See, I was serious.

[topsecretpr0nlj.livejournal.com]

Two part drabble. As advertised, very G rated.

Part A
The thing about space is it’s black. Sometimes they’d get to such deserted, still, empty spots that no stars were close enough to cut through the darkness. And it was those times, more than any others, that Lister really felt how far away from home he was.

They look pretty much the same, stars. Wherever and whenever he was, it was easy to pretend that the ones outside his window were the same stars he’d seen with Kris. Millions of years didn’t feel like so long those times. Late at night—Was it always night? Never? Dependant on their orientation relative to the nearest sun? Or just their sun?

Smeg that.—Sometimes when he couldn’t sleep, Lister could forget the breakup, the radiation leak, and the countless, absurd adventures separating him from her. But somehow the thing becoming increasingly difficult to strip away was… for some ungodly reason… Rimmer. He’d hover between Lister and Kris in his thoughts like some ghostly wall, overcoming Lister with a strange emotional vertigo, a healthy dash of denial, and the smallest, saddest sense of hope he’d ever known. Maybe, he often reflected, he had gone space crazy.

But the times he found himself exhausted and staring out of a window into that merciless, flat blackness, his explanation was something else: Rimmer was there. Even if Lister was adrift in the dark, Rimmer was right there with him.


Part B (set post-SMAC)
The thing about space. Black. Holly was part right that time. There are a few things about space. Yes, it’s black. It’s also smegging big and without something to break up the infinite blackness, to fill it at least a little, it’s dead.

Dead like me, and my parents, like Nirvana, and everyone else in this massive, dead, disturbing, dead, confused, dead universe.

Except for Lister, the goit. All of--everything gets together and dies, but Lister doesn’t get the memo. Probably lost it somewhere between the floor and a pile of toxic socks and rock hard boxer shorts. Smegging lazy bum.

Still, it’s good that there’s someone alive to spite this homicidal, backward-forward universe, and besides being a grotty, underachieving Second Technician, Lister is the most alive person I know. So not only is he the appropriate insult to all of existence, but wherever Lister is, space isn’t so empty. Not yet.

Comments

[laurenthemself]

I love these. They are very simple and direct and they make my heart ache.

[topsecretpr0nlj.livejournal.com]

That's very high praise. Thank you.

This is wonderful.

[musicisavictim.livejournal.com]

Not too much, not too little. I can just imagine Rimmer staring at the inky black void, shaking his fist at the universe, and muttering "Bastards!" under his breath. Great way for him to appreciate Lister.

Re: This is wonderful.

[topsecretpr0nlj.livejournal.com]

Thank you! One of the things about Rimmer, at least in my head, is that I seriously doubt that it would ever feel like he'd done well enough, no matter how wildly successful he was. Even after becoming Ace, which I'm positive was the best decision he made in life or death, I think he'd feel some regret, partially because he's unable to be completely content and partially because he literally left his entire universe behind. And one of the first people who cared about him, even if that was mostly out of necessity.

That was a long, self-indulgent reply to a simple compliment. Sorry, I lack RD friends in the real world.

[freakykat.livejournal.com]

Oh these are lovely. I heart them.

[topsecretpr0nlj.livejournal.com]

Thank you. I'm new to this, so encouragement is appreciated.

[erinptah]

Lister is the most alive person I know.

...wow.

Both of these were wonderful, but that line after all the rest really got me. Lovely.

[topsecretpr0nlj.livejournal.com]

Better stop being so nice to me, or I might try to do a sequel.