Red Dwarf fanfic: "She's Just Not That Into You" - R
Title: “She’s Just Not That Into You”
Rating: R for language
“Red Dwarf” Chars: Lister, Rimmer, Kochanski (can be read as gen, but c’mon, this is ME writing - it’s pre-slash)
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Grant/Naylor. Probably also BBC. Quite possibly also, Satan, courtesy of a Faustian deal.
Summary: As Lister tries to cope with Kochanski breaking up with him, Rimmer finally gets fed up with all the sadness and woe. My take on a canon event.
A/N: Set in the Infinity Welcomes Careful Drivers novel ‘verse, segueing into the TV series around the time of “Blue” in S7. Thanks for metalkatt for reading it over; all errors of continuity are mine (keeping in mind there were a few differences between the novel and the show for length of dating time, etc.).
Feedback: Loved!
Once again, Rimmer weighed the relative merits of another night of revision against the peace and pluses of locking himself in a stasis chamber for a few more precious saved hours. Sure, he needed to get himself in gear - after all, the next exam was less than three months away, and he intended to be prepared this time, buddy-boy.
On the other hand, it was difficult to concentrate with all the sniffling and occasional sobbing from the upper bunk.
He bent his head over his slanted desk, redoubling efforts to focus on the open textbook, reading the same passage for the sixth time. Between the near-incomprehensibility of the subject matter, the specter of twelve failures hanging over him, and Lister’s pity party, he wondered how much he was actually absorbing. He would be just as well off, he surmised, to place the open book on top of his head, take a header into his bunk, and let it all sink in by smegging osmosis.
Rimmer plugged along for several minutes before he finally realized it was quiet; glancing up, he took stock of the lack of crying, schnuffling, wailing, or even snoring. It’s about frigging TIME, he mentally sighed, looking up at Lister’s still back before going back to his reading on sub-quantum physics and effect on subspace bending. At least without the noise, he only had to read it a few times, instead of several. His roommate had been inconsolable since that tart Kochanski had dumped him nearly two weeks ago for her former squeeze, some smug asshole in Catering who thought he was hot shit because he had officer status. Just barely, Rimmer thought scornfully. (In his more honest moments, he considered his resentment might stem from the fact he was busting his ass failing to earn even an elementary commission in astronavigation, when somebody else had found a better way around the problem by simply learning to keep a soufflé from wilting like a 70-year-old’s pre-Viagra erection.)
He wasn’t aware he’d slumped in his seat to read, his eyes closer to the page, until he heard more soft crying. He tried to lift his head, realizing he’d buried his fingers into his wiry hair, gripping his scalp, possibly to keep his brain from trying to escape the absolute nonsense it was being forced to digest. Sighing, he pulled his fingers out, wondering how vertical his messed curls had gotten, and made a face at the feeling of sticky mousse coating his hands. “Disgusting,” he muttered, wiping them hastily along the sides of his boxers.
Another sob punctuated the room, along with a hiccup. “What?” he finally snapped. “What are you crying about NOW?” He’d tried to be patient; he’d kept his mouth shut for eleven days, offering neither sympathy nor recriminations, which he considered grand support for such a stupid infatuation. Kochanski had never considered Lister in her league, at least from what Rimmer had observed from the sidelines. For one, they hardly ever went out during their three-week relationship, sticking to either her quarters or - the few times Lister had actually been able to coax or threaten Rimmer into vacating for the night - his. What woman didn’t want to be taken to dinner or a club, or go shopping with her new fellow and spend his credits? Every girlfriend his brothers had ever had, who he had known anyway, hadn’t been able to wait to drag them to the stores to stimulate the local economy. Granted, McGruder hadn’t wanted to be seen with Rimmer out and about, but at least he was aware he had been a pity fuck and had accepted it gracefully.
Instead of shutting up, as Rimmer had hoped, Lister took his cranky inquiry as invitation to roll over and glare at him miserably. “What …is wrong with you, man?” he hiccupped, sniffling. “Ain’t you … ever had your heart broken by a woman … you soulless git?”
