I don't own Red Dwarf. If I did, would I seriously be writing this? I'd be killing off Kris and reintroducing Rimmer into the new series, and writing Dead Ringers... just like Rob Grant and Doug Naylor, the lucky b------s.
Life sucked. Really, it did.
The lone figure kicked half-heartedly at a sack of... well, a sack. It had come out of Lister's wardrobe, and Rimmer didn't dare think what was in it. Some of Lister's socks tended to develop their own ecosystems after a week or so.
The fact he could actually kick things didn't have its usual thrill.
Rimmer stared gloomily out of a porthole, and into the fathomless depths of space.
They'd just passed the psy-moon again, due to one of Holly's whacked-out calculations. Far from poring over a map of the known universe and deciding the best route based on landmarks, Lister and Holly preferred to take each other on in games of Space Invaders and feed their two scores into the Navicomp. They had come across some extremely interesting locations that way, especially when Lister won the triple-bonus.
Old emotions had surfaced, passing the terraforming satellite. Old feelings.
They had no idea how much it had hurt.
He'd been, in his own words, kidnapped, stripped, humiliated, manacled, oiled, licked and nearly had something knobbly (roughly the shape of a mexican aguavo cactus) shoved up where only customs officers dared to probe.
They'd hugged him, told him how great he was. And for a little while he'd believed them, the smeghead that he was. He'd listened to them and believed them because even an ego-centric wants to feel loved. He'd listened to them because his soul was shattered, struck into a million pieces by living, dying and existing.
For ten whole minutes he'd been happy with himself. Truly happy with himself. Happy in the knowledge that maybe someone cared, maybe someone else felt for him. And his self-confidence, hope and belief had rose like a corpse in a pond and fought the good fight for him.
He'd felt all... toasty inside. All wonderfully warm and rosy. Was that how you felt when you were smiling? he'd wondered back then. He'd felt like he could've gotten used to it.
His eyes were opened, and he'd... smiled to himself. For the first time ever. He had honestly believed that he could make a go of life; that he could work and be who he'd always wanted to be.
He'd asked them, half-joking, about it all being baloney.
A Big Mistake.
Crushed to the ground again, his inner hopes died a fast and ghastly death. He went back to his pessimism, his selfishness and his self-loathing. The monster was born again.
Rimmer glared at the window, and looked away. He didn't like meeting his own reflection's gaze; he never had, to be honest. He didn't like people staring at him, accusing him for the worthless stain on the universe that he was.
It was even worse seeing it in his own eyes.
Rimmer screwed his eyes up, the pain inside beginning to overpower him. He could feel the tirade of uselessness and low-grade paranoia beginning to overflow his mental barriers, and for once he found no way of channelling them.
A single tear won the fight and delicately traced Rimmer's jaw, clenched to a twitching quiver of muscle.
Rimmer didn't allow himself to sob. That would be weak, pathetic and cowardly. Frank wouldn't have done it. Howard would have laughed at him, and Arthur would have split his sides.
He clenched his teeth so hard that the muscles on his jaw stood up a little. He was shaking again, feeling a cold sense of numbness pervade his system, shivering, trying to shudder his troubles away.
Another tear made a bid for freedom, and Rimmer felt his lungs catch. He was instantly angry at himself.
He folded his arms across his stomach, somewhat tightly, as if trying to reassure himself... how pathetic was he? Honestly? His mother would have turned her nose in an instant.
Rimmer closed his eyes again, and turned his face away from the metal of the storage shelf that was staring at him, mocking him.
Cautiously he released the air inside of him and tried inhaling smoothly. It didn't work very well. The recycled oxygen of the ship's air conditioning juddered in his throat, and Rimmer gave up.
His shoulders shook with suppressed sobs, the air in his chest catching on its way out. He knees gave out and he slid down the rim of the shelf he was leaning on until he was sat on the floor, wrists resting on his knees. His shoulders trembled again as he sunk his teeth into his lip in an attempt to keep silent.
He opened his eyes and wiped away a couple of the tears forming, breathing harshly now, trying to control it - trying to control this inane depression he was sunk in, although he could hardly blame this one on himself.
Slowly, he hauled himself back up again, and wiped his eyes.
Just as well, really, because a pair of boots were clanking happily along the walkway.
"Rimmer, you smeghead? Where you gone?" yelled a voice cheerfully.
Rimmer stayed silent, but Lister stuck his head around the corner anyway.
"There you are, you daft - hey, are you okay?"
"Fine," replied Rimmer gruffly, glaring back at the porthole again. Space was fine. Space was nice. Space didn't stare back.
"You don't look it," said Lister. Rimmer didn't reply.
"Anyway, Kryton says lunch is out. You want any?"
Rimmer stood up and stretched, trying to appear sleepy.
"Nah. I'm a bit tired."
"Are you sure? It's spaghetti vindaloo."
Rimmer closed his eyes in a painful grimace.
"Enough said."
"You sure you're alright, mate? You look exactly the same after you discovered that Kryten had washed your green silk pyjamas with my boxers."
"I couldn't exactly wear them again, could I? God knows what kind of lifeforms have moved into them. Oh, and out of curiosity, why would you care?"
"Whoa, chill out, man. Who spit in your tea?"
"Nothing. C'mon, I need to recalibrate the... you know, the thingy, in the Navicomp chamber."
"After you, big man."