reddwarfslash | Fic: Things To Do On Mimas When You're Drunk - R/L

Title: Things To Do On Mimas When You're Drunk
Rating: R, for mild non-con.
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister (and various others briefly mentioned).
Disclaimer: I don't own Red Dwarf, or any of the characters thereof. I make no money from this.
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: Mild non-con. Based on quite scary (but also hot) picture.
Notes: Our fair mod set us forth a challenge. Erm. Some time ago. I may not be fast, but I get there in the end! I hope. Thanks to the always lovely

roadstergal for help with the plot. Concrit is shiny!

All it took was one look at Olaf Petersen for Lister to feel fully assured of his own heterosexuality. Not even in a skimpy, pale blue dress, long blonde wig and knee-high boots did he find the Dane even remotely attractive. Lister shifted in his seat, the unfamiliar feeling of pantyhosed legs rubbing against one another making him wince. True enough, he thought, seeing his made-up reflection in the shuttle viewport, their disguises weren't likely to earn them a Sports Illustrated swimsuit cover photo, but at least it had been enough to fool the officer on duty in the shuttle bay into letting them on. Thank god Petersen had so many girls over that were still too drunk to remember to take all their clothes or possessions with them when they left.

The rather attractive female co-pilot made her way through the cabin, and too late, Lister caught himself making eyes at her. She frowned for a moment, then gave a brilliant smile in return, winking. He swallowed. Once they hit port, he would have to leg it. She was nice enough looking and all, but he didn't want to be there when she stuck her hand up his red pleather mini-skirt and didn't like what she found there. Hell hath no fury like a lesbian scorned.

Twenty minutes later, he was limping his way across the tarmac on the biggest pumps Petersen had been able to get a hold of - though where he got them from Lister did not know, nor did he care to - that were still a good half-size to small. Petersen, ahead of him, seemed to be doing a lot better. Perhaps there was something in the swaying of the hips, Lister thought, experimenting. When he tried, however, he overcompensated, setting his foot down wrong and falling heavily against the man in front.

"Watch where you're going," Petersen hissed, pulling on Lister's arm and more or less dragging him into the main street.

Lister yanked his hand back, nearly losing his balance again with the force of it. "All right; easy!" As he rubbed his wrist, his eyes rested uneasily on the bumps on his chest. He had been a little disturbed by the inflatable bra, but it seemed to be doing what it was meant to be doing; what looked exactly like breasts now pushed against his jacket and the shirt underneath. It was just one of his London Jets t-shirts, most of the stains covered by the bright red latex above it, but Petersen had said it wouldn't matter.

"We'll be safe here." Petersen blew some stay synthetic hairs away from his face. "Let's go find a bar; I haven't had a drink for hours!"

"But..." Lister chewed on his lower lip. A couple of passers-by had given them interested, if confused looks already, and none of them had been attractive female JMC pilots.

"But what?"

"Shouldn't we ditch all this?" Lister waved a latexed arm, tugging at his wig with the other. The fake hair was long and black, and uncomfortably warm. His scalp was beginning to itch.

Petersen rolled his eyes. "I told you, David; Rimmer is planetside! And we're not supposed to be here, remember? He'll report us the minute he sees us!"

"Yeah, but..." He had not, Lister realized with a sinking feeling, thought this entirely through. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but that was probably in part because like all the plans he'd laid with Petersen, they had been drunk when they came up with it. Quite significantly drunk. In the hindsight of relative sobriety, the prospect of spending a night out drinking in the rougher parts of Mimas while dressed like a... well, like the sort of woman who would happily follow a random, drunken Danish man to a mining ship in orbit for a one-night stand, was probably not the best of ideas.

"But what? You think I've got a change of clothing in here?" He waved a dainty, silver handbag in Lister's face.

Lister shrugged. Fair point. Even if he'd brought other clothes, where would he put them on? Being in a public toilet in downtown Mimas was bad enough; being naked in one could have consequences Lister didn't like to contemplate.

