"Red Dwarf" fic: "Two-Card Dud" - PG-13
Apr. 4th, 2010 08:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
veronica_richTitle: “Two-Card Dud”
Rating: PG-13
Red Dwarf chars. Rimmer, Lister; unrequited slash
Disclaimer: I don’t earn any profit off of this writing, nor own the characters. Cheers!
Spoilers: “Dimension Jump,” “Emohawk” (“Rimmerworld” helps, but this is set right before that episode)
Summary: A bookend of sorts to my story Smokin’ Aces, but from Rimmer’s POV … 600 years earlier, as it were.
A/N: Thanks as always to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
metalkatt for reading it over and giving me the benefit of her longer time in fandom to help me figure these guys out somewhat. (As if that’s possible …)
Feedback: Okay!
That space slut. Cheater. That bloody, buggering hussy!
So much for saving himself for the woman he loved. If that smegging Ace Rimmer had put a ring on it, Lister would’ve been off with him faster than you could say toodle-pipski, and any memory or version of Kristine Kochanski still in the multiverse could’ve gone to hang herself.
Arnold Rimmer fumed. He – who he really was, not that other him that had apparently burrowed into a nasty, dark part of his brain suspended in chrysalis until the emohawk had sucked away the cocoon – was royally cheesed after the gag was removed and he was able to revert to himself. The first thing he’d done had been to fix that bloody dead squirrel of a rug the freed larva had fashioned from his hologrammatic programming and put his own far more acceptable short haircut back to rights.
And the second thing he’d done had been to inform Lister what a stupid, smegging, gerbil-faced poof he looked like, standing there still sort of smiling at him, even after it became clear the Ace-larva had been squashed. He’d spit, he’d sneered, he’d insulted until that dumb grin had completely vanished, and only then did he spin on his heel and execute a devastating retreat back toward crew quarters, satisfied that that … arse-pirate understood Ace wasn’t coming back and that Arnie wasn’t that way inclined whatsoever – not in life, not now, not in the future, and not in any other universe!
Of course he wasn’t.
Except, of course, how he was.
To be fair, Rimmer reminded himself repeatedly he wasn’t a general stick-licker. No, sir. There was this one minor, low-born, fairly insignificant speck of almost-humanity he might potentially find himself maybe halfway wondering what he’d look like mid-orgasm – but that was it. It wasn’t even completely personal. More of a general curiosity, really. And wasn’t curiosity encouraged in officers? Wasn’t “to boldly go” part of a bold leader’s motto? So shouldn’t “to boldly wonder, so long as it was in the recesses of one’s own mind and it never ever got out to anyone else, especially to that gimboid-faced poof” be encouraged, really? Surely Lister was no different than the Gelfs or simulants or even the Cat they’d met, in the sense that he was to be studied like a bug by any really advanced creatures such as Rimmer. After all, Rimmer had found a way to survive beyond death. That had to count for “advanced.” He ignored the minor fact that he hadn’t been the one to invent or perfect hologram technology.
This is how Rimmer justified speaking to Lister again, three days after he’d given Ace the boot. It was with enforced manners, a lofty air as befitted his scientific goals, and exceeding patience for an inferior intellect’s limited brainpower. Instead of getting annoyed when Lister or his cohorts called him names or questioned his status or orders, he simply smiled beatifically and shook his head, like only he knew the punchline and they weren’t even close. He ignored attempts to rile him and draw him into an argument, and whistled to himself cheerfully when one of them got annoyed with him for something or other.
It worked, too, for a whole five hours. That was, until Lister lighted up in the cockpit and the smoke wreathed its way back to Rimmer, as if trying to circle the wagons around his light bee. He reached up to airily wave it away and politely asked, “Would you mind, terribly? There’s no smoking in the drive room on Red Dwarf; I believe this would be analogous to that area.”
He prepared a sunny smile that looked more like a hyena about to be sick for when Lister swiveled around – as he knew he would – but felt his stomach lurch when he spotted the cheroot between Lister’s lips. He removed it slowly and started talking. “Rimmer, man,” he said, calmly, “this isn’t the first time I’ve-”
“Where did you get that?” He pointed at the offensive cigarillo, all cool gone.
