Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I.

Anyone would have done it.

Anyone? Surely you’re joking, Lister.

Anyone in my situation.

Rimmer wishes he could verify this claim, which Lister tosses out as breezily as he would a spent cigarette. He can’t, though — they’re not likely to come across anyone else in Lister’s situation.

Experience tells him that imaginations are treacherous. Despite having been told by various authority figures that he has too much imagination and not enough brains to achieve his ambitions, he can’t let go of his idle thoughts. Right along with the maps he’d rather paint than study and the timetables he’d rather decorate than follow, there are terrible images. He sees a storm swirling behind his closed eyelids; Lister and Ace disappear into it repeatedly, sometimes arm-in-arm, sometimes hand-in-hand. Sometimes they’re still wearing their rain-soaked jackets, and sometimes…

Deb Lister scrubs the last of the lipstick off her throat, then wishes she hadn’t when a small but distinct purple mark glares back at her from the mirror. She’s not sure how long Ace can keep the boys occupied with tales from Mimas Test Base — thankfully with Rimmer keeping a jealous eye on proceedings — but it might be just long enough for her to conceal any evidence that might invite awkward questions.

II.

Lister is moping again. All the signs are there: Drooping shoulders, sighing every ten seconds, standing forlornly in front of various vending machines until they give him advice, simply prodding McCartney with a pencil instead of fixing him. Even his dreadlocks seem to be wilting.

Rimmer is annoyed again. All the signs are there: Twitching nostrils, sniffing every ten seconds, pacing furiously in front of various vending machines until they snipe at him, simply throwing books on the table instead of organising them. Even his hair seems to be rebelling.

One night, Lister opened his eyes to see a dark something hunched over the table. He tried to scramble into a sitting position. “Ow! Smeg!”

The thing slowly raised its head. “Lister?”

“Oh, it’s you. You scared me.”

“Sorry. I was just thinking.”

“Why do you need to sit there to think? What’s wrong with your bunk?”

“Does it matter?” Rimmer snapped.

Lister held up his hands in surrender. “No, I was just curious.” Rimmer laid his head back down on his arm. “Can I help?”

“With thinking? You?”

“Yeah, or anything else.”

“Go back to sleep, Lister.”

Lister tried to confront Rimmer during subsequent late-night “thinking” sessions, which he could see were in fact mope-a-thons to rival his own. “You’re sad about something,” he tried to explain.

“You do realise, don’t you, that you’re not a real Touch-T?”

Lister sighed. “No, but I can tell. And I’m here, you know, if you want to talk.”

“I don’t. And even if I did, you’re the last person I’d want to talk to.”

“Have it your way, man. But if you ever need help - ”

“For smeg’s sake!” Rimmer stood up abruptly. “I don’t need help! I need…”

Rimmer never finished the sentence, leaving Lister to go mad with curiosity in addition to moping. No, 23 doesn’t know what’s wrong, either, and she’s told him in her steeliest voice that he had better not go to 24 for elucidation. No one wants a repeat of certain recent incidents.

III.

Lately, Rimmer’s spent an unseemly amount of time frowning into the mirror. Lister doesn’t understand her agony. If Rimmer is unhappy with her appearance, surely she has the technology to reconfigure some settings — erase a wrinkle here, reinject a pigment there?

When Lister makes a suggestion to that effect, Rimmer looks away, then back to her, eyes travelling slowly - “Er, what d’you think you’re doing?” Lister demands.

“Maybe you’re right,” Rimmer says, turning back to the mirror to look at both their reflections. “You haven't changed.” This is more or less true; Lister looks much the same as she did a decade ago, even if she is knocking on fifty. She wonders what the smeg that’s got to do with what they were discussing.

It becomes clear the following morning, when she’s woken up by a very different-looking Rimmer. “I think you might have overdone it,” she begins cautiously, unable to tear her eyes away from the trim, smooth-skinned figure looming over her.

Rimmer’s nostrils flare mightily. “Lister, this whole thing was your idea. You said - ”

“I didn’t mean like that!” Lister interrupts, waving her hands in the direction of Rimmer’s utterly grey-free curls. “I just meant, if you wanted to make a few minor adjustments - where are you going?”

“To change back!”

IV. Inspired by this discussion.

Dear Dave:

Had someone else found the note, the creases and water damage could have sufficed to disguise the handwriting.

I don’t [blur] why [smudge] this. Not a promising beginning. Lister scanned the page for words and phrases that stood out: whilst I, pretend, the extent of, please (or was it pleased?), know if - Know if what?

