Fic: Christmas - PG-13 - R/L
Title: Christmas
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister
Rating: PG-13 - for language and blatant punning.
Disclaimer: I don't own these boys, I just play with them. Don't make money from them either.
Spoilers: Back in the Red
Notes: Written for the fanfic100 challenge - my table is here. I'm sorry to say I forgot who gave me the idea for this fic - whoever you are, thanks a bunch! Lemme know so I can credit you!
I'm rather feverish and not well, so crit is doubly needed and wanted for this one!
Kryten was not happy. Not happy at all. All right, so it could be argued that he was never actually happy, his so-called emotions being high quality MechanoMotion(TM) simulations of actual ones, but Kryten had never been much for philosophy. All he knew was that he didn't like what Mister Lister was planning. He poked his head out of the laundry room, sighing miserably. The coast was clear. Now to find Mister Lister, and get this wretched show on the road.
As he plodded morosely into the exercise yard, an eager hand caught his shoulder. "Kryten, man! Did you get it?"
Kryten sighed again, holding out the bundle in his hands. "Yes Sir, I did."
Lister grabbed it, grinning madly. "Yeees! Good one, Krytes!"
"Sir..." Kryten fidgeted. Oh, it was lovely to see his little face so delighted, but there was something fundamentally immoral about the whole affair.
"Yeah?" Lister looked through the bundle, concentrating. The tip of his tongue sneaked out as though attempting to counter-balance his mental strain.
"Oh, Sir. I do wish you'd reconsider. It isn't right!"
"Eh?" Apparently satisfied, Lister chucked the bundle underneath his arm, and looked up.
“I mean, I realize how much you miss lying down and jiggling up and down on people...”
“...Not just any kind of people, Kryten, lookers. And I'm OK with standing up or sitting down too, just so long as there's jiggling. Ya know? It's been a while.” He looked wistfully towards the women's wing in the distance.
“Yes,” Kryten said with increasing desperation, “I do appreciate that, Sir. But surely there must be some other way?” He shook his head vigorously, knowing full well how futile trying to talk Mister Lister out of anything he'd set his mind to was. “I just wish you wouldn't go!”
Lister snorted. “What, miss out on the only party I'm likely to get invited to for the next millennium?”
“But you're not invited, Sir!”
“You sorted that for me though, din't'cha?”
“Well, yes,” Kryten mumbled, “I put an invitation in there, just like you said, but...”
Pulling on Kryten's arm, Lister pointed to the gantry he'd been gazing towards. Several figures with considerable in-and-out bits stood there, leaning nonchalantly against various pieces of wall and looking rather bored. “There.” His finger shook in the direction of a yawning, sandy-haired, athletic woman. “See that? Helena Milford. Two weeks left before she gets out on parole. And those are her mates, yeah? They're getting out too, all of 'em. Do you know what my chances of getting with any of them will be in two weeks, Krytes?”
Kryten frowned. Granted, he was far from an expert in such matters, but surely... “As much as your chances of getting with any of them tonight, I should think, Sir.”
Lister glared. “Don't be like that, man. I know you don't like the idea, but there's no need to get nasty about it. Look, it's a Christmas party! Good eatin', good drinking; a chance to get out of these smeggy overalls fer a change!”
“Yes, well. There is the matter of dress-code, which you have made more than abundantly clear to me.” Kryten wasn't getting anywhere, he knew. It was almost emasculating. Well. As emasculating as anything could be for someone who had already been declared female against his will. “But one could argue that you are taking rather extreme...”
“Just shut it, will ya!” Lister rolled his eyes, appearing more amused and excited than angry. Easy for him to say, Kryten thought. He would not need to explain things to the laundry mistress. “It'll be fine. I'm just going on the pull.”
With extreme care, Rimmer dipped the end of his comb in luke-warm water, and inserted it into his hair. With hands used to the painstaking detail-work of model-crafting, he expertly moved a few dozen hairs from the left side of his parting to the right. With a satisfied sigh he stood back to admire the results. Perfection. “Don't wait up, Listy,” he chuckled, “Arnie J. is going on the pull!”
From the low lighting of the upper bunk came a dismissive snort. There followed a “yeah?” and then a mumbled, muttered something that might have been 'goited jackarse'. Rimmer smiled.
“Oh, don't be jealous, miladdio. Just because someone has been given extra privileges for the holidays and you haven't doesn't mean you can't have fun.” He put his finger to his lips, pretending to think. “There's a movie on in the yard tonight. Sort of a drive-in kind of thing, without the cars. Or being outside. Still, rather romantic, don't you think?”
Lister scrambled towards the edge of the bunk, all of a sudden looking disgustingly keen and eager. “What, the men and women together, like?”
Rimmer nodded, as though in agreement, turning it into a shake at the last moment. “No.” Lister's face fell. “But you can't have everything! I hear there's a prize for best couple.” The edges of his mouth crept up into a sarcastic smile. It was one of his favorites; 'smug and condescending #14'.