"Right." Petersen grinned, his orange lipstick making it less reassuring than it was presumably meant to be. "Let's go!"

Rimmer stared very carefully at the tiny square of table directly under his nose. He knew that, eventually, he would have to get up and order a drink. This would involve finding his balance, moving across the room to the bar, talking to the vaguely human-looking bartender, and sitting back down again as quickly as he could. He knew this, because he'd been through it, by now, six or seven times, which was a little more than his usual limit of one. That first bit; the finding-balance-bit, seemed to be getting harder and harder as the evening wore on. He had to keep ordering drinks, however, because the alternative was to do what he had come here to do in the first place, and Rimmer just wasn't ready for that yet.

Quite frankly, he wondered if he ever would be.

The week had started so well. McGrueder, that perky, athletic woman who was always in the gym, had attacked him coming out of the elevator, and dragged him to her room, where she'd forced his trousers down, and before he knew it, Rimmer was no longer a virgin. Which was good, obviously. Yet somehow it hadn't been as fulfilling as he'd always imagined it would be. Still; it had been something to brag about to the boys in the Love Celibate Society, so Rimmer had. Thoroughly, and at length, until the chairman had pulled him discreetly aside, congratulated him, and asked him when he was going for his rebound shag. This had led to some confusion on Rimmer's part, and a hasty explanation of what, exactly, a 'rebound shag' was.

It would seem that members were, whenever they had sex - which admittedly wasn't all that often - expected to go out and have sex with someone else right away, so as to prove the meaninglessness of both encounters. Before Rimmer knew it, he was being patted on the back and escorted to a shuttle, and somehow or other he had ended up here, confused and ever so slightly terrified. He had no idea what to do! The thing with McGrueder had just sort of happened, and when faced with the reality of having to initiate something himself, Rimmer was utterly, utterly lost.

The bar was warm and stuffy and stank of unwashed, drunken humanity, several members of which were constantly bumping against Rimmer, or spilling bits of their drinks on him, or banging their legs on the back of his chair and cursing loudly. Rimmer grit his teeth, and tried to concentrate harder on the patch of grubby table. He wanted this to be over! Just over and done with so he could go back to his bunk and collapse into unconciousness for the rest of the evening. How hard cold it be, really? Really quite smegging hard, you git, replied the still sober part of him. Rimmer drowned it in the rest of his drink, and screwed his eyes shut. All right. All right. He could do this. Something soft and vaguely bosom-like brushed against his back, and he whimpered, burying his face in his hands. Smeg. Summoning every last reserve of strength he had, Rimmer straightened, and put his hands down quietly on the table; his face an impassive, if slightly twitching mask. Right. The first woman who came his way, he would take. No nonsense, no talking; he would just grab her and carry her off to the gents. It seemed to have worked for McGrueder, after all. He swallowed, not daring to move his eyes.

All he had to do now, was wait.

Lister wobbled into the bar on unsteady legs that were no longer even after the tip of one heel had broken off. Petersen had disappeared some time ago, but Lister could have sworn he had gone off in this direction. There had been some drinks between then and now, however, and he could no longer be sure. But what he did know with absolute certainty was that this place supplied alcohol. And the thing about alcohol was that even if it messed things up sometimes, it could, in Lister's experience, fix them just as easily.

Making his way towards the bar would have been difficult for a stone cold sober man not balancing precariously on uncomfortable heels. Bodies pushed at Lister from every direction, making him wish his skirt covered his ass more than just barely. He was pulling at the fabric, irritably, when the elbow of someone trying to keep his drink from spilling jabbed into Lister's ribs, sending him careening backwards in to the lap of the person at the nearest table. "Sorry," he almost managed, before looking up into a set of determined, yet terrified eyes and some very familiar looking nostrils. He didn't have time to recoil or yelp in horror before Rimmer's soggy lips were mashed against his own with enthusiastic clumsiness.

