Fic: Heroes (1 of 2) PG-13
Jul. 9th, 2008 10:42 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
hazeltea.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
reddwarfslashSome multiverse fun some years after Sentinel
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister implied
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Multiverse, Jim and Bexley centric
Disclaimer: Obviously no characters or settings are mine, I am doing this to amuse myself.
“But Dad…” Jim had protested. “We’re old enough to help! You were fighting at cadet school at thirteen, right? If we hadn’t come you’d have been killed.” It was a lie, and Jim knew how weak it sounded the second the words left his mouth. Still, he resigned himself to them, knowing feigned concern was his best defense. A mission like this was all in a day’s work for Ace Rimmer, which was why they had chosen today to carry out their plan. Bexley, ever dull and sensible, had refused to be part of any plan that involved risking their necks by sneaking along on a particularly dangerous mission, pointing out that they should get enough practice to both impress their father, and be alive for the next one. Jim had agreed to the compromise, if only because he needed Bexley’s hacking skills and was on some level afraid that his brother might not keep his secret if he’d have done things his own way.
The thing was, in theory, he could see Bexley’s point, but in reality, it was embarrassing to see Ace Rimmer lose his cool because he was worried about some stupid kids on a simple mission, and that’s all they had managed to come off as. One minute Rimmer had been nonchalantly taunting the guards from his cell, not seeming particularly concerned about how he was going to escape the lattice of laser energy surrounding him. When the guard baited him with news that they were trailing two humans, Jim had half expected Rimmer to laugh, to spit in the guard’s face and declare with that thick bravado that he and his lackeys were no match for his boys.
Jim was not prepared for his reaction.
Rimmer’s eyes had gone wild beneath his mask of stony defiance, and he had growled something that Jim could barely hear. As the guard left, laughing, Rimmer lunged at the barrier with his shoulder, crying out as the lasers singed his hard light flesh, and Jim winced, knowing that lasers of that category could split a light bee in two. For the first time since they’d stepped out, Jim felt fear, as he watched the man he idolized become, for just a moment, a crazed, caged creature. He felt a surge of relief as Bexley disabled the energy field, and then hadn’t had time to feel much of anything as Rimmer had grabbed them by the shoulders and hauled them off in retreat, dripping hologramatic blood that dissipated as it trickled to the ground, and left faint blue traces in his footprints that faded seconds later once they had finally boarded the Wildfire nearly an hour later.
“You are still a child!” Rimmer had barked, in a high pitched, condescending tone. “And you smegging well proved it with your little stunt today, miladdio.” His voice was uneven, saturated with disapproval, and his jaw was set in an odd sort of way that made him look less handsome and heroic, as though he was an imposter in Ace’s clothes. “Both of you.” He glared at Bexley, and Bexley averted his eyes, shuffling his feet and partially hiding behind Jim. “Have disobeyed me, and done something incredibly dangerous and immature and…” Rimmer took a deep, shaking breath, clamoring for words that could express the whirlwind of emotions assaulting him.
This was all wrong, Jim knew. Things weren’t supposed to turn out this way. Heroes weren’t born this way. In his daydream, his father would beam at them proudly, perhaps even declare that he’d finally become a man.
“But we were only…” Jim protested.
“Go to your room.” Rimmer said, barely above a whisper. Hard light flesh still bled freely from beneath the shredded sliver jacket, and a hand clutched unconsciously at his chest.
“Dad…” Jim reached out to him, horrified by the sight of the unbandaged wound, and wanting to help.
“NOW.” Rimmer snarled. “Now, James. Bexley, you too.” He added, although his distain seemed to linger on Jim.
“Yes, Sir.” Bexley muttered, retreating to the rear of the ship and yanking Jim after him.
The Wildfire was a tiny ship, meant for one man to pilot on short missions, not built for a family consisting of a grown man and two rapidly growing teenage boys to use as a home. Early on, Rimmer had converted most of the main cargo area into quarters for the twins, installing bunks and locking bins, until the ship resembled a sort of streamlined gypsy caravan. This meant that they had to land quite often for supplies, but he figured it was in their best interest to expose them to the safer areas of various dimensions as often as possible. He’d taken every opportunity to turn these outings into educational excursions, and evidence of his overcompensation littered the tiny room, from stacks of books to hobby items. A watercolor set intended for Bexley had been assimilated into Jim’s storage chest, while Bexley had permanently borrowed the set of tools that Jim could barely remember getting a chance to use. A disc of Morris dancing that neither of them had any interest in was serving its new purpose as a coaster.
Jim jabbed the door panel with the back of his fist, wishing the automatic door would shut faster. He swallowed the lump in his throat and blinked back angry tears that were, to his dismay, forming in the corners of his eyes. Bexley sat on the edge of his bunk, eyeing his brother quietly. He slid back the metal panel between their beds and pulled loose a set of wires, having recently figured out how to disable the Wildfire’s audio reception in their room. Now that they had privacy, he’d let Jim sulk, and he’d talk when he wanted to. By experience, it shouldn’t be too long.