“Smeg off, Rimmer. Just go.”
“I fully intend to! Just as soon as I'm dressed.”
Lister glared, his mouth half-open. Honestly, Rimmer thought, the man could moonlight as a fly-trap impersonator. “You are dressed!”
How typical of the man. Making suitably dismissive noises, Rimmer crossed the room to the closet, and took out his the cleaner-bag containing his newly pressed uniform jacket. He pushed the plastic aside with reverence, marveling at the the way even the buttons had been polished to a sparkling luster. “Exquisite,” he mumbled, turning it this way and that.
“Yeah well,” Lister grumbled, turning onto his back, “you owe me one. Madge was up half the night fixing that for ya. Took a lot of persuading, it did.”
“No, Lister. You owe me one for not telling the Captain all about your little set-up with the scutters at the party tonight.” He slid the jacket on, and sighed happily. It felt so good after months of dingy overalls and ill-fitting canary outfits.
“You wouldn't. Yer a smeghead, but not that big a smeghead.” Rimmer didn't have to turn around; he could see Lister's moping, drowned-puppy face in the tone of his voice. Pathetic git.
“Try me,” Rimmer chirped, as a rather over-dressed looking guard arrived and started to urge him out. Just in the nick of time - he didn't need any more whining to ruin his evening. As they walked down the corridor, he began to whistle. Oh, yes indeed - good old Iron Balls was going to get some!
Lister waited until the sound of footsteps faded into the background, then launched himself off the bed, hitting the floor almost at a run. He rushed over to the toilet, stuck his arm into the tight space between the wall and the small septic tank, grimacing. Finally, it emerged, clutching a dubious looking plastic bag. Holding it carefully between thumb and forefinger, Lister jiggled it open, stepping out of the toilet and dumping the contents on the floor. Working quickly, he stripped down to his underwear, hesitated, bit his lip, then dumped his underwear too, tossing it onto his bunk from the other side of the room. Naked now, he opened up the cloth bag on the floor, donning the items within with great care.
This took some time.
Putting the last item firmly on his head, he trotted, with some difficulty, over to the single mirror in the cell, angling it this way and that. He frowned. Something was missing. Snapping his fingers, he hurried back to the discarded bag, picked it up and shook it. To further items fell out. He looked at them with trepidation. After some consideration, he put them aside, donned his overalls over his new outfit, and put one object in each pocket. Right. Grinning smugly, he started walk over to sit down by the table, halting after two steps, and looking back. Shaking his head, he removed both shoes, put his boots back on, and stuffed one shoe down each trouser leg. Picking his invitation out of a chest pocket, he kissed it, and sat down with a look of utter satisfaction on his face. And so he remained until the guard returned with a grumbled question of whether he wanted to go see the film or not. Lister told him he did. Very much so.
Some time later, as an argument abruptly broke out the exercise yard as to who had thrown popcorn at Not-As-Crazy-As-KillCrazy-Mike, a dark figure could just about be seen from the right angle, running away at speed. Having put enough distance between itself and the yard for comfort, it ducked into a disused supply-cabinet, into which it just about fit, and emerged shortly afterwards in entirely different clothes. And brushing an errant strand of hair from his shoulders, Lister walked gently on.
Thus far, the party had been a massive disappointment, Rimmer thought. Not only had the Captain not shown his face, but the only women he had seen around seemed suspiciously lesbian. Granted, Rimmer's only previous experience with lesbians were through films and AR-games like “Cheerleading Camp XI,” “Catholic School Secret Prom Night,” and “Vild Sex Kittens from Venus,” but something just struck him as not entirely straight about this bunch. Perhaps it was the way most of them preferred trousers to skirts for their dress-uniforms, perhaps something subtle in their body language, or perhaps it was the fact that he'd seen several of them snogging behind the buffet-table. He made some discreet inquiries, and cursed bitterly to himself. Apparently, they were the ship's queer women's volleyball team, in for three months for use of performance-enhancing drugs on company time. There was that word though: queer. Rimmer held onto it like a drowning man to very frail-looking reed. He had no idea what it meant, exactly, but perhaps they weren't entirely predisposed to carpet-munching? He sighed, and turned to the large, beefy-looking person standing next to him in a dress-uniform. “Excuse me...” he narrowed his eyes, swallowing as the facts became evident, “ma'am, you wouldn't happen to know when the Captain is going to show up? Only,” he fumbled in his uniform pocket for his invitation, and held it up, “it says here he's supposed to be here. Now.” He was rambling, he knew, but it was hard to know what to say with that massive body leaning over you. The friendly, teasing smile didn't seem to help.
“Oh, he'll be here, big guy,” the female officer said, in a surprisingly light, vaguely American accent. “he's gonna get the party started right now.” She pointed an impressive finger towards the gantry above, where, indeed, the equally impressive figure of Captain Hollister was now standing, flanked by several guards. Each of the guards had been fitted with a small twig of mistletoe on the sides of their helmets. Even with their visors down, they managed to look rather uncomfortable.