“This?” Lister glanced down at it. “I’ve a small supply. Ace left me a couple of boxes before he took off. I don’t smoke ‘em very often, but given recent events, I was sort of reminded I had some, and-”
Rimmer didn’t hear the rest. He stood suddenly, nearly hitting his knee against his console, and turned, fleeing. He ignored Lister calling after him, asking what was wrong. He didn’t have to answer; there was no need for him to explain, to justify leaving his post. He knew he was superfluous, that he didn’t really do anything at that console but take up space, which was something he hadn’t even ever truly done before his hard light drive.
He’d left the cockpit blue, but by the time he made it to his quarters and couldn’t palm the door open, he saw his red-sleeved arm and realized he’d unconsciously switched over to soft-light. He stared at the arm for a moment, then shrugged. Well, why not? It’s not as if I have to be solid to go do nothing as usual. “Open the bloody door!” he ordered, and it slid open on voice command instead.
Unable to do anything but pace, he did that very well, at least, storming up five feet of the cabin and then turning dramatically and storming down the same five feet. He’d sworn he wouldn’t lose his temper, wouldn’t become agitated over the whole Ace thing. Apparently he’d lied.
Ace. Ace. Ace, who bloody had everything, the universe – the multiverse – at his booted feet. Ace, who could save ships and fix broken bones and play sonatas and make devoted friends in under five minutes. Ace, who’d stormed right in and made Arnold look even more pathetic than he already appeared to the creatures he was forced to live with. Ace, who’d somehow given Arnold’s subconscious the idea to resurrect him in the absence of negativity, as opposed to any other possible alter-ego in the entire span of emotional experience. Ace, who knew how to talk with Lister and smile at him and show his appreciation for him and generally be invaluable to him. Look at how fast that stupid grin disappeared as soon as Ace was gone and I was back! he remembered.
He ignored the part where the smile hadn’t immediately dissolved, how he’d had to insult Lister for a while for it to drop away completely. That’s because it’s a moot point; it would’ve gone away just as soon as it sunk in he was stuck with me again, anyway. The thought nearly broke the light bee hovering within his chest – and he hated himself for it. He hated the way Lister had made him feel for some years now, as though they could be friends – if only Rimmer were good enough. How they could get along – if only Rimmer wasn’t such a wiseass at the wrong times. He hated that he wasn’t good enough for a grubby, smelly Scouser who was hardly bursting with options out here in the middle of nowhere. He hated how Lister had stared and trotted after Ace when he showed up to rescue them and fix Starbug (he’d been the one who’d damaged it in the first place!).
But none of this compared to how much he’d hated Lister for that entire day he’d had to sit back, silent and impotent and fuming, and look at the way he’d studied Ace with interest, and even need – right into Rimmer’s own eyes. And realized, with finality, that such an expression would never be directed at Arnold.
He stopped in front of the mirror and stared hard at his face. What was it about Ace that had reduced everyone in the crew but him to a gibbering acolyte? The way they’d all stared at him, especially Lister … He leaned forward, frowning. Something in their shared past had diverged, sure, but it had affected more than just ability or attitude. It had gone right into the DNA and remixed some helix strands. Ace was rugged and handsome and tall and broad-shouldered, with a teasing mouth, handsome eyes, a strong jaw, classic profile, manageable hair. His voice was deep, his laughter contagious. When he walked into a room, he filled it and everyone in it with confidence and charisma.
Whereas, Rimmer decided, he’d been left with the unperfected DNA. His face was too narrow, his chin weak, his eyes had a funny shape on the top. His hair was like a bottlebrush, an unnamable amorphous plain brown color, escaping attempts to keep it in line, much like a naughty schoolgirl. His ears stuck out too far. He was too skinny. And, good lord, would you look at that nose? SMEGGING HUGE. You could drive a bloody zeppelin up in one of those! he realized, horrified, tilting his head back and leaning close to the mirror to see just how impossibly wide each nostril was. For Io’s sake, I can count hairs!
