The Daily Amateur Crossword Puzzle

It's been twenty-one days, three hours and thirty-six minutes since Rimmer became the owner of a pair of matching engagement rings. Since then he's been biding his time waiting for the perfect moment to ask Lister the question he so desperately wants to ask.

The path to that perfect moment, as it transpires, is anything but easy.

Notes:

I've been doing a lot of crosswords recently and I suck at them, so here's a Rimster fic that started short and sweet before quickly spiralling out of hand (story of my life tbh). This fic hasn't been beta-read so apologies for any errors I didn't catch!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

“Right, six across, nine letters, ends in a ‘y’ and the clue is: ‘a legally recognized union between two people’.”

Lister chews the end of his pencil thoughtfully. He’s already bitten off – and to Rimmer’s horror swallowed – the eraser that had once resided on the tip of the little writing implement, and is now wearing down the yellow and black paint between his teeth to expose the wood beneath.

He squints down at his three-million-years-out-of-date newspaper as though it’s offending him personally as he mulls over potential answers to ‘The Daily Amateur Crossword Puzzle’.

“Well, it’s not ‘marriage’ that’s for sure. Not enough letters.” He states, matter-of-factly.

Rimmer chokes on the mouthful of tea he’d been enjoying.

“Smeg, Arn, you good?” Lister asks, looking over the top of his puzzle with a worried expression at the spluttering hologram sitting opposite him.

The noise he receives in response is a cross between a wheeze and a cough as Rimmer beats a hand against his chest in an attempt to clear his airways. Lister moves to stand up, but is stopped by the hologram raising his unoccupied hand in protest.

“I’m fine.” He croaks, the statement punctuated by another hearty cough.

Lister looks on disbelievingly.

“You sure?”

“Tickety-boo, Listy.”

The Scouser nods slowly, not taking his eyes off of Rimmer until the hologram is sitting up at his full height again and taking another swig of his tea.

“Okay, if you say so.” Lister shrugs, redirecting his attention back to the crossword in front of him.

Rimmer swallows the remainder of his tea, then stares down into the empty mug as if attempting to read his fortune in the damp leaves sitting on the bottom. If the leaves could speak, they’d likely tell him to pluck up his courage and pop the question now, given that he’s just been granted a perfect segue to bring the topic up. He could make it look spontaneous; clear his throat, fiddle with the mug in his hands and speak his query into the world as though he’s asking Lister something mundane like “fancy another cuppa?”.

Even as he conjures up this imaginary scene in his head, Rimmer can feel his face turning red. Try as he might, he can’t convince himself that such a situation would unfold without him tripping over his words or otherwise crushing his mug with his bare hands; nerves and hard-light strength not being a favourable combination.

Lister twirls his pencil around like a tiny baton between his fingers, his eyes scanning the page before him as though the answer to his puzzle lies somewhere between the lines of the article above. Rimmer watches him, clenching his mug with a white-knuckled grip, the ring in his pocket feeling unbearably heavy all of a sudden.

He’d bartered away a hefty number of supplies to some friendly GELF in exchange for a pair of matching, modest gold bands, one of which now sits tucked away in the lining of his dressing gown. Rimmer had hidden the other ring beneath the floorboards in an abandoned corner of the cargo bay where nobody ventures, with the intention of taking this ring for himself. The ring he intends to give to Lister, though? That small piece of jewellery has lived in every outfit the hologram’s worn for the past twenty-one days, three hours and thirty-six minutes since he’d first acquired it, coming with him as he’d changed from tunic, to dress-uniform, to pyjamas and back again.

It’s been on his person at all times, like a venomous animal waiting for its moment to strike.

That moment has yet to come, Rimmer keeps telling himself.

I haven’t had time to propose yet, Rimmer keeps telling himself.

I’ve been too busy! Rimmer keeps telling himself, even as their bunkroom sits deathly quiet around them and Lister swings on his chair, not a care in the world beyond the newspaper in front of him.

It would be so easy to just come out with it now.

Four words, four simple words. Surely, I can at least manage that without messing up the whole thing completely? Rimmer thinks, lowering a hand into his pocket to fiddle with the ring there, absently.

He twirls it around the tips of his fingers as a bead of sweat trickles down his face.

The moment Rimmer had first laid eyes on the rings he’d known it to be some kind of message from a higher power, the universe’s funny little way of trying to kick him up the arse. Lister had read him his horoscope that morning, before he’d wandered into the GELF settlement with Kryten in tow. It had said: “Opportunity presents itself for a reason, take it!” or some other smeg to that effect. Rimmer had scoffed, rolled his eyes and left Lister with a kiss on the cheek and a friendly warning to stop reading horoscopes because they’re a load of balderdash.

Then, he’d seen the rings, and before Kryten had realised what was going on, Rimmer was trading away several weeks’ worth of supplies for the matching gold bands.

“Mr Lister won’t be pleased when he finds out his supply of poppadoms have been bartered down the drain, sir!” Kryten had protested, vehemently.

“It’s for a good cause, he’ll understand.” Rimmer had replied. He'd then ordered the distressed mechanoid not to tell a soul about the rings unless he fancied taking another spin in Starbug’s trash-compactor.

To the sanitation droid’s credit, he’d managed to come up with a half-truth about misplacing the missing supplies when Lister had confronted him about it, which Rimmer had thought rather ironic, given that Lister had been the one to teach Kryten how to lie in the first place. The mechanoid had understood almost immediately what Rimmer’s intentions were with the rings, having seen many a proposal enacted in the one-thousand nine-hundred and seventy-four episode run of 'Androids', and had kept his mouth firmly shut on the matter as to not spoil the surprise for his beloved ‘Mr Lister’.

That had been three weeks ago, and Rimmer still hasn’t made his move.

He hasn’t even dropped hints.

He hasn’t done anything, other than agonise about the whole idea in silence and dodge Kryten’s whispered questions about whether he wants white or red tablecloths at his wedding reception.

Procrastinating to this degree is doing his anxiety absolutely no favours. Neither is carrying the ring he intends to propose with around on his person twenty-four hours a day as though it’s a smegging talisman. Just yesterday Rimmer had nearly given the game away when Lister had been making out with him up against the console in the drive room, and had knocked the ring out of Rimmer’s pocket upon shoving his hand down the hologram’s trousers.

Rimmer had nearly leapt ten feet in the air when he’d heard the muted clang of the tiny band making contact with the gangway below. In the midst of the ensuing blind panic, he'd accidentally slammed both of his hands down on the control panel behind him and nearly sent Red Dwarf spiralling into an asteroid belt backwards.

The impending danger of the situation had, of course, been lost on Rimmer in that moment, and as Lister had taken to the helm yelling every curse word in his vocabulary – which, as it transpired, was quite a lot – Rimmer had ducked below the console and retrieved the ring.

That should’ve been his wake-up call, and yet here he is, still treating the damnable piece of jewellery as though it’s a fidget toy as opposed to something completely, utterly invaluable. He pinches it within his pocket as his eyes trail down to Lister’s fingers – slightly discoloured from years of continuous smoking and covered in callouses from failed attempts at playing guitar.

Rimmer imagines the ring sitting one of those fingers and feels himself heating up even further – blush creeping to the tips of his ears.

“Six. Across.” Lister says, more to himself than to Rimmer, his words slow and deliberate. “Nine. Letters. Ends in a ‘y’. And the clue is: ‘a legally recognized union between two people’. And it isn’t ‘marriage’ so…”

Hearing the word ‘marriage’ in Lister’s warm, Scouse accent a second time is Rimmer’s final straw. He suddenly, desperately needs an outlet to release the pent-up tension within him or he’s going to start screaming.

Without warning, the hologram springs to his feet and crosses to Lister’s side of the table in three, purposeful strides. Lister looks up from his newspaper just in time to see Rimmer sinking to his knees on the ground in front of him.

“You alright, babe?” He asks, concern creeping into his voice as he takes in his partner’s serious expression.

Rimmer meets Lister’s eyes and realises, all at once, that he’s not ready for this.

Not yet, at least.

He hasn’t practiced his lines, he doesn’t know what tone to adopt, he doesn’t know whether he should be smiling or not, and he’s gone down on both knees rather than one for smeg’s sake – who proposes on both knees?!

He’s gone and royally cocked it up.

Despite himself, Rimmer feels the corners of his lips twitch upwards slightly in relief at having given himself an excuse to knock today's proposal attempt on the head.

He’s waited three weeks – surely, he can wait one more day? What’s needed right now, Rimmer decides, is a tactical retreat. He needs to reassess his strategy and return to the drawing board to brainstorm a proper battle plan – something fool-proof and guaranteed to knock Lister’s socks off!

Yes, he needs more time.

Just a little longer.

“Earth to Rimsy?”

Rimmer comes back to himself still on the floor between Lister’s legs, a manic look in his eyes and a half-smile formed on his face. Lister’s looking down at him in confusion, searching his partner’s features for an answer to his bizarre behaviour.

Well, Rimmer thinks, if I’m down here anyway.

He reaches for Lister’s belt and unbuckles it in a single, fluid motion, smirking at the way in which Lister’s expression suddenly goes from confused concern to confused desire like an imaginary switch has been flipped.

“It’s ‘matrimony’, by the way.” Rimmer says, making short work of Lister’s zipper.

“It’s–“ Lister begins, pausing to let out a noise somewhere between a gasp and moan as Rimmer's fingers slide below his waistband. “It’s what?”

Rimmer pauses his ministrations and glances up to meet Lister’s eyes.

“Six across, nine letters, ends in a ‘y’. The answer is ‘matrimony’, gimboid.” He explains, as though it’s devastatingly obvious.

Lister frowns.

“Oh..." Then his eyebrows shoot up in understanding. "Oh! Wait, hang on, lemme just...”

He tears his gaze away from the man between his legs and leans towards the table; flipping his newspaper over urgently in search of his discarded pencil. Rimmer sits back on his heels and watches fondly, feeling rather pleased with himself.

“Got it!” The Scouser chirps, holding the pencil up triumphantly, rearranging the newspaper and then scanning through it for the crossword he’d been trying to complete.

His cheeks are flushed, he has a victorious little smile on his face, his eyes are shining with desire and Rimmer loves him so much that he feels like his artificial heart is about to burst out of his ribcage.

“You’re right. Six across, nine letters, ends in a ‘y’. The answer’s ‘matri–“

The word is unceremoniously cut off by Rimmer suddenly surging up from the floor and pressing his lips against Lister’s own. The Scouser’s eyes widen, shock paralysing him for a few prolonged seconds before he answers Rimmer’s kiss with enthusiasm, wrapping his arms around the hologram’s waist and tugging him into his lap.

Rimmer breaks them apart just as one of Lister’s wandering hands moves across from his hip to undo the belt around his dressing gown, coming dangerously close to the pocket in which the ring resides.

“I love you.” Rimmer says, for no reason other than he can.

Lister lets out a bemused, breathless laugh.

"I know, babe. I love you too.”

A pause.

Then he adds: "Um, you're acting weird."

