Fic: Brown - Rimmer/Lister - PG
Title: Brown
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I still don't not non-own Red Dwarf. I couldn't possibly make less money from it than I am either.
Spoilers: None, AFAIK
Notes: Inspired by some ideas outlined in my personal journal here. Written as part of the fanfic100 challenge - my table is here.
“She gazed adoringly at his dark chocolate lips, framed by his mocha-hued features. His eyes were like dark caramel swirls…” Lister read aloud. “What, is she going to eat him or have sex with him?”
On the bunk behind him, Rimmer snorted. “Why do you read that rubbish?”
Lister shrugged. “I’ve read all the interesting mags already.”
“You’ve read all the magazines on the ship?”
“The ones I’ve found, yeah. I haven’t been through all the decks yet.” He patted the rather impressive pile in front of him.
“Well, don’t go sneaking up to the contaminated decks again. You know what happened last time!” Rimmer shifted his position, trying to look over Lister’s shoulder. “What is that, anyway?”
Lister half turned, holding the cover up so Rimmer could see. It featured a picture of a muscular, scantily clad woman holding an equally scantily clad man in her arms. Both were dressed, after a fashion, in what was presumably meant to pass for 20th century clothing. In the background was a moonlit Eiffel tower, and also, for reasons best known to the graphics artist who had composed the picture, the Berlin wall and the Sydney opera house. It bore the legend “Tales of Ecstasy,” in curly pink metallic script.
Rimmer scowled. “Erotic tales from dawn of the space-age,” he read, squinting at the smaller print. “Who on Io would read something like that?”
“You tell me,” Lister said, flipping through its pages, “but back on Earth I used to see these things in the hyper-market magazine racks all the time. I’ll admit I’ve always been curious.”
Rimmer huffed, displaying his feelings for the reading habits of Earth. “Chocolate lips and mocha features,” he mumbled. “Ridiculous!”
The corners of Lister’s mouth gave a quick twitch, and he turned around in the chair, sitting backwards so he faced Rimmer. “So you reckon you could do better, then?”
“What?” Rimmer raised an eyebrow. “Why would I want to?”
“Yeah, if you were writing one of them stories, how would you describe…” he pursed his lips, searching for a subject “…Say… Me?”
Rimmer blinked, not comprehending. “You? You want me to describe you?”
“Yeah,” Lister said, leaning forwards and crossing his arms. “Describe me. Go on; make a better job of it than that mag would’ve.”
Rimmer just sat there, his face a blank. “Alright,” he said finally.
“Go on then. What’re me eyes like?” Lister prompted.
“Brown,” Rimmer said, without hesitation.
“Brown?” Lister spluttered.
“Yes, brown,” Rimmer said, somewhat defensively.
Lister waited patiently for him to say something more, but that seemed to be the whole of it. “What about me hair then?” he urged.
“It’s brown,” Rimmer said again, absent-mindedly running his fingers through his own. “Dark brown,” he added, as an afterthought.
“So me hair’s brown and me eyes are brown,” said Lister, stifling a giggle.
“Well, they are,” Rimmer noted, seemingly trying to cross and un-cross his legs at the same time.
“What’s me skin like then?” Lister drew up the sleeve of his jacket, exposing his right arm, and held it up to Rimmer for inspection. Rimmer pulled back a little, staring at it, and whetting his lips nervously. What was all this nonsense about skin and hair and eyes? He wasn’t used to classifying people in terms of looks and coloration - what a ridiculous idea! Why pay any attention to that when you had things like military rank and length of haircut to define people by?
“Let me guess,” Lister sniggered, “it begins with the letter ‘B’?”
“Yes,” said Rimmer, “beige.”
“Beige??”
“What’s wrong with beige?” Rimmer demanded. He’d always been rather fond of the color.
“Rimmer, those ugly sweaters yer granny knits you fer Christmas are beige; hospital walls are beige, the coats undercover cops wear in old cheesy movies are beige. Not people!”
“Not an ugly beige,” Rimmer mumbled, “a sort of dark-ish tan-y kind of beige.”
Lister leaned his head against the back of the chair, shaking with laughter. “Never mind,” he managed, “forget I asked.” Wiping a tear, he got out of the chair, pulled his jacket sleeve back on, and sniggered his way out of the room. “Beige!” Rimmer could just barely hear him splutter as he disappeared out the door.
”Right, like you’d have done any better,” Rimmer yelled, after several minutes, when Lister couldn’t possibly have heard him. He tried to return to the book he’d been reading with the help of one of the scutters, which was now resting discreetly in the corner, but his concentration was broken. He found his eyes drawn, involuntarily, to the garish magazine laying open-faced on the table. After a few minutes, curiosity got the better of him, and he rose, carefully, approaching it. The page Lister had been reading from was half-filled with a grotesque illustration of a man’s face, his features so exaggeratedly handsome that Rimmer almost felt ill at the sight of it. He was about to turn away and get back to his book when he noticed some notes in the margin, in Lister’s unmistakable, broad, untidy scribble.
Eyes like (something crossed out) deep green fire; the (unreadable) of a dark forest. Skin (unreadable) pale (crossed out) stardust. Then the letter ‘h’, and several crossings-out.
Rimmer stared at the page, wishing he could pick it up and look at it closer, settling for leaning in further. He didn’t understand. What did this mean? He felt warm, something inside his non-corporeal body churning, not unpleasantly. Suddenly, Lister burst back into the room, snagging the mag up from underneath Rimmer’s nose. “Forgot this,” he grinned, winking at Rimmer, and was gone again.
Filled with feelings he couldn’t identify or describe, Rimmer sat back down on his bunk, and wondered.
