Disclaimer:
We do not know Craig Charles or Chris Barrie; we only know the public image they present in various public appearances. This is an entirely fictional story, wherein is presented fictionalized versions of those publicly projected personalities. What is presented in this story does not nessecarily reflect what I think even of those projected images.What the actors themselves are like, we have not a clue, and furthermore, it is none of our business. We would never suggest or presume to know anything about them, or their personal lives. Rather, this story takes their images and plays with them within a fictionalized universe. It is a fantasy, and nothing more. The same goes for any and all names and/or public personas used and/or mentioned in this story.

We are just fangirls with too much imagination, and we mean no harm.


Chris walked off the set, irritated and tired from a long day of shooting, and headed straight for his dressing room. He could feel his lip twitching in irritation as he saw Craig in front of him, making a beeline that would get him there first. Some unspoken arrangement had been reached, the day after... that had happened, and whoever reached the dressing room first would have it to himself, the other one finding this, that, the other thing, a conversation, a cup of coffee to entertain him until the room was free again. Some passive/aggressive messing about was inevitable, but each one knew to keep it to a minimum, as he would be the victim of as good as he gave the next time around.

Neither of them said a word. What was there to say? Craig had, for whatever nutty reasons ran around in his head, come on to Chris in the bloody studio, sucked him off, and thrown a tantrum, and since then had treated Chris like Craig was the wronged party. Which was fine. What had Chris lost? Some meaningless fumblings at his flat every now and again? Nothing he would not prefer from an actual girlfriend. Not that he had had much energy to go out and get one lately, but he was feeling a bit overworked, after all.

He and Craig worked together as before, and even, if they got a little carried away, might pass on a joke or a neutral comment, but that was the extent of their interaction. In some ways, the characters were a blessing. They could put on the personas of their other selves, interact as those other selves, and then toss those off with the last 'Cut' and forget that they knew each other. Provided they left each other alone.

But Chris was tired, and he was dressed in a version of Craig's usual costume, and he was damned if he was going to sit around chewing on his toenails until the room was free again. Just a change. Not even a shower. Walk in, change, leave; don't make eye contact. Simple enough. He pushed the door open with a little too much force, and walked directly to the locker with his clothes in it, sparing no glance at anything else. He could deal with Lister, no problem. He was not so sure how well he could deal with Craig.


Craig rushed towards the dressing room, feeling almost cheerful. He could feel Chris fuming at him from behind, and walked even faster to annoy him. He found himself almost stifling a giggle as he reached the door, and slipped in with a sense of triumph he only barely recognized as childish.

He headed straight for the mirror, adjusting the unfamiliar costume. He looked horrible. Good. He leered at his reflection, striking a parodic pose, nose in the air. God, this was wonderful! To get to show the wanker just exactly how ridiculous he looked to other people; prancing around, thinking he was such a good actor. Snorting a laugh, he made a move to take off his hat just as the door sounded. He turned around, smiling, expecting to see Danny or Robert. His face didn't exactly fall when the sulking face of Chris appeared in the doorway, but it did freeze up, as did the rest of his uncomfortably clad body.

Chris opened his locker, tightlipped.

Craig collected himself, took off his ludicrous green hat, and threw it at Chris - juuust close enough for the other man to see it, but not close enough that it would be totally apparent that he had done so on purpose.

Chris winced as it flew by, but pulled his shirt out of his locker without comment.

Feeling rather pleased with himself, Craig walked over to his own locker and fidgeted with his uniform, pretending to start taking it off. He waited until he was sure Chris saw him, then gave a broad, fake smile. "Doesn't suit you, you know."

Chris plucked the leather deerstalker off of his head with two fingers and dropped it onto the ground with distaste. The horrid thing did look like something Craig would actually enjoy wearing. "It doesn't suit anyone," he responded tersely. It just caters to your macho self-image, he added silently.

Still smiling, Craig picked up the hat and put it on. It felt like an old friend, clashing horribly with his Rimmer costume. He snorted. "Yer just jealous that I can pull it off and you can't." Although, he had to admit, Chris didn't look half as bad in his costume as Craig did in the Captain Emerald get up. In fact, he looked rather good. This annoyed him in subtle ways he couldn't quite pinpoint.

