Fic: Fire - R/L (imp) - PG-13

[kahvi]

Title: Fire
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister (implied)
Rating: PG-13, for language, innuendo and blatant, blatant orange-porn!
Disclaimer: I own it not; it makes me no money. Red Dwarf, that is. In case you wondered.
Notes: Much thanks to roadstergal for making me write this (in a good way! :D ), and for tons of Rimmspiration. Written as part of the fanfic100 challenge - my table is here.



“It's not just the curries, you know,” Rimmer explained to the short skirted, really quite ridiculously good looking GELF woman that was currently bent over, trying to show him a particular strain of tea in the field they were standing in. “I mean, yes, they're disgusting in and as of themselves, but it's the way he eats them.” Rimmer screwed up his face, remembering. “Sauce slopping all over his face, getting on his gloves, which, mind you, I've never seen him clean or treat in any way. I'm sure the turmeric must be hell on the leather.”

The woman nodded politely, cutting loose a bunch of leaves, and handing them to him with a smile. Rimmer peered at them, before accepting and holding them up to his nose, inhaling deeply. The smell was divine. A small sigh of near sexual ecstasy escaped him, to his embarrassment, but his guide didn't seem to have noticed. She just stood there, smiling, her short skirt showing off a pair of legs that made Rimmer want to do things he firmly believed you shouldn't do to genetically engineered lifeforms. Really, it'd be like fucking a hamster, wouldn't it? He licked his lips, following the pleasing rounding of her stomach up towards her chest, over which her blouse fit tightly enough to reveal that she was wearing a peephole bra. Then again, he thought, who would ever know?

It was almost too good to be true. No, strike that, it most definitely was far, far too good to be true. Only this morning Rimmer had been standing in Starbug's mid-section, screwing his eyes shut and wishing he could do the same to his nostrils, his fingers in his ears, trying to block out Lister's consumption of his so-called 'breakfast' from all his hard-light sensory organs. He remembered thinking that today, today just might be the day he was going to break down and throw himself out an airlock rather than spend one more day in the company of a man whose eating habits were sub-standard even to those of the space-weevils he was sometimes forced to consume. And now? Now he was standing in a field full of what had to be the best smegging tea in the universe, with a woman whose looks was an easy match to those of the models in Naked Swedish Test Pilots Monthly. 'Utter bliss' did not even begin to describe his current state of being.

He would have enjoyed an excursion to the small, GELF-populated planetoid they had come across regardless, desperate as he was for a change of scenery, but the fact that the level of radiation was fatal to most humanoids and harmful to mechanoids gave Rimmer the added pleasure of being, for once, the man of the hour. Starbug's fuel levels were dangerously low, and their water stores were in dire need of replenishment. It had gotten to the point where Lister claimed he could no longer tell the difference between the water going into his body and the water coming out of it, a lovely mental image which Rimmer would have largely preferred to go without. In short, they needed to barter, and Rimmer was the only one who could do it. He felt smug. He also felt refreshed from the slight breeze, the smell of tea, and the perky nipples in front of him that seemed to be straining outwards, as if eager to pierce his face. In short, he was in an extraordinarily good mood.

Given his usual luck, Rimmer would have expected the inhabitants Ironia, as they called this place, to be some sort of revolting, foul-smelling, violent beasts with a taste for hard-light holographic flesh (if there was such a thing; Rimmer didn't particularly want to find out). To his surprise, astonishment, and subsequent delight, they had turned out to be a group of almost entirely human-looking, tall, athletically built bunch of people with sensible haircuts and impressive, regal looking noses. The men, that was. The women had cute, button-like things that made you want to push them to see what would happen. At least Rimmer assumed they were women. It was hard to know with GELFs, which was another reason why he really shouldn't give in to his urges and push this one back into the neatly planted row of pseudo-Darjeiling, and shove his tongue down what he hoped to be her throat.

Rimmer folded the leaves carefully, and put them into his pocket, before turning to follow the woman, who had begun the trek back towards the impressively advanced city the GELFS had built here. “Of course,” he continued, hurrying to keep up with the pace of those tempting long legs, “that's not the worst of it. He puts tabasco and grated raw onions on things you would just not believe, and if it falls on the floor, he just picks it up, brushes it off, and eats it anyway! I've even seen him eat his own toenail clippings. I wouldn't be surprised if he douses them in brown ketchup and onion salts before he does so.” Suddenly realizing they were now just outside the gates to the farm, and had stopped, Rimmer turned towards his guide, whose name he found he had forgotten somewhere between her bright blue eyes, taut nipples and inviting bottom. “Erm. Sorry to babble on, it's just... so very different here. I can't begin to tell you how refreshing that is.”

