Smeg, thought Rimmer darkly. All lies, naturally. He shouldn't have believed it even for a moment. The universe took a special delight in being horrible to him, after all. In reminding him that he was so fundamentally unlovable. His parents certainly hadn't loved him, nor his brothers. He'd never had any real friends. So why had he believed them? Believed him, in spite of all evidence to the contrary?
Their number was up, they'd said. It was time to set the record straight. Smegging hell, set the record straight.
It was one of the nastier things that had ever been done to him, Rimmer decided. Giving him hope and then tearing it away from him again ... hope that someone, somewhere might recognize that in him, buried down deep, was a worthwhile person buried under all the smeg waiting to get out. Rimmer didn't believe it himself. Not really. Not actually. Not after all this time.
But they'd given him hope.
Lister had given him hope ...
And they'd taken it away.
Lister had taken it away.
The memory of sensation was creeping back again: this time, arms embracing him ... Lister's arms. The feel of him, pressed against Rimmer's side ... the irrepressible grin as he spoke words that, as it turned out, he hadn't meant, but words that had felt real, felt good. The words had felt as real and as good as the embrace ... somehow more important than the Cat's touch, or Kryten's. Lister's words, Lister's touch, they had all been so real, so ... human.
Rimmer scowled at Lister's bunk. All lies. Of course Lister didn't care about him. Didn't love him. Nobody did. Nobody would. Smeg, nobody even could, as far as he could tell.
"I love you, Arnie," Rimmer heard in his head. "This's a beautiful man, big man. You're a big man ..."
Smegging hell.
"Lister?" he said.
There was silence from the top bunk.
"Lister," he said again. Then, "Listy? Are you awake?"
Lister's voice came from above, grumpily. "What do you want, Rimmer?"
Rimmer blinked, momentarily at a loss. What did he want? Well, he wasn't sure, exactly. He wanted the reality again. He wanted to feel Lister's arms again. He wanted to hear the words again. He wanted the insufferable, irritating, infuriating grin back, in a different world when it wouldn't be insufferable or irritating or infuriating at all. He wanted ... he wanted ...
... Lister?
Of course not. Ridiculous.
"You're a manky git," he said.
To feel his arms, to hear his words ... to taste his lips, his tongue, his ...
*Lister*? Good grief, thought Rimmer, have I gone completely mad?
"Oh," said Lister. "Is that all, then?"
Rimmer wanted to scream at him. He wanted to shout all sorts of nasty things, all of them too close to the truth that he didn't even want to admit: all sorts of things about what had gone on earlier that day, the wretched business with the psymoon, the cruelty of what they'd done to him to get out of it.
He wanted to feel him, in a real body, in a real way. In ways that he couldn't even put names to, he wanted Lister.
Smeg.
"Yes," he said.
"All right," said Lister. Was there amusement there? "You're a smeghead, Rimmer. A complete and total smeghead."
"In an affectionate way!" Rimmer called back, monkeying Lister's accent. "In a kiddin' around, jokin', friendly, affectionate way!"
"Oh," Lister said. He at least had the grace to sound a little guilty. "Look, I'm sorry, man, but either we lied to you or we were all dead in yer psyche."
"Git," Rimmer said. He rolled over again.
Lister didn't answer, although Rimmer fancied he might have heard a sigh.
Rimmer glared out into the darkness. Stupid psyche, he thought. Stupid smegging psyche.
Their number was up, they'd said. It was time to set the record straight. Smegging hell, set the record straight.
It was one of the nastier things that had ever been done to him, Rimmer decided. Giving him hope and then tearing it away from him again ... hope that someone, somewhere might recognize that in him, buried down deep, was a worthwhile person buried under all the smeg waiting to get out. Rimmer didn't believe it himself. Not really. Not actually. Not after all this time.
But they'd given him hope.
Lister had given him hope ...
And they'd taken it away.
Lister had taken it away.
The memory of sensation was creeping back again: this time, arms embracing him ... Lister's arms. The feel of him, pressed against Rimmer's side ... the irrepressible grin as he spoke words that, as it turned out, he hadn't meant, but words that had felt real, felt good. The words had felt as real and as good as the embrace ... somehow more important than the Cat's touch, or Kryten's. Lister's words, Lister's touch, they had all been so real, so ... human.
Rimmer scowled at Lister's bunk. All lies. Of course Lister didn't care about him. Didn't love him. Nobody did. Nobody would. Smeg, nobody even could, as far as he could tell.
"I love you, Arnie," Rimmer heard in his head. "This's a beautiful man, big man. You're a big man ..."
Smegging hell.
"Lister?" he said.
There was silence from the top bunk.
"Lister," he said again. Then, "Listy? Are you awake?"
Lister's voice came from above, grumpily. "What do you want, Rimmer?"
Rimmer blinked, momentarily at a loss. What did he want? Well, he wasn't sure, exactly. He wanted the reality again. He wanted to feel Lister's arms again. He wanted to hear the words again. He wanted the insufferable, irritating, infuriating grin back, in a different world when it wouldn't be insufferable or irritating or infuriating at all. He wanted ... he wanted ...
... Lister?
Of course not. Ridiculous.
"You're a manky git," he said.
To feel his arms, to hear his words ... to taste his lips, his tongue, his ...
*Lister*? Good grief, thought Rimmer, have I gone completely mad?
"Oh," said Lister. "Is that all, then?"
Rimmer wanted to scream at him. He wanted to shout all sorts of nasty things, all of them too close to the truth that he didn't even want to admit: all sorts of things about what had gone on earlier that day, the wretched business with the psymoon, the cruelty of what they'd done to him to get out of it.
He wanted to feel him, in a real body, in a real way. In ways that he couldn't even put names to, he wanted Lister.
Smeg.
"Yes," he said.
"All right," said Lister. Was there amusement there? "You're a smeghead, Rimmer. A complete and total smeghead."
"In an affectionate way!" Rimmer called back, monkeying Lister's accent. "In a kiddin' around, jokin', friendly, affectionate way!"
"Oh," Lister said. He at least had the grace to sound a little guilty. "Look, I'm sorry, man, but either we lied to you or we were all dead in yer psyche."
"Git," Rimmer said. He rolled over again.
Lister didn't answer, although Rimmer fancied he might have heard a sigh.
Rimmer glared out into the darkness. Stupid psyche, he thought. Stupid smegging psyche.