Hollister cleared his throats. “Well prisoners - it's that time of year again. I'm sure you are all looking forward to chowing down on our specially prepared Christmas menu. Now, I do apologize for the lack of choice, but we are running a bit short on supplies, and we've had to use some substitutes.” His face contorted into a grimace. “I... would stay away from the cranberry sauce if I were you.”
Rimmer looked towards the buffet table with suspicion, then glanced back.
“Some of you, I know, are going out on parole in a couple of weeks...” enthusiastic cheers erupted from the female crowd, “and I'm sure we all wish you the best of luck as you return to your duties. There will be a short musical interlude after...” he tasted the British word with what looked like a hint of confusion and worry, “pudding has been served, when a selection of traditional Christmas carols will be preformed on the xylophone by some of our scutters.” There were brief, erratic bursts of applause. “Merry Christmas to you all.” He gave a quick, unenthusiastic wave, and turned to walk away.
Rimmer watched him, dumbstruck. “That's it? 'We cordially invite you to a Christmas dinner-party in the presence of Captain Hollister' - that's it?” The beefy officer shrugged, appearing unconcerned. Rimmer sighed. Well, what a lovely, lovely party! No captain, suspicious food, musical scutters for entertainment, and not a drunk, straight horny woman in sight. He bit his lip, slamming his (non-alcoholic - can't trust prisoners with alcohol, now could they) drink down on a nearby table. Dammit, there had to be something redeemable about this pathetic affair! He walked over to lean against the wall, and scanned the crowd sullenly. Never let it be said that Arnold Judas Rimmer gave up without a fight!
Lister nodded politely to the guard who had escorted him, and entered the short hallways to the cargo-bay that was serving as a make-shift banquet hall. Thing had gone almost too smoothly. The guard had shown no visible reaction when Lister had claimed he'd gotten lost on his way to the loo, and had escorted him - as he thought - back, without questions. He was almost home free!
“Hullo Dave. Looking good.”
Lister spun around, trying to find the source of the voice, his heart in his throat. Not on the walls - there were no screens around. Not on the ceiling, but that would have been silly, wouldn't it? He frowned. Surely not... he looked down, and straight into Holly's smiling face.
“All right, then?” The computer winked.
“Holly! Fer smeg's sake, what are ye doing here! People could see you!”
Holly grinned. “Nah. They don't seem to notice what goes on underneath their feet.” He looked up, and Lister realized with a sudden horror that Holly was looking up between his legs. He jumped away, angrily.
“Oi! Have some common decency, would ya, man!”
The face on the floor faded away, reappearing on the left wall. “You don't have nothing to be ashamed of, Dave. Fine specimen of manhood, you are.” He frowned. “Not that I'm much of a judge, mind you.”
The computer's face kept moving, Lister noticed, as though bobbing to some unheard tune. “What are you doing? How come you can just show up on the walls like that?”
“Easy as anything that. Projection. It's not used much, but the system is there. I much prefer being on screen anyway. More traditional.” He kept on nodding, his face in folds of deep concetration.
“What's with the nodding?” Lister felt his head start to bob along in sympathy.
“I'm practicing my bowing.”
“Bowing?”
“Yeah! It's hard to bow when you don't have a spine. Or a body to go with it. So I have to make do with this.” He kept at it, apparently trying to keep an even rhythm. “I thought it was about time someone put up some Christmas decorations in here. I'm just doing my bit.”
“Oh smegging hell, Hol... don't tell me...” said Lister, who was beginning to get a very bad feeling about this.
Holly paid him no heed. “See, 'cause, I was thinking, you know, that I could, like, project myself onto the deck, right?”
“Yes, Hol, I get ya. I see where this is going.”
“And into the hall, yeah?”
“Yes,” Lister moaned, starting to walk away, which is what he should have done right away, he thought angrily.
“So you'll have the deck and the hall full of me, b...”
“YES! I SMEGGING GET IT, all right, Hol!” Lister stormed into the hall, muttering something about computer senility.
Holly sniffed. “No sense of humor, some people.”
Kryten was, yet again, not happy. The unhappiness this time consisted mainly of concern for Mister Lister, who had not been in touch since they had spoken the day before. He had been waiting in the mess-hall for half an hour, but there was no sign of him. Soon, they would stop serving breakfast, and Mister Lister would go hungry! And he did so hate to go hungry. Kryten picked at the chipped paint on the table in front of him, and tried to busy himself with daydreams of how he could redecorate the room. It didn't work very well.
Moreover, Mister Rimmer had plonked himself down next to him, and had spent his entire time there grinning like a maniac. There was something inherently disconcerting about a happy Mister Rimmer. It simply went against the laws of nature. And now he was clearing his throat, preparing to speak. Oh, it was getting worse. “You know, Kryten, I don't mind telling you,” he took a sip of luke-warm water, “I met the woman of my dreams last night.”
On the list of what Kryten had been expected, this admission somewhere near the bottom, written in by crayon. “Erm, indeed, Sir?”
