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 necessarily reflect what we 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.


"...yeh, just back from a shoot today..." Craig tapped ash off of his cigarette into an empty glass on the table and turned to the recipient of this evening's attentions, grinning. The blonde sitting on one of his legs giggled for no reason, and looked around, somewhat starstruck. Chris rolled his eyes and took another drink. Craig was very obviously on the pull, and it irritated him to see the other man playing himself up. Not that there was any jealousy in his mind, seeing Craig working so hard to impress an empty-headed blonde. None at all.

"Yeah," Craig continued, "My part is..." he hesitated, and Chris filled in a perfect imitation of the scouser, "...a bit pony, really." Danny, who had been shaking his head at some of Craig's come-ons himself, laughed. The blonde tittered. Craig glared. Chris, seeing an opportunity to... Seeing an opportunity, kept going. "Yeah, I'm jist bunkin' with another bloke and tryin' to get back to eaaarth..."

"Stuff it, Chris," Craig glowered.

"Oh, I thought you were interested in the blonde!" Chris replied, in mock surprise.

So it went. Chris actually felt in fine form, insults flowing quite freely; some of Rimmer must be rubbing off. It became almost a challenge in itself, separated from its original intent. The blonde was becoming increasingly amused and decreasingly allured, and Craig was becoming increasingly irate. Chris was becoming increasingly drunk, and did not care. Something in him was enjoying the fact that he seemed to be able to bother Craig so much; the next day, he might cringe at a self-analysis, but at the time, it just felt... right.


"So I'll see ya around then, maybe?" It was less than a half-hearted effort, achieving the expected result, which was nothing. The woman had not been even remotely interested in anything Craig had to say for a least an hour. Craig didn't blame her; with the insults Chris had been slinging, he wouldn't have blamed her for turning down James fecking Bond. As she made her excuses and hurried towards the door, her delicious round bottom swinging temptingly from side to side, Craig turned his attention towards the sodding bastard who had just ruining his chances of ever nailing that gorgeous little thing.

Chris was joking, laughing, grinning; the alcohol seeming to have rubbed away enough stiff gittishness for him to actually be able to enjoy himself. The end of some jibe or other, spoken in an exact replica of Craig's easily recognizable accent, drifted across the room, as did the adoring laughter that followed. The center of attention, he was, just the way he liked it. It made Craig sick. So he hadn't made any real effort to talk to Craig after that half-hearted apology last year. Fine. No problem. Craig was more than done with him anyway, and it had almost been a relief to not have to relate to the man more than absolutely necessary for the show. Clearly he wasn't really sorry after all - but no matter. Craig honestly didn't mind. But if Craig was so uninteresting, so unworthy of any kind of attention, why this? Why ruin his chances of getting a bit of ass when he sorely needed it?

Because he was a soulless cold-hearted bastard. This was becoming abundantly clear. Chris didn't want him, didn't want to sully his pristine middle-class self with him; but apparently, he didn't want Craig to have anyone else, either. What? Was he trying to keep Craig handy for whenever he got his sordid self sorted out enough to ask for a quick wank or a blow? The... The...

Craig gritted his teeth, and started counting. He tried ten at first, but it wasn't enough by far. Fifty didn't work either. One hundred just about managed the job. His mind was clear enough to think. He did so. Alcohol swam through his veins, urging unsavory thoughts to the surface, egging bad impulses on. In the morning, Craig would probably regret what he was about to do - and would possibly regret it for the rest of his life - but there was no way of stopping him now. Forcing a smile onto his face with a mental crowbar, he rose and went over to join Chris, pulling a chair up next to the other man.

Chris looked around at the sound of the chair’s scrape. He was more than a little surprised to see that Craig was smiling, after the jape Chris played on him. He would have guessed that Craig would be furious. But the smile on the other man’s face looked genuine.

Not that Chris was in any state to judge. He had been drinking fairly heavily since he started on his little campaign to deny Craig the blonde groupie, and felt himself to be in a reasonably advanced state of inebriation. Nonetheless, he smiled back. It was hard not to smile when Craig gave that genuine smile. A lovely smile... Chris dragged his thoughts back into the present. "You look happy, man," he said, his voice slightly slurred. "Don't blame you. You could do better." Jesus, groupies?

Just keep smiling, Craig thought, his anger bobbing dangerously close to the surface. "You reckon so, eh?" Got any suggestions, Chris? Any one person springing to mind?

"Yeah, for sure." Chris smiled even more broadly.

