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In all honesty, Lister couldn’t remember what they’d been fighting about in the first place. It was probably something small and irrelevant like Lister leaving laundry on the floor or Rimmer throwing away something Lister hadn’t finished yet. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t worthy of the screaming match that they’d escalated to.
“You’re impossible!” Lister shouted, pacing their bunkroom while Rimmer stood nearby, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “You criticize everything I do! Every single thing! I breathe too loud for you!”
“Well perhaps if you learned some basic-”
“Oh, smeg off!”
It wasn’t as though Lister liked fighting with Rimmer. Sure, he loved to press his buttons and wind him up, but actually arguing? It made Lister’s stomach turn. Unfortunately, something about being stuck in the company of the same three people for the rest of his life tended to get him riled up emotionally when he sat and thought for too long. Sometimes that mix of isolation and helplessness and frustration just caused him to lash out. It wasn’t as if Lister didn’t love them all, but he was only human. His emotions sometimes got the best of him.
Rimmer’s face hardened. “Lister, you’re being childish.”
“Me?” Lister scoffed. “I’m not the one who starts crying the second things get a bit out of order!”
“That is beside the point!”
“No, the point,” Lister snapped, turning on him fully now, “is that I’m sick of you! Sick of your whining, your bossing everyone around, your stupid smegging little comments all the time about anything I do-”
“As if I’m not sick of living with a degenerate who thinks it’s okay to just leave crumbs all over the floor and put his bare feet up on tables? You think this is any easier for me?” Rimmer threw his hands in the air. “You think that living with you is the pride and joy of my existence? You think I’m happy here?!”
“Then maybe you should’ve stayed dead!”
The words slammed into the room so hard that even the buzz of the ship seemed to quiet. Rimmer stared at him in shock. Lister felt it immediately—that ugly little twist in his gut that came whenever he went too far. He felt nauseous with guilt. He hadn’t meant that. He had just been angry and frustrated… but that didn’t mean he could take it back.
Rimmer laughed once. Quietly. “Well,” he said, voice suddenly very calm, “that’s honest, at least.”
Lister winced. “Oh, come on, Rimmer-”
“No, no.” He waved a hand. “Don’t backpedal now. You finally said what you actually think.”
Lister scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I just meant-”
“You wish anyone else had been brought back instead.”
There was silence. Because… Lister had said that before. In smaller ways. In jokes. In muttered comments during disagreements.
Imagine if I’d been Kochanski. Chen. Selbey. Peterson.
Anyone but you.
Should’ve picked somebody useful.
Usually Rimmer shouted back. This time, he only looked tired.
Lister’s anger sputtered uncertainty. “Look, I didn’t mean-”
“You know,” Rimmer interrupted softly, “I used to think it was just what we did. The insults. The arguing. I thought…” He swallowed awkwardly. “I thought you enjoyed it.” Lister blinked. Rimmer gave another tiny laugh. “Pathetic, really.”
“Rimmer, I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be sorry. I should be apologizing. Clearly it’s my fault for sticking around.” And then he was gone.
Lister watched in horror as Rimmer’s projection dematerialized and his lightbee dropped to the floor with a small clang, bouncing once before rolling to a stop. Lister fell to his knees, scooping up the lightbee and turning it over in his hands.
“Rimmer?” He murmured. “I- I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean it. Look, can we talk?”
There was no response. Lister pressed at the edges of the bee, trying to find some sort of activation, but there was nothing.
“Holly?” Lister called out after a moment. “What- What’s he doing?”
Holly popped onto the monitor in the bunkroom, lips pursed. “He switched himself off, Dave.”
“Well switch him back on!” Lister replied, voice watery.
“Can’t. Hologram’s disabled voluntary override.”
Lister frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means Arnold J. Rimmer has decided he doesn’t want to exist right now.”
The bunkroom suddenly felt enormous. “Oh,” Lister said.
The next few hours were an emotional rollercoaster. The first few minutes were spent fretting over the lightbee in his hands. Then, sadness bled into frustration. Anger over Rimmer’s refusal to talk about this like a civilized adult. Then more guilt over what he’d said to Rimmer. Then a spiteful urge to try to enjoy things without Rimmer to prove himself right.