Rimmer sighed, gazing into the distance, and putting his fork down. “God, she was gorgeous. Too bad it can never come to anything. Tragic, really.”
“How so, Sir?” Kryten asked carefully.
“She's getting out on parole today.” Rimmer licked his lips, leaning his elbows on the table. “Told me she probably wouldn't have time to see me when I got out. She's a console-officer; very career-oriented, very officious.” He sighed. “A woman after my own heart. At least we had one enchanted evening together.”
Mechano-worry was giving way, measure by measure, to slight mechano-panic. “I see. And what did she... look like?”
“Oh, she was stunning. Stunning!” Rimmer swung a napkin around as if to emphasize. “Tall, almost my height, in fact, full-figured, long, dark hair, and she had these deep, dark, soulful brown eyes. It was eerie; I almost felt like I'd seen her before, somewhere. They were mesmerizing.” He stared at nothing in particular, clearly remembering. “Skin like those girls you see on posters for tropical get-aways; radiant, glowing, light brown and soft...”
“Soft?” Kryten interrupted, grabbing the edge of the table. Mechano-panic could be rather unpredictable if not kept under control.
Rimmer gave a chuckle. That was even worse than the happiness and the grinning. “Well... let's just say I had ample opportunity to find out, shall we, Kryten?” He winked, and Kryten grabbed the table with his other hand. “You know, I had just about given up before I saw her.”
“Yes?” Kryten squeaked.
“Seems all the women there were lesbians. Or, “he waved a hand, “queer or somesuch. At any rate they weren't interested in me.”
Kryten ignored that opportunity for comment. “Yes, Mister Lister,” he emphasized the name carefully, looking for a reaction, but none was forthcoming, “told me as much, Sir.”
“Really?” Rimmer snorted. “Well, that explained why the little bastard wasn't keen to join me. Typical. Never said a word.” He shook his head. “Ah well, if I hadn't gone, I never would have met Daniella.”
The table, Kryten noted with trepidation, was beginning to shake. “D...daniella?”
“Yes, Daniella Bergstrom. She wouldn't tell me her name at first, but I saw the invitation sticking out of her pocket, so I plucked it out and read it from there. Rather a suave move, if I should say so myself.” He gave a smug, vulture-like grimace. “She was a lesbian too, you know.”
A note of simulated confusion trickled through Kryten's simulated panic. “Really? But I thought you said...”
“Lesbian,” Rimmer stated, firmly. “I saw her snogging a woman and everything. Got slapped for it too, which is when I made my move. I figured, at that point, what the hell - I might as well try.” he gave another disturbing chuckle. And she went for it! It must have been the jacket,” he mused. “Lesbians love a good, well-polished uniform jacket.”
“Did you... you didn't... I mean... did you give her one, Sir?” Kryten finally managed.
Rimmer shook his head. “No. I had her in the broom-closet, and gave her a good feel up her skirt, but she stopped me before I got to the good bits.” He looked down, surprised, catching the glass that was dancing across the shaking table before it fell off the edge. “Said she was saving herself for marriage. She had class, Kryten. We Rimmers can always tell. Class shows, you know. In your bearing, your speech, your posture, your haircut,” he checked the items off on his fingers. “Might have been nobility, even. She had that aura around her. Shame.” He looked into his empty glass, and exhaled deeply.
This could not go on. It was obscene. Kryten cleared his throat, and opened his mouth, about to speak when Lister's friendly arm fell around his and Rimmer's shoulder as he squeezed in between the two of them. Rimmer snorted in disgust. “All right, 'Big Man',” Lister giggled. “You get yerself any last night?”
“None of your smegging business, Lister,” Rimmer grumbled, taking his tray and leaving the moment Lister's butt hit the bench. Lister giggled again, looking after him.
“Sir...” Kryten began, his emotion-simulation system on the verge of complete break-down.
“Look,” Lister interrupted, whispering urgently, “I split from the exercise yard, impersonated a female officer, was in possession of a stolen invitation, and made improper sexual advances towards my fellow inmates. If you tell Rimmer...” his voice grew even quieter, “...if you tell Rimmer it was me he was licking the tonsils of last night in a broom closet, you think he's gonna keep quiet? He'll run straight to Hollister! He'll go spare. That's why I couldn't tell him last night, neither. I'm not saying I enjoyed it!” He gave a shudder.
“You really think...” Kryten began, but he know the answer, even as Lister nodded, solemnly. “I suppose you're right, Sir.”
“I know I am. And besides,” Lister stuck his fork into the dubious porridge on the tray in front of him, which had been sprinkled with something vaguely resembling cranberries, “It's Christmas, innit?”
Kryten looked at him, sitting there, cheerfully eating his cranberry-esque breakfast, an odd sort of smile on his face. And slowly, something within Kryten entered relaxation-mode. “Yes, Sir. It is. And may I say, Merry Christmas?”
His fork half-way out of his mouth, Lister paused, grinning wider. “Merry Christmas, Krytes.”
