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reddwarfslashTitle: The Petersen Break
Pairing: Lister/Petersen, Rimmer/Lister (implied)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Guess what? I don't own Red Dwarf, and I don't make any money from this. It's true!
Spoilers: Back In The Red.
Notes: I've struggled with this for quite some time, and I've come to the conclusion that it's not going to get any better. Here's hoping you enjoy it anyway! Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fanfic100 challenge - my table is here.
The mixed odors of charred, vaguely animal-like flesh, overripe vegetables and that always underlying, undefinable yeast-like smell that signaled dinner-time in the prison mess-hall did not usually do much to lift Lister's spirits, but today he could almost pretend they whet his appetite. He put his tray in the various machines without complaint, even enduring their surly comments with a smile. Today, nothing could sour his mood. When a couple of guards lumbered over and prodded his shoulder just as he sat down, his grin didn't even falter. He was determined, dammit! This was a good day. It was! He had his guitar back, and his strings, and with Rimmer away on a week-long extraordinary canary mission that he'd volunteered for because he thought it was a one-week leave, Lister could play it as much as he liked without anyone getting on his back about it. “What's the problem, guys?” He tried for cheerful, though the passive faces staring blankly at him far from invited it.
“David Lister?” If rusty iron bars had a sound, it wouldn't be far removed from that of the guard's voice.
“Yeah?”
The other guard poked him in the chest with his truncheon. “Yous got a new cell-mate.”
“What?” Lister turned in the direction of the poke, frowning. “What about Rimmer?”
“Temporary,” said iron-bars-voice. Lister turned back the other way to face him, but he seemed to be a man of few words.
“Yeah, temp'ry. You'll have to come with us,” the more talkative of the two demanded, poking Lister with the truncheon again. It was far from painful, but very annoying, and Lister really didn't want to be annoyed right now.
Lister hugged his tray possessively. “But I haven't even started me dinner yet!”
The truncheon-happy guard shrugged. “Bring it with. Yous gotta come now.”
“Right now,” his partner growled.
Lister looked down at the tray. It was looking less and less inviting by the second, the smells no longer masked by his elated mood. He sighed. “Why, though? Why d'you need me? What do ya want, fer me to hold his hand and show him the sights?” If his day was to be ruined, Lister felt he at
least deserved a decent explanation.
Iron-bars grunted in a sort of staccato. It might have been a laugh. His partner started pulling on Lister's arm. “So's we can see that he don't wanna kill you before we stick yous guys in together. Prison rules,” he added as Lister stumbled to his feet, dropping the tray.
“No, hang on,” Lister protested, struggling to get his legs out from between the table and the bench, “how d'you know if he's not just pretending he doesn’t want to kill me while you're there?”
That staccato grunt sounded again, as Lister was hauled away from the table. “We don't,” Iron-bars rumbled in amusement as a slightly more violent prod from his companion silenced any further sign of protest. Somehow, the smell of yeast felt more sickening than usual as Lister was half pushed, half dragged past the vending machines.
“Gerrin!” Lister huffed as the smaller of the guards shoved him through the cell door, slamming it shut behind him. Smegging great.
“Yeah, see ya later,” he mumbled, lumbering over to the table, wishing he'd had the foresight to have Bob get him something extra to eat. It was too late to ask now, as it was Tuesday afternoon, and Bob’s team of skutters would be off scrubbing the officer's mess, making it ready for the weekly Captain's dinner by now. He sat down with a deep, long exhale, slumping back in the chair, feeling it creak ominously underneath him. He was not left to wallow in his misery for long, however, as the sound of footsteps could soon be heard in the corridor outside. He swallowed. His new cell-mate. Well, temporary, but temporary was long enough for whoever it was to kill him. If he wanted to. Lister really wished he hadn't asked about that prison procedure.
“Shut up!” someone shouted just outside, and Lister straightened, steeling himself. They were getting closer. Whatever was coming in, he wanted to be as prepared as he could. A few moments later, there was the jangling of keys, followed by the 'ooomph' of someone being thrown inside, and falling flat on their stomach.