Craig swirled his drink in his hand, and moved imperceptibly closer to Chris. Chris was distracted by the swirling liquid in Craig’s glass; he stared at it, fascinated. It reminded him that he had a drink, himself, and he drained his own glass. Now he had no drink. Craig would have to swirl for both of them. He giggled.

Craig bit his lip, looking thoughtful. He turned to face Chris at the sound of the giggle. "You're quite cheerful tonight, then." Fun then, is it? Trying to keep me from fucking anyone but you?

"Who, me?" Chris asked, confused. He looked around. The group had split off into small conversational circles, and he was the only one who seemed engaged at all with Craig at the moment. He completed the sweep to come back to Craig. Oh. Yes. Cheerful. He thought about it for a moment. "I guess I am."

Craig looked intently into Chris’s eyes, and his voice softened slightly. "And why would that be, then?"

Chris frowned. A very good question. An excellent question. A question he would be much more able to answer if Craig were not looking at him with those big, mesmerizing brown eyes. "Dunno, really..."

Ever word coming out of the man's mouth annoyed him to no end, but this only served to strengthen Craig's resolve. Steeling himself, he moved closer still, very slowly, until his legs were touching Chris's – but subtly, very subtly. Just two guys being friendly, sitting next to one another, being comfortable, nothing more... unless Chris wanted it to.

Chris felt the contact, but did not know where to file this information. Some part of himself told him that it was odd for Craig to be this close to him, this engaged, but he could pull up no more detail from whatever part of him that was. The rest of him was weighing in on the side of it being a good thing – an almost alluring thing. He looked away to try to gather his thoughts, licking his lips. He picked up his drink and drained it, realizing as only a trickle of ice-melt touched his lips that he already had drained it. He looked at the glass as if betrayed by it.

"Heh," Craig said, downing his own drink. "Well, that's good then, ain't it? People should be happy." Except me, apparently, he added, the obvious enjoyment on Chris's face as he buried Craig's chances with the blonde playing over and over again in his head, like a tedious, unfunny home movie.

Chris was slightly confused. Surely this was not as straightforward a statement as it appeared to be. There must be some subtlety to it. Some subtlety that was too... subtle for him. "I don't think anyone would take the anti on that..." Chris said. He made an effort and pulled out a possible exception "Except masochists."

Craig nodded. Good call.

Chris discovered a flaw in his logic. "But if you get a thrill out of being unhappy, I gusssh you're still happy." He furrowed his brow. This was entirely too much thinking for a response to a pleasantry.

"Yeah, there's that. But, you know..." Craig leaned in slightly, impatient, "there's you and me, and you know... Things haven't always been that... Well." He gave Chris a melancholy, almost apologetic look. "Well, you know what I mean."

Chris nodded. At some point in that speech, his eyes had latched onto Craig’s lips as an aid to understanding, and they had promptly failed in that capacity. He watched those lips move, twisting and bobbing in an intricate dance to form words, lubricated at one point by the tiniest flick of a dusky pink tongue. What those words were, he realized as Craig looked at him hopefully, wanting a response, he had no idea. Something about the past. "Yes, well, by... bygones, and all that?"

"That would be..." Just perfect for you, wouldn't it? Soften me up and keep me in my place, ready to come if called, do whatever you want, when you want it, like some eager, adoring fan, like that girl with the killer arse surely would've. Craig's inner resolve faltered somewhat when a chill down his spine informed him politely that this might not be an entirely unobjectionable arrangement. It was only a moment, however, before pride and stubbornness set in, allowing Craig to grin with a certain indeterminate flirtation, one for which he retained ample deniability, if necessary. "...good."

Chris continued to stare. "Good." He repeated the last word he had heard and smiled. He wondered how Craig would look from another angle. He leaned his head on his hand, resting his elbow on the table.

Craig gave Chris a calculating once-over, trying to gauge how drunk the other man really was. He couldn't risk him being even the least bit sober. Any lingering doubts he had on that issue were soon gone, however, the moment he noticed the other man's trying-hard-to-concentrate face staring at him from a ridiculous angle.

Chris blinked for a moment. He decided he liked the old angle better, and straightened back up.

Feeling the time was just about right, Craig reached for his drink, 'accidentally' touching Chris's hand on the way. Eyes straight ahead, he pretended not to notice. Chris’s hand twitched at the contact, and Craig allowed himself an internal thrill. He looked at his glass as though surprised it was empty. "Oh. Well, I'm for another. You?" Craig asked.

