Fic: What? - R/L (imp) - PG
Title: What?
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister (implied, if you squint)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't own anything RD-related, don't make any money from this.
Spoilers: Psirens
Notes: A Lister POV for roadstergals's Death. Written for the fanfic100 challenge - my table is here.
Yer keeping track.
I can tell, ya know. I see yer eyes movin' like they wanna roll around in yer head, and yer lips twitchin' like yer counting, and lately, lately I see ya shaking. You know, like yer afraid. What'r ye afraid of, Arnold? It sure as smegging hell ain't dyin', 'cause as you keep pointing out, yer already dead. Otherwise, why would I keep asking ya about it?
I bet yer wondering why I want to know; why I keep asking ya what death was like. Maybe you think I'm stupid enough - that I don't understand. That I have to have something explained to me over and over because it can't fit in my 'puny little mind' as you so often call it. Or maybe you just think my brain is frazzled enough to forget after a few bevvies and a nice wank. Well, let me tell you a secret, Rimmer - the answer don't matter to me anymore. I don't care.
Oh, I used to care. The first five or so were honest questions. And you know, daft git that I am, I expected an honest answer. Not the first time. Smeghead like you was bound to toss me a few sarcy one-liners. No less than you were due, really. I mean, ya did die, and all. And I don't count the times we was drunk, and you started sprouting the kind of stuff that wouldn't be out of place on an art college application essay. Everyone does that, even them what are still alive. After that though? I dunno 'bout you, but where I come from, bloke asks a question ten or so times means he really wants to know. Really. You didn't give it me though. You started lying.
I could always tell when people were lying. Me gran taught me; or actually I learned just staying in her house. She'd have this way of looking at ya, her eyes all squinty, and the next thing you knew, yer ears were being boxed. She could tell if ye were thinking about lyin'. I'm not that good, but I picked up the knack soon enough, and it's done me good over the years, it has. How many times has it been now, Rimmer? I'm not all that good at reading lips. Seventy five? Ninety seven? One hundred and one? Might be more than that, and not an honest word from ya for even one of 'em.
You must really hate me. It's clear to me ya don't know the answer - I've known ever since I asked ya just after we found out we'd lost Red Dwarf. Remember? Everyone was angry at me; even Kryten didn't come by with me late-night beer and chili crisps snack tray like he always does when I'm feeling low. But you came. And I thought, you know, that there was that between us, you and me; we always get on one another's tits, Yeah? So everyone else hating one of us wouldn't matter. And there was safety in that, you know. A kind of friendship even, I dunno. Dunno why I'm dwelling on this. 'Cos you came in with yer snarky grin, rubbing yer skinny smegging hands together, makin' yer little jokes and that. Which was fine, but it got me relaxed enough, what with the bickering and arguing, that I forgot meself and asked again. And you laughed. You know, just the kind of fake little laugh you'd give when I'd ask ya something about astronavigation, or Esperanto, or any of the other million subjects you were always trying to study, and ya didn't want me to know ye didn't know the answer. But this wasn't astronavigation; no smegging on tape-disc language course; just me. Just me wanting to get some kind of connection, you know, some sign that you was more than just sarcasm and light. But you couldn't even give me that. No, hate is too powerful a word. It implies you care.
I coulda stopped asking. Really, I should've. If I'm nothing to ya, why should anything ye do mean anything to me? Trouble with me though, Iron Balls, is I'm stubborn. Oh, it might be pointless, but that don't mean I'm I'm givin' up now. I'll ask again, and again, and again, and again, and a-smegging-gain until I get some kind of cock sucking, smegging answer; until ye stand up and act like the man you claim to be and give me something of yerself!
Admit that you don't know.
I see ya know, licking yer lips, wondering if you finally managed to shut me up this time. Ya got close. “I don't know,” you said, and if ye'd've looked into my eyes right then... Ach, well, ye didn't. Instead ya went off on some tangent, talkin' about angels and the afterlife and all that smeg. I wasn't listening anymore. I don't anymore, most of the time. And now you run. Well, fine. I wish I could run, but no matter where I'd go I'd still be the last man in the universe. And I'm getting smegging tired of that status.
I don't have to be, you know. Yer a human being too. And if ye'd let me in, we could... Heh. No. If ya can't admit ye don't know what death was like, how can ye admit ya don't know how to live?