“Oi,” Lister yelled, jumping to his feet, hurrying towards the fallen form. A blond head shook itself, the shaking making its way down the body underneath, reminding Lister of his neighbor's German shepherd back in Liverpool, after having been hosed down in the back yard on a hot summer day.
Suddenly, the face turned towards the leering faces in the doorway, followed by a shaking fist. “Satans forbandede... ” it spat out, stopping Lister dead in his tracks.
“Petersen?”
“Lister!” Righteous anger turning to laughter, the Dane hauled himself up, taking Lister's offered hand. Pulling him in for a hug, Lister started laughing too, a little shaky from combined anticipation of possibly getting gutted by a psychopath, and relief that he wasn't going to be. Shrugging, the guards shuffled out, looking slightly disappointed.
“Is it really you, man?” It felt odd to touch someone when he’d gotten used to the idea that they were dead years ago. There was some significant mental shuffling involved. It was like Chen and Selby all over again, except Lister had never gotten quite as drunk with Chen and Selby as he had with Petersen. He'd never woken up in any of their beds, for instance. He giggled a little at the memory of those nights, or rather the lack of any kind of coherent memory. They'd had some crazy times, the two of them, and Lister couldn't even remember the half of it. That's how he knew it had been good.
Petersen poked at himself. “I think so.” He grinned, throwing an arm around Lister.
“Yeah...” Lister grew quiet, letting the other man lead him back over to the table, where they both sat down. This was fun and all, but... “Come to that though, why're you here, guy?”
Eager blue eyes winked at Lister, then glanced towards the door. “Is it safe?” Petersen tried, unsuccessfully, to lower his voice, leaning across the table.
“Erm...” Lister followed the movements of his eyes, trying to figure out what the question meant. “Safe how?”
“I mean,” Petersen 'whispered' in a voice that was practically booming, “can they hear us?”
“What, the guards?” Lister shrugged. “I doubt they'd bother listening in. Why? What's this about, man? Why're ye here?”
Something caught Petersen's eye as he was about to answer. He perked up, jerking his thumb towards the corner where Lister's guitar was leaning against the wall. “You got it! That’s very good,” he said, in the manner of someone trying to convince a child that drinking cod-liver oil really was an excellent idea.
Lister couldn't help but smile. “Yeah, it is. Not much to do in this place, you know; you did me good by getting that back to me. Thanks man.”
Petersen shook his head violently, waving his words away. “Nothing! It was nothing; just what friends do, yes?” He craned his head to take a closer look, beaming.
“Hey, listen,” Lister began, feeling a little uneasy, “I'm glad yer here and all, but this is a prison, yeah? What happened? Ye didn't do anything stupid, did ya?”
“Stupid?” Petersen snorted in disgust. “Why, I'm insulted, David. You should know me better than that.”
“Er, yeah,” Lister mumbled, refraining from further comment.
Petersen leaned forwards again, grabbing Lister's hands in his, conspiratorially. Somewhat confused, Lister let him. “I came to see you.”
“You came to see me?” This was getting a little weird. Lister felt his hands begin to sweat in Petersen's grip. “What, you couldn't send me a card?”
“I came to see you,” Petersen grinned, unperturbed, “out of this place.” When Lister's face failed to register any comprehension, he shook their combined hands, a grin threatening to split his face clean in half. “I'm breaking you out of here, Lister!”
This was, Lister had to admit, not exactly the first item on his list of expectations. It might, he felt, not even have made the list at all. “Oh, eh?”
Petersen's entire body seemed to animate, gesturing along with his hands as he explained. “It came to me late one night when I was drunk. I thought; why isn't Lister here? Then Selby and Chen came along, and they told me that you were on Floor 13. I was very upset.”
“Yeah.” Lister nodded. “So was I.”
“Then I started thinking that it might be difficult for you to come drinking with us, now that you were in prison.” Petersen bit his lip, clearly shaken by the memory. “So I said to myself, Olaf, you must help him. And here I am.”