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister
Rating: PG-13 - for language and blatant punning.
Disclaimer: I don't own these boys, I just play with them. Don't make money from them either.
Spoilers: Back in the Red
Notes: Written for the fanfic100 challenge - my table is here. I'm sorry to say I forgot who gave me the idea for this fic - whoever you are, thanks a bunch! Lemme know so I can credit you!
I'm rather feverish and not well, so crit is doubly needed and wanted for this one!
Kryten was not happy. Not happy at all. All right, so it could be argued that he was never actually happy, his so-called emotions being high quality MechanoMotion(TM) simulations of actual ones, but Kryten had never been much for philosophy. All he knew was that he didn't like what Mister Lister was planning. He poked his head out of the laundry room, sighing miserably. The coast was clear. Now to find Mister Lister, and get this wretched show on the road.
As he plodded morosely into the exercise yard, an eager hand caught his shoulder. "Kryten, man! Did you get it?"
Kryten sighed again, holding out the bundle in his hands. "Yes Sir, I did."
Lister grabbed it, grinning madly. "Yeees! Good one, Krytes!"
"Sir..." Kryten fidgeted. Oh, it was lovely to see his little face so delighted, but there was something fundamentally immoral about the whole affair.
"Yeah?" Lister looked through the bundle, concentrating. The tip of his tongue sneaked out as though attempting to counter-balance his mental strain.
"Oh, Sir. I do wish you'd reconsider. It isn't right!"
"Eh?" Apparently satisfied, Lister chucked the bundle underneath his arm, and looked up.
“I mean, I realize how much you miss lying down and jiggling up and down on people...”
“...Not just any kind of people, Kryten, lookers. And I'm OK with standing up or sitting down too, just so long as there's jiggling. Ya know? It's been a while.” He looked wistfully towards the women's wing in the distance.
“Yes,” Kryten said with increasing desperation, “I do appreciate that, Sir. But surely there must be some other way?” He shook his head vigorously, knowing full well how futile trying to talk Mister Lister out of anything he'd set his mind to was. “I just wish you wouldn't go!”
Lister snorted. “What, miss out on the only party I'm likely to get invited to for the next millennium?”
“But you're not invited, Sir!”
“You sorted that for me though, din't'cha?”
“Well, yes,” Kryten mumbled, “I put an invitation in there, just like you said, but...”
Pulling on Kryten's arm, Lister pointed to the gantry he'd been gazing towards. Several figures with considerable in-and-out bits stood there, leaning nonchalantly against various pieces of wall and looking rather bored. “There.” His finger shook in the direction of a yawning, sandy-haired, athletic woman. “See that? Helena Milford. Two weeks left before she gets out on parole. And those are her mates, yeah? They're getting out too, all of 'em. Do you know what my chances of getting with any of them will be in two weeks, Krytes?”
Kryten frowned. Granted, he was far from an expert in such matters, but surely... “As much as your chances of getting with any of them tonight, I should think, Sir.”
Lister glared. “Don't be like that, man. I know you don't like the idea, but there's no need to get nasty about it. Look, it's a Christmas party! Good eatin', good drinking; a chance to get out of these smeggy overalls fer a change!”
“Yes, well. There is the matter of dress-code, which you have made more than abundantly clear to me.” Kryten wasn't getting anywhere, he knew. It was almost emasculating. Well. As emasculating as anything could be for someone who had already been declared female against his will. “But one could argue that you are taking rather extreme...”
“Just shut it, will ya!” Lister rolled his eyes, appearing more amused and excited than angry. Easy for him to say, Kryten thought. He would not need to explain things to the laundry mistress. “It'll be fine. I'm just going on the pull.”
With extreme care, Rimmer dipped the end of his comb in luke-warm water, and inserted it into his hair. With hands used to the painstaking detail-work of model-crafting, he expertly moved a few dozen hairs from the left side of his parting to the right. With a satisfied sigh he stood back to admire the results. Perfection. “Don't wait up, Listy,” he chuckled, “Arnie J. is going on the pull!”
From the low lighting of the upper bunk came a dismissive snort. There followed a “yeah?” and then a mumbled, muttered something that might have been 'goited jackarse'. Rimmer smiled.
“Oh, don't be jealous, miladdio. Just because someone has been given extra privileges for the holidays and you haven't doesn't mean you can't have fun.” He put his finger to his lips, pretending to think. “There's a movie on in the yard tonight. Sort of a drive-in kind of thing, without the cars. Or being outside. Still, rather romantic, don't you think?”
Lister scrambled towards the edge of the bunk, all of a sudden looking disgustingly keen and eager. “What, the men and women together, like?”
Rimmer nodded, as though in agreement, turning it into a shake at the last moment. “No.” Lister's face fell. “But you can't have everything! I hear there's a prize for best couple.” The edges of his mouth crept up into a sarcastic smile. It was one of his favorites; 'smug and condescending #14'.
“Smeg off, Rimmer. Just go.”