“What are you doing?” demanded a trembling voice from over his shoulder. “Are those - is that - ”

“I’ve only just found this,” he replied without looking up. He wondered at his burning ears — he had at least two pieces of evidence that he was the intended recipient, so why did it feel wrong to be tracing a finger over the eroded bits, trying to fill them in?

“Give me that.”

“You can’t touch anything.”

“Exactly.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Lister finally looked up, but he couldn’t meet Rimmer’s eyes; he’d just seen a fragment that looked like ght be in lov, and his idea of what the complete phrase might have been was swimming in his vision.

“As you so kindly reminded me, I can’t touch anything. Therefore, the contents of that note are no longer relevant.” Rimmer recited this in a defeated way, much like he sometimes recited astronavigation facts that refused to stick in his memory. “Throw it away.”

“I will if you tell me what it said.” Almost as soon as the words left Lister’s mouth, Rimmer turned on his heel and strode out the door in the swift fashion peculiar to holograms.

Lister couldn’t think what to do except turn back to the note. As he did so, he felt his eyes zero in on the last line:

—sh to talk, you know ——— me.

V. Prompt from this list, requested by Janamelie: L/R - You don’t like about yourself that I do. :)

Rimmer likes to write notes — memos, daily goal lists, monthly goal lists, five-year plans, instructions for Kryten.

He also writes the odd missive to Lister, who’s tried and failed to predict the odds of any given one being an admonition (along the lines of “I grow weary of the increasing clutter in the drive room”) or a love note. It doesn’t bother him; he knows that in either case, the words will be thoughtfully chosen.

He’s somewhat surprised one day to find a list in his jacket.

Things you don’t like about yourself that I do

• Grey hairs
• Cheeks
  
• The fact that you’re the last human alive (with all the usual possibilities and caveats). I like having you all to myself.

Some of the letters are overextended, crooked, or otherwise malformed, like - ah, like Rimmer wrote this the night of his wine-soaked deathday party, putting words to paper that he resists saying out loud for obvious reasons.

Lister decides to pen a reply; it’s only fair.

Things you don’t like about yourself that I do

• Grey hairs
• Laugh lines
• The fact that you’re dead (barring miracles of technology). It basically means you’re stuck with me for all eternity. I hope you’re prepared.
  

VI. Anon request: “That whole prompt list is so perfect for The Boys...but can I request “Things I said when you told me you were pregnant” with a Rimmer/Lister leaning?”

“Ahem.”

Lister didn’t look up. His head — his entire body, in fact — felt like a bag of rocks. There was no way he was moving it for anything less than an alien invasion, and there were no such things as aliens.

“A-HE-HEM.”

“Rimmer,” Lister sighed. “Whatever it is, just.” His brain gave up halfway through the sentence. He was overheated and miserable, it whined. Let someone else’s brain deal with Rimmer’s vagaries. “Just.”

“’Msrrrlsty.”

“Eh?”

“I said I’m sorry,” Rimmer repeated more clearly. “For the things I said when you told me you were pregnant. I was…out of line.”

Lister finally found the strength to lever his head up and vaguely in Rimmer’s direction. This was no alien invasion, but -

“Bit late for that.” Well, at least he could do a respectable croak. “’M ready to pop.”

“I know. I know it’s any day now and I wish I could do more but I’m useless seeing as I can’t touch anything and I don’t think Kryten really knows a smegging thing about Caesarian sections other than what he’s seen on the telly and I don’t know what to do what if he has a meltdown again,” Rimmer muttered at double speed, staring at his “Arnie does it best” sign.

Foggy though Lister’s mind was at the moment, it managed to locate a point in all that babbling. “I’m not going to die, Rimmer,” he said gently (or perhaps his vocal cords were simply worn out). “Not after 9 months on your ‘Whole-Body and -Mind Health Plan’.”

“You cheat all the time.”

“Whatever, man.” Lister’s neck muscles gave out and returned his head to the pillow. It was too warm. So fluffy, though. So, so soft. “Not going to die,” he yawned. “Now leave me alone.”

“Right.” Rimmer cleared his throat. “Right. I’ll, um, I’ll be back in an hour with Kryten. For your check-up.”

For once, Lister didn’t feel compelled to loudly express his opinion that a check-up every three hours was ridiculous. As he watched Rimmer go, he felt a twinge somewhere – in his chest or in his gut, he wasn’t sure. Strange. He’d become familiar with what Kryten had assured him were “false” labour contractions, but this was new…

Chapter Text

VII. Requested by angelicrelic: AU where baby Lister and Rimmer went to kindergarten together and the antics that ensued between them there :p

Bringing a stray kitten into the classroom was against regulations, but wide-eyed looks and piteous mewling from both it and the boy who’d found it had clouded Miss Holly’s judgement. Even Mr Kryten, after spending an unusually long time consulting his behaviour protocols, had agreed that it could stay until the children went home. The kitten seemed content to be cuddled and petted and tickled, and it was tiny — it couldn’t have been more than 3 weeks old. The day should have been easy, and yet.

