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Christmas Eve always cast a special sort of magic over the little burg, loosening pocketbooks in the shops for last-minute and aw-shucks-she’s-only-a-kid-once, let’s-buy-her-that-expensive-doll purchases. The gently falling snow added to the Hallmark card mystique and seemed to elevate every Bedford Fallsian’s mood - which was saying something, considering how damn cheerful almost everyone seemed the rest of the year anyway. Even the town’s drunken ne’er-do-well, Charlie, always managed to fall down with a smile at the end of the night.
The town’s scratchy speakers were pumping out classic carols, new snow was just fluffy enough to be pretty without slopping up the works yet, pedestrians were bustling yet not so pushy as to constitute an unbearable crowd, and the bank tellers were smiling in anticipation of getting off work at noon.
So naturally this is when the Arnolds Rimmer and Potter both spotted legendary scatterbrain Billy Bailey scurry off, leaving a fat envelope at the writing station in the center of the bank lobby. A few bills of currency peeked out one end.
Rimmer, who was pushing his uncle’s wheelchair, clocked the nanosecond the old skinflint saw it happen, by the tensing of his shoulders and the hungry way he hunched forward. The lobby was crowded; the window was narrower than Rimmer’s passing grade in Theory of Accounting, to cut off Potter’s avarice and the next chapter of his decades-long vendetta against the Baileys, as well as to intercept anyone else spotting the envelope. He shot quick looks around… and found an out.
”Ah, Mrs. Marsh!” Rimmer exclaimed, coming around the side of the wheelchair to intercept the old bag as she crossed between it and the writing station table. “Fancy making your acquaintance on this lovely day! Uncle, it’s Mrs. Marsh! Didn’t you say you had something to update her about her new home?”
”What? Update what?” Old Lady Marsh was one of the rare town characters who didn’t seem to fart sparkly rainbows with everlasting glee. She was perpetually sourpussed and weekly at Potter’s door with some demand or other - but she was also nearly as wealthy as the old man himself, which meant Rimmer often got shoved in front of her to smile and nod and reassure and take notes on bullshit non-problems.
Potter craned his neck to scowl at him, too. “What update?”
”Her, ah… That is, she…” Rimmer’s brain was not a willing participant in this deception, sitting back to see what the rest of him would come up with. “The front door. She came in last week to point out the front door is not balanced correctly on the hinges.” That at least was accurate. “Didn’t you say we need to talk with the job foreman about redoing it?”
Something sparked in Mrs. Marsh’s eyes, and she turned her attention on Potter. Once he was sure the old man was sufficiently distracted by ire, Rimmer slipped off to the side and snatched Billy’s envelope off the table, keeping one eye on his uncle’s reddening face as he surreptitiously jammed it into the oversized pocket of his wool greatcoat. He took a few steps back over, just in time for Potter to look for him. “You’ll see to Herb rebalancing that door, then.” His command was accompanied by murder in his eyes for being forced into actual customer service.
”I’ll check in with him first thing day after tomorrow,” Rimmer promised.
”What’s wrong with today?” Mrs. Marsh demanded.
”Well, of course I can ask after it today,” he tried to gently haw, “but it is Christmas Eve, and the crew probably won’t be able to-“
”Mr. Rimmer, did I or did I not bring this to your attention nearly eight days ago, to be fixed?”
Thing was, Herb had already fixed the issue on the nearly-ready-to-move-into grand home. But since Rimmer hadn’t yet reported back to her, and then stuck his foot in his own mouth, he had to maintain the pretense. “Yes, you’re right; I will talk with him today and it will be fixed by this afternoon, madame.”
”See to it.” She turned and clicked off, without a courtesy good-bye or even a mildly friendly fuck-you.
Then there was Potter. “What’s this?” He grabbed his own wheels in a rare moment of manual labor and powered up to the writing station table. “There was an envelope here just a moment or so ago! Did you see where it went?”
Rimmer followed. “Envelope?” He made sure to frown concernedly. “There’s no envelopes; it’s just deposit slips and pens.”
”There was a-“ Suddenly those beady eyes were on him again. “Who did you see walk by here while I was stuck talking to her?”
“I don’t know what you mean, but a lot of people have been walking through. It’s the bank, the day before Christmas.” He tried to sound reasonable.
Potter shook his head. “I might have expected as much. Dull brains come with dull eyes. I warned my sister against marrying into that stock.” He waved toward the back area, where the VP’s office was. “Let’s get going, then. Not sitting out here all day with the rabble.”
######
Snow was falling; tomorrow was Christmas. Dave Lister, beloved Everyman of Bedford Falls, should have had a bouncier spring in his step than any of the town’s twitterpated residents. Instead, he was trying to keep the vein behind his left eye from twitching too hard as Uncle Billy nearly cried in the chair before him, twisting his hands around one another. “Let’s try once more,” he said, forcing a calm into his voice that he was far from feeling. “You had the deposit when you left here at nine, right?”
