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reddwarfslashTitle: "Father to the Thought" - (1 of 2)
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister
Rating: Explicit for second chapter
Spoilers: Series X - 'Fathers and Suns'
Summary: Set just after the events of 'Fathers and Suns', Lister's father leaves him a new message. Sometimes it takes a father's insight to help you see things clearly.
Disclaimer: I don't own Red Dwarf. Boo.
******
The wish is father to the thought. - Proverb
The clues were all there.
Six-pack of Leopard Lager - gone. Three-quarters of a bottle of whiskey - no more; most likely cast between the countless shot glasses that now littered the table and consumed in far too swift succession.
Wedged awkwardly in his faithful shopping trolley, Lister rubbed some life back into his eyes with the heels of his hands. And no smegging memory of the previous evening whatsoever.
The vid screen was reeling with static, hovering in silent expectation with the words – “MESSAGE WAITING”.
Dad had something to say.
Lister groaned weakly as he attempted to extract himself from the metal frame. Perhaps he was going to give him a ticking off for not doing his robotics revision. His bowels churned through the escapades of the night before. Or maybe encourage him to take up the smegging tuba now that his precious Les Paul copy was orbiting the nearest planetoid.
Whether it be advice or reprimand, he definitely needed to hear it on a full stomach.
Lister had to take the lift two floors up to find some breakfast, but he didn’t care. Dispenser 52 did the best hangover-busting fry-up in the known universe and last night’s heavy session deemed it a medical necessity.
Both her fascia and tone lit up at his approach. “Morning, Dave,” she chided knowingly.
“Hey Fifty-Two” Lister grinned sheepishly, clearly rumbled. “You couldn’t rustle us up a bacon buttie with chilli sauce, could yer?”
The speaker buzzed with a chuckle. “Extra onions?”
“Cheers, darlin’.”
Lister sighed gratefully, soothed by the dispenser’s gentle hum as she got to work. Despite the cracking hangover, his internal body clock instinctively knew that he was late for his shift in the Drive Room. It was something so deeply engrained that it had now become instinctive.
He could piss Rimmer off in his sleep.
Lister grinned impishly, picturing the irritable flare of the hologram’s nostrils. He reveled in the lectures Rimmer gave him about punctuality and the importance of time-keeping. He beamed with silent pride each time he could snatch Rimmer’s attention away from his navigation calculations.
Even if he cursed his name, at least it was his name he spoke.
******
“You’re going on report for this, Lister! Deliberate dereliction of duty is a punishable offence – ”
Rimmer’s words slipped into silence the moment he realised they were falling on deaf ears. The Sleeping Quarters were abandoned.
The pen tabbed irritably against his Report Book. Scowling hazel eyes swept across the devastation littering the room that he knew to be inevitable, given the events of yesterday evening.
Last night’s schedule had dictated a designated “Rest Period” which he’d utilized by embarking on the next book on his reading list – Great Battles of History. His previous book - Sometimes You Have to Lose Before You’re Ready to Win - had been mysteriously flushed into space following the latest Engineering Exam results.
Last night, however, Lister had clearly been in one of those moods. The odd sideways glance from his book had shown that the man was making worryingly light work of his six-pack of Leopard Lager before deciding to embark on some unspoken mission to save Red Dwarf from the contents of their drinks cabinet.
It really wasn’t worth sticking around during these sessions. Lister would often descend into a level of drunkenness where he would appeal for privacy to use the video camera, and a slurred after-thought for a lamb vindaloo. This time, Rimmer hadn’t waited for his cue. He’d slipped out, unnoticed, to utilize another bunkroom further down the corridor.
Rimmer glanced up. Sure enough, the vid screen flitted with “MESSAGE WAITING”.
Hunting through the shot glasses and flicking away takeaway cartons with his pen, Rimmer located the remote control. With a cursory glance back to the doorway to check that he was indeed alone, his thumb hovered uncertainly before hitting ‘play’.
There was a burst of static before the picture cleared to show Lister’s sorry sight. Rimmer frowned. The man was so pissed out of his head he could barely able to sit on his chair. Downing a shot of something unidentifiable, Lister wagged a patriarchal finger at the camera.
“You know what I’m gonna tell yer, son,” he slurred. “You’ve been sssssssmeggin’ about with it for months, and enough is enough.”
Lister selected another shot, downed it, then jabbed the glass towards the camera.
“You need to tell ‘im, Davey boy. You need to tell Rimmer the truth.”
