[identity profile] kathie-d.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] reddwarfslash
I'm new. Totally new. What better way to start with burnt offerings of drabble, right? I can't sleep tonight, and when I do all I dream about is roller derby tactics >.< Feeling frustrated, I asked my brain to give me a sexy image to snuggle up with, but because my brain is broken way WAY beyond repair, it furnished me with Arnold Rimmer in a short dressing gown instead. Heh.

Title: Space Core Directive 159.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 497
Pairing: R/L pre-slash
Spoilers: None, really. Legion?
Disclaimer: I own NOTHING!

Edit: I just realised this drabble has horrible canon errors, sorry. I wrote it in the middle of the night!

Arnold Rimmer happily strolled into the cockpit of Starbug, wearing his very best devil-may-care smug git smile. He was wearing what could only be described as a very short and revealing white dressing gown, argyle socks and knackered out sandals, and smoking a pipe. Well, he wasn't exactly smoking a pipe per se - tobacco would of course be a completely ineffective poison against his hard light form - but it was the principle of the thing. Going with the next best alternative, he had asked Holly to furnish him with a licorice pipe of the type he had pretended to smoke as a child. Brilliant. He was the absolute picture of louche sophistication, and gentlemanly decadence.

"Rimmer ya smeg-head, what the hell are yer dressed like that for?"

Rimmer merely arched an eyebrow and flared his nostrils at Lister's look of undisguised scorn and amusement.

"Oh ho ho, Listy! I think you'll find as the senior officer on this craft I have the right to appear in the drive room in whatever get-up I personally consider to be the most comfortable."

The Cat shot Rimmer a mixed look of disgust and horror.

"You find the gay geography teacher look the 'most comfortable'? Bud - I'm glad I didn't to your school - you're just packed with childhood traumas!"

Rimmer turned to give the Cat an answer, an answer which would have no doubt been a quip so oozing with sarcasm that the feline would have no choice to retract the 'gay geography' teacher comment, and to compliment his dressing gown to boot. Unfortunately all that came out when he opened his mouth was a squeak. A very unmanly, and let's be frank, downright girly high-pitched squeak.

Someone, (and by 'someone' he most definitely suspected Lister) had just whipped him across the exposed backs of his thighs with a wet tea-towel. He turned to look at the man, rubbing the quickly reddening skin with a wince. Lister met him with an open smirk. No... not a wet tea-towel - why should Lister ever possess such a thing? It was a sweaty t-shirt. Oh God.

"Kryten!" squealed Rimmer, in what was still admittedly a very girly voice. "Space core directive 159!"

"Hmm, space core directive 159, sir." Kryten replied, pushing away the control panel. "Crew members may not whip a senior officer with their dirty laundry. A salient point sir, but I don't quite see how..." he turned round to face them. "Oh."

"Yes! Oh!" Rimmer shot back, admittedly as surprised as the rest of them that he had, for once in his life, correctly quoted a damn space core directive. "I'm glad to see you've finally been paying attention, brick-head! Crew members should not..." and here he turned to face Lister, who dear Lord was leering at him, whirling the t-shirt around one finger, and oh God - was he actually wriggling his eyebrows suggestively at him?

"... Holly... fresh uniform, please." he finished rather weakly.
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