Rimmer realized he’d had the analogy backwards. The larva wasn’t what had burrowed out to briefly reprogram his hologram to shift into looking like Ace – that had been the butterfly.
Which meant the larva was either gone … or still firmly lodged inside.
He backed away, unnerved by this whole new level of self-loathing – but also strangely comfortable in it. That was it! They might share a name and parentage, but he and Ace were nothing alike. That Rimmer had advantages and breaks, but also completely retwisted DNA that made him more necessary and attractive to everyone! It went bone-deep, just as with any two completely separate, non-alike human beings – just like Rimmer himself and Lister were nothing alike.
And just in case there was any lingering glimmer of confusion in that cheeky bugger’s mind about the differences between Ace and Arnold, anything that might make Lister ever again give him the wondering, non-hostile looks he’d shot Rimmer occasionally over the past few days, Arnie vowed to set the man straight on that score at the first opportunity. He wasn’t sure how he’d do it – but he would. Oh, would he, but good.
Rating: PG-13
Red Dwarf chars. Rimmer, Lister; unrequited slash
Disclaimer: I don’t earn any profit off of this writing, nor own the characters. Cheers!
Spoilers: “Dimension Jump,” “Emohawk” (“Rimmerworld” helps, but this is set right before that episode)
Summary: A bookend of sorts to my story Smokin’ Aces, but from Rimmer’s POV … 600 years earlier, as it were.
A/N: Thanks as always to
metalkatt for reading it over and giving me the benefit of her longer time in fandom to help me figure these guys out somewhat. (As if that’s possible …)Feedback: Okay!
That space slut. Cheater. That bloody, buggering hussy!
So much for saving himself for the woman he loved. If that smegging Ace Rimmer had put a ring on it, Lister would’ve been off with him faster than you could say toodle-pipski, and any memory or version of Kristine Kochanski still in the multiverse could’ve gone to hang herself.
Arnold Rimmer fumed. He – who he really was, not that other him that had apparently burrowed into a nasty, dark part of his brain suspended in chrysalis until the emohawk had sucked away the cocoon – was royally cheesed after the gag was removed and he was able to revert to himself. The first thing he’d done had been to fix that bloody dead squirrel of a rug the freed larva had fashioned from his hologrammatic programming and put his own far more acceptable short haircut back to rights.
And the second thing he’d done had been to inform Lister what a stupid, smegging, gerbil-faced poof he looked like, standing there still sort of smiling at him, even after it became clear the Ace-larva had been squashed. He’d spit, he’d sneered, he’d insulted until that dumb grin had completely vanished, and only then did he spin on his heel and execute a devastating retreat back toward crew quarters, satisfied that that … arse-pirate understood Ace wasn’t coming back and that Arnie wasn’t that way inclined whatsoever – not in life, not now, not in the future, and not in any other universe!
Of course he wasn’t.
Except, of course, how he was.
To be fair, Rimmer reminded himself repeatedly he wasn’t a general stick-licker. No, sir. There was this one minor, low-born, fairly insignificant speck of almost-humanity he might potentially find himself maybe halfway wondering what he’d look like mid-orgasm – but that was it. It wasn’t even completely personal. More of a general curiosity, really. And wasn’t curiosity encouraged in officers? Wasn’t “to boldly go” part of a bold leader’s motto? So shouldn’t “to boldly wonder, so long as it was in the recesses of one’s own mind and it never ever got out to anyone else, especially to that gimboid-faced poof” be encouraged, really? Surely Lister was no different than the Gelfs or simulants or even the Cat they’d met, in the sense that he was to be studied like a bug by any really advanced creatures such as Rimmer. After all, Rimmer had found a way to survive beyond death. That had to count for “advanced.” He ignored the minor fact that he hadn’t been the one to invent or perfect hologram technology.
This is how Rimmer justified speaking to Lister again, three days after he’d given Ace the boot. It was with enforced manners, a lofty air as befitted his scientific goals, and exceeding patience for an inferior intellect’s limited brainpower. Instead of getting annoyed when Lister or his cohorts called him names or questioned his status or orders, he simply smiled beatifically and shook his head, like only he knew the punchline and they weren’t even close. He ignored attempts to rile him and draw him into an argument, and whistled to himself cheerfully when one of them got annoyed with him for something or other.