Jim sprawled out on his bunk and stared at the low ceiling. He’d dreamed of this day for years, even before his father had taken him up on his knee and taught him how to pilot the Wildfire, and, after weeks of begging, how to fire the plasma rifles. Someday, he’d always thought, he was going to fight alongside him and be a hero. Tall, daring, resourceful, and adored by the people whose lives they breezed through- to Jim, there was no finer man in all of the dimensions that existed. He would watch in awe as Rimmer would glide the Wildfire through space, giggling slightly as the Dimension Jumps made his stomach bounce inside his body. He would reluctantly obey when they were told to never leave the Wildfire, if only because he knew that upon his father’s return, they would get to hear his stories, and have extra attention lavished upon them.
He felt the mattress shift as Bexley sat beside him. “You okay?” he asked, quietly.
Jim sat up, rubbing his eyes angrily. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he demanded.
“I’m not really okay.” Bexley offered. Jim frowned, imagining what Bexley must have felt as they were scolded. He imagined Rimmer silently admonishing him with his eyes, Bexley, I expected more of YOU.
“Smeg off and write one of your awful poems about it, then.” Jim retorted, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
“Fine. Forget I asked. Twonk.” Bexley retreated to his own bunk, glaring at him over a battered copy of Astronavigation and Invisible Numbers Made Simple.
The silence was deafening, and after a few minutes Jim couldn’t begin to separate the low hum of the Wildfire’s engines from the sound of his own heartbeat. Jim remembered with some regret that picking a fight with his best friend wasn’t the greatest idea in such tight quarters at the best of times, let alone when he really did want some attention. “Bex?”
“What.” His voice was flat as he turned a page, pretending to concentrate on the fine print.
“I’m sorry about today.” Jim sighed.
After a long moment, Bexley set down the book, and stretched. “Me, too.” He said, softly. It always baffled Jim how easily Bexley forgave, but he took advantage of it quite often.
“Do you think he’ll be angry for long?” Jim worried at the edge of his blanket.
Bexley shrugged. “He never stayed upset with Mum for long, did he?”
Jim picked at the stitching. “Mum’s dead.” He replied. “So how would I know?”
“Not our Mum.” Bexley turned onto his side. “His... I mean, his version. Of Mum.”
“So?”
“Just saying, all those stories he told us, and they always made up. It’s not like he’s disowned us or anything.” Bexley seemed content with his rationalization. Jim nodded and half smiled. Bexley had a logical point, as usual; so why did he still feel so torn up inside?
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister implied
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Multiverse, Jim and Bexley centric
Disclaimer: Obviously no characters or settings are mine, I am doing this to amuse myself.
“But Dad…” Jim had protested. “We’re old enough to help! You were fighting at cadet school at thirteen, right? If we hadn’t come you’d have been killed.” It was a lie, and Jim knew how weak it sounded the second the words left his mouth. Still, he resigned himself to them, knowing feigned concern was his best defense. A mission like this was all in a day’s work for Ace Rimmer, which was why they had chosen today to carry out their plan. Bexley, ever dull and sensible, had refused to be part of any plan that involved risking their necks by sneaking along on a particularly dangerous mission, pointing out that they should get enough practice to both impress their father, and be alive for the next one. Jim had agreed to the compromise, if only because he needed Bexley’s hacking skills and was on some level afraid that his brother might not keep his secret if he’d have done things his own way.
The thing was, in theory, he could see Bexley’s point, but in reality, it was embarrassing to see Ace Rimmer lose his cool because he was worried about some stupid kids on a simple mission, and that’s all they had managed to come off as. One minute Rimmer had been nonchalantly taunting the guards from his cell, not seeming particularly concerned about how he was going to escape the lattice of laser energy surrounding him. When the guard baited him with news that they were trailing two humans, Jim had half expected Rimmer to laugh, to spit in the guard’s face and declare with that thick bravado that he and his lackeys were no match for his boys.
Jim was not prepared for his reaction.
Rimmer’s eyes had gone wild beneath his mask of stony defiance, and he had growled something that Jim could barely hear. As the guard left, laughing, Rimmer lunged at the barrier with his shoulder, crying out as the lasers singed his hard light flesh, and Jim winced, knowing that lasers of that category could split a light bee in two. For the first time since they’d stepped out, Jim felt fear, as he watched the man he idolized become, for just a moment, a crazed, caged creature. He felt a surge of relief as Bexley disabled the energy field, and then hadn’t had time to feel much of anything as Rimmer had grabbed them by the shoulders and hauled them off in retreat, dripping hologramatic blood that dissipated as it trickled to the ground, and left faint blue traces in his footprints that faded seconds later once they had finally boarded the Wildfire nearly an hour later.