“I’m gonna call it Frankie,” David Lister declared, dreadlocks flapping as he bounced in his seat along with the kitten in his arms. “For Frankst - Fra - Frank-en-stein.”

“What a silly name,” Arnold Rimmer retorted in his best pompous voice. “It’s too big for such a small cat.”

David stuck his tongue out at him. “It’s not your cat, smeghead. I found it, so I can call it what I want.”

“It’s not yours either, you gimboid. And stop fidgeting, you’ll hurt it.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“Boys, boys,” Mr Kryten cut in reprovingly. He knelt down to their level and put an angular hand on each of their heads. Miss Holly, keeping an eye on the situation from across the room, flinched as the right sank heavily into Arnold’s mop of curls to land on his head. She’d been assured that Mr Kryten’s extremities were quite safe and touch-sensitive despite their appearance, but she was given to worrying about her charges’ little limbs and bones.

“Now, what have we learned about gentle words?” he was saying, looking from David to Arnold and back in turn. “Do you remember?”

“Yes,” they replied sullenly.

“What did we say?” Mr Kryten prompted.

“No calling names,” David and Arnold said in unison, both rolling their eyes toward the ceiling.

“Good. I don’t want to hear any more of those bad, bad words. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mr Kryten.”

The kitten yawned. As Mr Kryten stood back up, Arnold stretched out a chubby hand to pat its head. “It wants a nap.”

“Yeah,” David agreed.

Arnold clearly wanted to carry the kitten over to the mats, but David wouldn’t let go. Miss Holly watched them reach a compromise: David cradled the head and shoulders, while Arnold held his hands under the hind legs.

“Cooperation,” Mr Kryten whispered. “I’ve been told it’s an important skill for young humans to learn.”

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Miss Holly replied. The two children carefully lowering the kitten onto a mat together was a lovely sight, as was David retrieving his favourite tattered blanket.

“Put this on. It’ll be nice and warm.”

Arnold scoffed. “Kittens don’t need blankets, miladdo.”

“How would you know, miladdo?” David retorted, putting his hands on his hips.

“I just know.”

“You don’t know anything!”

“I know everything, actually.”

“You’re such a sme…”

Miss Holly blew a lock of blonde hair out of her face and counted to five. It was her turn to defuse the bomb.

VIII. Requested by LordValeryMimes: Rimmer doesn’t always wear his shiny blue uniform when he’s off-duty, especially now that he and Lister are a couple, but what DOES he wear in his downtime? And more importantly, what does Lister think of it?

Lister didn’t dislike everything about the uniform. The colour suited Rimmer, and the cut sat well on his shoulders and hips. But there was no denying that the ensemble made him look rather cold and unapproachable. And while Lister couldn’t care less if his adventurous hands creased the fabric, he’d noticed Rimmer frowning and getting huffy as he examined himself in the mirror after snog sessions.

“You know, this is a bit weird.”

“Hmm?” Rimmer’s mind was obviously elsewhere. He looked down blankly at Lister out of a flushed face. “What is?”

“This.” Lister gestured at what he’d just exposed — braces buttoned to miraculously unwrinkled trousers. “It’s not really you, is it? All buttoned up and starched to smeg.”

The unspoken I’ve seen what you’re like when these come off hung in the air between their lips. Rimmer chuckled nervously. “I don’t know what you mean,” he whispered, and Lister decided to be merciful. “Come closer, man, I can’t wait for you all day.”

He slept late the following morning. Through the just-awakened haze in his eyes, he saw a flash of khaki. “Rimmer?”

“Good morning.”

Lister felt his grin stretching wider and wider as he took in the sight. Trousers scavenged from an old JMC uniform, a t-shirt, a belt. No braces. It was oddly familiar, he realised, because he’d seen that look often on his youthful, custard-stained self. “Next stop, Hawaiian shirts?”

“Never.”

True to his word, Rimmer did not start wearing Hawaiian shirts. He did, however, dig out a military grey jacket that might have been his three million-odd years ago, and he and Lister both relished the ease with which it slid off his shoulders during crucial moments. Lister also loved the access to smooth, thin t-shirt fabric and the skin underneath, the satisfying yank and screeop of pulling the belt open.