And technically, yes, it was peaceful without Rimmer there. No complaining while Lister made breakfast. No criticism of the mess. No lectures about proper laundry rotation. No smug comments during small repairs. But by evening, the silence had grown teeth. Lister wandered into the drive room and automatically opened his mouth to make some joke about Rimmer’s maintenance records before realizing there was nobody there to hear it. At dinner, nobody argued over food portions. At movie night, nobody insisted on documentaries about military history. The quiet spread through the ship like fog. After two days, Cat stopped making jokes about it. After four, Kryten gently asked if Mister Rimmer might perhaps require a manual restart.
“He’s being dramatic,” Lister had muttered. “He’ll get over it. If we reboot him, he’ll just get mad all over again.” But the words didn’t sound convincing anymore.
The thing was, Rimmer had been everywhere. Not physically. Physically, he occupied approximately one room and half a corridor at any given time. But somehow his presence had filled the ship. Lister would reach a junction and instinctively expect to hear Rimmer droning on about procedures. He’d make tea and automatically pour two mugs. He’d hear a noise and turn, expecting irritation and crossed arms and that pinched offended look Rimmer got whenever Lister existed too loudly. Nothing. The emptiness became unbearable.
“What’s wrong with him?” Lister asked Holly the seventh night after Rimmer had shut himself off.
“Well, psychologically speaking,” Holly said, “Rimmer’s always had the emotional resilience of wet tissue paper.” Lister glared at the monitor. “What? It’s true!” Holly retorted, sticking her tongue out.
“He’s never switched off before.”
Holly’s expression softened a little. “No. He hasn’t.”
Lister looked down at the lightbee in his hands. He’d started carrying it around on the second day. At first because he thought Rimmer might switch back on suddenly and immediately start whining if nobody was nearby. Then because leaving it alone in the bunkroom felt… wrong. Now he carried it unconsciously. Like a habit. Like a promise. Like an apology.
“Does he really think I hate him?” Lister asked quietly.
Holly hesitated. “Oh, Dave.” That was enough.
Lister sat alone in the observation dome later that night, staring out into deep space while Rimmer’s lightbee rested in his palm.
“I don’t hate you,” Lister muttered.
The stars offered no reply. Neither did the lightbee. Lister tucked the small piece of circuitry against his chest as he closed his eyes, mind wandering to fragments of the past. Memories of Rimmer.
Rimmer trying to keep him alive when they’d been marooned together, talking to him and being sure he stayed conscious.
Rimmer talking him through a panic attack when they’d been locked in an elevator together, only to make fun of him afterwards.
Rimmer watching movies on the couch with him, letting Lister lean on his shoulder until he realized that Lister was awake and then shoved him off.
Rimmer laughing genuinely in front of Lister for the first time, his weird little snorting, hiccupy laugh that Lister had said made him sound like a drunken chipmunk.
Rimmer playing board games with him, failing to notice Lister clearly cheating and then flipping the board when he lost terribly.
The countless arguments that somehow always circled back into companionship.
The truth hit slowly and then all at once. Lister missed him. Not abstractly. Not because the ship was quieter. He missed Rimmer specifically. His voice. His bickering. The ridiculous offended huff he made whenever Cat ignored him. The insults he’d dish out to Kryten. The way he’d hover nearby when he wanted to feel included but didn’t want to say it. Lister pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes.
“Smeg,” Lister croaked.
Three nights later, Lister had begun talking to Rimmer’s lightbee. He had no idea if Rimmer could hear him. Honestly, he felt a little silly doing it, but if there was even a chance Rimmer could hear him, then it was worth it.
“At first,” he admitted quietly as he lay on his bunk, lightbee cupped between his hands. “I might’ve thought this woulda been great.”
The lightbee lay stationary.
“But it’s not,” Lister muttered weakly. “Kryten keeps trying to cheer me up. Made me a soufflé yesterday. Cat did a fashion show in the corridor.” He smiled faintly. “You would’ve hated it.”
Nothing.
Lister swallowed. “I miss you, you smeghead.” Still nothing. His chest hurt. “I didn’t mean it,” he whispered. “What I said.”
Lister scrubbed a hand over his face. He could feel tears threatening to fall. “You drive me insane. You’re arrogant and neurotic and a complete git.” His throat tightened. “But you’re my git.”
He laughed shakily at himself. “Smeg, this is embarrassing. I don’t know when it happened. Maybe it always was. Maybe I just didn’t notice because we were too busy arguing all the time.” His eyes stung. “But I love you.” The confession echoed through the quiet bunkroom. “And everything’s rubbish without you.” He lowered his head. “So please come back.”
Nothing happened. Lister closed his eyes… and cried. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just exhausted, aching tears slipping silently down his face while he held the lightbee like something fragile enough to break.
