Fic: Birthday - L/K, R/L - PG
Mar. 22nd, 2006 02:16 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
kahvi.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
reddwarfslashTitle: Birthday
Pairing: Lister/Kochanski, Rimmer/Lister (implied)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Red Dwarf? Don't own it. Nor do I make money from any of this. Natch.
Spoilers: None, AFAIK.
Notes: Not perhaps very slashy, unless you're like me. Am posting it anyway. :p. Written as part of the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fanfic100 challenge - my table is here.
It was the usual half-hour soliloquy into which Lister elapsed with regular intervals around this time of year. Around the beginning of March he'd get restless, and wander about the ship seeming absent-minded, muttering things like "could have sworn it was tomorrow" and "around the third, wasn't it?" Any attempt to draw him into conversation would inevitably fail. Eventually, he'd take to sulking - first in the various empty bars, then huddled up in his bunk with a bottle of unidentifiable liquor, concentrating only on getting as inebriated as humanly possible. And when he felt he was drunk enough, he'd emerge from his little cave of unwashed blankets, and explain to Rimmer just exactly how he felt about Kristine Kochanski.
"It was her birthday yesterday, you know... I think," he confided, gesturing with the half-empty bottle.
"Quite so," Rimmer mumbled, shuddering a little as a few droplets of alcohol failed to hit his face and kept on traveling straight through what would have been his brain and the back of his skull.
"We was gonna get married." He leaned in close to the hologram. "I've never told that t'anyone. I'd picked out a ring and eveverythin..." He looked around dazedly, searching for the missing consonant. "G."
Rimmer nodded, deciding not to mention that Lister had, in fact, told him this during last year’s drunken bout of self-pity. And the year before that.
"Y'should've seen it, man; was this great, hulking stone with sort of... Like... Lightning flashing around in it. Y'had to charge it every night in this heaping big charger that yr s'posed t'keep by the bed." He closed his eyes, remembering. "They were holding it for me over on Mimas. S'pose they'd've sold it by now," he mused.
"It's certainly possible."
"Tha's OK tho'" Lister reflected, "'cause I din't ex'tly've t'money fr't."
Rimmer raised an eyebrow. When Lister reached a certain level of drunkenness, he'd start contracting words that strictly speaking should not be contractible. If he kept at it long enough, he'd eventually advance to a stage where his speech, perhaps to compensate, consisted entirely of vowels, or rather, the one vowel scouse seemed to have at its disposal; namely "eh".
"An e'en'f I had... Had... She's dead now, in'tshe? J's a tin full'f white dust. At least I din' eat 'er. Tha'd be a laff, righ'?" He sniffed a little. "Stupid git who ate's girfrnd..." The rest of the sentence was lost as Lister blew his nose loudly on his sleeve.
Why don't I just leave, Rimmer thought, not for the first time. We're on a ship the size of a city; why don't I just go somewhere and leave him to it? Perhaps, he admitted reluctantly, because he didn’t want to behave like the git Lister always accused him of being. Somehow, that would mean the bastard had won. He cleared his throat, uncertain of what was expected of him at this point. He wasn’t very good with male-bonding or any kind of bonding for that matter. Finally, he moved to Lister’s side, and tried to look supportive. At least his hologramatic nature exempted him from being expected to touch the other man in any way.
Lister kept sobbing, swaying a little, and clutching his bottle as though it was some sort of bizarre stuffed animal. He didn’t sit down though, nor return to his bunk, as he always did, eventually. The flow of words seemed to have stopped. All that emerged from his mouth was a horse croaking of “dunno’wht t’do.”
“Why don’t you go to bed, Dave?” Rimmer suggested, uncertain where the sudden familiarity came from. Lister’s sniffling stopped.
“Yer alrigh’, ye know that?” Lister exclaimed with gusto, and, apparently momentarily forgetting Rimmer’s intangibleness, wrapped both arms enthusiastically round the hologram’s waist. When they failed to meet solid matter, he lost his footing and staggered helplessly for a few, brief seconds, before slumping to the floor with a painful sound. The bottle, made as it was to withstand rough handling by drunken miners, rolled unharmed from Lister’s now open hand, colliding musically with the back wall. “I think I’m ready to go to bed now,” he mumbled, eyes closed.