"Er - I've had..." Chris looked at the table in front of him. Glasses were scattered all over it. He could not tell how many of them had been his when they were full, and hadn’t he seen someone come by and take a few of them away a number of times? No, the table record was unreliable. "A lot," he finished.

Craig's laugh was calculated to be suitably hearty, but still kind. Friendly. Reassuring. "Ah, come now, big lad like yerself?" His eyes took in Chris's body. It seemed to have filled out somewhat, he noted absent-mindedly. He couldn't remember when he'd seen Chris even shirtless last. He smiled encouragingly.

Chris looked down. Big? That brought back a memory. "I shought I wasn't," he spread his fingers to indicate the size of an anchovy, "all that big?"

It was Academy Award time. Craig grinned nervously and looked away. He scratched absently at his forehead. "Oh, eh... Yeah. I said some stupid things, din't I?"

Chris’s size-indication hand made its way back down to the table. "Eh, so did I," he had to admit.

Every statement that stumbled out of the man's mouth pushed Craig to entirely new levels of righteous anger. He observed Chris, somewhat coldly, and for the briefest of moments his face was devoid of any kind of emotion. As he caught himself, his smile came back in full force, struggling to reach his eyes.

Chris frowned and looked at Craig as searchingly as he could. Had he imagined that? Sloshed he may have been – well, no, sloshed he most definitely was – but not to the point where he started seeing anything that was not there.

With some effort, Craig tried to assume a winning manner again. "So I suppose that'd make us even, then."

This was a complicated question, and any other thoughts Chris might have had were knocked aside to devote full resources to it. He looked back at the table, drumming his fingers erratically on it. He could swear he could hear gears in his head grinding. "I dunno," he said, slowly. "Not really an even thing. I say I'm shorry, you say you are, we see who agrees."

Craig laughed. Christ, Chris really was drunk, wasn't he? All the better. "Fair enough." He coughed. "Look. Er... if you don't want another drink..." He didn't want the man unconscious, after all; just nicely uninhibited. And vulnerable. He affected a suitably thoughtful pause. "I was thinking of going out for some air. Stuffy in here, yeah? Come with?"

The gears in Chris's head were whining with the ferocity of their turning, he was sure, and he became a bit worried about their longevity. He looked down at his hands. An invitation outside could have so many connotations – he had used that line himself, many times. He looked at Craig. He looked down at his hands.

Or it could simply be a desire for fresh air. Occam’s razor came to his aid, just as Craig shifted slightly, his leg rubbing gently against Chris’s. Chris shivered. "Erm. Yes, why don't we." He did not move.

Craig nodded. "All right, then!" He stood up, pretending to be slightly more intoxicated than he actually was. Wobbling unsteadily in a mock display of lost balance, he braced himself on Chris’s shoulder, leaning up against the other man. Chris froze. A hand on his shoulder was complicating the simple matter of going outside to levels he was unprepared to deal with.

"Sorry!" Craig said, removing his hand. Chris turned as it disappeared, as if following a magnetic attraction. He got to his feet with the help of a chair, pretending to be slightly less intoxicated than he actually was. He was not hopeful that he was very convincing to anyone less intoxicated than he was.

Craig stepped back and moved towards the door, allowing Chris the room he clearly needed to navigate, waiting patiently by the door. Chris navigated the room and made it to the door with little mishap.

With an absent-minded look, Craig adjusted his suit jacket. Chris could not look away. The man looked sharp. Debonair. Dashing. Roget had set up shop in Chris’s brain, and was ticking off all of the adjectives that applied to Craig as the other man stood by the door, a slight smile still on his lips.

Craig nodded towards the door, lingering a look on Chris. He opened the door and walked through, holding it open after him. Chris followed. The night was clear and starry, and the cool air cleared Chris’s head somewhat. Enjoying the chill a bit after the stuffy atmosphere, in many ways, of the pub, Craig stopped at the top of the broad stone steps leading up to the pub door. He felt numb as Chris walked over to stand next to him, keeping a respectful distance. He took out his cigarettes and waved them at Chris, raising his eyebrow questioningly.

"They're cigarettes." Chris was pleased with himself, quite sure he had gotten that one right.

"D'you mind?"

"Oh. No, go ahead."

Feeling a slight breeze tugging at the hairs at the back of his neck (funny, he hadn't noticed a wind earlier) Craig nodded again. He lit a cigarette and took a deep, satisfying inhale, wanting to savor this moment. It gave him a somewhat perverse thrill to know that he could stop this at any moment, could just make his excuses and go back inside, chat up some pretty little thing, go back to her place, take her roughly from behind, trying hard to ignore the images in his head when he came, and sneak out the moment she fell asleep. Wouldn't be the first time.

