reddwarfslash | Fic: Eyes To The Front - R/OMC (imp)

Title: Eyes To The Front
Pairing: Rimmer/OMC (implied)
Rating: PG-13, for language
Disclaimer: It's been years, and I still don't own Red Dwarf, or make money off of it. Honest!
Spoilers: None; pre-series.
Notes: I shouldn't torture Rimmer, really. But oh; why is it so tempting?

Rimmer loved Educational Film classes. It allowed him to sit, very quietly, and stare intensely at the dull, grey screen, because it prevented eye contact with any of the other boys in the room. He could already hear them giggling; some of the more enterprising ones poking at his back from various angles with the ends of rulers or sharply pointed biros. He ignored them. This was routine; they would lose interest as soon as the film was on. For a few, precious moments, there would be something more interesting than Arnold Rimmer for the other boys to make fun of.

"Oi, Bonehead!"

Rimmer breathed very carefully and forcefully through his nose. His mother had told him if he kept doing that, his nostrils would expand, but his mother said all manner of things that didn't seem to make sense to Rimmer. For example, he had looked it up, and there were no
follicles on the inside of your palms, and just what sort of purpose would that sort of thing have had in nature, anyway?

"'E's talking to you, Bonehead!"

"Wassa matter, Bonehead?"

"Yeah, what'cha staring at the screen for, it's not even started yet!"

"Yeah, Bonehead? Like films, do you?"

It was never a good idea to reply. Never ever a good idea, but Rimmer could feel the tips of pens that were more like shivs than writing implements being run lazily up his side, and mumbled a response.

"What's that, Bonehead? Did you say summing?"

The screen, Rimmer told himself; focus on the screen. "Yes."

"Yeah, what?"

"Yes, I happen to rather like films."

The chorus of voices stilled, momentarily. A brief, little shiver of went through Rimmer, as he realized to his astonishment that he had actually confused them. It wasn't an upper hand, exactly, but anywhere about floor level was an improvement as far as Rimmer was concerned.
Heat pounding, he went on.

"This one in particular, as it happens. An excellent example of documentary cinema."

"Yeah?" There was hesitation, and genuine curiosity in the gruff voice. "What's it about, then?"

Giddy with this newfound power, Rimmer rambled on. "One of my favorite subjects, actually. In fact, you might even say I'm something of an expert in that area." It wouldn't matter what the film was about; none of these drongos knew tiddly squat about anything.

"You what?"

"Oh, yes. I've read about it extensively. Constantly, in fact. In fact, if you have any questions afterward, come ask me!" Puberty only quite recently having left him - it had arrived late, and seemed to be clinging on stubbornly - Rimmer's voice rose enthusiastically on the last syllable. It hardly mattered though; he was holding the attention of an entire room, and not because they were pummeling him into a bloody heap! Not quite daring to turn, Rimmer sneaked a peek at the boy sitting to the right of him out of the corner of his eye. Oh smeg, it was Bobby Richardson; the anti-matter magnate's son. The one with the black, slicked-back hair and dark brown eyes that always gave the appearance that he was mulling something over, carefully. The one who wore non-regulation leather jackets and jeans, and didn't tend to talk to Rimmer all that much, and sometimes helped him up when someone else had tripped him, or pushed him down the last three steps on the stairs. Those eyes were focused on Rimmer, now, searching him, like Bobby was waiting for Rimmer to speak again; say something more. And he could; Rimmer realized; he could talk to this boy and hold his attention, and maybe next time, he wouldn't just brush Rimmer's shirt off and leave him be, but maybe stay, and...

Loud, blaring orchestrated music started up, and the screen flashed into life. Rimmer blinked at it, momentarily confused. As the bright red letters in the title came into focus, his confusion slowly but surely morphed into abject fear. And then, mercilessly, the voiceover started.

"Genital Modesty And You - A Discreet Penis Is A Happy Penis!"

At least, he told himself grimly, it was hard to hear the roaring laughter over the frantic beating of his own heart, and his mother's voice in his head, screaming at him.

Then again, it meant he couldn't hear the jarring silence by his right side, either.