New Red Dwarf fic - "The Same Old Hope" PG-13
Title: "The Same Old Hope"
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Red Dwarf, Lister/Rimmer
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters or subsidiaries. But I enjoy playing with them so much.
Note: This is set after my joint story with metalkatt, Someone to Watch Over You (no, she didn’t help write this one, just me). It’s just a short vignette, taking place right after the guys take Kochanski 2.0 back to her own dimension. Thanks to kronette for the quick beta, too - all lingering mistakes are my own damn fault!
Lister swirled the beer in his glass, watching little splashes lick foamy spittle off near the top above the liquid line. His mind had been numb for hours, and this seemed like the first thought he’d had in forever. “It’s like a standup’s wet dream in here,” he remarked, looking back up.
Rimmer pulled a mild face. “What?”
“It’s just - how it is in here,” Lister tried to explain, gesturing with his drink at a few points of interest behind them, reflected in the huge mirror running the length of the bar. “It’s like one of those jokes, y’know - ‘guy walks into a bar?’ Look, there’re a couple of what have to be drag queens, and a bloke in peacock feathers and spandex, and … is that seriously a priest and a rabbi at that table?” He squinted. “Yeah, see what I mean? Hell, I even feel like we’re ‘Star Wars,’ you know, kind of Han and Chewie in that smegged-up cantina. Any minute, I bet a frog’s gonna walk in with a guy on his ass.”
The hologram sipped at his white wine spritzer, then asked, “So - am I Han, or Chewie?”
Lister gave him a sideways visual sweep, taking in the worn leather bomber jacket with aviators half-jammed in the pocket, tight brown trousers, knee boots, and back up to artfully frizzed auburn hair. “Seriously? Ace Rimmer sitting at a bar, and you’re fishing for me to call you Han Solo a second time?” As Rimmer took another drink, Lister saw him smirk into the glass. “Conceited git.”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call you Chewbacca.” Rimmer appeared to be thinking about it.
“Well, I’m not Luke.” He paused. “Or Lando, just ‘cause I’m the black guy.”
Setting his wineglass down, Rimmer swiveled to face him, regarding him intently. He reached behind Lister with both hands and pulled a couple of dreadlocks over each shoulder. Lister’d had nearly three beers and Rimmer’s long fingers felt good brushing his ears, so it took him a tick to figure out what the guy was doing. It dawned on him around the time he glanced to the side and saw himself in profile in the mirror; his eyes widened at the makeshift disc-like bun Rimmer had already mostly wound against the right side of his head. “HEY!” he barked, hurriedly putting his glass down and smacking the hand away.
Rimmer guffawed, and Lister reached up to feel for his fallen locks, making sure they were hanging down once again. “Smeg off!” he bitched, his mood once again inexplicably foul. “I’m no princess.”
“No, you’re not,” Rimmer agreed, the peal of laughter having died down to a fond smile. His eyes were intent on Lister, who was still learning to recognize this relatively new sort-of softness of expression as a shade of horniness. He could feel his annoyance dissipating, and a slight lightening of the heaviness he’d carried in his chest since they’d left Kris back with “her” Dave.
He narrowed his eyes at Rimmer, hoping he got the message he was still put out, but as he did so, he began leaning forward, feeling his eyelids slide closed-
“Hell-oooo,” a smoky female voice near-growled, making Lister sit back quickly and blink. He tried to rationalize it as anything other than self-consciousness at being caught out almost kissing a man, and sheepishly realized he couldn’t. He’d just barely had time to get used to being with a man in front of the rest of the posse; hell, being with anyone after all these years single … mainly because it was Rimmer, which still sometimes freaked out a small part of his brain. But being out in public like this, at a bar where he didn’t even know the mores and reactions people would have?
All this went through his brain in an instant before he pinpointed the woman at Rimmer’s shoulder, paying no attention to Lister whatsoever. “Evening, Greta,” the pilot responded mildly, sliding into the lower register of his Ace voice. “What brings you out, old girl?”
“A dry martini and the news that Ace Rimmer’s in town,” she fairly purred, her hand splayed on the thin fabric of the shirt pulled across his chest.
Rimmer seemed unaffected, almost bored. “Is that so.” That had to take effort, Lister mused. Greta was quite possibly one of the two or three most beautiful women he’d ever set eyes on. She was better-looking than Pete Tranter’s sister, prettier than any of the Harrod’s perfume girls he’d seen, and almost up there with that supermodel Thicky Holden had married. If he hadn’t been so biased, he’d have even ranked her a little above Kochanski in the looks department - both of them. Rimmer, Lister decided, had to be totally gay for sure, or made of stone.
And then Greta leaned in and artfully stuck her tongue in his ear.
