Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, places etc in Red Dwarf, and I'm making no profit from this fanfic. Hooray!

A/N: Hey everyone! I had a lot of fun writing this fic. Since Christmas is coming up, I thought to myself…what would the Dwarfers do on a Christmas Day when they weren't attacked by some sort of monster? So here's what I came up with! It does get a bit fluffy in places, but hey, it's a Christmas fic!I really hope you enjoy this – I had so much fun writing it! All comments are really appreciated – I would love to know what you think!

So here it is – it's…

Christmas with the Dwarfers

--A Red Dwarf Christmas Fan Fiction--

Lister clambered down a metal staircase, lazily slipping an arm into the sleeve of his leather jacket. He shrugged it over his shoulders and yawned. The Red Dwarf galley kitchen stretched out in front of him for what seemed like miles, hundreds of pots and pans hanging from racks above rows of polished cookers. He blinked, bleary-eyed.

"Kryten, man, what're you doing down here?" he said, yawning a second time. He rubbed his eyes with his sleeve, and began to pick out the bits of sleep that stuck stubbornly in his tear ducts. This caused his eyes to run, and he blinked the water away.

Kryten stood over a stove, stirring a pot which contained something that Lister thought looked sickeningly green. At first, he didn't appear to hear him. He took the lid off a second pot, inspected the contents and adjusted the temperature. Above the ferocious bubbling of the boiling water, Lister could hear him humming a rather off-key tune.

"Kryten?" A little louder this time.

"Oh!" exclaimed the mechanoid, suddenly noticing Lister standing in the entrance. "Sorry, sir." He reached for a button on his waist and took out a worn-looking cassette. "Didn't see you there." Lister approached him and leaned on a nearby worktop.

"It's okay," he said. "So what are you up to, man?" He browsed absently through a container of kitchen utensils and plucked out an old-fashioned tin-opener.

"Just up to a spot of home cooking, sir," Kryten replied, opening the oven and pulling out the metal tray with his bare hands. He got out a two-pronged fork and prodded what was inside. "Hmmm. Yes, I think that's coming along quite nicely."

"What's cooking?" Lister asked, fiddling with the tin-opener. He wasn't quite sure how it worked; he was more used to the electric models that were installed before his shift on the Dwarf began. Kryten's face lit up with excitement.

"Prime roast turkey, sir," he announced, waving his hands about in the most enthused manner, "with broccoli, roast parsnips and a whole harvest of brussel sprouts." He grinned. Lister almost dropped the tin-opener, and his face reeled with unmistakable disgust.

"Broccoli?" He stressed the word as if it were an abomination, "Sprouts? Get outta town, Kryten. You know I don't like that stuff." He put the tin-opener back in its container and took out a whisk.

"Yes, I've taken that into account, sir," Kryten said, "and I think I've come up with something you'll find quite acceptable." He removed a cloth from a foil container that sat next to the oven. "Voilà!" Lister walked over to it and dipped a finger into the mysterious food.

"Not bad," he said, tasting it, a pensive look on his face. "What is it?"

"Turkey vindaloo, sir," said Kryten, re-covering the dish. "With all the trimmings; poppadoms, chips, everything you could possibly want."

"Brutal!" said Lister, his mouth already starting to water at the prospect of such a gourmet meal. He began to spin the whisk in his hand, and creased his brow, "So why all the effort, Kryte? I mean, why don't you just get something from the food dispensers?"

"There's nothing like a bit of homemade cuisine, sir," Kryten pointed out, stirring a third bubbling pot. "Besides, I thought it especially important that we all get together at this time of year, to share in the happiness of this very special occasion." He busied himself further, deftly slicing a parsnip with one hand whilst stirring the pot with the other.

"Special occasion?" Lister let out an amused laugh. "What, has Rimmer's record collection been destroyed or something?"

"Goodness me!" Kryten exclaimed. "Are you suggesting that you don't know what day it is, sir?" Lister shrugged.

"The three-millionth anniversary of Jim Bexley Speed's historic charge against the Boston Tyrants?" he suggested weakly. Kryten shook his head, closing his eyes.

"Sir, it's Christmas Day!"

"Is it?" Lister was evidently surprised. How could he have lost track of time so badly? "Are you sure?"

Kryten quickly checked, "Well that's what it says on my in-built calendar, sir!"

