veronica_rich | RD Fic: "Therapy"

(Continuation of a Red Dwarf fic - description, disclaimer, and the beginning is back here.

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“I believe you would benefit from a joint talking session.”

That’s how this had started. The bloody machine had suggested Rimmer consent to time in a little room with Lister again, explaining it had been able to partially sense their presence while seemingly nonfunctional, and expressing encouragement that they seemed to communicate well when not pressured to behave A Certain Way in front of others. “But you’re ‘others,’” Rimmer pointed out.

“I would only be a guide for conversation. Perhaps an interpreter as needed. Naturally, you do not have to take my advice, nor do you need to have a conversation in front of me,” Troi-7 pointed out, blinking red. “I cannot force you. But I do not share your history in the same way Kryten and the Cat do, so I have no expectations of either of you other than what I have already learned from contact telepathically and through conversations.”

“That’s what worries me,” Rimmer muttered, chewing at this thumbnail.

Still, here he was … in Starbug’s cockpit. He’d promised that batty ball of lead he’d do this, but on his terms. Not in front of a third party. Not in therapy, for Io’s sake. He swallowed, mouth half-open, nearly speaking, hesitating, when Lister craned his head to look back over his shoulder and noticed him. “Anything wrong?” he asked mildly, raising his eyes to Rimmer’s.

Other than me wanting to kiss you so hard my bee bores into you? Rimmer thought. Why no, Listy. Everything’s tip-tappy-good. He couldn’t even convince himself this was acceptable; how could he be so afraid of the mere idea of what gay men did to each other and still admit he was in love with one?

“Mr. Arnold, psychiatry accepted long before you were ever born that homosexual tendencies were just as immutable as heterosexual desires. Geneticists upheld that finding scientifically, decades later. I am puzzled why this would be of such concern to you.” Troi-7 paused, blinking a few times before asking, “Do you hold the homosexual people you have known in disregard or contempt?”

“No, I haven’t. I’ve never …” Except, he had. Rimmer dropped his eyes to his thumbs twisting each other around in his lap. “I … have done that, yes.” The words were thick, dry in his throat. He thought of how his brothers had scoffed at the gays who’d joined the holograms, and other maligned groups, in that pride parade when he was six. How little Arnold had jeered with them, thrown things without understanding why, but feeling if his brothers approved it, their word must be law.

He’d spent the last two days chewing over the shame from that memory, and all the slurs he’d spouted off as he’d gotten older for the same. But he still hesitated to talk with his bunkmate, and didn’t know if it was because he still had a lingering distrust of homosexuality, or because it was Dave his simulated heart had chosen to fix helplessly upon. You’re still a grotty bum, he thought at their nighttime pilot. Your life goals were nothing like mine, and you have no respect for authority or safety, and I’m not sure you have any respect for me except that you treat me a hell of a lot more decently than I probably deserve, and you’re understanding and

“… trustworthy, and acted more like a brother to me than any family I was ever related to,” and Rimmer wondered how long he’d been speaking out loud, sort of horrified he was unable to stop, but also a little relieved. “And I think maybe I’m confused by all of that and maybe I just think I’m in love with you, and I’m sure I’m really not. Troi Seven seems to think I am and keeps saying it, but I’ve told it that it doesn’t know anything about us, and what’s the point anyway of loving someone you can’t ever have, because I’ve watched you do it for years. I don’t ever want to be that pathetic.” Rimmer shook his head, mind made up finally, and turned to step out. He felt both liberated and exhausted.

“Hold – wait.” He heard rustling and scraping, and a hand on his arm halfway through the door held him in place. Rimmer turned back reflexively with I don’t love you, stupid in his mouth. Lister was looking up at him, quite curious, brow furrowed. “C’mon, Rimmer, I mean – This is the second time it’s come up … so, do you love me?”

“No, Listy,” he replied mostly with confidence, relieved to have that settled. “I never did; I just thought I wanted you.”

Well …

That’s what he intended to say. Instead, he looked upon dark, deep intelligent eyes and cheekbones and a slightly flat nose, and a small mouth – and angled his head forward to kiss that mouth. It was impulsive and unexpected, and he wanted to say he was sorry and sputter uselessly all at once, but Dave kissed him back. Rimmer tried to speak, but hands touched his face and his neck, and there was a short, fuzzy period where he felt nothing, and then realized he’d curled his arms around Dave and was holding him tightly. “I don’t,” he started, swallowing at the feel of Lister’s lower lip tugging under his upper lip. “Know if I love you.”

