Fic: I Bruise Easily - R/L - NC-17
Jul. 21st, 2010 09:38 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
missflibble.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
reddwarfslashTitle: I Bruise Easily
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, but if anyone's interested in putting some money into a kitty, I shall proposition Mr Naylor...
Notes: This fic acts as the pre-cursor to Between the Lines - depicting the event that inspires Rimmer to return.
Inspired by Natasha Beddingfield's gorgeous song, 'I Bruise Easily' - watch the video on youtube if you can. Bootiful.
Dedicated to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
veronica_rich who always says such lovely things about my Ace fics. You rock socks.
Anyone who can touch you
Can hurt you or heal you
Anyone who can reach you
Can love you or leave you
So I let down my guard
Drop my defences down by my clothes
I'm learning to fall
With no safety net to cushion the blow
I bruise easily…
******
“You should have seen it,” Rimmer sighed wistfully. “The moons of Ngahta were almost glowing against the red sky as the Kinitowawi celebrated long into the night. Three days spent battling against the neighbouring tribe - the Yventi - in order to get Skipper’s missus back to her father. A long, hard slog, that’s for sure. But for another chance to be part of a celebration party like that one?” Rimmer flashed the others a cheeky nod. “I’d take them on again in a heartbeat.”
After an exhausting and, quite frankly, devastating battle against the Yventi tribe, Rimmer had sought out the nearest ship and hailed them for assistance. He’d been almost knocked sideways when he saw the green blip on the scanner that looked all-too-familiar - a trundling bug of a craft that was chugging through the sector quite happily, blissfully unaware of the coordinates they’d happened to stumble back upon.
Kryten and the Cat held court around the scanner table as Rimmer recounted his latest adventure with poetic flair and a good deal of self-editing. Only Lister was missing from the group, choosing instead to simply lurk in the cockpit doorway, watching the action unfold before him with a strangely uneasy expression.
“It’s good to see you again, buddy,” the Cat grinned through a flash of gleaming canines. “You can’t leave it this long between visits!”
Another dimension it might be, but the déjà vu of those he’d left behind was overwhelming - their very presence a welcome comfort in this universe of strangers.
“It can’t have been that long, surely chaps?” Rimmer offered good-naturedly, although deep down he was fishing for a date in order to keep track of the inter-dimensional footsteps of his predecessors.
Kryten wagged a matriarchal finger in Rimmer’s direction. “Why, we haven’t seen you for at least five years - ”
“Six years,” Lister cut in quickly, the first time he’d actually spoken since Rimmer arrived.
“Indeed, sir - ”
“ - two months, three weeks, and six days,” he clarified, his voice unsteady but the conviction in his records nevertheless unwavering.
Rimmer blinked unsteadily, thrown by his words. Lister merely stared back at him, expressionless.
“Oh.” Rimmer swallowed. Remembering himself, he scoffed in a manner that he hoped would appear nonchalant. “That long, eh? How rude of me. And I didn’t even bring along a packet of bourbon biscuits for your troubles.”
Kryten and the Cat chuckled admiringly. Lister’s face darkened.
“Sir, please permit me to give you the once over with the medi-scanner,” Kryten clucked, his hands jerking back and forth like he were a marionette. “Or at least let me clean up and repair that outfit of yours.” His computer-blue eyes flitted over him, surveying the damage that his recent battle had inflicted on his jacket. “I’m a dab hand with a needle and thread.”
“It’s true, bud,” the Cat concurred. “Butter-pat Head here has fixed my suits more times than I can count.” He studied his fingers carefully. It was definitely more than three.
Rimmer laughed nervously. The last thing he needed was a medi-scanner politely informing the others that their guest was in fact as dead as a doornail. Besides, his jacket was doing a sterling job of keeping some hidden damage under wraps.
“Nonsense, Krytie,” Rimmer flicked the fringe from his eyes. “All I need is a hot shower and a bed to rest my head for the night and I’ll feel as right as rain.”
Kryten nodded. “As you wish, sir,” he relented. “You’re more than welcome to use the facilities in the spare sleeping quarters.”
Rimmer leapt to his feet gratefully. If he didn’t get out of there pronto, he was going to keel over in a very public fashion. “Sounds like a plan. Gents, if you’ll excuse me - ”
Without thinking, Rimmer headed towards the metal staircase and began to trot up the steps with what would appear to be a suspiciously knowledgeable sense of direction.
“Uh - would you like me to show you the way, sir?”
Rimmer froze mid-step. Bugger.
He swivelled back to face the confused mechanoid. “Er - no need, Krytie.” He tapped his temple with a forefinger. “I never forget a good ship.”
Rimmer missed the strange look that etched across Lister’s face as he headed up to the sleeping quarters.
******
As soon as the door hissed shut behind him, a gasped sob escaped without permission, arms clutching across his stomach in pain. Embarrassed, he drew in a sharp breath and bit his lip, pressing his head back hard into the cold, unrelenting steel of the door.
During the three years as Ace, he’d become frighteningly adept at burying his old self under layers of blonde locks, bacofoil and a healthy serving of self-denial. Yet sometimes the pressure would become far too great, and like the bursting of a tyre, his old self would gasp for breath for just a moment before he could plug the leak.
