Chapter Text
You thought today would mark the start of three glorious, uninterrupted weeks of peace. Lister, Kryten, and Cat were supposed to leave early for a fishing trip on some backwater moon you had passed two days ago. They’d invited you, sure, but when you asked if Rimmer was going, Lister pulled a face and said, “He’d bring down the atmosphere.” So you politely declined, offered to stay behind and keep Rimmer company instead.
Cat had chimed in with his usual sensitivity, “Why would you wanna do that? That’s like spending a weekend with your genitals in a fire ant nest.”
You didn’t agree. Rimmer’s not that bad.
Sure, he’s a smug, petty, overcooked prune of a man with the emotional capacity of a malfunctioning vending machine, but that’s just surface-level. You’ve seen the cracks in the armour. The self-loathing, the awkward sincerity, the effort he puts in even when no one’s watching. You’ve even started to like his company. He doesn’t fill the silence with nonsense like the others. He hums. He nitpicks. He offers up wildly inaccurate trivia like he’s hosting his own quiz show. But you’ve started to find it... oddly comforting.
Which is why it’s such a shock when you stumble into the cafeteria, bleary-eyed and craving a morning cuppa, only to find Lister and Cat still there, stuffing their faces with what looks like despair.
“Finally,” Lister says through a mouthful of faux-bacon. “Sleeping beauty awakens.”
Cat barely looks up from his coffee. “For a minute there, I thought you were gonna snooze through the heat death of the universe.”
You blink at them. “What are you still doing here? I thought you’d left already.”
Lister glances awkwardly at Cat, who shrugs. “We couldn’t leave you here all on your lonesome.”
You frown. “What? I wasn’t going to be alone, I was supposed to spend time with—”
“Are we all ready to go?” Rimmer strides into the cafeteria like he’s about to command a fleet, uniform crisp, buttons gleaming like he ironed them with his anxiety.
Lister groans.
Cat slumps over his plate like he’s aged fifty years in five seconds.
Rimmer smiles… smiles … and addresses you directly. “Get your gear together, Hush. We’re off on a fishing trip.”
You stare at him. This was not the plan. You were supposed to be here, quietly tinkering with Holly’s navigation subroutines, sipping tea, maybe reading next to Rimmer while he monologued about the socio-political structure of early Space Corps. That was the dream . The blissful dream.
Instead, you’re being dragooned into a three-week camping trip with the walking smell, a sparkly narcissist, and the dishwasher with legs.
“I could just stay here,” you mutter. “Enjoy some peace. Maybe talk to the walls. Maybe listen to the sweet, sweet hum of absolutely no one .”
Lister leans in conspiratorially. “You’ve gotta come. Keep Rimmer entertained so the rest of us don’t have to.”
You sigh, dramatically. “Fine. I’ll go. But only if you stop using the macrowave press analyser in the science lab as an expensive toastie maker.”
Lister puts a hand on his chest, solemn. “Deal.”
“You melted a gravity plate last time.”
“I said deal , didn’t I?”
You down the rest of your tea and glare at him.
Three weeks. Trapped in a shuttle with all of them. It’s going to be a long trip.
Rimmer stands stiffly, spine straight, hands clasped behind his back like a wax dummy at a Space Corps museum exhibit. Instead of having a nice fishing trip on this watery moon, Starbug was hit by this ken doll in a red fighter jet. Now this walking deity thinks it's his moral imperative to save them. Rimmer is trying to look composed, authoritative… even though he feels like a pair of fingerless gloves compared to him .
Ace Rimmer .
The name alone makes Rimmer’s stomach twist with a cocktail of envy, awe, and chronic indigestion.
There he is, all windswept hair, sculpted jaw, confidence radiating from his pores like it is some sort of cologne for winners. His flight suit fits perfectly, probably tailored by angelic nuns with a fabric made from silver silk and smugness. He stands with ease in the centre of the room, like the ship belongs to him, like everything belongs to him.
And Hush is looking at him.