“Don’t just stand there, you glorified mechanical toilet-scrubbers,” Rimmer yelled at the two scutters that had been helping him sort through his sock-drawer earlier, “help him!”
Clicking sarcastically, the service droids whirred into action, not really aided by Rimmer’s shouted instructions. By grabbing one leg and one arm each in their clawed maws, they were able to hoist Lister into the lower bunk. Having placed him there, one of them gently tugged the blanket out from underneath him, and placed it on top of his now sleeping form.
“That’s MY bunk, you idiots,” Rimmer shouted after them in outrage, as they hurried out of the room, pretending not to hear him. “Where am I supposed to sleep?” He eyed the top bunk with some suspicion. He highly doubted the sheets had ever been changed, much less the lively stained blankets. Who knew what lurked in the depths of that bed? He shuddered. No. No way. Resignedly, he sat down on the edge of the lower bunk, hoping he wasn’t inadvertently overlapping parts of Lister. The idiot was mumbling something in his sleep – Rimmer could just barely make out the word “love.” He sighed. It was going to be a long night.
“Sorry f’got bfthy,” Lister mouthed, and Rimmer rolled his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had as much as mentioned his birthday. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he celebrated it. He frowned, trying to think back to his childhood. He hadn’t had the most functional of families, true, but surely there’d been birthday parties? All children had birthday parties; he’d read about it in books.
“Git,” Rimmer mumbled, as though it was all Lister’s fault, somehow. His mind was a complete blank.
“Miss y’,” Lister sniffled, shifting position under the covers.
Yes, well, Rimmer thought testily, I miss being alive and having a body. It’s not just your precious ex-girlfriend that’s dead, you know. He tried to snort disdainfully, but his heart just wasn’t in it. He gazed towards Lister’s form, which suddenly turned, and looked straight at him.
“’R y’lonly, Rimmeh? C’mn!” He gestured vaguely towards the bunk. Rimmer’s brain suffered a complete meltdown.
“I…” He began, but he seemed to have temporarily lost the power of speech and rational thought. There was something fundamentally wrong with Lister’s offer, he knew, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember just exactly what it was. “OK,” he found himself saying.
It was impossible to find a space which some part of Lister’s body did not occupy, so Rimmer settled for trying to make himself as small as possible. He closed his eyes and turned towards the wall, trying not to think of the fact that parts of his body was joined with Lister’s. He couldn’t feel it; that was the eerie part. He didn’t particularly want to look down and see Lister’s knee – or worse - protruding through his abdomen. At the moment, Lister was lying with his back to him, but Rimmer could feel he was about to move. Sure enough, the scouser slumped heavily onto his other side, tossing an arm around, or rather straight through, Rimmer’s waist. “Happy bfdahy Rimmeh!” he exclaimed happily.
Not knowing how to reply, Rimmer just lay there quietly, feeling oddly content, for the remainder of the night.
Pairing: Lister/Kochanski, Rimmer/Lister (implied)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Red Dwarf? Don't own it. Nor do I make money from any of this. Natch.
Spoilers: None, AFAIK.
Notes: Not perhaps very slashy, unless you're like me. Am posting it anyway. :p. Written as part of the
fanfic100 challenge - my table is here.It was the usual half-hour soliloquy into which Lister elapsed with regular intervals around this time of year. Around the beginning of March he'd get restless, and wander about the ship seeming absent-minded, muttering things like "could have sworn it was tomorrow" and "around the third, wasn't it?" Any attempt to draw him into conversation would inevitably fail. Eventually, he'd take to sulking - first in the various empty bars, then huddled up in his bunk with a bottle of unidentifiable liquor, concentrating only on getting as inebriated as humanly possible. And when he felt he was drunk enough, he'd emerge from his little cave of unwashed blankets, and explain to Rimmer just exactly how he felt about Kristine Kochanski.
"It was her birthday yesterday, you know... I think," he confided, gesturing with the half-empty bottle.