“Well, I didn’t snot around about it for two weeks!” Rimmer shot back. “Really, you’ve been at this for almost as long as you dated her. Isn’t it about time you - you know, got back on the horse? Rode another saddle?” He tried to think of another equestrian metaphor, but was coming up blank.
“I don’t WANNA find someone else,” Lister moaned, bringing his hands to his forehead. “Krissie an’ me … we were perfec’ for one ‘nother.”
“Obviously not,” Rimmer muttered, shaking his head and trying to read once again.
Lister plugged on. “Liked th’ same movies … same food … she didn’ complain ‘bout me underpants for a whole week …”
“Well, yes, clearly she was just infused with class and breeding,” Rimmer sarcastically observed.
It flew over Lister’s head. “I know, right?” he sniffled. “She really was … an’ I smegged it up. AGAIN.”
He couldn’t help himself. “What did you do?”
Lister shook his head, which had the effect of him rocking back and forth in the fetal position on his bunk, dangerously close to the edge. “I dunno … must’ve been somethin’ though.”
“No, really, Lister.” Rimmer slapped his hands flat on his desk on either side of his open book. “Think: What. Did. You. Do? To drive her off?”
“I TOLD YOU, I DON’T FUCKING KNOW!” he wailed.
“Do you think maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t meant to be? That she got tired of you, Lister? That maybe for once you didn’t actually do something, after all, to disgust or repulse or put a woman off her dinner? That she was just a smegging fickle-” He shut up, waving it off.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“What?” Lister persisted, frowning at him. It was the sort of frown that required concentration, for the man was drunk as a skunk - of that, Rimmer was certain. He was even more certain when Lister managed to push himself to a semi-upright position and dangle his legs over the edge of his bunk, swaying sideways as he blinked at Rimmer. “Whatwereyousayin’?”
“NOTHING.” Rimmer didn’t have many social skills, but the one thing he knew was that you didn’t insult your mates’ women, no matter how broken-up the relationship might appear for the moment. Because just as sure as you made it clear you didn’t approve or worship one as much as their bloke did, or found even one tiny flaw in their makeup, sure as ice on Io, they’d kiss and make up, and the guy would fly into a searing rant at you that’d make any death-row defense lawyer proud.
His roommate stared at him, trying to focus, his eyes doing comical things in the name of achieving basic vision through nearly a case of lager. “You don’ like her,” he pouted.
Rimmer rolled his eyes. Gee, you’re an absolute GENIUS, Listy! “I don’t care either way,” he lied, leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms. “I’m just tired of you interrupting my revision every single night for almost two weeks. If you’re not crying in your bunk, you’re out getting shitfaced with the brain trust and stumbling in here in the wee hours rambling on about how blasted wonderful Kristine Kochanski is. Peterson and Chen and Selby - THEY get to go back to nice, quiet bunks when they’re tired of your slobbering, whereas I have to listen to your bitching on and on without the aid of alcoholic numbness.”
“You wan’ me gone? Fine. I’ll go fin’ th’ guys. My FRIENDS.” Lister finally stopped sniffling, concentrating instead on the floor. Rimmer wondered what the hell he was up to as he watched the man sway in place for a couple of minutes - right before he tried to jump down and, instead, missed his footing and fell on his ass and tumbled back into Rimmer’s bunk instead. He winced at the resounding CLANK of skull against gunmetal-gray wall and got up, sighing, going around the desk to make sure the drunken ass didn’t start bleeding all over his sheets and posters.
Said ass was struggling to sit upright, his face contorted in pain, rubbing at the top of his head. “Ow,” he muttered as he flailed, unable to achieve a 90-degree angle to the bed. “OUCH, goddammit.”
“For the love of Jupiter-” Rimmer grabbed one of the hands pawing at air and pulled hard, getting Lister to an upright position. He hunkered down, shaking his head as he looked up into the guy’s miserable expression. For a moment, he remembered being fifteen and being laughed at in front of the entire school for summoning up the balls to ask Renee Livingston to dance. Renee hadn’t been that cruel in her rejection, but the gaggle of bitches who orbited her had overheard and broadcast the entire awkward request in real time to all and sundry, putting CNN to shame. “You poor, sad bastard,” he said, with no real censure. “You’ve got half the ship’s female technicians chasing after you, and you have to pick some bit of fluff with her nose up the arse of some lazy dickhead.”
