AUTHOR'S NOTE: Something a bit close to home for me. As always, Kochanski's my weak-point, so forgive any out of character sounding writing. This hasn't really been edited either, so I may hate it later. Also, thank you to Cazflibs for being so patient with my long delays in updates and generally being such a sweet person.
She stood in front of him, body, hair, and face all perfect. Nails manicured perfectly. Perfect posture; perfect mind. Intelligent, beautiful… and imperfect. She smiled sadly and knowingly at him.
The dull light of Starbug's midsection reflected off the satin-like material they'd managed to dig up from an old derelict, which she had had to wrestle from a sulking Cat. It almost made her glow, Lister thought, as his eyes followed the gleaming silhouette. Gorgeous soft curves, shining hair, teeth so bright and brilliant they could be used in a toothpaste commercial…. Why did she feel so… wrong? How could he possibly feel… that she was lacking?
"I know what you're thinking, Lister," she said gently, breaking the awkward and heavy silence.
"Eh?"
She smiled at him again and sat, placing one delicate ankle before the other as she had been taught to do in boarding school. Crossing one's legs at the knees, she'd been informed, was improper for a lady of her class. Lister raised a questioning eyebrow.
"You're looking at me with that look again. That far-away, comparing look. You're wondering why I'm not like her."
"Like who?" he asked, averting his eyes.
He wasn't fooling anyone. Kochanski raised her eyebrow in turn.
"Like your Kochanski."
The words hung in the air like a mist in stasis, frozen in time. They echoed through his head, awaiting a response. Finally, he replied.
"Whatcha mean?"
"You know what I mean, Lister. It's like when I look at you; you're not my Dave. I'm not your Kochanski."
Lister winced, a sadness blooming suddenly and painfully in his chest before it faded away to a dull ache. He looked down at the table. A perfectly manicured hand rested softly on his dry, work-worn one, torn and tooth-mangled nails a glaring contrast. He tucked the tips of his fingers under his palm in shame.
"I dunno what you mean," he answered, desolate pain in his voice.
"Yes you do. When you get like this, you look at me with this almost… expectant look, like you're searching for something you can't find in me. Something's missing. Something's… imperfect."
This time, Kochanski winced. Perfection had been something she'd chased for so long, something that had been expected of her practically from birth, something she'd done her best to live up to. It was something many others would say she succeeded at, and something she desperately needed to hold onto: the illusion of near perfection. Yet whenever Lister looked at her like that, a man whom her parents would have deemed 'of a lower class,' a man with few ambitions, one who didn't even nearly try to tap into all of his potential, whenever that unwashed, easy-going, just-in-it-for-the-party man looked at her with that expectant look, she felt imperfect. Lacking.
And it hurt.
Lister sighed.
"Look, I'm sorry, Kris. There's nothin' wrong with you, really. You're… perfect."
But the 'perfect' was said hesitantly, sadly.
"But not for you."
A sad half-smile tilted the corners of his lips as he glanced up into her worried eyes.
"Yer gorgeous, Krissy. Smegging beautiful and intelligent and wonderful and amazin'. Yer every man's dream…."
"But I'm not her."
He looked away. Silence stretched on for several eternal seconds, ticking loudly and tauntingly in their heads, as he pondered his roughly chewed fingernails. Finally, he broke the silence, and Kristine found herself letting out a breath she hadn't known she was holding.
"No, yer not. And it's funny, really. In lotsa ways yer better'n her. But there's jus'…. There's somethin' too refined about ya. Like you'd never be caught dead in a pub or lettin' loose on the dance floor. Like you'd never truly be able ta let go 'n' laugh…. Somethin's missin' in yer smile, that sparkle of really enjoyin' life. Yer perfect, Krissy, you really are. But maybe… perfect's just too good for me."
He stood up slowly and gazed at the cockpit, a distant, thoughtful, slightly determined look on his face. He was going to find her someday. His Krissy. The woman he thought was perfect.
Kochanski smiled sadly, more teary frown than grin. She pondered her perfect nails, her delicate, soft fingers, her perfectly crossed ankles, and laughed sadly and quietly to herself.
Always seeking perfection, and even in attaining it, being imperfect. She exhaled and stood to leave.