Fic: Burn - R/L - PG
Title: Burn
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Grant/Naylor owns Red Dwarf, I don't. They make money from it. Me, not so much.
Spoilers: Legion.
Notes: A companion piece to smaych's amazing Shadow Of His Former Self, which she kindly allowed me to write. I hope to do the original justice.
What annoyed Lister; what drove him absolutely spare, was that Rimmer had no smegging idea what he was. He kept on saying he was dead. "I'm dead, Listy, or hadn't you noticed?" "It's not easy cooking, when you're dead." "Yes, well, the problem with that, Lister, is I'm dead." But as Lister kept trying to tell him, just because he was dead didn't mean he wasn't alive.
Yeah, he was dead, and what of it? Death wasn't the handicap it used to be. If you were thinking, feeling, seeing, hearing, if not tasting and touching, what were you then, if not alive? Rimmer said it was all algorithms and simulations, which was true, but entirely beside the point. If you thought you were thinking, you were thinking, and that meant you were alive. Even Lister knew that; it was a basic principle of philosophy or some such smeg.
Rimmer didn't know who he was either. Sure, if you wanted to be technical about it (but who ever wanted to be technical?) the person known as Arnold Rimmer didn't exist anymore. So what? The hologram known as Arnold Rimmer did, and even if he wasn't the original, he was a person unto himself. A person. How was that so hard to get?
At first, Lister thought it was just the trauma of the accident; the shock of finding yourself suddenly blinking back into existence, with vivid memories of having been hit in the face by a nuclear explosion. Once Rimmer got over that, he reasoned, he would settle down, and get on with the business of making the best of the situation he was in.
That never happened.
Rimmer seemed to enjoy wallowing in misery. It was like he didn't want to see things differently, like he was more than content to use his hologrammatic status as an excuse for everything. An excuse not to live, really. Why would anyone want an excuse not to live?
If only he had listened. It wasn't like Lister didn't try to reason with him. The man was immune to common sense; he'd made up his mind, and that was that. Lister always made a point of treating Rimmer like the human being he was, reasoning that if Rimmer wouldn't respect himself, someone had to, but sometimes he got the feeling Rimmer actually resented him for it. Madness. He should give it up, really. But seeing that wasted potential; that pointless self-punishment almost physically hurt. He couldn't stop trying.
Sometimes, in the heat of an argument, Rimmer would forget himself, and his hands would brush against Lister's body, and through it. It didn't feel like nothing, which was what Lister had expected. Walking straight through Rimmer had felt like nothing, or at least Lister had thought so at the time. But the first time Rimmer's fingers reached inside his body, dipping just beneath the upper layers of his skin, he cast his mind back, and remembered that faint feeling of static; that odd, tingly, prickly sensation. It wasn't like touch, not really, but it was a contact.
If he was honest with himself, Lister craved that contact every bit as much as Rimmer probably did.
It was no use telling Rimmer about it though. Clearly he hadn't noticed, because if he had, he would have said something, wouldn't he? Then again, he was a hard man to figure out. Lister would find him, late at night, when he thought Lister was asleep, running his hands along the walls like he was caressing them. Sometimes he would stick his hands through the wall, and when he did, he'd get this indecipherable look on his face, like he was having an orgasm and delivering a baby at the same time. Lister didn't know what that was about, and quite frankly, he didn't want to know. 'Weird' was an understatement.
All of that - well - Lister had gotten used to it in the end. Rimmer was a mentally disturbed masochist; fine. It took all sorts. But when he'd gotten a hard-light body; was finally given what he'd whined about all these smegging years, what did the twonking git do? Turn back into soft-light every chance he got. It was like Lister was more excited about his new body than Rimmer was. It still crackled faintly with static when you touched it, as Lister found when he reached out when it first materialized, needing to make sure it was real. But it was warm like flesh and soft like skin, and surely now, now Rimmer could see what he really was? But no. All he did was hide away in his quarters, changing from soft to hard when he thought no one was looking. Like it was everyone else who wanted him to have a solid body. Like the rest of them cared. Hadn't the psi-moon taught him anything?
Rimmer had no smegging idea who or what he was, and it was eating Lister up inside. It hurt. It hurt until he found himself wishing that he could turn into insubstantial light, and just drift through his life, numbly. He could still feel the static crackle on his skin, lying in bed at night, unable to sleep.
