FicWad

Lister ran down to the locker room, hefting an emergency axe he had found in a wall bracket. Not as elegant as a hammer and chisel, but it would get the smegger open. Time to test how similar this parallel Red Dwarf was to the old one. He made a beeline for Number 196. That had been a find, back on his Red Dwarf. Two hard whacks with the axe pulverized the lock, and a sideways whack and a wrench twisted the door open with a screech of metal. He tossed the axe aside. The glass bottle inside said Grey Goose, not White Goose, but it was a fifth, and when he opened the bottle and took a sniff, it certainly smelled like vodka. Lise had sworn up and down that a shot of vodka would wash away the bitter taste of come like nothing else. After one good swig - and damn, that was at least as good as the stuff in the old universe - the bitter taste was still in Lister's mouth, though.

It only made sense. The hologrammatic blood had disappeared as soon as Rimmer's hands had left his body, so the hologrammatic come must have disappeared as soon as he jerked his mouth away, as well. The bitter taste was therefore not come, and would take a fair bit of vodka to wash away. Lister closed the bottle, tucked it under his arm, and pelted his way up to the observation deck. He was out of breath by the time he got there, and staggered his way up the steps, holding the railing. He collapsed on his back, staring up at the cold stars, constellations no human had ever seen. Or should see. He opened the bottle and took a long pull, gasping as it burned its way down his throat. One more. And another. There. Taste starting to go away. Probably because his ability to sense anything at all was disappearing. Good.

He had been too long without a woman, for damn sure. Far, far too long. Smeg, why had he backed away? He should have turned and ran, like he had just ran to the observation deck, as soon as he saw that look on Rimmer's face. That look of... Lister shivered, taking another pull from the bottle. Lust. Rimmer lusting after him! It was like... his old chemistry teacher lusting after him. Rimmer smelled like cheap aftershave and starch. Or his Rimmer had, when he had been alive. This Rimmer had smelled like a calculator and tasted like computer screen. But that... bee had simulated the tactile sensation of a tongue and long, skinny fingers far too well. Not to mention the stiffness of that oddly altered cock (he had heard that outworlders had strange habits, and had truly not needed this example), the way precome had leaked sluggishly out of it, the spurt of warm, bitter semen that had hit the roof of his mouth after he had bit it - smegging bit it!

Lister shook his head, taking another pull from the bottle. Crazy goddam pervert. Lusting after a boy half his age. Licking Lister's come off of his hands. Getting off on having his cock smegging bitten.

Another drink. Lean head back on hands. Better.

The worst part of it all was that smegging slack-jawed look of idiotic ecstasy on Rimmer's face as he came. It was familiar. Too familiar. It was just the same as the look of bliss he had on his face when Lister first walked into the room, and he had been drinking a fecking glass of water. Testing out his smegging hard-light drive, he was, and going down the list of things to try, one by one. Water. Glass. Kissing. Fucking. Check. Lister shivered, thinking of the disgust on Rimmer's face at the thought of loving his alternate. No, he was a smegging water glass to Rimmer, just something else to /try out/.

Lister finished the bottle off. Well, of course. And would he really want it any other way? Jesus poncing Christ, the only thing that could have made the whole experience worse would be to have Rimmer smegging mooning over him. He was a hundred and sixty years old; he had married, had kids, so why did he feel like the blasted teenager he looked? Lister threw the bottle at the synthiglass dome over his head, where it smashed satisfyingly, showering the small deck with sparkling shards. A yelp came from the ladder leading up to the deck. Lister tried to pull himself up onto his elbows, but slipped and fell onto his back again. Hell, he was drunk.

Cat's face loomed over him, and he blinked at it.

"Hey, bud," Cat asked, his brow furrowed, "what's goin' down? You look like a dog turd."

It was probably completely true, but it was nonetheless nothing Lister was in a mood to hear. He glared at Cat. "Smeg off."

Cat danced to the other side of Lister, and loomed over him from there. "You smell funny." His nostrils quivered. "You smell like you do when you beat off - well, you smell like that all the time - but angry-like, now." Cat's nose wrinkled. "And you smell drunk as a skunk." He sat back on his haunches, and Lister had to flop his head on the side to keep him in sight. Cat scratched his nose and straightened his cuffs. "It's mailbox-number head, isn't it." Cat cocked his head, regarding Lister from another angle. "Want me to kill him for you?"

Lister smiled faintly. "Neh, man. Shanks, but won't help anything."

Cat tapped one perfectly manicured nail against a long incisor. "It'd make me feel better. That's a help." He leapt down and crouched next to Lister. "C'mon, bud, please?"

Lister could never tell when the Cat was serious. Probably all the time, Lister thought, and just forgot things before he followed through. Forgot everything. "Yeh know what yeh can do?" Lister paused, licking his lips. "Yeh can ghet.. me.. nuther drink."

Cat leapt to his feet with a grace that made Lister's head hurt. "Sure thing, bud! Awwww!" Cat swung around on one toe and danced down the ladder.

Lister was drunk enough to not consider that it would be a miracle for the Cat to still remember the errand once he reached the bottom of the stairs, let alone deign to actually follow through on it. And so he waited, watching the stars swim in front of his eyes. Like he was at the bottom of a tank of... something. Strange, he thought; they don't normally do that. It was all too surreal. Like one of his wet dreams, the ones where Ace turned to Rimmer. Maybe that's what it was. Some too-real wet dream that he had run up here to recover from. That made plenty of sense. He'd sneak back later, and Rimmer would be asleep and whiffling on the bottom bunk, his uniform neat, his bed unmussed. Yes.

Lister closed his eyes.