“Yes, of course,” the older man sniffed. “I went straight to the bank; I didn’t tarry around. I saved my other errands to do after. I had the envelope in my pocket. I took it out and set it down to fill out the deposit slip, so I could just set that on top and take it all to Marge at the window when I was done.”
Lister wondered if he’d simply gone up to Marge without it, to flirt, but held his tongue on that part. “And you finished filling it out… and then?”
“No, I didn’t finish. Like I said, I remembered as I was doing it, that I’d gone to make myself a coffee before I left the house, then decided I’d just stop by the cafe after the bank, but I did turn on the burner anyway, and started worrying I hadn’t shut it off! I couldn’t remember doing so, so I ran home to make sure the gas wasn’t going or the house wasn’t on fire. And-“ The words stopped tumbling out of his mouth again at this point and he covered his face with his hands. “And when I got home and made sure, then I put my hands in my pockets and remembered I’d left the money in the lobby. So I ran back… but it was gone.”
”And you checked with the tellers? Nobody had turned it in?”
”No, nobody! Of course I asked them!”
Lister blew out a hard stream of air. If the bank didn’t get that five thousand dollars before the end of today, there wouldn’t be enough in the Bailey Savings & Loan’s account to cover several mortgage payments. Payments hardworking people had saved and made on time to the S&L. They might lose their houses. He didn’t want to think about where he’d have to pull that money from. He covered his own face with his hands and sighed.
”I’m so sorry, son. It’s my fault, and I don’t have the cash to make it up.” Thing is, Uncle Billy was sorry; he was also kind of traditionally careless, but he’d never screwed things up to this degree, and Lister wasn’t sure whether he could be angry, but he felt like he couldn’t just wave it off and let him off the hook, either. That’d make them both feel more like shit.
”I know,” he finally said, dropping his hands. “I’d like to grab your shoulders and shake you ‘til it all drops out in pocket change, but that’s not going to do us any good. We’ve got to think how to fix it, until the money turns up… if it does.”
At least the old man wasn’t crying, and that was a minor victory. “I’m going to go back again, retrace my steps physically, see if there’s any way I might have dropped it instead, or see if anyone might have turned it in by now.”
”Good idea.” Lister focused on not hyperventilating, nodding as Uncle Billy stood, straightened himself up, and left. When he was gone, and Lister was alone in the S&L office, he walked to the desk, dropped into the chair behind it, and proceeded to drop his forehead on and growl into the wood: “URRRGGHHH…..”
#####
It was nearly lunchtime when Rimmer was finally able to slink away from Potter’s office and bundle up to venture outside the building under the guise of giving Herb a good talking-to about that door. He patted down his pocket after pulling on his gloves, and set off down the street in a brisk walk.
Bedford Falls was… normal. So normal. He turned up the back of his collar against the chill and watched young kids running along here and there, some carrying sleds and makeshift coasters for the park. Older kids were enjoying days out of school, running errands for parents, sneaking into shops to spend a few nickels for a first love or grandparent. Rimmer remembered doing a few of these things when little, the few times he could escape the eyes of his older brothers or his father’s list of chores. If either found him, he inevitably got drafted into being the one to carry the sled and drag it back up the hill (for his brothers) or spend a perfectly fine play day inside polishing old collector swords and medals to atone for some poor test score or unanswered quiz question.
Well. They were all out of his life now, so at least he could make a cup of tea and read late at night most evenings without being put to work.
He paused outside the front of Bailey’s S&L, hand near the doorknob. He and Dave Lister hadn’t truly been in each other’s orbit through school, or after, so he wasn’t really sure how to start a conversation with the guy. One of the first interactions he could recall was a group of boys razzing him for a poor football team tryout - he hadn’t even wanted to play, but his uncle wasn’t about to have a sissy in his ranks. The boys cornered him at lunch the following day and were loudly making fun, when Lister wandered nearby, watched for a moment, then motioned his buddy Olaf over to mutter something in his ear. Rimmer had watched as the tall, broad football star rolled his eyes, but approached and scattered the boys with a few well-placed not-English words it was nonetheless easy to tell being about their parentage.
As the giant Swede sloped off after them, Rimmer had glanced at Lister, who had given him a cheeky wink, then wandered away go to class, or to fuck off in the restrooms or whatever it was Dave Lister did. Even back in school, before he had come back to take over his sainted dead parents’ business, Lister had been popular, effortless at making friends from just about any clique, as well as smart with numbers.
Which naturally meant he’d had nothing to do with Arnold Rimmer.
He pushed the door open and looked around the nearly empty space. A slightly older man was at the lone teller window, working on something with a pen and a thoughtful frown. When the bell tinkled, he looked up and blinked, then smiled. “Oh, hello, sir. What can we do for you today?”
Rimmer glanced at the nameplate. Jimmy Krytes. “Yes, ah. I was wondering, is Mr. Lister in the office today?”
