RD Fic: "Therapy" - 5/9
Aug. 10th, 2011 02:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
veronica_rich(Continuation of a Red Dwarf fic - description, disclaimer, and the beginning is back here.
(This continues to be unbetaed for mistakes, BTW) ...
Rimmer accompanied him, squeezing onto a box to sit even after Lister pointed out it wasn’t much bigger than a closet and he didn’t know how clean it even was in there. “Please,” Rimmer scoffed. “The one thing that iron gimboid knows how to do is spit-and-polish. You could probably lick jam off the damn crates in here and not get so much as a splinter.”
He watched Lister examine the metal ball, pick up a tool from time to time to pry at a panel or vent, lean closer to squint inside it. He’d shrugged off his jacket to throw over the box he straddled at the small worktable, and Rimmer found himself occasionally watching how the small muscles flexed under the skin of Lister’s forearm and bicep, as well as noticing the padding at his shoulder under the thin t-shirt where gauze still protected the stab wounds from several days ago. Lister breathed steadily, the noise punctuated by small noises of discovery or consternation when he found something and occasional muttering under his breath over whatever he was studying. His short, blunt fingers were surprisingly nimble, Rimmer thought, and he eventually realized he was looking between Lister’s hands and his face and feeling warm and happy just being in the room without arguing, and that Lister was still alive and here and breathing normally. He wanted to forget how limp and dead the man had felt when he dragged him away from the poison dart closet, how surprised he’d been to find extra strength to lift Lister against him and run for the pod. He wanted to forget how he’d panicked at Lister’s shallow breathing and yelled at the pod to dock up with Starbug faster, and how he’d eventually pressed his face to the top of Lister’s head and sobbed like a big, dumb infant for the man not to die before they could get back to Kryten and the medibay. What he really wanted to forget was how Kochanski kept glancing almost white-faced at him with uncharacteristic concern as she and Kryten found the appropriate drugs for Lister, and how she’d pulled him away from the bed while the mech worked on him.
“Come on, Rimmer.” She squeezed his hands. “Calm down, calm down – look, Dave’ll be fine, all right? Kryt’s working on him now … see? His breathing’s getting better. You got a staunch on his shoulder in time, he didn’t lose too much blood.”
Rimmer said nothing. He didn’t want to have to listen to this woman, thank her in any way, and he absolutely didn’t want her to let his hands go and leave the room during this. To his horror and relief, she put an arm around his shoulders and sat with him. “He’ll be okay; you two’ll be back to bitching at each other by tomorrow, most likely.”
At least he hadn’t been crying still at that point. He’d been surprised when it was all over that she’d been the one to volunteer to take over watch from Cat, since it was Lister’s turn and someone had to, and hadn’t tried to pull rank to stay at his bedside. It wasn’t until later when he had too much time to think that it occurred to him she’d misinterpreted his reaction to Lister’s injuries. Had she thought Rimmer wouldn’t react with similar panic to any of them being attacked? He was a certified coward and obsessive-compulsive; of course overreaction was his default mode.
“Hey.” Rimmer sat up a little. He’d drifted off mentally enough that he didn’t realize Lister was watching him, head tilted. Rimmer really had no idea what he’d been staring at, but Lister’s expression was a soft sort of amusement. “I think I might’ve gotten him up and running again.”
“Oh, good.” Rimmer rubbed his hands together and blinked, nodding. “Is it back on?”
“Green light was on; I think he was rebooting maybe.” Lister uprighted the ball and turned it so they could both watch the unwavering green light. “This has become pretty important to you, hasn’t it?” Lister asked. “Being able to talk to him, get that kind of advice on whatever’s going on with you?”
Rimmer shrugged, feeling a lot less panicked. “He doesn’t know anything other than what he gets from me,” he tried to explain, dimly aware he was using Lister’s pronoun now, too. “He doesn’t know any of the people who used to know me, and just the few of you, so his prejudices are limited. Sometimes he doesn’t know entirely what the hell he’s saying, but … he listens, and he doesn’t judge as much as some people I’ve known.”
“Yeah,” Lister agreed. “I’ve only sat down and talked to him a couple of times. I’ve been thinking maybe I should do it more.”
“You?” Rimmer was surprised. “What do you need it for?”
“It’s not like I’m all right in the head, either.” Lister tucked Kryten’s tools back into a small box. “I’ve been out here by myself – well, with you guys, but yeah, pretty much alone – for almost ten years, and I’m getting older, and … I don’t know, Rimmer. Just a lot of things.”