Lister clearly tried to focus on him. “Huh?”
More high IQ from Dave’s World. “She dumped you,” he pointed out bluntly, something he’d avoided saying for eleven days. What the hell, he’ll never remember; I doubt he knows his name right now. “She dumped you for someone who dumped her before she got to you, because he got tired of the new girl he was boning and crooked his finger at her again.” He cleared his throat. “And you think you’ve really lost something worth having, when the truth is, you could’ve been smegging James Bond and she still probably would’ve thrown you over for that tosser of a table-setter.”
Shutting one eye, then the other, Lister swayed; Rimmer guessed he was still trying to bring the world into focus. Leaning forward, the guy squinted just above his roommate’s eyeline, and Rimmer dearly hoped he wasn’t about to get an earful of The Virtues of Krissie or a lapful of vomit. “What-” Lister began, before hiccupping again, and swallowing. “Wha’ happened t’ your hair? ‘S all over th’ place. More ‘n usual. Stickin’ out an’ up, an’ round and round and ...” He pointed a finger, gesturing random compass points around Rimmer’s head as he wove in place on the edge of the bunk.
Then, his expression hardened as what Rimmer actually said probably caught up in his brain. “What would you know ‘bout women? Long have you ever kept a girl?”
Rimmer thought of a scathing retort involving his roommate’s parentage hygiene, then remembered a certain nasty brothel experience on Mimas and a hopper driver who hadn’t even known Rimmer, who’d nonetheless waited around and braved a mugging to drag him safely back to JMC’s docks. He deliberately ignored how said driver had then soaked him for a hundred dollar pounds for his silence. “You’re drunk,” he informed Lister instead, standing up. “I mean, Christ; look, get some clothes on. We’ll head to the cafeteria, get you some of those hashbrowns. The starch’ll soak up some that godawful lager.” He turned for his closet for a clean uniform.
“Gravy too?” he heard Lister ask. “I want eggs, too.”
“Are you going to throw it up on me?”
Silence; apparently he was thinking hard about this. “Don’ think so.”
“Yeah, well-” Rimmer shook out a pair of pressed khaki trousers and started pulling them on. “You’re going to walk three paces ahead of me just in case, miladdio …”
*****
“… that fool in Catering,” Kochanski was saying, shaking her head. “What a jerk. Dave warned me - my Dave, that is … well, you guessed that much, wasn’t you, of course. But anyway - I thought Tim wasn’t quite that bad, you know?” She leaned forward to peer into Lister’s face, and waved a hand. “Dave? You there?”
He blinked at her. She’d been talking to him for the better part of the past two minutes, he realized, and he hadn’t heard a word. They were on watch in Starbug’s cockpit, and passing the time comparing notes on similarities between their dimensions. She’d gotten to the time she and her Dave had had a fight and she’d dated some officer to make him jealous, and … Lister had zoned out. Something about “catering” and “Tim” and “broke up” had triggered his memory. A memory, apparently, that he either didn’t realize he’d had, or a vision his brain had made up in a fit of spontaneous creativity.
Except, why would Rimmer be in it? Being nice to me?
Lister nearly wrote it off as a variation on the weird dreams he’d been having of late about the newly-minted and absent Ace, except there’d been enough of the old Smeghead behavior in this vision that it might just actually be a true memory. God knew he’d spent the better part of his non-working life for the weeks after being dumped by his Krissie in an inebriated haze, not remembering half of what he said or did.
Hashbrowns. Coffee. Rimmer, tapping a long finger on the table between bites, railing in quiet tones about how Lister needed to bloody well vault over Kochanski because he was too decent for her, and how she would never have put her life in danger for a rank stranger, he bet, no sir, miladdio …
“Yeah, I’m here,” he finally told her, watching her worried expression fade back to companionability. “Sorry - brain fart, I guess.” He shrugged, smiling. “What were you saying about the jerk, again?” he asked, as he wondered, instead: I wonder where Rimmer is now …
Rating: R for language
“Red Dwarf” Chars: Lister, Rimmer, Kochanski (can be read as gen, but c’mon, this is ME writing - it’s pre-slash)
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Grant/Naylor. Probably also BBC. Quite possibly also, Satan, courtesy of a Faustian deal.