******
The bacon buttie was practically demolished by the time he got back to the Sleeping Quarters. Lister was licking the last of the chilli sauce from his fingers when he clocked his bunkmate from the doorway. He froze, mid-suck.
Two pairs of eyes regarded each other warily.
“Rimmer – ” The name was garbled from the thumb still half-wedged between his lips.
Eyes fixated on his mouth, the hologram’s eyebrow twitched into an uncertain arch.
“Breakfast,” Lister said in some semblance of explanation. “I was gonna go down straight after.”
An unintelligible noise escaped Rimmer’s throat before he tore his focus away from Lister’s mouth and back to the collection of shot glasses on the table.
Lister approached slowly, cheeks flushing as he clocked the mess. It was pretty bad, even by his standards.
“Sorry, man.” He rubbed the back of his neck in apology. “Had a bit of a heavy one last night.”
Amongst the graveyard of empty, fallen shot glasses stood a lone soldier. Rimmer plucked it out between his finger and thumb, inspecting the yellow-ish liquid with a curl of the lip.
“It’s whiskey,” Lister assured. “I’m not that disgustin’.”
Still clutching the offending item, Rimmer sank down into the sofa. His silence bored into him.
Lister rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Look, Kryten will help me sort it. You know, bit of Rasta Billy Skank to tidy up to? The promise of some ironing afterwards if he’s good? It’ll be like a trip to Disneyland for ‘im.”
Without warning, Rimmer threw back the shot. Swallowing hard, the back of his hand shot to his mouth until he felt it safe to exhale.
Lister’s eyebrows flew up to his hairline before crash-landing at the bridge of his nose. “Or you could – ” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Rimmer, it’s 11am.”
Rimmer hissed through his teeth. “11:27,” he corrected emphatically. “You were due on shift half an hour ago.” He stared, unseeing, at the empty glass. “I came to find you.”
Lister’s eyes locked on the glass as he set it back on the table again. “I know,” he said distantly. “Sorry.”
He waited for what he felt like would be an appropriate amount of time before asking the question so obvious, it was surrounded by flashing neon lights and a horn that trumpeted ‘HELLO?’ every five seconds until someone appeased it.
“Um. Rimmer, are you okay?”
“Of course I'm okay!” Rimmer replied instantly, two octaves higher and three times faster than normal. “Why would I not be okay? Do I not look like I'm okay? I'm okay. I'm ooooooo-kay.”
Lister folded his arms as Rimmer leant forward once again, this time to grab the entire bottle. His eyebrow cocked as Rimmer’s trembling hand attempted the seemingly epic task of pouring himself another shot of whiskey into the nearest upright shot glass. The bottle rattled nervously against the rim.
“Smeg’s sake,” Rimmer whimpered. He slumped back in his seat and took a mournful swig from the bottle instead.
Lister blinked. Ooooooo-kay.
Avoiding the metaphysical eggshells, he approached the sofa carefully. Rasta plaits slipped from his shoulder as Lister dipped his head in an attempt to snare the man’s gaze.
“Erm – Rimmer?”
The hologram wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his wrist. "Hmm?"
"You wanna tell me what's goin’ on?"
“Gahhhhh, see - ” Rimmer seemed to deliberately labour over replacing the bottle cap, “ - I was going to ask you the same question.” He tapped the lid thoughtfully with his fingernail. "But I'm not entirely sure I want to know.”
“Well, maybe if you – ” Lister’s soft tone immediately hardened as he lit upon the vid screen. “Hey! I had a message from me Dad on there!”
Rimmer nodded, unsteady. “Eloquent, as always,” he mumbled.
Lister scowled at him. “That’s supposed to be private, y’know,” he snapped. “It’s not designed to be some kind of public information broadcast.” He sighed as he tapped ‘Skip Back’ in order to replay the message. "He’s gonna give me a dressing down for not revisin’, I just know it.”
Alarmed, Rimmer quickly stood, features retreating to the realms of panic. “Well, that Drive Room isn’t going to man itself,” he said, stumbling over the words. “Plenty to be getting on with – ”
Lister knocked him back with a single glare. “The Drive Room can smeggin’ wait, Rimmer. Especially seeing as you seem to be so damned interested in watching a bloke getting a dressing down from his old man. Sit the smeg down.”
Wide eyes flitted left and right as they assessed the anger flaring in Lister’s gaze. Conclusion reached, Rimmer sank back down onto the sofa. Lister gave a reprimanding nod before hitting ‘play’.
Struggling back into his chair with an air of authority only known to the most deceptive of drunks, Lister addressed the camera.
