reddwarfslash | Fic: Dear John - R/L (imp) - PG-13

Title: Dear John
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister (implied), other
Rating: PG-13, for this part
Disclaimer: I don't even own the fictional series IX and X of Red Dwarf. I make no money from this fannish venture.
Notes: This is part 3/? - part 1 is here, and part 2 is here. Dedicated to

smaych, who is both an Arnold and a John. <3

So long as he remembered not to actually think, Rimmer made good progress. Whenever he started thinking, his chest would sort of cramp up, and he would have to lean against the wall and hyperventilate just a bit. He'd only had to do that twice, though. The anger was important. He had to hold on to that, and just not think about why it was there.

Finding the particular lab was easy. His brother had kept talking about it, and all the labs were in the same place on this sodding rock anyway. The next bit would be somewhat trickier, but Rimmer had the power of rage fuelling him. By this point, it had focused his mind to laser sharpness, and he had no trouble finding the right cabinet, opening the lock with the code he knew would be his mother's birthday, because of the incident with... no, mustn't dwell on that now, and finding the tiny, steel storage case inside. His hands, in flagrant disregard for convention, did not shake one bit as he slowly lifted the sheer, platinum disc from within.

Rimmer paused, looking at it. It didn't seem like much of anything. About the size of a fingernail; about the color of an over-zealous bleached blonde's hair, slightly transparent. Trying not to breathe (old habits died hard), he walked carefully over to the sleek pedestal in the middle of the room. A clumsy-looking oblong object about the size of two fists lay atop it, divided cleanly in half around the middle. It didn't look broken. Slowly, Rimmer lowered the disc into the slot in the object’s guts, nearly jumping as it clicked neatly into place.

Rimmer exhaled. He put his hands around each end of the object, hesitating only for a second or two before snapping it closed, and stepped back. There was a soft, low-pitched rumble, then, half-inch by half-inch, the object rose. It hovered forward, wobblingly, then, without warning, light and light and light and light shot out from within.

On instinct, Rimmer shut his eyes.

When he opened them, John was staring back at him.

"Thank you so much, sir; I would have rusted in place if you hadn't come along."

"You were only there a few hours, man."

They argued amicably back and forth as they made their way down the corridors of the residential area. It seemed to relieve Kryten’s ridiculous sense of guilt, and it kept Lister’s mind off things.

"Nevertheless! You should stop me, sir, when I start putting them away like that."

"Ye had two drinks."

"Well, that's two too many! I shouldn’t be imbibing while on duty.”

“Yer always on duty, according to yerself.”

He hadn't told Kryten. What would there be to tell? How would he tell it? Lister was a little worried about what Rimmer might get up to, but in all honesty, he was far more worried about what was going on in his own mind.

This Saunders character hadn’t looked much like him, which gave Lister some comfort. But everything about their relationship and the way they interacted – apart from the saliva-swapping – was like seeing him and Rimmer. It was worrying. Lister wasn’t a worrier. He didn't know what to do with these feelings; he kept twirling them about like ill-fitting Tetris-pieces.

“So,” Lister said, when Kryten eventually ran out of apologies, “what happened to this place, anyway?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Well, it’s all deserted now, isn’t it?”

Kryten gave him a nonplussed look. “It has been three million years since the station was fully operational, sir.” He pressed the Open button by the door next to them, revealing a spartan, but comfortable-looking bedroom. “Ah; there we are!”

“No, but you know what I mean; it looks abandoned. There’re no bodies lying around, but all the furniture and everything is still here, and some personal effects, even.” Lister picked up a small teddy bear from the side table by the bed. It was missing one eye, and had a pale blue ribbon around its neck. Somehow, it managed to look at him accusingly, so he put it back down. “So what was it? Flesh and bone-eating virus? Mass kidnapping by GELF raiders? Psychological experiment gone awry, and they all jumped out of the airlock?” He glanced at Kryten. “It wasn’t time travel, was it?”

Kryten looked up from re-making the already made bed. “They ran out of funding.”

“Eh?”

“From what I can ascertain, sir, the hard light project was what kept this station going. The other projects weren’t as commercially promising, by far. The hard light project brought in the best scientists and high quality equipment, which enterprising other projects could leech off of, and the coming and going of interested parties was enough to keep the supporting services, like the bars and the restaurants, thriving. When its backers pulled out, what little interest and funding the other research generated wasn't enough to make up for the deficit, so the station gradually shut down."

Lister took a few steps away from the bed, digesting this. He always found he thought better when moving. "You mean all this was because of money?"

"Yes, sir. Or rather lack thereof."

Lister nodded. Not because he understood, but because there was no other way to react. All of this; all these rooms, all these hallways, all these offices; teeming with people. Lives had been lived here. He thought about the robot bartender, still serving drinks, completely unaware that millennia had passed since the last round. "Everyone just... left."

"Yes, sir."

"I wonder what happened to them all."

It was not a pretty sight. John was bent double, gasping for air. Eyes bulging, mouth open, he gave the impression of an overweight guppy. You can't breathe anymore, you twonk, Rimmer thought, gritting his teeth to keep from barking it out. Let the goit suffer. He was clearly smart enough to figure it out on his own. Finally, the worst seemed to be over, and John's eyes slowly focused.

He blinked. "Arnie?"

Rimmer glared at him, clenching every muscle.

"I..." John paused, looking at his hands, running fingers over fingers with a look of abject wonder on his face. "I'm a hologram."

"Of course you're a hologram, you dead git!" Rimmer couldn't hold it back. The words felt like throwing up; something of a relief, but they still left a bitter taste in his mouth.

John looked up, not really seeing Rimmer. Nothing new there, then. slowly, his stupidly gaping mouth turned upward in a smile. "It worked, didn't it? It actually smegging worked!" He grinned at Rimmer, finally aknowleding his presence. "And you're here! This is fantastic; amazing; I have to tell Saunders!"

"Saunders is dead."

John stopped, abruptly, smile frozen. "I..."

"And so are you. So is everyone. Three million years dead."

"I..." John repeated, stupidly, like a stuck tape. His eyes flickered around the room, as though suddenly realizing where he was. His face darkened, and he stumbled, leaning awkwardly against the pedestal behind him. "I don't understand."

"You've got an uplink. Access the mainframe," Rimmer said coldly.

"I don't know how..."

"Just do it!"

John went quiet, and his eyes closed. Rimmer knew the feeling of unfamiliar data flowing into your brain, making itself at home like some uncouth squatter. After just a few seconds, John faced him again. Rimmer knew that face; it was the one you put on when Dad was home, and it was Family Time, and everything had to be right and perfect, and you had to be very careful about everything you said and did. "I see," John said, evenly.

Rimmer couldn't keep it back anymore. "You said you were dead!"

"I am..." John flushed in realization. "Oh. Yes."

"Mummy sent the letter on to me! She said she wished it were me."

John’s mouth quirked, trying to settle on an expression. “Arnie…”

“Don’t call me that! Don’t you call me that! I saw what you were doing; you dirty… smegging… pervert! You’re just like Howard! I saw you; I saw you on the tape; you were at it for half an hour! Mother didn’t know that, did she? I wish you really had died!”

“Listen, Arnie…”

“My name, ” Rimmer yelled, pulling back his fist, “is Rimmer!” He let the punch go, aiming straight for his brother’s vacant face, gritting his teeth for the impact… which never came.

John was holding his fist. “Arnie,” he said quietly.

Rimmer didn’t realize they were hugging until it was too late.