“I fully intend to! Just as soon as I'm dressed.”
Lister glared, his mouth half-open. Honestly, Rimmer thought, the man could moonlight as a fly-trap impersonator. “You are dressed!”
How typical of the man. Making suitably dismissive noises, Rimmer crossed the room to the closet, and took out his the cleaner-bag containing his newly pressed uniform jacket. He pushed the plastic aside with reverence, marveling at the the way even the buttons had been polished to a sparkling luster. “Exquisite,” he mumbled, turning it this way and that.
“Yeah well,” Lister grumbled, turning onto his back, “you owe me one. Madge was up half the night fixing that for ya. Took a lot of persuading, it did.”
“No, Lister. You owe me one for not telling the Captain all about your little set-up with the scutters at the party tonight.” He slid the jacket on, and sighed happily. It felt so good after months of dingy overalls and ill-fitting canary outfits.
“You wouldn't. Yer a smeghead, but not that big a smeghead.” Rimmer didn't have to turn around; he could see Lister's moping, drowned-puppy face in the tone of his voice. Pathetic git.
“Try me,” Rimmer chirped, as a rather over-dressed looking guard arrived and started to urge him out. Just in the nick of time - he didn't need any more whining to ruin his evening. As they walked down the corridor, he began to whistle. Oh, yes indeed - good old Iron Balls was going to get some!
Lister waited until the sound of footsteps faded into the background, then launched himself off the bed, hitting the floor almost at a run. He rushed over to the toilet, stuck his arm into the tight space between the wall and the small septic tank, grimacing. Finally, it emerged, clutching a dubious looking plastic bag. Holding it carefully between thumb and forefinger, Lister jiggled it open, stepping out of the toilet and dumping the contents on the floor. Working quickly, he stripped down to his underwear, hesitated, bit his lip, then dumped his underwear too, tossing it onto his bunk from the other side of the room. Naked now, he opened up the cloth bag on the floor, donning the items within with great care.
This took some time.
Putting the last item firmly on his head, he trotted, with some difficulty, over to the single mirror in the cell, angling it this way and that. He frowned. Something was missing. Snapping his fingers, he hurried back to the discarded bag, picked it up and shook it. To further items fell out. He looked at them with trepidation. After some consideration, he put them aside, donned his overalls over his new outfit, and put one object in each pocket. Right. Grinning smugly, he started walk over to sit down by the table, halting after two steps, and looking back. Shaking his head, he removed both shoes, put his boots back on, and stuffed one shoe down each trouser leg. Picking his invitation out of a chest pocket, he kissed it, and sat down with a look of utter satisfaction on his face. And so he remained until the guard returned with a grumbled question of whether he wanted to go see the film or not. Lister told him he did. Very much so.
Some time later, as an argument abruptly broke out the exercise yard as to who had thrown popcorn at Not-As-Crazy-As-KillCrazy-Mike, a dark figure could just about be seen from the right angle, running away at speed. Having put enough distance between itself and the yard for comfort, it ducked into a disused supply-cabinet, into which it just about fit, and emerged shortly afterwards in entirely different clothes. And brushing an errant strand of hair from his shoulders, Lister walked gently on.
Thus far, the party had been a massive disappointment, Rimmer thought. Not only had the Captain not shown his face, but the only women he had seen around seemed suspiciously lesbian. Granted, Rimmer's only previous experience with lesbians were through films and AR-games like “Cheerleading Camp XI,” “Catholic School Secret Prom Night,” and “Vild Sex Kittens from Venus,” but something just struck him as not entirely straight about this bunch. Perhaps it was the way most of them preferred trousers to skirts for their dress-uniforms, perhaps something subtle in their body language, or perhaps it was the fact that he'd seen several of them snogging behind the buffet-table. He made some discreet inquiries, and cursed bitterly to himself. Apparently, they were the ship's queer women's volleyball team, in for three months for use of performance-enhancing drugs on company time. There was that word though: queer. Rimmer held onto it like a drowning man to very frail-looking reed. He had no idea what it meant, exactly, but perhaps they weren't entirely predisposed to carpet-munching? He sighed, and turned to the large, beefy-looking person standing next to him in a dress-uniform. “Excuse me...” he narrowed his eyes, swallowing as the facts became evident, “ma'am, you wouldn't happen to know when the Captain is going to show up? Only,” he fumbled in his uniform pocket for his invitation, and held it up, “it says here he's supposed to be here. Now.” He was rambling, he knew, but it was hard to know what to say with that massive body leaning over you. The friendly, teasing smile didn't seem to help.
“Oh, he'll be here, big guy,” the female officer said, in a surprisingly light, vaguely American accent. “he's gonna get the party started right now.” She pointed an impressive finger towards the gantry above, where, indeed, the equally impressive figure of Captain Hollister was now standing, flanked by several guards. Each of the guards had been fitted with a small twig of mistletoe on the sides of their helmets. Even with their visors down, they managed to look rather uncomfortable.