Rimmer looked at his watch. Eleven o' clock, on the dot, just as he had planned. Clicking the top of his hologrammatic biro, he glanced at the first title on the shelf: Astronavigation and Quantum Theory. He adjusted his clipboard, then scrawled it down in his tiny copperplate hand.

Lister stumbled into the bunkroom holding a can of Leopard Lager. He thrust himself down onto a seat and heaved his legs up onto the table. Rimmer pretended not to notice, and added another item to his list.

"Yo Rimmer, has Hol told you the news?" Lister flicked open the can and watched the froth spill through his fingers.

The Mechanics of Porous Circuits was the next intimidating heading. Rimmer jotted it down. "What news?" he said, rather absently.

"Apparently, it's Christmas Day," said Lister, taking a sip of the lager. Rimmer turned to him and raised an eyebrow.

"Oh really?" he said, scoffing a little. "How wonderful for you." He turned back to the books and hesitated before hastily adding another title.

"Cheer up, Scrooge," said Lister with a grin. "Surely you can't be this way on Christmas."

"En contraire, Listy," Rimmer replied. "I can be whatever way I like, thank you so very much." He pressed his pen to the paper.

"But on Christmas?" Lister stressed, picking at a curry stain on his jacket. "C'mon, Rimmer, you must have some good memories of that." Rimmer clicked his pen and slid it neatly into the top of the clipboard.

"You'd think that, wouldn't you Listy?" he said. "Only, Christmas for you wasn't geared around trying to avoid three overachieving brothers who would prefer to see you roasting on the spit than sitting at the dinner table."

"Come on, Rimmer," Lister sighed, wiping some of the foam from the can onto his jacket. "It can't have been that bad." He took his feet off the table, got up and walked to the fridge. Opening it up, he found it surprisingly empty. He began to sift through the few bottles and containers that sat inside.

"No, I'm not joking – they actually tried to do it once," Rimmer said, glancing at him from across the room. "Christmas Eve, they crept into my room with a bobbing apple and a length of rope. If they hadn't stepped on that creaky floorboard I swear to God I would have been next day's dinner."

Lister didn't look up. "They were only teasing," he said. "That's what brothers do. Surely you've had Christmas cards from them, though." He took out a bottle of a strange, red-coloured sauce and examined the label.

Rimmer growled, "Yes, and every time I get one, it makes me sick. Precocious goits, always going on about how hard life is in the Space Corps, and how much they'd love to switch places with me, only the responsibility is so great that it's impossible." He placed the hologrammatic clipboard on the table, at which it instantly disappeared, and wrung his hands together. "I'd like to see one of them spending hours unclogging chicken soup machines with the end of a nozzle cleaner."

As if purposely interrupting his train of thought, a familiar voice erupted from somewhere down the corridor. Rimmer placed his head in his hands, and drew his palms down his face as the Cat came screeching in.

"Hey!" Cat's enthusiasm was a burst of fresh air to the room's stale atmosphere. "What's happening, buds?" He span in a perfect dancing circle and slid smoothly into the room. His outfit of choice (for it changed as often as his mood) was a crimson dinner-jacket, long, elegant black trousers, and a pair of fashionably-heeled shoes. Lister stood up, kicking the fridge door shut. He took another sip of his lager.

"Yo, Cat," he said. "Where've you been?"

Cat began to skulk around the shelves and cupboards that lined the walls of the bunkroom. "Investigating," he said, darting his eyeballs from side to side. "A very special kind of investigating. My nose has been tingling so bad that I've had to move fast to keep up with it." Lister sat down and put his feet back onto the table.

"So you've heard the news then?"

Cat scoffed, "Do dogs have fleas? Where did you think I'd been, anyway?" He opened a cupboard, peered in, smiled, and closed the door. Lister turned to him, an expression halfway between doubt and curiosity etched on his face.

"You mean Cats celebrate Christmas?" he asked.

"Sure we do, grease stain!" said Cat, almost offended at his insinuation. "It's the most important time of the year!" He moved further around the wall, lithe and poised, as if searching for something. Coming across the sink mirror, he grinned an enormous grin. His teeth glinted whitely back at him, creating the illusion that even his reflection was pleased with his appearance. He adjusted his collar. "Well, I'm done with my investigating here. See you, monkeys. I'd better get busy finding some presents!"