It worked, too, for a whole five hours. That was, until Lister lighted up in the cockpit and the smoke wreathed its way back to Rimmer, as if trying to circle the wagons around his light bee. He reached up to airily wave it away and politely asked, “Would you mind, terribly? There’s no smoking in the drive room on Red Dwarf; I believe this would be analogous to that area.”
He prepared a sunny smile that looked more like a hyena about to be sick for when Lister swiveled around – as he knew he would – but felt his stomach lurch when he spotted the cheroot between Lister’s lips. He removed it slowly and started talking. “Rimmer, man,” he said, calmly, “this isn’t the first time I’ve-”
“Where did you get that?” He pointed at the offensive cigarillo, all cool gone.
“This?” Lister glanced down at it. “I’ve a small supply. Ace left me a couple of boxes before he took off. I don’t smoke ‘em very often, but given recent events, I was sort of reminded I had some, and-”
Rimmer didn’t hear the rest. He stood suddenly, nearly hitting his knee against his console, and turned, fleeing. He ignored Lister calling after him, asking what was wrong. He didn’t have to answer; there was no need for him to explain, to justify leaving his post. He knew he was superfluous, that he didn’t really do anything at that console but take up space, which was something he hadn’t even ever truly done before his hard light drive.
He’d left the cockpit blue, but by the time he made it to his quarters and couldn’t palm the door open, he saw his red-sleeved arm and realized he’d unconsciously switched over to soft-light. He stared at the arm for a moment, then shrugged. Well, why not? It’s not as if I have to be solid to go do nothing as usual. “Open the bloody door!” he ordered, and it slid open on voice command instead.
Unable to do anything but pace, he did that very well, at least, storming up five feet of the cabin and then turning dramatically and storming down the same five feet. He’d sworn he wouldn’t lose his temper, wouldn’t become agitated over the whole Ace thing. Apparently he’d lied.
Ace. Ace. Ace, who bloody had everything, the universe – the multiverse – at his booted feet. Ace, who could save ships and fix broken bones and play sonatas and make devoted friends in under five minutes. Ace, who’d stormed right in and made Arnold look even more pathetic than he already appeared to the creatures he was forced to live with. Ace, who’d somehow given Arnold’s subconscious the idea to resurrect him in the absence of negativity, as opposed to any other possible alter-ego in the entire span of emotional experience. Ace, who knew how to talk with Lister and smile at him and show his appreciation for him and generally be invaluable to him. Look at how fast that stupid grin disappeared as soon as Ace was gone and I was back! he remembered.
He ignored the part where the smile hadn’t immediately dissolved, how he’d had to insult Lister for a while for it to drop away completely. That’s because it’s a moot point; it would’ve gone away just as soon as it sunk in he was stuck with me again, anyway. The thought nearly broke the light bee hovering within his chest – and he hated himself for it. He hated the way Lister had made him feel for some years now, as though they could be friends – if only Rimmer were good enough. How they could get along – if only Rimmer wasn’t such a wiseass at the wrong times. He hated that he wasn’t good enough for a grubby, smelly Scouser who was hardly bursting with options out here in the middle of nowhere. He hated how Lister had stared and trotted after Ace when he showed up to rescue them and fix Starbug (he’d been the one who’d damaged it in the first place!).
But none of this compared to how much he’d hated Lister for that entire day he’d had to sit back, silent and impotent and fuming, and look at the way he’d studied Ace with interest, and even need – right into Rimmer’s own eyes. And realized, with finality, that such an expression would never be directed at Arnold.
He stopped in front of the mirror and stared hard at his face. What was it about Ace that had reduced everyone in the crew but him to a gibbering acolyte? The way they’d all stared at him, especially Lister … He leaned forward, frowning. Something in their shared past had diverged, sure, but it had affected more than just ability or attitude. It had gone right into the DNA and remixed some helix strands. Ace was rugged and handsome and tall and broad-shouldered, with a teasing mouth, handsome eyes, a strong jaw, classic profile, manageable hair. His voice was deep, his laughter contagious. When he walked into a room, he filled it and everyone in it with confidence and charisma.
