veronica_rich (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
veronica_rich) wrote2011-08-01 03:52 pm
veronica_rich) wrote2011-08-01 03:52 pm
RD Fic: "Therapy" - 3/9
(Continuation of a Red Dwarf fic - description, disclaimer, and the beginning is back here.
Now, on with more reading!
Troi-7 noted that Mr. Arnold always spent part of nearly all their twice-weekly sessions denying anything he felt for the last human, whether the mechanical therapist brought up the topic or not. They did, however, get to move on to his long-dead family and school peers after a fashion – rich enough material to keep Troi-7 gainfully employed for most of the rest of his runtime, however long that might be.
It was only a few months after the 6000 was brought aboard that the last human was joined by another human from an alternate dimension. When introduced, Troi-7 recognized her name from Mr. Arnold’s occasional rants and Mr. David’s occasional sighs. This was not his Ms. Kristine, however much he might wish it, and unfortunately for Mr. David, his subconscious would not let his will trick the rest of his brain into pretending she could be that woman.
The 6000 noted a marked change in its sessions with Mr. Arnold not long after her arrival. No longer did he swear and rail about whatever his relationship might be with Mr. David. He submitted much more easily to discussion about his mother and father, and his older brothers’ influence, and the career he’d tried to imagine for himself while alive and after his hologrammatic resurrection. In fact, the 6000 sensed – well, knew – that his patient wanted nothing more than to forget his former roommate existed. Something very close to what the humans had colloquially termed heartbreak had tried to seize Mr. Arnold, and he’d steadfastly managed to keep it locked out in the lobby of his unconscious with every bit of the denial he’d spent a lifetime cultivating.
Troi-7 had even tried to touch on it once. “We have a few minutes left,” it had smoothly pointed out at the end of a session. Mr. Arnold did love his sessions, and was quick to point out if he suspected the android therapist was trying to nudge him out early, as though he were paying for them. “We have not talked about Mr. David for three weeks.”
The hologram-human fiddled with a clasp on his jacket. “What’s that about my mother?” he asked instead.
“Perhaps you misunderstood me, or my transmission was garbled,” the 6000 tried, kindly, knowing it was no such thing. “I brought up the topic of Mr. David and your -”
“No, you were asking about my mother’s tendency to look to her children for the perfection she didn’t have herself.” Mr. Arnold’s tone was firm, bordering on angry, perhaps the strongest emotion he’d outwardly exhibited in weeks.
They had finished discussing that 23 minutes ago, but Troi-7 knew a tactic when it encountered one. It hadn’t been manufactured yesterday, after all. “My mistake,” it replied, patiently. “And how do you feel about that tendency?”
*****
Lister tried to open his eyes, feeling like he’d been run over by a lorry and then, that someone had removed two of its tires and attached them to his eyelids with industrial-strength fishing line. He blinked as rapidly as he could to dislodge the crusty buildup sealing them shut, and gingerly felt for each part of his body with his mind – toes, feet, calves, knees, hips, belly, fingers, ar-
One hand squeezed something loose and both coarse and soft. He tried again, then managed to roll his head enough on the pillow to look to his right. Somebody’s head was under his hand, his fingers sunk up to the first knuckle in wavy auburn hair. He moved the fingers experimentally, feeling hair slide between them, and sighed in brief contentment; it was kind of nice, especially compared to all the other alarm-bell feelings various parts of his body were still giving off. He closed his eyes and rubbed the scalp, lightly squeezing locks of hair, not even wondering whose head it was.
Until, of course, he wasn’t wondering whose head it was, and then he totally started wondering whose head was on his bed. He cracked his eyes again, this time noticing the chair tilted toward the side of the bed and the ungainly way the person in it was slumped sideways leaning on the bed. The blue caught his attention and ran around knocking on doors in his memory for a moment before it found the right one. After licking his lips, he managed to croak out, “Rimmer?” His fingers found the shell of an ear and tweaked it lightly. “Rimmer, that you?” A slightly harder tweak, voice still a rasp. “Oy, Rimmer!”
