I apologise for not updating my other fics. Life is quite depressing and the last thing I want to do is work on depressing fics. So I've decided to bite the bullet and bring out the beginning of the 'To Slash or not to Slash' sequel. I'm not 100 percent on where I'm going with it. This is mostly to clear my head and bring back the fun I used to have whilst writing. I only hope that you enjoy my feeble efforts and that I don't suffer from the inevitable 'crap sequel' syndrome that seems to plunder Hollywood these days. So with baited breath I give you the first two chapters of 'To Wed or Not to Wed'

Chapter One

A card is nowhere near as grown-up as a letter, but a card was what Lister had received that morning and he held it out in front of him like a kryptonite turd. He didn't recognise the writing on the envelope, but he just knew who had sent it. There was only one person who could possibly have anything to say to him.

"Mother?" said Rimmer when he was presented with the card. "Yes, it's her handwriting. Do you know what it is?"

"Bit thin for a landmine."

"Dave, she's not going to send you a landmine. Do you have any idea how much that would cost by rocket-mail? And besides, she sent me one as well," said Rimmer waving a similar card as he nestled into his favourite chair in their pokey little Fiji chalet. It was cramped, it was un-themed, but it was home. "It's a wedding invitation," Rimmer exclaimed as he opened the envelope, his eyes widening. "John's settling down at last."

"A wedding? I love weddings!"

"Calm down, Captain Sparrow. Why did she send two invites when we live together?"

Lister grinned at him as he tore into his own invitation greedily, "You have to ask? She just doesn't want to acknowledge us as a couple. Oh, here we go…

Dear Son-Stealer,

This is just a formality as I am sure Rimmer will bring you anyway. Thank you for ruining his career as a Rear Admiral Lieutenant General in the Space Corps.

Yours regretfully,

Mrs. Rimmer.

…She's got daggers for me, eh?"

"I don't blame her."

"She loved me last year!"

"She loved polka-dotted wallpaper last year. Anyway, I'm going. That means you're going too," Rimmer said in his 'don't mess with me voice', which normally encouraged Lister to mess with him.

Lister sighed instead and scratched the back of his head miserably. "Maybe… maybe I could make amends. Go there and show your mum how good Fiji is for you. How good I am for you."

"Oh Dave," Rimmer smiled and kissed his forehead gently. "You are good for me. However my mother holds onto a grudge like a politician holds onto a lie."

Lister was hardly comforted.

***

The morning of the day before the wedding was hectic. It was three weeks since the invitations had arrived and naturally Lister had already forgotten that there was a wedding to begin with. So when Rimmer had reminded him the night before as they post-intercourse spooned there had been… well, a small upset. And the bad mood continued through to the next day.

"Lister, where are my galoshes?"

"I didn't know you wore galoshes. I thought you had perfect vision."

"Lister; that joke wasn't funny last week and it sure as hell isn't funny right now. Where are my galoshes? I packed everything last night. I laid out all my clothes on the armchair. My galoshes were right next to the arm."

Rimmer stomped about and checked everywhere he could think of – the kitchen, the living room, the bedroom – rather conveniently they were all the same room. Lister emerged from the only other room in the hut, swabbing his ear canal lazily with Rimmer's hand-towel and tugging a piece of dental floss from between his teeth.

"Lister…"

"Hm?"

"Your feet."

"What?"

"YOU'RE WEARING MY GALOSHES!"

"Oooohhhh, your wellies. Why didn't you say so?"

Rimmer pulled the floss from Lister's mouth, delighted at the pained yelp that followed. "Far be it from me to point out that Wellington boots and galoshes are two entirely different clothes items, but need I remind you that thanks to your inept time-keeping we are in great danger of missing the launch of our shuttle."

"…And the shorter version of that is?"

"We're going to be late. Get a move on."

Thirty-seven minutes and twelve outbursts of rage later and they were on the shuttle headed to Io. Rimmer's leg jiggled nervously for the entire journey, not soothed by Lister's friendly humming of various Rastabilly Skank tunes.

John was getting married. Rimmer couldn't believe it. John had the air of a perpetual playboy. He was the sort of chap that you thought would die at eighty-seven, making love to a seventeen-year-old Midan bride. Well, that end was still probable. But if what he'd heard from Howard was true, then John was in love with this current woman. Disgustingly so.

"We're here." Lister's tone was almost ominous as the shuttle pulled abruptly into port.