Title: Da Capo
Author: thickets
Series: Red Dwarf
Characters: Arnold Rimmer, David Lister
Rating: PG
Warnings: Excessive use of "smeg", Rimmer's neuroses, guitar-playing, reckless fanon
Disclaimer: Donut own it.
Word Count: 1600+
Notes: Set primarily pre-"The End". Also, I apologize in advance for my attempt to approximate Lister's accent. D8
Summary: "What? Why d'you want to borrow me guitar for? I haven't even played it in a fortnight. Not since that last time when you tried to shove me head into the sound hole."
Having shared a room with Rimmer for several months now, Lister had grown used to the way that his bunkmate had a tendency to throw himself into certain projects. Despite his single-minded focus on career advancement, however, these projects rarely had any direct relation to his job. Instead, they seemed engineered more to divert Rimmer's attention from the frustrating act of actually studying, while still giving him a sensation of satisfaction. "Ahhhh," he'd often sigh at the end of one of those days he spent entrenched in creating complicated charts and diagrams or color-categorizing his sock drawer or alphabetizing his magazines. He'd stretch, and, smiling smugly, cross his arms, evaluating Lister, sprawled out on his bunk with his headphones on in an effort to tune out Rimmer's cheerful humming. "There's nothing like a day spent productively to send you off to sleep, dreaming of future triumphs!"
It took a little longer, however, for Lister to notice that Rimmer also applied the same sort of intensity to less "productive" habits. Sometimes he would read -- and not a stupid magazine or a war diary or a handbook on how to charm people if you were a smegging smeghead. He'd read paperback novels, the covers of which he attempted to hide from Lister, though Lister was fairly certain they were science-fiction (or, perhaps, on occasion, pornography; to be honest, in that case he'd really rather not know). Or he would write. He'd spend two or three hours hunched over his smegging diary or a notebook, scribbling away, his brow furrowed, chewing on his lip. Once in awhile he thought he caught Rimmer actually drawing, but those occasions frequently ended with the git scowling, crumpling up whatever he had been laboring over, and pitching it into the waste disposal chute.
Today's activities were somewhat different. It was a Saturday and Z-Shift had the day off; Selby and Chen and Peterson were all working though and Lister didn't feel like wandering around the ship on his own, so he'd decided to spend the day being a bum and annoying Rimmer. Unfortunately, his bunkmate was already fixated on his notebook when Lister woke up at nearly lunchtime, and was successfully ignoring him. He didn't seem to be writing, however. He'd scribble a few things and then sit there with his eyes closed for awhile and then scribble a little more, and then spend a few minutes swiveling his pencil in his hand. Giving up, Lister applied himself diligently to his comic book, the occasional squeak of pencil lead on paper a quiet accompaniment to the rustle of glossy pages.
He was nearly finished with it and was starting to wonder what the smeg he should do for the rest of the day when Rimmer suddenly spoke. "Lister?" He sounded distracted.
"What?"
"...Let me borrow your guitar for a minute."
That caught his attention! He sat up, tossing the comic book aside. "What? Why d'you want to borrow me guitar for? I haven't even played it in a fortnight. Not since that last time when you tried to shove me head into the sound hole."
"No, it's not that. I just want to use it for a minute."
"Use it? Why d'you want to use it for?" Was this some new code for "I want to destring it and then use the strings to hang you from the ceiling by your dreadlocks"?
"Because I don't have a piano handy, you gimboid! For smeg's sake." Rimmer stood up and strode over to the guitar.
"Oi! I didn't say you could use it!"
"Smeg off, Lister, you rub your greasy hands all over my possessions constantly. Now shut it." He dropped his notebook on the floor in front of him, stowed his pencil in his breast pocket, and sat down with the guitar in his lap, frowning with concentration -- the same constipated look he'd get sometimes when he was trying to figure out which color was more suitable to represent "two hours practicing salutes" on his master schedule. His fingers tensed over the fretboard a few times, as though he were trying to figure out where to put them, and then he tried out a few chords. Lister, still uneasy, but fearing that any attempts to wrest his guitar from Rimmer's grip might end up in splintery, musical tragedy, watched him, perplexed.
Then, haltingly, Rimmer began to play.
