Chapter Text
The rumours were rampant. Raging. Out of control.
Arnold Rimmer had finally pulled; that much was certain. The details, however, were a shambles even among the most renowned gossip-mongers. Most of them agreed: The (un)lucky lady had been Yvonne McGruder. A few claimed that Rimmer had been uncharacteristically brave and/or pissed beyond belief as he approached McGruder; others insisted that she had made the first move.
Whatever the truth, Lister knew it had not gone terribly well, because it was now the next evening and Rimmer was getting drunk in their quarters.
“I’m cursed, you know.” There was no slur in his voice yet, just slightly more pathos than usual. “Totally, indubitably cursed.”
“Cursed?”
Rimmer knocked back another whisky. “You know what I mean. Or maybe you don’t,” he added with a reddened glare, “Mr ‘I’ve Shagged Hundreds of Women at Age 20’.”
“Hey! I have not shagged hundreds of women,” Lister protested. “And I’m 25, I keep telling you.”
“Yeah, sssomething like that.” There it was, the first slur. “Meanwhile, here’s me, already 30.”
“You’re 31.”
“Whatever. 30 yearsss…and what - what’ve I got to show for it? A romantic history of such insss - insin - insignif - oh, who cares.” Slurp.
“Well, why do you care?” Lister couldn’t resist taking the piss. “I thought you went in for all that Love Celibates smeg. What was it, ‘Love is demanding, love is crazy’?”
“Cruel. Love is cruel,” Rimmer corrected testily. “And that’ssh nothing to do with…with…”
“Sex?”
“Yesh, that.”
“See, you can’t even say it.”
“Shut up.”
“You know, sex requires a certain amount of character, Rimmer,” Lister teased in an uncanny imitation of Captain Hollister’s voice. “A certain amount of maturity.”
“Shut up, Lishter.”
“Like being able to say the word. Try it now — SEX.”
Rimmer groaned and pretended to pass out with his forehead stuck to the table.
Lister felt sorry for him, Rimmer could tell. Even so, what he was suggesting went farther than too far.
Firstly, he had kissed plenty of girls in his time, thank you so very much. His boyhood and twenties had not been entirely wasted, although most (all) of those dalliances had failed to develop into anything more. Nonetheless, it was rude of Lister to imply that inferior technique might have had something to do with it.
“Of course it’s not only that,” Lister lectured. “The fact that you’re a total smeghead might also have something to do with it. You want my advice - ”
“I don’t.”
“Stop smegging about with the Love Celibates. Forget the hypnosis and whatever other crap you read. Practise.”
“With you.”
“Yes, with me.”
Rimmer ran through the catalogue of accusations he could make. Desperate? No, that was weak; Lister was indeed a man of experience, and women seemed to throw themselves at him regardless of his slobbiness. It was all a big prank? Possible. Back to desperate - wait a smegging second. He narrowed his eyes at Lister.
“This is about Kochanski, isn’t it?”
Result! Lister actually flinched. “What about Kochanski?” he muttered.
“You’re desperate and lonely because she dumped you. You just want to use me as…as some sort of outlet, you slimy git.”
Unfortunately, the insult inflicted no damage. “All right, fine, I’m lonely. We both are.” It was Rimmer’s turn to flinch. “So what if we have some fun between girls and prepare you for, y’know, next time?”
“If that’s your chat-up line, it’s pathetic!”
Lister held up his hands apologetically. “All right, man, I’m sorry. I don’t want to argue about it, I just thought…”
Once every 6-8 years, Arnold Rimmer surprised himself by doing something reckless; he calculated that it had been about eight years since the last instance.
Lister, clearly thrown, laughed softly as they parted. “What’s - ” Too late; he was swept into another kiss, and judging by the way he responded, he had little to complain about regarding Rimmer’s skills.
“Well?” Rimmer sniffed.
The Cheshire-Cat smile and didactic tone were a disturbing combination. “If you want my honest opinion, it was too aggressive. You need to start out gentle, maybe do this with your hand as you…”
The heavy, erratic footfalls heralded one of two things: Either Lister would sing loudly and long into the night, or he would talk a load of nonsense before passing out. Rimmer didn’t bother asking himself why he didn’t leave the room or why he listened instead of putting in earplugs. The first was because he had nowhere else to go; the second was because he had nothing better to do.
He happened to be at the sink, examining his reflection. Lister had made an offhanded remark about his hair — how it would look better (to girls, he was careful to clarify) if he used less gel. Curls were deemed attractive. Allegedly.
Lister stumbled in, bleating that song about the miner’s daughter. He toppled face-first into the lower bunk before Rimmer could stop him.
The last time this had happened, his fingers had automatically reached for his notebook and pen. Now, however -
“Lister, kindly vacate my bunk.”
“Nnph.”
“Lister, get out before I put you on report!”
Lister turned his head just enough to speak unobstructed; most of his face was buried in Rimmer’s pillow. “Smeg off, man.”
As Rimmer wasn’t strong enough to haul Lister’s dead weight off the mattress, it was a pointless exercise that ended with him retreating to the top bunk in a sulk. He didn’t object to bunk decorations as a rule, not at all, but the cacophony of colours combined with the mess made his head throb.