Rimmer notices it instantly. The subtle way her eyes flick toward Ace as he speaks. That little crease in her brow that says she’s trying to figure him out. Like he’s some glorious puzzle from a more heroic reality. Of course she’s looking at him like that. Everyone looks at Ace like that.
Because Ace is everything Rimmer was supposed to be.
Everything he could have been. If just one decision, one moment, had gone differently. If he hadn’t been saddled with the neuroses of ten men and the charisma of a piss stained telephone booth. He could have been him . The brave one. The dashing one. The one people actually want around.
Instead, he's standing here, sweating in his reflective cuffed boots.
Ace flashes a grin that could get someone pregnant through sheer willpower and flicks his hair out of his eyes. “What's the starboard engine's thrust-to-input ratio, Arn?”
“What’s that?”
“Well, you can work it out. What's the craft's inertia rating?”
“I don't know.”
“Well, what's the psi?”
“I don't know!” It’s a wonder his teeth don’t shatter from how hard he’s clenching them.
Then Hush steps forward. “Thrust to input ratio is about four thousand psi.” Her tone is flat. Edged. There’s no humour in her voice, only ice.
Rimmer glances at her. She doesn’t look at him. Her eyes are locked on Ace.
Ace arches a brow, clearly amused. “And who are you, old girl? The captain?”
“Don’t call me ‘old girl.’” she snaps. “You can address me as Sergeant .”
Rimmer barely suppresses a snort. She just verbally backhanded the most decorated, interdimensional version of himself. He should be delighted. He should be dancing. But all he feels is this… horrible churning in his gut.
Because even when she’s defending herself… defending him , by extension, her attention is still on Ace.
And Ace doesn’t even have to try.
Rimmer hates him.
He also wants to be him.
And that’s the worst part of all.
From the moment he strutted into the room like he owned the deck, you knew.
You knew you weren’t going to like him .
Ace Rimmer.
What. A. Git.
Most people look at him and think what a guy . You look at him and think what a tool . A perfectly bronzed, windswept, egotistical tool.
He’s everything you despise. Everything you’ve worked hard your entire life to avoid becoming entangled with. The golden boys. The ladykillers. The academy boys with their spotless uniforms and rehearsed charm and self-congratulatory swagger. The kind of man who believes he’s the universe's gift to every room he walks into because nobody’s ever told him otherwise. Or if they did, they were ignored with a wink and a finger-gun.
Ace is Rimmer without the humanity.
Without the awkwardness. Without the insecurity. Without the neurotic spiral that makes you occasionally want to shake him, then weirdly… hug him.
Ace is just smooth. And shiny. Like a soulless mannequin that somehow got knighted for services to being smug.
You cross your arms and lean on the doorway as he finishes his longwinded prattle that everyone else in the room seems enamoured by.
But you? You see through him.
You see the way he checks his reflection in the polished console. The way he throws you a wink like you’re going to faint. The way he assumes he’s the most interesting person in every room he walks into.
You see a smeghead .
Not a smeghead , like the one you’ve come to tolerate—even like , against your better judgment.
No, Ace is worse. He’s competent . He’s the kind of man who thinks his success makes him moral. The kind who leaves a trail of broken hearts and autographs and never once considers the mess he leaves behind.
You’ve worked with his type. Back in the military, they were everywhere. Silver-tongued bastards who trained at the academy, kissed their CO’s arse, and coasted through life with that born leader glow. Meanwhile, you were pulling twelve-hour shifts, fixing their messes, and getting blamed when the mission went sideways.
He’s charming. He’s competent. He’s decorated.
And you want to shove him out the nearest airlock.
You’re only here to make sure he doesn’t completely cock this up.
That’s what you keep telling yourself. Over and over. Like a little mantra to keep from leaping across the room and throttling the man with a cauteriser.
Because you shouldn’t be the one elbow-deep in Cat’s mangled leg. You were supposed to be off-duty today, finally enjoying a moment of peace in your quarters with Rimmer by your side. But no. Ace bloody Rimmer decided he could handle battlefield triage with nothing more than a grin, a scalpel, and the power of raw masculinity.
