RD Fic: "Therapy" - 1/9
Jul. 27th, 2011 06:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
veronica_richTherapy
PG-13 to start out, getting into NC-17 in later parts (so, overall NC-17)
Rimmer, Lister et. al. M/M intentions.
Disclaimer: Not my property. Just having a good time and hoping to entertain.
Summary: Three million years and some after his death, Rimmer gets some therapy, thanks to a discovery the guys make in a raid on a derelict. Timeline: Sometime in S6, decidedly an AU of some sort that I haven't yet decided fully.
A/N: Feedback of any kind is loved, I am shallow and I admit I like it.
“What the hell did he-”
Rimmer pushed the heel of one hand into his corresponding eye. “Lister, I am particularly not of a mindset to entertain your perceptions right now. If you please.”
Which, of course, he never did, where Rimmer was concerned. “I’m not shutting up until you explain what that was all about.”
He tried to comfort himself with the certainty that Lister probably would have driven General Patton to forget the war in favor of choking him just to shut him up. “What do you think he meant?”
“Well …” Rimmer blinked, incredulous. Lister, at a loss for words? “I mean- Hell, man, it sounded like he said you love me.” He scratched the side of his nose in a fetchingly disgusting manner, and Rimmer sighed. “But- heh, he’s not right. Right?”
Leaning forward, Rimmer put his elbows on the table and followed his forehead onto the heels of his hands. “I don’t hate you,” he answered. “I don’t want you dead – anymore. I don’t feel the urge quite as often to turn a hose on you like the family dog. And I don’t like you.” He paused, remembering the machine’s words. “You’ve cleaned yourself up, so disgust is out – mostly.” He sat up and ticked off another list of emotions he did not feel toward his still-too-grotty bunkmate, ending with, “… and certainly not ‘brotherly.’ We are nowhere near related.” He shuddered at the idea. “If you look at this list and you see all the stuff I don’t feel about you, and you figure I’m certainly not going to wish you dead or maimed, or disfigured-” He glanced up at Lister and arched one eyebrow. “Well, anymore than Nature’s already done to you … I mean, if you think the only possible thing left could be love, then maybe that’s what you desperately want out of me.” He ended on a lofty note, crossing his arms and drawing a beady eye on Lister, daring him to explain it differently.
It took Lister a moment to work through all that; Rimmer counted on it, standing as the Scouser wrinkled his nose and scrunched his brow, visibly confused by the doublespeak. “Some of us need a nap, and you’re on duty.” He nodded triumphantly toward the cockpit.
“Steady on – you just say you love me?”
He blew out air. “Your comprehension, Lister, is equivalent to that of a sanity-challenged crustacean-”
“Nah, you said you love me.” He shook a finger briefly at Rimmer – then grinned broadly. “And so’d he!”
“He” had been a series 6000 mechanoid, fitted with the telepathic factory-installed option by DivaDroid Universal. Manufactured three years after Kryten had left the solar system with the Nova 5, the stranded bucket of bolts Rimmer had mistakenly (but under protest! It was on the record) agreed with the others to stop to help turned out to be a mostly defunct ball-shaped remnant of a three million years-earlier interstellar mission to scout for radioactive ore beyond Pluto. Only a few humans had been included in this mission, and Troi-7 had been specially designed as a therapist programmed to understand the range of human emotions. The telepathy was a timesaving measure to allow him – it – to cut through human bullshit and get the afflicted party the optimal counseling as quickly as possible.
The damn thing couldn’t move or clean or repair anything worth a smeg, Rimmer bitterly reflected, but it was sure johnny-on-the-spot with an assessment of their individual mental states, including Rimmer’s confusion about the person he’d spent the most time around continually in his entire existence.
“He’s a batty bucket of outdated algorithms,” Rimmer informed Lister, nostrils at full offended flare, “and I said no such thing. I said if that’s what you want to believe, that’s no skin off my bee. I have absolutely no inclination to moon over you or do as you please, or … touch you, and I’ll certainly not be sneaking into your bunk trying to jolly my roger up your- mast-hole, or whatever.” The metaphor failed his vocabulary mid-insult, and he snapped his mouth closed and strode out of the midsection.
******
As he was cleaning out his closet fifteen minutes later, looking for something to do, Rimmer came across one of his old Love Celibates’ newsletters. He read it, considered that if he were still alive he’d be dressed by the others as Baby Cupid and forced to wander the corridors with a glittery bow and arrow in punishment, and puffed out a big stream of air, and muttered, “Smeg it all.”
