A small drabble to tide you over whilst I work on my main fics.

A Dish Best Served Warm

Remember, remember, the 25th of November

"Why are we doing this?" Lister sighed as he spooned the red slop into his mouth. He grimaced as the vile liquid slid down his throat. He murmured as the acidic mush threatened to return back up his gullet.

"We have to. It's tradition."

Lister scowled at Rimmer's response. "Tradition? We've only been doing it three years."

"More than twice is officially tradition."

"Says who?"

"Me."

And that was that.

Lister twirled his spoon in the gazpacho soup and hated the 25th of November more than ever. He'd never particularly liked it as a date. It sounded pretentious. It was also the date when his favourite zero gee team, the London Jets, had lost to their club rivals in a historically miserable match.

Now he had a new reason to hate it.

Ever since the day Arnold Judas Rimmer had made an honest mistake over the temperature of a certain soup dish at the Captain's table he had deemed his career over. Kaput. Deadski. Sans vie.

For some reason he honoured this foolish moment by eating the accursed starter – at the culinary designated temperature – every year.

Well, every year since he first thought of it.

The Cat had refused, of course, calling Rimmer a word in cat language that was mostly untranslatable, but the Cat reassured Rimmer that it was the perfect word for him and that he absolutely wouldn't like it if he knew what it meant.

Kryten had to learn how to make the soup; on the one hand he was delighted to learn a new skill and on the other it meant poor Mr. Lister had to suffer at his own mechanoid hands.

But, Lister had pointed out, if Kryten didn't make it then Rimmer might, and then he would definitely suffer.

So here they were, the third year in a row, slowly slurping through the slimy slurry.

"I'm begging you, Rimmer."

"Hmm?"

"At least let me warm it up."

"Warm it up?" Rimmer snapped. Lister knew the suggestion was insulting. It implied that he was a grotty little pleb, a cretinous slob, a puerile philistine that could only eat hot soup. Just like Rimmer.

Lister watched carefully as the whole left side of Rimmer's face twitched uncontrollably. Finally, he sighed wistfully. "Fine. But only because you want it warm."

Sure, thought Lister, trying not to smile.

Grumbling and groaning, Rimmer shoved the two bowls into the microwave and pressed start. "Why do I always give into you?"

Lister leant back on his chair and grinned as he chewed on his spoon, making joyful little clinking sounds against his teeth.

"You have to. It's tradition."