“Stop stretching me!” The head came up, dropping Lister’s hand to the mattress, and Rimmer’s chair scraped back about a foot as the hologram shot to his feet, looking around swiftly. Lister noticed what looked like a small spittle of drool at the left corner of his mouth before Rimmer hastily wiped it away and – holy smeg, smiled – at him. “Hey, you’re ali- wake!”
“Just barely aliawake, feels like,” Lister agreed, trying not to laugh. It hurt his stomach. Then he noticed the large bloom of reddish-brown marring most of Rimmer’s jacket. “The smeg ‘s that?”
Rimmer was visually inspecting Lister like a side of beef, frowning, until that. “What?” He looked down at himself. “Oh, eh, should’ve fixed that.” He fumbled for the keypad on his belt, poked around, and momentarily his bloodstained and dirt-streaked visage shimmered into the old red uniform, neat and tidy. When his form snapped back to blue immediately after, Rimmer was the immaculate spit-and-polish git Lister knew best, complete with hair spanked tightly into place instead of frizzy and scattered. “That was unbecoming of an officer,” he muttered under his breath, then stood straight and scowled down at Lister. “The next time you hare off after unidentified simulants without getting clearance, buckaroo, you’d better have Kryten stashed somewhere in your pocket, because I mightn’t be bloody stupid enough to come to your rescue again!”
There was something fidgety in Rimmer’s military bearing. Lister licked his lips to wet them for speaking. “You. Rescue?” The raspy chuckle slipped out, and he coughed. “When have you ever.”
Ah, the affronted nostril-flare! “I dragged your lousy arse out of that stupid closet you stuck your smegging stupid face into, Lister. You’d have been stabbed more if I hadn’t.” He smirked and pointed at Lister’s bound left shoulder. “I saved your life, miladdio.”
“Yeah?” Using his hands flat on the mattress, Lister pushed himself up against the pillows, pausing every few seconds to catch his breath. “You did that?” Rimmer nodded officiously. “Well, man … thanks. I’m glad you did.”
The man looked flummoxed, mouth moving a little but nothing coming out. He snapped it shut, still frowning at Lister. “See it doesn’t happen again,” he finally ordered, before moving around the bed and leaving the medibay.
On to part 4
Now, on with more reading!
Troi-7 noted that Mr. Arnold always spent part of nearly all their twice-weekly sessions denying anything he felt for the last human, whether the mechanical therapist brought up the topic or not. They did, however, get to move on to his long-dead family and school peers after a fashion – rich enough material to keep Troi-7 gainfully employed for most of the rest of his runtime, however long that might be.
It was only a few months after the 6000 was brought aboard that the last human was joined by another human from an alternate dimension. When introduced, Troi-7 recognized her name from Mr. Arnold’s occasional rants and Mr. David’s occasional sighs. This was not his Ms. Kristine, however much he might wish it, and unfortunately for Mr. David, his subconscious would not let his will trick the rest of his brain into pretending she could be that woman.
The 6000 noted a marked change in its sessions with Mr. Arnold not long after her arrival. No longer did he swear and rail about whatever his relationship might be with Mr. David. He submitted much more easily to discussion about his mother and father, and his older brothers’ influence, and the career he’d tried to imagine for himself while alive and after his hologrammatic resurrection. In fact, the 6000 sensed – well, knew – that his patient wanted nothing more than to forget his former roommate existed. Something very close to what the humans had colloquially termed heartbreak had tried to seize Mr. Arnold, and he’d steadfastly managed to keep it locked out in the lobby of his unconscious with every bit of the denial he’d spent a lifetime cultivating.
Troi-7 had even tried to touch on it once. “We have a few minutes left,” it had smoothly pointed out at the end of a session. Mr. Arnold did love his sessions, and was quick to point out if he suspected the android therapist was trying to nudge him out early, as though he were paying for them. “We have not talked about Mr. David for three weeks.”
The hologram-human fiddled with a clasp on his jacket. “What’s that about my mother?” he asked instead.
“Perhaps you misunderstood me, or my transmission was garbled,” the 6000 tried, kindly, knowing it was no such thing. “I brought up the topic of Mr. David and your -”
“No, you were asking about my mother’s tendency to look to her children for the perfection she didn’t have herself.” Mr. Arnold’s tone was firm, bordering on angry, perhaps the strongest emotion he’d outwardly exhibited in weeks.