“Why didn’t Krissie like me?”
So tonight was going to be a talking night, and what a wonderful choice of subject.
“Why’ssshe with - with - with - ”
“Tim,” Rimmer supplied so that Lister would move the smeg on from the withs.
“She’s so smart, you know? So pretty…the way she laughs…” Lister himself dissolved into beer-soaked giggles that made Rimmer’s hair stand on end. The pillow he wished he could put over his head reeked of the cigarettes that Lister was discourteous enough to smoke in bed.
“Still,” Lister drawled, his tone suddenly sombre, “you’re pretty.”
Rimmer’s head snapped up. What the smeg?
“You’re pretty,” Lister repeated as though he’d heard the question. “’S anyone told you…got lovely eyes? Love - lovely. So lovely.”
No, no one had ever told him that.
“’S always been girls, like, but y’know I’m - I’m an open-minded sort of bloke. I wouldn’t mind.” A long, low laugh. Rimmer peeked cautiously over one arm, wondering what exactly Lister wouldn’t mind; his eyes were still closed. “Wouldn’t mind…the other way round, know what I mean?”
Surprise, horror, and revulsion washed over Rimmer in quick succession, and then something else, something that tugged deep inside his - another high-pitched giggle interrupted the cascade. He curled into himself and tried to will his brain to stop thinking.
“Yeah. I like kissing you. Real…really nice. Like to…find out what you’re like.” Rimmer’s hands had started to tremble violently; during the long silence that followed this latest declaration, he pushed them hard into the mattress to stop them slapping him in the face. He was just beginning to feel the strain in his arms when Lister added in a possibly would-be-seductive rasp, “To know how you feel.”
Rimmer’s right hand came up and clapped itself over his mouth before the squeaky gasp could make its way through. He stayed like that during the first few snores, which started up after a final giggle.
10 wordless minutes ticked by before he decided it was safe to breathe again.
The fact that someone wanted him that way ought to have produced some sort of feeling. The warm fuzzies, perhaps. Or disgust, since it was Lister. Instead, there was only an awful emptiness that radiated down to his bones.
Their little game was a farce. If Lister’s complaint were mere loneliness, he could get off with any number of girls. He either pitied Rimmer mightily or — more likely — needed a new source of amusement and had settled on “helping” Rimmer. And just now, he’d been off his face, so what he’d said was meaningless, not to mention perverted.
Despite all the bedding and sundry items, the bunk felt like a deserted cave. Rimmer shivered and hugged himself close, trying to feel something other than cold and unmoored; he had no one to do it for him, after all.
Rimmer rarely saw 0600 on a Saturday. Although he often made a show of setting early alarms, he liked sleep too much to get up at such an indecent hour on a day off. Obviously, an exception was in order for a genuine emergency like this one.
As he crept out of the room, he verified with a glance over his shoulder that Lister was still out cold. That suited him just fine; the last thing he needed was for Lister to wake up and continue with his horrifying declarations from the previous night. Or (claim to) have forgotten all about them.
He didn’t know which would be worse.
Lister’s humming was the loudest it had ever been. People in the corridors actually turned to frown at him as he walked by.
Rimmer didn’t feel like making the effort to scold or threaten. They’d had a tiring shift, and if he said anything, something else loud and stupid would replace the humming anyhow. He quickened his step to keep up with Lister, whose entire body seemed abuzz with energy.
“Lock!” Lister called the second they both stepped inside. He reached for Rimmer before a single word of reluctance could escape through the lips he’d been daydreaming about.
He lost himself in slippery-soft textures and occasional nips, and in the way they stood pressed together, chests taut with the strength they were exerting as if to absorb each other. Oh, he felt so alive when they did this, especially because Rimmer came alive as well, his customary stiffness replaced by a warm enthusiasm.
But Rimmer was never the one to initiate and always the one to break it off. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were doing something illicit, not to mention fleeting — there had been an original purpose.
“So, how was that, Listy?” he asked lightly. “Am I ready to venture back out into the dating world?”
Lister felt something unpleasant creep onto his tongue, a bitter taste that had nothing to do with the kiss. Nevertheless, he kept smiling; it was hard not to, faced with rumpled curls and shining eyes. “Very nice,” he replied in a casual tone to match Rimmer’s. “You’re almost ready.”
“Almost?”
“See, all we’ve done is kiss,” he explained, thinking fast. “You were really more worried about the other stuff. You know, what comes after kissing.”
Rimmer could have sworn he felt the colour drain from his own face. “After kissing,” he repeated for lack of anything else to say. So what Lister had blabbed that night was -
“And you think you can help me with that, do you? Which is total nonsense, anyway, considering you’re not a girl,” he gabbled. “How would it - you - how would it help?”
Lister grinned lecherously. “I know what girls like.”
“Still.”
“And it’s not just about that. Sex,” he added sternly, no doubt to make Rimmer cringe, “also involves knowing what you like. I don’t think you know, man. I don’t think you’ve got a smegging clue.”
Lister hadn’t intended to goad Rimmer into revealing his innermost thoughts, so he was truly taken aback when it happened: “Why won’t you just admit that you want me?”