Well. Now only part of Rimmer was probably stone-like, Lister mused.
His eyebrows went up before Rimmer’s eyes widened; he knew how sensitive those ears were. Sure enough, Rimmer shifted subtly on his stool and blinked a couple of times as he pulled to the other side, disengaging. “Easy, there, Grets. Not in the old mood tonight, love. How about you have a seat over here, other side of Dave, and we’ll buy you something to cool that off?”
“Who?” For the first time, Greta looked directly at Lister, but fleetingly. “Oh.” She dismissed him and boldly dropped her hand, sliding it up inside Rimmer’s shirt and around to his side. “We don’t need him,” she said in low tones. “I mean, unless you’re really into that.”
Lister supposed he should be jealous, but amusement won out, considering how earnestly Rimmer was working to remove the woman’s hands from his body - and now even his hair, too. “Greta, I- Dave, could I maybe talk to you just a moment?” He gave Lister a pointed look and nodded toward the hallway on the other side of the room with the restrooms. “NOW?”
In all the years they’d known each other, he’d been with Rimmer on a few occasions where he’d tried to chat up women and was shot down, usually deservedly, but Lister never expected to see the guy fighting off the advances of a supermodel. Truth be told, it was fascinating. “I’m kind of comfortable here,” he replied.
Rimmer shot him a homicidal look out of Greta’s sight, waiting until she was focused on licking at his ear again. “We really need to … ah, talk about … that is …” His hazel eyes rolled up a little as the lids dropped mostly closed - and Lister was surprised to realize it was turning him on.
Watching the man he was sleeping with so obviously aroused by something being done to him, even if Rimmer didn’t want it - well, Lister knew it was probably screwed up, and maybe it was just the beers talking and the day’s depression needing a shock to go away, but damn. He had a sudden mental image of Rimmer sprawled out in bed, his head in Lister’s lap as he gazed up at him upside down, while this woman stroked and sucked and got him off. His worry at his own lack of jealousy was increasing with his arousal - until in a rare moment of self-clarity Lister realized the appeal was in the idea of being able to focus on Rimmer losing his control without being swept into it himself.
And at that, he patted Greta on the arm to get her attention.
It took a moment, but when she finally noticed and pulled away from a now-mildly-struggling Rimmer to give him an annoyed look, Lister ignored her and leaned closer to Rimmer. He got a hand around his jaw to hold him in place, then angled his head and kissed him. He could feel how pliable the man still was; he reached out to pull Lister closer and kissed him hard. He couldn’t remember why he’d been sad right now, or annoyed, or, honestly, anything.
Finally, Lister moved across Rimmer’s cheek to his other ear. When he licked the shell, he felt a growl somewhere in the slight shudder of the man’s body against his. “Is this what you want?” he murmured into Rimmer’s skin, kissing the earlobe.
“Gods, yes,” he heard, this time in Rimmer’s own hoarse voice; it was far more exciting than Ace’s, and Lister distantly realized there was a time he would have found that disturbing.
“You want me, is that it?” he pressed, voice gravelly.
“Listy.” He felt a hand at the back of his head, cupping it tightly.
He pulled back, and the look Rimmer gave him now was pure want; his eyes didn’t even flick to Greta, and Lister had never felt less like a Wookie in his life. The thought, unfortunately, made him start laughing, and for just a couple of seconds, Rimmer looked unspeakably hurt and confused.
Then, amazingly, he cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “Are you thinking of Han Solo again?” he demanded.
“What? No!” Lister tried for serious, then felt it collapse. “Well, yeah. But not HAN, you daft smeghead.” He took a breath for an explanation before realizing there was a twinkle in Rimmer’s eyes and a badly controlled tremor around his mouth. “Quit thinking of me in those … hair-bun things!”
Greta chose then to interject, rather huffily, “Ace!”
Rimmer visibly composed himself and reverted to space hero-voice to placate her. “Now calm down there, Greedo, love, I-” The woman just looked bewildered as Rimmer realized what he’d said, and immediately bit down on his fist in mortification.
Lister burst out laughing. The whole thing was surreal and awkward - and almost exactly as he imagined it would be to have Rimmer back all those times he’d thought of the man during the two years he was gone. As crazy as it would have sounded to his younger self, he realized this might well have been the most he’d ever loved anyone in his life.
As Greta stomped off, Rimmer finally removed the fist from his mouth and screwed his eyes shut, shaking his head. “You jammy bastard,” he finally said, the scarlet beginning to drain from his face as he opened his eyes to glare at Lister. “You’re the one who brought it up, made me think of that.”
“I know.” He turned them both back toward the bar and hugged an arm around Rimmer’s shoulders, giving him a wink in the mirror. “All part of my master plan to chase off the competition, Ace.”