Chris watched him smoke. He cleared his throat. He wanted to make conversation. He was typically very good at small talk, but could not even make one vaguely conversational letter come out of his mouth.

Craig took another deep inhale, looking straight ahead. He sat down on the top of the stairs. He looked up at Chris and patted the stone surface beside him. He deserves it, he thought, almost desperately. Damn him, it's no more than he deserves.

Chris twisted his lip slightly. Something odd was going on, and he was growing quite uncomfortable trying to figure it out. He knew that he had acted like a bastard earlier, and Craig’s actions were not in keeping with a man reacting to a bastard.

"I don't bite, ya know." Craig grinned. "Unless asked," he added, his grin widening. Biting. Biting Chris's neck, drawing blood... He shivered.

Chris started to correct him, then decided that such a comment would probably open the floodgates to a conversation he was not quite prepared to handle. He awkwardly stepped onto the first step down and lowered himself to sit. He had to grab Craig's shoulder to make it. He sighed and leaned back slightly, resting his hands on the ground behind him.

Delirious images still in his mind, Craig started to say something, then bit his lip. He inhaled another puff of smoke, then turned and looked Chris intently in the eyes. "So tell me something," he asked. "Why'd you stop me from pulling tonight, eh?"

This was the very question that Chris had decided he would stop asking himself earlier in the evening, and he was no better prepared to answer it now. He swallowed, licked his lips, and looked down. His feet offered no assistance. His mind sent a blank sheet of paper to his lips.

Craig tried to catch his eyes again, but they were solidly downcast. He sat back slightly and smoked as he waited for Chris to compose himself, using the side of the stairs as an ashtray. He could wait. The longer the better, really.

Why. Yes, why. Did Chris really want to answer this? Well, no, of course not. That was why he had started bloody drinking so much in the first place, was it not? Perhaps, if he stalled, Craig would get bored with the topic and move onto another one. Considering that this topic most likely represented what Craig had planned on doing for the rest of the night, however, Chris could not hold out high hopes. He threw his head farther back, hoping that, from this angle, the constellations would spell out something useful.

"Heh," Craig said. "Look. You don't wanna say, that's OK." He would, though, eventually. Whether he wanted to or not.

Chris frowned, staring at the stars more intently. Maybe the useful thing was spelled out in Chinese.

Craig dumped his cigarette butt. It was taking a significant amount of time for Chris to try to compose himself. Not that he hadn't expected this. He tried to look into Chris’s eyes again, curious as to how he was doing.

Chris could feel Craig's eyes on him. He tried to glance over surreptitiously. He was nowhere near sober enough to pull it off, and he ended up flopping his head over in an overt stare.

Oh, yes, Craig thought. He was ready. More than ready. "Let me tell you what I think, then."

Chris frowned and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and lacing his hands together.

Craig moved closer, breathing his smoky breath in Chris’s face. Chris felt icicles form in his spine. Since Craig had come to sit beside him, Chris had been trying to ignore the affect the man’s physical proximity was insisting on having on him. This – escalation? - could not be ignored. Chris sucked his lower lip into his mouth, trying to think about anything other than Craig’s warm body, and failing utterly.

"I think you still want me. I think you've always wanted me," Craig said into his ear, huskily. Which was exactly the explanation that Chris had been hoping to spend the rest of the evening conveniently avoiding. He had been so close to succeeding, too. He popped his lower lip out and licked it, taking a deep, calming breath. He needed a rebuttal, something to dismiss the topic, move the conversation to safer ground. The "Erm," that emerged from his mouth did not advance that cause at all.

His heart in his throat, excited despite himself, Craig gave Chris the most intense look he could muster. "Hey, now. Don't tell me that when I do this," he breathed onto that spot, just behind Chris’s ear, "you don't feel anything?" Craig sure as hell did, he noted. A moment's hesitation came and went, and he was back to stubborn bloody-mindedness.

Chris knew better than to try to answer that question. Of course he bloody well felt something. He felt an agonizing pain in his groin and a soreness in his chest. He let out a deep breath that might have been a moan if it had a little more vocalization behind it. He clasped his hands together more firmly.

"Or that when I do this," Craig slowly reached out and touched Chris's inner thigh; that thigh he'd wanted to reach out and feel, lick even, many times during rehearsals, or even takes; that thigh he'd ground up against, aching for release far too few times and still too many, that thigh... "that does nothing for ya?"

