Fic: Not Enough - Lister/m, Rimmer/Lister (implied) - R
Title: Not Enough
Pairing: Lister/m, Rimmer/Lister (implied)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own Red Dwarf. And this doesn't make me money.
SPOILER WARNING: Contains MAJOR spoilers for the book Last Human, revealing major plot points, as well as aspects of the ending.
Notes: I've got some tense-change going on that I'm not sure works - concrit apreciated. Written as part of the fanfic100 challenge - my table is here.
They call him Mike, Mac, or Michael. Jim and Bexley call him “uncle Mike,” which makes Lister cringe through his forced smile whenever he comes over for a visit, bouncing the twins on his knee, telling them stories they’ve heard a million times before. Kryten, his subservient nature thrilling with the perverse delight of the possible use of a first name, allows himself to call him “Mr. M.” Even the Cat, who has never really grasped the concept of names, sometimes tosses out a “Mike-man” or “Mac-dude”.
Lister is the only one who calls him McGruder.
He knows what he’s doing is wrong. It’s beyond wrong; it’s degenerate; despicable; unfair to everyone he loves and cares about. Unfair to the mother of his children, the woman he spent several lifetimes loving; unfair to the kids, who had no way of understanding what was going on, whom he hoped would never, ever know. And yes, of course it is unfair to McGruder. Unfair… Unfair to everyone. Yet he can’t help himself.
The boy, as Lister couldn’t help but think of him, came to him, asking about his father. At first Lister was reluctant, knowing a lot of what he had to tell him wouldn’t be what he’d want to hear, but McGruder was insistent. And he looked at Lister with those clear, green eyes, beaming with earnestness and virtue, and Lister was powerless to resist.
At first, Lister was cautious, relating only mundane, neutral stories, in a diplomatic, detached manner. McGruder told him to stop patronizing him, and get to the good stuff. And then he smiled; his face lighting up like a Christmas tree display in a posh Saturn nightclub. So Lister started to tell him everything. He told him about the first time he met Rimmer, driving him to an android brothel in a disguise that wouldn’t fool a dim-witted child. He told him about the labels Rimmer sewed onto his ship-issue condoms, and how he always kept them neatly folded in his sock-drawer. With some embarrassment, which faded when McGruder applauded and egged him on to tell more, he described the pranks he’d pulled on Rimmer. How he’d changed the symbols on his revision-table, claiming it had been an accident; how he’d signed him up for experimental pile-surgery, how he’d sent applications for membership to all the major religious groups on the ship, asking them to contact him with more information at any time, day or night. McGruder laughed when he explained how he’d removed the labels on all of Rimmer’s illegal learning aids, so he didn’t know which ones were uppers, downers or memory drugs. And Lister started to look forward to the evening chats they’d have together, comfortable on McGruder’s porch, in the house that he’d built himself on the outskirts of the little settlement.
The boy really looked amazingly like his father. You didn’t notice right away, because McGruder looked like his father should have looked like; would have looked like, had he not spent an entire lifetime doubting and feeling sorry for himself. He smiled a lot, and he had an honest-to-goodness laugh; a hearty laugh that made Lister’s heart do little cartwheels of joy. He sounded just like him too, but calm rather than hysterical; soft rather than whiny. Lister tried to ask him about himself, but McGruder always brushed him away, hungry for more stories about his father. So Lister told him. He told him about the times they’d fought, when they’d been so angry at one another that, had Rimmer been hard-light at the time, Lister would have gladly ripped his throat out just to shut the smegging git up. To this, McGruder shook his head, and gave a sad little smile, revealing, down the left side of his mouth, a line almost identical to one his father had there. This made Lister swallow, and move on to more amusing things. Still, each time they met, he found himself more and more drawn to that quiet, beautiful, confident boy, who was everything his father never could have been. Yet he did nothing. Not then.
One day in late autumn, when the leaves were laying dead on the ground, and everything in the landscape spoke of impending snow and chills, Lister told McGruder about the dream. How he’d woken up, drenched in sweat, disgusted with what his subconscious had shown him. How he’d stared down at the lower bunk, sick to his stomach, but afraid to climb down and risk waking Rimmer, and so had settled for just lying there, scared shitless, questioning everything he’d ever believed. He explained how he’d never told anyone, least of all Rimmer, and McGruder had listened, not saying anything, but acceptance beaming in his eyes. And when Lister explained that he’d never told anyone about this, least of all Rimmer, not even after the hard-light drive, especially not then, McGruder took his hand, and held it, easily. And that’s when Lister should have hugged him, had a good cry and gone home. He should have, and not a day went by that he didn’t curse himself for not doing so, but he hadn’t. Instead, he looked into those almost-familiar eyes, and lost himself. And McGruder, free from any hang-ups and odd ideas about whom you should and should not love, leaned into the offered kiss, opened his mouth and teased Lister’s open in return with his tongue. After that, it was all sort of a blur.