“You know what I’m gonna tell yer, son,” he slurred. “You’ve been sssssssmeggin’ about with it for months, and enough is enough.” The Lister on screen selected another shot, downed it, then jabbed the glass towards the camera. “You need to tell ‘im, Davey boy. You need to tell Rimmer the truth.”
Lister’s adam’s apple plummeted hard into his stomach, scattering forth a flurry of butterflies.
Shit. SHIT. SHIT.
“You’ve been lyin’ to yourself for far too long. You only smeg about and wind ‘im up so you can get his attention, y’know.”
Lister willed his thumb to hit ‘stop’, but the remote quivered too violently in his hand for any semblance of control.
“Just admit it, David. You fancy the tight blue pants off of 'im.”
The Lister on screen swallowed back another whiskey. The Lister in the Sleeping Quarters merely swallowed.
“Just tell ‘im how you feel, Davey boy. Don’t worry if you don’t know what to say. Just smeggin’ kiss ‘im!” Lister winked at the camera conspiratorially, a gesture rather wasted on its captive audience. “He’ll get the message pretty quick then, eh son?”
Lister’s eyes closed softly. Rimmer took a hard swig from the bottle.
“So when you go on shift with him this morning, you need to just go for it.” Lister took another shot before wagging a reprimanding finger. “And I want to hear all of the sordid details later.” With a final flourish, he toasted the camera with a grin. “Good luck, Davey boy!”
And with that, he was gone. The drunken confessions of the previous night slunk back into static, leaving the room stone-cold, smegging sober.
Lister’s legs threw in their resignation letter and promptly left the office, leaving him to slump onto the sofa beside him.
Both men could do nothing but stare straight ahead.
“Smeg.”
“Indeed.”
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister
Rating: Explicit for second chapter
Spoilers: Series X - 'Fathers and Suns'
Summary: Set just after the events of 'Fathers and Suns', Lister's father leaves him a new message. Sometimes it takes a father's insight to help you see things clearly.
Disclaimer: I don't own Red Dwarf. Boo.
******
The wish is father to the thought. - Proverb
The clues were all there.
Six-pack of Leopard Lager - gone. Three-quarters of a bottle of whiskey - no more; most likely cast between the countless shot glasses that now littered the table and consumed in far too swift succession.
Wedged awkwardly in his faithful shopping trolley, Lister rubbed some life back into his eyes with the heels of his hands. And no smegging memory of the previous evening whatsoever.
The vid screen was reeling with static, hovering in silent expectation with the words – “MESSAGE WAITING”.
Dad had something to say.
Lister groaned weakly as he attempted to extract himself from the metal frame. Perhaps he was going to give him a ticking off for not doing his robotics revision. His bowels churned through the escapades of the night before. Or maybe encourage him to take up the smegging tuba now that his precious Les Paul copy was orbiting the nearest planetoid.
Whether it be advice or reprimand, he definitely needed to hear it on a full stomach.
Lister had to take the lift two floors up to find some breakfast, but he didn’t care. Dispenser 52 did the best hangover-busting fry-up in the known universe and last night’s heavy session deemed it a medical necessity.
Both her fascia and tone lit up at his approach. “Morning, Dave,” she chided knowingly.
“Hey Fifty-Two” Lister grinned sheepishly, clearly rumbled. “You couldn’t rustle us up a bacon buttie with chilli sauce, could yer?”
The speaker buzzed with a chuckle. “Extra onions?”
“Cheers, darlin’.”
Lister sighed gratefully, soothed by the dispenser’s gentle hum as she got to work. Despite the cracking hangover, his internal body clock instinctively knew that he was late for his shift in the Drive Room. It was something so deeply engrained that it had now become instinctive.
He could piss Rimmer off in his sleep.
Lister grinned impishly, picturing the irritable flare of the hologram’s nostrils. He reveled in the lectures Rimmer gave him about punctuality and the importance of time-keeping. He beamed with silent pride each time he could snatch Rimmer’s attention away from his navigation calculations.
Even if he cursed his name, at least it was his name he spoke.
******
“You’re going on report for this, Lister! Deliberate dereliction of duty is a punishable offence – ”
Rimmer’s words slipped into silence the moment he realised they were falling on deaf ears. The Sleeping Quarters were abandoned.
The pen tabbed irritably against his Report Book. Scowling hazel eyes swept across the devastation littering the room that he knew to be inevitable, given the events of yesterday evening.
Last night’s schedule had dictated a designated “Rest Period” which he’d utilized by embarking on the next book on his reading list – Great Battles of History. His previous book - Sometimes You Have to Lose Before You’re Ready to Win - had been mysteriously flushed into space following the latest Engineering Exam results.