“I know.” Rimmer answers, bluntly.

"You, okay? You wanna talk about something?"

"I’m fine, and no." The hologram quirks one of his eyebrows up mischievously. "At the risk of sounding crude: I think we can both envision a better use for my mouth right now – can't we?"

Rimmer presses another quick kiss to Lister’s lips – silencing any further conversation – then shifts backwards and sinks to his knees once more to continue with his abandoned task down there. Lister watches on, brow furrowed, still confused but reluctant to push. He knows, after all, that Rimmer will come to him if it’s important.

And it's damn hard to overthink the matter any further when the hologram's mouth is on him; warm, wet and the perfect distraction.

Rimmer feels all of the tension within his partner melt away almost instantaneously, a low moan leaving Lister's mouth and a hand reaching down to bury itself in the hologram's already messy hair. Rimmer focuses on his partner's fingers; on the way they rake across his scalp in slow, tender strokes and the manner in which they twist in tandem with the hologram's movements, reacting to all the ways in which he slowly works Lister in his mouth until he's coming undone.

Rimmer imagines, as he listens to the familiar, unapologetically loud reactions that accompany Lister's pleasure reaching its peak, the softness of the Scouser's fingers interrupted by a hard, gold ring. He imagines the press of it solid and cold against his skin where Lister clings to him, lost in the idea of it as he swallows around his partner.

Twenty-one days, three hours and fifty-seven minutes after acquiring the rings, Lister slips out of his mouth and ruffles his hair affectionately – a warm, content smile on his face.

Twenty-one days, three hours and fifty-seven minutes.

He can wait one more day.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” Rimmer groans adjusting his headdress for what feels like the fiftieth time.

“Oh, come on Rimsy, it’s just one afternoon.” Lister argues, holding back a smirk as he watches his partner struggle.

“Yes, an afternoon that I’ll never get back! Stupid smegging beret – is this even historically accurate?!” The hologram asks, screwing his face up in distaste. “Because, frankly, I don’t think it is!”

“Who cares about historical accuracy? It’s a fun little AR game! Now come here, you’re making a right mess of that.”

He reaches up to fiddle with the offending hat on Rimmer’s head, swivelling it to the side so that the large ostrich feather attachment sits naturally as opposed to drooping down across the hologram’s face and obstructing his sight.

“There we go! You look great!” Lister remarks, cheerfully, taking a step back to admire his work.

Rimmer shoots him a death glare.

“I look like I’ve just been kicked out of a low-budget ren faire.”

“Like I said, great!”

Lister grins from ear-to-ear and Rimmer hates how difficult it makes staying mad at him.

The Scouser looks right at home in his black, leather tunic and chainmail accessories – having tweaked his outfit during many long, late-night gaming sessions so that it fits him like a glove. Rimmer, on the other hand, feels like a fish out of water in his knee-high leather riding boots, velvet breeches, ornately decorated jerkin and damnable frilly undershirt, the collar of which won’t stop scratching against his neck uncomfortably.

The whole outfit had, of course, been hand-picked by Lister prior to Rimmer entering the game.

Had Rimmer been aware of his partner’s ridiculous wardrobe choices before slipping the AR headset on, he might have thought twice about agreeing to this whole ordeal in the first place.

“Just for a few hours.” He clarifies as they march side-by-side through an unkempt field towards a grand, looming castle.

“Just for a few hours.” Lister confirms.

“And you just absolutely, desperately need a second player for this part of the game?”

“I told you before, I don’t need a second player, I just get some extra perks if I have a second player for this bit. Your role is me plus one at a party, all you’ve gotta do is stand there and look pretty.”

Rimmer raises an eyebrow.

“And that’s it? You just want me to be eye-candy? You don’t want me to engage the NPCs in any kind of stimulating debate or otherwise riveting conversation?”

Lister lets out a loud, exaggerated sigh.

“Arn, babe, for the love of all that is good and pure, do not start discussing Risk gameplay with the medieval nobles, please? I gotta make a good impression here if I want the next chapter of story-mode to go well.”

He stops walking and turns to face the hologram, a ‘please don’t screw this up for me’ expression plastered across his tense face. Rimmer reaches for one of Lister’s hands and squeezes it reassuringly.

“Fear not, Listy! You won’t even know I’m here.” He remarks, glancing between Lister and the castle once before adding: “Still… you know I don’t really do video games or any of this AR malarky. Why not ask the Cat or Kryten to help you out like you usually do?”

Lister lets out an unceremonious bark of laughter.

“Arn. I said the role is ‘me plus one at a party’, like, in a romantic sorta way – all of me jousting buddies are bringing their lady-friends – the last thing I want is them thinking I'm with the smeggin’ Cat or Kryten...” He trails off with a grimace. “And anyway, I’m quite looking forward to parading you around in there as me other half, y'know?"

Rimmer feels all of the blood drain from his face at once, his complexion turning a sickly, off-white colour.

“Y-your other half?” He asks, attempting to keep his voice calm even as his mouth goes horribly dry.

“Yeah.” The Scouser says, casually. “The characters in this game don't really have a concept of 'dating' so I made up some smeg at our last jousting tournament. Told ‘em that me and you have been courting since we were young, and that we got engaged when we were teens. I had to make it sound realistic! ‘Course, that also meant I had to tweak the game’s programming a bit for it to let me get away with having a male love interest – wouldn’t like to send all of the medieval NPCs into a panic – but it’ll be so worth it when we get in there!”

Rimmer swallows, thickly.

His hologrammatic heart is beating so rapidly that he's certain Lister must be able to hear it. Against all odds, Rimmer's sure that if he reaches into his pixelated pocket in his digital breeches in this fantasy world, he'll find a very solid, very real little gold ring.

He's too scared to check, but he can imagine the weight of it sitting there snuggly all the same.

The same weight that he's been feeling for the past forty-four days, six hours and seventeen minutes. Rimmer had once read somewhere – probably in one of Lister's silly magazines – that it only takes approximately forty days for something to become a 'habit'. Whilst this fact is most likely wildly incorrect, as most facts found in the "Fact of the Day" section of hack tabloids are, it's stuck with Rimmer all the same.

He's begun to take that little ring for granted. He's gotten used to it weighing him down.

Unfortunately, this familiarity with said offending piece of jewellery doesn't breed any kind of courage, rather it causes Rimmer to overthink himself into circles time and time again – missing opportunity after opportunity to propose to Lister.

It's cruel, then, that fate would drop him into a scenario like this, with Lister calling him his "other half" completely unaware of the internal knots that Rimmer is tying himself into.

"You okay?" Lister asks, concerned. "I know you probably think it's all a bit silly, but it's actually a lot of fun once you get into the swing of things."

Rimmer wants to laugh.

'Fun'? How is larping the very scenario he so desperately wants to be true 'fun'?

He clears his throat and takes a step in the direction of the castle.

"It is silly, it's very silly. Absolute hogwash. Utter nonsense." Rimmer says, injecting fake irritation into his tone as Lister falls into step beside him and the pair resume their walk towards the towering medieval monolith. "However, I did say I'd do it, so I will."

Something flickers across Lister's face then. An unreadable emotion of some kind. It's there for a split-second and then it's gone, having disappeared so fast that Rimmer can't be sure he didn't completely imagine it.

"Thanks, Arn. I really appreciate it." Lister says, sounding as though he really means it.

He reaches over and takes Rimmer’s hand again, lacing their fingers together.

They walk in silence for a few minutes, Rimmer clumsily sinking his ill-fitting boots into the mud with undignified squelching noises and Lister humming along to the muffled tunes carried on the wind from the castle courtyard up ahead.

As they approach, Rimmer can hear the festivities more clearly – the hearty, deep laughter of men long-past sobriety, and the scuffing of many pairs of heels striking cobblestone as people dance to their heart's content.

A cacophony of instruments chime loudly – strings, bells and some unidentifiable form of ancient woodwind all blending together to create a warm, harmonious melody that fills the air even over the thrum of constant, lively conversation.

Rimmer feels himself getting cold feet when they come fact-to-face with the entrance, a sensation that definitely isn't helped by the mud seeping through the seams of his footwear.

"What, uh..." He licks his lips and brushes his jerkin down with his free hand in an attempt to straighten the creases in its elaborate, floral pattern. "What kind of party is this, anyway?"

"Oh, I forgot to tell you! It's a wedding!"

"...Of course it is."

And it was.

A very big and very grand wedding, as a matter of fact.

The castle courtyard is adorned in lavish decorations and filled to the brim with what appears to be the population of a small village. Regal looking ladies in long, flowing gowns and dapper gents with headdresses equally as feathered as Rimmer’s own mull about in large groups drinking, dancing and enjoying each other’s company.

Lister and Rimmer’s arrival into the fray is accompanied by a chorus of trumpets and a man with a obnoxiously loud, bellowing voice declaring the arrival of "Sir Lister and Lord Lister of the land of Smeg!". The announcement prompts a round of applause, with Lister waving out across the throng of people to his friends and Rimmer looking down at the ground whilst turning a bright shade of scarlet.

A group of gents quickly congregate around them, all dressed up in the same type of tunic and same polished chainmail as Lister himself.

“Me jousting buddies.” Lister explains, introducing them one by one.

Their names leave Rimmer’s head as fast as they enter it, passing through one ear and out of the other as the hologram does his best to politely address each one in turn with the phrases “nice to meet you” and “how do you do” interchangeably.

Lister introduces him to the cheerful group of knights as his “dear sweet husband of many years” and Rimmer nearly passes out on the spot.

Thankfully, just as Lister had promised, not much is expected of Rimmer in this fictional wedding scene. He’s addressed once or twice in small talk, but otherwise left to stand off to the side as Lister leads the conversation happily. It’s only when Rimmer is loitering there, on the edge of Lister’s friend group and only half paying attention to the discussion unfolding, that the hologram realises Lister is still holding his hand.

The Scouser hadn’t let go on their approach to the castle, nor when their names had been checked against a list of guests at the gates, nor when they’d entered the party and been immediately accosted by the group of energetic knights within. Their fingers are still firmly locked together, wrapped around one another tightly and, for what feels like the billionth time in the last forty-four days, six hours and thirty-seven minutes, Rimmer imagines what a ring would look like on one of those fingers.

He can feel himself breaking into a nervous sweat at the idea, his palm becoming hot and sticky against Lister’s own.

Fabian or Tristan or Roland or whatever-the-hell-his-name-was is ranting about the ethics of axe-throwing competitions when Rimmer quietly clears his throat.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, I’m just going to get some refreshments.”

Lister turns to him with a worried look in his eyes.

“You want me to come with you, love?”

“No, no… I’ll manage.”

Lister gives a small nod, then brings the back of Rimmer’s hand to his lips and kisses it softly.

“Okay, moon of my heart, hurry back.” He replies, a cheeky grin on his face even as he says the term of endearment with complete sincerity.

