Fic: Easter Egg (Lister/Rimmer, PG, Season VIII)
Easter Egg
PG
Just a short one that I whipped up for an Easter treat. Nearly no smut, although perhaps hints of future smut (I promise nothing, however). Forgive me; I'm out of practice with RD, having written nothing except Forty Days since December 2004.
Red Dwarf characters belong to Grant Naylor and the BBC.
Dedicated to kahvi and, as ever, fiareynne.
It's arbitrarily Easter-time: Lister's bent over the industrial-sized prison oven at four in the morning, shoving a tray of uncooked dough into the blazing heat, blinking bleary eyes as he slams the door shut, hoping against hope that the sticky concoction will eventually turn into plump, brown hot cross buns.
Rimmer's leaning against the bench, watching him.
'If you're gonna hang around here, can't you at least do somethin' useful?'
Rimmer allows the smirk on his face to stretch just that bit further. 'Ah, but Lister, I, unlike you, am not required to be down here.'
'Then why in smeg are you down here?' Lister dumps flour into a measuring cup, getting the quantity approximately right before tipping it into the oft-used mixing bowl and sloshing some milk in with it.
'I couldn't sleep. Mind you, that was probably because a certain person who's apparently incapable of silent slumber was imitating a chainsaw in the bunk above mine, before his alarm went off at the ungodly hour of three o'clock. Not to mention that the prison bunks are particularly unamenable to a comfortable snooze.'
Lister sneaks a handful of sultanas out of the bag before adding the rest to his concoction. 'And instead of rollin' over and goin' back to sleep, you came down here.' The microwave bleeps and Lister stares at it, puzzled, until Rimmer opens the door and extracts a bowl of melted chocolate.
'I did get my own seasonal task to perform.' Rimmer starts painting the Easter egg moulds laid out on the bench with the melted chocolate. 'Besides, I wanted to ask you something.'
The mixture in Lister's bowl slops over the edges as he vigorously stirs it. 'What?'
'Why did you call out my name in your sleep last night?'
Lister drops the bowl, and the sloppy white paste goes everywhere, filling the air with the strange smell of yeast. He makes a despairing sound in the back of his throat and starts shovelling it up with a handful of paper towels, dropping them one by one into the bin with a splatting sound. 'No idea, man.'
'Are you sure about that?'
'Yeah.' Lister rinses the mixing bowl off in the sink and starts again, squinting at the recipe book, which is covered in flour, milk and what is hopefully a large smear of chocolate and not anything rather less hygienic.
'You don't remember asking me to come home? To stop gadding about and get back to bed?'
Lister's eyes meet Rimmer's guiltily, then drop to Rimmer's fingers; melted chocolate is not an easy medium to work with, and Rimmer's lifted his hand to his mouth and started licking the chocolate off his fingers without thinking about its possible impact.
'I'm not him, Lister,' Rimmer says quietly, catching the direction of Lister's gaze. 'I'm not "your" Rimmer.'
'Mnuh.'
'And I am most certainly not doing this to provide you with any sort of erotic display.'
'Mnuh.'
Rimmer sighs and offers Lister his hand. Lister gloms onto the one finger that's still got a dribble of chocolate and does things to it with his tongue that remind Rimmer disturbingly of his one and only sexual liaison, only with less sexy female boxing champion and more... well... Lister.
'I suppose we could come to some sort of arrangement,' he says when Lister finally lets go. 'After all, you must miss him very much, and I'm sure I could think of something for you to do for me in return.'
The oven timer dings.
'Smeg,' Lister says, diving for the oven, armed with a teatowel. He pulls out the tray of misshapen but delicious-smelling buns and piles them helter-skelter onto a serving tray, hissing at each burning-hot touch. He heads for the swing doors into the mess hall, turning to grin at Rimmer on his way out. 'Save some of that chocolate for later, eh?'
PG
Just a short one that I whipped up for an Easter treat. Nearly no smut, although perhaps hints of future smut (I promise nothing, however). Forgive me; I'm out of practice with RD, having written nothing except Forty Days since December 2004.
Red Dwarf characters belong to Grant Naylor and the BBC.
Dedicated to kahvi and, as ever, fiareynne.
It's arbitrarily Easter-time: Lister's bent over the industrial-sized prison oven at four in the morning, shoving a tray of uncooked dough into the blazing heat, blinking bleary eyes as he slams the door shut, hoping against hope that the sticky concoction will eventually turn into plump, brown hot cross buns.
Rimmer's leaning against the bench, watching him.
'If you're gonna hang around here, can't you at least do somethin' useful?'
Rimmer allows the smirk on his face to stretch just that bit further. 'Ah, but Lister, I, unlike you, am not required to be down here.'
'Then why in smeg are you down here?' Lister dumps flour into a measuring cup, getting the quantity approximately right before tipping it into the oft-used mixing bowl and sloshing some milk in with it.
'I couldn't sleep. Mind you, that was probably because a certain person who's apparently incapable of silent slumber was imitating a chainsaw in the bunk above mine, before his alarm went off at the ungodly hour of three o'clock. Not to mention that the prison bunks are particularly unamenable to a comfortable snooze.'
Lister sneaks a handful of sultanas out of the bag before adding the rest to his concoction. 'And instead of rollin' over and goin' back to sleep, you came down here.' The microwave bleeps and Lister stares at it, puzzled, until Rimmer opens the door and extracts a bowl of melted chocolate.
'I did get my own seasonal task to perform.' Rimmer starts painting the Easter egg moulds laid out on the bench with the melted chocolate. 'Besides, I wanted to ask you something.'
The mixture in Lister's bowl slops over the edges as he vigorously stirs it. 'What?'
'Why did you call out my name in your sleep last night?'
Lister drops the bowl, and the sloppy white paste goes everywhere, filling the air with the strange smell of yeast. He makes a despairing sound in the back of his throat and starts shovelling it up with a handful of paper towels, dropping them one by one into the bin with a splatting sound. 'No idea, man.'
'Are you sure about that?'
'Yeah.' Lister rinses the mixing bowl off in the sink and starts again, squinting at the recipe book, which is covered in flour, milk and what is hopefully a large smear of chocolate and not anything rather less hygienic.
'You don't remember asking me to come home? To stop gadding about and get back to bed?'
Lister's eyes meet Rimmer's guiltily, then drop to Rimmer's fingers; melted chocolate is not an easy medium to work with, and Rimmer's lifted his hand to his mouth and started licking the chocolate off his fingers without thinking about its possible impact.
'I'm not him, Lister,' Rimmer says quietly, catching the direction of Lister's gaze. 'I'm not "your" Rimmer.'
'Mnuh.'
'And I am most certainly not doing this to provide you with any sort of erotic display.'
'Mnuh.'
Rimmer sighs and offers Lister his hand. Lister gloms onto the one finger that's still got a dribble of chocolate and does things to it with his tongue that remind Rimmer disturbingly of his one and only sexual liaison, only with less sexy female boxing champion and more... well... Lister.
'I suppose we could come to some sort of arrangement,' he says when Lister finally lets go. 'After all, you must miss him very much, and I'm sure I could think of something for you to do for me in return.'
The oven timer dings.
'Smeg,' Lister says, diving for the oven, armed with a teatowel. He pulls out the tray of misshapen but delicious-smelling buns and piles them helter-skelter onto a serving tray, hissing at each burning-hot touch. He heads for the swing doors into the mess hall, turning to grin at Rimmer on his way out. 'Save some of that chocolate for later, eh?'