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister (implied, if you squint)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't own anything RD-related, don't make any money from this.
Spoilers: Psirens
Notes: A Lister POV for roadstergals's Death. Written for the fanfic100 challenge - my table is here.
Yer keeping track.
I can tell, ya know. I see yer eyes movin' like they wanna roll around in yer head, and yer lips twitchin' like yer counting, and lately, lately I see ya shaking. You know, like yer afraid. What'r ye afraid of, Arnold? It sure as smegging hell ain't dyin', 'cause as you keep pointing out, yer already dead. Otherwise, why would I keep asking ya about it?
I bet yer wondering why I want to know; why I keep asking ya what death was like. Maybe you think I'm stupid enough - that I don't understand. That I have to have something explained to me over and over because it can't fit in my 'puny little mind' as you so often call it. Or maybe you just think my brain is frazzled enough to forget after a few bevvies and a nice wank. Well, let me tell you a secret, Rimmer - the answer don't matter to me anymore. I don't care.
Oh, I used to care. The first five or so were honest questions. And you know, daft git that I am, I expected an honest answer. Not the first time. Smeghead like you was bound to toss me a few sarcy one-liners. No less than you were due, really. I mean, ya did die, and all. And I don't count the times we was drunk, and you started sprouting the kind of stuff that wouldn't be out of place on an art college application essay. Everyone does that, even them what are still alive. After that though? I dunno 'bout you, but where I come from, bloke asks a question ten or so times means he really wants to know. Really. You didn't give it me though. You started lying.
I could always tell when people were lying. Me gran taught me; or actually I learned just staying in her house. She'd have this way of looking at ya, her eyes all squinty, and the next thing you knew, yer ears were being boxed. She could tell if ye were thinking about lyin'. I'm not that good, but I picked up the knack soon enough, and it's done me good over the years, it has. How many times has it been now, Rimmer? I'm not all that good at reading lips. Seventy five? Ninety seven? One hundred and one? Might be more than that, and not an honest word from ya for even one of 'em.
You must really hate me. It's clear to me ya don't know the answer - I've known ever since I asked ya just after we found out we'd lost Red Dwarf. Remember? Everyone was angry at me; even Kryten didn't come by with me late-night beer and chili crisps snack tray like he always does when I'm feeling low. But you came. And I thought, you know, that there was that between us, you and me; we always get on one another's tits, Yeah? So everyone else hating one of us wouldn't matter. And there was safety in that, you know. A kind of friendship even, I dunno. Dunno why I'm dwelling on this. 'Cos you came in with yer snarky grin, rubbing yer skinny smegging hands together, makin' yer little jokes and that. Which was fine, but it got me relaxed enough, what with the bickering and arguing, that I forgot meself and asked again. And you laughed. You know, just the kind of fake little laugh you'd give when I'd ask ya something about astronavigation, or Esperanto, or any of the other million subjects you were always trying to study, and ya didn't want me to know ye didn't know the answer. But this wasn't astronavigation; no smegging on tape-disc language course; just me. Just me wanting to get some kind of connection, you know, some sign that you was more than just sarcasm and light. But you couldn't even give me that. No, hate is too powerful a word. It implies you care.
I coulda stopped asking. Really, I should've. If I'm nothing to ya, why should anything ye do mean anything to me? Trouble with me though, Iron Balls, is I'm stubborn. Oh, it might be pointless, but that don't mean I'm I'm givin' up now. I'll ask again, and again, and again, and again, and a-smegging-gain until I get some kind of cock sucking, smegging answer; until ye stand up and act like the man you claim to be and give me something of yerself!
Admit that you don't know.
I see ya know, licking yer lips, wondering if you finally managed to shut me up this time. Ya got close. “I don't know,” you said, and if ye'd've looked into my eyes right then... Ach, well, ye didn't. Instead ya went off on some tangent, talkin' about angels and the afterlife and all that smeg. I wasn't listening anymore. I don't anymore, most of the time. And now you run. Well, fine. I wish I could run, but no matter where I'd go I'd still be the last man in the universe. And I'm getting smegging tired of that status.
I don't have to be, you know. Yer a human being too. And if ye'd let me in, we could... Heh. No. If ya can't admit ye don't know what death was like, how can ye admit ya don't know how to live?