Rimmer doesn’t trust himself to respond without fumbling over his words, so he just nods and makes his escape quickly. Behind him, he hears Lister’s knight friends all whistle teasingly, one of them remarking to Lister “get you, Casanova!” and another commenting “I didn’t know you were such a romantic!”.

Casanova? Now that’s definitely not historically accurate, Rimmer thinks as he pushes his way through the crowded mass of people in the centre of the room, all of them engaged in a rather upbeat group dance involving a lot of kicking and spinning.

He comes out on the other side of the lively quadrangle disorientated, losing his footing and nearly colliding head-first with a man in a brightly-coloured jester’s hat.

“Sorry.” He mumbles, embarrassed.

The jester shoots him a dirty look before storming off in the opposite direction, the bells adorning his outfit jingling as he angrily stomps away.

Rimmer feels a hysterical laugh bubbling up inside of him.

What is he doing? Not the whole ‘helping Lister out with his video game’ thing – that much is at least understandable, if a bit daft – but the whole ‘continuously delaying his proposal’ thing.

One of two outcomes is going to happen soon if he doesn’t act, and he knows it. The first is that he’ll lose the ring, which is categorically the worst possible scenario. He’s come close to losing it so many times already it’s a miracle that he’s even still got it at all.

Just last week he’d spent the better half of an hour turning over every cushion, blanket and assorted piece of furniture in their bunkroom in a desperate bid to find the silly little ring after misplacing it. As luck would have it, he’d managed to pull it from between the sofa cushions along with three pounds in loose change, one of the Cat’s old hairbrushes and a half-eaten bag of Walker's Prawn Cocktail crisps which he's convinced Lister must've stashed down there for a rainy day.

The second, slightly better, scenario he may find himself in, is that Lister will come across the ring before Rimmer gets the chance to ask.

As Rimmer locates the beautifully decorated banquet table, approaching it in a daze, he finds a small part of his brain perking up at this possible outcome. After all, if Lister happens to find the ring before Rimmer proposes, then there’s simply no help for it! It’s out of his hands then, isn’t it? Well… it would be a shame, of course, but alas, what can you do?

He can see it now: all responsibility for the act of asking those four words ripped from his hands as Lister uncovers the gold band and holds it up in confusion.

“What’s this?” He’ll ask, and Rimmer will say: “Oh, confound it, you’ve got me! I was planning on proposing! Gosh, I am such a smeghead for not hiding that ring better Listy, what a crying shame this all is! …What do you say, then? Yes? Jolly good! Pop the ring on and we’ll saunter down to the Parrot’s bar on G-Deck for cocktails and cigars!”

Rimmer feels his face contort into a mask of abject horror.

No, no he can’t do that to Lister.

Lister’s a fan of old soppy romance movies and corny, well-thought-out gestures of love.

Heck, he’d cried when Rimmer had decked out their quarters with candles and rose-petals last Valentine’s Day, which in turn had caused the hologram to freak out and assume he’d done something wrong. That had turned into one of the best evenings of Rimmer’s hologrammatic life – Lister’s cheesy romance playlist blasting through the overhead speakers whilst the pair drank the last of the captain’s finest wine and enjoyed each other’s company into the early hours of the morning.

Rimmer’s still plucking rose-petals out of the strangest places in their bunkroom to this day.

No.

No, he can’t half-ass this.

He can’t brush this whole affair aside until Lister solves his problem for him, he has to do this right.

“…Lord Lister?”

Rimmer surveys the banquet laid out in front of him, eyes settling on a jug of cider tantalisingly perched on the very corner of the table.

“Lord Lister?”

Beside the jug is an array of empty tankards. Rimmer selects the least grimy looking one and begins to fill it up.

“Lord Lister!”

He finally looks up from his task to see a young, pretty lady standing by his side. Even at a glance, Rimmer can tell this must be the bride; she’s dressed in an elegant, flowing white gown adorned with gold ribbon and embellished with intricate lace.

She smiles when Rimmer meets her eyes. It’s a cute, cheeky little smile that reminds Rimmer of the way that Kochanski used to grin as though she knew something you didn’t.

“At last, we finally meet, Lord Lister! I am so very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Lord Lister? Rimmer frowns, confusion washing over him for a beat before he remembers that he’s supposed to be Lord Lister.

“Oh!” He says, just as the tankard in his hand begins to overflow, having been filled beyond capacity by his continuous pouring. “Smeg. Sorry, My Lady! Just, uh…”

He fumbles awkwardly to set the jug back down without causing a scene or getting any of the offending liquid on either himself or the bride. Cider pools on the ground by their feet in a sticky river of red. Rimmer looks between the mess on the cobblestones and the lady standing beside him in embarrassment.

“I don’t suppose you have a wet floor sign, do you?”

The bride giggles.

“Sir Lister was correct; you are a funny man!” She says, sounding as though she’s auditioning him for the role of new court jester.

“Yes, well, uhhh…” Rimmer begins, before pausing to mull the bride’s words over in his head. “Sorry, Sir Lister was what?”

“He speaks of you often.” She explains in her chirpy, almost musical, voice. “In fact, he speaks of very little else in my experience. It’s always “Arnold this” or “Arnold that”, I’ve been beyond excited to meet the man that has so thoroughly captured the heart of our finest knight!”

Rimmer feels as though he’s about to pass out again.

“Is that so?” He asks, bringing his overflowing tankard up to his lips and chugging half of its contents at once.

“Oh, yes!” The bride continues. “He has many maidens vying for his attention, yet he tells them all of his undying love for you! I can only hope that my own husband will still speak of me with such devotion after we’ve been married for as long as both of you have.”

Rimmer blinks, once.

“Uh-huh.” He murmurs, downing the rest of his tankard in one fell swoop and diving for the jug on the table to fill it up once more.

He chances a glance back towards where he’d left Sir Lister and sees that he’s in the middle of some kind of drunken party game involving an axe and an apple balanced precariously on the head of Fabian slash Tristan slash Roland slash whatever-the-hell-his-name-was. Lister is beaming, enjoying being lavished with praise as he captivates his audience with increasingly elaborate attempts to split the apple perched on poor whatchamacallit’s head.

Lifting the jug before it overspills, Rimmer places it back down cautiously as to not cause any more mess to the pretty banquet table.

“So… uhh… your husband…” The hologram swirls the contents of his tankard around and tries to allow the part of his brain already clouding over with the beginnings of drunkenness to take over. “How did he propose?”

He pats himself on the back for how natural the question sounds. He'd be a fool not to seize this opportunity to do a little bit of market research, after all.

The bride sighs dreamily, clasping her hands together and closing her eyes.

“Oh, Lord Lister, my husband swept me off my feet!” She sings. “He courted me, lavished gifts upon me, then asked for my father’s approval with such passion in his voice!”

Rimmer scoffs.

Well at least I can get Lister’s father’s approval at the same time I ask him for his, he thinks. Two birds, one stone.

His conversation partner remains completely oblivious to his ironic internal commentary as she continues, lost in her own happy memories.

“He took me to a beautiful glade in the forest and proposed under a gorgeous oak tree, oh it was so magical, Lord Lister! The birds were there and they sang an ode to our love!”

“That’s wonderful – do you have a business card for them, or can I find them in the Yellow Pages?” Rimmer asks, sarcastically, taking another swig of cider.

The bride opens her bright, green eyes and looks at him again.

“I would ask how Sir Lister proposed to you, but he says that you’ve been together since you were children! Oh, the pure romance of young love! He must’ve always known that you were the one!”

Rimmer looks down at the liquid in his tankard, suddenly feeling very tired.

“Yeah… he must’ve.”

It’s at that moment the bride is called away by another guest. She bids him farewell merrily, imploring him to enjoy the party to his heart’s content, leaving him with a half-empty tankard and the beginnings of an uproarious headache.

He downs the rest of his drink to steel himself and then slams it on the table purposefully.

“Right.” He states, to no one in particular. “If I’m going to be forced to play pretend for the afternoon, then I might as well enjoy it”.

He wipes the remains of the drink from his lips before marching in long, brisk strides back across the room – eyes locked firmly on Lister, who’s cheering for one of his pals as they throw another axe.

“Husband!” Rimmer yells once he’s within earshot, prompting Lister and all of his jousting buddies to look up in his direction.

That unreadable Something from earlier flickers across Lister's face again; present for a moment and then gone just as quickly.

“Yes, darlin’?” He shouts back, features settling into a grin that looks almost proud.

Rimmer remains where he is – close enough to be heard but not close enough to be considered part of the axe-throwing contingent – and uses his index finger to beckon Lister towards him whilst maintaining eye contact.

Lister’s grin broadens.

“Sorry lads, gotta go, the apple of my eye is calling!”

He quickly crosses the space between them, accompanied by a chorus of wolf-whistles and light-hearted jeering from his gang of merrymen.

When he’s within arm’s reach, Rimmer yanks the feathered beret off his own head and shoves it down onto Lister’s, covering the Scouser’s eyes.

“Come on!” He says, taking Lister by the hand and leading him towards the centre of the party.

Lister uses his free hand to tug the beret further up his head, freeing his eyes from their velvety prison.

“Hey, hang on, the in-game event’s not over yet! I still need to have a ton more interactions if I want to level up me stats!” He protests.

“We’re not leaving.” Rimmer explains.

He pulls Lister along – each of his long strides equating to two of Lister’s own – and brings them to an abrupt stop right in the middle of the courtyard. They're surrounded by men and women coupled up on all sides; twirling around one another in time with the cheerful music as a man with a lyre weaves in and out of them gracefully.

Rimmer turns to face Lister, his cheeks red from the adrenaline and alcohol working their way through his system.

“Dance with me.” He says, not so much a question as a command.

Lister looks up at him from beneath the ridiculous headdress, equal parts confused and delighted.

“You what?”

“You heard! I’m not asking again.”

“You didn’t ask the first time! You, like, ordered me.” Lister remarks, a wicked twinkle in his eyes. “Ask me nicely.”

Rimmer groans in frustration.

“You. Me. Dance… pretty please with a cherry on top?”

Lister rocks forward onto his toes and captures Rimmer’s lips in a gentle kiss, the contact between them lasting only a second before he rocks back again.

“You've been on the cider.” He states, running his tongue along his lips.

“Yes…” Rimmer raises an eyebrow defensively. “Problem?”

“None whatsoever. You get like this when you’re on cider though, I swear the stuff makes you giddy.”

“Giddy? Is that what I am? Am I giddy?!” The hologram responds, his tone becoming increasingly high-pitched.

Lister chuckles, reaching up to wrap his arms around Rimmer’s neck.

“Chill out, smeghead. You wanna dance? We can dance.”

The hologram considers humouring his partner with a response then thinks better of it.

Instead, he settles his hands on Lister’s hips and, as if on cue, the upbeat, jovial music that had been accompanying their conversation two seconds prior fades into something slower. The couples around them all hold one another close, swaying to the beat like reeds in the wind as the lyre player strums his instrument softly.

A small voice in the back of Rimmer’s head complains once more about historical accuracy, absolutely certain that the combination of instruments present in the courtyard can’t produce the gentle melody now enveloping the air around them. That voice is quickly drowned out when Lister rests his forehead against Rimmer’s own, his eyes slipping shut.