Rimmer crossed over to the mirror above the sink and leant heavily against the rim, his shoulders heaving with the effort. He glanced up through golden bangs to see an unfamiliar man staring back at him; the image of an invincible space hero that he knew to be nothing but a façade. Indeed, his outfit was beginning to betray the illusion. His usually immaculate flight suit was streaked with mud and engine oil, the material torn across the length of his arms and beginning to rip at the seams.
His eyes dropped down to the gun belt slung low on his waist, the silver metal of the Heckler & Koch handguns winking at him in the light. With trembling fingers, Rimmer unclipped the belt buckle and pulled it free, sighing in gratification as he shed the weight, and placed it carefully on the sink counter. His dark eyes flitted across the array of advanced weaponry and ammunition that sat in uneasy alliance next to Lister’s toothbrush and razor, feeling a sudden stab of loneliness. Rimmer winced visibly. Or that might be something else…
Pulling apart the poppers of his jacket, he grit his teeth as he began the delicate operation of extracting his arms from the sleeves. He let it slide from his shoulders and tumble to the floor, the heavy buckles and badges jangling upon impact. The polo neck underneath - usually as white as a Daz-bleached, ‘first day of school’ shirt - was similarly devastated, splattered with mud and deep red stains that he really didn’t want to think about. An ugly, blackened tear stretched across the material that clung to his stomach but he tried to ignore it for now.
Stooping to unlace his boots, he pulled them loose from his grateful feet and lined them up, as if with an air of military rigidness, beneath the sink. He peeled off his socks and tossed them aside with far less formality, his toes curled back instinctively against the sharp chill of the metal-grated floor. He then turned his attention to the buttons of his trousers, each liberated fastening signalling another degree of release, until they sank to the floor and he stepped free of their confines.
Rimmer regarded himself once more in the mirror and steeled himself with a breath he didn’t need. Grasping the bottom of the shirt, he slowly, painfully, drew it up his chest and over his head with a whimper, his ears catching on the narrow neck of the material before he broke free and cast it aside to join the rest of his outfit.
It was worse than he thought it would be. Amongst the streaks of dirt and grime that had somehow managed to permeate his clothes, a pulsing red scar stretched possessively across his stomach just below his belly button, as if it were flashing an ugly grin back at him in the mirror. He recalled in a blinding flash of white light how, in the heat of the battle, an Yventi warrior had slashed at him mercilessly with his rusting blade. It was a blow that was sure to kill any human. It was a blow that was sure to piss off any hologram. His retaliation had been swift.
Rimmer opened his eyes. The comms link with Wildfire was operational, his self-repair already on the case. By morning the scars of today’s battle would be gone and it would be time for him to face the next foe.
With a shuddered sigh, he stripped off his boxers and stood naked before himself.
No -- not entirely.
Rimmer reached up and carefully peeled back the blonde wig, ceremoniously placing it beside the guns that rested silently above the sink. The once-unmanageable brown curls lay flat against his head, and he teased them back to life with long, thin fingers, as if resurrecting his old self.
Now he was naked.
No longer was he a great, immortal space hero who had returned, victorious, from the battle. Now, he was simply Arnold Rimmer - bruised, filthy and trembling. He suddenly felt far too exposed, far too vulnerable. In a dimension that felt uncomfortably close to the one he’d left, stood in the tiny sleeping quarters identical to the ones he’d once called home, the defences that he’d built up oh so carefully over the years suddenly came tumbling down with a single glance at his old self.
Rimmer pressed the heels of his palms hard against his eyes, biting his lip that had begun to quiver almost imperceptibly. Behind tightly closed lids, he could feel the hot tears forming, threatening to squeeze out from behind his hands. But they didn’t flow.
Suddenly he drew back a sniff, as if to reel everything back in again, to re-plug the leak. Enough, he told his mirror self, his eyes now red-rimmed and watery. After all, fighting a fierce battle and surviving without sleep or a decent wash in almost three days was bound to send any man to the precipice of sanity. Even the big man himself, Napoleon Bonaparte, must have had his fleeting moments of weakness. But they should remain just that. Fleeting, temporary.
Rimmer blinked wearily, suddenly aware from his mind’s ranting how truly tired he was. Shower, he instructed himself.
******
Rimmer spun the water as hot as he could handle it, or at least how hot his touch receptors told him was sensible. The steam quickly filled the cubicle, the clouds curling up lazily into the chilly recycled air of the ship. A contented sigh wafted free as the water cascaded over his face until the tight curls of his hair unwound and clung to his forehead. He swept them back with both hands and glanced down to watch as the browns and reds of the dirtied water swirled around the plug-hole in a galaxy of his own devising.
Lathering himself until the foul smells that had once clung to him began to fade in deference to the reassuring scent of the soap, Rimmer found his mind wandering to memories of his Lister. Despite the thousands of light years he’d put between them, he often wandered down the same path, wondering how he was getting on. Some nights, he’d trace the outline of his face in his mind, conjuring forth that strange cheeky sparkle in his eye from the stars of open sky above him. Just to make sure he didn’t forget.
He sniggered as he regarded the soap bar that slipped and tumbled between his hands. Despite the visual poetry of his face, he probably still had the personal hygiene of a diseased warthog. And yet, he couldn’t help but crave the smell of his Earthy muskiness that so aptly defined the last human alive. He closed his eyes, letting the rain-like feel of the shower tumble over his face once more as he drank in the memory. Funny the things you miss about the ones you lo--
Rimmer reeled back, choking on the scalding water and his heart’s stark admission, and instinctively spun the water off. He blinked in surprise at the self-revelation, yet was ashamed to discover that a certain part of his anatomy already seemed overly familiar with the premise. He leant back against the tiles, hardly registering how cold they were, before sinking unaware to an awkward seated position amongst the draining water.