“Are you sure?” Lister’s voice, quiet and slightly out of breath and gravelly.

“Yes.” He kissed Dave again. “No … hell, smeg, shit.” He lowered his head and Lister laughed into his hair. “Stop touching me,” Rimmer said insincerely, still clutching the shorter man.

“Okay. Right on that.” He felt Dave kiss the top of his head, and thought his chest would explode, propelling his bee out the front glass-shield of the ship and sucking out all the oxygen. “Wanna sit down?”

“Probably a good idea,” Rimmer agreed. Lister managed to lead him toward the two chairs and gently eased Rimmer into one before pausing to tilt his face up and kiss him again, deeper this time, leaving Rimmer disoriented and lightheaded as Lister leaned back into the pilot’s seat again. When he opened his eyes – a little at a time, peeking at first like a damn little boy, until he was sure he wasn’t in trouble – he found Lister checking his console readings briefly, chair swiveled sideways toward Rimmer, before turning his attention back to Rimmer too. He was grinning, and it was the good one – not the idiotic one, though this was probably certainly the same one Rimmer used to call idiotic, but the one that made his whole expression light up like he’d just come across a derelict stocked with ten Olympic-sized pools of vindaloo lamb. Rimmer blinked, relaxing a little more. “You’re good with this?”

“Well, Christ, Arn, I’ve only figured it out for the last few months now,” he shot back with an odd edge to his sarcasm. It sounded warm. “Nobody acts the way you do when they’re not in love. You just like to give commentary to yours where you lie a lot about it.”

“But – but I was straight!” Lister rolled his eyes at that and laughed briefly, hard. “Now wait a minute; I was, Lister!”

“No – you weren’t, Arn. I’m sorry, man.” Lister shook his head. “You wanted to be. Maybe part of you is. Same way part of me is.”

“Part of you?” Rimmer blinked. That was twice Lister had said something dangerously close to not minding that Rimmer wanted to suck his face off just two minutes ago.

“Part. Maybe most, who can be sure.” Lister leaned forward, reaching for Rimmer’s hands, making him look down at them. After a moment of watching darker thumbs rub the webbing between his and his index fingers, he heard him say, softly, “Hey, look up … look at me, Arn.” He did. “Are you good with this?”

“I think so.” It was an honest answer. “I wish you didn’t seem to know more about it than I do.”

“To be fair, it’s hard to not figure it out for sure when you’ve got a man crying into your hair and begging you not to die in certain tones of voice.” He stared unblinking into Rimmer’s eyes, which unsettled the hologram by making him want. “I thought maybe it was just blood loss at first, or me imagining it. But I woke up, and you were there, and coated in blood, and …” Lister trailed off as Rimmer leaned forward, and their foreheads met. “I’m surprised you admitted it, though,” he added, low and soft, his voice caressing all of Rimmer’s simulated nerves. “You ought to be proud of that honesty.”

He said nothing for a moment, savoring the touches, the words of surprising encouragement. “Proud?”

“Yeah,” Lister said. “It’s not your usual tactic. You tend to over-deny when someone’s right, don’t you?”

And then Rimmer was babbling something about how he’d played a role most of his life, of obedient son – even after the emancipation, how curious, he now thought as he said it aloud – then obedient recruit and employee. He wasn’t sure how far he’d gotten into an explanation, but it didn’t feel like much at all when Lister pulled away. Before he could angst about chasing him off, Lister brought his palms together, rubbing them lightly, his own hands still on the backs of Rimmer’s, his fingertips brushing Rimmer’s wrists.

“Somebody’s got to stay on console,” Lister pointed out gently, releasing Rimmer’s hands, “so why don’t you fix us a cup in the midsection?” He smiled. “I’ll even hold your seat.” Somewhat dazed, Rimmer nodded and stood, surprised when Lister did, too. Dave kissed his chin quickly, and briefly cupped his elbow before Rimmer tore himself away to brew their beverages.

On to part 7