Rimmer's Look

He hadn't meant to get spray paint on the corner edge of Rimmer's swimming certificate. He had certainly never meant for Rimmer to find out. It's just Lister felt the place needed re-decorating, to add a bit of colour to the otherwise boring decor. It was unfortunate that Rimmer should walk in when he was washing the paint off under the tap.

Lister knew that look all too well.

For Alive Rimmer, that face was pure hatred and anger. Eyes twitched spasmodically and small dents in his cheeks formed as he clenched his teeth. His chest heaved in a look Lister couldn't help but describe like a panting builder after sex. He could almost see Rimmer's mental brain pictures of hitting him across the face with a frying pan with a resounding 'thud' in an almost cartoon way. But Alive Rimmer would never allow himself to do so. He would simply glare at him, his brain telling himself he was above Lister, above people who simply lashed out and he would resist the urge to hit him; and that would make him the better person, and therefore the winner. He could leave the room satisfied, despite the real reason being he was too scared to hit anyone, in case they hit back.

But for Dead Rimmer it meant something else. The hatred and anger were still there, but the mental image was just that. Dead Rimmer knew he could never hit Lister, never entertain the thought. His brain could never persuade himself he was not doing it because he was the better person, but because he was dead. He could never punch or kick or bite or touch anyone or anything ever again.

Lister had never imagined what it would be like to lose a sense, but Rimmer's look gave him an idea what it was like to want it back.