It wasn’t until he blinked back to reality that he realised his mind must have wandered off for quite some time. The frantic patters of the water that once streamed from his body had now resigned to the odd drip that still clung to his skin, the swirling mist of steam long dissipated.
Hauling himself to his feet, Rimmer grabbed two towels from the rack beside the shower. The first he serenely lapped around his waist and tucked in the end. The second embarked on a more furious fare as he cast it over his head and began to ruffle his damp curls whilst he meandered slowly back into the sleeping quarters.
Click.
Rimmer paused, his face still buried in the towel. He knew that sound all too well.
Slowly, carefully, he drew the towel down from his face to find that he was indeed staring down his own gun barrel. Lister stood before him clutching the discarded weapon in both hands, as if he were using every iota of energy to keep it still and focused in his grasp. Rimmer swallowed.
“Who are you?” Lister demanded, his voice a little too low and unsteady for Rimmer’s liking.
Still clutching the towel, Rimmer raised his hands aloft in playful surrender and forced a chuckle. “What are you talking about, Skipper?” he pressed gently but firmly, his ‘Ace’ voice now restored. “You know who - ”
“Don’t - ”
Rimmer dropped the pretence immediately. Instead he watched as Lister’s dark eyes flitted almost possessively over his body before becoming tangled in the mess of his curls. At that, his voice dropped so low, Rimmer could barely register it over the hum of Starbug’s engines.
“Is it you?”
Rimmer blinked, caught off guard. Clearly this reality shared even more similarities to his own - the rest of the crew left unaware of the truth whilst the last human alive kept the universe’s most important secret safe to himself, waiting out the days until he would return.
His eyes sank to the floor briefly before returning to Lister’s expectant gaze, his tongue wetting his lips nervously as he made a conscious decision. He shook his head mournfully. “I’m so sorry - ” he began, in his own voice rather than his alter ego’s.
It was clearly too much for Lister to take in. The old hair, the familiar voice, and now the revelation that his Rimmer was long gone, his soul lost to the infinite cosmos. The gun began to tremble in his grasp as Lister shook his head fervently, a portrait of denial, sorrow and anger. “No - ” he sobbed as he backed away, the tears beginning to quiver in his gaze. “No, he can’t be - ”
Rimmer kept his hands aloft before him, his eyes dancing between Lister’s stare and the gun shaking in his hands. “Listen,” he began softly, keeping his voice low and calm as he stepped cautiously closer. “Why don’t you put the gun down and we can - ”
“Get away from me!” Lister snapped with a primal snarl. His face flushed red as his features and resolve hardened. “You are nothing like him. Don’t you dare try and tell me what to smeggin’ do.”
Rimmer’s grip tightened around the towel in his hand as he stalked closer. “Lister - ” he pressed. “Drop the gun.”
But Lister didn’t hear, or perhaps heed, the warning in his tone. “I said, get away - !”
As soon as he sensed the right moment, Rimmer moved quickly and instinctively. With a swift flick of the wrist, he whipped the towel around the gun and immediately grabbed his wrist tight. Thrusting him back against the far wall, he thumped Lister’s hand still clutching resolutely to the gun against the metal grating.
“Drop it!” he demanded.
Yet Lister was blinded with anger, thrashing out with his free hand and catching fist after furied fist against Rimmer’s chest and face. “Get off me, you bastard!” he cried.
Undeterred, Rimmer grit his teeth and locked a second grip around Lister’s left wrist to stop the onslaught. He slammed Lister’s gun hand into the wall once more. “I said drop it!”
A third, hard smack against the wall and Lister relented, his fingers unfurling to release the gun and allowing it to clatter to the floor, swiftly followed by the ripple of the towel in its wake. Releasing a sigh of relief but not Lister’s hands, Rimmer kicked the gun behind him so that it skittered to safety underneath the bunk.
“Lister, what the hell - ?”
“Why did he leave me?!” came the mournful cry, vengeful tears now streaming freely down his cheeks. “He said he’d come back - ”
Rimmer could feel Lister’s breath hot on his chin as he sobbed unashamedly. And he realised in the horrible, painful silence that followed what this Lister had truly lost. His eyes fluttered to the floor. “I’m sorry,” he consoled.
“You said you’d come back,” Lister mumbled.
“I’m sorry,” Rimmer echoed once more, before realising the words sounded more like an apology in the context of Lister’s projected shift in accusation.
Yet the discrepancy in the pronoun took a deserved back seat compared to the new confusion that sprung to the forefront. Lister suddenly lunged forward and kissed him hard and quick -as if to desperately try and snatch something back that had long been out of his reach - before pulling away once more to survey the damage. Rimmer could only blink in surprise, his grip on Lister’s wrists loosening slightly along with his grasp of the situation. Had Lister just - ?
Lister kissed him forcefully again - a crush of teeth and lips - as if to draw out a more animated response from him. Flustered, Rimmer pulled back, fearful of what Lister was forgetting.