There was thickening melancholy in his voice, and Rimmer could only think to say, “I’m sorry, Listy.”
“I know, man.”
They were silent a little longer as they waited; Rimmer realized how dim the light was in here, how close the quarters. It was very small and warm and oddly comforting, and he rather wished they didn’t have to get up and leave. “How’s your shoulder?” he asked. “It’s not still – does it bleed?”
“Nah, it’s good. Just healing up.” He grinned; Rimmer cautiously smiled in response, just a little, since his face wasn’t used to it. “Don’t know if I ever thanked you properly for that. I would’ve died if you hadn’t acted so fast.”
He was saved from having to answer by the appearance of a blinking red light that got both their attention. “Troi, buddy, you with us?” Lister asked, hand still on top of the sphere.
A series of odd noises, then the smooth voice: “I am operational again.”
“Yeeesss!” Lister did a little chair-based touch-up shuffle, and Rimmer couldn’t help laughing. “So what’d Rimmer do to shut you down, anyway? Tell you another boring RISK story?”
“Now wait!” Rimmer protested. “RISK isn’t boring.”
“Maybe not, but the way you talk about who rolled this and who moved what, it’s like listening to hair grow,” Lister groaned. “Put a little panache into it if you’re going to tell those things over and over, at least!”
“That is a good suggestion, Mr. Arnold,” the 6000 added. “Humans tend to respond better to action words and details than just dry recountings-”
“I know what humans do,” Rimmer snapped. “What do you think I am, a smegging schnauzer?”
Lister was grinning at him again. It was, Rimmer was disturbed to realize, something he could get very, very used to on a regular basis. Damn. “You’d be more of an English boxer, I’d think,” Lister weighed in. “Or maybe a German Shepherd.”
Quit being so fucking adorable, Rimmer thought, blaming Lister for his feelings. Grown men should not have cheeks like Care Bears. “Don’t call me a Kraut,” he muttered. “I’m not that anal retentive or boring.”
The 6000 piped up pleasantly. “My inventor was German, and she was quite intelligent and possessed of what I believe was an agreeable sense of humor.”
“He’s got you there,” Lister said, not at all helpfully.
“Smeg off, dog-food breath.”
On to part 6
(This continues to be unbetaed for mistakes, BTW) ...
Rimmer accompanied him, squeezing onto a box to sit even after Lister pointed out it wasn’t much bigger than a closet and he didn’t know how clean it even was in there. “Please,” Rimmer scoffed. “The one thing that iron gimboid knows how to do is spit-and-polish. You could probably lick jam off the damn crates in here and not get so much as a splinter.”
He watched Lister examine the metal ball, pick up a tool from time to time to pry at a panel or vent, lean closer to squint inside it. He’d shrugged off his jacket to throw over the box he straddled at the small worktable, and Rimmer found himself occasionally watching how the small muscles flexed under the skin of Lister’s forearm and bicep, as well as noticing the padding at his shoulder under the thin t-shirt where gauze still protected the stab wounds from several days ago. Lister breathed steadily, the noise punctuated by small noises of discovery or consternation when he found something and occasional muttering under his breath over whatever he was studying. His short, blunt fingers were surprisingly nimble, Rimmer thought, and he eventually realized he was looking between Lister’s hands and his face and feeling warm and happy just being in the room without arguing, and that Lister was still alive and here and breathing normally. He wanted to forget how limp and dead the man had felt when he dragged him away from the poison dart closet, how surprised he’d been to find extra strength to lift Lister against him and run for the pod. He wanted to forget how he’d panicked at Lister’s shallow breathing and yelled at the pod to dock up with Starbug faster, and how he’d eventually pressed his face to the top of Lister’s head and sobbed like a big, dumb infant for the man not to die before they could get back to Kryten and the medibay. What he really wanted to forget was how Kochanski kept glancing almost white-faced at him with uncharacteristic concern as she and Kryten found the appropriate drugs for Lister, and how she’d pulled him away from the bed while the mech worked on him.
“Come on, Rimmer.” She squeezed his hands. “Calm down, calm down – look, Dave’ll be fine, all right? Kryt’s working on him now … see? His breathing’s getting better. You got a staunch on his shoulder in time, he didn’t lose too much blood.”