This might take some time, Lister realized. “Yeah, man. But how?”
Petersen frowned. “How what?”
“How are ye going to help me?”
“Ah!” Petersen pointed to his head with one sturdy finger. “I have a plan. I made it,” he explained with pride, “when I was drunk.”
Which wasn’t saying much, Lister thought, as Petersen was always drunk. “What,” he persisted, patiently, “is the plan?” In all honesty, Lister's hopes for it were not terribly high. This was, after all, the man who considered buying a house on an unterraformed moon a nice, low-risk investment.
“It’s very clever. I thought to myself, what would be the easiest way to get into a prison?” He nodded encouragingly at Lister, who shrugged.
“Get arrested, I suppose.”
“Exactly!” Petersen beamed. “You can't get to floor 13 if you don’t work here. But if you get arrested, they put you right inside!”
“But...” There was something very wrong about that idea, wasn't there? “Petersen, aren't you supposed to get me out? Not yerself in?”
Petersen winked. “That's the smart part of my plan. I find a way to get you out, then I tattoo it on my body, and get myself arrested. Then, they put me inside, and we can escape!” His face lit up like a freckled Scandinavian sun.
“That's yer plan?” Lister was stunned. This actually didn't sound all that daft, which didn't make any sense. Had the nanobots augmented people's brains when they reconstructed them? Lister thought of Rimmer, and quietly discarded that idea. No, there had to be a flaw. “Hang on, where'd you get a tattoo? We're three million years out in space, it's not like you can just stop off at the local 'Pins & Ink'!”
Unperturbed, Petersen began to unfasten the top of his overalls. “Do you remember that machine Chen found in that back alley on Triton? The one we could never figure out what did? Looked sort of like a cross between a pen and a porcupine?”
“Yeah, all right,” Lister said hurriedly. The overalls were gone, leaving Petersen standing there in his too tight prison issue undershirt and boxers, looking intently at his overarms. “What are ye doing?” Lister asked nervously.
“I can't remember where I put it,” Petersen mumbled, pulling up the hem of his shirt.
“What?”
“The tattoo.” He looked about ready to start pulling his boxers off, so Lister turned around. He didn't like the way this was making him feel. Why was he so uncomfortable?
“Hey,” Lister asked over his shoulder, “you want I should go somewhere else while you look or something?” He caught a glimpse of pale, skinny shoulders, and felt himself blush. For smeg's sake, he'd showered with the man! Wrestled with him in his underwear even, without it turning into some some bad gay porn fantasy. So why did the thought of that now make him want to go hide underneath his bunk? What had changed? It certainly wasn't Petersen, Lister thought, stealing the odd glance at the Dane's less than imposing figure.
“Now I remember” Petersen exclaimed enthusiastically, as he peered into his boxers.
“What??” Lister nearly squealed, holding his hands over his eyes in desperation.
“I forgot to get a tattoo!” Slapping his boxer elastic back into place, Petersen turned to beam at him. “Ah well, at least we can have a drink.” He winked, looking disgustingly pleased with himself.
Lister gawped. “What are you on, guy? Getting yerself into prison just so you can have a drink with a mate? What's wrong with you?” He didn't know why he was so angry. Everything just felt so stupid, so pointless, so smegging unimportant. Petersen had no idea. What did he know about keeping it together through days so boring you'd end up banging your head against the wall just to remind yourself that you could feel something? Or being around people who either hated you, or didn't care, or cared far too bloody much, and nothing ever being balanced; just excess or nothing at all? What did he know about monsters that tried to suck your brains out, or insane simulants, or pleasure GELFs that took forms that shook you so deeply that you never told anyone, ever? Nothing at all, that's what. And Lister, unable to explain it all, walked up to Petersen and gave him a violent shove, making him loose his balance and fall against the rickety table.