“Lister,” he warned pointedly. “I’m not - ”
Yet he was quickly cut off by another hungry kiss, this time feeling Lister’s tongue snaking across his lips for something deeper and more meaningful. The fact he wasn’t his Rimmer was clearly a fact that this Lister was willing to forgo. And unashamedly, right there and then, Rimmer was happy to shove the little voice that reminded him this wasn’t his Lister to one side in his mind too.
Rimmer opened to the proposition and Lister’s eager mouth, returning the kiss with just as much passion and grieving desperation for those they’d lost. They each whimpered with need as Lister pushed away from the wall and the pair staggered, still locked together, across to the bunk. A trail of hurriedly discarded clothes - Lister’s leather jacket and black t-shirt - marked their path of their intent.
The pair landed hard on the bunk, and Lister straddled him purposefully as Rimmer lay back, dazed and confused. Bending down to kiss his bare chest slowly and meaningfully, Lister’s eyes locked intently with his, assessing every twitch of his lip, every shuddered gasp, most likely to watch for any signs of resistance. He found none. In fact, Rimmer couldn’t help but be entranced as Lister left a string of kisses from his chest, across the course curly hairs of his stomach, until he reached the towel, locking their gazes together as if he daren’t break the spell.
Lister ran gentle fingers across the rough bobbles of the towel, hooking his fingers under the fold tucked into the waistline. Tearing his gaze away, Rimmer let his head drop back to the pillow, a guttural moan finding its release as he felt Lister pull the towel apart to expose his now-very-ready erection.
“Oh my god - ”
Rimmer blinked in surprise. Lister’s words had been expressed with shocked concern rather than theatrical bedroom play. He glanced up from the pillow to see Lister’s eyebrows pinched with apprehension as his eyes traced over the scar he’d concealed earlier. Rimmer felt a wrench of embarrassment, suddenly feeling far more exposed than he had done whilst simply being naked before him.
“It’s nothing - ” he muttered hurriedly.
But Lister was less than convinced. “Did they do this to you?” he demanded, his voice soft and low. He traced feather-light fingers across the pulsing light and Rimmer immediately winced.
“Don’t - it hurts.”
Lister curled back his fingers and flashed him a sad smile. “That makes two of us.”
Rimmer’s eyes reflected his mournful gaze as he traced experimental hands up Lister’s bare arms and over his shoulders before letting them sink lazily down the smooth skin of his back, his fingers tracing the groove of his spine. Lister watched him intently before a thought suddenly came to him.
“You’ve never slept with your Lister before, have you?” he probed gently.
Embarrassed, Rimmer looked away, his fingers still idly stroking his back. “I was too scared to tell him,” he admitted. “But every night I was away, I dreamt about what it would be like.”
A playful grin inched across Lister’s cheeks as he lowered himself back down to his exposed erection. He ran his tongue teasingly light on the underside of the head, sending a shiver of electricity up Rimmer’s body. “Then let me show you,” he said meaningfully. It was an order, not a request.
And with another passionate moan, he let down the defences and opened to Lister’s advances, making his first and last surrender as Ace Rimmer.
******
It was dark when Lister awoke.
Eyes still heavy with sleep, his hand stretched lazily across the sheets to the far side of the bed. But he found nothing. Confused, he turned over to see a dark figure beside the table, hoisting a heavy-looking gun belt around his waist.
“Rimmer?” he mumbled, his bleary thoughts still caught between dreams and reality.
The figure shook his head as he drew together the fastenings of the belt. “’Fraid not, Skipper.”
Click.
“Oh.” Lister’s treacherous head slumped back into the warm dunes of the pillow. “You’re leaving then?” The man nodded. Lister swallowed apprehensively. “Where are you going?”
Lister looked so lost and afraid in the warm bunk they’d shared only a few hours before, that Rimmer was tempted to snatch one last kiss. But somehow he knew he had to save it for someone else. If he didn’t take that leap of faith now, when would he get the chance again?
“Home,” he said with a distant smile.
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, but if anyone's interested in putting some money into a kitty, I shall proposition Mr Naylor...
Notes: This fic acts as the pre-cursor to Between the Lines - depicting the event that inspires Rimmer to return.
Inspired by Natasha Beddingfield's gorgeous song, 'I Bruise Easily' - watch the video on youtube if you can. Bootiful.
Dedicated to
veronica_rich who always says such lovely things about my Ace fics. You rock socks.Anyone who can touch you
Can hurt you or heal you
Anyone who can reach you
Can love you or leave you
So I let down my guard
Drop my defences down by my clothes
I'm learning to fall
With no safety net to cushion the blow
I bruise easily…
******
“You should have seen it,” Rimmer sighed wistfully. “The moons of Ngahta were almost glowing against the red sky as the Kinitowawi celebrated long into the night. Three days spent battling against the neighbouring tribe - the Yventi - in order to get Skipper’s missus back to her father. A long, hard slog, that’s for sure. But for another chance to be part of a celebration party like that one?” Rimmer flashed the others a cheeky nod. “I’d take them on again in a heartbeat.”
After an exhausting and, quite frankly, devastating battle against the Yventi tribe, Rimmer had sought out the nearest ship and hailed them for assistance. He’d been almost knocked sideways when he saw the green blip on the scanner that looked all-too-familiar - a trundling bug of a craft that was chugging through the sector quite happily, blissfully unaware of the coordinates they’d happened to stumble back upon.