"I'm pulling it off right now." Chris suited action to word, taking off the spangly gay-motorcyclist leather jacket and dropping it, too, on the ground. He started to unlace his boots. He did not look at Craig; whatever games the scouser had in mind, he could play with himself.

His last vestiges of cheerfulness gave way to irritation as Craig cursed his own reaction to the sight of Chris stripping. This seemed to be tied in with his annoyance at how Chris looked with the costume actually on, and he fought to keep his hopefully annoying grin plastered on. "Don't blame ya. Not your thing."

"We do have different things, yes." Chris paused to yank off his H and toss it aside, then went back to working on his boots, determined not to rise to any bait.

In an effort to cheer himself up, Craig sauntered back to the mirror and looked at himself. This helped instantly. He almost giggled at how aggressively silly he looked. Mulling over what Chris had just said, he started unfastening the front of his jacket. Well. There was an opportunity too good to be passed by. "We do, at that. Even Rob and Doug seem to know." He grinned broadly again.

"Good for them," Chris replied absently, yanking off the black boots.

This jibe was too good, and Craig was unwilling to let it go on just one bit of unresponsiveness. "I'm glad you agree, then. Good for you. A lesser man might not have taken the implication that he's," he raised his thumb and forefinger to indicate about the size of an anchovy, "smaller quite so well."

The very idea that Craig was trying to needle him irked Chris in a way that the easily dismissed needle itself would not. "What are you on about?" he couldn't help himself from saying. He yanked off his socks.

Craig put his hands on his hips. His unfastened green jacket dangled awkwardly; it was not made to hang. "You know, that scene I just had." Mimicking his earlier performance, he looked in mock surprise at his own groin, stifling a laugh. Yes, it was beyond childish, but dammit, Chris deserved it.

Chris snorted, drawn in despite himself. Craig just had a knack for getting under your skin. Well, he was not too bad at that himself. "No, Rimmer was just surprised to see a stiffy in the gent's." He pulled off the stained white T-shirt and put his own shirt on rather quickly.

For a moment, Craig just stood there, his smile fading slowly, like an ice-cream melting on a baking hot summer's day. Chris couldn't have said what Craig's ears and brain insisted that he had. Surely that was beyond even his level of bastardness? He felt his voice dropping into a very cold and hard register indeed. "What are you saying?"

Chris could tell he was getting to the other man. Which was only fair. Craig had been putting far too much effort lately into getting to him. "You sound so shocked..." he replied blandly, buttoning his shirt.

Craig clenched and unclenched his hands, itching to do some undefined thing with them, getting jittery. "Are you trying to imply something, 'mate'?" Craig wasn't good with voices, but he was good at expressing emotion, and he put every last drop of hurt, pain and betrayal that Chris had ever made him feel into that last word. He felt like he was spitting it, and got the sudden urge to wipe his chin after he'd finished.

It was petty and infantile, and Chris knew it. But he was sucked in, and could see that Craig was losing it. He pushed his little advantage, and replied in a still-bland voice, "Nothing to imply." He buttoned his cuffs airily.

Nothing to imply. Nothing to imply. Nothing to fucking imply. Coherent thought was pushed aside by those repeating words in Craig's mind, and he moved forward purposefully, almost dancing across the floor. "That so?" he growled. "That really so?"

He must be close to another tantrum, Chris though. He raised his eyebrows, still looking firmly at his clothes in the locker and not at Craig.

Nothing fucking imply, Craig's mind chanted, as he got even closer still. "You got something to say, spit it out, man!"

"What is there to say?" Chris asked, slightly tight-lipped, growing irate despite himself. Yes, what was there to say? You played with me, my friend, and now you are being an ass about it. He reached for his jeans. Craig blocked Chris's way, his hands balled into fists at sides. Chris pulled his hand back and crossed his arms, giving his best vaguely irritated look to what seemed to be a furious Craig. Craig stared right back.

