reddwarfslash | untitled post-BTE ficlet

(So it's a teeny, tiny scene I wrote for Tumblr off of a "long-term, married-type vibe" post, and it can take place anytime after BTE, though I envision it during Series X or post-X, to be honest. No particular warnings for this, probably work-safe if your job allows you log on to LJ at all.)

Deliriously lightheaded from the spices and juicy meats and veges sliding against one another in the sauce on his tongue, he was laying into his fourth big bite when he heard back behind his right shoulder, “That thing smells like methane had an aborted baby with one of your socks.”

Lister paused in the bite, lips managing to purse through the food, then completed it and chewed methodically, side-eyeing Rimmer as he came slowly around the other side of the tailfin sofa. Of course he had his nose in that book again, something about Napoleon’s balls (at least that was in the part Rimmer had read in bed last night when Lister demanded he put the book down and turn out the light, and he wouldn’t, so Lister forced him to read aloud as he was being tickled, until finally Rimmer gave in two pages later and threw the damn thing aside to lay forcibly across the smaller man and make him stop). Rimmer paused at the small engine block Lister had left on the ground, without looking up, and instead lifted each long leg over it as he turned the page. “Whadyou’nt,” Lister munched through the words, swallowing.

“Obviously not scintillating conversation,” Rimmer muttered, pointedly finishing his passage before transferring a look to the other man. “I thought we talked about you eating things that fall apart on the sofa?”

“You talked.” Lister took a smaller bite and gave him a wide grin; Rimmer grimaced briefly at the food dripping out. “Not one of the more hygienic things I’ve put my mouth on,” he noted.

“Why-” Lister shut up, chewed, and swallowed, licking at the edges of his mouth as he talked again. “Why don’t you have a bite? C’mere.”

“If there was something I wanted to eat-”

“Look, you like the chili chutney egg sandwich, and why would I steer you wrong again,” Lister pointed out. “Sit and just take a little bite, gods.”

Rimmer hesitated, then snapped the book shut and pointedly laid it on the furthest corner of the small table in front of the small sofa. Lister wisely refrained from pointing out he could still get sauce on the thing if he so chose, as Rimmer sat next to him. His leg was warm where it touched Lister’s, even through the thick layer of worn leather, and he felt unaccountably fond of the guy as he arranged the kebab and offered an unmolested edge. Rimmer cocked an eyebrow, but leaned forward and took far too small a bite, then chewed it too many times. “You really don’t have to think that hard about it,” Lister prodded, less fond.

Rimmer lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I’ve eaten worse. Mother once made me finish half a filet of sole.”

“Even I like fish,” Lister pointed out, puzzled.

“No, a sole. Shoe.” Both Lister’s eyebrows went up. “It’s a long story about new shoes and a growth spurt, and do you really want to hear this now?” Lister shook his head. “Still too messy.”

“The shoe?”

“THAT.” Rimmer pointed at the kebab. Lister held it up again. As Rimmer opened his mouth around the spot he’d eaten from, one of the imps that lived in Lister’s hindbrain grabbed his elbows and forced them up, getting the kebab in half of Rimmer’s face, pushing food into his mouth, up his nose, and all over his cheeks. Half-horrified, half-entertained, Lister pulled the food back as Rimmer straightened and fixed him with a glare. “Sorry, man,” Lister tried, shaking his head and not at all managing not to laugh at the sauce dripping from Rimmer’s prodigious nose. “Looked too good not to mess up.”

For a couple of seconds, Rimmer’s expression relaxed into one approaching amused, and Lister, charmed, only realized how out of character it was right before he surged forward and pressed his mouth sloppily on Lister’s mouth, nose, and cheek. “AWRHHHHH! OFF! Go have a wash-up!”

“But I LOOOOOOVE you!” Rimmer protested in a falsetto. “Oooh, Listy, I can’t keep my hands - I mean, my mouth, off-” He stopped when he saw Lister was suitably messy now, as well. “That’ll teach you,” he snapped off, standing and narrowing his eyes down at Lister. “Don’t try to outsmart the Duke.” He blew off a piece of veg from the corner of his mouth and turned to head for the washroom. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” He waited until Rimmer was in the washroom and called after him, confused, “Did you really have to eat a SHOE?”