The cheerful eyes dimmed a bit. “Well, he is, but right now he’s in an important meeting, and I can’t disturb him. Can I help you with something instead, or make an appointment for another-“
A loud thump came from the back, and they turned to see the frosted office door had been thrown open and the man himself barreling out, it seemed a bit unsteadily. “Hey, Krytes! Where’s the-“ He caught sight of company, and all three men froze in place.
After many seconds, Rimmer broke the silence. “Must be some meeting,” he observed drily to Krytes. The man only shrugged.
Lister narrowed his eyes. “Arnold Rimmer?” he asked, coming around the teller cubicle between him and the front. Again, Rimmer noted he was walking a bit off, and wondered if he’d hurt his leg. He stopped several feet away, a deep scowl settling in. “What’re YOU doing here?”
Rimmer sighed, used as he was to being the despised Arnold Potter’s slightly less despised nepo proxy. Being related in this town got one a fearful respect, but no favorability. “Problem, Lister? Did I interrupt you deep into translating the works of Confucius from the original Chinese?”
Shaking his head, the other man said, “Not doing this today. I’ve got enough bedevilin’ me without rich-guy smeg.” His dark eyes were sort of bloodshot, Rimmer clocked. “What do you need? How can I get you out of here faster?”
He twitched, nearly turning on his heel and leaving with his good deed. Something deep in Rimmer’s brain, though - something he didn’t understand consciously, but what had driven him to distract his uncle so he could snatch up Billy’s money before the old man could scoot to it first - thwapped his pride with a stick. He slid his hand into his pocket and nearly spoke… then glanced at the teller. Maybe this Jimmy wasn’t supposed to know? “I think it’s probably better discussed in your office.”
Lister narrowed his eyes more, then stopped and gave a short nod. To Jimmy, he said, “Mind if I ask you to head over to Gower’s and get me a strawberry phosphate? Tell Etta I promise I’ll bring back the glass.” He reached in a pocket and pulled out a dollar. “Get you one too, and leave her a tip? And lollygag a bit getting back.”
”Certainly, sir.” The earnest employee quickly straightened his workspace, locked his drawer, and took the dollar as he passed his boss. Rimmer watched him pause near Lister, eyes briefly widening as if something was odd, but then he nodded and turned toward the front. As soon as he’d bundled into his coat from the pegs and clapped on his cap, he turned and called, “Thank you, Mr. Lister!”
Lister passed near as he went to the jingling door and turned the lock after Jimmy, and Rimmer blinked at the unexpected fumes. That explained the eyes; probably also the lack of a suit jacket and the sloppily rolled shirtsleeves and loosened necktie. Lister never was the sharpest dresser, but this morning even he looked like someone had started tugging at a thread hours ago and kept pulling.
“All right, out with it, then.”
Rimmer removed his fedora to give himself a moment to find words. What came out instead was, “Have you been drinking before noon?”
”My business ain’t yours. Or you going to report that to your uncle too?”
”What do you mean, too?”
Lister rolled his eyes and stepped aggressively closer. “I know why you’re here. He watches our balances like a hawk and it’s almost end of the business day today, and he’s just waiting to shut me down.” Rimmer blinked; he wasn’t following. “Oh, come ON, man! You’re really going to make me say it aloud, then?”
”I don’t know WHAT you’re trying to say,” Rimmer shook his head. “I’m not here on the old man’s behalf.”
”Aren’t you, though? That’s what you do. His hatchet man.” Lister made a snip-snip motion with his fingers. “Bearer of bad news? Foreclosure Freddy?”
This was surprising. As adults their few interactions had always carried a bit of bite, what with Rimmer coming back to work for the S&L’s business enemy, but this level of vitriol was shocking from the affable Lister. “Maybe if you hadn’t been putting away a good bit of Kentucky’s finest already today, you’d be making sense,” he snapped. “I. Don’t. Know. What. You’re. Referring. To.”
”Fine.” Lister gritted his teeth. “You’re here because there’s a shortfall in the S&L’s account at Potter’s bank, right? The loan payment for the month, it hasn’t been made yet?” Strictly, it wasn’t Potter’s bank; he headed the board, though, and that gave him access to everyone’s financial status. Not legally, though, Rimmer mused, as the other man went on. “It’s too close to noon; I admit, I can’t get the payment made today. But day after tomorrow, when the bank reopens, I can have the full amount there. There’s no transactions anywhere tomorrow, so it wouldn’t even technically be late.”
Something finally clicked in Rimmer’s brain. He tugged Billy’s envelope from his pocket and glanced at it. “Is that what this is?”
”What’re you doing with that?” Lister demanded, lunging for it. Although he probably hadn’t drank to be fully under the table, he was slowed enough that Rimmer was able to sidestep. “That’s ours!”
