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During his third day of being completely alone in the universe, Dave Lister feels a hand at the base of his spine.
It'd been an ordinary morning so far. Slept on his invisible bunk until past noon, prised himself groggily to his feet to scoff a curry Kryten had left for him on an invisible table, stared at the spot where the TV used to be because he still hadn't gotten round to unpacking the M-Corp boxes. Just the sight of them lying scattered around the half-visible bunkroom makes him tired.
He thought he'd really been getting a handle on all this Last Human Alive smeg. He'd been doing really well - drinking with the Cat, weekly poker nights with everyone crowded into the bunkroom, wake-up calls from Kryten at one in the afternoon to be grumbled at by Rimmer. He was on top of things. It might be a lonely, godless universe, but Dave Lister made it work.
Now, though, without Kryten's constant cleaning and Rimmer's constant whining and the Cat's constant preening, Lister's completely alone. Completely out of his depth. When Holly had first woken him from stasis all those years ago, Lister had imagined what being alone 3 million years into deep space might be like. Before he'd caught a glimpse of Rimmer revived as a hologram or found the Cat skulking around, he'd imagined it would go a little like this, only he'd be so drunk all the time he wouldn't notice. And at least then he'd have had Holly to talk to, computer senility aside.
So, although he can't see the hand that's hovering at his back, and he can't hear anything that the hand's owner might be telling him, it's quite comforting to know it's there. A nice dismembered limb to rub comfortingly in the space where his t-shirt's ridden up a bit.
It's not Kryten, he knows. The hand is too warm and not rubbery enough, although the mechanoid probably would have been his first go-to for physical comfort, if Lister was that sort of guy. And he can't imagine the Cat coming anywhere near administering a reassuring rub.
Must be Rimmer then, unless someone else has snuck on board while Lister's left oblivious. But can he really imagine Rimmer gently caressing his spine? Rimmer's hands trailing gently up to his shoulders and lightly squeezing?
Not that he's complaining. Not much room to complain, when he's been stuck with nothing but white boxes for company for days. He imagines Rimmer's saying something along the lines of I can't believe I'm doing this, or you can't prove it's me, it could be anyone, nobody will ever have to know.
Lister suspects he knows why Rimmer's doing this. He has an inkling, anyway. Those nights tucked in their separate bunks after Rimmer returned from his stint as Ace, when they still felt lightyears apart because Rimmer might have ditched the wig, but the persona still clung to him like a security blanket. To ease the tension, Lister had said:
"I dreamed about you, man."
"Oh yeah? Something horrible and humiliating, was it? You set fire to my uniform and I didn't notice, went everywhere naked? I got sick of your guitar playing and tried to eject you into space?"
Lister smirked at that. "Nah, man. Nothing like that. Just, y'know, about you comin' back."
"Well, I'm back now."
"Yeah. Didn't go exactly like it did in the dreams, though."
"No? Kochanski didn't leave, and you had raucous sex while I tried to sleep one room over?"
"No, Rimmer!" Lister sighed. "It wasn't about Krissie. Was about you. Us. Snogging."
Rimmer was silent, shocked into it. Lister smirked some more. Eventually, Rimmer mumbled, "Well, I bet you're glad things turned out differently, then."
Now Lister wonders if Rimmer's remembering that conversation. Maybe he's broaching the subject now, while Lister can't hear. I dreamed of you too, Listy, when I was in the Wildfire. Every night. We made hot, passionate love with Hammond Organ music in the background, and then we went off to save the galaxy together.
"Hey, Rimmer," Lister says. He toys with the invisible thread coming loose from an invisible cushion while he talks.
"I appreciate you being here, man. Doesn't half get lonely."
Now Rimmer's probably smirking, calling Lister a sap or a goit or some combination of the two. Lister knows Rimmer's not far off, himself; he might have giggled a bit at the thought of Lister's curried breakfasts coming to bite him on the arse when he was crippled with indigestion, but he'd soon sobered up when the gravity of the situation really hit. Lister never misses the worry in his eyes.
"I hope you guys are finding a way to get me out of this smegging mess, by the way. Must be some way to get rid of M-Corp once and for all." Lister pauses to take a swig of his M-Corp lager, swills it around his mouth for courage. "I'm missing you guys a lot. Fifteen years ago I would've laughed you out of the room if you'd said I'd miss you. But I do, man. I miss your cavernous nostrils. I miss Kryten's iced tea. I miss the Cat unplugging vital consoles to use his hairdryer. Smeg, I even miss your emergency drills. It's only been three days, I dunno how I'm gonna cope, Rimsy."
Lister comforts himself with the knowledge that if Rimmer could respond, Lister wouldn't be saying any of this. He'd keep quiet until they both forgot the dreams ever happened, or until they died. Rimmer's probably telling himself the same thing-
As if in further reassurance, the hand goes to tangle around a dreadlock, and something warm and slightly wet nudges slightly against his cheek.
Lips.
"I love you too, man."