RD Fic: "Dead Man's Bluff" (PG-13)
Title: "Dead Man's Bluff"
Rating: PG-13
Chars.: Red Dwarf's Lister/Rimmer
Spoilers: The whole damn shooting match up through Series 8
Disclaimer: If I owned these characters, do you think the show would’ve been family-friendly fare? I earn no profit for my services.
Summary: Written at the request of missflibble for the POV meme I posted: "Could I please see a reversed snippet of the final scene in Ace on the River please? i.e. Rimmer's discovery that Lister is his Lister?" Unbetaed; here you go!
Feedback: Drop it on me …
A lifetime of telling himself and being told he was most definitely straight, that he only loved women and women’s bits, had colored Arnold Rimmer’s perceptions to the point where he’d died more or less convinced there was something wrong with him for not having made time with more women in what short time had laughably been his life. So it was with as much relief as trepidation that he’d assumed the mantle of Ace Rimmer and rocketed away from Starbug and Lister, its infuriating, disgusting, rodent-faced makeshift commander, who nevertheless stirred uncomfortable things inside Rimmer only the likes of Yvonne McGruder should be mixing up.
Years more or less alone with only a non-corporeal A.I. for company had left him lonely. Beautiful women were a welcome diversion, but much to Rimmer’s chagrin, the occasional beautiful man was even better. Especially the dark-eyed men; skin color wasn’t such a big deal, but brown or black eyes unafraid to meet his own could make him come so hard either in bed with them or later in his own fist, that he’d forget he was technically dead.
He tried not to examine this too closely and ignored the fact it never really mattered what color the women’s eyes were (though blue was nice; they reminded him of Yvonne, something he had no qualms admitting). In this way, Rimmer learned his job - learned it well - and careened through dimensions leaving a trail of murderous enemies and satisfied lovers. After the first hard year or two, the attention stopped mattering, and the motivation to do the job just sort of took care of itself; the process reminded him a lot of his teen years, splitting from his parents, leaving the academy, and having to learn how to cope with shipboard life on his own. At least as Ace, he was largely successful and received immediate rewards for a job well done.
The evening before, he’d perched himself on a barstool with the intention of sipping something not at all dignified and perhaps slumming with one of this dimension’s healthier feminine diversions. Instead, dark eyes similar to the ones he’d blocked from his memories had insisted on his attention - and being Ace, he’d been in no position to be unfriendly to a Lister.
Worried at first that he was doing something he’d end up regretting, instead, Rimmer had found last night’s sex … liberating. It was freeing to not have to worry you were saying the wrong thing to the wrong person, or making unwanted advances on someone who’d laugh you off and never let you forget that miserable moment of weakness. In the moment, he’d let himself believe the man was his Listy, his slobby goit, because it had gotten them both off. Every time Lister had moaned or whispered or grunted his Rimmer’s name, he’d felt it as his own and held on briefly until the night passed. And this morning, Rimmer had felt great, knowing this Lister was going back to his people and he’d never have to deal with Lister’s eventual regret for the encounter. Despite what he’d told this Dave, Rimmer had no intention of ever going to see his Lister.
When they reached Wildfire, Rimmer gestured around the cramped sleeping area for Lister to make himself at home, while he ducked into a narrow corridor toward the tiny cockpit. “Hold still, she’s got to scan you,” he called to the back, hitting a couple of buttons. He waited a few beats, then added, “All right, you’re clear. Have your dimension ident in a minute.”
Rimmer fumbled in his tools compartment, then paused to glance at Lister’s identification code before rooting through the compartment again. For a minute his brain didn’t register anything odd. He turned again back to the readout; he squinted; it was no use. There was absolutely nothing about it that should alarm or trigger him. Yet, it did. Ident codes had no hidden patterns or meanings that should set him off; they were random combinations of letters and numbers. He’d glanced at a few hundred with no recognition.
And then he realized that was the problem. This was one he recognized - moreover, one he’d memorized, looked at a few times nearly every day for years. His breakfast made an express trip through his digestive tract, and he gritted his teeth. “Can you hold still? Got to do it again,” he managed, calling over his shoulder.