Summary: As Lister tries to cope with Kochanski breaking up with him, Rimmer finally gets fed up with all the sadness and woe. My take on a canon event.
A/N: Set in the Infinity Welcomes Careful Drivers novel ‘verse, segueing into the TV series around the time of “Blue” in S7. Thanks for metalkatt for reading it over; all errors of continuity are mine (keeping in mind there were a few differences between the novel and the show for length of dating time, etc.).
Feedback: Loved!
Once again, Rimmer weighed the relative merits of another night of revision against the peace and pluses of locking himself in a stasis chamber for a few more precious saved hours. Sure, he needed to get himself in gear - after all, the next exam was less than three months away, and he intended to be prepared this time, buddy-boy.
On the other hand, it was difficult to concentrate with all the sniffling and occasional sobbing from the upper bunk.
He bent his head over his slanted desk, redoubling efforts to focus on the open textbook, reading the same passage for the sixth time. Between the near-incomprehensibility of the subject matter, the specter of twelve failures hanging over him, and Lister’s pity party, he wondered how much he was actually absorbing. He would be just as well off, he surmised, to place the open book on top of his head, take a header into his bunk, and let it all sink in by smegging osmosis.
Rimmer plugged along for several minutes before he finally realized it was quiet; glancing up, he took stock of the lack of crying, schnuffling, wailing, or even snoring. It’s about frigging TIME, he mentally sighed, looking up at Lister’s still back before going back to his reading on sub-quantum physics and effect on subspace bending. At least without the noise, he only had to read it a few times, instead of several. His roommate had been inconsolable since that tart Kochanski had dumped him nearly two weeks ago for her former squeeze, some smug asshole in Catering who thought he was hot shit because he had officer status. Just barely, Rimmer thought scornfully. (In his more honest moments, he considered his resentment might stem from the fact he was busting his ass failing to earn even an elementary commission in astronavigation, when somebody else had found a better way around the problem by simply learning to keep a soufflé from wilting like a 70-year-old’s pre-Viagra erection.)
He wasn’t aware he’d slumped in his seat to read, his eyes closer to the page, until he heard more soft crying. He tried to lift his head, realizing he’d buried his fingers into his wiry hair, gripping his scalp, possibly to keep his brain from trying to escape the absolute nonsense it was being forced to digest. Sighing, he pulled his fingers out, wondering how vertical his messed curls had gotten, and made a face at the feeling of sticky mousse coating his hands. “Disgusting,” he muttered, wiping them hastily along the sides of his boxers.
Another sob punctuated the room, along with a hiccup. “What?” he finally snapped. “What are you crying about NOW?” He’d tried to be patient; he’d kept his mouth shut for eleven days, offering neither sympathy nor recriminations, which he considered grand support for such a stupid infatuation. Kochanski had never considered Lister in her league, at least from what Rimmer had observed from the sidelines. For one, they hardly ever went out during their three-week relationship, sticking to either her quarters or - the few times Lister had actually been able to coax or threaten Rimmer into vacating for the night - his. What woman didn’t want to be taken to dinner or a club, or go shopping with her new fellow and spend his credits? Every girlfriend his brothers had ever had, who he had known anyway, hadn’t been able to wait to drag them to the stores to stimulate the local economy. Granted, McGruder hadn’t wanted to be seen with Rimmer out and about, but at least he was aware he had been a pity fuck and had accepted it gracefully.
Instead of shutting up, as Rimmer had hoped, Lister took his cranky inquiry as invitation to roll over and glare at him miserably. “What …is wrong with you, man?” he hiccupped, sniffling. “Ain’t you … ever had your heart broken by a woman … you soulless git?”