"Seems to me like you were enjoying it at the time," Craig said quietly, his voice ice-cold. Chris, in the shower, his face flushed, the sounds he made, the feel of his body as he climaxed; his erection erupting in Craig's mouth... "What does that make you then, eh?"

Oh, for fuck's sake, Chris thought. I am not going to be implicated in this emotional yoyo tournament of ceaseless taunting followed by hurt when he dared to taunt back. "It was never my idea."

He hadn't thought it possible, but apparently Chris could still surprise Craig with entirely new levels of uncaring soullessness. "Oh, right, no! Of course not! Nothing was ever your idea. You just had to lean back and enjoy the show, didn't ya!" It was so ridiculous it was almost funny. Almost. Craig’s expression wavered between a beginning laugh and an angry glare, eventually falling down on the latter.

Chris narrowed his eyes. Oh, was that what all... that was for Craig. A show. A rehearsal. It was for damn sure not an audition. "Show." He glared outright. "Well, what else does one do with a show but sit back and enjoy it?"

There was nothing left but white-hot rage. Craig moved with surprising swiftness, grabbing Chris's upper arms in both hands, any thoughts that the other man was most likely stronger lost in the heat of the moment. Chris was utterly startled, and had no time to process any resistance to being spun around to slam against the nearest wall.

Craig's face was close enough to touch Chris's. Madness shone in eyes that saw the man in front of him, not still in make-up, glue still left on his face in a partial "H" pattern, but drenched in water, not looking at him, quietly lathering himself up with cheap, smelling-of-nothing soap.

Within Chris, a very deeply visceral fury at being manhandled was starting to brew.

All of the oxygen in Craig's body seemed to leave in a single breath, as he realized that he had nothing to say. He could no longer remember why he was pushing Chris up against the wall. Instincts and urges fought within him confusedly, the closeness of the other man's face and smell not helping. Frustrated, he gave Chris one final glare and released his grip.

Chris's brewing fury percolated out, and he grabbed Craig by two fistfuls of his undershirt's neck. He used his whole body weight to move the other man backwards. Craig hardly had time to react, much less let out an odd, yelping sound, as he felt himself being pushed around like a rag-doll. Chris leaned in close, and hissed through his teeth, "If you ever put your hands on me again..." he took a deep, shuddering breath as he groped for a suitable threat, "you are going to wish you had never been on this goddamed show." It was a sign to himself that he had lost it, spitting out a threat that was so pathetically unimaginative. As Craig stared back at him, he took deep breaths and tried to regain his composure, his hands still gripping Craig's shirt tightly and shaking.

Craig said nothing for interminable minutes. He felt like he'd been wearing the wrong prescription glasses for months, and someone had just handed him the right pair. "Don't worry. There's nothing that could ever make me want to touch you again."

Chris let go, feeling completely and unexpectedly drained. Yes, this was what they both knew and wanted, wasn't it? There was no reason to feel like such shite upon hearing it. He stumbled back to his locker.

Craig slumped down and hid his face in his hands. He felt tears coming on. He was desperate to keep them back, but did not know if he would be able to. He didn't know if he would be able to do much of anything at all.

Chris yanked his jeans out of the locker. He shed his costume pants and pulled on his jeans as quickly as humanly possible, but his hands were shaking, and the fasteners kept snapping out of his hands. He finally managed to button two of the buttons, and just pulled his shirttails over the rest.

Somehow, Craig got to his feet and stood there shakily, tearing off jacket. He started on the rest of the uniform, taking his anger out on it. "Sodding, fucking, stupid, fecking, bloody thing..." he mumbled, running out of expletives and imagination far too soon for any kind of lasting satisfaction.

Chris pulled out his shoes, silently, and tried to toe his way into them. They did not want to cooperate.

One trouser leg caught on Craig's foot as he tried to take them off, and he fell over, his chin hitting the floor with a thunk, almost shaking loose a filling. He jumped up, raging, hurting, and kicked the wall hard.

Chris sighed. Kicking the wall will not solve a goddamed thing, you ninny, he fumed silently.