He twirled again, screeched, and launched himself out of the room in a fully-blown moonwalk. That was the way of the Cat: he was gone almost as quickly as he appeared. Lister took a thoughtful sip of his lager. The Cat? Buying presents for people? Something had to be amiss.

"That's unlike him," he said to Rimmer, placing the can on the table. "Doing something for someone else, I mean."

A single grunt was all he got in reply.

The clock on the bunkroom wall read 2:30pm. Lister sifted through a horribly grubby backpack, removing something that could only just be identified as a rather old and mouldy sandwich. The mould had seeped through the soggy bread and onto the packaging, resulting in a mushy, squishy mess that even he found disgusting. He dropped it onto the desk, where it landed with a resounding 'plop'. Still, for a backpack he hadn't used for over a year, it was relatively clean.

He bent down and fumbled through a cupboard, taking out anything and everything that might be of use on the journey. A flashlight, an old computerised map, a pair of rusty scissors; no object escaped his discretion. He pulled out a half-empty bottle of curry sauce, and shoved it quickly into the bag. If the quality of the lift food was anything to go by, it would be essential to his mission, and perhaps, he thought wryly, to his survival.

"Lister?" Rimmer strode into the room, wearing his emerald-green suit and his jet-black boots which were always polished to a mirror shine. Even Rimmer's walk was an exaggerated march, so much so that he would not look out of place in an army parade as it valiantly went off to battle. Lister slid aside a box of matches and felt around at the back of the cupboard. Where the smeg was his Holly watch?

"Yeah?" he replied, only half-concentrating on what Rimmer was saying.

"I know this is probably beyond you, Listy," the hologram began, "but have you been reading my books?"

Lister turned to face him, "Your books?" He shot him a teasing look, "Quite frankly Rimmer, I'd rather dangle upside-down from the top of the cargo bay, have me tender regions sprinkled with triple-strength catnip and call for the order to let loose the tigers." He turned back to the cupboard, closed it and opened another one.

Rimmer put his hand to his chin, "That's what I thought. Only, one of them seems to have disappeared." Lister knew when Rimmer was agitated. "Or have books learnt to walk during the last few hours?"

"I don't know," Lister sighed, rather inattentively. "Go ask the Cat – maybe he's seen it." He put something else into the bag. Rimmer sighed and placed his hands on his hips.

"Lister, the only thing he sees is himself, and far too often if you ask me," he said, his words dripping with acid. His attention suddenly turned to Lister's filth-covered backpack, which sat precariously on the seat of a chair, several objects peeking out and threatening to clatter onto the floor. An expression of amusement crept onto his face. "So, doing a bit of tidying up, are we Listy? I must say, we are seeing some strange things today."

Lister closed the other cupboard and got to his feet. Fastening the clasps on the bag, he looked up at Rimmer, "Nah - I'm going to get some presents. Y'know, to get in the Christmas spirit and all that."

"Well," said Rimmer, inspecting his fingernails, "it's all a load of tot as far as I'm concerned. We can easily get anything we like on the ship, Listy – at any time of the year, let alone today." He brandished his palm. Lister shook his head.

"You've got no Christmas spirit, have you, Rimmer?" he said, heaving the bag over his shoulder. "What about giving, generosity? Take...take that scene in 'It's A Wonderful Life'. The whole town of Bedford Falls gathered together in one room, celebrating the spirit of Christmas. I mean what it means to be alive, and all that. Didn't that move you at all?" Rimmer eyed him nonchalantly.

"I'm a realist, Lister," he said. "We're not talking about a movie where the lines are so coated in cheese that they begin to resemble one of your healthier breakfasts." He started toward the door, then added in an irritated voice, "And where's Kryten smegged off to?" Surely he would have seen the book. Whenever the mechanoid cleaned their quarters, he would rearrange their possessions. Sometimes they went missing altogether, only to be found at the back of some dark cupboard that nobody ever opened.

"The kitchen, I think," Lister replied. Without so much as a thank you, Rimmer spun on his heels and left the room, his silent footsteps leaving not so much as an echo in the corridor. Making sure he was gone, Lister went to a cabinet on the wall, opened it and took out a tube of wood glue. He put it into his bag for later.

Kryten poured a little more sugar onto the scales, and tipped it into his mixing bowl. Dinner was going to be perfect, and nothing made Kryten happier than perfection. He slit open a packet of currants and began emptying them into the mixture.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Rimmer sitting at one of the long galley tables.