“Well, I didn’t snot around about it for two weeks!” Rimmer shot back. “Really, you’ve been at this for almost as long as you dated her. Isn’t it about time you - you know, got back on the horse? Rode another saddle?” He tried to think of another equestrian metaphor, but was coming up blank.
“I don’t WANNA find someone else,” Lister moaned, bringing his hands to his forehead. “Krissie an’ me … we were perfec’ for one ‘nother.”
“Obviously not,” Rimmer muttered, shaking his head and trying to read once again.
Lister plugged on. “Liked th’ same movies … same food … she didn’ complain ‘bout me underpants for a whole week …”
“Well, yes, clearly she was just infused with class and breeding,” Rimmer sarcastically observed.
It flew over Lister’s head. “I know, right?” he sniffled. “She really was … an’ I smegged it up. AGAIN.”
He couldn’t help himself. “What did you do?”
Lister shook his head, which had the effect of him rocking back and forth in the fetal position on his bunk, dangerously close to the edge. “I dunno … must’ve been somethin’ though.”
“No, really, Lister.” Rimmer slapped his hands flat on his desk on either side of his open book. “Think: What. Did. You. Do? To drive her off?”
“I TOLD YOU, I DON’T FUCKING KNOW!” he wailed.
“Do you think maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t meant to be? That she got tired of you, Lister? That maybe for once you didn’t actually do something, after all, to disgust or repulse or put a woman off her dinner? That she was just a smegging fickle-” He shut up, waving it off.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“What?” Lister persisted, frowning at him. It was the sort of frown that required concentration, for the man was drunk as a skunk - of that, Rimmer was certain. He was even more certain when Lister managed to push himself to a semi-upright position and dangle his legs over the edge of his bunk, swaying sideways as he blinked at Rimmer. “Whatwereyousayin’?”
“NOTHING.” Rimmer didn’t have many social skills, but the one thing he knew was that you didn’t insult your mates’ women, no matter how broken-up the relationship might appear for the moment. Because just as sure as you made it clear you didn’t approve or worship one as much as their bloke did, or found even one tiny flaw in their makeup, sure as ice on Io, they’d kiss and make up, and the guy would fly into a searing rant at you that’d make any death-row defense lawyer proud.
His roommate stared at him, trying to focus, his eyes doing comical things in the name of achieving basic vision through nearly a case of lager. “You don’ like her,” he pouted.
Rimmer rolled his eyes. Gee, you’re an absolute GENIUS, Listy! “I don’t care either way,” he lied, leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms. “I’m just tired of you interrupting my revision every single night for almost two weeks. If you’re not crying in your bunk, you’re out getting shitfaced with the brain trust and stumbling in here in the wee hours rambling on about how blasted wonderful Kristine Kochanski is. Peterson and Chen and Selby - THEY get to go back to nice, quiet bunks when they’re tired of your slobbering, whereas I have to listen to your bitching on and on without the aid of alcoholic numbness.”
“You wan’ me gone? Fine. I’ll go fin’ th’ guys. My FRIENDS.” Lister finally stopped sniffling, concentrating instead on the floor. Rimmer wondered what the hell he was up to as he watched the man sway in place for a couple of minutes - right before he tried to jump down and, instead, missed his footing and fell on his ass and tumbled back into Rimmer’s bunk instead. He winced at the resounding CLANK of skull against gunmetal-gray wall and got up, sighing, going around the desk to make sure the drunken ass didn’t start bleeding all over his sheets and posters.
Said ass was struggling to sit upright, his face contorted in pain, rubbing at the top of his head. “Ow,” he muttered as he flailed, unable to achieve a 90-degree angle to the bed. “OUCH, goddammit.”
“For the love of Jupiter-” Rimmer grabbed one of the hands pawing at air and pulled hard, getting Lister to an upright position. He hunkered down, shaking his head as he looked up into the guy’s miserable expression. For a moment, he remembered being fifteen and being laughed at in front of the entire school for summoning up the balls to ask Renee Livingston to dance. Renee hadn’t been that cruel in her rejection, but the gaggle of bitches who orbited her had overheard and broadcast the entire awkward request in real time to all and sundry, putting CNN to shame. “You poor, sad bastard,” he said, with no real censure. “You’ve got half the ship’s female technicians chasing after you, and you have to pick some bit of fluff with her nose up the arse of some lazy dickhead.”