Kryten and the Cat held court around the scanner table as Rimmer recounted his latest adventure with poetic flair and a good deal of self-editing. Only Lister was missing from the group, choosing instead to simply lurk in the cockpit doorway, watching the action unfold before him with a strangely uneasy expression.
“It’s good to see you again, buddy,” the Cat grinned through a flash of gleaming canines. “You can’t leave it this long between visits!”
Another dimension it might be, but the déjà vu of those he’d left behind was overwhelming - their very presence a welcome comfort in this universe of strangers.
“It can’t have been that long, surely chaps?” Rimmer offered good-naturedly, although deep down he was fishing for a date in order to keep track of the inter-dimensional footsteps of his predecessors.
Kryten wagged a matriarchal finger in Rimmer’s direction. “Why, we haven’t seen you for at least five years - ”
“Six years,” Lister cut in quickly, the first time he’d actually spoken since Rimmer arrived.
“Indeed, sir - ”
“ - two months, three weeks, and six days,” he clarified, his voice unsteady but the conviction in his records nevertheless unwavering.
Rimmer blinked unsteadily, thrown by his words. Lister merely stared back at him, expressionless.
“Oh.” Rimmer swallowed. Remembering himself, he scoffed in a manner that he hoped would appear nonchalant. “That long, eh? How rude of me. And I didn’t even bring along a packet of bourbon biscuits for your troubles.”
Kryten and the Cat chuckled admiringly. Lister’s face darkened.
“Sir, please permit me to give you the once over with the medi-scanner,” Kryten clucked, his hands jerking back and forth like he were a marionette. “Or at least let me clean up and repair that outfit of yours.” His computer-blue eyes flitted over him, surveying the damage that his recent battle had inflicted on his jacket. “I’m a dab hand with a needle and thread.”
“It’s true, bud,” the Cat concurred. “Butter-pat Head here has fixed my suits more times than I can count.” He studied his fingers carefully. It was definitely more than three.
Rimmer laughed nervously. The last thing he needed was a medi-scanner politely informing the others that their guest was in fact as dead as a doornail. Besides, his jacket was doing a sterling job of keeping some hidden damage under wraps.
“Nonsense, Krytie,” Rimmer flicked the fringe from his eyes. “All I need is a hot shower and a bed to rest my head for the night and I’ll feel as right as rain.”
Kryten nodded. “As you wish, sir,” he relented. “You’re more than welcome to use the facilities in the spare sleeping quarters.”
Rimmer leapt to his feet gratefully. If he didn’t get out of there pronto, he was going to keel over in a very public fashion. “Sounds like a plan. Gents, if you’ll excuse me - ”
Without thinking, Rimmer headed towards the metal staircase and began to trot up the steps with what would appear to be a suspiciously knowledgeable sense of direction.
“Uh - would you like me to show you the way, sir?”
Rimmer froze mid-step. Bugger.
He swivelled back to face the confused mechanoid. “Er - no need, Krytie.” He tapped his temple with a forefinger. “I never forget a good ship.”
Rimmer missed the strange look that etched across Lister’s face as he headed up to the sleeping quarters.
******
As soon as the door hissed shut behind him, a gasped sob escaped without permission, arms clutching across his stomach in pain. Embarrassed, he drew in a sharp breath and bit his lip, pressing his head back hard into the cold, unrelenting steel of the door.
During the three years as Ace, he’d become frighteningly adept at burying his old self under layers of blonde locks, bacofoil and a healthy serving of self-denial. Yet sometimes the pressure would become far too great, and like the bursting of a tyre, his old self would gasp for breath for just a moment before he could plug the leak.
Rimmer crossed over to the mirror above the sink and leant heavily against the rim, his shoulders heaving with the effort. He glanced up through golden bangs to see an unfamiliar man staring back at him; the image of an invincible space hero that he knew to be nothing but a façade. Indeed, his outfit was beginning to betray the illusion. His usually immaculate flight suit was streaked with mud and engine oil, the material torn across the length of his arms and beginning to rip at the seams.
His eyes dropped down to the gun belt slung low on his waist, the silver metal of the Heckler & Koch handguns winking at him in the light. With trembling fingers, Rimmer unclipped the belt buckle and pulled it free, sighing in gratification as he shed the weight, and placed it carefully on the sink counter. His dark eyes flitted across the array of advanced weaponry and ammunition that sat in uneasy alliance next to Lister’s toothbrush and razor, feeling a sudden stab of loneliness. Rimmer winced visibly. Or that might be something else…
Pulling apart the poppers of his jacket, he grit his teeth as he began the delicate operation of extracting his arms from the sleeves. He let it slide from his shoulders and tumble to the floor, the heavy buckles and badges jangling upon impact. The polo neck underneath - usually as white as a Daz-bleached, ‘first day of school’ shirt - was similarly devastated, splattered with mud and deep red stains that he really didn’t want to think about. An ugly, blackened tear stretched across the material that clung to his stomach but he tried to ignore it for now.
Stooping to unlace his boots, he pulled them loose from his grateful feet and lined them up, as if with an air of military rigidness, beneath the sink. He peeled off his socks and tossed them aside with far less formality, his toes curled back instinctively against the sharp chill of the metal-grated floor. He then turned his attention to the buttons of his trousers, each liberated fastening signalling another degree of release, until they sank to the floor and he stepped free of their confines.