It might not have been very elaborate, but even Lister had to admit it was a far sight better than his own impassioned and sloppy sessions with the instrument. And Rimmer looked ... different. The goitiness that was so deeply ingrained his usual expression had sort of smoothed out; though his brow was still furrowed, Lister thought he could detect a very faint upturn at the corner of his lips as he played. For a moment, he looked like a person Lister thought he could actually like.
He'd had a vague idea that Rimmer played piano; he was always going on about his bloody hammond organ, after all. He'd never actually seen evidence of it though, and he'd certainly never seen Rimmer respond to music like this. Hell, whenever Rimmer took out his bloody Reggie Dixon albums, Lister high-tailed it out of the room like someone had lit fire to his boxers.
When Rimmer had finished, he slid the guitar from his lap and rested it against the wall, and leaned over and picked up his notebook from the floor. The he fished out his pencil from his breast pocket and began making notes again. Which was when it actually occurred to Lister that Rimmer was composing smegging music. What the smegging hell ...
"I didn't know you played the guitar."
Rimmer snorted absently. "I don't, smeghead."
Lister observed him skeptically. Rimmer, seeming somewhat satisfied, snapped the notebook closed, and, standing up, deposited it in his locker, where he kept all of his things that "you'd better never even think about ever touching, Lister."
"Rimmer," Lister asked, suddenly. "Why did you join the Space Corps?"
Surprised, Rimmer looked up at him. He had been tapping his pencil against his palm rhythmically but now it was frozen mid-air. "What a stupid question -- I joined to become an officer, to explore space, to --"
"It's jus',' Lister said, sliding down from the bunk and wandering over to his guitar, which he picked up, sliding its strap over one shoulder, ".... seems to me like all of the things you really enjoy doin' don't have anything to do with your job."
Rimmer looked at him for a minute, his face unreadable. "Lister," he said at last, his mouth abruptly twisting into a sour line, "forgive me, but I hardly think you're qualified to know what I enjoy."
Lister shrugged, and scooping up his ciggies and his lighter from shelves, lit one up. "Whatever, man," he said, and with his other hand pulled his boots on. "I'm goin' out. See you tonight." He felt like going somewhere and practicing, maybe even writing a song himself.
***
Three million or so odd years later, Lister, in a fit of boredom, had managed with the aid of a crowbar to pry open the door on Rimmer's locker. The hologram was off somewhere, probably ordering the scutters about, or smoothing down his hair in the mirror. "Smeggin' hell," he muttered, feeling sick just at the thought. He was so sick to death of Arnold bloody Rimmer. He got a perverse sort of pleasure knowing how infuriated Rimmer would be if he knew Lister was combing through his crap right now, especially since Rimmer wouldn't be able to do a smegging thing about it.
The locker was full of books, RISK score charts, Rimmer's letter of acceptance into the Space Corps, his long service medals, and his (single) letter of promotion, from Third Technician to Second Technician. And of course, his notebooks. Lister hadn't really noticed, but there were a ton of them. He'd sort of assumed it was just one, as they all looked the same.
He picked one up and leafed through it idly, puffing on his cigarette and using Rimmer's Space Corps mug as an ashtray. He didn't really feel like reading; and smeg, there was loads of writing in here, all written in Rimmer's cramped but regular hand, the letters deeply impressed into the paper so that it was all crinkled.
He was about to close it and toss it back into the locker, when one page caught his eye. Unlike the others, it wasn't filled margin to margin with text, and after a second, he realized that it contained musical notation.
The day of the guitar suddenly popped into Lister's mind; he'd nearly forgotten about it. He'd never seen Rimmer write music again, let alone use his guitar. He certainly wouldn't be able to use it now even if he wanted to, being incorporeal and all. He idly traced his hands over the notes, thinking about the look on Rimmer's face that day, and suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of melancholy. "Smeggin' Rimmer," he muttered. Lister ground out the cigarette and looked at the notebook again. It wasn't as if Rimmer would know (at least not for awhile, anyway) that it was missing. Actually, now that he thought about it, he didn't think Rimmer had gone into the locker (or, rather, told the scutters to go into it for him) since he'd died. His mind made up, he shoved everything he'd taken out of the locker back in and closed it, and tried to make the door look like it hadn't been tampered with, and stuffed the notebook under his mattress. He'd never really bothered to learn how to read music, but maybe he'd learn. He had, after all, an awful lot of time his hands now.