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Red Dwarf, Lister/Rimmer
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters or subsidiaries. But I enjoy playing with them so much.
Note: This is set after my joint story with metalkatt, Someone to Watch Over You (no, she didn’t help write this one, just me). It’s just a short vignette, taking place right after the guys take Kochanski 2.0 back to her own dimension. Thanks to kronette for the quick beta, too - all lingering mistakes are my own damn fault!
Lister swirled the beer in his glass, watching little splashes lick foamy spittle off near the top above the liquid line. His mind had been numb for hours, and this seemed like the first thought he’d had in forever. “It’s like a standup’s wet dream in here,” he remarked, looking back up.
Rimmer pulled a mild face. “What?”
“It’s just - how it is in here,” Lister tried to explain, gesturing with his drink at a few points of interest behind them, reflected in the huge mirror running the length of the bar. “It’s like one of those jokes, y’know - ‘guy walks into a bar?’ Look, there’re a couple of what have to be drag queens, and a bloke in peacock feathers and spandex, and … is that seriously a priest and a rabbi at that table?” He squinted. “Yeah, see what I mean? Hell, I even feel like we’re ‘Star Wars,’ you know, kind of Han and Chewie in that smegged-up cantina. Any minute, I bet a frog’s gonna walk in with a guy on his ass.”
The hologram sipped at his white wine spritzer, then asked, “So - am I Han, or Chewie?”
Lister gave him a sideways visual sweep, taking in the worn leather bomber jacket with aviators half-jammed in the pocket, tight brown trousers, knee boots, and back up to artfully frizzed auburn hair. “Seriously? Ace Rimmer sitting at a bar, and you’re fishing for me to call you Han Solo a second time?” As Rimmer took another drink, Lister saw him smirk into the glass. “Conceited git.”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call you Chewbacca.” Rimmer appeared to be thinking about it.
“Well, I’m not Luke.” He paused. “Or Lando, just ‘cause I’m the black guy.”
Setting his wineglass down, Rimmer swiveled to face him, regarding him intently. He reached behind Lister with both hands and pulled a couple of dreadlocks over each shoulder. Lister’d had nearly three beers and Rimmer’s long fingers felt good brushing his ears, so it took him a tick to figure out what the guy was doing. It dawned on him around the time he glanced to the side and saw himself in profile in the mirror; his eyes widened at the makeshift disc-like bun Rimmer had already mostly wound against the right side of his head. “HEY!” he barked, hurriedly putting his glass down and smacking the hand away.
Rimmer guffawed, and Lister reached up to feel for his fallen locks, making sure they were hanging down once again. “Smeg off!” he bitched, his mood once again inexplicably foul. “I’m no princess.”
“No, you’re not,” Rimmer agreed, the peal of laughter having died down to a fond smile. His eyes were intent on Lister, who was still learning to recognize this relatively new sort-of softness of expression as a shade of horniness. He could feel his annoyance dissipating, and a slight lightening of the heaviness he’d carried in his chest since they’d left Kris back with “her” Dave.
He narrowed his eyes at Rimmer, hoping he got the message he was still put out, but as he did so, he began leaning forward, feeling his eyelids slide closed-
“Hell-oooo,” a smoky female voice near-growled, making Lister sit back quickly and blink. He tried to rationalize it as anything other than self-consciousness at being caught out almost kissing a man, and sheepishly realized he couldn’t. He’d just barely had time to get used to being with a man in front of the rest of the posse; hell, being with anyone after all these years single … mainly because it was Rimmer, which still sometimes freaked out a small part of his brain. But being out in public like this, at a bar where he didn’t even know the mores and reactions people would have?
All this went through his brain in an instant before he pinpointed the woman at Rimmer’s shoulder, paying no attention to Lister whatsoever. “Evening, Greta,” the pilot responded mildly, sliding into the lower register of his Ace voice. “What brings you out, old girl?”
“A dry martini and the news that Ace Rimmer’s in town,” she fairly purred, her hand splayed on the thin fabric of the shirt pulled across his chest.
Rimmer seemed unaffected, almost bored. “Is that so.” That had to take effort, Lister mused. Greta was quite possibly one of the two or three most beautiful women he’d ever set eyes on. She was better-looking than Pete Tranter’s sister, prettier than any of the Harrod’s perfume girls he’d seen, and almost up there with that supermodel Thicky Holden had married. If he hadn’t been so biased, he’d have even ranked her a little above Kochanski in the looks department - both of them. Rimmer, Lister decided, had to be totally gay for sure, or made of stone.
And then Greta leaned in and artfully stuck her tongue in his ear.
Well. Now only part of Rimmer was probably stone-like, Lister mused.