“David?” He looked up at Lister, hurt and confusion in his eyes. He was tipsy already, Lister realized; tipsy and stupid and impossibly young; because it had only been five years, hadn't it? So why did Petersen look so young? Why did Lister want to pick him up, and hug him, and hold him close, and push his face into his neck, and feel an actual human, living, breathing body close to him? Until Petersen turned his face around and started kissing him, Lister hadn't realized he had actually done all of those things.
For a moment, he tried to protest, but there was very little protest left in him. They ended up on Rimmer's bunk, some way or another, none of them speaking, none of them making much sounds at all beyond breathing, and the rustling of Lister's overalls as he peeled them off. And then there was touching, and fondling, and quiet gasps, and eventually muffled laughter, and somewhere deep in Lister's mind, the stirring memory that he had done this before.
They fell asleep afterwards, exhausted, and when Lister woke the next morning, Petersen was still there, playing with the RISK board Rimmer had managed to get a hold of. They smiled at one another, easily, without confrontation, and Lister comfortably turned back towards the wall to get another half hour's worth of sleep or so. That evening, they got drunk on the twelve-packs Bob brought them, and ended up in bed again, Lister sucking Petersen off and trying to remember that his name was Olaf; only that, and nothing else. But what he was, was here, and right now, that had to be enough. And for right now, it was.
And so the days went by.
And one morning, Lister woke to find Petersen gone, and Rimmer staring at his broken RISK-board with a look of pain. “Hey man,” Lister yawned at him, opening half an eye, “got any new tattoos?”
“What the smeg are you on about, goit-for-brains? What did you do to my RISK set?”
And Lister smiled, going back to sleep. Because he knew what had changed within him now; knew who and what was missing in his life. And thought that didn't make things OK, at least he felt better for the knowing. And somewhere out there was his Arn, and if smegging Petersen could come in to get him, so could he. It was just a matter of making the days pass. One after the other. One at a time.
“Lister! I am talking to you!”
But he was already asleep again.
Pairing: Lister/Petersen, Rimmer/Lister (implied)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Guess what? I don't own Red Dwarf, and I don't make any money from this. It's true!
Spoilers: Back In The Red.
Notes: I've struggled with this for quite some time, and I've come to the conclusion that it's not going to get any better. Here's hoping you enjoy it anyway! Written for
fanfic100 challenge - my table is here.The mixed odors of charred, vaguely animal-like flesh, overripe vegetables and that always underlying, undefinable yeast-like smell that signaled dinner-time in the prison mess-hall did not usually do much to lift Lister's spirits, but today he could almost pretend they whet his appetite. He put his tray in the various machines without complaint, even enduring their surly comments with a smile. Today, nothing could sour his mood. When a couple of guards lumbered over and prodded his shoulder just as he sat down, his grin didn't even falter. He was determined, dammit! This was a good day. It was! He had his guitar back, and his strings, and with Rimmer away on a week-long extraordinary canary mission that he'd volunteered for because he thought it was a one-week leave, Lister could play it as much as he liked without anyone getting on his back about it. “What's the problem, guys?” He tried for cheerful, though the passive faces staring blankly at him far from invited it.
“David Lister?” If rusty iron bars had a sound, it wouldn't be far removed from that of the guard's voice.
“Yeah?”
The other guard poked him in the chest with his truncheon. “Yous got a new cell-mate.”
“What?” Lister turned in the direction of the poke, frowning. “What about Rimmer?”
“Temporary,” said iron-bars-voice. Lister turned back the other way to face him, but he seemed to be a man of few words.
“Yeah, temp'ry. You'll have to come with us,” the more talkative of the two demanded, poking Lister with the truncheon again. It was far from painful, but very annoying, and Lister really didn't want to be annoyed right now.
Lister hugged his tray possessively. “But I haven't even started me dinner yet!”
The truncheon-happy guard shrugged. “Bring it with. Yous gotta come now.”
“Right now,” his partner growled.
Lister looked down at the tray. It was looking less and less inviting by the second, the smells no longer masked by his elated mood. He sighed. “Why, though? Why d'you need me? What do ya want, fer me to hold his hand and show him the sights?” If his day was to be ruined, Lister felt he at
least deserved a decent explanation.