”Yes, I understand,” Rimmer replied crisply. “That’s why I brought it here.” Lister blinked, momentarily confused, then settled on a skeptical frown. “I saw Billy at the bank earlier. He looked to be in a hurry to run off, and left this near the deposit slips. Luckily I saw it before anyone else did.” Except Uncle Grabby, of course. “Well, do you want it, or don’t you?”
”So you saw him leave it, and you’ve had it…”
”Excuse me for not racing right over here, but I DO have a job, Lister,” he harumphed. “Such as you’ve so colorfully characterized it.”
Lister hesitated, took the envelope… then hugged him. “Oh man, you’ve got no idea! Thank you!”
The only thing that might have thrown Rimmer for any bigger loop might have been news footage from the European front of Hitler tapdancing on the back of a baby hippo. He recalled briefly how he felt when this boy had smiled at him back in school, the confusing tumble of warmth and acceptance and desire. The scruff of Lister’s cheek against his neck, his body heat, strong arms around his neck and back, the smell of his cheap cologne and aftershave and, yes, even the alcohol. Rimmer closed his eyes and angled his nose only slightly toward that face, imagining any of this was real.
And then - that was enough. He gingerly disentangled, hands on Lister’s shoulders as he pushed himself away. “Doesn’t the bank close in a few minutes?” he asked, embarrassed at enjoying what he could pretend was friendship.
”Oh hell!” Lister turned for the door, then paused and hustled around Rimmer back into his office. Less than thirty seconds later, he was back, shrugged into his jacket and buttoning it with one hand, the other still clutching the fat envelope of cash. He headed for the row of pegs up front, and Rimmer followed as the man pulled on his long coat and adjusted his porkpie hat.
He reached for Lister’s neck, then showed both hands in peace. “Here,” he offered, efficiently tugging at the man’s hangdog tie, straightening the loop and tightening the Windsor close to his collar. “Been annoying the smeg out of me since I got here.” He tucked the back behind the wider front and smoothed it down, noticing how the blue contrasted with the deep earth of Lister’s shimmering eyes.
Which Rimmer was staring into. His fingers still stroking the tie against the man’s chest, feeling heat radiating through, he thought he imagined those eyes glancing at his parted lips. The thought was gone just as quickly; as Rimmer frowned, gave the knot a last strangling pull, and muttered, “Better not lean too close to Marge, or she’ll go up like a Roman candle with her next Pall Mall.”
Lister snorted a laugh and used the end of his scarf to swipe quickly at his eyes. He unlocked and pulled the door open, glanced again at Rimmer, then swept out. There was a brief clash of voices, then before the door could bang shut, Jimmy was bustling in with a glass in each hand and a look of amiable confusion. He looked out toward his boss, then at Rimmer, then back out, then back at Rimmer. “His mood seems to have quite lifted, sir!”
Momentarily pleased with himself for an uncommon good deed, Rimmer plucked the pink glass from Jimmy’s hand, over halfhearted protests of “oh, sir, that’s for-”
“I’m fine with strawberry,” was all he said as he downed Lister’s phosphate.
#######
As it was one of the four mandated holidays Potter allowed his employees each year, Lister felt a bit bad appearing so early on Christmas morning to knock up Rimmer’s place, but not enough to not do it. Besides, he reasoned, he was making a generous offer, and it wasn’t like the man had children to wake him at dawn. Or a missus, he added, remembering those hooded hazel eyes on his yesterday. Hmm.
Remember.
After the third set of knocking, he heard some activity on the other side of the small house’s front door, accompanied by a minor crash and a couple of curses he was reasonably sure would self-vaporize the man on the spot of embarrassment, had Lister been of the female persuasion. The door opened to Rimmer on one slippered foot, lightly shaking the other and muttering “ow, ow, ow” before setting it down. “Lister!” he nearly bellowed. “Unless you’ve got Scrooge’s goose and all the trimmings, you’ve better have a damn good reason for hauling me up at-“ He paused, clearly wondering what time it was.
”It’s nine,” Lister supplied. “That’s a reasonable hour for company to call.”
”Maybe when you don’t have to be up for Uncle every other day at six,” he snapped. “What is it?”
”Merry Christmas to you too, smeghead.” Rimmer finished pulling his robe together, a shade of indigo that set off the subtle dark auburn of his hair and five o’clock shadow. Instead of being Brilloed and combed into place, his hair looped in messy frizz that hung down a bit into his forehead and curled around his ears. Lister couldn’t say just yet why he found it charming, of all things.
“Yes, I know, returns of the day and all that.” Rimmer waved it off.
”That’s for birthdays. Why are you so weird?”
”Excuse me, did I somehow forget that I extended an invitation to be hustled out of bed on my day off?”
Lister gave up. “Look, sorry about that… I’m actually here to extend the invitation. Wanna come by the boardinghouse tonight for a Christmas party? You don’t need to bring anything, unless you want to. The Ladies’ Auxiliary is taking care of most the food, and we’ve got drinks covered too. Maybe just try being sociable.”