Rimmer pulls him closer, focusing on the points of contact between them; his hands on Lister’s hips, Lister’s hands against the back of his neck, their bodies pressed flush against one another as though they were made to fit together. The curves and edges that make up the pair of them perfectly aligned as they sway in time to the rhythm.

“When we leave the AR suite, remind me that there’s something I need to ask you.” Rimmer whispers into what little space is left between them.

“Okay, I will.” Lister replies, his voice equally as quiet.

Then, Rimmer tilts his head to capture Lister’s lips in another slow, tender kiss, and Lister forgets to remind Rimmer of anything when they leave the AR suite later that night.

"Where is it?!" Rimmer yells, the words leaving him in a sharp, angry burst.

The quarters in front of him are illuminated by lamplight and have dark, almost pitch black, walls giving the impression that the space is much smaller than it actually is. This feeling is heightened by the mountains of pillows and blankets scattered haphazardly across the floor, and the mattresses stacked atop one another like ginormous Jenga blocks to create an assortment of nooks and crannies.

It's an ideal oasis to tuck oneself away in.

Perfect for a person who likes small, tight spaces.

Perfect for a cat.

Rimmer squints into the darkness and watches as a figure emerges from a pile of fleece throw-blankets in the corner. Pretty, decorative cushions slip from the intangible mass that rises lethargically from the cozy mound of feathers, fluff and soft comforters.

The hologram's eyes adjust to the room's dim lighting just in time to see a row of sharp, white teeth in the gloom lurking within the yawning maw of a newly awakened feline.

"Where's what?" The Cat mumbles, his voice heavy with the dregs of sleep as he brings a perfectly manicured hand up to his face to remove his luxurious, silk eye mask.

"You know what, you good-for-nothing waste of evolutionary effort."

The Cat glares at Rimmer.

Then, he pulls the elastic on his eye mask taut, aims, and slingshots it across the room towards the seething hologram, who raises a hand just in time to catch it before it collides with his face.

"I have no idea what you're talking about Non-bud." The Cat says, now marginally more alert and rubbing sleep-dust from his eyes.

"Well, there's nothing new there, then." Rimmer replies curtly, clenching his fist around the silken eye mask.

He can feel a vein protruding from his temple as steadily growing rage rises up from the pit of his stomach. He flashes the Cat a wide, fake smile – all teeth and barely contained ire.

"I'm going to ask you one more time you insufferable insult to all things Bagpuss." He grunts through gritted teeth. "Where. Is. It?"

The Cat tuts.

"Do I look like a mind reader?"

"I know you know what I'm talking about."

"Oh! Well, so long as you know that I know what you're talking about! That's alright then! Glad we cleared that up!" The Cat remarks sarcastically, his tone light and airy.

Rimmer feels like he's about to bust a gasket.

"I'm talking about the thing you stole from mine and Lister's room." He elaborates, lingering on the words 'talking' and 'thing' as though he's trying to teach a nursery school child how to sound words out correctly.

The Cat jumps to his feet gracefully; pink, satin dressing gown fanning out beneath him in elegant, frilly waves.

"You'll have to be more specific, Alphabet Head. I take a lot of things from a lot of places."

As if to emphasize his point, the Cat spreads his arms wide, gesturing to the room around him. Stashed away in the many alcoves created by ceiling-high pillow forts and mountains of beanbag chairs are a bizarre assortment of trinkets. Mainly tools to aid the feline in his intense self-care rituals such as haircare products, nail files, moisturisers and face masks, but there are other strange collections accumulated there too.

The recess in the wall where the top bunk must've once resided is a hollowed-out shrine to the art of tailoring; there are rags of beautiful fabric strewn across it along with a small pile of M&S biscuit tins that house old, jerry-built sewing kits. Spools of thread in all manner of bright, gaudy colours and a bedazzling kit straight out of Hobbycraft lie in a disorganised heap atop the Cat's latest DIY project, and a hot glue gun whirs menacingly from its position plugged into the back wall nearby.

There's a large, vertical pole covered in thick layers of sisal rope in the far corner of the room – parts of its underbelly on display from where it's been repeatedly scratched – and a chandelier hanging from the centre of the ceiling with what appear to be small, multicoloured worms with googly eyes dangling from its frame.

Rimmer's eyes trail over the entirety of the quarters as he takes everything in, pupils darting in their sockets and a small seed of panic starting to blooming deep inside of him.

Clenching his hands around the poor, crinkled eye mask, Rimmer takes another deep breath and counts to ten in his head slowly.

That doesn't help, so he starts again, counting in Esperanto this time instead.

He only makes it to the number four before realising that he doesn't know the rest, and redirects his attention back towards the Cat.

"The ring, Cat." He explains, spitting the moggy's name with venom in his voice even as he wills himself to remain calm. "The little gold ring. You were asleep in the top bunk in mine and Lister's room. Lister was off ship with Kryten. I put the ring on my bedside table whilst I went off to sort some things out in the drive room. When I came back the ring was gone and so were you. This was six hours ago and I've looked everywhere. I've exhausted every outlet except for aliens and you. I'm placing money on it being in here somewhere."

The Cat takes a few steps towards Rimmer.

"Lemme just make sure I've got this straight, Non-bud." He says, eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "You left a ring, which is a piece of jewellery. Made of gold, gold as in the shiny stuff. Just... out in the open?"

Rimmer's eye twitches, his facial features flickering in irritation.

"Yes."

The Cat looks at him with the same disgusted expression he usually reserves for last season's fashion.

"You left a shiny piece of jewellery completely unsupervised in my direct line of sight?"

"Yes." Rimmer responds, the word clipped.

"...Non-bud. Come on. What did you think was gonna happen?" The Cat sighs, sounding profoundly disappointed.

Rimmer's nostrils flare up angrily.

He wrings the eye mask in his hands; twisting and pulling it in lieu of wrapping his hands around the Cat's neck and squeezing.

"Give it back." He demands, his voice low and dangerous.

"No way! You know the rules: I found it, it's mine!" The feline protests.

Rimmer throws the eye mask down threateningly as though it's a proverbial gauntlet.

"Give it back now!" He screams, getting right in the Cat’s smug face.

The Cat shakes his head.

"Bitch and moan all you want, Goal Post Head, we both know you're not gonna do anything to me."

He meets Rimmer's eyes, folds his arms and flashes the hologram a confident smirk – his pearly white fangs on full display and gleaming brightly. Despite the Cat’s shorter stature, and decidedly un-menacing fluffy, pink night dress, Rimmer finds himself backing off.

Of course he's not going to actually, physically fight the Cat. Sure, he's done a lot of terrible things in his time, but punch a cat? kick a cat?! No, he's not a monster.

Anyway, even with his hard-light strength in mind, he's not entirely convinced that he could take the Cat on in a one-on-one fight. The feline's teeth and claws would definitely cause him some serious damage if nothing else, and heaven forbid the moggy gets his mittens on the hologram’s light bee.

...What am I doing? Am I seriously weighing up the pros and cons of throwing hands with the smegging Cat, of all people? Rimmer thinks, watching as the Cat turns on his heels and begins making his way back towards the nook he'd been snoozing in.

All of Rimmer's anger leaves him at once as he watches the feline's retreating form, a feeling of shame washing over him as he lets out a heavy, frustrated sigh.

He feels lighter, and not in a good way.

The absence of the heavy ring in his pocket makes him feel off-balanced, as though the little piece of jewellery has been instrumental in the act of keeping him up-right and steady for the past sixty-one days, eleven hours and five minutes.

He can't carry on like this, and he knows it.

Three days ago, Lister had been craving something other than curry for a change. "I fancy a Chinese" he'd said, and so all four of them had camped out on the sofas in the old officer’s lounge and enjoyed a spread of hot, sticky delicacies reconstructed lovingly from the menus of Liverpool's finest Chinese takeaways. The part that Lister had most looked forward to, weirdly, had been the tacky little fortune cookies.

"Superstitious tommyrot" Rimmer had remarked, a comment he'd been rewarded for with a firm nudge from Lister’s shoulder. "Give it a chance" the Scouser had said, wiping a greasy hand on his jeans, picking up a cookie and cracking it open. Flecks of wafer had crumbled between his fingers as he'd squinted down at the small, prophetic sliver of paper.

"What does it say?" Rimmer had asked, feigning disinterest. Lister had grinned and read the fortune aloud: "There is a great deal of joy in your near future, look to the one you love the most as they have something exciting in store for you."

Rimmer had felt the chow mein he'd just devoured coming back up his oesophagus in the form of acidic bile as Lister had turned to him, still beaming.

"Brutal! You got something you wanna tell me, babe?" He'd asked, cheerfully. Rimmer had responded by opening and closing his mouth several times like a fish out of water.

He'd then reached out to cup Lister's cheek in his hand.

"Yeah. You have sweet and sour sauce on your face." He'd said, stroking a thumb across the corner of Lister's lips and, thankfully, killing the conversation dead.

What had followed was a minute or so of back and forth, then a kiss that had tasted like licking the inside of a styrofoam takeout container, and finally a disgruntled "Stop it! Some of us are trying to eat over here!" from an unhappy nearby feline.

Lister had insisted on keeping the little fortune, and it was now sitting on the coffee table in their bunkroom as a reminder to Rimmer that the universe is getting progressively more and more impatient with him.

Now, faced with the Cat snuggling back down to continue his midday nap, Rimmer feels ashamed at himself for not having proposed sooner, and ashamed at himself for having denied Lister a meaningful proposal for over two months, and ashamed at having not kept the ring under lock and key.

"...Cat." He says, a tremor in his voice.

The Cat rolls his eyes and sits up in his nest of blankets.

"What now? I'm busy!"

Rimmer meets the feline's gaze, feeling his eyes cloud over with an embarrassing layer of unshed tears.

"Please. Give me the ring back."

The Cat furrows his brow again.

He sizes Rimmer up, curiously; eyes trailing from the hologram's face, down the length of his body, and back up again. He takes in the desperate, pleading expression on Rimmer's features, the nervous jiggling of his restless right leg and his anxious, fidgeting hands.

"...Why's it so important?" The feline enquires.

Rimmer opens his mouth to start arguing again, then clamps it shut just as fast. A moment of silence lapses between them as the hologram weighs up his limited options. Then, he casts his eyes towards the floor in defeat.

"Are you familiar with the human custom of 'marriage'?" He asks, slowly.

The Cat sticks his tongue out in thought, holding it between his teeth as he searches his brain for the unfamiliar concept. Rimmer can practically hear the rusty gears turning in the moggy's mind, before he eventually snaps his fingers and nods in understanding.

"Oh! 'Marriage'! Yeah! That's the thing where a monkey chooses another monkey to mate with for the rest of their lives!" The Cat answers, breaking into a self-congratulatory smile.

Rimmer hums, noncommittally.

"Sort of? You make it sound so... primal, though. There's more to it than that."

