A little birthday something (G)
This (slightly more than a drabble) is for smaych 's birthday. Thanks to kahvi also, for advising the theme of stationary. Lister/Rimmer implied.
Lister thumbed through the sheaf of Rimmer’s letters, sorting them out into separate piles. His mother wrote the largest percent, roughly one per month. Each envelope was cleanly sliced open and held its contents in almost unread condition. There were a scattering of correspondences from his brothers, folded around pictures of them in uniform, decorated with both medals and vapid, saccharine women, clinging to their arms and smiling widely to display their bleached and veneered teeth. Some of the women looked almost manic, manic enough that Lister would have thought twice before sleeping with them.
There were no letters from his father, but that was no surprise. The dates on the letters bore witness to longer and longer gaps, until they stopped completely.
Under the letters was a stiff cardboard box, containing unused stationary, embossed with the JMC logo and bearing Rimmer’s name. The paper was bound into small sheaves of a dozen sheets each, and each sheaf bore a title more advanced than the last.
Lister froze as he heard Rimmer’s boots click into the sleeping quarters, and the look of fury on his features made him decide to speak first, either diffusing the tension, or elevating it to a level of hilarity. “Awful lot of work for a lie.” He remarked. “ Your brothers look like a gang of tossers. Why’d you try so hard to keep up appearances?”
Rimmer snarled. “Every time we have this conversation, I tell you why. I can’t help that you can’t accept it. I can’t help that your standards are subhuman. It doesn’t mean that I should lower mine.” He gestured frantically to a skutter, who yanked the box out of Lister’s hand and replaced it in the back of his locker, slamming the door.
Lister rose to his feet, dusting crumbs of cereal from his trousers. “Listen, Rimmer, it’s been years. Let it go.”
“Don’t touch my things.” Rimmer retorted.
“Why not?” Lister shrugged. “You don’t care what I think of the letters, right?”
Rimmer’s eyes flashed in anger. “You can’t change me, Lister. I’m not going to turn into one of your drunken, sleazy mates just to please you.”
He stormed out of the bunkroom, and Lister followed. “You’ve got it all wrong.” He called. “I don’t want you to change.”
Lister stopped in his tracks, frowning as he’d realized what he had just said. With a sigh, he plodded back into the room, and reached for a can of lager. Dwelling on things did tend to make them worse, after all.
Lister thumbed through the sheaf of Rimmer’s letters, sorting them out into separate piles. His mother wrote the largest percent, roughly one per month. Each envelope was cleanly sliced open and held its contents in almost unread condition. There were a scattering of correspondences from his brothers, folded around pictures of them in uniform, decorated with both medals and vapid, saccharine women, clinging to their arms and smiling widely to display their bleached and veneered teeth. Some of the women looked almost manic, manic enough that Lister would have thought twice before sleeping with them.
There were no letters from his father, but that was no surprise. The dates on the letters bore witness to longer and longer gaps, until they stopped completely.
Under the letters was a stiff cardboard box, containing unused stationary, embossed with the JMC logo and bearing Rimmer’s name. The paper was bound into small sheaves of a dozen sheets each, and each sheaf bore a title more advanced than the last.
Lister froze as he heard Rimmer’s boots click into the sleeping quarters, and the look of fury on his features made him decide to speak first, either diffusing the tension, or elevating it to a level of hilarity. “Awful lot of work for a lie.” He remarked. “ Your brothers look like a gang of tossers. Why’d you try so hard to keep up appearances?”
Rimmer snarled. “Every time we have this conversation, I tell you why. I can’t help that you can’t accept it. I can’t help that your standards are subhuman. It doesn’t mean that I should lower mine.” He gestured frantically to a skutter, who yanked the box out of Lister’s hand and replaced it in the back of his locker, slamming the door.
Lister rose to his feet, dusting crumbs of cereal from his trousers. “Listen, Rimmer, it’s been years. Let it go.”
“Don’t touch my things.” Rimmer retorted.
“Why not?” Lister shrugged. “You don’t care what I think of the letters, right?”
Rimmer’s eyes flashed in anger. “You can’t change me, Lister. I’m not going to turn into one of your drunken, sleazy mates just to please you.”
He stormed out of the bunkroom, and Lister followed. “You’ve got it all wrong.” He called. “I don’t want you to change.”
Lister stopped in his tracks, frowning as he’d realized what he had just said. With a sigh, he plodded back into the room, and reached for a can of lager. Dwelling on things did tend to make them worse, after all.