Fic: Sound - R/L - G
To prove that my fics are not exactly posted in the order I begin to write them, here's my response to the challenge issued by roadstergal waaay long ago. Huttah:
Title: Sound
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister (implied)
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Do I own Red Dwarf? Do I kittens. I make absolutely no money from this either.
Spoilers: Marooned, and anything post-Legion.
Notes: Yes, I have a thing about Marooned. Can you tell? Written as part of the fanfic100 challenge - my table is here.
Lister wasn't a very bad singer. If only, Rimmer thought desperately, he would stick to singing, then maybe, just maybe, that would have been tolerable. But no. He was convinced not only that he could play the guitar, but play it well, and had a stubborn determination to prove it to anyone within hearing-range. He didn't play all the time though. Oh no, that would have given Rimmer a chance to get used to it, and maybe learn to ignore it. No, he had fits of playing, as though it was some sort of latent chronic illness that flared up from time to time.
It wasn’t so bad when it was his own songs, because Rimmer didn’t know what they were supposed to sound like. Presumably they were supposed to sound exactly like Lister preformed them, although it was hard to imagine that anything was actually meant to sound like two flatulent cats making love on top of a tumble-dryer. Every so often though, Lister would attempt to do justice to songs made by other people, and that was the point where Rimmer invariably had to excuse himself, and leave the room. He’d tried asking him to stop, but the bastard seemed to get off on making him miserable. Right now, for example, he was half-way through a song that Rimmer only barely recognized as Morrissey’s “I Like You”. He winced. Rimmer didn’t even like Morrissey, barely knew who he was, in fact, but hearing Lister fumble his way through the song using two chords in the wrong key, and frequently having to start again when he got it wrong was just so... Just so… Intolerably untidy! He wanted to run in there screaming and break the guitar over his knee with a whoop of triumph. He’d been wanting to hurt that guitar ever since Lister had massacred his chest on that god-forsaken planetoid, had wanted to smash it to pieces with his bare hands, but he couldn’t.
Sighing in frustration, he sat down at the mid-section table, resting his elbows on the table-top. He just couldn’t. He couldn’t touch the guitar, so he’d settled for hating it, hating it and wishing it would die in horrible ways and go to wherever it was bad guitars went when they died. The noise from the sleeping-quarters had stopped, but Rimmer knew better than to rejoice too soon. It was only the fifth song of the evening; he’d be at it for at least an hour more. Sure enough, the jarring tones started up again, and Rimmer pulled at his neatly combed hair in despair. If only he could touch, he fretted, grasping the edge of the table with one hand; if only he could… He froze. His eyes darted from his hand on the table to the direction of the sleeping quarters, and back again.
As he marched across Starbug’s metal floors, Rimmer scolded himself mentally. Was he an idiot? He’d just grown so used to the idea that getting at the guitar was beyond his capability that the fact that he now had a hard-light drive hadn’t crossed his mind. He’d been caught up in that thought pattern, and couldn’t get away from it. Well, not anymore! Resoluteness written on his face, he approached the door beyond which Lister was torturing that hated instrument. What was the song he was playing now? Despite himself, Rimmer stopped to listen. Lister’s voice, rather pleasant, especially when contrasted with the wailing of the instrument, fumbled and faltered:
“…But y… You don’t really care…” a somewhat longer pause, “Care for music… DO you?”
The song sounded familiar. Rimmer frowned, trying to remember where he’d heard it.
“It… It… Smeg! It GOES like this, the…” there were some incoherent mumblings, as Lister tried to sort out which chord came next. Rimmer was still frozen in the same spot. From his vantage-point, he could just about see Lister, framed by the door, his hands fumbling across the strings like a drunken teenager trying to remove a bra. They were strong hands, Rimmer noted, not a musicians hands by far. They seemed to try to beat the song into submission, and couldn’t help but fail miserably. You had to give the man points for trying though. He did a mental double-take. You had to what? What was he thinking? Why was he standing here? And just what was that song Lister was playing, anyway?
“Halleluja…Halle... LUja… Halle… Aw, smeg…”
Ah, a hymn. That explained it; he must have heard it at school assembly or something. He shuddered; Rimmer did not have fond memories of school. But wait - why would Lister be playing a hymn? He took great pride in his atheism, despite being God to an entire race of people. Precisely because of that actually, in part.
“Her BEAUTY and the mo…moonlight over… THREW you.”
Rimmer leaned against the wall, transfixed. Why was he still here? He didn’t understand. Why didn’t he just march in there and show Lister who was boss for once? He’d waited so long to be able to do this; he’d longed to do it for years; so why wasn’t he? Beauty, he thought, wondering why the word lingered in his mind. Beauty.
“And FROM your lips she… She…” Lister spotted him. Oh dear God, Lister had spotted him. Lips, Rimmer thought, incoherently, why am I thinking of lips?
“Hey man,” Lister greeted him cheerfully. “Like the song?” He grinned stupidly, and something inside Rimmer broke, very, very quietly.