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I still don't not non-own Red Dwarf. I couldn't possibly make less money from it than I am either.
Spoilers: None, AFAIK
Notes: Inspired by some ideas outlined in my personal journal here. Written as part of the fanfic100 challenge - my table is here.
“She gazed adoringly at his dark chocolate lips, framed by his mocha-hued features. His eyes were like dark caramel swirls…” Lister read aloud. “What, is she going to eat him or have sex with him?”
On the bunk behind him, Rimmer snorted. “Why do you read that rubbish?”
Lister shrugged. “I’ve read all the interesting mags already.”
“You’ve read all the magazines on the ship?”
“The ones I’ve found, yeah. I haven’t been through all the decks yet.” He patted the rather impressive pile in front of him.
“Well, don’t go sneaking up to the contaminated decks again. You know what happened last time!” Rimmer shifted his position, trying to look over Lister’s shoulder. “What is that, anyway?”
Lister half turned, holding the cover up so Rimmer could see. It featured a picture of a muscular, scantily clad woman holding an equally scantily clad man in her arms. Both were dressed, after a fashion, in what was presumably meant to pass for 20th century clothing. In the background was a moonlit Eiffel tower, and also, for reasons best known to the graphics artist who had composed the picture, the Berlin wall and the Sydney opera house. It bore the legend “Tales of Ecstasy,” in curly pink metallic script.
Rimmer scowled. “Erotic tales from dawn of the space-age,” he read, squinting at the smaller print. “Who on Io would read something like that?”
“You tell me,” Lister said, flipping through its pages, “but back on Earth I used to see these things in the hyper-market magazine racks all the time. I’ll admit I’ve always been curious.”
Rimmer huffed, displaying his feelings for the reading habits of Earth. “Chocolate lips and mocha features,” he mumbled. “Ridiculous!”
The corners of Lister’s mouth gave a quick twitch, and he turned around in the chair, sitting backwards so he faced Rimmer. “So you reckon you could do better, then?”
“What?” Rimmer raised an eyebrow. “Why would I want to?”
“Yeah, if you were writing one of them stories, how would you describe…” he pursed his lips, searching for a subject “…Say… Me?”
Rimmer blinked, not comprehending. “You? You want me to describe you?”
“Yeah,” Lister said, leaning forwards and crossing his arms. “Describe me. Go on; make a better job of it than that mag would’ve.”
Rimmer just sat there, his face a blank. “Alright,” he said finally.
“Go on then. What’re me eyes like?” Lister prompted.
“Brown,” Rimmer said, without hesitation.
“Brown?” Lister spluttered.
“Yes, brown,” Rimmer said, somewhat defensively.
Lister waited patiently for him to say something more, but that seemed to be the whole of it. “What about me hair then?” he urged.
“It’s brown,” Rimmer said again, absent-mindedly running his fingers through his own. “Dark brown,” he added, as an afterthought.
“So me hair’s brown and me eyes are brown,” said Lister, stifling a giggle.
“Well, they are,” Rimmer noted, seemingly trying to cross and un-cross his legs at the same time.
“What’s me skin like then?” Lister drew up the sleeve of his jacket, exposing his right arm, and held it up to Rimmer for inspection. Rimmer pulled back a little, staring at it, and whetting his lips nervously. What was all this nonsense about skin and hair and eyes? He wasn’t used to classifying people in terms of looks and coloration - what a ridiculous idea! Why pay any attention to that when you had things like military rank and length of haircut to define people by?
“Let me guess,” Lister sniggered, “it begins with the letter ‘B’?”
“Yes,” said Rimmer, “beige.”
“Beige??”
“What’s wrong with beige?” Rimmer demanded. He’d always been rather fond of the color.
“Rimmer, those ugly sweaters yer granny knits you fer Christmas are beige; hospital walls are beige, the coats undercover cops wear in old cheesy movies are beige. Not people!”
“Not an ugly beige,” Rimmer mumbled, “a sort of dark-ish tan-y kind of beige.”
Lister leaned his head against the back of the chair, shaking with laughter. “Never mind,” he managed, “forget I asked.” Wiping a tear, he got out of the chair, pulled his jacket sleeve back on, and sniggered his way out of the room. “Beige!” Rimmer could just barely hear him splutter as he disappeared out the door.
”Right, like you’d have done any better,” Rimmer yelled, after several minutes, when Lister couldn’t possibly have heard him. He tried to return to the book he’d been reading with the help of one of the scutters, which was now resting discreetly in the corner, but his concentration was broken. He found his eyes drawn, involuntarily, to the garish magazine laying open-faced on the table. After a few minutes, curiosity got the better of him, and he rose, carefully, approaching it. The page Lister had been reading from was half-filled with a grotesque illustration of a man’s face, his features so exaggeratedly handsome that Rimmer almost felt ill at the sight of it. He was about to turn away and get back to his book when he noticed some notes in the margin, in Lister’s unmistakable, broad, untidy scribble.
Eyes like (something crossed out) deep green fire; the (unreadable) of a dark forest. Skin (unreadable) pale (crossed out) stardust. Then the letter ‘h’, and several crossings-out.
Rimmer stared at the page, wishing he could pick it up and look at it closer, settling for leaning in further. He didn’t understand. What did this mean? He felt warm, something inside his non-corporeal body churning, not unpleasantly. Suddenly, Lister burst back into the room, snagging the mag up from underneath Rimmer’s nose. “Forgot this,” he grinned, winking at Rimmer, and was gone again.
Filled with feelings he couldn’t identify or describe, Rimmer sat back down on his bunk, and wondered.