“But I don’t want you to give up the other stuff completely,” he told Rimmer one day, toying with a portion of shirt that would have been covered by braces. “You do look good in blue.”

IX. Requested by whenworldscollidethesecond: “Allons-y!” “Ah smeg, it’s ’im again.”

“Sir. Sir, wake up.”

“Oh, not now, man,” Lister groaned, keeping his forehead firmly attached to the table. “I was dreaming about having some decent food again.”

“Sir, we’re being hailed by what looks to be an alien craft.”

“Look, get Rimmer to…wait. Did you just say - ”

“Yes, Listy, alien!” Rimmer’s gleeful voice rang out from the cockpit. “Finally, after all these years, you’ll see for yourself. A real, live alien!”

It couldn’t be. Lister dashed to his chair. There was no way Rimmer had been right all along. Unless…

“This is the JMC transport vehicle Starbug. Identify yourselves,” Cat called into the communicator.

“Hello? Ah, yes, marvellous. Just need to make a few little adjustments and we’ll be able to have a proper chat, face to face. Allons-y!”

Ah smeg, it’s him again.

“Allons-y?” Rimmer repeated.

“I hate to tell you, Rimmer, but this guy’s no alien.” Lister scrubbed at his face. It was coming back to him now. The insomnia; drinking marijuana gin alone in the science room for want of anything better to do; the wobbly video playing on every display; the image of a mad bloke in a pinstripe suit, babbling about miscalculations and tears in the fabric of space-time. All of it had disappeared as quickly as it had come. “He’s a figment of our imagination. There must have been something in that GELF gin. I thought it smelled too sweet.”

“Are you saying we’re having a group hallucination, sir?”

“It’s happened before.”

“I did think he sounded a bit too cheerful,” Rimmer conceded. “I would have expected more…gravitas, or something, from an alien. But are you absolutely sure, Lister?”

“Yeah.” Lister bent to speak into the communicator. “Listen, mate, I know you’re not real,” he snapped. “Smeg off and let us sleep this off in peace.”

“What?” The same bespectacled, floppy-haired face he’d seen three years ago resolved itself on the monitor. “No, no, no, no! I’m the Doctor! I’m real! Look, it’d take some time to explain, but I’m a Time Lord from a planet called Gallifrey, which is why I can - ” The image flashed a few times, and static began to take over. “Hang on, still having some trouble. I think it must be the Neptunian dust.” Clunk. “Whoops! Dropped my screwdriver, won’t be a tick…”

“That settles it,” Rimmer declared, oozing disappointment. “A time-travelling alien who needs a screwdriver? It’s absolutely preposterous.”

“Closing communication channels, buds. I’m going back to bed.”

-

“Aha!” The sonic screwdriver righted the last bit of damage with a quiet bzz, and all of the lights that should have been on or blinking were now on or blinking. The Doctor patted the console soothingly. “Allons-y! Hello? This is the TARDIS calling Starbug again. Hello?…Anybody home?”

X. Requested by Janamelie: Series X “married couple” fluff. :)

Rimmer shifted in his seat as if to stand up. “Right. I’ll go get started, then, shall I?”

“Go where,” Lister mumbled.

“To start cooking. I suggested that we have ratatouille for dinner, and you agreed.”

That made Lister open his eyes. “You what? I never agreed to that!”

“I knew it,” Rimmer said smugly, pushing aside the finger that Lister had raised to either poke into or tickle his nose. “You’ve not listened to a word I’ve said.”

“No,” Lister replied, shameless. “I was enjoying the moment.”

Truthfully, so was Rimmer. Despite his growing hunger, he was in no hurry to remove Lister’s head from his lap; he felt that they should sit like this more often than the other way round, which made it too easy for Lister to whip up his hair into a staticky mess. He took hold of a stray dreadlock and laid it across both of them. “Ten more minutes, then dinner.”

“Chinese?”

“Oh, all right.”

-

Lister thoughtfully drummed a chopstick on the side of his lager can. “What do you want for your birthday?”

Rimmer shrugged. They tended to be more diligent about celebrating his deathday. “I don’t mind. Maybe some real whisky if we can find it, which I very much doubt.”

“I was thinking we could go on holiday, you know. Just a short one.”

“Really? Where?”

“Well, you’ve always liked the diesel decks. That’s why I said short,” Lister clarified. “Three days maximum.”

Rimmer felt a strange stinging in his eyes. Oh, god, he was getting soppy in his old age. “That sounds…” He wasn’t sure what the right word was. Instead of trying to come up with it, he reached across the table and covered Lister’s non-drumming hand with his.