”Your party?” Rimmer looked confused - which was probably fair, since he’d never been invited before.
Lister had spent the last nearly 24 hours feeling ashamed of the unkind way he’d thought of Rimmer since the man started working for his uncle out of college. Sure, Potter was an asshole, and by all observation and accounts, Rimmer wasn’t in the running for sainthood, but Lister figured young folks their age couldn’t be too choosy about jobs. After all, he also worked in the family business. He’d just assumed Arnold Rimmer had become awful, too, certainly not the kind of person who would try to help his uncle’s underdog rival.
”Our party,” he corrected. “Mostly Baileys and neighbors, and the couple boarders I have right now are invited, but, you know - friends, too.”
Rimmer smiled, using muscles Lister somehow knew deep in his brain the man hadn’t exercised much. “What time?”
#####
”When I said four o’clock, I meant that people usually don’t start coming by until after five or so,” Lister explained as he stepped aside to motion Rimmer into the kitchen door of the boardinghouse. “I really didn’t mean three-forty-five.”
”I don’t like to be late,” Rimmer explained as he stood awkwardly on the step. “Father had… consequences for tardiness. So does Uncle. I can leave-“
”Come in, come in,” Lister hustled, shutting the door behind him. “I can’t afford to heat the outdoors too. Put your coat and hat in there,” he pointed at a small room off to the side. “And probably your jacket too. Keeps it clean. Since you wanna be so early, you can help roll my buns.”
Twenty minutes later, he watched in amazement as Rimmer efficiently but neatly slathered on butter, cinnamon, sugar, and precisely lined up squares of chocolate before rolling the dough and slicing the log into neat pinwheels. “How’d you pick that up so fast?” Lister asked, still struggling to hand-mix his dough. Rimmer’s apron wasn’t even dusty.
”Bachelors like dessert too, you know.”
Lister motioned to his own bare left hand, then stomach. “Yes, and?”
”And, not all of us have a town full of grateful old ladies and horny young ones to bring a pan or jar of sweets around every week in exchange for cheap interest rates,” Rimmer mildly rejoined.
”We can’t all charm the uniforms off the ladies down in Supply, can we?”
Momentary confusion lingered, passed from Lister’s brain. Then his cheeks caught fire. “That’s not true!”
”Wait, are the grannies horny for you too?” Lister threw a handful of flour in his face, satisfied when Rimmer had to turn his head and swore while sneezing. Now that apron’s dirty, Dave thought smugly. “Uncalled for!”
”I’ll be the judge,” Lister disagreed. Rimmer washed his hands and cleaned up his face as Lister finally pulled his dough together reasonably well and turned it out. They worked for a few minutes without speaking until he asked, “So, no aspirational Mrs. Rimmers in the picture, then?”
The other man’s face flushed. “Let me disabuse you of the notion that there’s a bevy of local ladies just chomping at the bit to get themselves legally tied to Potter OR his sister’s smegged-up relations.”
”Your mother - she left town to get married, though, right? I would’ve thought that meant she wasn’t much like him.”
Rimmer shook his head. “It wasn’t she was so different; it’s that Bedford Falls isn’t big enough for two Potter-sized egos.”
Lister chuckled. “You see her much?”
”Not if I can help it.” He rolled up another bun log. “I was fourteen when I moved here. That was… what, fourteen years ago?”
”You haven’t seen your mum in fourteen years?” Rimmer only shook his head, keeping his face angled away. Lister remembered some gossip the year Arnold had enrolled in school, something about having to move into his uncle’s mansion because his parents had kicked him out. He’d assumed it had something to do with grades or money, since the boy seemed to behave in class and wasn’t a clown or troublemaker.
He still owed Rimmer a pretty large favor, so he dropped it. “I miss Ma this time of year. Not just because she would’ve had all this done and sorted two days ago.” The whole town remembered when the Baileys had died in a motorcar accident six years back
Your Dad is dad.
while Lister was off at school.
”So…” Rimmer straightened up, still not quite looking at him. “Is it all right if I ask something?”
He knew what it was. More polite people than Rimmer had brought it up. “What is it?”
”Why Lister? Why isn’t your name Bailey too?”
Okay, that wasn’t what he was expecting. “Usually people who didn’t know about the adoption ask why I don’t look like them,” he blurted out.
Arnold looked up. “I mean, you’re clearly adopted. You don’t look like either one. It’s not just the…” He gesticulated, which Dave interpreted to mean skin color. “Wait, there are people who think you’re bio-related, but didn’t wonder why your name is different?”
He nodded. “Anyway, it’s ‘cause I already knew my birth parents. I mean I sort of remember my dad; it’s fuzzy by now. My mom died shortly after I was born. Dad got sick when I was six, and passed. The foster director knew the Baileys - they had two boys who’d drowned a year earlier in the Lake, so she thought we might be a good fit.”