Unfortunately, Cat’s now unconscious with a leg that bends in three extra directions, and you’re suiting up to do surgery in the med-bay.
You try to focus. The basics are there. Tucked away in the dusty, trauma-hardened recesses of your brain from combat medic training. You haven’t done this in years, not since you were pulling shrapnel out of a squadmate in a crater made by a gravity mine… but it’s like riding a bike. A horrific, blood-soaked bike with a smug pilot breathing down your neck.
You scrub your hands with the kind of focus usually reserved for scrubbing crime scenes. Just out of the corner of your eye, you clock Ace already hovering beside the table like he’s about to film a commercial for Space Corps recruitment. Hair tousled, jaw squared, uniform wide across the chest like it’s been tailored for drama rather than practicality.
“Pass me those forceps, Sergeant,” he says, all smooth bassline and oozing self-assurance.
That voice. Gods, it’s like a sentient trombone. You imagine if someone fed ambergris through a sewerage treatment plant and poured it over ice, that’s what his tone would taste like. Fishy and nausea inducing.
You’re not going to let this smug bastard boss you around. You raise an eyebrow and hold the forceps just out of reach. “Say please.”
He pauses, like the concept is entirely new. Then he smiles that pre-loaded grin, the one that probably came installed with his genetic material. “Please,” he says, with all the sincerity of a condolences card from human resources.
You could slap that grin right off his smug face.
And of course, he doubles down. “You know, I’ve always had a thing for women in power pulling rank. It’s just a shame I’m a Captain. So technically, I outrank you.”
“Oh no,” you say, mock-concerned, handing the forceps over. “Maybe you'd stand a chance if you weren’t such a Captain Know-It-All.”
“You’ll come to love me, old girl.”
“Smeghead,” you mutter under your breath. Quiet, but loud enough for his ego to catch wind.
If charisma was currency, Ace Rimmer could probably buy a moon. Maybe two, if he offered a wink. But all of it feels pre-packaged. Like he watched one too many old adventure serials and thought, Yes. That. I’ll become an archetype instead of a person.
You turn your attention to the patient, Cat, currently unconscious and blissfully unaware of the interdimensional tosspot rearranging his tibia. The scan shows splintered bone. You make the incision carefully, your hands moving with that muscle memory you thought you’d buried after the war. The smell of disinfectant and sterilised gauze hits your nostrils. Just like old times. Just with more hair gel in the vicinity and it’s not just Cat’s.
Ace glances at the scan, then gets to work nudging the fragments back into place. “Delicate work,” he says, like he’s narrating his own life story.
You grunt. “Didn’t realise Captain Narcissism specialised in orthopaedics.”
He flashes another grin. “Among other things.”
“Let me guess,” you say, as you prep the splint. “Diplomacy. Linguistics. Space flight and shoving your head up your own arsehole.”
“You forgot acrobatics and laser fencing,” he says cheerfully.
“Tragic oversight on my part.”
You press the splint into place, applying pressure to the open wound. Cat twitches, but his vitals stay stable.
“Splint stabilised,” you mutter and glance up. “Still with me, or is this too mundane for a hero of your calibre?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, I love the mundane. I just like to add a bit of flair to it.”
“I’m shocked you haven’t narrated this entire procedure aloud. Or called in a film crew.”
“Thought about it,” he says with a wink. “But I wouldn’t want to make you nervous.”
You fix him with a look that could curdle milk. “Trust me, Captain. You don’t make me nervous. You make me nauseous."
His eyes narrow ever so slightly. It’s the first crack you’ve seen in the wall of his invincible charm. Just a flicker. Barely there. But oh, it’s delicious.
“So...you and the other me,” he begins, too casually. “You like that old chap, don’t you?”
You almost drop the scalpel. He’s trying to get a rise out of you.
“Excuse me?”
“I can see it. The way you talk about him. The way you defend him. It’s sweet, in a tragic sort of way.” Ace is watching you, not with cruelty but with that same damned smugness that makes your fists itch.