There was no tongue, for which Lister supposed he should be thankful. Lips merely rubbed against his own in a random fashion, quickly, and so hard it hurt. The pain jolted him out of his trance of terror, and he bit Rimmer's fumbling lower lip, hard. Rimmer, however, seemed to be too drunk to notice, and instead pulled him closer to, working to push one hand underneath Lister's clammy skirt. Lister kicked wildly, trying to hit anything, but he was sprawled sideways across Rimmer's lap, and every time he tried, he just slid back and forth, aimlessly. Rimmer's hand was struggling its way up his thigh, and if it found what it was definitely not looking for, that would be even worse than the shuttle pilot scenario. Grunting with effort, Lister managed to get a hand into Rimmer's ruffled hair, the pomade usually slicking it down having long since evaporated, and yanked, hard.

That did it. Rimmer yelped, and made the obvious mistake of standing up, abruptly. Lister slid off Rimmer's lap and stumbled to his feet, staring as Rimmer clutched at his hair, his eyes narrowing. For one terrible moment, Lister was certain he'd been recognized. Then Rimmer pointed a shaking finger, and declared, resolutely, "Y'r coming w' me!"

Then he just as resolutely slumped backwards, falling onto the filthy, grimy floor.

For such a skinny, reedy man, Rimmer was surprisingly heavy when knocked unconscious and lying on the dirty floor of a seedy Mimas bar. The fact that Lister managed to drag his so-called superior into the ladies' room was, Lister felt, a smegging miracle. He leaned against the door, heavily, and took a look around. The room seemed to be deserted. Good. Lister had assumed as much, in a place like this; the male-to-female ratio was not exactly even. Smeg knew what Rimmer was thinking, trying to pick up in here. The thought made recent events rush back to Lister's brain, and he ran into the nearest cubicle, where he would have been sick, if it weren't for the fact that said cubicle was occupied by two scantily clad biker-chicks with their hands down each other's pants. Muttering apologies and slamming the door closed, Lister nearly tripped over Rimmer as he stumbled backwards.

Rimmer grunted at the movement, looking stupidly and impossibly content. There was even a smile on the goit's face!

"Smegging bastard," Lister grumbled at him, resisting the urge to kick his shin. Who did he think he was, feeling Lister up like that! Feeling anyone up like that, without their permission! How did he know what Lister wanted? It wasn't as if he had stopped to ask. Alcohol sloshed around in Lister's mind, muddying up his thoughts. His thigh was warm from where Rimmer had touched it, and all sorts of weird emotions were churning around in his gut. He was in no kind of state to be able to sort them all out. And whose fault was that? All right; technically, it was Lister's, for drinking as much as he had. But those emotions, they were all Rimmer's doing.

Swaying a little, and trying to steady himself, Lister looked down at what seemed, at that very moment, like the source of all his problems. Bastard. Smegging bastard! Smegging bastard with his JMC regulation second technician's uniform.

Lister blinked.

He looked at his own outfit, where the breasts had started to deflate a little. He looked at Rimmer again. Then, in a flash, he barricaded the door with the overflowing bin by the towel dispenser, and set to work.

Twenty minutes minutes later, Lister was out the door, heading down the main street towards the spaceport. He felt miserably sober. Undressing an unconscious Arnold J. Rimmer and stuffing him into a red pleather miniskirt and latex jacket ensemble could do that to a man. Especially since Lister hadn't wanted to leave his t-shirt with him, which meant Rimmer was left with a bare midriff. Rimmer's own clothes had fit Lister perfectly. The trousers were a little bit snug, but not uncomfortably so. More importantly, Lister had found Rimmer's ID card in the back pocket. Not only would he be able to sneak back in to Red Dwarf more easily, but Rimmer would have no way to identify himself once he got back on-ship. There were pictures on the cards, but no one ever checked those. No, Lister would get through, but Rimmer would be stopped, security would be called; it would be a right mess, and all of it with Rimmer in a skirt and pumps. Lister wondered why the idea didn't amuse him more. It should. It was the sort of thing he did to Rimmer all the time. If Rimmer didn't have the balls to stand up for himself and return the favor... if he didn't... if he couldn't...