The GELF woman (was she? There had to be some way of finding out...) smiled brightly at him, and saluted cheerfully. The Ironians had a vast number of salutes. As far as Rimmer could tell, there was one for every occasion. They appeared to be like a second language, and Rimmer could only guess at most of their meanings. “I don't mind listening to the stories of your friend. You must care very much about him.”

Spluttering, Rimmer nearly tripped backwards over the low fence now behind them. “Care about him? I utterly despise the man!” Hadn't she been listening? Lister, with his unwashed clothes and body, braids looking like condensed motor-oil and smelling worse, not that Rimmer ever got close enough to do so on his on volition; Lister, with his smegging chirpiness and disrespect for authority and being so damn accepting of everything, and his...

“But I don't understand,” Rimmer's guide said, looking confused, “you spoke to me at lengths about his... kah-ree? And how he acts, and the things you do together...”

“Look,” Rimmer interrupted, “never mind all that.” He was here for a reason, after all. He needed to be pro-active, efficient; show the others how things could be done! There would be no mucking about when Arnold J. was on the job! “I've greatly enjoyed this little tour of your city, but I do believe we have an appointment with the... Admiral, wasn't it?” The small GELF community was made up of the decedents of the first all-GELF crewed ship, which had crash landed here millennia ago. They had kept their rigid command-structure through the years, developing it to the point where it now formed the basis of their societal structure. Their only city was run by a council of officers, led by this Admiral, who had happily granted Rimmer an audience. An Admiral! His trousers tightened slightly just at the thought of it.

Rimmer's guide saluted, all professional efficiency now. “Of course, Big Man!” She saluted again, radically different this time; adding a flourish of her wrist and a sort of angular up and down motion of her right arm.

It was not the fist time Rimmer heard the honorific, and so it did not shock him as it had then. He'd nearly fallen off the podium, dropping his ceremonial jar of welcome-pomade. “Excellent! Lead on.” He tried to return the salute, giving up when he accidentally jabbed his outstretched little finger into his eye. Pretending as though nothing had happened, he strode on.

The Command Center lay at the very center of the unnamed city, a giant, squat sort of pyramid structure, all chrome and soothing, uniformly grey concrete walls. Rimmer was sure he'd seen that sort of building somewhere before, but the name temporarily escaped him. There appeared to be steps carved into the side of the thing, but as they got closer, these were revealed to be simply part of the architectural style. Rimmer's guide led him in through the enormous gate, where a tall, athletic man offered to shine his boots. Rimmer declined. He was also about to decline the offer of a small, complimentary jar of pomade, but his guide whispered in his ear that it was customary to accept, and so he did, stuffing it into his uniform pocket along with the jar that was already there. They were not made to carry this much around in, and bulged oddly, as he noted to his annoyance when he caught a glimpse of himself in one of the many mirrors lining the lobby.

“Would you like a moment to adjust your hair before we proceed?” Rimmer's guide pointed in the direction of a door with a small, stylized picture of a comb on it.

By God, this place was heaven! “Thank you, I'm fine.” They shouldn't dally. Rimmer wanted to get this done as quickly and efficiently as possible, so he could go back and gloat to the others about how... He looked around, his face falling into odd folds; nostrils expanding. Back to Starbug. Why was he in such a hurry to impress a bunch of losers who took every opportunity to make it clear to him how much they despised him? Did he think that anything he did could make them loathe him any less? He'd tried, over the years, to show off the skills he did have, but they just didn't seem to have any interest in war-gaming, Morris Dancing, telegraph-pole photography or miniature model painting. As for imposing any kind of discipline, proper rank system or any sort of order at all, well, forget about that! And then there was this place.

He glanced at his guide, who met his look with concerned blue eyes. “Is anything the matter, Big Man? The weekly ceremonial Hammond-organ recital starts in a few hours; you're welcome to attend it if you like. Shall I inform the Master of Ceremonies?”

Rimmer gave her an odd smile. “Yes, why not.” She nodded, and bounced off, her skirt flapping up and down on her ample buttocks. Rimmer watched her, lost in thought. Why not, indeed? What did he owe a dithering sanitation mechanoid, a narcissistic cat-creature and a self-proclaimed professional bum, anyway? Yes, he was supposed to keep Lister sane, but as far as Rimmer was concerned, there came a time when he had to consider his own sanity above all else. And it would not be helped by spending any more time on that rusty tin-can of a lander.

The sound of footsteps coming down the ornate, chrome staircase tore Rimmer away from his reveries. As the man to whom the feet in question belonged came into view, Rimmer caught himself gasping. This had to be the Admiral, and he was simply magnificent. Dressed in pure white, the front of his uniform jacket covered from shoulder hem on either side in those little colored things you got when you had too many medals. Rimmer had no idea what they were called. His chest sparkled in more colors than Rimmer's most complicated revision schedules. A simple, elegant hat sat atop the shortest, most sensible haircut Rimmer had ever seen, and this vision of perfection, this godlike apparition, was headed right towards him - smiling!