Iron-bars grunted in a sort of staccato. It might have been a laugh. His partner started pulling on Lister's arm. “So's we can see that he don't wanna kill you before we stick yous guys in together. Prison rules,” he added as Lister stumbled to his feet, dropping the tray.
“No, hang on,” Lister protested, struggling to get his legs out from between the table and the bench, “how d'you know if he's not just pretending he doesn’t want to kill me while you're there?”
That staccato grunt sounded again, as Lister was hauled away from the table. “We don't,” Iron-bars rumbled in amusement as a slightly more violent prod from his companion silenced any further sign of protest. Somehow, the smell of yeast felt more sickening than usual as Lister was half pushed, half dragged past the vending machines.
“Gerrin!” Lister huffed as the smaller of the guards shoved him through the cell door, slamming it shut behind him. Smegging great.
“Yeah, see ya later,” he mumbled, lumbering over to the table, wishing he'd had the foresight to have Bob get him something extra to eat. It was too late to ask now, as it was Tuesday afternoon, and Bob’s team of skutters would be off scrubbing the officer's mess, making it ready for the weekly Captain's dinner by now. He sat down with a deep, long exhale, slumping back in the chair, feeling it creak ominously underneath him. He was not left to wallow in his misery for long, however, as the sound of footsteps could soon be heard in the corridor outside. He swallowed. His new cell-mate. Well, temporary, but temporary was long enough for whoever it was to kill him. If he wanted to. Lister really wished he hadn't asked about that prison procedure.
“Shut up!” someone shouted just outside, and Lister straightened, steeling himself. They were getting closer. Whatever was coming in, he wanted to be as prepared as he could. A few moments later, there was the jangling of keys, followed by the 'ooomph' of someone being thrown inside, and falling flat on their stomach.
“Oi,” Lister yelled, jumping to his feet, hurrying towards the fallen form. A blond head shook itself, the shaking making its way down the body underneath, reminding Lister of his neighbor's German shepherd back in Liverpool, after having been hosed down in the back yard on a hot summer day.
Suddenly, the face turned towards the leering faces in the doorway, followed by a shaking fist. “Satans forbandede... ” it spat out, stopping Lister dead in his tracks.
“Petersen?”
“Lister!” Righteous anger turning to laughter, the Dane hauled himself up, taking Lister's offered hand. Pulling him in for a hug, Lister started laughing too, a little shaky from combined anticipation of possibly getting gutted by a psychopath, and relief that he wasn't going to be. Shrugging, the guards shuffled out, looking slightly disappointed.
“Is it really you, man?” It felt odd to touch someone when he’d gotten used to the idea that they were dead years ago. There was some significant mental shuffling involved. It was like Chen and Selby all over again, except Lister had never gotten quite as drunk with Chen and Selby as he had with Petersen. He'd never woken up in any of their beds, for instance. He giggled a little at the memory of those nights, or rather the lack of any kind of coherent memory. They'd had some crazy times, the two of them, and Lister couldn't even remember the half of it. That's how he knew it had been good.
Petersen poked at himself. “I think so.” He grinned, throwing an arm around Lister.
“Yeah...” Lister grew quiet, letting the other man lead him back over to the table, where they both sat down. This was fun and all, but... “Come to that though, why're you here, guy?”
Eager blue eyes winked at Lister, then glanced towards the door. “Is it safe?” Petersen tried, unsuccessfully, to lower his voice, leaning across the table.
“Erm...” Lister followed the movements of his eyes, trying to figure out what the question meant. “Safe how?”
“I mean,” Petersen 'whispered' in a voice that was practically booming, “can they hear us?”
“What, the guards?” Lister shrugged. “I doubt they'd bother listening in. Why? What's this about, man? Why're ye here?”
Something caught Petersen's eye as he was about to answer. He perked up, jerking his thumb towards the corner where Lister's guitar was leaning against the wall. “You got it! That’s very good,” he said, in the manner of someone trying to convince a child that drinking cod-liver oil really was an excellent idea.