”Sorry you didn’t know your real parents much,” Rimmer offered. “Although - trust me, they’re not always what they’re cracked up to be.”
”The Baileys were my real parents,” he gently corrected, “but I know what you meant. Birth parents. And yeah, I guess it depends. I got lucky enough to have four good ones.” Rimmer kept working, quietly, and Lister had to resist the urge to go around the prep table and force another hug on the man. “I guess I’m surprised you didn’t go around to celebrate with your uncle today. Aren’t you his only family in town?”
Rimmer finished the pan of buns in short order and wiped his hands, standing up straight. “Remember earlier when I mentioned Scrooge? Well, Potter is at least still a good decade or six from listening to his three spirits, so…” He shrugged and trailed off as Lister laughed loudly.
#####
A few hours later, the party was in full swing, as were Rimmer’s neuroses. Most everyone had been friendly, with just a couple people side-eyeing him and a few not speaking even if he said hello - something about being related to and working for the one man in town who seemed to hold everyone’s finances or livelihoods by the short hairs.
He was wondering if he could get through the crowd to the little side room for his coat and hat when he spotted Lister approaching. Smiling, nodding, exchanging a few words with each person, he finally ducked through and helped himself to the space next to Rimmer on the small bench against the staircase wall. “Here, have a bun; you made ‘em,” he said, pressing a napkin with two pastries on it into one hand. “And a libation.” He clinked his own tumbler against the rather full one he’d poured for Rimmer. “Cheers, man.”
”What is this?” He held the glass to eye level, then sniffed. Eyes watered.
”It’s a double Old Fashioned.” Rimmer shot him a look of alarm, and Lister rolled his eyes. “It’s a party. It’s nighttime. You don’t have far to walk. And no, I don’t make morning drinking a habit - yesterday was just a bad situation. Give me some grace, man.”
Rimmer saluted with the glass and tilted it past his lips. Strong, yes… but also smooth, and dark, and immediately warming. The parts of his arm and hip pressed into Lister’s felt warmer too, and a rush of lightheadedness made him smile. “I guess it’s not going to kill me.”
”Nah, the arsenic in the pigs-in-blankets will’ve took care of that.” Lister’s smile widened and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Speaking of - Uncle Billy’s having another of these shindigs in about a week for New Year’s Eve, at his place. May as well put it on your calendar too. You’re basically his new best friend.”
Indeed, the old man had tearfully hugged Rimmer earlier that evening as well when he arrived, thanking him profusely for saving him and the family business from certain ruin, and vowing to return the favor in any way he could. Rimmer took another bracing sip, and said, “Who knew a little basic honesty could fill my dance card so fast?” Lister grinned again. Maybe things are looking up.
#####
Naturally, “up” never lasted long for Rimmer, unless it meant blood pressure. He considered this a few days after Lister’s Christmas party, as Potter summoned him and began quizzing him about Lister’s party and their working relationship. After insinuating he was pretty sure Rimmer had indeed collected Billy’s envelope and made it possible for the deposit to be made on time, he commanded his nephew to “get in good” with Lister so he could help sabotage the S&L. The threat for not doing so: Not just the loss of his meager accounting career, but criminal charges for felony theft of the wad of cash clearly sitting in the middle of the bank, unclaimed, thereby becoming property of the bank board.
”I don’t think that’s how that would work-“ Rimmer actually began to argue, cut off by a homicidal gleam in the old man’s eye. It had been his only act of resistance as he agreed to the terms to shut him up.
#####
He was in animated chatter with the Attison sisters when he caught sight of a familiar lanky figure out of the corner of his eye. Uncle Billy was, of course, taking Rimmer’s coat and hat and nattering away at him like he was still his best pal. Lister wondered how long that would last before Rimmer started ducking into storefronts on the street to hide
Or down ocean grey corridors
if he saw the old man coming down the sidewalk.
Now Billy was trying to talk the younger man into the kitchen, probably to show him the very stove he’d left the bank to come turn off as he told the story again. Rimmer seemed patient, but alternately looked like he could do a runner. “Excuse me, ladies,” Dave told the young women, angling himself away. “I need to go save a mate from geriatric goodwill.”
A couple minutes later, Lister was behind the small bar cart, mixing a gin and tonic for a yawning Rimmer. “It’s only half-ten,” he pointed out. “Things aren’t that borin’ yet.”
”Sorry.” The other man shook his head. “I haven’t got a lot of sleep the past couple nights.” Lister tried just a touch of lewd in his wide grin, and Arnold rolled his eyes. “Not like that, gutter-brain. Something… work stuff.”
”So you do have a bit of a conscience about Potter’s shittiness, eh?” He immediately regretted the hurt look in Rimmer’s eyes, then remembered the guy had actually delivered more than a couple foreclosure notices the past few years. "Complicated" didn’t begin to describe whatever this new friendship was. “That was probably uncalled for.”