“Ah...” Rimmer tried, his mind racing to find the right thing to say. But what could you say when faced with such a vastly superior being?

The Admiral merely smiled, and saluted in a highly ornate and elaborate way, before grabbing Rimmer's hand in a handshake so hard it was nearly painful. “So you're the traveler we've heard so much about! How wonderful to finally meet you, Big Man!”

If Rimmer had no idea what to say before, his mind was now going beyond the state of 'blank' and out the other side. “You're saluting me?” he finally managed.

The Admiral chuckled. “Why, of course! You are a traveler; an honored guest. We all salute you.” On cue, the entire staff present in the lobby stood to attention, turned towards Rimmer, and made the same, highly elaborate salute.

“I... I don't know what to say,” Rimmer mumbled, very honestly.

“No need to say anything, at least not by way of thanks.” The Admiral winked, then threw an arm around Rimmer's shoulder in a chummy sort of way. “But come - we have much to discuss.” As Rimmer was led, flabbergasted, up the stairs, the Admiral reached into an inner pocket and drew out a small, shiny metal box. “Care for a cigar?” He waved it in Rimmer's general direction.

“Oh... yes. Yes, thank you.” It was true, Rimmer hated cigarette smoke, and thought it was a filthy habit, but well... cigars were different. They spoke of elegance, cultivation, breeding, unlike cigarettes, who were frankly declasse. As the Admiral opened the box, Rimmer selected one of the thick, brown oblongs, and stuck it in his mouth, tasting it experimentally. The last time he'd smoked one he'd been in Lister's body. The experience was somehow... well, it was very different to feel it with his own lips and tongue. The Admiral selected one for himself, then lit them both in turn. Rimmer inhaled deeply, trying to make sense of the emotions swirling around his heart and mind. He just wasn't used to being so content.

They reached the top of the stairs, and found themselves in a long, grey corridor. The Admiral paused, puffing on his cigar. “Now, Big Man,” he said, clasping Rimmer's shoulder reassuringly, “I should make some things clear. We Ironians are a tradition-bound people. Our society is based on order, cleanliness and decency.”

“Yes, I've noticed.”

“Our food stocks are plentiful; we grow our own produce, most of it in radiation-screened greenhouses precisely so they can be useful to those who are not as resilient to the stuff as we are. With the exception of our tea, dare I say 'of course'. Some things we like to keep to ourselves.” He gave a friendly chuckle. It was somewhat contagious, but Rimmer felt there was something fundamentally wrong with laughing in the face of a superior officer, even though it wasn't exactly his superior officer. “We also have a number of replication devices; we would be happy to provide you with anything you need that cannot be grown organically.” He gave Rimmer's shoulder a little squeeze, and waved in the direction that led down the corridor in front of them. “If you would walk with me?”

Rimmer nodded, following the pull. Maybe he could find some way to sneak off with some of that tea later. So what if it if was irradiated; he'd just keep it in his quarters. If Lister or the Cat sneaked in there and took some, they'd only have themselves to blame if they got sick from it. “And in return?”

The Admiral grinned, walking briskly. “As I said, Big Man, one of the things we pride ourselves on is our decency. We ask for nothing in return except that you enjoy our hospitality, and respect our customs while you are here. We get visitors so seldom, which is why we honor them so. We long to hear your stories of travel among the stars!”

Well, thought Rimmer, that was easy. Suspiciously easy. There had to be a catch. Somewhere. “These... customs of which you speak; they wouldn't happen to be, and this is just me speculating wildly here, drawn out sessions of nipple-torture or edited highlights of Zero-G football-matches marathons or anything like that?”

“Zero-G football?” The Admiral seemed insulted. “Indeed no! We wouldn't dream of exposing ourselves or our guests to anything that vile. No, nothing of the sort indeed. There's the daily Banquet of Remembrance, where we eat the foods most beloved of our creators and ancestors, the Hammond-organ recital, which I've believe you've already been informed about, and if you have the time,” he stopped at a pair of huge doors near the very end of the corridor, “we would be honored to have you participate in one of our bi-weekly war and strategy game tournaments.”

Rimmer swallowed, his heart in his throat. “War and strategy games?”

“Yes. They were used as part of the training our ancestors received, and we have retrained quite a fondness for them. We have tournaments in RISK, Advanced Squad Leader and Axis and Allies, as well as a number of miniature games, although,” he waved a finger in warning, “you will have to paint your own miniatures.”

He was dreaming. He had to be dreaming. Wait... what was this about a banquet? The icy feeling of anticipated horror began to trickle down Rimmer's back. “You're not serving... soup, are you?”

The Admiral seemed puzzled. “We serve only the Food of Remembrance, the Fire Foods revered and cherished by our creators and ancestors. Soup is not among them.”