He woke up in a mess of clothes, smelling of sex and McGruder’s aftershave. He washed as well as he could, then stole back to his own place, sneaking into bed with Kris, feeling like the lovechild of Adolf Hitler and Osama Bin Laden. She stirred, gently, and he kissed her, vowing never to return to McGruder’s again. But of course, two days later he was back.
This time, there wasn’t even a pretense of pleasantries. Lister tore the younger man’s clothes off in a frenzy, and McGruder responded eagerly. Clearly at least as experienced as the significantly older (all things considered) Lister, the boy knew exactly what to touch, and where, and for how long. Within minutes, Lister was on the verge of an orgasm, but held there, as in suspended animation, for what seemed like an eternity. McGruder held him down, and licked every part of him, sighing his name over and over, but in this, Lister could not reciprocate. Then, and every stolen, shameful moment they fucked one another senseless since then, he’d call McGruder baby, darlin’, sugar, hun, gorgeous, anything, anything but Michael. Somehow, that would be the ultimate insult. Not to him… But to the man he’d never called by his first name the entire time he’d known him.
And yes, now there are times, doubly shameful times, when in the throes of orgasm, he’ll choke out “Arn!” McGruder isn’t stupid, and certainly not stupid enough to suggest Lister call him that openly. He just licks, and kisses, and soothes, and pushes, and pulls out orgasm after glorious orgasm, leaving Lister spent, disgusted and numb.
Kris surely knows. There’s no way she can’t know. Apparently, she’s decided this is something he needs, and has forgiven him. Just like that. Well, Lister can live with that. And he can live with the secrets, and the shame, and the guilt, and the pretense whenever “uncle Mike” comes for a visit. But there are other things.
Rimmer is a part of this planet. Lister knows that now. Rimmer is the air and the water, and the trees and the earth. Rimmer is alive like he’s never been before. Lister doesn’t know why, but he can feel it, as real as he can feel McGruder’s breath on his skin when they screw. And when he goes outside to be alone, to get away from the lies and pretense, and forced domesticity and feels a soft breeze caress his cheek as though it were a hand; that’s what he can’t bear. He’s got a wife, children, a lover who fulfills ever need he doesn’t even know he has, so why is that not enough? He feels the earth underneath him, and smells the sky after the rain, and knows, somehow, that Rimmer knows, loves him, and forgives him.
But even that is not enough.
Pairing: Lister/m, Rimmer/Lister (implied)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own Red Dwarf. And this doesn't make me money.
SPOILER WARNING: Contains MAJOR spoilers for the book Last Human, revealing major plot points, as well as aspects of the ending.
Notes: I've got some tense-change going on that I'm not sure works - concrit apreciated. Written as part of the fanfic100 challenge - my table is here.
They call him Mike, Mac, or Michael. Jim and Bexley call him “uncle Mike,” which makes Lister cringe through his forced smile whenever he comes over for a visit, bouncing the twins on his knee, telling them stories they’ve heard a million times before. Kryten, his subservient nature thrilling with the perverse delight of the possible use of a first name, allows himself to call him “Mr. M.” Even the Cat, who has never really grasped the concept of names, sometimes tosses out a “Mike-man” or “Mac-dude”.
Lister is the only one who calls him McGruder.
He knows what he’s doing is wrong. It’s beyond wrong; it’s degenerate; despicable; unfair to everyone he loves and cares about. Unfair to the mother of his children, the woman he spent several lifetimes loving; unfair to the kids, who had no way of understanding what was going on, whom he hoped would never, ever know. And yes, of course it is unfair to McGruder. Unfair… Unfair to everyone. Yet he can’t help himself.
The boy, as Lister couldn’t help but think of him, came to him, asking about his father. At first Lister was reluctant, knowing a lot of what he had to tell him wouldn’t be what he’d want to hear, but McGruder was insistent. And he looked at Lister with those clear, green eyes, beaming with earnestness and virtue, and Lister was powerless to resist.
At first, Lister was cautious, relating only mundane, neutral stories, in a diplomatic, detached manner. McGruder told him to stop patronizing him, and get to the good stuff. And then he smiled; his face lighting up like a Christmas tree display in a posh Saturn nightclub. So Lister started to tell him everything. He told him about the first time he met Rimmer, driving him to an android brothel in a disguise that wouldn’t fool a dim-witted child. He told him about the labels Rimmer sewed onto his ship-issue condoms, and how he always kept them neatly folded in his sock-drawer. With some embarrassment, which faded when McGruder applauded and egged him on to tell more, he described the pranks he’d pulled on Rimmer. How he’d changed the symbols on his revision-table, claiming it had been an accident; how he’d signed him up for experimental pile-surgery, how he’d sent applications for membership to all the major religious groups on the ship, asking them to contact him with more information at any time, day or night. McGruder laughed when he explained how he’d removed the labels on all of Rimmer’s illegal learning aids, so he didn’t know which ones were uppers, downers or memory drugs. And Lister started to look forward to the evening chats they’d have together, comfortable on McGruder’s porch, in the house that he’d built himself on the outskirts of the little settlement.
