Fic: Hands - R/L (imp) - PG
Title: Hands
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister (implied)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own Red Dwarf or its characters, and writing this makes me no money.
Spoilers: Back in the Red.
Notes: I was capping the above-mentioned episode for ccharlespics, and this popped into my head. (Caps will be up later tonight, including several from this scene, for anyone that's interested. :p )
Lister watches Rimmer grab his index finger, just like that, lifting his hand away in a simple, no-nonsense gesture.
He had forgotten.
These last few days had been so much like being home that his resentment of Rimmer having smegged them over had faded into the background almost to the point of not being there at all, anymore. He felt energized; alive like he hadn't felt since... well, since a really long time ago. Yeah, he was in prison, but there were people here, and skutters, and somewhere above him, Petersen and Chen and Selby and everyone, all living, like. And here with him was Rimmer.
Except he wasn't. Rimmer's hand, when you touched it, was warm and soft like one not made of light, but it crackled with the faintest static, tickling your skin and making you want to giggle, as the rest of the man never did. This hand, leaving his own on the table to turn page after page with near-mechanical accuracy, was nothing like that. There was the hint of sweat, and the warmth of flesh and blood, not tachyons. The difference, now that Lister has felt it, is so obvious it almost scares him.
For a moment, all he can do is look at this not-Rimmer, letting that fact sink in. Not Rimmer. Not his. Not that the other one ever was either. Then the moment passes, and he looses himself in the task of making Rimmer crack. Lister doesn't dwell on things.
But whenever he touches Rimmer, he is reminded again. And again.
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister (implied)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own Red Dwarf or its characters, and writing this makes me no money.
Spoilers: Back in the Red.
Notes: I was capping the above-mentioned episode for ccharlespics, and this popped into my head. (Caps will be up later tonight, including several from this scene, for anyone that's interested. :p )
Lister watches Rimmer grab his index finger, just like that, lifting his hand away in a simple, no-nonsense gesture.
He had forgotten.
These last few days had been so much like being home that his resentment of Rimmer having smegged them over had faded into the background almost to the point of not being there at all, anymore. He felt energized; alive like he hadn't felt since... well, since a really long time ago. Yeah, he was in prison, but there were people here, and skutters, and somewhere above him, Petersen and Chen and Selby and everyone, all living, like. And here with him was Rimmer.
Except he wasn't. Rimmer's hand, when you touched it, was warm and soft like one not made of light, but it crackled with the faintest static, tickling your skin and making you want to giggle, as the rest of the man never did. This hand, leaving his own on the table to turn page after page with near-mechanical accuracy, was nothing like that. There was the hint of sweat, and the warmth of flesh and blood, not tachyons. The difference, now that Lister has felt it, is so obvious it almost scares him.
For a moment, all he can do is look at this not-Rimmer, letting that fact sink in. Not Rimmer. Not his. Not that the other one ever was either. Then the moment passes, and he looses himself in the task of making Rimmer crack. Lister doesn't dwell on things.
But whenever he touches Rimmer, he is reminded again. And again.