Rimmer said nothing. He didn’t want to have to listen to this woman, thank her in any way, and he absolutely didn’t want her to let his hands go and leave the room during this. To his horror and relief, she put an arm around his shoulders and sat with him. “He’ll be okay; you two’ll be back to bitching at each other by tomorrow, most likely.”
At least he hadn’t been crying still at that point. He’d been surprised when it was all over that she’d been the one to volunteer to take over watch from Cat, since it was Lister’s turn and someone had to, and hadn’t tried to pull rank to stay at his bedside. It wasn’t until later when he had too much time to think that it occurred to him she’d misinterpreted his reaction to Lister’s injuries. Had she thought Rimmer wouldn’t react with similar panic to any of them being attacked? He was a certified coward and obsessive-compulsive; of course overreaction was his default mode.
“Hey.” Rimmer sat up a little. He’d drifted off mentally enough that he didn’t realize Lister was watching him, head tilted. Rimmer really had no idea what he’d been staring at, but Lister’s expression was a soft sort of amusement. “I think I might’ve gotten him up and running again.”
“Oh, good.” Rimmer rubbed his hands together and blinked, nodding. “Is it back on?”
“Green light was on; I think he was rebooting maybe.” Lister uprighted the ball and turned it so they could both watch the unwavering green light. “This has become pretty important to you, hasn’t it?” Lister asked. “Being able to talk to him, get that kind of advice on whatever’s going on with you?”
Rimmer shrugged, feeling a lot less panicked. “He doesn’t know anything other than what he gets from me,” he tried to explain, dimly aware he was using Lister’s pronoun now, too. “He doesn’t know any of the people who used to know me, and just the few of you, so his prejudices are limited. Sometimes he doesn’t know entirely what the hell he’s saying, but … he listens, and he doesn’t judge as much as some people I’ve known.”
“Yeah,” Lister agreed. “I’ve only sat down and talked to him a couple of times. I’ve been thinking maybe I should do it more.”
“You?” Rimmer was surprised. “What do you need it for?”
“It’s not like I’m all right in the head, either.” Lister tucked Kryten’s tools back into a small box. “I’ve been out here by myself – well, with you guys, but yeah, pretty much alone – for almost ten years, and I’m getting older, and … I don’t know, Rimmer. Just a lot of things.”
There was thickening melancholy in his voice, and Rimmer could only think to say, “I’m sorry, Listy.”
“I know, man.”
They were silent a little longer as they waited; Rimmer realized how dim the light was in here, how close the quarters. It was very small and warm and oddly comforting, and he rather wished they didn’t have to get up and leave. “How’s your shoulder?” he asked. “It’s not still – does it bleed?”
“Nah, it’s good. Just healing up.” He grinned; Rimmer cautiously smiled in response, just a little, since his face wasn’t used to it. “Don’t know if I ever thanked you properly for that. I would’ve died if you hadn’t acted so fast.”
He was saved from having to answer by the appearance of a blinking red light that got both their attention. “Troi, buddy, you with us?” Lister asked, hand still on top of the sphere.
A series of odd noises, then the smooth voice: “I am operational again.”
“Yeeesss!” Lister did a little chair-based touch-up shuffle, and Rimmer couldn’t help laughing. “So what’d Rimmer do to shut you down, anyway? Tell you another boring RISK story?”
“Now wait!” Rimmer protested. “RISK isn’t boring.”
“Maybe not, but the way you talk about who rolled this and who moved what, it’s like listening to hair grow,” Lister groaned. “Put a little panache into it if you’re going to tell those things over and over, at least!”
“That is a good suggestion, Mr. Arnold,” the 6000 added. “Humans tend to respond better to action words and details than just dry recountings-”
“I know what humans do,” Rimmer snapped. “What do you think I am, a smegging schnauzer?”
Lister was grinning at him again. It was, Rimmer was disturbed to realize, something he could get very, very used to on a regular basis. Damn. “You’d be more of an English boxer, I’d think,” Lister weighed in. “Or maybe a German Shepherd.”
Quit being so fucking adorable, Rimmer thought, blaming Lister for his feelings. Grown men should not have cheeks like Care Bears. “Don’t call me a Kraut,” he muttered. “I’m not that anal retentive or boring.”
The 6000 piped up pleasantly. “My inventor was German, and she was quite intelligent and possessed of what I believe was an agreeable sense of humor.”
“He’s got you there,” Lister said, not at all helpfully.
“Smeg off, dog-food breath.”
On to part 6
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Date: 2011-08-11 08:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-14 04:25 am (UTC)