Fire. That was a good word. “So it's all hot, then? It's just, I have rather a bad history with cold foods.”

“Oh my, yes.” The Admiral's laugher was such a relief at this point that Rimmer did let himself join in, going as far as to throw an arm around him jovially as the door was opened into what very quickly became evident was the banquet hall. Rimmer froze, his hand on the Admiral's back, as the sounds, sights and smells hit him flat in the face.

Oh, smegging hell.

Lister was preparing to eat an orange.

He rather liked oranges, and it had been far too long since he'd had the pleasure of even seeing one that wasn't shriveled up to the size of a pea or entirely covered in green fur. As oranges went, it was a beauty; round, firm, vibrant in color. He had brought a small cutting board and a not so small knife with him into the mid-section, and was currently slicing the fruit very carefully in to exact halves, widthwise. Pleased with the results, he took one half carefully in hand, and sat down to enjoy it.

This this was a complicated process. First, he would gnaw away at the pulp, working his way around the diameter of the orb until the top layer of sweet, juicy goodness was removed. This, in turn, allowed him to more easily squeeze the orange half together, bringing the juice to the top, where he could suck it out like some fruit-based vampire. He sucked hard, relishing the almost forgotten taste and smell, juice and pulp spilling out over his face, making him grin through a face-full of citrus. When there was no more to be sucked out, he squeezed the half the other way, pushing at it with his fingers, coaxing the final drops out. Once defeat was imminent, he quickly tore the flaccid remains into halves again, gnawing away at the insides until there was nothing left but the smooth, white, inner skin. All this accomplished, he leaned back with a sign, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then reached out for the other half, just as Rimmer stormed by, averting his eyes.

“Hey man,” Lister offered, tipping the chair back, and leaning in the direction the hologram had run off, “these are smegging fantastic! What did you have to do to those GELFs to get yer hands on them?”

“I don't want to talk about it,” came the hollered reply.

Frowning, Lister put the rest of the orange down, and sauntered off towards Rimmer's quarters. “You in there, man?” He leaned against the door, banging his fist against it.

“Go away, Lister.”

“Listen,” Lister chewed at his right glove, contemplatively. It tasted vaguely of orange juice, and for some reason, turmeric. “Kryten told me. I know about the banquet and everything.”

“Shut up, Lister.”

“I know that must have been hard on ya. And I just wanted to say...” he winced. This wasn't easy, but it was only fair. “...I just wanted to say I appreciate it.”

There followed a few moments of silence, then a deep, heart-felt sigh. “I'm not coming out.”

“That's OK. You don't have to.”

“I'm not coming out for a long, long while.”

“That's OK, man. We're good. We can manage without ya.”

“It wasn't just the curries.”

Lister tried not to smile. “I know. I know.”

“It was the way they were eating them! With their hands! Their hands, Lister. At least you use some pretense of cutlery.”

Lister shrugged. “It's Indian food. Yer supposed to eat it with yer hands, I think. It's the way they do it in India.”

“Who cares about smegging India? It's indecent! Uncivilized!” The door seemed to vibrate with the outraged reply.

“All right,” Lister giggled. “I know how you feel about it. Just try to forget it, yeah? Ye did a good thing. Try to enjoy that part of it.” Grinning, he gave the door a friendly pat, and turned back towards the kitchen, rubbing his hands in anticipation of further citrus-y delight.

Rimmer lay flat on his back in his bunk, staring at the dull, grey overhang. No, it wasn't just the curries. Not in and as of themselves. It wasn't the fact that he'd been forced to sit there, a fake grin plastered on his face so as not to cause offense, nor the horror he experienced when they had shown him to the ceremonial hand-washing sink, and he realized he was expected to actually eat the stuff himself: to stick his hands into oily, goopy sauce and lick it off like it was... was... No. And it wasn't even that he'd been entirely unable to enjoy his RISK tournament, because whenever he'd look over at his opponents, he couldn't help but see their faces splattered with rogan josh and vindaloo, laughing and smiling even as they got the stuff all over their glasses of - yes, that final insult of fate - lager.

No, what had really, deeply disturbed Rimmer was that stomach churning moment when he'd taken his first mouth-full of lamb bryani, fully expecting to projectile-vomit it straight back out again, only to discover... that he rather liked it. And suddenly the tastes and smells became evocative of mental images that he didn't even think he was capable of generating; of Lister, leaning over the table, lost in his enjoyment of some dish or other; long, agile tongue lapping at his cheeks when he was done; the implications of what that tongue could be capable of, in other situations.

And that, that was the worst of it. Rimmer couldn't tell himself that it was all some spice-induced delusion, that he hated Lister, that he had always hated Lister - because he had always thought he hated curries too. And now he found he didn't.

Rimmer turned around, burying his face in his pillow, and biting it, hard. Oh, smegging, smegging hell; he didn't.