This was one of my first ever fics, so my American was showing here. In America, cookies can be both hard and soft, but I gather that in England, cookies are called biscuits and are generally harder (I'm not sure if there is a softer variation). This really makes little sense if you aren't reading it with an American understanding of the word. I guess what's going on here is that Rimmer likes the traditional, crunchy biscuit and Lister has become fond of the American form of cookie, which likely blended into the overall human culture by that point in the future. Hopefully you'll enjoy this little story anyway.
Rimmer was a crispy cookie sort of bloke. Everything about them was crisp, defined, and certain. There was a satisfying crunch that was perfect for taking out one's aggression and reveling in one's superiority over the object as dry, granular crumbs rolled over his tongue and down his throat. Now Lister, Lister was a gooey cookie sort. It didn't surprise Rimmer to find that out. The third technician was sloppy, disorganized, and flexible. A gooey, sticky, tender mess was exactly the sort of thing a man like him would like. Rimmer considered him a man with no discipline, but Lister simply shrugged, insisting that something about an under-cooked cookie just tasted better.
"But that's absurd, Lister!" the second technician argued. "Bakers over the centuries have included proper cooking times in their recipes for a reason. Surely they would know best how a cookie ought to be!"
"Yeah…," Lister responded. "'N' lots of 'em make 'em gooey. 'Sides, if yer so uptight about proper cookin' times, why ya overcook yours?"
Rimmer sniffed in affront, turning up his nose and crossing his arms. With a condescending attitude, he responded, "It's not overcooked until it's burnt."
"'S overcooked when ya can't pull it in 'alf."
Rimmer chuckled mockingly and shook his head.
"Like you know about proper baking methods, Lister. I'll wager the only baking you've ever managed was the accidental abandonment of some poor food item on a window sill. I'll let you in on a little secret, miladdo: frying things with the sun's heat hardly makes you an authority on the matter."
Lister scowled at his roommate and forced his hands onto his hips, turning up his chin in defiance.
"I'll bet ya've never even tried one."
"Lister, I don't need to try one to know I won't like it."
"Yeah ya do! Ya can't just go on sayin' ya don't like somethin' if you've never tried it! Come on; take one o' my cookies. If ya like it, brutal. If not… well, you jus' have bad taste."
Rimmer raised an incredulous eyebrow at the glaring man across from him.
"One of your cookies? No chance in hell, Lister. Smeg only knows what sort of disease eating something you've come into contact with will give me."
"Just shut up 'n' try one."
The second technician folded his arms across his chest, standing as imposingly as he could manage, while looking down his nose at the other man.
"And why should I?"
An exasperated sigh filled the air as Dave Lister grabbed the plate of cookies and shoved it into his roommate's face. Rimmer, startled, stumbled back a few steps as he looked at the plate with wide eyes.
"Because I said so. Because they're good. And because I smegging well won't leave you alone until ya do!"
Rimmer grimaced, looking between the proffered objects and the man holding them forcefully well within his personal space.
"If I eat one of these smegging things, you'll leave me alone?"
Lister grinned, nodding his cap-and-dreadlock-covered head.
"Yep. 'Least for a little while."
The taller, 'superior' of the two pondered the confection with a pained look on his face. He glanced at the plate, at Lister, and then back again, swallowing nervously as he bit his lower lip, tapping anxious fingers against his thigh. His roommate noticed this internal debate and rolled his eyes, his next words pleading and surprisingly gentle. It was the gentleness that did Rimmer in. He found himself responding to its pure novelty.
"Ya gotta let go of yer preconceptions 'n' jus' try it," the scouser insisted. "Come on, man; loosen up a bit, 'ey?"
With a suspicious sidelong look, Rimmer hesitantly reached out and took the bending, squishy mess in his hands. He grimaced. The chocolate chips were leaking out of the thin cookie surface and the dough itself was still so soft that his tentatively closed fingers practically pinched it in two. This was not a cookie as he was used to. This was not the sort of thing his mother would have ever served. It wasn't proper, it wasn't neat, and it probably wasn't healthy. All that under-cooked egg…. Rimmer shuddered, his skin practically crawling where the dough oozed onto his fingers.
"Are you entirely certain that this cookie won't kill me, Lister?" he asked, a note of desperation in his voice.
The scouser merely laughed.
"Hasn't killed me yet, 'as it?"
Rimmer narrowed his eyes at the offending dessert, studying it closely.
With a hint of distracted spite, he muttered under his breath, "Yes, well, that's a pity…."
Finally, he brought it closer to his face and sniffed it with an uncertain air. Lister smiled, placing one hand on his shoulder, causing the other man to tense and look at him oddly.
"That's right, man. You'll never know if somethin's good unless ya try."
With narrowed eyes and a curt nod, Rimmer closed the distance between the cookie and his teeth, nibbling the small bite thoughtfully. He swallowed, lowering his hand.
"So? How was it?"
The second technician placed the cookie carefully on the table and turned to lie back down on his bed. Placing his hands under his head, he stared up at the bottom of Lister's bunk in a contemplative silence.
"Well, it didn't kill me," was what he said.
But what he thought was that just maybe, every once in a while, lowering one's defenses might be a good thing. At least, as far as cookies were concerned.