Fool

Princess Lauren E. Scavenger

Fandom: Red Dwarf

R, for language and sexual imagery.

ARS

Songfic, to Lifehouse's "Fool".

Another Rimmer/Kochanski unrequited angst fic, because I'd rather 'ship something unlikely than incest (Kochanski is Lister's mother, after all...).

Timeline: think post-Cassandra. And if FF.N think "hot off the presses" means "full of grammatical/spelling errors", the obviously never heard of Spellcheck (although I wouldn't be surprised, given the quality of some of their announcements).

Dedicated to all the usual suspects.

Fool
By Princess Lauren E. Scavenger


seems my own arrogance has knocked me off my feet again
when you know I'm crawling to you as fast as I can
first teach me to walk
and then I'll learn to dance for you like an
honest clumsy clown
tripping along the way

I thought we were going to make it for a minute there. But then Lister walked in and ruined everything. Sure you felt sorry for me; a pity fuck would've been enough, maybe, to tip the balance. Maybe you would've realised that I'm not just a complete loser after all.

The whole problem with the Cassandra thing was that you've never taken me seriously. And that I was assuming that, just because I was about to die, things had changed. But they hadn't. As soon as you had the chance, you ran away from me. I guess you practically ran to Lister, since he was the one who explained everything. Would you sleep with him over me? Even now? Even when he's not "your Dave"? You would, and the worst of it is that I don't even need to ask.

You know what really upset me? You saying that Cassandra promised I'd die. Does my life really mean that little to you? Do you really want me dead? Try as I might, I can't think of anyone on the crew who'd really, truly want me dead, unless it was Kill Crazy, but then he'd kill anyone if they breathed wrong, if he had the chance. I can't imagine you really meant what you said. But when you have a harpoon gun pointed between your eyebrows, there isn't time to think about that sort of thing.

Yeah. That's why I'm bitching about it now.

Was I too pushy? Did I come on too strong? Damn straight I did. I can see that now, and curse myself for being such a bastard. Instead of just trying to jump you, I should've been romantic. But no: I was too interested in getting laid to do that. I need an extra certificate. Bronze Swimming Certificate, Silver Swimming Certificate, and Stupid Moron who Thinks with his Cock certificate. Like any male, only more so.

cause I am reaching for you
but my arms aren't long enough
and I am running to you
if I could go a little faster
and I am crying to you
but I can't hear my own voice
and I am waiting for you
and trying not to fall asleep now

Night after night I fall asleep listening to Lister whimpering in the top bunk. Some nights the springs creak while he masturbates and pictures your face, but most nights he's just crying himself to sleep, and that's why those little animal noises come out of his mouth. I stayed up once, playing chess alone and watching him; he slept with his thumb in his mouth and an expression of infinite sadness on his face.

I wonder how many nights he falls asleep listening to me?

I'm just trying to prove my point, here. Typical males think with something considerably lower down than their brains. And I've been typical, and so is Lister. Why, then, would you choose him rather than me? Because you've been together before? Damn, if I didn't retain this vague vestige of gentlemanly pride, I'd almost say you led me on and then ditched me for him. But you didn't really go to him, only in my mind. And you didn't really lead me on any more than my own stupid mind let me think. Poor, stupid Arnold J. Rimmer, actually thinking he was going to get laid.

It hurt, you know: I'm talking about the emotional, mental pain, and I'm talking about the physical pain. Yes, you sent me home with blue balls, just like any teenaged cocktease, and I don't even hate you for it. I could almost hate you for not being there when I got back to my cell, when Lister was still having a drink in the mess hall and I fell to my knees under the hot rain of the shower and jerked off, semen spitting uselessly against the tiles like the tears of a jilted lover.

This shower water's going to run cold soon, but I don't care. I want to scrub away your breath on my skin as I handed you a drink, the brush of the blanket that was the only barrier between us. I want to lave my brain clean of these damn memories, or they're going to haunt me all night long.

cause I'm clumsily dancing away this fear
I'm stumbling closer to you and I am
tumbling over my pride
I will be a fool for you

I guess what I'm really trying to say is that I'm jealous of Lister. Jealous, yes; envious, yes. I have been for a long time. It's not just that you're beautiful, although you are - it's not just that you're smart or talented or an officer, although you're all of those things. It's because you - well, our version of you - had time for me.

Not a lot of time. Five minutes while you waited for Lister to get out of the shower. Usually, five minutes of me babbling like a deranged idiot whose mouth was permanently disconnected from his brain. I'm told it's one of the classic signs of infatuation. That's as may be, but you still listened. Oh, I know you were probably waiting impatiently for Lister to get out of the shower, but you never told me to shut up, never deliberately arrived late so you wouldn't have to speak to me - never rejected my views to my face, either, although you surely laughed about me to Lister as the two of you went to the pub or the cinema or just back to your quarters.

That was how I started to see beyond your face and your body and realise that I was falling in love with your mind.

For a long moment this afternoon, the body took back over. Maybe a different body to the one I remembered from our Kochanski, but it was still you in it. The delicate line of your clavicle, I wanted to run my tongue along it. would have too if Lister hadn't walked in. The brief flash of skin as you stripped off under the blanket and the top of it fell down a little - just a little, not enough to make the censors scream - and I imagined my lips on your skin there as well. if only you'd let me touch you then. Granted, I probably would've come in my pants and there would have been no consummation for that little tryst, but I'm starting to think that would have been enough.

what are you thinking as you look down on me are you
frustrated with my inconsistency
or intrigued that I can find the will to get back up or
maybe all of this is simply amusing

I'm wondering now, as I turn and turn under the water, half-heartedly twiddling the hot tap to try and get the water warm again, what you're thinking now. Do you still feel sorry for me? I still feel
sorry for me.

I probably would never have been good enough for you, but then, I would have thought the same of Lister - neither of us're top of the pile.

What I'm really wondering is what would have happened if Lister hadn't walked in. What would you have let me do? Would you have let me touch you, ease the blanket down, kiss you all over? Would you have let me taste the burning heat between your legs, plunge my tongue deep inside you? Would you have let me pull you on top of me, and would you have let me in willingly? There's no way I would've done anything without you letting me, but I wonder... would you have
let me, if it hadn't been for Lister?

Tomorrow morning I'll walk into the mess hall as usual and sit down across from you and two places up as usual and eat my soggy Cornflakes as usual. What won't be usual is that I'll be thinking about loving you, and I think every day from now on will be coloured by that thought. It must be just about the same thing Lister thinks all the time: What if? What if things had worked out? What if there hadn't been someone else to interrupt everything?

What if?

END