a/n: In all honesty, I've no idea why I wrote this or if it means anything. Well—it means something, but after watching Rimmerworld for the 60th time, I thought it would be intriguing to see Lister beat the crap out of Rimmer, because that's kind of what I think he really wanted do. May be more to come.
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imaginary doors
In many ways, it was lucky that the last real human in existence was such a regular one. Dave Lister was the type to throw a punch all in good fun, on the edge of reason and far too much to drink, and end up flat on his back on the floor of some smoky pub while still managing to retain a smile before the blackness called to him. He was never the sort to be violent, or to express himself violently.
Unfortunately, however, Lister has long since come to terms with the fact that Rimmer is the best he will ever make out in the bleakness of his prolonged predicament. He is constantly aware that, in the end, Rimmer will be the only other one to remember what it is to be part of a true, human race, and so he has accepted every side of his dead bunkmate in an almost unconditional fashion.
But there are no words to describe the anger, and grief of betrayal that Lister feels now in this very moment as he and his shipmates return to the common room aboard the dark, dank little Starbug.
Unlike Lister, Arnold Rimmer is only just now beginning to remember who these people who have delivered him from the darkness of his cell really are. He only knows that he has been waiting for them, and has longed to hear the sound of another voice for centuries. What he feels right now, towards these familiar strangers, also cannot be truly described in words that Rimmer can remember. He is filled with a deep, old relief—a joy he can no longer remember, and it is so penetrating and heavy that he is about to say something to Derek Custer that he may never have even thought, much less spoken, before the last six hundred years of being utterly alone. He does not entirely understand why, when he turns to relay this feeling only in the form of a breathless, exhausted thank you, he is met with a white, hot pain at the hands of Derek Custer, his old-and only-friend.
Lister delivers a hard, violent blow to his face, and cannot tell if the blood on his knuckles is from the impact against the still-sturdy hard light drive, or from the hologramatic blood that Lister has not seen from his bunkmate in near three million and seven years.
"Coward," he hears himself snarl, and Rimmer staggers clumsily to the floor in a frightened, almost primal defenseless confusion. Lister is feeling rather primal himself, and the single blow is not enough to satiate this lust for release. The Cat and Kryten only move once to stop him, and Lister freely resists, ripping his jacket out of their fingers and snaring his own in to the collar of Rimmer's shirt to hit him again, harder.
There is even more blood, spurting out of Rimmer's nose and staining his teeth as he tries to cry out and is hit again. He cannot handle the pain, or the newness, or the blaring lights and the hot, red image of his own blood on his hands, and yet he cannot free himself from Lister's dangerously, frighteningly strong hold on him.
"You bloody coward," Lister is screaming, roaring emotionally above him as he strikes again. "We've gone back for you! We've gone back to get you so many times, you smegging worthless coward! What does it mean to you?! What does it mean, its nothing to you! Nothing!" Lister has never hated him so much before, and he shouts at him again, and hits him in the ribs, kicks him when he's down. "How does this feel?!" he growls, and kicks him hard again, so that Rimmer cradles his temporarily bruised ribs and rolls wordlessly and painfully onto his side.
"He hardly knows who we are, sir!" Kryten says, from somewhere amongst the blur of the blaring lights. "I implore you to stop!"
Somewhere, inside, Rimmer knows who they are. He closes his eyes, and can only taste the blood in his mouth, but he remembers. He remembers, suddenly, why his only friend might hate him now. Lister is above him, panting, and the usually chirpy, grinning face is closed off.
"He knows, Kryten," Lister's voice is alien, even to him. "He knows we're the ones he left for dead on that derelict, the cowardly, lying, worthless smegger. He knows."
The Cat is unsure what to do, and so he watches, wondering whether to feel bad, or sorry for Rimmer. Kryten looks like he has something he wants to say, but the Last Human has spoken. Kryten knows that he cannot know what Lister is feeling, and so cannot judge him. There are many things Rimmer wants to tell Lister—he wishes to tell him of the horrors he faced on Rimmerworld, and that he could be brave, too. He wishes to tell him that in six hundred years he had been forced to fight, and so he did. He wishes to tell them that once, when the time came, he too revealed qualities that were very well deemed un-Rimmer like, and so he paid dearly for it. He wishes to tell him, desperately, that perhaps he has changed—but Lister had already turned his back, and will not hear him speak.
"I'm-" Rimmer's gasp is so trained and garbled by his bloody nose, and face, and mouth that it goes unheard. "I'm sorry," he tries, and flinches in the very same old cowardice when Lister turns to him again, cold glare unchanged. The dark fists are bloody, still, and Lister shakes his head.
"Stop it," he says, flatly. "And get up. You're not even bleeding real blood. Get cleaned up and get in the cockpit so we can navi back through this wormhole."
When they have gone, Rimmer pulls himself up to his knees, and drags a sleeve across the blood and tear-streaked mess of his face. The initial newness of the bond he felt for Derek Custer has fizzled away again, and with a great effort he comes to his feet unsteadily. The familiarity of Starbug returns to him. He sniffs hard, and defiant, and again blots at the tears and blood left on his face. Lister's fists still sting against his hard light skin. Rimmer does his best to ignore the ghost of pain, and lifts his chin to make his way into the cockpit. Perhaps he will never change enough to admit that the brief, yet effective pummeling he just received has been a long time coming, but perhaps, now, he understands what it is to be left for dead.
Perhaps now he understands what it is to be betrayed.