His eyebrows went up before Rimmer’s eyes widened; he knew how sensitive those ears were. Sure enough, Rimmer shifted subtly on his stool and blinked a couple of times as he pulled to the other side, disengaging. “Easy, there, Grets. Not in the old mood tonight, love. How about you have a seat over here, other side of Dave, and we’ll buy you something to cool that off?”
“Who?” For the first time, Greta looked directly at Lister, but fleetingly. “Oh.” She dismissed him and boldly dropped her hand, sliding it up inside Rimmer’s shirt and around to his side. “We don’t need him,” she said in low tones. “I mean, unless you’re really into that.”
Lister supposed he should be jealous, but amusement won out, considering how earnestly Rimmer was working to remove the woman’s hands from his body - and now even his hair, too. “Greta, I- Dave, could I maybe talk to you just a moment?” He gave Lister a pointed look and nodded toward the hallway on the other side of the room with the restrooms. “NOW?”
In all the years they’d known each other, he’d been with Rimmer on a few occasions where he’d tried to chat up women and was shot down, usually deservedly, but Lister never expected to see the guy fighting off the advances of a supermodel. Truth be told, it was fascinating. “I’m kind of comfortable here,” he replied.
Rimmer shot him a homicidal look out of Greta’s sight, waiting until she was focused on licking at his ear again. “We really need to … ah, talk about … that is …” His hazel eyes rolled up a little as the lids dropped mostly closed - and Lister was surprised to realize it was turning him on.
Watching the man he was sleeping with so obviously aroused by something being done to him, even if Rimmer didn’t want it - well, Lister knew it was probably screwed up, and maybe it was just the beers talking and the day’s depression needing a shock to go away, but damn. He had a sudden mental image of Rimmer sprawled out in bed, his head in Lister’s lap as he gazed up at him upside down, while this woman stroked and sucked and got him off. His worry at his own lack of jealousy was increasing with his arousal - until in a rare moment of self-clarity Lister realized the appeal was in the idea of being able to focus on Rimmer losing his control without being swept into it himself.
And at that, he patted Greta on the arm to get her attention.
It took a moment, but when she finally noticed and pulled away from a now-mildly-struggling Rimmer to give him an annoyed look, Lister ignored her and leaned closer to Rimmer. He got a hand around his jaw to hold him in place, then angled his head and kissed him. He could feel how pliable the man still was; he reached out to pull Lister closer and kissed him hard. He couldn’t remember why he’d been sad right now, or annoyed, or, honestly, anything.
Finally, Lister moved across Rimmer’s cheek to his other ear. When he licked the shell, he felt a growl somewhere in the slight shudder of the man’s body against his. “Is this what you want?” he murmured into Rimmer’s skin, kissing the earlobe.
“Gods, yes,” he heard, this time in Rimmer’s own hoarse voice; it was far more exciting than Ace’s, and Lister distantly realized there was a time he would have found that disturbing.
“You want me, is that it?” he pressed, voice gravelly.
“Listy.” He felt a hand at the back of his head, cupping it tightly.
He pulled back, and the look Rimmer gave him now was pure want; his eyes didn’t even flick to Greta, and Lister had never felt less like a Wookie in his life. The thought, unfortunately, made him start laughing, and for just a couple of seconds, Rimmer looked unspeakably hurt and confused.
Then, amazingly, he cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “Are you thinking of Han Solo again?” he demanded.
“What? No!” Lister tried for serious, then felt it collapse. “Well, yeah. But not HAN, you daft smeghead.” He took a breath for an explanation before realizing there was a twinkle in Rimmer’s eyes and a badly controlled tremor around his mouth. “Quit thinking of me in those … hair-bun things!”
Greta chose then to interject, rather huffily, “Ace!”
Rimmer visibly composed himself and reverted to space hero-voice to placate her. “Now calm down there, Greedo, love, I-” The woman just looked bewildered as Rimmer realized what he’d said, and immediately bit down on his fist in mortification.
Lister burst out laughing. The whole thing was surreal and awkward - and almost exactly as he imagined it would be to have Rimmer back all those times he’d thought of the man during the two years he was gone. As crazy as it would have sounded to his younger self, he realized this might well have been the most he’d ever loved anyone in his life.
As Greta stomped off, Rimmer finally removed the fist from his mouth and screwed his eyes shut, shaking his head. “You jammy bastard,” he finally said, the scarlet beginning to drain from his face as he opened his eyes to glare at Lister. “You’re the one who brought it up, made me think of that.”
“I know.” He turned them both back toward the bar and hugged an arm around Rimmer’s shoulders, giving him a wink in the mirror. “All part of my master plan to chase off the competition, Ace.”