"Another page, sir?" he offered, stirring the bowl with a wooden spoon (Rimmer had forbidden him to use his groinal attachment, no matter how much easier the job would have been). Rimmer let out an affirmative grunt. Kryten walked over to him and turned a page in the book he was reading. "Looking through some old memories, Mr Rimmer?" he inquired, noticing that the page was covered in photos, stuck down with a combination of weak tape and old, stringy glue.

"This," Rimmer pointed to a slightly battered photo, "is the Christmas nativity play at Io House. We had one every year." Kryten engaged his zoom mode. "Great group of lads, those were," Rimmer continued wistfully. "Very professional, never a minute late for rehearsals. Ours was the top school production that year, you know."

Kryten furrowed his brow as much as he could through his angular features. "I don't appear to see you there, sir."

"You wouldn't," said Rimmer, rather dryly. "I played the star. I had to dangle from the top of the stage by a wire for three hours straight. Still," he mused, "it was better than the next year's."

"What was that, sir?"

"The Princess and the Pea. The boys thought it'd be funny to have me play the latter." He looked blankly forward at nobody in particular. "I nearly suffocated under all those mattresses. In the end they had to call in a specialist doctor from Callisto just to prise my head out from underneath."

"Hey, I thought I smelt something down here!" a voice came from the stairway before Kryten could reply. Cat dance-stepped down the stairs, carrying an enormous bag over his shoulder. "It's a Cat rule: if something smells like dog-breath, you guys are nearby. Yow!" He slid over to the table Rimmer was sitting at and leapt onto a seat. Swinging the bag over his shoulder, it landed on the table with a force so great that it caused a slight tremor. A load – no, a hoard – of presents tumbled out onto the metal surface. Wrapped in blue, and red, and green, they were as immaculately presented as one of the Cat's outfits.

"Where on Io did you get all that from?" Rimmer said, evidently annoyed at his sudden entrance. But the Cat was too involved with the contents of the bag to answer. He took the first present in the pile – a small, blue package – and began to shred off the wrapping as if it were alive. He opened the box inside to reveal an old, slightly scratched watch. It blinked into life as Holly's face appeared in its surface.

"Oh, finally," she said. "Cor blimey, it was 'orrible in there. Black as anything. Completely lost track of time."

"Okay!" Cat screeched. "Let's see what else I've got!" He closed the box again (to the sound of Holly's muffled annoyance) and grabbed another present, slightly larger this time, and wrapped in green paper. Tearing apart the wrapping, he pulled out a rather thick and daunting book. Rimmer recognised it immediately.

"Ugh!" said Cat in disgust. "Who got me that one? No presents for you, buddy." He threw the book down onto the table.

"What do you think you're doing, you flea-bitten moggy?" Rimmer seethed.

Cat looked at him with an air of indifference, "What you talking about, goalpost-head?"

"Why," said Rimmer, his voice growing increasingly angry, "have you been taking my possessions?"

"Because it's Christmas!" Cat gave his answer as if it was obvious. "I've got to have some presents, haven't I?"

"You give presents to each other, you stupid cat – you don't just go around taking other people's things!" Rimmer felt himself wince slightly as he said this; did he ever give anything at all?

"What!" Cat exclaimed in disbelief. "You monkeys are stupider than I thought! There is no way I'm coming to any of your parties, bud. Giving out some of your own stuff! You people are crazy!"

Rimmer buried his head in his hands and let out a barely audible groan from between his palms. Cat turned his attention to the next present on the stack, and although he already knew what it was, shook it wildly in an attempt to hear what was inside. Kryten peered into the oven again.

"I do wish Mr Lister would hurry up," he said, fussing over a tray of potatoes. "The turkey's almost ready!"

"Where is the goit, anyway?" Rimmer asked, attempting to divert his attention from Cat, who was reeling in excitement that his next present was a pair of earrings he'd found in one of the abandoned officer's quarters.

"He said that he was going for a spot of shopping in the ship's mall, sir," Kryten replied. "He's been gone for quite a while now."

"Oh, not this again," Rimmer sighed. "I tell you, Kryten, I really think all those black and white films have gone to his head." Christmas, he thought to himself. What a smegging waste of time.

A/N: Onto Chapter two! Please review - I'd love to hear your comments!