In Darkness
Disclaimer: A statement made to save one's own ass.
I don't own any of these characters, probably not the concepts (whoever did anything that hasn't been done before? although I looked around a bit to see if I could find this story for a long while before I wrote it) and although it would be amusing to have them running around my dormroom it's probably just as well they don't exist. I own nothing, so suing me would be pointless, and I hope not to offend anybody although if you're going to be offended by guy-on-guy stuff, what on Earth are you reading slash for, I'd like to know?
Also, I've never done this before, which I feel ought to be fair warning: never written fanfic, never written slash. I've always thought I'd be terrible at it. But you know, well ... why not? The worst thing that'll happen is that what I write will be incurably bad and no one will like it.
There is no conceivably way in which I could profit from writing this story. None at all. Really.
---
That was the originally disclaimer and whatnot that I had on here. I've taken the story down from my old name and put it up here now *and* I've written another chapter ... groveling apologies for the long, long, insanely long wait will be included with the new chapter. ;-)
____
It Starts.
____
Rimmer glared at the underside of Lister's bunk. He might have toned down the expression if he realized how much it made him look like a vulture with a hangover ... but then again, it mirrored fairly well how he felt, so he might not have. He might have been pleased, in a perverse sort of way.
It wasn't fair. Rimmer had long ago come to the conclusion that life was not only unfair, it was particularly slanted against him, and there was nothing at all to be done about it; but that didn't stop him sulking. The mood was rotten and it was, of course, all Lister's fault. It usually was, these days ... although sometimes it could be the Cat, or Kryten, or Holly, or just the general cruelty of the universe. It was just that, on average, it was the infuriating goimp currently existing in peaceful somnolence several feet above his head.
It was all that business with the psymoon, too. Actually, that was most of it. It was, of course, only natural that when given physical form he would be threatened with physical torture. There was no way that he could exist in a solid way in a situation where something nice was going to happen. Then again, Rimmer couldn't remember the last time something nice had happened to him anyway, not even when he was alive. Not really, anyway. Well, there was ... this and that. Nothing worth mentioning. Nothing that hadn't been completely, totally and unfairly outweighed by everything nasty that the universe had done to him over the years.
The memories of sensation kept creeping back into his mind -- memories that he would have done better just to forget, just to dismiss into the usual background noise of universal suffering. The feel of a warm, living hand ... resting on his thigh ...
Rimmer rolled over. It didn't do much good. The main problem with being a hologram was that you couldn't toss and turn properly.
No, Rimmer corrected himself after a moment, shooting a steel-edged glare at the bunk above him, not the main problem. Definitely not the main problem. Not even remotely *close* to the main problem ...
Arms embracing him, that was another one. Even the Cat had, in the end, joined in -- and Rimmer grimaced as he thought of the Cat's smooth dress, wiry arms, painstakingly well-groomed smell, all self-centeredness, sarcasm and vanity, joining in on the cruel trick they'd played on him just to save their own smegging hides.
Rimmer was all for looking out for number one, but not at his own expense.
And Kryten. That ridiculous mechanoid. That bizarre android with his mechanized holier-than-thou attitude, a device designed to keep the toilets clean, one with even less understanding of the social graces than Rimmer himself, trying to make him feel wanted, accepted, loved. A group hug situation, thought Rimmer. Good grief.
Rimmer rolled over again, scowling.
The words still rang in his ears. Words that had, of course, turned out to be a bloody lie. He couldn't understand why he was dwelling on them so much; after all, it was only Lister. Stupid, pathetic, unambitious, insufferable, rude, crude, smelly Lister ... the only man ever to get his money back from the odor-eater people.
"I love you, man," Rimmer heard in his head. "I really, really love you."
Disclaimer: A statement made to save one's own ass.
I don't own any of these characters, probably not the concepts (whoever did anything that hasn't been done before? although I looked around a bit to see if I could find this story for a long while before I wrote it) and although it would be amusing to have them running around my dormroom it's probably just as well they don't exist. I own nothing, so suing me would be pointless, and I hope not to offend anybody although if you're going to be offended by guy-on-guy stuff, what on Earth are you reading slash for, I'd like to know?
Also, I've never done this before, which I feel ought to be fair warning: never written fanfic, never written slash. I've always thought I'd be terrible at it. But you know, well ... why not? The worst thing that'll happen is that what I write will be incurably bad and no one will like it.
There is no conceivably way in which I could profit from writing this story. None at all. Really.
---
That was the originally disclaimer and whatnot that I had on here. I've taken the story down from my old name and put it up here now *and* I've written another chapter ... groveling apologies for the long, long, insanely long wait will be included with the new chapter. ;-)
____
It Starts.
____
Rimmer glared at the underside of Lister's bunk. He might have toned down the expression if he realized how much it made him look like a vulture with a hangover ... but then again, it mirrored fairly well how he felt, so he might not have. He might have been pleased, in a perverse sort of way.
It wasn't fair. Rimmer had long ago come to the conclusion that life was not only unfair, it was particularly slanted against him, and there was nothing at all to be done about it; but that didn't stop him sulking. The mood was rotten and it was, of course, all Lister's fault. It usually was, these days ... although sometimes it could be the Cat, or Kryten, or Holly, or just the general cruelty of the universe. It was just that, on average, it was the infuriating goimp currently existing in peaceful somnolence several feet above his head.
It was all that business with the psymoon, too. Actually, that was most of it. It was, of course, only natural that when given physical form he would be threatened with physical torture. There was no way that he could exist in a solid way in a situation where something nice was going to happen. Then again, Rimmer couldn't remember the last time something nice had happened to him anyway, not even when he was alive. Not really, anyway. Well, there was ... this and that. Nothing worth mentioning. Nothing that hadn't been completely, totally and unfairly outweighed by everything nasty that the universe had done to him over the years.
The memories of sensation kept creeping back into his mind -- memories that he would have done better just to forget, just to dismiss into the usual background noise of universal suffering. The feel of a warm, living hand ... resting on his thigh ...
Rimmer rolled over. It didn't do much good. The main problem with being a hologram was that you couldn't toss and turn properly.
No, Rimmer corrected himself after a moment, shooting a steel-edged glare at the bunk above him, not the main problem. Definitely not the main problem. Not even remotely *close* to the main problem ...
Arms embracing him, that was another one. Even the Cat had, in the end, joined in -- and Rimmer grimaced as he thought of the Cat's smooth dress, wiry arms, painstakingly well-groomed smell, all self-centeredness, sarcasm and vanity, joining in on the cruel trick they'd played on him just to save their own smegging hides.
Rimmer was all for looking out for number one, but not at his own expense.
And Kryten. That ridiculous mechanoid. That bizarre android with his mechanized holier-than-thou attitude, a device designed to keep the toilets clean, one with even less understanding of the social graces than Rimmer himself, trying to make him feel wanted, accepted, loved. A group hug situation, thought Rimmer. Good grief.
Rimmer rolled over again, scowling.
The words still rang in his ears. Words that had, of course, turned out to be a bloody lie. He couldn't understand why he was dwelling on them so much; after all, it was only Lister. Stupid, pathetic, unambitious, insufferable, rude, crude, smelly Lister ... the only man ever to get his money back from the odor-eater people.
"I love you, man," Rimmer heard in his head. "I really, really love you."