Hollister cleared his throats. “Well prisoners - it's that time of year again. I'm sure you are all looking forward to chowing down on our specially prepared Christmas menu. Now, I do apologize for the lack of choice, but we are running a bit short on supplies, and we've had to use some substitutes.” His face contorted into a grimace. “I... would stay away from the cranberry sauce if I were you.”
Rimmer looked towards the buffet table with suspicion, then glanced back.
“Some of you, I know, are going out on parole in a couple of weeks...” enthusiastic cheers erupted from the female crowd, “and I'm sure we all wish you the best of luck as you return to your duties. There will be a short musical interlude after...” he tasted the British word with what looked like a hint of confusion and worry, “pudding has been served, when a selection of traditional Christmas carols will be preformed on the xylophone by some of our scutters.” There were brief, erratic bursts of applause. “Merry Christmas to you all.” He gave a quick, unenthusiastic wave, and turned to walk away.
Rimmer watched him, dumbstruck. “That's it? 'We cordially invite you to a Christmas dinner-party in the presence of Captain Hollister' - that's it?” The beefy officer shrugged, appearing unconcerned. Rimmer sighed. Well, what a lovely, lovely party! No captain, suspicious food, musical scutters for entertainment, and not a drunk, straight horny woman in sight. He bit his lip, slamming his (non-alcoholic - can't trust prisoners with alcohol, now could they) drink down on a nearby table. Dammit, there had to be something redeemable about this pathetic affair! He walked over to lean against the wall, and scanned the crowd sullenly. Never let it be said that Arnold Judas Rimmer gave up without a fight!
Lister nodded politely to the guard who had escorted him, and entered the short hallways to the cargo-bay that was serving as a make-shift banquet hall. Thing had gone almost too smoothly. The guard had shown no visible reaction when Lister had claimed he'd gotten lost on his way to the loo, and had escorted him - as he thought - back, without questions. He was almost home free!
“Hullo Dave. Looking good.”
Lister spun around, trying to find the source of the voice, his heart in his throat. Not on the walls - there were no screens around. Not on the ceiling, but that would have been silly, wouldn't it? He frowned. Surely not... he looked down, and straight into Holly's smiling face.
“All right, then?” The computer winked.
“Holly! Fer smeg's sake, what are ye doing here! People could see you!”
Holly grinned. “Nah. They don't seem to notice what goes on underneath their feet.” He looked up, and Lister realized with a sudden horror that Holly was looking up between his legs. He jumped away, angrily.
“Oi! Have some common decency, would ya, man!”
The face on the floor faded away, reappearing on the left wall. “You don't have nothing to be ashamed of, Dave. Fine specimen of manhood, you are.” He frowned. “Not that I'm much of a judge, mind you.”
The computer's face kept moving, Lister noticed, as though bobbing to some unheard tune. “What are you doing? How come you can just show up on the walls like that?”
“Easy as anything that. Projection. It's not used much, but the system is there. I much prefer being on screen anyway. More traditional.” He kept on nodding, his face in folds of deep concetration.
“What's with the nodding?” Lister felt his head start to bob along in sympathy.
“I'm practicing my bowing.”
“Bowing?”
“Yeah! It's hard to bow when you don't have a spine. Or a body to go with it. So I have to make do with this.” He kept at it, apparently trying to keep an even rhythm. “I thought it was about time someone put up some Christmas decorations in here. I'm just doing my bit.”
“Oh smegging hell, Hol... don't tell me...” said Lister, who was beginning to get a very bad feeling about this.
Holly paid him no heed. “See, 'cause, I was thinking, you know, that I could, like, project myself onto the deck, right?”
“Yes, Hol, I get ya. I see where this is going.”
“And into the hall, yeah?”
“Yes,” Lister moaned, starting to walk away, which is what he should have done right away, he thought angrily.
“So you'll have the deck and the hall full of me, b...”
“YES! I SMEGGING GET IT, all right, Hol!” Lister stormed into the hall, muttering something about computer senility.
Holly sniffed. “No sense of humor, some people.”
Kryten was, yet again, not happy. The unhappiness this time consisted mainly of concern for Mister Lister, who had not been in touch since they had spoken the day before. He had been waiting in the mess-hall for half an hour, but there was no sign of him. Soon, they would stop serving breakfast, and Mister Lister would go hungry! And he did so hate to go hungry. Kryten picked at the chipped paint on the table in front of him, and tried to busy himself with daydreams of how he could redecorate the room. It didn't work very well.
Moreover, Mister Rimmer had plonked himself down next to him, and had spent his entire time there grinning like a maniac. There was something inherently disconcerting about a happy Mister Rimmer. It simply went against the laws of nature. And now he was clearing his throat, preparing to speak. Oh, it was getting worse. “You know, Kryten, I don't mind telling you,” he took a sip of luke-warm water, “I met the woman of my dreams last night.”
On the list of what Kryten had been expected, this admission somewhere near the bottom, written in by crayon. “Erm, indeed, Sir?”