Lister couldn't help but smile. “Yeah, it is. Not much to do in this place, you know; you did me good by getting that back to me. Thanks man.”
Petersen shook his head violently, waving his words away. “Nothing! It was nothing; just what friends do, yes?” He craned his head to take a closer look, beaming.
“Hey, listen,” Lister began, feeling a little uneasy, “I'm glad yer here and all, but this is a prison, yeah? What happened? Ye didn't do anything stupid, did ya?”
“Stupid?” Petersen snorted in disgust. “Why, I'm insulted, David. You should know me better than that.”
“Er, yeah,” Lister mumbled, refraining from further comment.
Petersen leaned forwards again, grabbing Lister's hands in his, conspiratorially. Somewhat confused, Lister let him. “I came to see you.”
“You came to see me?” This was getting a little weird. Lister felt his hands begin to sweat in Petersen's grip. “What, you couldn't send me a card?”
“I came to see you,” Petersen grinned, unperturbed, “out of this place.” When Lister's face failed to register any comprehension, he shook their combined hands, a grin threatening to split his face clean in half. “I'm breaking you out of here, Lister!”
This was, Lister had to admit, not exactly the first item on his list of expectations. It might, he felt, not even have made the list at all. “Oh, eh?”
Petersen's entire body seemed to animate, gesturing along with his hands as he explained. “It came to me late one night when I was drunk. I thought; why isn't Lister here? Then Selby and Chen came along, and they told me that you were on Floor 13. I was very upset.”
“Yeah.” Lister nodded. “So was I.”
“Then I started thinking that it might be difficult for you to come drinking with us, now that you were in prison.” Petersen bit his lip, clearly shaken by the memory. “So I said to myself, Olaf, you must help him. And here I am.”
This might take some time, Lister realized. “Yeah, man. But how?”
Petersen frowned. “How what?”
“How are ye going to help me?”
“Ah!” Petersen pointed to his head with one sturdy finger. “I have a plan. I made it,” he explained with pride, “when I was drunk.”
Which wasn’t saying much, Lister thought, as Petersen was always drunk. “What,” he persisted, patiently, “is the plan?” In all honesty, Lister's hopes for it were not terribly high. This was, after all, the man who considered buying a house on an unterraformed moon a nice, low-risk investment.
“It’s very clever. I thought to myself, what would be the easiest way to get into a prison?” He nodded encouragingly at Lister, who shrugged.
“Get arrested, I suppose.”
“Exactly!” Petersen beamed. “You can't get to floor 13 if you don’t work here. But if you get arrested, they put you right inside!”
“But...” There was something very wrong about that idea, wasn't there? “Petersen, aren't you supposed to get me out? Not yerself in?”
Petersen winked. “That's the smart part of my plan. I find a way to get you out, then I tattoo it on my body, and get myself arrested. Then, they put me inside, and we can escape!” His face lit up like a freckled Scandinavian sun.
“That's yer plan?” Lister was stunned. This actually didn't sound all that daft, which didn't make any sense. Had the nanobots augmented people's brains when they reconstructed them? Lister thought of Rimmer, and quietly discarded that idea. No, there had to be a flaw. “Hang on, where'd you get a tattoo? We're three million years out in space, it's not like you can just stop off at the local 'Pins & Ink'!”
Unperturbed, Petersen began to unfasten the top of his overalls. “Do you remember that machine Chen found in that back alley on Triton? The one we could never figure out what did? Looked sort of like a cross between a pen and a porcupine?”
“Yeah, all right,” Lister said hurriedly. The overalls were gone, leaving Petersen standing there in his too tight prison issue undershirt and boxers, looking intently at his overarms. “What are ye doing?” Lister asked nervously.
“I can't remember where I put it,” Petersen mumbled, pulling up the hem of his shirt.
“What?”
“The tattoo.” He looked about ready to start pulling his boxers off, so Lister turned around. He didn't like the way this was making him feel. Why was he so uncomfortable?