"Quite so," Rimmer mumbled, shuddering a little as a few droplets of alcohol failed to hit his face and kept on traveling straight through what would have been his brain and the back of his skull.
"We was gonna get married." He leaned in close to the hologram. "I've never told that t'anyone. I'd picked out a ring and eveverythin..." He looked around dazedly, searching for the missing consonant. "G."
Rimmer nodded, deciding not to mention that Lister had, in fact, told him this during last year’s drunken bout of self-pity. And the year before that.
"Y'should've seen it, man; was this great, hulking stone with sort of... Like... Lightning flashing around in it. Y'had to charge it every night in this heaping big charger that yr s'posed t'keep by the bed." He closed his eyes, remembering. "They were holding it for me over on Mimas. S'pose they'd've sold it by now," he mused.
"It's certainly possible."
"Tha's OK tho'" Lister reflected, "'cause I din't ex'tly've t'money fr't."
Rimmer raised an eyebrow. When Lister reached a certain level of drunkenness, he'd start contracting words that strictly speaking should not be contractible. If he kept at it long enough, he'd eventually advance to a stage where his speech, perhaps to compensate, consisted entirely of vowels, or rather, the one vowel scouse seemed to have at its disposal; namely "eh".
"An e'en'f I had... Had... She's dead now, in'tshe? J's a tin full'f white dust. At least I din' eat 'er. Tha'd be a laff, righ'?" He sniffed a little. "Stupid git who ate's girfrnd..." The rest of the sentence was lost as Lister blew his nose loudly on his sleeve.
Why don't I just leave, Rimmer thought, not for the first time. We're on a ship the size of a city; why don't I just go somewhere and leave him to it? Perhaps, he admitted reluctantly, because he didn’t want to behave like the git Lister always accused him of being. Somehow, that would mean the bastard had won. He cleared his throat, uncertain of what was expected of him at this point. He wasn’t very good with male-bonding or any kind of bonding for that matter. Finally, he moved to Lister’s side, and tried to look supportive. At least his hologramatic nature exempted him from being expected to touch the other man in any way.
Lister kept sobbing, swaying a little, and clutching his bottle as though it was some sort of bizarre stuffed animal. He didn’t sit down though, nor return to his bunk, as he always did, eventually. The flow of words seemed to have stopped. All that emerged from his mouth was a horse croaking of “dunno’wht t’do.”
“Why don’t you go to bed, Dave?” Rimmer suggested, uncertain where the sudden familiarity came from. Lister’s sniffling stopped.
“Yer alrigh’, ye know that?” Lister exclaimed with gusto, and, apparently momentarily forgetting Rimmer’s intangibleness, wrapped both arms enthusiastically round the hologram’s waist. When they failed to meet solid matter, he lost his footing and staggered helplessly for a few, brief seconds, before slumping to the floor with a painful sound. The bottle, made as it was to withstand rough handling by drunken miners, rolled unharmed from Lister’s now open hand, colliding musically with the back wall. “I think I’m ready to go to bed now,” he mumbled, eyes closed.
“Don’t just stand there, you glorified mechanical toilet-scrubbers,” Rimmer yelled at the two scutters that had been helping him sort through his sock-drawer earlier, “help him!”
Clicking sarcastically, the service droids whirred into action, not really aided by Rimmer’s shouted instructions. By grabbing one leg and one arm each in their clawed maws, they were able to hoist Lister into the lower bunk. Having placed him there, one of them gently tugged the blanket out from underneath him, and placed it on top of his now sleeping form.
“That’s MY bunk, you idiots,” Rimmer shouted after them in outrage, as they hurried out of the room, pretending not to hear him. “Where am I supposed to sleep?” He eyed the top bunk with some suspicion. He highly doubted the sheets had ever been changed, much less the lively stained blankets. Who knew what lurked in the depths of that bed? He shuddered. No. No way. Resignedly, he sat down on the edge of the lower bunk, hoping he wasn’t inadvertently overlapping parts of Lister. The idiot was mumbling something in his sleep – Rimmer could just barely make out the word “love.” He sighed. It was going to be a long night.