Rimmer regarded himself once more in the mirror and steeled himself with a breath he didn’t need. Grasping the bottom of the shirt, he slowly, painfully, drew it up his chest and over his head with a whimper, his ears catching on the narrow neck of the material before he broke free and cast it aside to join the rest of his outfit.
It was worse than he thought it would be. Amongst the streaks of dirt and grime that had somehow managed to permeate his clothes, a pulsing red scar stretched possessively across his stomach just below his belly button, as if it were flashing an ugly grin back at him in the mirror. He recalled in a blinding flash of white light how, in the heat of the battle, an Yventi warrior had slashed at him mercilessly with his rusting blade. It was a blow that was sure to kill any human. It was a blow that was sure to piss off any hologram. His retaliation had been swift.
Rimmer opened his eyes. The comms link with Wildfire was operational, his self-repair already on the case. By morning the scars of today’s battle would be gone and it would be time for him to face the next foe.
With a shuddered sigh, he stripped off his boxers and stood naked before himself.
No -- not entirely.
Rimmer reached up and carefully peeled back the blonde wig, ceremoniously placing it beside the guns that rested silently above the sink. The once-unmanageable brown curls lay flat against his head, and he teased them back to life with long, thin fingers, as if resurrecting his old self.
Now he was naked.
No longer was he a great, immortal space hero who had returned, victorious, from the battle. Now, he was simply Arnold Rimmer - bruised, filthy and trembling. He suddenly felt far too exposed, far too vulnerable. In a dimension that felt uncomfortably close to the one he’d left, stood in the tiny sleeping quarters identical to the ones he’d once called home, the defences that he’d built up oh so carefully over the years suddenly came tumbling down with a single glance at his old self.
Rimmer pressed the heels of his palms hard against his eyes, biting his lip that had begun to quiver almost imperceptibly. Behind tightly closed lids, he could feel the hot tears forming, threatening to squeeze out from behind his hands. But they didn’t flow.
Suddenly he drew back a sniff, as if to reel everything back in again, to re-plug the leak. Enough, he told his mirror self, his eyes now red-rimmed and watery. After all, fighting a fierce battle and surviving without sleep or a decent wash in almost three days was bound to send any man to the precipice of sanity. Even the big man himself, Napoleon Bonaparte, must have had his fleeting moments of weakness. But they should remain just that. Fleeting, temporary.
Rimmer blinked wearily, suddenly aware from his mind’s ranting how truly tired he was. Shower, he instructed himself.
******
Rimmer spun the water as hot as he could handle it, or at least how hot his touch receptors told him was sensible. The steam quickly filled the cubicle, the clouds curling up lazily into the chilly recycled air of the ship. A contented sigh wafted free as the water cascaded over his face until the tight curls of his hair unwound and clung to his forehead. He swept them back with both hands and glanced down to watch as the browns and reds of the dirtied water swirled around the plug-hole in a galaxy of his own devising.
Lathering himself until the foul smells that had once clung to him began to fade in deference to the reassuring scent of the soap, Rimmer found his mind wandering to memories of his Lister. Despite the thousands of light years he’d put between them, he often wandered down the same path, wondering how he was getting on. Some nights, he’d trace the outline of his face in his mind, conjuring forth that strange cheeky sparkle in his eye from the stars of open sky above him. Just to make sure he didn’t forget.
He sniggered as he regarded the soap bar that slipped and tumbled between his hands. Despite the visual poetry of his face, he probably still had the personal hygiene of a diseased warthog. And yet, he couldn’t help but crave the smell of his Earthy muskiness that so aptly defined the last human alive. He closed his eyes, letting the rain-like feel of the shower tumble over his face once more as he drank in the memory. Funny the things you miss about the ones you lo--
Rimmer reeled back, choking on the scalding water and his heart’s stark admission, and instinctively spun the water off. He blinked in surprise at the self-revelation, yet was ashamed to discover that a certain part of his anatomy already seemed overly familiar with the premise. He leant back against the tiles, hardly registering how cold they were, before sinking unaware to an awkward seated position amongst the draining water.
It wasn’t until he blinked back to reality that he realised his mind must have wandered off for quite some time. The frantic patters of the water that once streamed from his body had now resigned to the odd drip that still clung to his skin, the swirling mist of steam long dissipated.
Hauling himself to his feet, Rimmer grabbed two towels from the rack beside the shower. The first he serenely lapped around his waist and tucked in the end. The second embarked on a more furious fare as he cast it over his head and began to ruffle his damp curls whilst he meandered slowly back into the sleeping quarters.
Click.
Rimmer paused, his face still buried in the towel. He knew that sound all too well.
Slowly, carefully, he drew the towel down from his face to find that he was indeed staring down his own gun barrel. Lister stood before him clutching the discarded weapon in both hands, as if he were using every iota of energy to keep it still and focused in his grasp. Rimmer swallowed.
“Who are you?” Lister demanded, his voice a little too low and unsteady for Rimmer’s liking.
Still clutching the towel, Rimmer raised his hands aloft in playful surrender and forced a chuckle. “What are you talking about, Skipper?” he pressed gently but firmly, his ‘Ace’ voice now restored. “You know who - ”
“Don’t - ”
Rimmer dropped the pretence immediately. Instead he watched as Lister’s dark eyes flitted almost possessively over his body before becoming tangled in the mess of his curls. At that, his voice dropped so low, Rimmer could barely register it over the hum of Starbug’s engines.