Whereas, Rimmer decided, he’d been left with the unperfected DNA. His face was too narrow, his chin weak, his eyes had a funny shape on the top. His hair was like a bottlebrush, an unnamable amorphous plain brown color, escaping attempts to keep it in line, much like a naughty schoolgirl. His ears stuck out too far. He was too skinny. And, good lord, would you look at that nose? SMEGGING HUGE. You could drive a bloody zeppelin up in one of those! he realized, horrified, tilting his head back and leaning close to the mirror to see just how impossibly wide each nostril was. For Io’s sake, I can count hairs!
Rimmer realized he’d had the analogy backwards. The larva wasn’t what had burrowed out to briefly reprogram his hologram to shift into looking like Ace – that had been the butterfly.
Which meant the larva was either gone … or still firmly lodged inside.
He backed away, unnerved by this whole new level of self-loathing – but also strangely comfortable in it. That was it! They might share a name and parentage, but he and Ace were nothing alike. That Rimmer had advantages and breaks, but also completely retwisted DNA that made him more necessary and attractive to everyone! It went bone-deep, just as with any two completely separate, non-alike human beings – just like Rimmer himself and Lister were nothing alike.
And just in case there was any lingering glimmer of confusion in that cheeky bugger’s mind about the differences between Ace and Arnold, anything that might make Lister ever again give him the wondering, non-hostile looks he’d shot Rimmer occasionally over the past few days, Arnie vowed to set the man straight on that score at the first opportunity. He wasn’t sure how he’d do it – but he would. Oh, would he, but good.
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no subject
Date: 2010-04-05 12:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-05 05:57 am (UTC)Yeah, the DNA thing I thought was funny, since it shows how delusional he can be. THEY HAVE THE EXACT SAME FEATURES. Get a clue, Rimmer! *G*
I'm glad you thought he sounded in-character. I told Nat I was kind of worried about that. Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2010-04-05 05:44 am (UTC)(and some of us some him because he's skinny, dammit!)
Also, hahaha stick licker. I'm gonna use that one more often in casual conversation.
no subject
Date: 2010-04-05 06:04 am (UTC)Rimmer misses the point so many times that you start to be glad he never took up archery, LOL! In my head writing this, he's just so resentful and jealous of the attention Ace gets from Lister that even when HE is "Ace" he can't see it as a clue that maybe he just needs to try to be a better person - he just knows he can't live up to that, and doesn't want to try.
Yeah, the skinny bit - he's so desperate to find justification for his problems that he ignores the fact he and Ace are the same exact person and the same exact features. THAT'S some delusion going on, LOL.
Thanks for reading yet again!
no subject
Date: 2010-04-05 06:09 am (UTC)Rimmer is the King of excuses. The man can explain anyway absolutely ANYTHING in his head.
no subject
Date: 2010-04-06 04:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-06 04:50 am (UTC)I confess there's a bit of the sadist in me, to do this to him - but it's not as though I've made him OOC, sadly. He does, after all, see himself as the ship's bastard. (However, I also like the forward-thinking idea that if he can see Ace this way, he might *eventually* see himself this way when he's Ace. And then be able to come back and enjoy the rewards. *G*)
before it deteriorates into another round of 'why Chris Barrie is awesome'
Oh, go ahead - from what I can tell, it's allowed, and I agree mightily. ;-)
no subject
Date: 2010-04-06 11:05 pm (UTC)I want to grab onto Rimmer and huggle him tight - while he'd protest vigorously about mad gropey women, no doubt. I've been reduced to making 'awwww, Rimmer!' noises, I liked this so much.
no subject
Date: 2010-04-07 01:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-07 09:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-17 05:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-16 07:51 am (UTC)or is it fourths?the fellow sentiments of her peers, and idly wonders what Rimmer would think about being hugged by a sizable mob ofadmittedly weirdfangirls*no subject
Date: 2010-04-17 05:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-19 08:10 am (UTC).......
I think he'd be rather happy regardless if he was mobbed by a bunch of teenage to middle-age women.