reddwarfslash | Vignette: Art - L/P

Title: Art
Pairing: Lister/Petersen
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own Red Dwarf, or any of the characters thereof. I make no money from this.
Spoilers: None.
Notes: Thanks to

sunny_bexster for the story that inspired the conversation with

roadstergal (whom I must also thank) that in turn inspired this story. I am using the book-verse idea of Rimmer being in charge of an actual group of people, because it fit the story better. For I am ruthless. Please to be giving concrit, for it is shiny.

The auditorium was filled with the sounds of Z-shift technicians nursing their hangovers, and Petersen's booming laughter as he slapped a decidedly mopey Lister on the back. "What's the problem?" He grinned. "It's just a tattoo. I get them all the time; look!" The Dane rolled up his sleeve, revealing a confusing patchwork of badly draw ink.

Lister rolled his eyes, turning away from him. "Yeah, but you don't care, do ya?"

Petersen shrugged. "Why should I?"

"Look; a tattoo is supposed to mean something. It's supposed to be special. You know; say something about who you are. It sure as smegging hell shouldn't say 'I Love Vindaloo' in dripping curry sauce, and it shouldn't be on your bottom!" Lister tried to sit down again, and winced as his buttock hit the chair.

When Petersen had finished laughing for what was probably the fifteenth time that morning, he leaned over, giving what was probably meant to be a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, Lister. When we get off shift tomorrow, I'll take you down planetside, and make you forget all about it."

Lister was about to protest that this was what had gotten him into trouble in the first place, but Rimmer had already entered the room, and started writing people up for insubordination by snoring in the presence of a superior officer.

Two days later, Lister woke without the familiar sensation of his usual post-night-out hangover. That was a bad sign. It meant he was still drunk. Ah well, he might as well enjoy the euphoria while it lasted.

He slumped down from his bunk, noting with relief that Rimmer was already off somewhere. It was Sunday; maybe he was at one of those Love Celibacy meetings. Forgetting himself and scratching his ass, Lister cringed as his fingernails rubbed against the still-healing tattoo through his boxers. It seemed to be hurting more than usual this morning though.

Yawning, he stumbled over to the sink, replaying what he could remember of last night's events in his mind. Getting on the shuttle. Chattering to Petersen and insisting that he not let him get as drunk as last time.

Lister splashed some water onto his face, blinking at his own reflection. It was somewhat blurry. Eventually, he realized it was the water in his eyes. Drinking in some bar, rambling on to some uninterested girl how important it was to think before you got a tattoo, and how it should reflect something close to your heart.

As he leaned closer to the mirror, Lister's thigh touched the cold sink, and he yelped, stumbling backwards. Why was that painful? Blurry images and half-remembered conversations about the meaning of relationships. A hand on a thigh. Eyes, up close. Going somewhere in a hurry, and a high-pitched drilling sort of sound.

The color draining from his face, Lister pulled his boxers down. On his inner thigh, in bright-red ink, were written the words "I love Petersen."