Last night, however, Lister had clearly been in one of those moods. The odd sideways glance from his book had shown that the man was making worryingly light work of his six-pack of Leopard Lager before deciding to embark on some unspoken mission to save Red Dwarf from the contents of their drinks cabinet.
It really wasn’t worth sticking around during these sessions. Lister would often descend into a level of drunkenness where he would appeal for privacy to use the video camera, and a slurred after-thought for a lamb vindaloo. This time, Rimmer hadn’t waited for his cue. He’d slipped out, unnoticed, to utilize another bunkroom further down the corridor.
Rimmer glanced up. Sure enough, the vid screen flitted with “MESSAGE WAITING”.
Hunting through the shot glasses and flicking away takeaway cartons with his pen, Rimmer located the remote control. With a cursory glance back to the doorway to check that he was indeed alone, his thumb hovered uncertainly before hitting ‘play’.
There was a burst of static before the picture cleared to show Lister’s sorry sight. Rimmer frowned. The man was so pissed out of his head he could barely able to sit on his chair. Downing a shot of something unidentifiable, Lister wagged a patriarchal finger at the camera.
“You know what I’m gonna tell yer, son,” he slurred. “You’ve been sssssssmeggin’ about with it for months, and enough is enough.”
Lister selected another shot, downed it, then jabbed the glass towards the camera.
“You need to tell ‘im, Davey boy. You need to tell Rimmer the truth.”
******
The bacon buttie was practically demolished by the time he got back to the Sleeping Quarters. Lister was licking the last of the chilli sauce from his fingers when he clocked his bunkmate from the doorway. He froze, mid-suck.
Two pairs of eyes regarded each other warily.
“Rimmer – ” The name was garbled from the thumb still half-wedged between his lips.
Eyes fixated on his mouth, the hologram’s eyebrow twitched into an uncertain arch.
“Breakfast,” Lister said in some semblance of explanation. “I was gonna go down straight after.”
An unintelligible noise escaped Rimmer’s throat before he tore his focus away from Lister’s mouth and back to the collection of shot glasses on the table.
Lister approached slowly, cheeks flushing as he clocked the mess. It was pretty bad, even by his standards.
“Sorry, man.” He rubbed the back of his neck in apology. “Had a bit of a heavy one last night.”
Amongst the graveyard of empty, fallen shot glasses stood a lone soldier. Rimmer plucked it out between his finger and thumb, inspecting the yellow-ish liquid with a curl of the lip.
“It’s whiskey,” Lister assured. “I’m not that disgustin’.”
Still clutching the offending item, Rimmer sank down into the sofa. His silence bored into him.
Lister rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Look, Kryten will help me sort it. You know, bit of Rasta Billy Skank to tidy up to? The promise of some ironing afterwards if he’s good? It’ll be like a trip to Disneyland for ‘im.”
Without warning, Rimmer threw back the shot. Swallowing hard, the back of his hand shot to his mouth until he felt it safe to exhale.
Lister’s eyebrows flew up to his hairline before crash-landing at the bridge of his nose. “Or you could – ” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Rimmer, it’s 11am.”
Rimmer hissed through his teeth. “11:27,” he corrected emphatically. “You were due on shift half an hour ago.” He stared, unseeing, at the empty glass. “I came to find you.”
Lister’s eyes locked on the glass as he set it back on the table again. “I know,” he said distantly. “Sorry.”
He waited for what he felt like would be an appropriate amount of time before asking the question so obvious, it was surrounded by flashing neon lights and a horn that trumpeted ‘HELLO?’ every five seconds until someone appeased it.
“Um. Rimmer, are you okay?”
“Of course I'm okay!” Rimmer replied instantly, two octaves higher and three times faster than normal. “Why would I not be okay? Do I not look like I'm okay? I'm okay. I'm ooooooo-kay.”
Lister folded his arms as Rimmer leant forward once again, this time to grab the entire bottle. His eyebrow cocked as Rimmer’s trembling hand attempted the seemingly epic task of pouring himself another shot of whiskey into the nearest upright shot glass. The bottle rattled nervously against the rim.
“Smeg’s sake,” Rimmer whimpered. He slumped back in his seat and took a mournful swig from the bottle instead.
Lister blinked. Ooooooo-kay.
Avoiding the metaphysical eggshells, he approached the sofa carefully. Rasta plaits slipped from his shoulder as Lister dipped his head in an attempt to snare the man’s gaze.
“Erm – Rimmer?”
