I've realised how horror-story-ish this sounds when I was writing it so although I don't really want to give away spoilers I'll just relieve any anxiety and say that this is a happy chapter. Nothing bad happens. Well, a little bit to Mr. Rimmer but he deserves it.


Crichton launched at Lister ecstatically. "Alright, ya filthy animal. Walkies!" Lister chuckled, the dog hopping impatiently as the chain was undone. Lister took out a pre-rolled cigarette and contemplated the last few minutes. Lister was normally above such petty emotional blackmail. But he had been patient and polite and was even babysitting an insane mutt so a mother could watch her son get married. He needed a little something back and letting Mrs. Rimmer stew was an exceedingly nice little something for him. Oh no, he was turning into Rimmer.

"I thought you quit."

Lister continued puffing away. "Want one?"

"…Of course I do." Rimmer was given the remnants of Lister's and also, to his dismay, Crichton's lead as Lister began making a fresh one. "They're just for emergencies," Lister attested, because he knew Rimmer wasn't above the hypocrisy of complaining about disease and cancer with a cigarette hanging from his lips. "This counts, right?"

"I'd dare say so," Rimmer said. He struggled with his words – Crichton insisted on yanking him forward with an increasing impatience. The pair of two-legged clumpy morons behind him didn't understand any of his whines. He'd have felt relieved if he understood English enough to know that Lister had just suggested going back to the hotel. Bloody finally.


Porters see a lot in their career, but this particular porter had not yet seen two grown men being dragged through a hotel lobby by a German Shepherd. "What's wrong," the taller one snapped, "Never seen two grown men being dragged through a hotel lobby by a German Shepherd?"

"No," she answered honestly.

They were dragged all the way to the lifts. The magic doors opened onto a room that made Crichton's tummy feel funny and he led them back out again. Good, he had brought them exactly where they needed to be.

Almost.

Lister was trying to pull him down the other end of the hall. "Crichton, mate, your room's this way."

Why were humans so dim? "Aroooooooo!"

"Smeg, fine, we'll go this way."

"You don't think…" Rimmer murmured slowly, "he's after our room, do you?"

"What would we have in our room that a do-"

They gripped one another's arms simultaneously.


Mrs. Rimmer tucked a few stray hairs behind her ear, her other hand picking at the foam-wrapped handles of her husband's wheelchair as she surveyed the area. No dog and no son to be found. David was in the habit of stealing sons and dogs it seemed. Must be a Scouser thing.

She turned at the sound of her name, her new daughter-in-law waving enthusiastically from beside the wedding photographer. They really couldn't wait for them much longer; the honeymoon flight was a few short hours away and check-in for Europa was always a bitch.

"What are we doing?" Mr. Rimmer started, having fallen asleep in a church and woken in a graveyard. "Bit presumptuous of you, dear, I'm not even ill."

"We're looking out for Arnold and David."

"Oh they're probably back in Neverland with all the other fairies – ow!" Mrs. Rimmer had 'accidentally' dropped her handbag on his crotch again.

"Mother," John approached them, "Mother, they're waiting. The photographer wants you for a mothers of the bride and groom shot, and then dad for the fathers and-" He stopped when he saw the way her eyes creased up. Their mother either through some personal vow or a lack of ability had never cried, or at least not in front of her boys. This was as close as she ever got and he thought it odd that it would be over something as simple as a missed photo opportunity. Or maybe it ran deeper than that. Arnold and Dave wouldn't be in the wedding photos and it was ever so slightly her fault.

Was… was his mother actually feeling guilt?


Rimmer stood steadfastly. His fingers had alternating bands of white and red flesh from where he gripped Crichton's collar and leash. Lister was pressed against the door, ready to run inside the second the door unlocked. "Sure you got 'im?" Lister checked one last time, and at Rimmer's confident grunt everything happened in a mere moment; the lock's light flashed green and Lister had slipped in as easily as vodka slipped into punch at a high school prom.

Outside Crichton relaxed, though his captor didn't let up. He was sick at the sound of silence in the room and he tried every anti-anxiety trick in the book (and he'd read a lot of them) to calm down. Then, a resounding squeal brought him round and he ploughed against the door without thinking, with Crichton at his heels though he wouldn't have had much choice in the matter considering Rimmer still had his hands around the lead.

The door didn't yield to Rimmer's shoulder, which was lucky as there was no way he could afford to replace it. Lister cracked it open and quietly ushered them in. "Go see Frankie," he beamed, taking Crichton from a rightly confused Rimmer. When he knelt down next to her box, his own squeal was supersonic compared to Lister's. Frankie's small pink tongue was carefully working its way along five black velveteen sausages kneading at her tummy.

Lister squeezed the satisfied pooch's face. "Who's a good boy, Crichty?"

Me, thought Crichton. I'm a very good boy.