Lister stopped in the middle of the busy street. Passers by bumped into him, grunting their annoyance. Many of them were large and menacing, dressed in various combinations of leather, studs and chains, and almost all of them were moving towards the bar. Lister closed his eyes and bit his lip. He imagined Rimmer, lying helpless on the toilet floor. Being sprawled unconscious on the floor of a Mimas toilet was probably the worst scenario of all. Oh, fine. Smegging fine! His eyes livid with rage, Lister spun around, and marched back into the bar. If nothing else, those biker chicks had still been going at it when he'd left. Maybe they were still there. In fact, that's why he was bothering going back at all. Yeah. Because he wouldn't have, otherwise.

Assistant Flight Technician Halvorsen had just gotten on duty when the first shuttle of the evening arrived back from Mimas. She watched it dock with some degree of boredom. Anyone coming back this early would not be making any trouble; they were either returning from an overnight stay, hung over and groggy from lack of sleep, or were the sort of person who would come back from an twelve-hour shore leave after just three hours. She nodded with lack of interest as they flashed their ID cards at her. She scanned each card with her handheld, just in case, but there never had been a case. Civilians and guests were allowed in as long as they had someone to vouch for them. However, it was a little early for people to be bringing in... well, hello.

A stocky, irate man was half-carrying, half dragging a ridiculously tall woman through the corridor. The woman, who was wearing some sort of absurd fetish outfit that was two sizes too small for her, seemed to be half-asleep. Now and then she would snort, or giggle, or mumble something, and the man carrying her would kick her in the shin, or shake her in annoyance.

The woman wasn't that tall, Halvorsen saw, as the pair got closer. That is to say, she was a good six feet if she was an inch, but her high heels - one of which was broken off half-way, and the fact that the man carrying her was slightly shorter than average made her seem almost gargantuan. Her long, black hair hung down heavily in front, making it impossible to see her face when they got close enough for the man - a second technician, she saw now - to present his ID.

"Rimmer, Arnold J." He must have seen her staring, because he smiled, apologetically. He had a brilliant, contagious smile, so Halvorsen flashed him one in return, swiping her handheld over his card without looking at it. “Cheers,” the man said, hauling his lady friend away.

Halvorsen watched them go. Just as they passed through the main security scanner, the woman's broken shoe got caught in the threshold. It took them a full minute to sort that out, and then they were gone, round the corner. Well, Halvorsen thought to herself, hearing the faint echoes of swearing and labored breathing, it takes all kinds, I suppose.

When he woke the next morning, Rimmer was surprised to find himself completely naked, and back in his bunk on Red Dwarf, remembering nothing but some vague impressions of latex and nylon, but that might as well have been a dream. After stumbling his way through his shift with a splitting headache and an inexplicable pain in his shins (where did all those bruises come from?) he was even more surprised when the chairman of the Love Celibates passed him in the hallway and grumpily congratulated him, patting his back.

It was, quite possibly, the oddest day of his life, except for that time when he'd started hallucinating, and thought he was communicating with versions of himself from the future.

“Hey, Lister; you'll never guess what I heard about Rimmer!”

“Shut up, Chen.”

“No, but get this; Selby reckons he saw him bring a lady back to his quarters last night!”

“Chen, I've got a headache. I don't care.”

“Selby says she stayed there all night. He was checking, see, because he knew the rest of the guys would get a laugh out of it.”

“Yeah, it's very funny.”

“Shame you were planetside. You coulda gone in there and caught him in the act, right? Now that'd be a right laugh!”

“Yeah. Dead funny, that.”

“Lister?”

“Yeah?”

“You don't really think it's funny, do you?”

“Shut up, Chen.”

Later that morning, elsewhere on the ship, the door to Petersen's quarters slid open as an irate looking female JMC shuttle pilot stormed out; disgust written on her handsome features. Shortly afterwards, a partially undressed Petersen, still in a wig, fake boobs and lipstick, leaned out of the doorway, yelling towards her.

“Sweetheart, come back! What did I do wrong?”

In the distance, she flipped him the bird.