“You jealous?” you reply, glancing at him sideways.
“Jealous?” He lets out a little laugh, almost surprised. “He’s warped. He’s weaselly. The man’s a maggot.”
You clamp down the splint with maybe a little more force than necessary.
“And yet,” you say, eyes locked on the surgical site, “he doesn’t pretend to be perfect. He doesn’t strut around like some Saturday morning cartoon hero.”
Ace folds his arms, brow twitching. “You think that’s better?”
“I think being flawed makes him real. And I’d take real over polished propaganda poster any day.”
There’s a sharp hiss of breath from the operating table as Cat stirs, groggy and confused. His eyes blink at you both blearily.
“Ugh... why’s the room spinning?” he mumbles.
“You’ve had a rough one, Cat. We’re putting your leg back together, old chap,” Ace replies.
He looks from you to Ace, and then makes a face like he’s smelled a three-day-old fish.
“Is that actually another Rimmer or am I seeing double? I must be in hell,” he groans and promptly passes out again.
You let a huff of amusement escape your nose, quick and sharp and for a split second, Ace looks like he might too. Instead, he straightens his posture with that signature performative gravitas.
“Ignore him,” he says. “He’s delirious."
“Yeah,” you say, still smiling as you thread the sutures, “but he’s not wrong.”
Rimmer sulks in the corner of the med-bay waiting room, arms folded, eyes locked on the digital fish tank bubbling away in the wall. Koi loop in lazy circles, mocking him with their automated serenity. One of them swims headfirst into a corner, then does it again, and he finds it oddly relatable.
He glares harder at the tank, trying not to imagine what’s happening on the other side of the med-bay doors. Ace is probably dazzling her with his tales of daring rescue missions. They're probably laughing. Laughing together.
Of course they'd get along, wouldn’t they? Both former Space Corps. Both with shiny commendations, medals, swagger. Medical field training. Weapons certification. Pilots of the elite division. Both ticking all the heroic boxes that Rimmer barely scraped past on multiple choice theory exams.
He shifts in his chair and stares into his reflection in the glass table, seeing his own sulky, pale face. The lesser model. The defective edition. A man so far beneath Ace Rimmer that even the comparison feels like a bad joke the universe forgot to punchline.
His gut twists.
She’s probably already halfway in love with him. How could she not be? Ace is everything she should want. Courageous. Gallant. Full of charming one-liners and a jawline that looks carved by a god.
She’ll go with him. That’s what heroes do. They inspire people to leave behind the dregs and leap into greatness. She’ll jump ship, follow him into some glittering alternate dimension filled with noble quests and romantic sunsets, and she’ll never look back. Why would she? Why settle for Arnold J. Rimmer when she could have Ace ?
And why did he ever think he had a chance?
Why did he think, for even a moment, that someone might actually choose him ?
It’s always like this. Every good thing in his life is ripped away before it’s ever truly his. Scrubbed out by fate. Or chance. Or maybe just the simple, unshakable fact that Arnold Rimmer doesn’t get the girl. He gets the fish tank.
He swallows hard, eyes glued to the looping koi.
She’s already gone. She just hasn’t said it yet.
Rimmer can barely contain his glee.
Ace is leaving. Actually leaving. Buggering off back to whatever universe he crawled out of, where teeth gleam on cue and trousers never crease.
Rimmer paces the hangar, practically vibrating with anticipation. Madge the skutter sits beside him, holding a rope that leads to a net of heavily smoked kippers suspended directly over the exit hatch.
“I’ll smoke him a smegging kipper,” Rimmer mutters, eyes narrowed with theatrical menace.
Ace strolls in, of course, backlit by the hangar lights. He’s puffing on a cigar and exuding enough smugness to power a light cruiser.
“Now!” Rimmer whispers urgently.
Madge jerks the rope.
Nothing happens.
Rimmer deflates. He looks up to see the net swaying gently… stuck. Of course it’s stuck. Nothing ever works for him. Not even petty revenge.