His trousers finally off, Craig sat down. He looked dead ahead, glumly - a view that unfortunately included Chris, failing to get his shoes on. He finally managed to jam them on, and looked up, seeing Craig staring at him. There were tears in the other man's eyes, and confused desperation dancing over his face. It made Chris's heart melt, and he was furious with it for doing that after what Craig had just said and done. His chest ached. His lip twitched, and he frowned.

Craig bit his lip and took a deep breath. He ran his hands through his hair, his legs twitching. He wanted to stand, but his legs refused to do anything he asked.

The aching in his chest only increased as Chris looked at Craig. He looked down at the comfortably neutral floor, and shut the locker door as if it weighed a metric ton. He resolved to walk to the door and just... leave. Before anything else happened. His wretched betraying mind made him glance back at Craig despite himself, just as the other man let out a sob, caught himself, and bit his lip. Chris turned back and focused on the door.

Craig sat there, shoulders shaking, for the longest time, then finally managed to get up and stumble towards the shower. He realized he was still wearing boots, and tried to kick them off, fighting off tears. "Fuck, man..." he gasped.

Chris stopped with his hand on the door. He stood, not turning. Hell. Just go. Just turn the knob and leave. What good could come of this?

Chris hasn't left, Craig thought. He hasn't left. Why hasn't he left? He turned towards the older man, one boot on, one off, gathering every inch of self-control left in his body. "For what it's worth... I never wanted it to end like this." He kicked off his other boot. He hardly noticed that he was truly crying now - quietly.

"How did..." It was a simple enough sentence, but Chris choked. He took a deep breath and tried again, speaking very slowly and clearly to the door, his voice wafting into a slightly higher register. "How did you want it to end?"

That almost Rimmerish voice seemed to trigger something for Craig. He was used to responding to it; ignoring who it issued from, and what that meant. A special reserve of self-control woke from somewhere deep inside. He started to move towards Chris, before thinking better of it. Still. Something needed to be said. "Just..." He looked at Chris, trying to figure out what the angle was. Why was he still here? He didn't want Craig touching him; hell, he could clearly just barely stand to be in the same room. So why was he still here?

Chris sighed and gathered every shred of self-control he had. He glanced over his shoulder, looking at Craig out of the corner of his eye.

Craig searched for clues in Chris's demeanor, pointlessly. He was far too confused and upset himself to interpret anything, in any case. "I just wanted us to be..." He searched for the right word. "Happy?" It came out like a choke. He frowned. Was that it? Well, didn't everyone want to be happy?

"Happy." Chris's voice was flat.

It was no use. There was no crossing the distance between them. With something almost like relief, Craig gave up. "Never mind."

Chris continued in that flat voice. "A house in the suburbs."

Methodically, Craig started taking off his socks.

"Two and a half kids. Dog."

Craig stopped. A relationship? He hadn't thought... Images filled his mind as Chris spoke, and he fumbled for an opinion. "I don't know..."

Chris looked back at the door and straightened "Well, if you can't even bring yourself to," he placed every nasty emphasis he could into the next word, "touch me, except to try to shove me around, that's a little out, isn't it?" The full import of his sarcastic vision had hit him, and he found it... appealing. Rather, what it would have been if it were not, as it currently was, irredeemably fucked up. He felt anger and remorse struggling for dominance in his intestines. He had to walk out. He slammed the door with finality.

The idea had finally finished working its way through Craig's mind, and he decided that he would not necessarily have minded the scenario. His mouth opened and closed as he imagined his son on Chris' lap, the three of them together; a home. A... He couldn't think the word. He wanted to reply, but there was no one to reply to. He moved as if to follow, but realized that he was in his underwear. He felt torn in two. His emotions seethed as he stood there, indecisive; then some inner fire finally burned itself out, and all emotions ceased. He stepped into the shower, absolutely numb.


Chris walked out of the building very deliberately, his hands in his pockets and his eyes cast downwards. He did not want to catalog the feelings simmering inside of himself, but his orderly nature would not let him leave them alone. Anger at Craig, for being such a stubborn, immature git. Anger at himself, for very similar reasons. Anger at the world for lacing this with even more complexity. Frustration at himself, for not being able to decide yes or no when this began, and acting on it.

Acute sexual desire for Craig.

He choked back a sob as he hurried out.