The Cat tilts his head to the side, his eyes questioning.

"Like what?"

"Well..." Rimmer locks his hands together so that his restless thumbs can duel one another as he continues. "It's like a promise, you know? You give another person a ring, and you wear one too. It's the human way of telling another person that you want to spend the rest of your lives together. It's the penultimate declaration of love! And it usually involves a ceremony… and there's a party, and you wear those matching rings for the rest of your lives to symbolise your devotion to one another..."

The Cat nods, clearly unconvinced.

"Uh-huh. So, like, what does it do?" He asks, genuinely bewildered. "Like, apart from cutting off all of the other potential mates, what does 'marriage' actually change? What does it achieve?"

The feline brings his hands up to mime air quotations around the word 'marriage', as if it's some sort of abstract, trivial concept. Rimmer shifts his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

"...Tax benefits, mostly." He mumbles, then he shakes his head and looks the Cat directly in his eyes once more. "I mean, lots of things!"

"Like?"

"Well..."

Rimmer's gaze softens as he imagines Lister's reaction to being proposed to; the overwhelmed expression, the tearful "yes", the warm the hug and passionate kiss. His mind then supplies him with further potential snapshots of the future. Lister in a three-piece suit at the altar, Lister saying his vows with unshakeable conviction, Lister exchanging rings with him, Lister slow dancing with him, Lister taking him to bed and calling him "husband", Lister–

"Hey, Goal Post Head? Are you buffering?"

The Cat's voice brings Rimmer crashing back down to the present. He shakes his head as though doing so will in any way help to clear his addled mind. The Cat has one leg bent at an angle and is leaning forward on it, staring across the room at Rimmer intently.

His ears have perked up, Rimmer notices, becoming suddenly self-conscious about his rapidly beating heart which the observant moggy in front of him has definitely noticed.

"Look. It's not about what it changes, it's about what it represents. It's a celebration of love, a union of two people and it's..." Rimmer pauses, mentally jumping over several hurdles and through a few flaming hoops. "It's something I never thought... I never really thought I'd get to do. Get married, I mean." He confesses, going a bright shade of red.

He waits for the Cat to cut in with a dismissive comment or well-thought-out insult, but the interruption doesn't come. Instead, the inquisitive feline remains motionless, his eyes locked onto Rimmer's own intensely, as though the hologram is a shiny red dot or tiny defenceless fish.

Rimmer clears his throat once before continuing.

"I always dreamed that I'd, uh. Well, you know. Climb the career ladder, meet a nice girl, settle down, have a family, all that... stuff. That's what I wanted, or it's what I thought I wanted... it's what I was told to want." He squeezes his eyes shut and inhales sharply. "But the truth is I got one step up the career ladder then fell five steps down and landed on my arse. And I died, as well, which if nothing else threw a rather large spanner into the whole plan. Marriage, though? That's something I actually did want... the ceremony, and the vows, and to be able to look someone in the eyes as they tell me how much I mean to them... I don't know... marriage symbolises something to me, I guess." He shrugs, then finishes by throwing his arms up helplessly and remarking: "I'm old and traditional. It's important to me!"

"Righttttttttt." The Cat replies, dragging the word out for a full five seconds. "And is it important to our mutual buddy as well?"

"That's–"

A good question, actually.

Rimmer freezes, his entire body suddenly going ridged and cold as though he's just been plunged into an ice bath.

He hadn't even considered that.

Would... would Lister even want to get married? Sure, he loves Rimmer, that's obvious to anyone with working eyes and half a brain. But... would he want to marry Rimmer? Would he want to marry anyone? Would he care?

Rimmer thinks back to the wedding party in the AR game – of when Lister had showed him off to all of his jousting friends as his "dear sweet husband", a huge grin on his face and not a care in the world. Is that all marriage is to Lister – just a silly little game? Something fun to play around with but not at all serious?

What if I've got this whole thing wrong? Rimmer thinks, his breath hitching. What if I've made this into a really big deal and it's not? I mean, sure, Lister's a sappy old romantic, but does that translate to marriage? What if he says "yes" but in a really casual way, like it's just another day at the office? What if he doesn't understand why I care so much? What if he says something like "what do you want to get married for?" and laughs? What if he says "yes" just to humour me?

...What if he says "no"?

Oh my god he could say "no".

"Non-bud? Non-bud?!"

The Cat's standing in front of him.

Or rather, the Cat's kneeling in front of him.

The Cat's kneeling in front of him and they're both on the floor, and Rimmer doesn't know when they got there or why they're down there, but his face is wet and Red Dwarf's resident feline is looking at him with clear discomfort.

"Come on, Alphabet Head, you know I don't know how to deal with you going into one of your panic thingies!" The moggy says, freaked out and flapping his hands every which way. "...I'll go get old Dormouse Cheeks; he'll know what to do!"

"Don't!" Rimmer gasps, reaching his hands out to grab the Cat desperately, holding him in place.

His unrelenting, hard-light grip creases the delicate fabric of the Cat's dressing gown where he latches onto the dainty, pink sleeve with trembling fingers. The Cat looks down at his arm where the hologram is holding him hostage and his face crumbles in distress. Whether it's distress born from having a crying, panicked hologram clinging onto him with bruising force, or distress born from having his dressing gown crinkled, Rimmer can't be sure.

"Please, don't get Lister." He pleads, his voice hoarse as he tries to get his shallow breathing back under control. "I'm okay, I'm okay... just give me a minute."

He lets go of the Cat's arm and leans forward – tucking his head between his knees, squeezing his eyes shut and taking in slow, practiced breaths. The Cat hovers for a moment, at a loss for what to do, before getting back to his feet and giving Rimmer space to focus on his breathing exercises.

A voice in the back of Rimmer's head that sounds suspiciously like Lister chastises him for being so ridiculous. Of course I'll say "yes" you silly smeghead, don't be daft! It says, in a good-humoured Scouse accent. But I can't say "yes" if you don't ask, and you can't ask without the–

"Here."

Rimmer opens his eyes, his vision blurred and distorted. He blinks purposefully, bringing the world around him gradually back into focus. When he turns his head to look upwards, he sees the Cat crouching down in front of him again, studying his expression with intrigue.

And, in the moggy's left hand, is a familiar little ring.

Rimmer sniffs, reaching out shakily to take the gold band from the out-stretched palm offered to him.

"Thank–" He's stopped mid-movement by the Cat suddenly closing his fist around the ring and staring at Rimmer fiercely.

"Here's the deal." He begins, using his free hand to take a pretty, embroidered handkerchief out of a secret pocket in the lining of his dressing gown and all but throwing it at Rimmer. "From what you've said to me it sounds like this whole 'marriage' nonsense hinges on you giving this ring to our unfashionable pal, yes?"

Rimmer uses the handkerchief to wipe stray tears from his puffy, reddened eyes, then blows his nose into it noisily whilst the Cat watches on with a grimace.

"Yes." Rimmer confirms, his voice a muffled, nasally mumble.

"...Yeah." The Cat coughs, once. "Uh, so, this ring isn't really yours then, is it? It belongs to our mutual bud, right?"

"I suppose..."

"Well then!" The Cat unclenches his fist and holds the ring out to Rimmer once more. "I'll loan it to you if you promise to give it to him! How ‘bout that? Deal?"

Rimmer looks up at the Cat from behind the frilly handkerchief, both bewildered and relieved.

"... Okay, deal." He agrees, feeling like he's completely lost control of this whole interaction.

The narcissistic feline grins smugly, looking like a very literal embodiment of the phrase 'the cat that got the cream".

"Alright!" He exclaims.

He takes Rimmer's hand – the one not holding the abused hanky – into his own and pries it open, dropping the gold band into his palm. The little ring settles there comfortably as the Cat curls Rimmer's fingers closed around it tightly.

He then taps the hologram's newly clenched fist twice for good luck and springs to his feet.

"Glad we could come to an agreement!" He says, spreading his arms out wide in a large, exaggerated stretch. "Now, I'm gonna go continue my nap. If you need anything else from me… don’t.”

"Do you want this back?" Rimmer asks, holding up the pocket handkerchief.

The Cat looks down at the slip of fabric, an expression akin to sheer terror warping his features.

"Uh... no, you can keep that."

"I'm made of light, you stupid moggy. My bodily fluids disappear the minute I stop making contact with–"

"I'm gonna stop you right there." The Cat interrupts, plastering a fake smile on his face. "I don't care what your fluids are made out of, I don't want them anywhere near me, thanks."

He turns to make for his cozy little corner of the room again as Rimmer peels himself up off the floor, brushing himself down diligently as he gets to his feet. He holds the gold ring at eye-level, admiring how it twinkles prettily in the warm, amber lighting of the Cat's room.

"Don't cock this whole thing up." The Cat remarks, sinking down into the pillows below. "I don't wanna have to deal with any kind of fallout."

"I won't." Rimmer responds, pressing his lips to the gold band softly and pocketing it once more. "I won't."

Rimmer sits, transfixed by the clothes spinning round and round through the washing machine's large, circular window. There's a cigarette perched between his lips and an ash tray full of the still-warm butts of its fallen comrades at his side.

The other boys from the Dwarf were right, he thinks, it is strangely hypnotic to watch the laundry. It's actually, genuinely doing wonders to calm his nerves; the gentle thumping noise of heavy denim against the metal drum, the rhythm of the spin rotating clockwise then anti-clockwise in predictable, chugging movements, the soap suds ebbing and flowing with the current of the water–

"Oh, my word! Mr Rimmer, you startled me!"

His tranquil bubble of peace and quiet is popped in an instant as Kryten blunders nosily into the room, a basket of dirty linen under one arm and a wide-eyed look of shock on his angular face.

Rimmer sighs, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

"Can I not just have five minutes of relaxation to myself?"

"My apologies sir, I had no idea you were in here."

"Well, think twice before you barge into rooms then!" Rimmer chides, grinding his cigarette into the ash tray forcibly, then immediately reaching for another. "Observe your surroundings better, concentrate on what you're doing more, consider where you're going! What business do you even have in here in the first place?"

Kryten frowns.

"What business do I have in the laundry room?"

"Yes, what business do you have in the laundry room?"

"... I'm, uh. Well, I'm doing the laundry, sir." Kryten answers in the same cadence that a disobedient child would confess to doing something they shouldn't.

Rimmer sighs again, as though Kryten has elected to perform his chores as part of a conspiracy to irritate him personally.

"Very well, as you were."

"Right... um, thank you?"

Kryten shuffles awkwardly around the bench that Rimmer is sat on, trying not to obstruct the hologram's clear view of the washing machine he's so diligently fixated upon. Rimmer balances a fresh cigarette from the packet he definitely didn't steal from Lister between his lips, bringing the lighter he definitely didn't steal from Lister to the end of it.

He crosses his legs and tries to return to the trancelike state he'd been in a moment prior; a state in which there had been nothing in this waking word but himself, a cigarette, the laundry, and the machine methodically turning around and around and around and around and around–

"Mr Rimmer?"