“You are still a child!” Rimmer had barked, in a high pitched, condescending tone. “And you smegging well proved it with your little stunt today, miladdio.” His voice was uneven, saturated with disapproval, and his jaw was set in an odd sort of way that made him look less handsome and heroic, as though he was an imposter in Ace’s clothes. “Both of you.” He glared at Bexley, and Bexley averted his eyes, shuffling his feet and partially hiding behind Jim. “Have disobeyed me, and done something incredibly dangerous and immature and…” Rimmer took a deep, shaking breath, clamoring for words that could express the whirlwind of emotions assaulting him.
This was all wrong, Jim knew. Things weren’t supposed to turn out this way. Heroes weren’t born this way. In his daydream, his father would beam at them proudly, perhaps even declare that he’d finally become a man.
“But we were only…” Jim protested.
“Go to your room.” Rimmer said, barely above a whisper. Hard light flesh still bled freely from beneath the shredded sliver jacket, and a hand clutched unconsciously at his chest.
“Dad…” Jim reached out to him, horrified by the sight of the unbandaged wound, and wanting to help.
“NOW.” Rimmer snarled. “Now, James. Bexley, you too.” He added, although his distain seemed to linger on Jim.
“Yes, Sir.” Bexley muttered, retreating to the rear of the ship and yanking Jim after him.
The Wildfire was a tiny ship, meant for one man to pilot on short missions, not built for a family consisting of a grown man and two rapidly growing teenage boys to use as a home. Early on, Rimmer had converted most of the main cargo area into quarters for the twins, installing bunks and locking bins, until the ship resembled a sort of streamlined gypsy caravan. This meant that they had to land quite often for supplies, but he figured it was in their best interest to expose them to the safer areas of various dimensions as often as possible. He’d taken every opportunity to turn these outings into educational excursions, and evidence of his overcompensation littered the tiny room, from stacks of books to hobby items. A watercolor set intended for Bexley had been assimilated into Jim’s storage chest, while Bexley had permanently borrowed the set of tools that Jim could barely remember getting a chance to use. A disc of Morris dancing that neither of them had any interest in was serving its new purpose as a coaster.
Jim jabbed the door panel with the back of his fist, wishing the automatic door would shut faster. He swallowed the lump in his throat and blinked back angry tears that were, to his dismay, forming in the corners of his eyes. Bexley sat on the edge of his bunk, eyeing his brother quietly. He slid back the metal panel between their beds and pulled loose a set of wires, having recently figured out how to disable the Wildfire’s audio reception in their room. Now that they had privacy, he’d let Jim sulk, and he’d talk when he wanted to. By experience, it shouldn’t be too long.
Jim sprawled out on his bunk and stared at the low ceiling. He’d dreamed of this day for years, even before his father had taken him up on his knee and taught him how to pilot the Wildfire, and, after weeks of begging, how to fire the plasma rifles. Someday, he’d always thought, he was going to fight alongside him and be a hero. Tall, daring, resourceful, and adored by the people whose lives they breezed through- to Jim, there was no finer man in all of the dimensions that existed. He would watch in awe as Rimmer would glide the Wildfire through space, giggling slightly as the Dimension Jumps made his stomach bounce inside his body. He would reluctantly obey when they were told to never leave the Wildfire, if only because he knew that upon his father’s return, they would get to hear his stories, and have extra attention lavished upon them.
He felt the mattress shift as Bexley sat beside him. “You okay?” he asked, quietly.
Jim sat up, rubbing his eyes angrily. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he demanded.
“I’m not really okay.” Bexley offered. Jim frowned, imagining what Bexley must have felt as they were scolded. He imagined Rimmer silently admonishing him with his eyes, Bexley, I expected more of YOU.
“Smeg off and write one of your awful poems about it, then.” Jim retorted, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
“Fine. Forget I asked. Twonk.” Bexley retreated to his own bunk, glaring at him over a battered copy of Astronavigation and Invisible Numbers Made Simple.
The silence was deafening, and after a few minutes Jim couldn’t begin to separate the low hum of the Wildfire’s engines from the sound of his own heartbeat. Jim remembered with some regret that picking a fight with his best friend wasn’t the greatest idea in such tight quarters at the best of times, let alone when he really did want some attention. “Bex?”
“What.” His voice was flat as he turned a page, pretending to concentrate on the fine print.
“I’m sorry about today.” Jim sighed.
After a long moment, Bexley set down the book, and stretched. “Me, too.” He said, softly. It always baffled Jim how easily Bexley forgave, but he took advantage of it quite often.
“Do you think he’ll be angry for long?” Jim worried at the edge of his blanket.
Bexley shrugged. “He never stayed upset with Mum for long, did he?”
Jim picked at the stitching. “Mum’s dead.” He replied. “So how would I know?”
“Not our Mum.” Bexley turned onto his side. “His... I mean, his version. Of Mum.”
“So?”
“Just saying, all those stories he told us, and they always made up. It’s not like he’s disowned us or anything.” Bexley seemed content with his rationalization. Jim nodded and half smiled. Bexley had a logical point, as usual; so why did he still feel so torn up inside?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-07-12 06:28 pm (UTC)