“Hey,” Lister asked over his shoulder, “you want I should go somewhere else while you look or something?” He caught a glimpse of pale, skinny shoulders, and felt himself blush. For smeg's sake, he'd showered with the man! Wrestled with him in his underwear even, without it turning into some some bad gay porn fantasy. So why did the thought of that now make him want to go hide underneath his bunk? What had changed? It certainly wasn't Petersen, Lister thought, stealing the odd glance at the Dane's less than imposing figure.
“Now I remember” Petersen exclaimed enthusiastically, as he peered into his boxers.
“What??” Lister nearly squealed, holding his hands over his eyes in desperation.
“I forgot to get a tattoo!” Slapping his boxer elastic back into place, Petersen turned to beam at him. “Ah well, at least we can have a drink.” He winked, looking disgustingly pleased with himself.
Lister gawped. “What are you on, guy? Getting yerself into prison just so you can have a drink with a mate? What's wrong with you?” He didn't know why he was so angry. Everything just felt so stupid, so pointless, so smegging unimportant. Petersen had no idea. What did he know about keeping it together through days so boring you'd end up banging your head against the wall just to remind yourself that you could feel something? Or being around people who either hated you, or didn't care, or cared far too bloody much, and nothing ever being balanced; just excess or nothing at all? What did he know about monsters that tried to suck your brains out, or insane simulants, or pleasure GELFs that took forms that shook you so deeply that you never told anyone, ever? Nothing at all, that's what. And Lister, unable to explain it all, walked up to Petersen and gave him a violent shove, making him loose his balance and fall against the rickety table.
“David?” He looked up at Lister, hurt and confusion in his eyes. He was tipsy already, Lister realized; tipsy and stupid and impossibly young; because it had only been five years, hadn't it? So why did Petersen look so young? Why did Lister want to pick him up, and hug him, and hold him close, and push his face into his neck, and feel an actual human, living, breathing body close to him? Until Petersen turned his face around and started kissing him, Lister hadn't realized he had actually done all of those things.
For a moment, he tried to protest, but there was very little protest left in him. They ended up on Rimmer's bunk, some way or another, none of them speaking, none of them making much sounds at all beyond breathing, and the rustling of Lister's overalls as he peeled them off. And then there was touching, and fondling, and quiet gasps, and eventually muffled laughter, and somewhere deep in Lister's mind, the stirring memory that he had done this before.
They fell asleep afterwards, exhausted, and when Lister woke the next morning, Petersen was still there, playing with the RISK board Rimmer had managed to get a hold of. They smiled at one another, easily, without confrontation, and Lister comfortably turned back towards the wall to get another half hour's worth of sleep or so. That evening, they got drunk on the twelve-packs Bob brought them, and ended up in bed again, Lister sucking Petersen off and trying to remember that his name was Olaf; only that, and nothing else. But what he was, was here, and right now, that had to be enough. And for right now, it was.
And so the days went by.
And one morning, Lister woke to find Petersen gone, and Rimmer staring at his broken RISK-board with a look of pain. “Hey man,” Lister yawned at him, opening half an eye, “got any new tattoos?”
“What the smeg are you on about, goit-for-brains? What did you do to my RISK set?”
And Lister smiled, going back to sleep. Because he knew what had changed within him now; knew who and what was missing in his life. And thought that didn't make things OK, at least he felt better for the knowing. And somewhere out there was his Arn, and if smegging Petersen could come in to get him, so could he. It was just a matter of making the days pass. One after the other. One at a time.
“Lister! I am talking to you!”
But he was already asleep again.
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no subject
Date: 2007-08-27 12:58 am (UTC)Aww.
Was very amused by how Petersen's plan turned out. Very Dwarf-y. ("An excellent plan, sir, with just two minor drawbacks. One, you didn't get the tattoo; and two, you didn't get the tattoo. Now I realize that, technically, this is only one drawback, but it's so important that I felt it was worth stating twice.")
no subject
Date: 2007-08-27 08:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-09-03 04:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-09-03 06:12 pm (UTC)