Rimmer bounded out of bed with his customary alacrity and did a few jumping jacks just to prove he could. It was a habit he'd started to get out of recently, and then again it didn't make much sense; Lister was obviously dead to the world. Rimmer peered up at him. The blankets were mangled and one leg was splayed out from under them at a somewhat awkward angle that the scouser was certain to complain about when he finally woke up. His thumb was jammed in his mouth. Huh. He'd probably had a couple. Whenever Lister fell asleep drunk he tended to revert to childhood, not that he had very far back to go, the big baby.
Rimmer blinked. Watching Lister suck his thumb in his sleep was hardly high on his list of "things to accomplish," and there was work to be done, somewhere. He glanced in the mirror, feeling harried. Last night had been hellish, certainly. David Lister, the pathetic useless blob of lazy slobby scum, hadn't exactly been of much help. Not that that was a surprise; people didn't help Rimmer, unless it was to help him find the door by delivering a healthy kick to the seat of his trousers.
"Oof," said Lister, blinking his eyes open. At least, it sounded like an 'oof,' although nothing large and heavy seemed to have connected with the scouser's stomach to cause such a sound, more was the pity.
He peered blearily down from the top bunk at Rimmer, as though his eyes weren't focusing properly. "What are you doing up?" he said.
"Early to bed and early to rise, Listy," said Rimmer, with as much false brightness as he could force out.
Lister blinked as though this was a saying utterly foreign to his experience. "You what?" he said.
"Enjoying the taste of your thumb?" Rimmer asked. "I wouldn't want *that* in my mouth, certainly, who knows where it's been?"
Lister looked at it as though it, too, was something foreign to his experience, and didn't reply immediately.
"My," Rimmer said, smirking, "aren't we talky this morning?"
"I just don't have anything to say," Lister said, with something akin to mildness that made Rimmer blink.
Reticent? Lister? Good grief, he probably couldn't even *spell* it.
"I was thinking, you know," Lister continued after a pause, glancing at his somewhat sodden thumb, "about what we said yesterday."
Rimmer stared at him, for once speechless.
"You know," Lister said, apparently addressing his thumb, "when we were escaping from the psymoon and all that."
Rimmer continued not to reply.
"You know," Lister said, awkwardly, "what with ... everything we said."
Rimmer's response was a further absence of dialogue.
"And I thought," said Lister, still gazing intently at his soggy digit, "that I owe you an apology. That we all do. You know. And all that."
Rimmer felt that some sort of an answer to this was in order. As far as he was concerned, real apologies were things that happened to other people. Lister was *attempting* to be a decent human being and do the right thing.
All he managed to say, though, was "Oh."
"And, well," Lister said, scratching at the side of his pudgy, boyish face with his still-damp thumbnail, "you may be a total smeghead with your head so far up your arse you can watch your own esophagus work some of the time and all that, but you've still got feelings. I'm sure. Somewhere. If there was a way we could've got out of that without doing that to you you know we would have done it. We got no pleasure out of deceiving you that way at all. It was a smegging heartless thing to do to you, Rimmer. I'm sorry, okay?"
"This is an apology, is it?" Rimmer said.
"Well, yeah," Lister said, uncomfortably.
"I won't let it go to my head," Rimmer answered briskly. "Clean uniform, please!"
Once dressed, shaved and washed - not necessarily in that order - Second Technician Arnold J. Rimmer (deceased) strolled out of the living quarters utterly determined to forget the entire episode of the previous day, not to mention some of the thoughts that had rattled around in his head during the night. They'd just been alone in space too long, he told himself. That explained everything. Insane sexual frustration being thrown into sharp relief by a sudden physical manifestation and the overwhelming sensation of a warm hand touching his inner thigh leading to thoughts of an indelicate nature that would certainly never have happened if he had been in his right mind. That was all. That was everything. Everything!
And Lister's uncharacteristic attempts at being considerate, well, the slobbiest slob in the universe was probably feeling a little guilty. The little bugger had always had an idealistic streak, after all. Not that his heartfelt apology had been particularly considerate, or for that matter, particularly laced with idealism, or even, really, all that terribly apologetic.