“Please,” he whispered again.
The lightbee suddenly warmed sharply in his hands. Lister jerked upright. A familiar holographic outline flickered into existence directly in his lap. Rimmer materialized half-curled against him, one arm instinctively hooking around Lister’s shoulders from the awkward positioning. His face was pale with shock. They stared at each other. Lister’s breath caught painfully. Rimmer looked disoriented, gaze darting around before landing on Lister’s tear-streaked face.
“Oh,” he said faintly.
Lister made a broken sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob and grabbed him immediately. Rimmer squeaked in alarm as Lister wrapped both arms around him, clutching him so tightly that, had he needed to breathe, he wouldn’t have been able to.
“Lister-?!”
“I’m sorry,” Lister choked out. “God, I’m sorry, Rimmer, I didn’t mean it, any of it-”
Rimmer froze.
Lister buried his face against his shoulder. “I was horrible to you.”
“You usually are,” Rimmer said automatically. Lister let out a watery laugh. “But this time,” Rimmer added quietly, “you meant it.”
“No.” Lister pulled back enough to look at him desperately. “No, I didn’t. I thought I did maybe, when I was angry, but I don’t. Smeg, Rimsy, I don’t know how to explain it-”
“What you said,” Rimmer cut him off. “Not then. But when… when I was off.”
“You heard me?” Lister croaked.
“Vaguely,” Rimmer muttered, averting his eyes. “Being powered off… it’s like being half-asleep and underwater. You’re not fully aware, but not quite out either. So… yes, I heard some of it.”
“The ship is awful without you,” Lister gasped. “I hate it. I hate breakfast without you moaning about cholesterol, and movie nights without your stupid comments, and nobody else laughs at my jokes the same way-”
“I don’t laugh at your jokes.”
“You do! You try not to, but you do this snorting thing-”
“I do not snort.”
Lister laughed helplessly through tears. Rimmer looked completely lost.
“And I realized,” Lister whispered, voice cracking again, “that you make me happy.” Something in Rimmer’s expression crumpled. “Against all odds,” Lister said shakily, brushing tears from his face, “I love you. Totally and completely.”
Rimmer made the tiniest wounded noise. “No one’s ever…” He stopped. Lister’s chest ached. Rimmer looked down suddenly, eyes shining suspiciously bright. “You can’t say things like that after I’ve been emotionally devastated. It’s unsporting.”
Lister smiled wetly. “Sorry.”
“You should be.”
“But I mean it.” Lister touched his face carefully, thumb brushing Rimmer's cheekbone as the hologram swallowed hard. “You scared me.”
For a moment, Rimmer looked unbearably young. All the bluster stripped away. Just a lonely man who had believed, completely, that nobody would miss him. “I didn’t think,” he admitted quietly, “that it would matter.”
“It matters,” Lister said fiercely. “It had to be you, Rimmer. I wouldn’t have anyone else. It’s always you. It’s you and me until the end.”
Rimmer looked at him for a long moment. Then, very hesitantly, he leaned forward. Lister met him halfway. The kiss was awkward at first because Rimmer was still half-sitting in his lap and neither of them quite knew where to put their hands. But then Rimmer made a soft startled sound and melted against him completely, clutching at the back of Lister’s shirt like he was afraid this might disappear too. Lister held him tighter.
When they finally pulled apart, Rimmer looked dazed. “Well,” he said faintly, “this is psychologically catastrophic.”
Lister snorted. “For both of us, probably.”
“Absolutely.”
They sat there quietly for a while, still tangled together. Then Rimmer leaned back to look him in the eyes. “So you seriously cried? Over my lightbee?”
Lister groaned immediately. “Oh, for smeg’s sake.”
“You actually cried over me?”
“Drop it,” Lister huffed. “I thought you were gone. I missed you.”
Rimmer’s smugness began slowly returning like sunlight after a storm. “I’m just trying to process this unprecedented emotional development.”
Lister pointed a warning finger at him. “Don’t push your luck, mate.”
But Rimmer was smiling now. Really smiling. And, smeg, if that didn’t make something warm bloom painfully in Lister’s chest.
Rimmer settled more comfortably against him, arms still looped loosely around his neck. “You know,” he murmured, “I did rather miss you too.”
Lister grinned despite himself. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” Rimmer sighed dramatically. “Against all odds.”
“Then promise me you’ll stay.”
“I promise,” Rimmer responded without missing a beat. “I don’t like being without you either. Stupid smeghead.”