It burned.
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Grant/Naylor owns Red Dwarf, I don't. They make money from it. Me, not so much.
Spoilers: Legion.
Notes: A companion piece to smaych's amazing Shadow Of His Former Self, which she kindly allowed me to write. I hope to do the original justice.
What annoyed Lister; what drove him absolutely spare, was that Rimmer had no smegging idea what he was. He kept on saying he was dead. "I'm dead, Listy, or hadn't you noticed?" "It's not easy cooking, when you're dead." "Yes, well, the problem with that, Lister, is I'm dead." But as Lister kept trying to tell him, just because he was dead didn't mean he wasn't alive.
Yeah, he was dead, and what of it? Death wasn't the handicap it used to be. If you were thinking, feeling, seeing, hearing, if not tasting and touching, what were you then, if not alive? Rimmer said it was all algorithms and simulations, which was true, but entirely beside the point. If you thought you were thinking, you were thinking, and that meant you were alive. Even Lister knew that; it was a basic principle of philosophy or some such smeg.
Rimmer didn't know who he was either. Sure, if you wanted to be technical about it (but who ever wanted to be technical?) the person known as Arnold Rimmer didn't exist anymore. So what? The hologram known as Arnold Rimmer did, and even if he wasn't the original, he was a person unto himself. A person. How was that so hard to get?
At first, Lister thought it was just the trauma of the accident; the shock of finding yourself suddenly blinking back into existence, with vivid memories of having been hit in the face by a nuclear explosion. Once Rimmer got over that, he reasoned, he would settle down, and get on with the business of making the best of the situation he was in.
That never happened.
Rimmer seemed to enjoy wallowing in misery. It was like he didn't want to see things differently, like he was more than content to use his hologrammatic status as an excuse for everything. An excuse not to live, really. Why would anyone want an excuse not to live?
If only he had listened. It wasn't like Lister didn't try to reason with him. The man was immune to common sense; he'd made up his mind, and that was that. Lister always made a point of treating Rimmer like the human being he was, reasoning that if Rimmer wouldn't respect himself, someone had to, but sometimes he got the feeling Rimmer actually resented him for it. Madness. He should give it up, really. But seeing that wasted potential; that pointless self-punishment almost physically hurt. He couldn't stop trying.
Sometimes, in the heat of an argument, Rimmer would forget himself, and his hands would brush against Lister's body, and through it. It didn't feel like nothing, which was what Lister had expected. Walking straight through Rimmer had felt like nothing, or at least Lister had thought so at the time. But the first time Rimmer's fingers reached inside his body, dipping just beneath the upper layers of his skin, he cast his mind back, and remembered that faint feeling of static; that odd, tingly, prickly sensation. It wasn't like touch, not really, but it was a contact.
If he was honest with himself, Lister craved that contact every bit as much as Rimmer probably did.
It was no use telling Rimmer about it though. Clearly he hadn't noticed, because if he had, he would have said something, wouldn't he? Then again, he was a hard man to figure out. Lister would find him, late at night, when he thought Lister was asleep, running his hands along the walls like he was caressing them. Sometimes he would stick his hands through the wall, and when he did, he'd get this indecipherable look on his face, like he was having an orgasm and delivering a baby at the same time. Lister didn't know what that was about, and quite frankly, he didn't want to know. 'Weird' was an understatement.
All of that - well - Lister had gotten used to it in the end. Rimmer was a mentally disturbed masochist; fine. It took all sorts. But when he'd gotten a hard-light body; was finally given what he'd whined about all these smegging years, what did the twonking git do? Turn back into soft-light every chance he got. It was like Lister was more excited about his new body than Rimmer was. It still crackled faintly with static when you touched it, as Lister found when he reached out when it first materialized, needing to make sure it was real. But it was warm like flesh and soft like skin, and surely now, now Rimmer could see what he really was? But no. All he did was hide away in his quarters, changing from soft to hard when he thought no one was looking. Like it was everyone else who wanted him to have a solid body. Like the rest of them cared. Hadn't the psi-moon taught him anything?
Rimmer had no smegging idea who or what he was, and it was eating Lister up inside. It hurt. It hurt until he found himself wishing that he could turn into insubstantial light, and just drift through his life, numbly. He could still feel the static crackle on his skin, lying in bed at night, unable to sleep.
It burned.