Chris looked down, very slowly, at the hand. He was agonizingly turned on, but the hope in him was an equal agony. Craig was taking this to him - slowly, step-by-step, offering him a choice; the chance to say no – or to say yes, dear lord, yes! Chris breathed deeply. This was not something to rush.

Craig whispered into his ear, moving even closer, their sides touching for the first time in god only knew how long. He could no longer tell the difference between anger and desire; desire for Chris, yes, but mostly an unbearable desire to just know. "All I need for you to do is tell me..."

Chris’s deep breathing was reaching the point of panting, and he let go of his hands and gripped his knees tightly. God, he wanted this. He wanted Craig. He wanted to strip the man naked and lick and fondle him until he came, and then start over. He wanted to breathe sultry words into the other man’s ear and bring out that sweet smile again, just for him.

"Tell me that you want me," Craig breathed in his ear, huskily. Tell me, you son of a bitch, you fecking coward; admit it! Lower yourself to my level, admit you lust after someone like me!

Chris turned to face Craig, shaking. He put one hand up, slowly, and put it on Craig’s cheek. Perfection, this moment; perfection, this man in front of him. He trailed his hand down the cheek, studying his face intently, relishing the dual feedback of his eyes and his fingertips, the softness of that brown cheek, the line of the smile, the strong curve of the neck.

The touch was unexpected, unwanted. It made Craig feel... Well, it made him feel. He couldn't afford that now; this was not the time! That time had come and gone, which was why they were here now, trapped in this sodding mess. Shaking a little with held-back emotion, Craig moved his face away just enough so Chris would not be able to reach in for a kiss. That just didn't bear thinking about. "Just tell me."

Chris let his hand move with Craig’s movement. He lifted it to run it down Craig’s face again, more towards the middle of the face, trailing his fingers on that lovely skin. His fingers followed the curve of the nose, slipped down the side, and trailed over Craig’s soft, warm lips, tracing them before moving down that stubborn chin. "Chraig..." he breathed, choking. Want him? Chris wanted all of him.

Stop it, Craig screamed silently, I won't let you do this to me; not now. Never again. Anger rose in him, welled up through his throat, and tinged his voice, making it louder. "Just... tell me."

"I..." Chris’s hand was shaking. Tell him? Did this ache in his groin and in his heart have a word to express it? There should. There should be one. Chris cast about desperately as his fingers lingered on Craig’s neck.

Reaching for what he knew would hurt, sting, more than anything, Craig moved his hand to Chris’s chest and started running it up and down, just as he had like that time so long ago. It didn't feel the same, exactly. The reed-like, skinny young body had been replaced by something more filled out, solid, curiously... Well. No matter.

Chris felt the cloth bunch under Craig’s hand, a warm tickle moving up and down his chest. "I want..." Chris sucked in a breath of chill air. Yes. He had some words. Right here. He dug them up and laid them out, and they fit every ache in his body.

"Tell me!" It came out more as a yell than anything else, and Craig had to grab on to Chris's shirt to keep steady, keep from doing something he'd regret, with shame, later.

"I want to make love to you..." Chris said, his voice quavering.

A bow shot. It rang through the short distance between them, piercing Craig through the heart, sticking out his back like some absurd prop. He found himself patting the area where the point should be with his free hand, removing the one which was caressing - yes, that was the word - Chris's chest. He was shaking.

Chris shivered as the warmth disappeared from the front of his chest. He started running his fingers down Craig’s face again, but had to slow, as they quivered uncontrollably. "I want you..." he sighed.

Just a ploy. Just drunken ramblings; it had to be. Craig forced himself to stiffen, pushing all thoughts away, ignoring his wildly beating heart. "I..." How could he say it now?

Chris did not notice. His head was swimming with desire and the faintest stirrings of joy – for finally expressing what he had been choking down for so long. His fingertips were the only feedback, now, as his vision blurred with – something. "I love you..." he said, his voice slurred.

The arrow broke off in Craig's chest, and he choked; scooted back, unable to breathe. He had to get away! He stood up quickly, hurting, his mind a mess. He couldn't understand what Chris was saying. It didn't fit.

Chris’s hand dropped as the face whose contours he was tracing pulled back. He looked up, startled, blinking to try to clear his vision. "What..." he gasped.

"Th..." Craig could not make the words come out. He was trapped in a labyrinth, and he found he no longer knew the way out.