The boy really looked amazingly like his father. You didn’t notice right away, because McGruder looked like his father should have looked like; would have looked like, had he not spent an entire lifetime doubting and feeling sorry for himself. He smiled a lot, and he had an honest-to-goodness laugh; a hearty laugh that made Lister’s heart do little cartwheels of joy. He sounded just like him too, but calm rather than hysterical; soft rather than whiny. Lister tried to ask him about himself, but McGruder always brushed him away, hungry for more stories about his father. So Lister told him. He told him about the times they’d fought, when they’d been so angry at one another that, had Rimmer been hard-light at the time, Lister would have gladly ripped his throat out just to shut the smegging git up. To this, McGruder shook his head, and gave a sad little smile, revealing, down the left side of his mouth, a line almost identical to one his father had there. This made Lister swallow, and move on to more amusing things. Still, each time they met, he found himself more and more drawn to that quiet, beautiful, confident boy, who was everything his father never could have been. Yet he did nothing. Not then.
One day in late autumn, when the leaves were laying dead on the ground, and everything in the landscape spoke of impending snow and chills, Lister told McGruder about the dream. How he’d woken up, drenched in sweat, disgusted with what his subconscious had shown him. How he’d stared down at the lower bunk, sick to his stomach, but afraid to climb down and risk waking Rimmer, and so had settled for just lying there, scared shitless, questioning everything he’d ever believed. He explained how he’d never told anyone, least of all Rimmer, and McGruder had listened, not saying anything, but acceptance beaming in his eyes. And when Lister explained that he’d never told anyone about this, least of all Rimmer, not even after the hard-light drive, especially not then, McGruder took his hand, and held it, easily. And that’s when Lister should have hugged him, had a good cry and gone home. He should have, and not a day went by that he didn’t curse himself for not doing so, but he hadn’t. Instead, he looked into those almost-familiar eyes, and lost himself. And McGruder, free from any hang-ups and odd ideas about whom you should and should not love, leaned into the offered kiss, opened his mouth and teased Lister’s open in return with his tongue. After that, it was all sort of a blur.
He woke up in a mess of clothes, smelling of sex and McGruder’s aftershave. He washed as well as he could, then stole back to his own place, sneaking into bed with Kris, feeling like the lovechild of Adolf Hitler and Osama Bin Laden. She stirred, gently, and he kissed her, vowing never to return to McGruder’s again. But of course, two days later he was back.
This time, there wasn’t even a pretense of pleasantries. Lister tore the younger man’s clothes off in a frenzy, and McGruder responded eagerly. Clearly at least as experienced as the significantly older (all things considered) Lister, the boy knew exactly what to touch, and where, and for how long. Within minutes, Lister was on the verge of an orgasm, but held there, as in suspended animation, for what seemed like an eternity. McGruder held him down, and licked every part of him, sighing his name over and over, but in this, Lister could not reciprocate. Then, and every stolen, shameful moment they fucked one another senseless since then, he’d call McGruder baby, darlin’, sugar, hun, gorgeous, anything, anything but Michael. Somehow, that would be the ultimate insult. Not to him… But to the man he’d never called by his first name the entire time he’d known him.
And yes, now there are times, doubly shameful times, when in the throes of orgasm, he’ll choke out “Arn!” McGruder isn’t stupid, and certainly not stupid enough to suggest Lister call him that openly. He just licks, and kisses, and soothes, and pushes, and pulls out orgasm after glorious orgasm, leaving Lister spent, disgusted and numb.
Kris surely knows. There’s no way she can’t know. Apparently, she’s decided this is something he needs, and has forgiven him. Just like that. Well, Lister can live with that. And he can live with the secrets, and the shame, and the guilt, and the pretense whenever “uncle Mike” comes for a visit. But there are other things.
Rimmer is a part of this planet. Lister knows that now. Rimmer is the air and the water, and the trees and the earth. Rimmer is alive like he’s never been before. Lister doesn’t know why, but he can feel it, as real as he can feel McGruder’s breath on his skin when they screw. And when he goes outside to be alone, to get away from the lies and pretense, and forced domesticity and feels a soft breeze caress his cheek as though it were a hand; that’s what he can’t bear. He’s got a wife, children, a lover who fulfills ever need he doesn’t even know he has, so why is that not enough? He feels the earth underneath him, and smells the sky after the rain, and knows, somehow, that Rimmer knows, loves him, and forgives him.
But even that is not enough.