Rimmer closes his eyes and counts to ten out loud, rolling each number around in his mouth for a prolonged second. He takes a hefty drag of his cigarette and turns to face Kryten.

"What?" He asks, his voice unnerving in its evenness.

The old mechanoid looks down at Rimmer from where he's loading an empty washing machine nearby.

"Well, um... could you perhaps avoid smoking in here, sir? It's just that once smoke sinks into clothing it's such a hard smell to remove."

"Whose laundry are you doing, Kryten?" Rimmer asks, flatly.

"...Mr Lister's, sir."

"Who's the biggest smoker on board this ship, Kryten?"

Kryten looks away, the expression on his jagged features a cross between embarrassment and shame.

"...Mr Lister, sir."

"Wellllll then." Rimmer trills by way of justification, before taking another long, purposeful drag whilst maintaining steady eye contact with the bashful sanitation droid.

He's about to return to his regularly scheduled washing machine cycle when Kryten pipes up again.

"So, Mr Rimmer. I was wondering how the whole ‘proposal’ thing is coming along." He says, his tone laced with an undercurrent of excitement as he resumes his chores merrily.

"It isn't, if you must know."

Kryten pauses, hunched over the basket and cradling a pair of Lister's dirty long-johns.

"It... isn't? Sir?"

He sounds positively devastated.

"I don't mean that in a 'I'm not going to propose' kind of way, you silly sanitation droid. I mean it in a 'I'm just not ready yet' kind of way..." Rimmer explains, rolling his cigarette between his fingers.

Kryten reaches for the washing powder as he ponders the meaning of Rimmer's words.

"'Not ready yet'." He mumbles, tossing a generous handful of the white substance into the machine's open drawer. "Ah! You're still undecided about the tablecloths, aren't you sir? Fear not! Myself and Mr Cat have devised the perfect colour scheme for your wedding reception – oh it will be absolutely–"

"I don't care about the smegging table clothes, you broken crash-test dummy! For pity's sake..." Rimmer trails off miserably, lowering his head into his hands. "Why can't I just say it, Kryten?"

The mechanoid starts his load of laundry with the push of a button, watching as blinking lights illuminate the panel before him and a soft click signifies the locking of the door.

"...I don't know, sir." He answers, honestly. "Human emotions are... fickle things. Although... if I had to offer my best guess... I'm sure it's because you love Mr Lister very dearly, and you want to do right by him."

Rimmer snaps his head up, locking eyes with Kryten as the mechanoid moves towards him again.

"Since when did you become an expert on romance?" He asks, accusatory, ash falling from the tip of the abandoned cigarette between his fingers.

Kryten makes a litany of uncomfortable little humming noises and brings a large, mechanical hand up to tap the panel in the centre of his chest awkwardly.

"I'm by no means an expert on romance! But... I would claim, if I may be so bold, to be an expert on you..." He says, sheepishly. "I mean, I don’t like you very much. Or at all, really… but we have travelled together for a long time, and I can see how much this is affecting you, sir."

Rimmer sags in his seat.

"You can?"

Kryten nods.

"Oh yes. I'm afraid it's rather obvious, and I believe Mr Lister has likely seen it too."

Rimmer turns his gaze back towards the washing machine, watching the fabric curl and bend in colourful, abstract shapes. He brings the cigarette to his lips again.

It's been sixty-eight days, two hours and twenty-three minutes since he acquired the rings.

Last night, Lister had shagged him in one of the booths in the karaoke bar on C-Deck and Rimmer had been visited by another, prophetic sign.

They'd both had far too much to drink, Rimmer complaining that he couldn't sing without at least six double gin and tonics down him and Lister more than tipsy on some kind of sickly, neon-blue drink he'd procured from the cargo bay three days prior.

They'd drank, they'd laughed, they'd made their way through a very poor rendition of "Don't Stop Believin'" by Journey and then Lister had jumped Rimmer's bones halfway through the hologram's butchered attempt at "Somebody to Love" by Queen.

It had been very difficult for Rimmer to continue with his terrible solo when Lister's mouth had found his own.

Even in his drunken state, Rimmer had snuck a hand into his trouser pocket, seized the ring there and thrown it into a nearby plant pot, all whilst kissing Lister back like a man possessed.

This foresight had proven to be a good call when Lister had pulled him into a large booth tucked away in the corner. He'd man-handled Rimmer until the hologram was lying down with his back pressed against the booth's red, leather upholstery and had then climbed atop him to kiss him deeply again.

"Get your kit off." He’d ordered impatiently, his breath hot against Rimmer's parted lips when they'd finally come back up for air.

Rimmer had chuckled, face flushed with alcohol, expression insensible with desire. "Ask me nicely, Casanova." He'd teased, his voice thick and heavy with want.

Lister had grinned down at him from above, his eyes half-lidded and hungry. He'd already been hard in his jeans when he'd pressed against Rimmer, leaning over the prone hologram to whisper: "Get your kit off, pretty please, moon of my heart" into his ear.

Rimmer had caved in an instant.

His uniform had fallen away in a flash of distorted pixels, and Lister had been upon him with reflexes that would've given the Cat a run for his money. His hands had roamed all over Rimmer's body, and his lips had left a trail of kisses from the hologram's reddened face down to his neck, his collarbone, his chest, his stomach, lower.

Rimmer had writhed beneath him, bringing a hand up to his mouth to stifle his involuntarily noises, which in turn had caused Lister to abruptly stop what he'd been doing to tug the hand away with a charming smile.

"Don't you dare, love. I wanna hear you." He'd said, and he'd gotten his wish.

Afterwards, when Lister had slipped out of him with a soft grunt, and Rimmer had come back to himself to the sound of "Mr Brightside" by The Killers playing on the abandoned karaoke machine in the corner, two things had occurred to the hologram simultaneously.

The first had been that it was going to be a bitch to get back up; being a hologram did not spare Rimmer from the uncomfortable initial pull of peeling sweaty, bare skin away from sticky leather, unfortunately.

The second had been that he hadn't realised the karaoke bar had once functioned as a wedding venue.

An odd thing to think, granted, but with Lister no longer directly above him, Rimmer had suddenly found himself with an unobstructed view of the bar's high ceiling and there, floating at the very top of it, had been a large, confetti-filled balloon with the words "Just Married" printed across the body in bold, comic sans.

What, exactly, was inside said balloon to have kept it floating up there for over three million years was anyone's guess, but it had seemed like a cruel coincidence to Rimmer.

The hologram had seen it and he’d thought, in an abstract sort of way, that someone really ought to do something about that ring in the plant pot. Not him and not right now, though. Not when he's still drunk on the winning combination of far too much gin and David smegging Lister.

"You okay, babe? You're spacing out." Lister had asked.

It was upon finally prying his eyes from the ceiling to look over at his partner that a third thing had occurred to Rimmer, and not for the first time.

"Smeg, you're gorgeous." He'd said, his words slurred with alcohol, fatigue and raw, unfiltered passion.

And Lister had laughed, and had taken Rimmer's head into his hands, and had kissed him senseless once more.

The washing machine continues to whir.

Rimmer stubs his cigarette out and quickly lights another.

"How do they do it in 'Androids'?" He asks. "How do the characters propose to one another in that?"

Kryten sinks onto the bench beside Rimmer, his mechanical face twitching in distaste as the hologram beside him exhales another lungful of smoke.

"Well, sir. There's usually dramatic music and dynamic lighting, followed by an hour-long wedding special, then a series-long story-arc that usually culminates in divorce..." The mechanoid tapers off as he watches Rimmer's face turn ashen. "So, uh, probably not the most realistic of examples to pull from." He finishes, awkwardly.

Rimmer groans, throwing his hands up and jumping to his feet. He starts pacing up and down in front of Kryten, trying to dispel some of the anxious energy running through his body.

"For God's sake, what is wrong with me?"

"So many things."

"Kryten!"

"My apologies, sir. I hadn't meant to say that out loud."

Rimmer lets out a disgruntled whine, turning on his heels and broadening his strides as he moves the length of the row of washing machines in one direction, before turning around and pacing back in a straight line.

Kryten watches him, tapping out the rhythm to the 'Androids' theme-tune on his knee; the upbeat melody having now firmly lodged itself in his head, content to be stuck there for the rest of the day.

"If I may, Mr Rimmer." He says after a prolonged minute of silence. "I believe that Mr Lister will accept any proposal of yours, as long as it comes from the heart."

Rimmer stops in his tracks in front of Kryten.

"I know that, goddammit. Of course I know that! But then I work myself up into a nervous mess and I put it off again and again." He puffs on his cigarette, then flops back down next to Kryten. "I'm just sick of myself."

Kryten considers this, searching his memory banks for any relevant sources he can pull from.

"...Are you familiar with Atelophobia?"

Rimmer raises an eyebrow.

"Didn't they get to number six with 'Baby I Want Your Love Thing'?"

"No, sir. It's a fear of imperfection." Kryten explains, without missing a beat. "If rejection is not what you're afraid of, then the root of your issue is with the quality of the proposal itself. You've built it up to be something that it's not in your head... I know it's not my place to say so, but have you considered simply asking the question in a place on board the ship that has meaning for both yourself and Mr Lister? It may help bolster your courage! And having a simple plan means that you don't have to fret about anything going wrong!"

Rimmer taps his cigarette against the rim of the already full tray at his side, ash flaking off of its smouldering tip in small, grey clumps.

"But I want it to be special, Kryten." He declares, passionately. "Do you know how many colour-coordinated cue cards I've already wasted trying to plan my big speech?"

"I can imagine, and perhaps that unnecessary fussing is the root of your anxiety." Kryten speculates. "Your proposal will be special. Not because of any arbitrary grand speeches, but because it's coming from you... Oh, Mr Lister adores you sir, you must see that?"

Rimmer goes silent, allowing Kryten's words to skin in as his eyes glaze over in contemplation. The cigarette in between his fingers continues to simmer; growing smaller and smaller, until it eventually makes contact with the hologram's bare skin, causing Rimmer to drop it with a surprised hiss.

He sees a pair of matching angry burns appear on either side of his inner index and middle fingers – light bee simulating the minor injury for just a fleeting second before blinking it out of existence, as if it were never there at all.

The hologram stares down at his hand, turning it over to survey his perfect, unblemished skin.

Last night, in the throes of pleasure, Lister had attempted to leave his mark on Rimmer too, trailing love-bite after love-bite down the length of his pale neck only to watch all of them disappear almost instantaneously one by one.

Rimmer thinks of his ring – identical to Lister’s own – small, golden and still gathering dust beneath the floor of the cargo bay.

A ring wouldn't disappear.

A ring would sit tightly around Rimmer's finger as a reminder that he's one half of a far greater whole.

A moon caught in the unbreakable orbit of a bright, warm sun.

"Oh! Mr Rimmer!"

Kryten breaks Rimmer out of his musings, popping yet another of the hologram's self-made bubbles.