Anyway, Rimmer was dead. He was composed entirely of light. It sort of made sexual encounters a moot point. Even if he /were/ to admit some kind of ... bizarre ... insane ... ridiculous ... absurd ... desire for Lister, it wouldn't accomplish anything at all and would only fill him with self-doubt, trepidation, absolute loathing and disgust. So. Stiff upper lip, and he'd think about Yvonne MacGruder. Yes. That would make things better.
Rimmer blinked. Watching Lister suck his thumb in his sleep was hardly high on his list of "things to accomplish," and there was work to be done, somewhere. He glanced in the mirror, feeling harried. Last night had been hellish, certainly. David Lister, the pathetic useless blob of lazy slobby scum, hadn't exactly been of much help. Not that that was a surprise; people didn't help Rimmer, unless it was to help him find the door by delivering a healthy kick to the seat of his trousers.
"Oof," said Lister, blinking his eyes open. At least, it sounded like an 'oof,' although nothing large and heavy seemed to have connected with the scouser's stomach to cause such a sound, more was the pity.
He peered blearily down from the top bunk at Rimmer, as though his eyes weren't focusing properly. "What are you doing up?" he said.
"Early to bed and early to rise, Listy," said Rimmer, with as much false brightness as he could force out.
Lister blinked as though this was a saying utterly foreign to his experience. "You what?" he said.
"Enjoying the taste of your thumb?" Rimmer asked. "I wouldn't want *that* in my mouth, certainly, who knows where it's been?"
Lister looked at it as though it, too, was something foreign to his experience, and didn't reply immediately.
"My," Rimmer said, smirking, "aren't we talky this morning?"
"I just don't have anything to say," Lister said, with something akin to mildness that made Rimmer blink.
Reticent? Lister? Good grief, he probably couldn't even *spell* it.
"I was thinking, you know," Lister continued after a pause, glancing at his somewhat sodden thumb, "about what we said yesterday."
Rimmer stared at him, for once speechless.
"You know," Lister said, apparently addressing his thumb, "when we were escaping from the psymoon and all that."
Rimmer continued not to reply.
"You know," Lister said, awkwardly, "what with ... everything we said."
Rimmer's response was a further absence of dialogue.
"And I thought," said Lister, still gazing intently at his soggy digit, "that I owe you an apology. That we all do. You know. And all that."
Rimmer felt that some sort of an answer to this was in order. As far as he was concerned, real apologies were things that happened to other people. Lister was *attempting* to be a decent human being and do the right thing.
All he managed to say, though, was "Oh."
"And, well," Lister said, scratching at the side of his pudgy, boyish face with his still-damp thumbnail, "you may be a total smeghead with your head so far up your arse you can watch your own esophagus work some of the time and all that, but you've still got feelings. I'm sure. Somewhere. If there was a way we could've got out of that without doing that to you you know we would have done it. We got no pleasure out of deceiving you that way at all. It was a smegging heartless thing to do to you, Rimmer. I'm sorry, okay?"
"This is an apology, is it?" Rimmer said.
"Well, yeah," Lister said, uncomfortably.
"I won't let it go to my head," Rimmer answered briskly. "Clean uniform, please!"
Once dressed, shaved and washed - not necessarily in that order - Second Technician Arnold J. Rimmer (deceased) strolled out of the living quarters utterly determined to forget the entire episode of the previous day, not to mention some of the thoughts that had rattled around in his head during the night. They'd just been alone in space too long, he told himself. That explained everything. Insane sexual frustration being thrown into sharp relief by a sudden physical manifestation and the overwhelming sensation of a warm hand touching his inner thigh leading to thoughts of an indelicate nature that would certainly never have happened if he had been in his right mind. That was all. That was everything. Everything!
And Lister's uncharacteristic attempts at being considerate, well, the slobbiest slob in the universe was probably feeling a little guilty. The little bugger had always had an idealistic streak, after all. Not that his heartfelt apology had been particularly considerate, or for that matter, particularly laced with idealism, or even, really, all that terribly apologetic.
Anyway, Rimmer was dead. He was composed entirely of light. It sort of made sexual encounters a moot point. Even if he /were/ to admit some kind of ... bizarre ... insane ... ridiculous ... absurd ... desire for Lister, it wouldn't accomplish anything at all and would only fill him with self-doubt, trepidation, absolute loathing and disgust. So. Stiff upper lip, and he'd think about Yvonne MacGruder. Yes. That would make things better.