“Is it you?”
Rimmer blinked, caught off guard. Clearly this reality shared even more similarities to his own - the rest of the crew left unaware of the truth whilst the last human alive kept the universe’s most important secret safe to himself, waiting out the days until he would return.
His eyes sank to the floor briefly before returning to Lister’s expectant gaze, his tongue wetting his lips nervously as he made a conscious decision. He shook his head mournfully. “I’m so sorry - ” he began, in his own voice rather than his alter ego’s.
It was clearly too much for Lister to take in. The old hair, the familiar voice, and now the revelation that his Rimmer was long gone, his soul lost to the infinite cosmos. The gun began to tremble in his grasp as Lister shook his head fervently, a portrait of denial, sorrow and anger. “No - ” he sobbed as he backed away, the tears beginning to quiver in his gaze. “No, he can’t be - ”
Rimmer kept his hands aloft before him, his eyes dancing between Lister’s stare and the gun shaking in his hands. “Listen,” he began softly, keeping his voice low and calm as he stepped cautiously closer. “Why don’t you put the gun down and we can - ”
“Get away from me!” Lister snapped with a primal snarl. His face flushed red as his features and resolve hardened. “You are nothing like him. Don’t you dare try and tell me what to smeggin’ do.”
Rimmer’s grip tightened around the towel in his hand as he stalked closer. “Lister - ” he pressed. “Drop the gun.”
But Lister didn’t hear, or perhaps heed, the warning in his tone. “I said, get away - !”
As soon as he sensed the right moment, Rimmer moved quickly and instinctively. With a swift flick of the wrist, he whipped the towel around the gun and immediately grabbed his wrist tight. Thrusting him back against the far wall, he thumped Lister’s hand still clutching resolutely to the gun against the metal grating.
“Drop it!” he demanded.
Yet Lister was blinded with anger, thrashing out with his free hand and catching fist after furied fist against Rimmer’s chest and face. “Get off me, you bastard!” he cried.
Undeterred, Rimmer grit his teeth and locked a second grip around Lister’s left wrist to stop the onslaught. He slammed Lister’s gun hand into the wall once more. “I said drop it!”
A third, hard smack against the wall and Lister relented, his fingers unfurling to release the gun and allowing it to clatter to the floor, swiftly followed by the ripple of the towel in its wake. Releasing a sigh of relief but not Lister’s hands, Rimmer kicked the gun behind him so that it skittered to safety underneath the bunk.
“Lister, what the hell - ?”
“Why did he leave me?!” came the mournful cry, vengeful tears now streaming freely down his cheeks. “He said he’d come back - ”
Rimmer could feel Lister’s breath hot on his chin as he sobbed unashamedly. And he realised in the horrible, painful silence that followed what this Lister had truly lost. His eyes fluttered to the floor. “I’m sorry,” he consoled.
“You said you’d come back,” Lister mumbled.
“I’m sorry,” Rimmer echoed once more, before realising the words sounded more like an apology in the context of Lister’s projected shift in accusation.
Yet the discrepancy in the pronoun took a deserved back seat compared to the new confusion that sprung to the forefront. Lister suddenly lunged forward and kissed him hard and quick -as if to desperately try and snatch something back that had long been out of his reach - before pulling away once more to survey the damage. Rimmer could only blink in surprise, his grip on Lister’s wrists loosening slightly along with his grasp of the situation. Had Lister just - ?
Lister kissed him forcefully again - a crush of teeth and lips - as if to draw out a more animated response from him. Flustered, Rimmer pulled back, fearful of what Lister was forgetting.
“Lister,” he warned pointedly. “I’m not - ”
Yet he was quickly cut off by another hungry kiss, this time feeling Lister’s tongue snaking across his lips for something deeper and more meaningful. The fact he wasn’t his Rimmer was clearly a fact that this Lister was willing to forgo. And unashamedly, right there and then, Rimmer was happy to shove the little voice that reminded him this wasn’t his Lister to one side in his mind too.
Rimmer opened to the proposition and Lister’s eager mouth, returning the kiss with just as much passion and grieving desperation for those they’d lost. They each whimpered with need as Lister pushed away from the wall and the pair staggered, still locked together, across to the bunk. A trail of hurriedly discarded clothes - Lister’s leather jacket and black t-shirt - marked their path of their intent.
The pair landed hard on the bunk, and Lister straddled him purposefully as Rimmer lay back, dazed and confused. Bending down to kiss his bare chest slowly and meaningfully, Lister’s eyes locked intently with his, assessing every twitch of his lip, every shuddered gasp, most likely to watch for any signs of resistance. He found none. In fact, Rimmer couldn’t help but be entranced as Lister left a string of kisses from his chest, across the course curly hairs of his stomach, until he reached the towel, locking their gazes together as if he daren’t break the spell.
Lister ran gentle fingers across the rough bobbles of the towel, hooking his fingers under the fold tucked into the waistline. Tearing his gaze away, Rimmer let his head drop back to the pillow, a guttural moan finding its release as he felt Lister pull the towel apart to expose his now-very-ready erection.
“Oh my god - ”
Rimmer blinked in surprise. Lister’s words had been expressed with shocked concern rather than theatrical bedroom play. He glanced up from the pillow to see Lister’s eyebrows pinched with apprehension as his eyes traced over the scar he’d concealed earlier. Rimmer felt a wrench of embarrassment, suddenly feeling far more exposed than he had done whilst simply being naked before him.