Lister ruined just fucking everything.
On to part 2
PG-13 to start out, getting into NC-17 in later parts (so, overall NC-17)
Rimmer, Lister et. al. M/M intentions.
Disclaimer: Not my property. Just having a good time and hoping to entertain.
Summary: Three million years and some after his death, Rimmer gets some therapy, thanks to a discovery the guys make in a raid on a derelict. Timeline: Sometime in S6, decidedly an AU of some sort that I haven't yet decided fully.
A/N: Feedback of any kind is loved, I am shallow and I admit I like it.
“What the hell did he-”
Rimmer pushed the heel of one hand into his corresponding eye. “Lister, I am particularly not of a mindset to entertain your perceptions right now. If you please.”
Which, of course, he never did, where Rimmer was concerned. “I’m not shutting up until you explain what that was all about.”
He tried to comfort himself with the certainty that Lister probably would have driven General Patton to forget the war in favor of choking him just to shut him up. “What do you think he meant?”
“Well …” Rimmer blinked, incredulous. Lister, at a loss for words? “I mean- Hell, man, it sounded like he said you love me.” He scratched the side of his nose in a fetchingly disgusting manner, and Rimmer sighed. “But- heh, he’s not right. Right?”
Leaning forward, Rimmer put his elbows on the table and followed his forehead onto the heels of his hands. “I don’t hate you,” he answered. “I don’t want you dead – anymore. I don’t feel the urge quite as often to turn a hose on you like the family dog. And I don’t like you.” He paused, remembering the machine’s words. “You’ve cleaned yourself up, so disgust is out – mostly.” He sat up and ticked off another list of emotions he did not feel toward his still-too-grotty bunkmate, ending with, “… and certainly not ‘brotherly.’ We are nowhere near related.” He shuddered at the idea. “If you look at this list and you see all the stuff I don’t feel about you, and you figure I’m certainly not going to wish you dead or maimed, or disfigured-” He glanced up at Lister and arched one eyebrow. “Well, anymore than Nature’s already done to you … I mean, if you think the only possible thing left could be love, then maybe that’s what you desperately want out of me.” He ended on a lofty note, crossing his arms and drawing a beady eye on Lister, daring him to explain it differently.
It took Lister a moment to work through all that; Rimmer counted on it, standing as the Scouser wrinkled his nose and scrunched his brow, visibly confused by the doublespeak. “Some of us need a nap, and you’re on duty.” He nodded triumphantly toward the cockpit.
“Steady on – you just say you love me?”
He blew out air. “Your comprehension, Lister, is equivalent to that of a sanity-challenged crustacean-”
“Nah, you said you love me.” He shook a finger briefly at Rimmer – then grinned broadly. “And so’d he!”
“He” had been a series 6000 mechanoid, fitted with the telepathic factory-installed option by DivaDroid Universal. Manufactured three years after Kryten had left the solar system with the Nova 5, the stranded bucket of bolts Rimmer had mistakenly (but under protest! It was on the record) agreed with the others to stop to help turned out to be a mostly defunct ball-shaped remnant of a three million years-earlier interstellar mission to scout for radioactive ore beyond Pluto. Only a few humans had been included in this mission, and Troi-7 had been specially designed as a therapist programmed to understand the range of human emotions. The telepathy was a timesaving measure to allow him – it – to cut through human bullshit and get the afflicted party the optimal counseling as quickly as possible.
The damn thing couldn’t move or clean or repair anything worth a smeg, Rimmer bitterly reflected, but it was sure johnny-on-the-spot with an assessment of their individual mental states, including Rimmer’s confusion about the person he’d spent the most time around continually in his entire existence.
“He’s a batty bucket of outdated algorithms,” Rimmer informed Lister, nostrils at full offended flare, “and I said no such thing. I said if that’s what you want to believe, that’s no skin off my bee. I have absolutely no inclination to moon over you or do as you please, or … touch you, and I’ll certainly not be sneaking into your bunk trying to jolly my roger up your- mast-hole, or whatever.” The metaphor failed his vocabulary mid-insult, and he snapped his mouth closed and strode out of the midsection.
******
As he was cleaning out his closet fifteen minutes later, looking for something to do, Rimmer came across one of his old Love Celibates’ newsletters. He read it, considered that if he were still alive he’d be dressed by the others as Baby Cupid and forced to wander the corridors with a glittery bow and arrow in punishment, and puffed out a big stream of air, and muttered, “Smeg it all.”
Lister ruined just fucking everything.
On to part 2