Lister clearly tried to focus on him. “Huh?”
More high IQ from Dave’s World. “She dumped you,” he pointed out bluntly, something he’d avoided saying for eleven days. What the hell, he’ll never remember; I doubt he knows his name right now. “She dumped you for someone who dumped her before she got to you, because he got tired of the new girl he was boning and crooked his finger at her again.” He cleared his throat. “And you think you’ve really lost something worth having, when the truth is, you could’ve been smegging James Bond and she still probably would’ve thrown you over for that tosser of a table-setter.”
Shutting one eye, then the other, Lister swayed; Rimmer guessed he was still trying to bring the world into focus. Leaning forward, the guy squinted just above his roommate’s eyeline, and Rimmer dearly hoped he wasn’t about to get an earful of The Virtues of Krissie or a lapful of vomit. “What-” Lister began, before hiccupping again, and swallowing. “Wha’ happened t’ your hair? ‘S all over th’ place. More ‘n usual. Stickin’ out an’ up, an’ round and round and ...” He pointed a finger, gesturing random compass points around Rimmer’s head as he wove in place on the edge of the bunk.
Then, his expression hardened as what Rimmer actually said probably caught up in his brain. “What would you know ‘bout women? Long have you ever kept a girl?”
Rimmer thought of a scathing retort involving his roommate’s parentage hygiene, then remembered a certain nasty brothel experience on Mimas and a hopper driver who hadn’t even known Rimmer, who’d nonetheless waited around and braved a mugging to drag him safely back to JMC’s docks. He deliberately ignored how said driver had then soaked him for a hundred dollar pounds for his silence. “You’re drunk,” he informed Lister instead, standing up. “I mean, Christ; look, get some clothes on. We’ll head to the cafeteria, get you some of those hashbrowns. The starch’ll soak up some that godawful lager.” He turned for his closet for a clean uniform.
“Gravy too?” he heard Lister ask. “I want eggs, too.”
“Are you going to throw it up on me?”
Silence; apparently he was thinking hard about this. “Don’ think so.”
“Yeah, well-” Rimmer shook out a pair of pressed khaki trousers and started pulling them on. “You’re going to walk three paces ahead of me just in case, miladdio …”
*****
“… that fool in Catering,” Kochanski was saying, shaking her head. “What a jerk. Dave warned me - my Dave, that is … well, you guessed that much, wasn’t you, of course. But anyway - I thought Tim wasn’t quite that bad, you know?” She leaned forward to peer into Lister’s face, and waved a hand. “Dave? You there?”
He blinked at her. She’d been talking to him for the better part of the past two minutes, he realized, and he hadn’t heard a word. They were on watch in Starbug’s cockpit, and passing the time comparing notes on similarities between their dimensions. She’d gotten to the time she and her Dave had had a fight and she’d dated some officer to make him jealous, and … Lister had zoned out. Something about “catering” and “Tim” and “broke up” had triggered his memory. A memory, apparently, that he either didn’t realize he’d had, or a vision his brain had made up in a fit of spontaneous creativity.
Except, why would Rimmer be in it? Being nice to me?
Lister nearly wrote it off as a variation on the weird dreams he’d been having of late about the newly-minted and absent Ace, except there’d been enough of the old Smeghead behavior in this vision that it might just actually be a true memory. God knew he’d spent the better part of his non-working life for the weeks after being dumped by his Krissie in an inebriated haze, not remembering half of what he said or did.
Hashbrowns. Coffee. Rimmer, tapping a long finger on the table between bites, railing in quiet tones about how Lister needed to bloody well vault over Kochanski because he was too decent for her, and how she would never have put her life in danger for a rank stranger, he bet, no sir, miladdio …
“Yeah, I’m here,” he finally told her, watching her worried expression fade back to companionability. “Sorry - brain fart, I guess.” He shrugged, smiling. “What were you saying about the jerk, again?” he asked, as he wondered, instead: I wonder where Rimmer is now …