They had finished discussing that 23 minutes ago, but Troi-7 knew a tactic when it encountered one. It hadn’t been manufactured yesterday, after all. “My mistake,” it replied, patiently. “And how do you feel about that tendency?”
*****
Lister tried to open his eyes, feeling like he’d been run over by a lorry and then, that someone had removed two of its tires and attached them to his eyelids with industrial-strength fishing line. He blinked as rapidly as he could to dislodge the crusty buildup sealing them shut, and gingerly felt for each part of his body with his mind – toes, feet, calves, knees, hips, belly, fingers, ar-
One hand squeezed something loose and both coarse and soft. He tried again, then managed to roll his head enough on the pillow to look to his right. Somebody’s head was under his hand, his fingers sunk up to the first knuckle in wavy auburn hair. He moved the fingers experimentally, feeling hair slide between them, and sighed in brief contentment; it was kind of nice, especially compared to all the other alarm-bell feelings various parts of his body were still giving off. He closed his eyes and rubbed the scalp, lightly squeezing locks of hair, not even wondering whose head it was.
Until, of course, he wasn’t wondering whose head it was, and then he totally started wondering whose head was on his bed. He cracked his eyes again, this time noticing the chair tilted toward the side of the bed and the ungainly way the person in it was slumped sideways leaning on the bed. The blue caught his attention and ran around knocking on doors in his memory for a moment before it found the right one. After licking his lips, he managed to croak out, “Rimmer?” His fingers found the shell of an ear and tweaked it lightly. “Rimmer, that you?” A slightly harder tweak, voice still a rasp. “Oy, Rimmer!”
“Stop stretching me!” The head came up, dropping Lister’s hand to the mattress, and Rimmer’s chair scraped back about a foot as the hologram shot to his feet, looking around swiftly. Lister noticed what looked like a small spittle of drool at the left corner of his mouth before Rimmer hastily wiped it away and – holy smeg, smiled – at him. “Hey, you’re ali- wake!”
“Just barely aliawake, feels like,” Lister agreed, trying not to laugh. It hurt his stomach. Then he noticed the large bloom of reddish-brown marring most of Rimmer’s jacket. “The smeg ‘s that?”
Rimmer was visually inspecting Lister like a side of beef, frowning, until that. “What?” He looked down at himself. “Oh, eh, should’ve fixed that.” He fumbled for the keypad on his belt, poked around, and momentarily his bloodstained and dirt-streaked visage shimmered into the old red uniform, neat and tidy. When his form snapped back to blue immediately after, Rimmer was the immaculate spit-and-polish git Lister knew best, complete with hair spanked tightly into place instead of frizzy and scattered. “That was unbecoming of an officer,” he muttered under his breath, then stood straight and scowled down at Lister. “The next time you hare off after unidentified simulants without getting clearance, buckaroo, you’d better have Kryten stashed somewhere in your pocket, because I mightn’t be bloody stupid enough to come to your rescue again!”
There was something fidgety in Rimmer’s military bearing. Lister licked his lips to wet them for speaking. “You. Rescue?” The raspy chuckle slipped out, and he coughed. “When have you ever.”
Ah, the affronted nostril-flare! “I dragged your lousy arse out of that stupid closet you stuck your smegging stupid face into, Lister. You’d have been stabbed more if I hadn’t.” He smirked and pointed at Lister’s bound left shoulder. “I saved your life, miladdio.”
“Yeah?” Using his hands flat on the mattress, Lister pushed himself up against the pillows, pausing every few seconds to catch his breath. “You did that?” Rimmer nodded officiously. “Well, man … thanks. I’m glad you did.”
The man looked flummoxed, mouth moving a little but nothing coming out. He snapped it shut, still frowning at Lister. “See it doesn’t happen again,” he finally ordered, before moving around the bed and leaving the medibay.
On to part 4
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Rimmer: I do wish he'd bathe once in a while, though. He must be the smelliest person ... ever.
Will: I'll take that bet.
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