“It’s nothing - ” he muttered hurriedly.
But Lister was less than convinced. “Did they do this to you?” he demanded, his voice soft and low. He traced feather-light fingers across the pulsing light and Rimmer immediately winced.
“Don’t - it hurts.”
Lister curled back his fingers and flashed him a sad smile. “That makes two of us.”
Rimmer’s eyes reflected his mournful gaze as he traced experimental hands up Lister’s bare arms and over his shoulders before letting them sink lazily down the smooth skin of his back, his fingers tracing the groove of his spine. Lister watched him intently before a thought suddenly came to him.
“You’ve never slept with your Lister before, have you?” he probed gently.
Embarrassed, Rimmer looked away, his fingers still idly stroking his back. “I was too scared to tell him,” he admitted. “But every night I was away, I dreamt about what it would be like.”
A playful grin inched across Lister’s cheeks as he lowered himself back down to his exposed erection. He ran his tongue teasingly light on the underside of the head, sending a shiver of electricity up Rimmer’s body. “Then let me show you,” he said meaningfully. It was an order, not a request.
And with another passionate moan, he let down the defences and opened to Lister’s advances, making his first and last surrender as Ace Rimmer.
******
It was dark when Lister awoke.
Eyes still heavy with sleep, his hand stretched lazily across the sheets to the far side of the bed. But he found nothing. Confused, he turned over to see a dark figure beside the table, hoisting a heavy-looking gun belt around his waist.
“Rimmer?” he mumbled, his bleary thoughts still caught between dreams and reality.
The figure shook his head as he drew together the fastenings of the belt. “’Fraid not, Skipper.”
Click.
“Oh.” Lister’s treacherous head slumped back into the warm dunes of the pillow. “You’re leaving then?” The man nodded. Lister swallowed apprehensively. “Where are you going?”
Lister looked so lost and afraid in the warm bunk they’d shared only a few hours before, that Rimmer was tempted to snatch one last kiss. But somehow he knew he had to save it for someone else. If he didn’t take that leap of faith now, when would he get the chance again?
“Home,” he said with a distant smile.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-07-21 04:06 pm (UTC)I hope there's more where Listy and Rimsy stop beatin around the bush and actually get together.
no subject
Date: 2010-07-22 06:15 am (UTC)Indeed, I shall eventually get around to a sequel to 'Between the Lines' where Rimmer and Lister do FINALLY get it on. I just need the muse or the plot bunny to help me out. It'll show up eventually, it's probably running late. Traffic and all that, you know...
no subject
Date: 2010-07-22 01:26 pm (UTC)Can't wait for the next chapter. I'm so glad someone's writing actual Listy/Rimsy fics that aren't just "Implied" which seems to be the majority out there lately.
no subject
Date: 2010-07-22 02:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-21 08:39 pm (UTC)The metaphor of Rimmer stripping off, almost afraid to face even himself and not even wanting to cry alone, was great. I don't know if you've lived alone for any length of time at any point, but this is actually pretty accurate IMO - living with someone means you go be alone if you want to be weak a lot of times, but if you're by yourself nearly all the time, like Rimmer would be (not counting his computer), not even being alone is a good enough excuse many times.
Overall, a great entry in your series (I hope it's part of your slash Ace series, right?). I had to cover a conference today and kept sneaking looks at my iPhone between sessions so I could read the story in bursts, twice. It's just the kind of present I like!
Oh, and perhaps fitting, I'm sitting in Starbucks right now, and the song on the system is a remake of "Sign Your Name" by Terence Trent D'Arby. Could work. ;-)
no subject
Date: 2010-07-22 06:21 am (UTC)*blush* Thank you! I had every intention of going all the way with it, as t'were, but it seemed to fit much better NOT seeing it - just seeing a teasing glimpse. Besides, I felt it would have more of an impact in the series if we get treated to the full thing when Rimmer and Lister FINALLY realise how they feel. Plus? Your after-sex fic is hotness on a stick, you don't always NEED to see it all, right? *fans herself*
Re: metaphor and the angsty angst. I'm glad you felt you connected with it. For reasons I won't go into detail so publicly here, when I end up breaking down in weak times, it's usually when I see myself in the mirror and how truly miserable I look(!) It's like you've only just realised, very odd sensation.
Overall, a great entry in your series (I hope it's part of your slash Ace series, right?)
Thank you much! And yup. Sits after 'Endless Night' and before 'Between the Lines', all nice and snuggly.
"Sign Your Name" by Terence Trent D'Arby. Could work. ;-)
Scuttles off to find on youtube.
Thanks again!
no subject
Date: 2010-07-21 10:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-22 06:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-22 07:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-22 08:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-22 10:55 pm (UTC)Great fic.
no subject
Date: 2010-07-23 06:16 am (UTC)Thanks for reading!
no subject
Date: 2010-07-23 12:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-23 06:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-23 09:59 pm (UTC)This is lovely. Really, really. The Rimmer angst is delicious, as always, and the character voices are spot on - I love your angry Lister.
no subject
Date: 2010-08-24 06:18 am (UTC)I'm writing another Ace slash (well actually it's a pre-slash but hey) which was commissioned by Lauren. It's about two thirds complete so I'm hoping to post it to community in the next couple of weeks...