The hologram wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his wrist. "Hmm?"
"You wanna tell me what's goin’ on?"
“Gahhhhh, see - ” Rimmer seemed to deliberately labour over replacing the bottle cap, “ - I was going to ask you the same question.” He tapped the lid thoughtfully with his fingernail. "But I'm not entirely sure I want to know.”
“Well, maybe if you – ” Lister’s soft tone immediately hardened as he lit upon the vid screen. “Hey! I had a message from me Dad on there!”
Rimmer nodded, unsteady. “Eloquent, as always,” he mumbled.
Lister scowled at him. “That’s supposed to be private, y’know,” he snapped. “It’s not designed to be some kind of public information broadcast.” He sighed as he tapped ‘Skip Back’ in order to replay the message. "He’s gonna give me a dressing down for not revisin’, I just know it.”
Alarmed, Rimmer quickly stood, features retreating to the realms of panic. “Well, that Drive Room isn’t going to man itself,” he said, stumbling over the words. “Plenty to be getting on with – ”
Lister knocked him back with a single glare. “The Drive Room can smeggin’ wait, Rimmer. Especially seeing as you seem to be so damned interested in watching a bloke getting a dressing down from his old man. Sit the smeg down.”
Wide eyes flitted left and right as they assessed the anger flaring in Lister’s gaze. Conclusion reached, Rimmer sank back down onto the sofa. Lister gave a reprimanding nod before hitting ‘play’.
Struggling back into his chair with an air of authority only known to the most deceptive of drunks, Lister addressed the camera.
“You know what I’m gonna tell yer, son,” he slurred. “You’ve been sssssssmeggin’ about with it for months, and enough is enough.” The Lister on screen selected another shot, downed it, then jabbed the glass towards the camera. “You need to tell ‘im, Davey boy. You need to tell Rimmer the truth.”
Lister’s adam’s apple plummeted hard into his stomach, scattering forth a flurry of butterflies.
Shit. SHIT. SHIT.
“You’ve been lyin’ to yourself for far too long. You only smeg about and wind ‘im up so you can get his attention, y’know.”
Lister willed his thumb to hit ‘stop’, but the remote quivered too violently in his hand for any semblance of control.
“Just admit it, David. You fancy the tight blue pants off of 'im.”
The Lister on screen swallowed back another whiskey. The Lister in the Sleeping Quarters merely swallowed.
“Just tell ‘im how you feel, Davey boy. Don’t worry if you don’t know what to say. Just smeggin’ kiss ‘im!” Lister winked at the camera conspiratorially, a gesture rather wasted on its captive audience. “He’ll get the message pretty quick then, eh son?”
Lister’s eyes closed softly. Rimmer took a hard swig from the bottle.
“So when you go on shift with him this morning, you need to just go for it.” Lister took another shot before wagging a reprimanding finger. “And I want to hear all of the sordid details later.” With a final flourish, he toasted the camera with a grin. “Good luck, Davey boy!”
And with that, he was gone. The drunken confessions of the previous night slunk back into static, leaving the room stone-cold, smegging sober.
Lister’s legs threw in their resignation letter and promptly left the office, leaving him to slump onto the sofa beside him.
Both men could do nothing but stare straight ahead.
“Smeg.”
“Indeed.”
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no subject
Date: 2013-07-13 06:09 pm (UTC)How did you manage to write in this weather? I feel as though I'm melting.
no subject
Date: 2013-07-13 06:48 pm (UTC)I wrote about 50% of this chapter today!!! Suddenly I got unstuck and things began to flow. Hopefully I can say the same for part two! :-S
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Date: 2013-07-13 06:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-13 06:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-13 06:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-13 07:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-13 06:30 pm (UTC)I just rewatched "Fathers and Suns" last night, so seeing this made me grin. The length is spot on (and oh-so-frustrating!) and the characterizations made me grin. :)
no subject
Date: 2013-07-13 06:55 pm (UTC)So glad you enjoyed!
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Date: 2013-07-13 09:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-13 09:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-14 04:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-14 06:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-14 07:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-14 07:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-14 12:00 am (UTC)<3333333
NOW WHERE IS CHAPTER TWO, I DEMAND IT IMMEDIATELY.
no subject
Date: 2013-07-14 07:02 am (UTC)/slinks off to work on chapter two
no subject
Date: 2013-07-14 01:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-14 07:10 am (UTC)And I specifically wrote in the love seat with you in mind! Enjoy!
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Date: 2013-07-14 05:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-14 06:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-14 07:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-14 07:37 pm (UTC)