“Sorry f’got bfthy,” Lister mouthed, and Rimmer rolled his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had as much as mentioned his birthday. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he celebrated it. He frowned, trying to think back to his childhood. He hadn’t had the most functional of families, true, but surely there’d been birthday parties? All children had birthday parties; he’d read about it in books.
“Git,” Rimmer mumbled, as though it was all Lister’s fault, somehow. His mind was a complete blank.
“Miss y’,” Lister sniffled, shifting position under the covers.
Yes, well, Rimmer thought testily, I miss being alive and having a body. It’s not just your precious ex-girlfriend that’s dead, you know. He tried to snort disdainfully, but his heart just wasn’t in it. He gazed towards Lister’s form, which suddenly turned, and looked straight at him.
“’R y’lonly, Rimmeh? C’mn!” He gestured vaguely towards the bunk. Rimmer’s brain suffered a complete meltdown.
“I…” He began, but he seemed to have temporarily lost the power of speech and rational thought. There was something fundamentally wrong with Lister’s offer, he knew, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember just exactly what it was. “OK,” he found himself saying.
It was impossible to find a space which some part of Lister’s body did not occupy, so Rimmer settled for trying to make himself as small as possible. He closed his eyes and turned towards the wall, trying not to think of the fact that parts of his body was joined with Lister’s. He couldn’t feel it; that was the eerie part. He didn’t particularly want to look down and see Lister’s knee – or worse - protruding through his abdomen. At the moment, Lister was lying with his back to him, but Rimmer could feel he was about to move. Sure enough, the scouser slumped heavily onto his other side, tossing an arm around, or rather straight through, Rimmer’s waist. “Happy bfdahy Rimmeh!” he exclaimed happily.
Not knowing how to reply, Rimmer just lay there quietly, feeling oddly content, for the remainder of the night.
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no subject
Date: 2006-03-22 02:26 am (UTC)Dahhhhhhhh! That was sweet. I can just picture Lister's face when he said "Happy bfdahy Rimmeh!". *giggles*
Slash, slash, everywhere! Everywhere my eyes can seeeeeeeeeeee! (Yes, I did sing that bit - aloud as well! Odd looks from boss right now!)
Well done =)
no subject
Date: 2006-03-22 08:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-22 02:37 am (UTC)Rimmer raised an eyebrow. When Lister reached a certain level of drunkenness, he'd start contracting words that strictly speaking should not be contractible. If he kept at it long enough, he'd eventually advance to a stage where his speech, perhaps to compensate, consisted entirely of vowels, or rather, the one vowel scouse seemed to have at its disposal; namely "eh".
Perfectly evocative.
He wasn’t very good with male-bonding - or any kind of bonding, for that matter.
"The only bonding I want to do with him involves a tube of superglue and a rabid hamster."
“Git,” Rimmer mumbled, as though it was all Lister’s fault, somehow. His mind was a complete blank.
Very Rimmer.
Very sweet when he gets into bed and is hopelessly not-hugged by Lister. And a nice creepy description of just what it means to be soft-light...
no subject
Date: 2006-03-22 09:33 am (UTC)I'm fascinated by the concept of soft-light holograms. It's a very creepy idea, and I'm sure it'd drive a lot of people crazy. At least Rimmer gets some breaks from time to time.
Yay feedback! :D
no subject
Date: 2006-03-22 03:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-22 10:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-08 04:08 am (UTC)Rimmer raised an eyebrow. When Lister reached a certain level of drunkenness, he'd start contracting words that strictly speaking should not be contractible.
AWESOME. :D You do his accent much justice.
And I loved the image of Lister holding onto his bottle like a bizarre stuffed animal. And Rimmer's reaction to the not-hug being to yell at the skutters. And the bit where he's too prim to consider swapping bunks and ends up sitting on the edge of his own, hoping he isn't inadvertingly overlapping Lister. And then wondering why he can't recall his parents throwing him a birthday party when he'd read about them in books...! Soft-light Rimmer has such lovely angst.
no subject
Date: 2008-03-10 07:53 pm (UTC)no subject
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