The second scan yielded the same exact string of numbers and letters. Why me? he mentally whined. Haven’t I done the smegging job? What did I do to deserve- OH SMEG. I can’t tell him. He can’t know this. He’d freak. Rimmer gnawed at his lower lip. The concept that Lister might take this news well never occurred to him. Who would? He’d said things - done things - that he’d admitted he wouldn’t have been likely to do with his own Rimmer.
Which was this Rimmer. Ace. Arn. Who-the-smeg-ever. He ignored any good feelings, pushed away the part of himself that wanted to do handstands and grab this Lister and kiss him stupid and take the chance it would work out to his favor. Because when had it ever for Arnie J.?
So pinned by his own inability to act and shock was Rimmer that the questions from the back were a distant din at first. “Hey, too personal to ask who these pictures are of?” He stared at the readout, the first mild panic he’d felt in years beginning to push up through his esophagus. “Rimmer? Ace?” He was rattled by the sudden appearance of Lister at his side, kneeling. “I was asking-” Something rustled as Lister shifted on his knee. “That my code?”
Rimmer glanced out of his periphery. His mental chant of I just gotta get him home, say nothing, he’s got no way to know … I just gotta get him home, say nothing, he’s got no way was chopped off at the sight of a familiar thin strip of paper in Lister’s short fingers. Oh, no.
Rimmer nodded and looked straight ahead out the glass, and waited. Lister was no dummy, despite years of unkind remarks his former bunkmate had made to the contrary. One of them was going to be sick, he knew it; he curled his fingers on the console, contracting and relaxing, to calm himself, and swallowed.
It took a minute, or maybe a couple of years - time judgment was beyond Rimmer right now, despite having his own internal system clock. Lister reached around to press the still-sticky strip of paper to the console right above Rimmer’s finely-trembling hand, at the same time brushing the tip of his nose against the shell of Rimmer’s ear.
Don’t do that, he wanted to whimper. I still want you. I didn’t get nearly enough last night, or this morning, and I can’t handle this if you’re not going to touch me more. I’m Ace goddamn Rimmer; don’t make me beg like a pathetic, needy loser, Listy. This little dignity is pretty much all I own outside my light bee and a few suits. He ached with desire, positively hurt with it, but was proud enough to keep his eyes forward and not make the small sound caught in his constricted throat.
“I think this is ours,” Lister finally whispered.
Rimmer definitely heard his possessive little growl.
Rating: PG-13
Chars.: Red Dwarf's Lister/Rimmer
Spoilers: The whole damn shooting match up through Series 8
Disclaimer: If I owned these characters, do you think the show would’ve been family-friendly fare? I earn no profit for my services.
Summary: Written at the request of missflibble for the POV meme I posted: "Could I please see a reversed snippet of the final scene in Ace on the River please? i.e. Rimmer's discovery that Lister is his Lister?" Unbetaed; here you go!
Feedback: Drop it on me …
A lifetime of telling himself and being told he was most definitely straight, that he only loved women and women’s bits, had colored Arnold Rimmer’s perceptions to the point where he’d died more or less convinced there was something wrong with him for not having made time with more women in what short time had laughably been his life. So it was with as much relief as trepidation that he’d assumed the mantle of Ace Rimmer and rocketed away from Starbug and Lister, its infuriating, disgusting, rodent-faced makeshift commander, who nevertheless stirred uncomfortable things inside Rimmer only the likes of Yvonne McGruder should be mixing up.
Years more or less alone with only a non-corporeal A.I. for company had left him lonely. Beautiful women were a welcome diversion, but much to Rimmer’s chagrin, the occasional beautiful man was even better. Especially the dark-eyed men; skin color wasn’t such a big deal, but brown or black eyes unafraid to meet his own could make him come so hard either in bed with them or later in his own fist, that he’d forget he was technically dead.
He tried not to examine this too closely and ignored the fact it never really mattered what color the women’s eyes were (though blue was nice; they reminded him of Yvonne, something he had no qualms admitting). In this way, Rimmer learned his job - learned it well - and careened through dimensions leaving a trail of murderous enemies and satisfied lovers. After the first hard year or two, the attention stopped mattering, and the motivation to do the job just sort of took care of itself; the process reminded him a lot of his teen years, splitting from his parents, leaving the academy, and having to learn how to cope with shipboard life on his own. At least as Ace, he was largely successful and received immediate rewards for a job well done.