Ace, naturally, notices everything. His gaze follows the rope, then the pulley, then zeroes in on the shadow behind the stack of cargo crates.
“There you are, old chap,” Ace says, strolling over like they’re old schoolmates and not two versions of a man who'd gladly strangle the other. “I must admit, out of all your weaselly iterations, I’m impressed. Didn’t think you had it in you to bag a woman like her. Don’t cock it up, Arn.”
Rimmer’s mouth opens and shuts like a confused trout. He’s not sure if he’s just been insulted, complimented, or both.
“Oh, right. Yes. Bagged. That’s what this is now, is it? Like I reeled her in with a net and tossed her in the freezer section next to the fish fingers.”
Ace chuckles. “Figure of speech, chum.”
“Not a great one,” Rimmer mutters. “Besides, she’s not a thing . She’s… she’s…” He trails off, grasping for something poetic and failing. “She’s not even really with me.”
“Oh, come off it,” Ace says with maddening warmth. “You’ve got that glow about you. Like a man who’s found something to lose.”
“That’s just the gleam from my light bee,” Rimmer snaps. “Hardly the same as inner radiance.”
Ace smiles again, that perfectly teeth-aligned, heroic smile that Rimmer wants to smash in with his clipboard. “Still the same self-loathing little mole-rat, aren’t you?”
“And you’re still the same blow-dried space jockey with a catchphrase,” Rimmer fires back.
“Catchphrase sells,” Ace grins. “And gets the girl.”
Rimmer narrows his eyes. “She’s not a prize to be won.”
“Didn’t say she was.” Ace’s voice softens slightly, but that’s worse. That’s much worse. It’s like being pitied by a marble statue. “But she chose you. She saw something worth staying for. That means you have to see it too.”
Rimmer’s stomach turns. That same old pit of doubt yawns wide in his gut. He’s never trusted happiness. It’s always been the warm-up act before humiliation takes the stage.
“You’re wrong,” he mutters, arms crossed, looking anywhere but at Ace. “She deserves someone brave. Someone charming.”
“She deserves someone real,” Ace replies, flicking ash off his cigar. “And like it or not, you’re the real deal. Neuroses, cowardice, tragically pleated trousers and all.”
“I’m the ghost of a dead cock up. I’m the furthest thing from real.”
Ace only laughs. “Don’t mess it up, Arn. That woman could level a planet with her sarcasm alone. I doubt you’ll ever find another.”
Before Rimmer can form a reply—
Footsteps.
Hush walks in.
Rimmer’s stomach drops. Is she coming to say goodbye? To him ? Or is she planning to leave with the bastard?
“Couldn’t bear to see me leave, old girl?” Ace says with a swagger as he lowers his sunglasses to her.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she says to Ace, sharp as shattered glass. “I just came to make sure you actually do bugger off.”
Ace raises a brow, unfazed. “You wound me, Sergeant.”
“Not yet. But I could be convinced.”
Rimmer turns away, biting down a snicker. She’s in fine form today.
“I always liked a woman with bite,” Ace says, tilting his head.
“And I always liked my oxygen without the scent of misplaced hero complexes.” She puts her hands on her hips.
Rimmer lets out a strangled wheeze that might be a laugh, or possibly a hiccup of pure joy.
Ace, ever the gentleman, chuckles and tips his cigar in mock salute. “Smoke me a kipper. I’ll be back for breakfast.”
“Don’t bother coming back at all.” Hush snaps.
Ace gives one last dazzling smile… Rimmer’s face, but infuriatingly handsome, and climbs aboard his dimension-hopping craft. The hatch hisses shut behind him.
Gone. For good, hopefully.
Rimmer watches the ship fly out the hangar door, tension slipping from his shoulders like a bad suit jacket. He feels Hush sidle closer.
“What a git,” she murmurs, leaning in.
Rimmer smiles, an honest, unguarded smile that creeps up on him like a miracle.
He doesn't know what this feeling is exactly… Relief? Triumph? Mild arousal? But it's good. And for once, it's his.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “What a smegging goit.”