“Yes,” he replied, not knowing why, “I think I do.”
Title: Sound
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister (implied)
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Do I own Red Dwarf? Do I kittens. I make absolutely no money from this either.
Spoilers: Marooned, and anything post-Legion.
Notes: Yes, I have a thing about Marooned. Can you tell? Written as part of the fanfic100 challenge - my table is here.
Lister wasn't a very bad singer. If only, Rimmer thought desperately, he would stick to singing, then maybe, just maybe, that would have been tolerable. But no. He was convinced not only that he could play the guitar, but play it well, and had a stubborn determination to prove it to anyone within hearing-range. He didn't play all the time though. Oh no, that would have given Rimmer a chance to get used to it, and maybe learn to ignore it. No, he had fits of playing, as though it was some sort of latent chronic illness that flared up from time to time.
It wasn’t so bad when it was his own songs, because Rimmer didn’t know what they were supposed to sound like. Presumably they were supposed to sound exactly like Lister preformed them, although it was hard to imagine that anything was actually meant to sound like two flatulent cats making love on top of a tumble-dryer. Every so often though, Lister would attempt to do justice to songs made by other people, and that was the point where Rimmer invariably had to excuse himself, and leave the room. He’d tried asking him to stop, but the bastard seemed to get off on making him miserable. Right now, for example, he was half-way through a song that Rimmer only barely recognized as Morrissey’s “I Like You”. He winced. Rimmer didn’t even like Morrissey, barely knew who he was, in fact, but hearing Lister fumble his way through the song using two chords in the wrong key, and frequently having to start again when he got it wrong was just so... Just so… Intolerably untidy! He wanted to run in there screaming and break the guitar over his knee with a whoop of triumph. He’d been wanting to hurt that guitar ever since Lister had massacred his chest on that god-forsaken planetoid, had wanted to smash it to pieces with his bare hands, but he couldn’t.
Sighing in frustration, he sat down at the mid-section table, resting his elbows on the table-top. He just couldn’t. He couldn’t touch the guitar, so he’d settled for hating it, hating it and wishing it would die in horrible ways and go to wherever it was bad guitars went when they died. The noise from the sleeping-quarters had stopped, but Rimmer knew better than to rejoice too soon. It was only the fifth song of the evening; he’d be at it for at least an hour more. Sure enough, the jarring tones started up again, and Rimmer pulled at his neatly combed hair in despair. If only he could touch, he fretted, grasping the edge of the table with one hand; if only he could… He froze. His eyes darted from his hand on the table to the direction of the sleeping quarters, and back again.
As he marched across Starbug’s metal floors, Rimmer scolded himself mentally. Was he an idiot? He’d just grown so used to the idea that getting at the guitar was beyond his capability that the fact that he now had a hard-light drive hadn’t crossed his mind. He’d been caught up in that thought pattern, and couldn’t get away from it. Well, not anymore! Resoluteness written on his face, he approached the door beyond which Lister was torturing that hated instrument. What was the song he was playing now? Despite himself, Rimmer stopped to listen. Lister’s voice, rather pleasant, especially when contrasted with the wailing of the instrument, fumbled and faltered:
“…But y… You don’t really care…” a somewhat longer pause, “Care for music… DO you?”
The song sounded familiar. Rimmer frowned, trying to remember where he’d heard it.
“It… It… Smeg! It GOES like this, the…” there were some incoherent mumblings, as Lister tried to sort out which chord came next. Rimmer was still frozen in the same spot. From his vantage-point, he could just about see Lister, framed by the door, his hands fumbling across the strings like a drunken teenager trying to remove a bra. They were strong hands, Rimmer noted, not a musicians hands by far. They seemed to try to beat the song into submission, and couldn’t help but fail miserably. You had to give the man points for trying though. He did a mental double-take. You had to what? What was he thinking? Why was he standing here? And just what was that song Lister was playing, anyway?
“Halleluja…Halle... LUja… Halle… Aw, smeg…”
Ah, a hymn. That explained it; he must have heard it at school assembly or something. He shuddered; Rimmer did not have fond memories of school. But wait - why would Lister be playing a hymn? He took great pride in his atheism, despite being God to an entire race of people. Precisely because of that actually, in part.
“Her BEAUTY and the mo…moonlight over… THREW you.”
Rimmer leaned against the wall, transfixed. Why was he still here? He didn’t understand. Why didn’t he just march in there and show Lister who was boss for once? He’d waited so long to be able to do this; he’d longed to do it for years; so why wasn’t he? Beauty, he thought, wondering why the word lingered in his mind. Beauty.
“And FROM your lips she… She…” Lister spotted him. Oh dear God, Lister had spotted him. Lips, Rimmer thought, incoherently, why am I thinking of lips?
“Hey man,” Lister greeted him cheerfully. “Like the song?” He grinned stupidly, and something inside Rimmer broke, very, very quietly.
“Yes,” he replied, not knowing why, “I think I do.”