Arnold only shook his head, as though he’d moved on to some other thought already. “I’m not dealing with it tonight,” was all he said, putting his hand out with confidence and clearing his throat. “Give me the drink.”
Smoke me a clipper…
Dave was glad over the next hour or so to see Arnold was actually talking with some other people - or rather, that they were talking to him. It seemed a few folks had heard about the young man’s honesty, which, of course. Billy was bad at secrets even when they reflected poorly on him.
Not long before midnight, he was closest to the door when the bell sounded, so he pulled it open to be greeted by, “You’re still stuck in this burg, man?”
”Morrie! Where’d the hell you come from?” Dave grinned as Gato Morrison administered their old complicated handshake, followed by a brief but giant hug. “I thought you were all the way in Europe!”
”The photo shoot wrapped faster than we expected,” the elegant designer shrugged. “Billy still got any of the good stuff, or you leaving me out here to get snowed on all night? This is Milan velvet.” He pointed at his broad, flashy hat. “It does not get wet!”
”You’ll be getting my dry-cleaning bill!”
He’d set Morrie up with a scotch on the rocks in exchange for a long tale from the Italian beachside when he caught Arnold’s eye. Waving him over, he continued listening until the tall man appeared. He scooched a bit and motioned for Rimmer to sit. The small space put them tightly close, so much that Dave draped a friendly arm around his shoulders to make it easier. Sure, his lightly inebriated brain cheerfully supplied. “Gato Morrison - you remember Arnold Rimmer from school?”
”No.” Morrie was always, refreshingly honest. Well, some might have said rude. Dave rolled his eyes. “He came in sophomore year, transferred. Jog the memory at all?”
”Nope!” Morrie flashed distinctively small and shaped, though not pointed, canines as he grinned. “Not a bit.” But he put out a hand toward Rimmer. “Sorry, man. I’ve met a LOT of folks since those years.”
”I wasn’t very memorable,” Arnold muttered with a short handshake. “Mostly I was just trying to get through it.”
”Hey, weren’t we all? Me, I was trying to blow this town like a fast train soon as I collected my diploma.” He poked Dave’s knee. “Not like keeper of the Bailey flame, here, looks like.”
”I’ll travel too.” Lister felt himself pout. “Just have some things to pull together here first, was all.”
Dead as a can of Spam.
Morrie didn’t stand so much as unfold his skinny frame, catlike, from the chair on which he perched. Rattling ice cubes, he said, “Off to wet my whistle some more and make the rounds. Almost time.”
When he had threaded into the crowd, Lister, still deeply distracted, heard, “So why don’t you travel, then?” He turned to find Rimmer’s face quite close, regarding him steadily.
“Like I said… responsibilities here.”
”Ever heard of this thing called a vacation? You can just take some time away?” Sage-hazel eyes studied his. They were so close. There was something long and familiar and almost ancient about this game of visual chicken.
“Doubt it’s permanent, sir.”
But that doesn’t tell me where he IS.
”Say, what’d you do to him, anyway?”
You don’t understand. I barely do.
”Right. That was colossally stupid.”
Oh. OH. No. I’m who’s stupid.
“It wasn’t stupid,” he told the man before him, as he slid his fingers against light stubble.
Rimmer’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Stupid?” And then he wasn’t speaking, because Lister had leaned in and kissed him, and pulled him close. He worried the other man might draw away, but at the same time knew he wouldn’t.
Sure enough, lips parted as Rimmer tilted his head and their noses made room. His hand caught around the back of Rimmer’s neck to hold him in place, and he felt all the hairs on his skin stand at the soft, desperate noises from the back of Arn’s throat and the man’s hand gripping his elbow. The kiss went on a while, through the chant of ten, through the first strains of “Auld Lang Syne,” through misplaced but familiar mechanical whirring, through the clear burst of memory finally assaulting Lister in full.
”Come on, Rimmer,” he said gently as they parted a bit, a dazzling bright light practically at their shoulders cutting through the old-timey party scene. “Let’s get outta here.”
#####
He hadn’t realized his heart could still break until he’d come awake in the holo-projection suite and looked over to see Rimmer leaned forward in his chair, head in hands, quietly sobbing. Lister had never actually seen him cry, not even at times he suspected he might have immediately gone off alone to do so.
So he’d carefully pushed up to his feet, legs shaky, and taken the few steps he needed to lean over the hunched form and curl himself around his upper back and head the best he could. They stayed that way for what seemed a very long time before he pulled back and said, “You all right?”
Rimmer had looked up, sniffed, and straightened his back. Of course he wouldn’t be as shaky or stiff coming out of the game after a few days like Lister was; hologram. “That was childish,” he admitted in a small voice as he sat back, eyes red. “Hiding, like that… You shouldn’t have gone in for me, though, you could’ve gotten stuck-“
Enough. There was room in the recliner. Lister straddled his legs on knees that were just starting to twinge, pushed him back against the headrest, and kissed him this time. He was a bit hard with it, firm, but sagged in relief when Rimmer stopped trying to protest and instead gathered him close.