"Are you alright, sir?!" The mechanoid asks, fretting over Rimmer's hand for a moment, observing the lack of any injury there, then letting out a disappointed chorus of tuts. "This is why I just hate smoking! It's such a senselessly damaging practice, I do hope you don't take it up permanently like Mr Lister any time soon!"

"I won't, it's just a nervous thing..."

Rimmer reaches into his pocket, the one not playing host to any kind of gold ring, and attempts to fish another cigarette from the packet he'd been keeping there, only to find it completely empty.

This is it then, he thinks, the empty cardboard sleeve feeling like an omen.

"Well, if you do decide to make smoking an everyday occurrence, please at least make an effort to do it outside, sir." Kryten implores.

Rimmer opens his mouth to argue, about to say something along the lines of: "there is no 'outside' on board this spaceship you senile old bucket of rusty spare parts" before a sudden, brilliant thought occurs to him.

"'Outside...'" He mumbles, thoughtfully. "Outside, of course! Of course! Why didn't I think of that sooner?!"

"Think of what, sir?"

Rimmer looks Kryten in the eyes again, his face splitting into grin as he exudes newly ignited enthusiasm.

"I've got it! I know just the spot!"

Kryten stares at him, blankly.

"'Just the spot', sir?"

"For the proposal, gimboid!" Rimmer shakes his head. "Honestly! It's so obviously romantic yet charmingly mundane I'm surprised it hadn't even crossed my mind until now!"

"Oh! I'm very pleased to hear that!" Kryten says, clapping his hands together excitedly.

"Yes..." Rimmer nods, his expression a mixture of joy and trepidation as he ponders this new spark of inspiration. "Yes... that'll do nicely, I think..." The grin on his face settles into something softer. "I need to ask him as soon as possible, before I chicken out again."

He speaks this final sentence with firm resolve, remembering his promise to the Cat and realising that backing down this time is simply not an option.

He's had too many chances, he's not wasting any more.

"Indeed!" Kryten agrees, encouragingly. "You need to go and ask him now, sir."

"I do. No more fannying about with pathetic excuses."

"No, sir. It's 'now or never' as they say!"

"Yes..."

Rimmer runs his tongue along his bottom lip, his light bee practically overheating with the rate at which his thoughts are spiralling around inside his head, tumbling over one another much like the contents of a washing machine.

Oh, yeah, the washing machine.

He'd forgotten about that.

Rimmer clears his throat.

"Yes... uh, well, maybe not right now... ay, Kryten?" He says, the words leaving him in short, hurried bursts.

Kryten tilts his head, wondering if all Ionians are like the strange creature beside him or if Rimmer is truly a force onto himself.

"Sir...?"

"Well, you know... let's not be too hasty, shall we? Let's wait justttt a smidge longer." Rimmer pinches a tiny portion of the air in front of him on the word 'smidge' to emphasize just how small said ‘smidge’ is.

"...A 'smidge' longer?"

"Yes! Yes... let's say..." Rimmer waves his hand dismissively. "Oh, I don't know – fifteen minutes and ten seconds?"

"Fifteen minutes and ten seconds?" Kryten repeats, baffled. "Why, sir? What difference could fifteen minutes and ten seconds possibly make?"

The pair stare at one another for a long, arduous span – Rimmer with a look on his face that vaguely resembles guilt and Kryten with confusion in his big, mechanical eyes. Rimmer's gaze flickers over to the washing machine he'd been feverishly watching earlier, then back towards Kryten again almost imperceptivity.

If Kryten hadn't possessed optical abilities far exceeding that of your average human being, he might not have even noticed. Slowly, purposefully, the mechanoid turns his head towards the washing machine. He peers into the circular window intently, trying to find an answer for Rimmer's contrary behaviour in the spinning clothes within.

His eyes travel upwards to the panel at the top of the machine, counting slowly down.

Fourteen minutes and forty-one seconds. Fourteen minutes and forty seconds. Fourteen minutes and thirty-nine seconds.

And then it dawns on him.

"...Mr Lister's ring is in the washing machine, isn't it?" He says, voice eerily calm.

"Yeahhhhhhhh." Rimmer admits, the word leaving him in a sharp breath of air like the smoke from one of his cigarettes.

"Oh, Mr Rimmer!" Kryten exclaims, his tone pitching upwards in a high whine as he jumps to his feet in distress.

"Kryten–"

"This is all my fault!" He squeaks.

"Kryten–"

"I knew I should've checked the pockets of your dressing gown before I threw it into the laundry, but I was just so thrilled! You so rarely leave real clothes lying around for me to clean and so when I saw it I was overcome with excitement! I just had to wash it right away – I just had to! I didn't even think and now I've gone and put Mr Lister's engagement ring on a spin cycle–"

"Kryten!" Rimmer yells, cutting the high-strung mechanoid off mid-lament. "It's my fault for not taking the ring out of my pocket. For smeg's sake, calm down, you're going to blow a fuse!"

Kryten looks at him, his mouth angled downwards in a crude approximation of an anguished frown. He looks like he’d be crying, if he were human; eyes narrowed and bottom lip trembling.

“…You’re not mad?” He snivels, voice still piercing in a way that’s preferable only to dogs.

Rimmer winces, the sharp noise going right through him.

“No, of course I’m not mad, you daft laundry maid.” He says with a shake of his head. “This load will be done soon anyway. Sit back down! You’re making me nervous.”

Kryten makes a weird chirping noise, then lowers himself to sit beside Rimmer once more.

“Sorry, sir.”

“It’s fine.”

"How can I ever make it up to you?” Kryten asks, having ignored Rimmer’s insistence that he really doesn’t care that much.

Rimmer’s about to continue reassuring the mechanoid that what’s done is done when a thought occurs to him.

“Actually… I do have one favour to ask of you.”

Kryten perks up.

“Yes, sir?”

Rimmer smiles, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“Find Lister, tell him to dress in something half-decent and to meet me up on the observation deck in an hour.”

“Oh… Oh. So, you are going to do it tonight then, sir?”

“It’s just as you say.” Rimmer responds, directing his attention back towards the washing machine and mentally bracing himself for the evening ahead. “Now or never.”

All Rimmer can smell is burnt tobacco and fabric softener – the scents having stuck up his nostrils and mingled there bizarrely, making him feel light-headed. He sways from one foot to the other, happy to have been reunited with his little gold companion as he nervously fidgets with it in his pocket. Thankfully the ring had been well protected amongst the many articles of clothing in the washing machine, having wedged itself between Rimmer’s dressing gown and one of the Cat’s luxurious winter coats. It’s exactly as it had been before going for a spin, albeit now smelling vaguely of Lenor’s “Northern Solstice” scent.

The matching ring – Rimmer's ring – is in the hologram's other pocket.

Upon retrieving Lister’s ring, Rimmer had rushed down to the cargo bay and pried his own abandoned gold band from its floorboard prison, dusting it off as he’d made his way up to the observation deck where he now paces restlessly. He’d impressed himself with how quickly he’d marched through the ship after leaving the laundry room, only having stopped upon stepping into one of the service elevators to mentally sort through his computer-generated wardrobe.

Admittedly, it had been then that panic had begun to settle in once more.

At first, he’d changed into his white admiral’s uniform, with its shiny gold buttons, collection of brightly coloured medals and gaudy, oversized epaulettes. As much as he adores this outfit – even taking a few seconds to appreciate himself in the floor-length elevator mirror after putting it on – it hadn’t felt, to Rimmer, like the right ensemble for a proposal. The admiral's uniform is, after all, exactly that: a uniform. A thing tied to his career and his rank – or lack thereof – not made to be worn for such a personal, private affair.

That, and it's white, which if nothing else had felt a little too on the nose.

So, Rimmer had rotated through other articles from the ship’s infinite digital wardrobe, becoming increasingly agitated as he’d whittled his options further and further down, eventually landing on an outfit that he’d never seen before. It was an elegant, three-piece suit that hugged him in all the right places and looked to have been ironed impeccably straight as though Kryten himself had slaved over it.

However, it was less the fit of the suit and more it’s colour that had given Rimmer pause; the jacket, trousers and waistcoat all being a beautiful forest green.

“I’ve always thought you suited green, y’know?” Lister had told the hologram once when he’d been cycling through his collection of uniforms one evening and had stumbled upon his old green tunic, complete with its matching emerald military cap.

He’d been about to delete it from the holo suite’s memory banks when Lister had raised his voice from where he’d been lounging on Rimmer’s bunk a couple of feet away, head propped up on his hand and admiring his partner’s little fashion show from afar.

Rimmer had straightened his posture and puffed his chest out, proudly.

“Oh, really?” He’d asked, and Lister had nodded.

“Yeah, makes you look all distinguished n’ smeg.” He’d said with a smile. “Do you still have that green quilted jacket? Y’know, the one you wore when we were marooned on that frozen planet?”

Rimmer had clicked his heels together in response, transforming into said quilted jacket in a flash of light with a smug grin.

“This one?” He’d asked with a twirl.

“Yeah, that’s the one. God that brings back memories… I think seeing you in that outfit was about the only thing keepin’ me sane during that whole thing.”

Rimmer’s eyes had widened.

“You like it that much?”

Lister had nodded.

“It just reminds me of back then... it’d just been you, and me, and I’d been on death’s door, and we'd had that heart-to-heart about shagging other people and all I can remember thinking is how much I’d wanted to shag you... at the time I’d blamed it on the hunger and the whole freezin’ to death thing, though…” He’d confessed, eyes trailing up and down Rimmer’s body appreciatively. “Having said all of that, I think you could make anything look good, babe.”

That memory had struck Rimmer suddenly, as he'd viewed himself in the elevator’s large mirror.

Yes, he’d thought, adjusting his bronze cufflinks as a tinny voice announced his arrival to the observation deck with a shrill ‘ping’. This’ll do nicely.

From then it’s been a waiting game, which is half the battle for a man who excels in catastrophizing every aspect of his life to almost comical degrees. Still, Rimmer’s happy with his choice of the observation deck as a proposal spot – the glass dome surrounding him making him feel like nothing so much as a fish circling its bowl as he paces up and down. The sound of his heels tapping softly against the grated metal gangway reverberates loudly around the enclosed space, giving Rimmer the impression that any noise made here is somehow sacred; a secret shared only by himself and the vastness of space.

A second pair of footsteps joins his own, the noise travelling in a muffled echo up from the stairs below, and Rimmer halts his movements; artificial heartbeat quickening. His right leg bounces uncontrollably, as though trying to mutinously abandon the rest of his body, but he straightens his posture and remains firmly glued to the centre of the observation platform like a soldier awaiting inspection.

Lister appears at the top of the winding staircase, his eyes immediately finding Rimmer’s own as he rises from the darkness below.

“There you are.” He says, warmly, using the handrail to propel himself forward in a little hop. “Kryten told me you wanted to see me, said to dress up.” He spreads his arms out and spins on the spot. “Whaddaya think?”

Rimmer looks him up and down, pulse rattling in his wrists as he wills himself to be calm.

