rimmer wasn't buying this for a second. “If you think that I'm about to eat anything you've cooked you've got another think coming, squire!”
Lister had expected this. “Why not?” he persisted.
Rimmer sneered. “How about because you have all the culinary prowess of a dung beetle, and I wouldn't be comfortable putting anything you've created as close to my mouth as my feet?” Lister actually looked offended by this, Rimmer thought. Good. Serves him right for whatever it was he was doing, and he was most certainly was up to something. In all the time they had bunked together, not once had Lister offered to do anything for him, not even so much as buy him a drink. Lister's hand was still on his shoulder.
“Come on, man, I've been tryin' my best the past few weeks. I wanna move on from all this, y'know?”
“Hm?” Rimmer replied. He had no idea what Lister was up to. All he knew was that his personal space was being invaded, and that it was much too early for this smeg.
“So I'm gonna go make yeh breakfast, and you're gonna try to cheer yerself up a bit, all right, smeghead?” The man shook Rimmer's shoulder gently again, as if to shake some sense into him. Which was futile, Rimmer thought, as he was already absolutely tip-top full of sense.
“Oh, fine, whatever, Listy; breakfast, yes, just please leave me alone, let me have ten more minutes of rest!” Just take your hands off of me, Rimmer thought irately. Honestly, the man was clingier than a starving leech. Rimmer had always had a problem with physical contact; he sometimes thought he would be happier if he never had to touch anyone ever again.
“Yeees!” Lister exclaimed, smashing his smeggy hat on his head before practically bouncing out of the room. Rimmer groaned and settled back, closing his eyes. True to his word, strangely enough, half an hour later Lister returned, bringing with him a plate containing two eggs, three rashers of bacon, a grilled tomato, two sausages, a small portion of fried potatoes, and a rather large quantity of mushrooms.
The next day Rimmer lay on his bunk, trying to sleep off what might possibly well have been the worst 24 hours of his life. He felt like an idiot. He knew Lister. He knew that the man must have been up to something, and yet he'd gone along with it, eating those smegging mushrooms and enjoying, actually enjoying, the idea that perhaps there was one person in the whole smegging universe who had learned to tolerate his company. And what did he have to show for it? Eight weeks painting the ship, a hangover, and the mortifying memory of reporting for duty naked except for a pair of mock leather driving gloves and his lucky blue swimming goggles. He'd never forget the look on Lister's face - the inane grin, the eyes twinkling all over the place like the twinkle of a laser gunsight.
The door slid open with a quiet whoosh as Lister walked in. Rimmer pointedly turned to face the wall.
“Look man, I've said I'm sorry. It was an accident.” Rimmer didn't reply. Lister exhaled deeply and shook his head.
Rimmer didn't turn around, but he heard Lister moving about the room, pulling up a chair and sitting down by Rimmer's bunk. “I thought it'd be a laugh, that you'd see the funny side. I thought it'd help yeh relax. I didn't realise the effects would be that... noticeable.” Rimmer heard a hint of a smile in Lister's voice and felt something inside him snap.
“Don't act now like you thought any of this through, Lister! Why don't you just admit that you thought of nothing at all except how supremely hilarious it would be to see Arnold Rimmer make a prat out of himself once again?” How dare Lister not understand this? How could he think for a moment that Rimmer would relax under the total loss of control he'd experienced? He started shaking slightly for some reason he couldn't fathom; he presumed it was rage.
“Oh eh,” Lister's voice was quieter now as he reached out to Rimmer’s shoulder and turned the man around to face him. “Don't be like that,” he said, leaning down to brush his lips against Rimmer's.
Absurd, thought Rimmer, absently; this was absurd. Lister's lips were warm and soft on his own, and he could feel the man smiling, his eyes closed while Rimmer kept his resolutely open and staring, shocked, ahead. That smile - that had to mean that this was all some sort of sick joke at Rimmer’s expense. Now Lister was leaning in closer, now his hands were on Rimmer's lower back, warm and confident.
“Good one, Listy,” Rimmer squeaked, pulling back, his face frozen. He was met with a look of confusion from Lister, who then started once again to lean his face towards Rimmer. Rimmer's eyes roved desperately around their quarters, expecting Petersen to jump out at any minute with a camera, waiting for the laughing to begin.