The evening before, he’d perched himself on a barstool with the intention of sipping something not at all dignified and perhaps slumming with one of this dimension’s healthier feminine diversions. Instead, dark eyes similar to the ones he’d blocked from his memories had insisted on his attention - and being Ace, he’d been in no position to be unfriendly to a Lister.
Worried at first that he was doing something he’d end up regretting, instead, Rimmer had found last night’s sex … liberating. It was freeing to not have to worry you were saying the wrong thing to the wrong person, or making unwanted advances on someone who’d laugh you off and never let you forget that miserable moment of weakness. In the moment, he’d let himself believe the man was his Listy, his slobby goit, because it had gotten them both off. Every time Lister had moaned or whispered or grunted his Rimmer’s name, he’d felt it as his own and held on briefly until the night passed. And this morning, Rimmer had felt great, knowing this Lister was going back to his people and he’d never have to deal with Lister’s eventual regret for the encounter. Despite what he’d told this Dave, Rimmer had no intention of ever going to see his Lister.
When they reached Wildfire, Rimmer gestured around the cramped sleeping area for Lister to make himself at home, while he ducked into a narrow corridor toward the tiny cockpit. “Hold still, she’s got to scan you,” he called to the back, hitting a couple of buttons. He waited a few beats, then added, “All right, you’re clear. Have your dimension ident in a minute.”
Rimmer fumbled in his tools compartment, then paused to glance at Lister’s identification code before rooting through the compartment again. For a minute his brain didn’t register anything odd. He turned again back to the readout; he squinted; it was no use. There was absolutely nothing about it that should alarm or trigger him. Yet, it did. Ident codes had no hidden patterns or meanings that should set him off; they were random combinations of letters and numbers. He’d glanced at a few hundred with no recognition.
And then he realized that was the problem. This was one he recognized - moreover, one he’d memorized, looked at a few times nearly every day for years. His breakfast made an express trip through his digestive tract, and he gritted his teeth. “Can you hold still? Got to do it again,” he managed, calling over his shoulder.
The second scan yielded the same exact string of numbers and letters. Why me? he mentally whined. Haven’t I done the smegging job? What did I do to deserve- OH SMEG. I can’t tell him. He can’t know this. He’d freak. Rimmer gnawed at his lower lip. The concept that Lister might take this news well never occurred to him. Who would? He’d said things - done things - that he’d admitted he wouldn’t have been likely to do with his own Rimmer.
Which was this Rimmer. Ace. Arn. Who-the-smeg-ever. He ignored any good feelings, pushed away the part of himself that wanted to do handstands and grab this Lister and kiss him stupid and take the chance it would work out to his favor. Because when had it ever for Arnie J.?
So pinned by his own inability to act and shock was Rimmer that the questions from the back were a distant din at first. “Hey, too personal to ask who these pictures are of?” He stared at the readout, the first mild panic he’d felt in years beginning to push up through his esophagus. “Rimmer? Ace?” He was rattled by the sudden appearance of Lister at his side, kneeling. “I was asking-” Something rustled as Lister shifted on his knee. “That my code?”
Rimmer glanced out of his periphery. His mental chant of I just gotta get him home, say nothing, he’s got no way to know … I just gotta get him home, say nothing, he’s got no way was chopped off at the sight of a familiar thin strip of paper in Lister’s short fingers. Oh, no.
Rimmer nodded and looked straight ahead out the glass, and waited. Lister was no dummy, despite years of unkind remarks his former bunkmate had made to the contrary. One of them was going to be sick, he knew it; he curled his fingers on the console, contracting and relaxing, to calm himself, and swallowed.
It took a minute, or maybe a couple of years - time judgment was beyond Rimmer right now, despite having his own internal system clock. Lister reached around to press the still-sticky strip of paper to the console right above Rimmer’s finely-trembling hand, at the same time brushing the tip of his nose against the shell of Rimmer’s ear.
Don’t do that, he wanted to whimper. I still want you. I didn’t get nearly enough last night, or this morning, and I can’t handle this if you’re not going to touch me more. I’m Ace goddamn Rimmer; don’t make me beg like a pathetic, needy loser, Listy. This little dignity is pretty much all I own outside my light bee and a few suits. He ached with desire, positively hurt with it, but was proud enough to keep his eyes forward and not make the small sound caught in his constricted throat.
“I think this is ours,” Lister finally whispered.
Rimmer definitely heard his possessive little growl.