Lister is dressed in his ‘fancy get-up’ – the one he usually only saves for special occasions, like the instance wherein Rimmer had attempted to cook a posh meal for him, despite having been soft-light at the time and needing to rely on two very clumsy scutters. He’s wearing his least-stained shirt, freshly cleaned by Kryten and worn with the top two buttons undone, a rather snazzy black dinner jacket, that may or may not have once belonged to the Cat, smart black trousers and a pair of well-loved leather boots that have blotchy, dark patches all over them as though they’ve been polished by someone who doesn’t quite understand how polish works.

“You look wonderful.” Rimmer answers, not trusting himself to say anything more for fear of butchering his words.

“Aw, you’re just saying that man!” The Scouser replies, scratching the back of his head self-consciously. “And hey, forget about me! Get you! Smeg, Arn, you look amazing! Y’know, I’ve always loved you in green.”

Lister gestures excitedly to Rimmer’s new suit, taking it in with a grin on his face.

“Yeah, I know.” Rimmer replies, a slight tremor in his voice.

Lister meets Rimmer’s gaze again, the delighted expression on his face freezing in place as he searches his partner’s eyes. Cautiously, with the same care afforded to cornered animals, he crosses the small distance between the two and stops right in front of the hologram, peering up at him with concern.

He holds both of his hands out palm-up in invitation, and Rimmer takes them gratefully, knowing that Lister can likely feel his fluttering heartbeat where the two of them are connected.

“Hey, what’s this all about?” Lister asks, his voice gentle; worry edging its way into his tone. “You’re shaking, babe.”

Rimmer takes a deep breath.

“I-I want it on record that I had been workshopping a proper plan for this.” He states, squeezing Lister’s hands in an attempt to syphon courage from him. “I made cue cards and everything, but I’ve sacked them off now so if… if this all goes wrong, and you think it’s all just a bit silly… and you don’t… don’t want to… then we can just pretend this never happened and move on, okay?”

Lister continues to study the man in front of him, recognising the intensity of Rimmer’s words and immediately matching his energy.

“Okay.” He agrees, schooling his expression into a small, encouraging smile.

“Good. Lovely-jubbly. Top notch. Absolutely smashing! That’s…” Rimmer swallows around the lump in his throat. “…That’s good.”

For moment neither of them moves – Lister taking in the anxiety in Rimmer’s eyes and feeling the hologram’s quivering hands shake in his own, and Rimmer staring back, being met with nothing but patience and support from the smartly-dressed Scouser. There are stars reflected in Lister’s dark, brown eyes; twinkling specks on the horizon acting as their only witness in the deafeningly silent echo-chamber surrounding them.

Rimmer inhales.

He thinks of horoscopes, cryptic fortune cookies, prophetic balloons and 'The Daily Amateur Crossword Puzzle'.

Then, he lets go of Lister’s hands and drops to one knee.

The movement isn’t graceful – his left knee hitting the walkway with a soft, heavy “thump”, as though the weight of the last sixty-eight days, four hours and five minutes has suddenly manifested itself physically upon his shoulders. Rimmer refuses to let this stop him though, instead he maintains eye contact with Lister – enamoured with how his partner looks in starlight, framed by countless constellations.

“I… I know I haven’t always been the easiest person to live with. And I know that, if Holly had given you the option of which crew member to bring back as a hologram, I wouldn’t have been your first choice… but… I want you to know… if our roles had been reversed, you would’ve been mine.” He confesses, voice thick with unshed tears. “You’ve always been my first choice. You were the first person to treat me with kindness and I…” He stops, takes another shaky breath, fumbles for the ring in his pocket and presents it with a trembling hand. “I… I’m…” He shakes his head. “Oh, damn it all to hell – will you marry me, Dave?”

The words leave Rimmer far faster than he’d intended them to, stumbling over one another in their desperation to escape his lips.

There’s a lot about his proposal that he hadn’t intended, in fact.

He’d intended on giving a monologue to rival the moonlight speech Lister had given him; something equally as poetic about suns and moons and how Lister is brighter than any celestial body this side of the known universe. He’d intended to cap off said flowery spiel with a confession of undying love, which upon reflection would’ve been both ironic and unnecessary. Ironic because Rimmer was already categorically undead. Unnecessary because Lister already knows how much Rimmer loves him.

And so there is no practiced, jaw-dropping speech – just the dull, throbbing pain of a crooked knee against hard, metal panelling and a ring held aloft by two shaky fingers.

Lister hasn’t moved an inch since Rimmer dropped to his knees, but his eyes are wide and his earlier smile has fallen from his face, his features having gone slack with shock. The air between them is sharp with heightened emotion; Rimmer studying his partner intensely, scrutinising his body language for any kind of response to his long-held query. It’s then that he recognises the familiar, unreadable emotion on Lister’s face as the same one he’d observed all of those weeks ago during the AR game, back when he’d called Lister “husband” in front of his jousting buddies.

He sees that fleeting, barely perceptible Something flicker across Lister’s handsome features again now, and he thinks: Oh, so that’s what that was.

Rising panic overtakes him a split-second later when Lister’s eyes begin to well up.

“Don’t cry.” Rimmer says, somewhat hypocritically given the fact that he can feel tears trying to escape from his own eyes as well. “Don’t you dare cry, Listy. You’re not allowed to cry because if you start crying then I’ll start crying and then where the smeg will we be?! We’ll just be two old men crying at each other in the middle of deep space and what good’s that?” He blathers on, his voice cracking under the strain of emotion.

Lister lets out a small splutter of laughter, bringing a shaky hand up to wipe the first of his fallen tears from his misty, wet eyes.

“Smeg. Fuck. Arn.” He stammers, utterly speechless.

Rimmer continues gazing up at his partner, committing the sight in front of him to memory; already knowing what Lister is about to say and having known it all along.

“Yes.” Lister chokes out, the word spoken with clear conviction. “Yes. God, yes.”

They move at the same time; Rimmer surging off the floor and Lister grabbing the fabric of his lapels, dragging him into a bruising kiss. The hologram's world narrows in that moment, consisting only of the bitter, salty taste of fresh tears where his lips meet Lister's own. His free hand grasps at the back of Lister’s jacket in an attempt to steady himself, and his other hand clutches his partner's ring in a death grip.

They break apart; breathless, tear-stained and clinging onto one another with the vast expanse of space all around them. Two men at the end of the universe with eyes only for each other.

“…Please. For the love of all that is good and holy.” Rimmer pulls away to present the ring once more. “Take this damn thing off me before I lose it again.”

Lister chuckles; the sound warm, affectionate and contagious in a way that has Rimmer responding in turn until the two of them are dissolving into veritable hysterics.

“Again?!” Lister rasps, between bouts of uncontrollable laughter.

“Don’t ask! I swear the only place this ring hasn’t been is Mordor.” Rimmer answers, calling on every fibre of his free-will to compose himself. “Come on, then! Give me your hand.”

Lister shakes his head in amusement, holding out his left hand with his finger’s splayed apart in invitation. Rimmer finally, with unrivalled satisfaction, slips the ring onto Lister’s finger, the little gold band sitting in pride of place where it was always supposed to be. His fingers linger there for a moment, then he wraps his hand around Lister’s own and runs his thumb along the Scouser’s knuckles, brushing it against the ring softly.

The sight is overwhelming, and yet, in a strange way, it's as if the ring has always been there; uniquely suited to rest upon Lister’s finger as though it were made solely for this purpose.

Perhaps it was, fate’s been funny like that, as of recent.

When Rimmer tears his eyes away from the ring, returning them to Lister’s face, he sees that his partner is equally as transfixed by the ring as he is.

“…I have a matching one.” The hologram says, quietly, pulling his own ring out of his pocket with his free hand and holding it up to prove his point. “It was buy-one-get-one-free on engagement rings with the GELF, so I thought I’d better get myself one as well.”

Lister meets Rimmer’s eyes again.

“Really?”

“No, of course not. I traded a metric smeg ton of supplies away for these.”

“Ahhhhhhhh.” Realisation dawns on Lister’s face. “So that’s where all me poppadoms went…”

“Afraid so. If you want wedding rings as well as engagement rings then we might have to start bartering away other pieces of popular Indian cuisine as well.” Rimmer says with a smile. “Curry might be off the menu for a while.”

“Well worth it, though.” Lister replies with a grin of his own, then he nods towards the ring in Rimmer’s hand. “Give that here.”

Rimmer passes the ring over and mimics Lister’s earlier hand position, eagerness radiating off of him in waves.

The ring slides onto his finger, guided by Lister’s gentle touch, and Rimmer can’t stop the way that his smile expands at the sight of it twinkling against his skin. Lister stares down at it with the same awe-struck look that he’d afforded his own ring not a few moments prior.

“It’s very pretty…” He remarks, before redirecting his gaze up to Rimmer’s face and adding: “The ring’s not too bad either.”

Rimmer groans, his disapproval at the cheesy compliment hampered by his inability to stop smiling.

“You’re a corny old codger.”

“I’m your corny old codger.”

Lister extracts his left hand from where it’s still sitting in Rimmer’s own to hold it up proudly in front of the hologram’s face, ring gleaming attractively as the light from the stars catches it at the perfect angle.

Rimmer rolls his eyes, affectionately.

“That you are. And you know what comes next don’t you?”

“Uh… a wedding?”

“Planning a wedding.” Rimmer corrects.

“Oh god…" Lister says, feigning dread. "You’re gonna run our big day like it’s the military, aren’t you?”

Lister wraps his arms around Rimmer’s waist and pulls him closer as the hologram nods in confirmation.

“Yes indeedy! My schedule will be meticulous – buckle up baby, we’re about to have the wedding of the century!” Rimmer declares as he leans into Lister like a plant angling itself towards the sun, his own hands coming up to rest on the small of his partner’s back.

Lister stifles a laugh.

“I hate to burst your bubble, but I think we’re about to have the only wedding of the last century…” He pauses, then amends his statement with: “Well, the only human wedding at least. Probably longer, actually.”

“All the more reason to go all out!”

Rimmer presses his forehead to Lister’s own, their bodies now flush against one another, as Lister hums in agreement.

“I look forward to it, fiancé.” He whispers into the small space between them, emphasizing the word ‘fiancé’ with unmatched tenderness.

“…Say that again.” Rimmer breathes, feeling his pulse quicken further.

“Fiancé.” Lister repeats, rolling the word around on his tongue for a long second and bringing one of his hands up to rest it against Rimmer’s face.

The cold press of Lister’s ring against the bare skin of his cheek makes Rimmer feel weak in the knees.

“…One more time, if you could. My hearing isn't as good as it used to be.”

Lister laughs.

“Fiancé.”

The stars continue to shine behind them, a poor imitation of the moonlight they create together, as Rimmer closes the gap between himself and his fiancé, pressing their lips together softly.

Sixty-eight days, four hours and twenty-one minutes later.

Notes:

Thank you for reading! As always feedback is encouraged and appreciated (talk to me about these ridiculous old men I'm begging you, they live in my head rent free). <3

You can also find me on tumblr @johnnystorrm.

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