Lister lifted a hand to Rimmer's face and ran his thumb gently across one of Rimmer’s eyebrows, willing some of the tension there away, before catching Rimmer's lower lip gently between his teeth.
At that point Rimmer realised that he wanted this, wanted to give in to it, and it was precisely this terrifying thought that made him pull back suddenly and fix Lister with a sharp, intense look before jumping up and marching hastily from the room.
Rimmer strode through the ship, heading blindly away from crowded areas, choosing neglected corridors in which to pace out the adrenaline and panic, and in the end found himself moving towards the cargo bays. The stale taste of cigarettes burned in his mouth until finally he stopped and retched, slumped against a wall and feeling feverishly warm against the cold metal.
Lister had kissed him. Somehow, unintentionally, Rimmer had been giving off the impression that he was the sort of man who let other men kiss him. How had this happened? He was sure he'd been so careful. Childhood memories of playground bullies (including his brothers) played themselves over and over in his mind. Now this was going to eat away at him like a... wait, eat. ! The breakfast, the mushrooms. Of course! This whole thing -, Lister apologising, kissing him -, it was nothing more than a hallucination brought on by that psychedelic meal. It would even explain how he felt now, his skin so hot and his hair clinging sweatily to his forehead, more messiery than he would ever normally allow it to be, his pupils widely dilated as they stared back at him from the mirrored surface of a metal cargo canister. He contemplated returning to his quarters to sleep it off, but decided against it just in case the hallucination was still there somehow. He started to walk towards the medi-bay, almost dizzy with relief.
Things between Rimmer and Lister soon settled back into their usual routine - the bickering, the insults, the reports of the insults sent to the Captain. But sometimes in the morning, before Lister was awake, Rimmer felt like he could remember the nicotine taste that had stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he made sure to brush his teeth twice. It was all a hallucination, he thought loudly to himself; none of it was real. And if he saw something glint occasionally in Lister's eyes which contradicted that, well, Arnold Rimmer wasn't the man to acknowledge it.
no subject
Glad to have made you giggle :)
no subject
I love how Rimmer and Lister continue to eat eachothers cooking even though it so often goes horribly wrong. They are so meant to be.
no subject
no subject
He'd be damned if he was going to mope around, pining after some woman like a... well, like Lister.
The duality in this is so excellently done.
Rimmer's contemplation on Lister's eyes, failing to see why they hold his attention so - excellent.
If there was one thing that was guaranteed to make him feel better, it was a good list.
Oh, I love this line.
Rimmer was convinced that if they were not forced by JMC regulation and the sheer number of crew members crammed on to the ship to bunk together, he would never see Lister's chubby face again.
That only explains why people bunk together in the first place though, not why Rimmer and Lister in particular are together. What about transfers? I like that Rimmer doesn't think about this spesifically though, but it's something that would have been nice to explore at some point. Not really a critisism, just an aside. :)
In all the time they had bunked together, not once had Lister offered to do anything for him, not even so much as buy him a drink.
Not really sure this is true, but I can definetly see Rimmer thinking that it was. If you asked Lister, I'm sure he'd be thinking the exact opposite. "I keep trying to do things for him..."
Which was futile, Rimmer thought, as he was already absolutely tip-top full of sense.
Oh, wonderful. And the whole hand-on-shoulder thing, as I've mentioned.
the eyes twinkling all over the place like the twinkle of a laser gunsight.
Oh, nice...
I love the kiss details. I'm a sucker for a good kiss. *sigh*
Somehow, unintentionally, Rimmer had been giving off the impression that he was the sort of man who let other men kiss him.
So Rimmer it's not even funny.
Well done!
no subject
I'm glad you think I got Rimmer right, he's a character that means a lot to me.
I agree that it would've been good to include some details of why they were bunking together at all. It's been a long time since I read the books, does it mention it there at all?
These bits are actually
Thanks again for all the help and helpful comments! This has been such a buzz to write, I'm sure it'll quickly become very addictive.
no subject
(Anonymous) 2007-03-25 07:50 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
(Anonymous) 2007-03-25 07:51 pm (UTC)(link)Well done!
no subject
And you're very welcome.