That was hours ago, before a stop by the medi-bay at Kryten’s insistence and him reluctantly releasing Lister to his quarters for a strict two days of rest before returning to drive watch. Rimmer had been oddly quiet while Kryten fussed over Lister and even insisted on checking Rimmer’s readings after being plugged into Better Than Life for well over a week. Now they stood in their quarters, arms around one another, as he said, “I could sleep for an age, man. Stay with me?”
Large hands on his back. Silence for a while. Then: “I feel like it’s bad form to tell you… you don’t smell so good.”
His own laugh didn’t surprise him, but boy, did Rimmer’s. “All right, all right,” he finally coughed out a couple minutes later, after they had both gotten some mirth out of their systems. “That’s fair.” He stepped back. “Gimme a few, and don’t run off again, yeah?”
His face was turned up into a nearly scalding spray a bit later when he felt the door open and the footsteps. Heart racing, he cleared his eyes with his fingers and turned to find Rimmer blinking away stray water as he tried to find some words. Finally, he said, “Seeing as I started everything… I thought I ought to at least have the balls to do this.”
Lister grinned as his eyes swept that body. “Stellar choice of words, there.” Rimmer rolled his eyes, but Lister closed his and tilted his chin up, ready for Rimmer’s mouth now in a way he hadn’t been so many days ago when he’d clumsily tried to show Lister how he felt.
He thanked their selves from two years earlier for moving into the old officer’s suite, with its larger, cleaner shower room, as he bit Rimmer’s lip and arched into his right hand - the long-fingered hand that rolled their cocks together as Lister fought not to come all over him right away. He wished he could think of something smart to say, or even mildly coherent, but at least by the sounds of things, Rimmer’s speech processor wasn’t functioning any better. He clutched at the man’s shoulders as they kissed, nearly swallowing each other’s tongues and grunting every so often. He hooked a foot behind Rimmer’s leg as the taller man pushed him into the wall, and it wasn’t long before they both came. Lister’s nerves frozzed and fizzed, and he cried out into Rimmer’s mouth, and then was being kissed hard and raw as Arn finished, eventually slowing and panting.
The water rained down as they caught their breath, Rimmer’s head bent low and Lister nuzzling his wet hair. “Oh yeah,” he finally spoke. “Yeah, that’s … brutal. Fantastic.”
“Not too casual?” came the question.
”Casual?” Rimmer lifted his head, and Lister squinted up at him. “Like, were you imagining white tails and Cristal, and a grand piano?”
Rimmer sighed and closed his eyes, and Lister couldn’t help smiling; there was the smeghead he was familiar with, who’d only glimpsed through every so often in Bedford Falls. He tried again. “I mean, you did say casual. What the hell does that mean?”
“Upright. In a bath. Isn’t exactly a romantic first time, is it?”
”Ohhh. Well, but, you can’t engineer a proper shag like that.” He got a finger under Rimmer’s chin and pulled him in until they were nose to nose. “When we’re dry, later, I can give you a right good fucking out there, if you like.”
#####
Morning aboard Red Dwarf found Lister trying very hard to focus on the knitting patterns magazine he’d left at the bottom of the pile, and not stare too long over the top at Rimmer assembling dough for a shipboard version of chocolate cinnamon pinwheel buns.
“Sir… you do realize you’re not going to be able to prepare those this morning?”
”As it happens, Kryten, I’m not a complete idiot.”
“And that you’re not going to be able to prepare them anytime today?”
He largely ignored the particulars of their argument, peeping over the top of his reading at long fingers trawling through dough, forearms flexing as Rimmer threw the ball on the floured table and worked the heel of a palm down into it. The gods had smiled on Lister, making Rimmer get rid of his tunic for a simple tight shirt and braces.
“I don’t remember hiring a sous chef, damn it.”
Even his flared nostrils were kind of sexy today.
“I meant no offense, sir. But - if you were intending to fix a breakfast, it’s not going to be ready for today… and Mr. Lister needs to eat soon.”
Flare, flare, flare.
“Mr. Lister is not going to blow away if he misses a breakfast or three.”
Even the rudeness didn’t dim his interest - after twenty years, you knew what you were getting with Rimmer. Kryten finally gave up and ambled out of the industrial kitchen. Lister licked his finger and turned a page. “And no, I wasn’t calling you fat,” Rimmer finally said when he was out of earshot.
“And I wasn’t going to call you Gramps,” he replied evenly. When he glanced over the top again to find Rimmer paused, visibly puzzled, he twirled his finger at the man’s hair, shot through with silvering sections. “Very distinguished,” he added with a sweet smile, making a kissy sound at the air before going back to his knitting patterns, figuring he’d let whatever the next remark was fly over him - this once.
After all, it wasn’t every vain hologram who’d let himself age just for you.