Rimmer sighed, gazing into the distance, and putting his fork down. “God, she was gorgeous. Too bad it can never come to anything. Tragic, really.”
“How so, Sir?” Kryten asked carefully.
“She's getting out on parole today.” Rimmer licked his lips, leaning his elbows on the table. “Told me she probably wouldn't have time to see me when I got out. She's a console-officer; very career-oriented, very officious.” He sighed. “A woman after my own heart. At least we had one enchanted evening together.”
Mechano-worry was giving way, measure by measure, to slight mechano-panic. “I see. And what did she... look like?”
“Oh, she was stunning. Stunning!” Rimmer swung a napkin around as if to emphasize. “Tall, almost my height, in fact, full-figured, long, dark hair, and she had these deep, dark, soulful brown eyes. It was eerie; I almost felt like I'd seen her before, somewhere. They were mesmerizing.” He stared at nothing in particular, clearly remembering. “Skin like those girls you see on posters for tropical get-aways; radiant, glowing, light brown and soft...”
“Soft?” Kryten interrupted, grabbing the edge of the table. Mechano-panic could be rather unpredictable if not kept under control.
Rimmer gave a chuckle. That was even worse than the happiness and the grinning. “Well... let's just say I had ample opportunity to find out, shall we, Kryten?” He winked, and Kryten grabbed the table with his other hand. “You know, I had just about given up before I saw her.”
“Yes?” Kryten squeaked.
“Seems all the women there were lesbians. Or, “he waved a hand, “queer or somesuch. At any rate they weren't interested in me.”
Kryten ignored that opportunity for comment. “Yes, Mister Lister,” he emphasized the name carefully, looking for a reaction, but none was forthcoming, “told me as much, Sir.”
“Really?” Rimmer snorted. “Well, that explained why the little bastard wasn't keen to join me. Typical. Never said a word.” He shook his head. “Ah well, if I hadn't gone, I never would have met Daniella.”
The table, Kryten noted with trepidation, was beginning to shake. “D...daniella?”
“Yes, Daniella Bergstrom. She wouldn't tell me her name at first, but I saw the invitation sticking out of her pocket, so I plucked it out and read it from there. Rather a suave move, if I should say so myself.” He gave a smug, vulture-like grimace. “She was a lesbian too, you know.”
A note of simulated confusion trickled through Kryten's simulated panic. “Really? But I thought you said...”
“Lesbian,” Rimmer stated, firmly. “I saw her snogging a woman and everything. Got slapped for it too, which is when I made my move. I figured, at that point, what the hell - I might as well try.” he gave another disturbing chuckle. And she went for it! It must have been the jacket,” he mused. “Lesbians love a good, well-polished uniform jacket.”
“Did you... you didn't... I mean... did you give her one, Sir?” Kryten finally managed.
Rimmer shook his head. “No. I had her in the broom-closet, and gave her a good feel up her skirt, but she stopped me before I got to the good bits.” He looked down, surprised, catching the glass that was dancing across the shaking table before it fell off the edge. “Said she was saving herself for marriage. She had class, Kryten. We Rimmers can always tell. Class shows, you know. In your bearing, your speech, your posture, your haircut,” he checked the items off on his fingers. “Might have been nobility, even. She had that aura around her. Shame.” He looked into his empty glass, and exhaled deeply.
This could not go on. It was obscene. Kryten cleared his throat, and opened his mouth, about to speak when Lister's friendly arm fell around his and Rimmer's shoulder as he squeezed in between the two of them. Rimmer snorted in disgust. “All right, 'Big Man',” Lister giggled. “You get yerself any last night?”
“None of your smegging business, Lister,” Rimmer grumbled, taking his tray and leaving the moment Lister's butt hit the bench. Lister giggled again, looking after him.
“Sir...” Kryten began, his emotion-simulation system on the verge of complete break-down.
“Look,” Lister interrupted, whispering urgently, “I split from the exercise yard, impersonated a female officer, was in possession of a stolen invitation, and made improper sexual advances towards my fellow inmates. If you tell Rimmer...” his voice grew even quieter, “...if you tell Rimmer it was me he was licking the tonsils of last night in a broom closet, you think he's gonna keep quiet? He'll run straight to Hollister! He'll go spare. That's why I couldn't tell him last night, neither. I'm not saying I enjoyed it!” He gave a shudder.
“You really think...” Kryten began, but he know the answer, even as Lister nodded, solemnly. “I suppose you're right, Sir.”
“I know I am. And besides,” Lister stuck his fork into the dubious porridge on the tray in front of him, which had been sprinkled with something vaguely resembling cranberries, “It's Christmas, innit?”
Kryten looked at him, sitting there, cheerfully eating his cranberry-esque breakfast, an odd sort of smile on his face. And slowly, something within Kryten entered relaxation-mode. “Yes, Sir. It is. And may I say, Merry Christmas?”
His fork half-way out of his mouth, Lister paused, grinning wider. “Merry Christmas, Krytes.”