Chris frowned. Events were moving fast, too fast, far too fast. Wasn’t there harmony there? Mutual desire? What had happened to it? His lip twitched.

In the end, there was always anger. The old friend; reliable, simple. Craig embraced it, thankfully. "That's all I wanted to know," he said, coldly.

Chris sat back on the stone step and looked up at Craig with utter confusion, a rather stupid and slack-jawed expression on his face. "Craig.... what?"

Craig felt dizzy. This wasn't the way it was supposed to go. He always knew the script. Always... How... He had a plan!
EXTERIOR: The cold stone steps of a pub entrance, late evening. Two men sitting, one near tears, the other taunting, leering, grinning, humiliating him, forcing the first to admit his lust to do things, then leaving just as he is about to do them. The man left behind in near-hysterics, pleading, begging, but getting nothing. Nothing!
Craig took a few steps away. "I'm..." he choked. "I'm sorry." He started walking away, quickly.

Craig made it about as far as the nearest alley, and threw up. He was shaking uncontrollably. Love. Love. Chris loved him. Wanted to... Love. Loved him. He stumbled a few feet farther down, not knowing where he was going, or why, or how. Nothing about that in the script, nothing about that at all. Chris loved him. Chris loved him, and Craig had screwed that up irrevocably. He stumbled onwards, towards nowhere in particular.


Chris tried to get to his feet and follow Craig, and almost made it. He tripped over the top step, falling rather heavily onto his hands and knees. He looked up, and did not see Craig. He sat there on all fours for a few minutes.

"Eh, mate, y’all right?"

Chris looked up. Danny was giving him an amused look. "Ha! Tried to match Craig drink for drink? Bad idea, that!" He chuckled and offered Chris a hand up.

He must have helped Chris home. Chris had only the blurriest memories of how he got back. When he came back to himself, he was lying in bed, fully clothed, and stiff as a rod. He was afraid to touch anything, afraid he might explode. He reviewed the evening’s events through a merciless continued increase in sobriety, and saw exactly where he had gone wrong. Craig was coming on to him. Judging by his pull earlier, he wanted some totty, and came on to Chris after he drove the blonde away. It was, Chris had to admit, only fair. But then Chris had to bring love into it. The last thing Craig wanted to hear.

Chris lay there until late the next morning, shaking with confusion, hurt, and anger.


When Craig somehow managed to wake up the next morning, he felt like shit. That was to be expected. Judging by the few fragmented memories he was able to extract from his aching head, he had stopped by at least three different places in an attempt to drink himself senseless, and had gotten thrown out of at least two more. Quite how he'd managed to get safely into bed with most of his clothes off was a small miracle he did not try to investigate further.

When Craig stumbled into the studio some time later, he felt even worse. He was glad when Danny immediately blamed his foul mood on nothing more dire than last night's drinking, however.

When Craig got out of make-up, and noticed Chris standing close by, he felt as though someone had ripped his spine from his body. He walked away as fast as he could, hoping the other man had not seen him.

When Craig saw the tall, elegant models everyone had been talking about arrive and get into costume, he felt numb. He jeered and cracked jokes along with the other guys on the set (with certain exceptions, of course) and wanted to crawl away somewhere and just have this shoot, this whole series, be over.

And when Craig stood off to the side along with everyone else, all of them curious and eager to see Chris get his kit off, he felt distinctly uncomfortable, and not a little afraid. He couldn't place the fear until those lovely models got a good grip on the threadbare robe and tore it away, revealing a body that was utterly beyond description. As his heart threatened to cut off his air supply by leaping so far up his throat he could almost taste it, Craig became acutely aware of two things.

One: After last night there was no way, absolutely no way in hell, he was ever going to get his hands on that gorgeous, utterly delicious body.

Two: That later the very same day, he-as-Lister would have to face Chris-as-Rimmer and say the words, "I love you."

That's when he had to excuse himself and run to the bathroom, blaming indigestion and a hard night out.


It was a bit much, Chris thought. As if the script did not brush far too close to reality already, with the false protestations of affection given to him by Craig. Craig could not be any more obviously lapping it up. Legs of ham were falling in squishy piles around the set as he delivered his lines with an all-too-obvious gusto. But no, that wasn’t enough.

"I really care about you." And he put his hand – just there. Right where he had put it, the last time he and Chris had sat next to each other, close enough to rub sides, Chris bent forward with his hands crossed. And what could he do, now as then, but look at it with dumbfounded disbelief?

At least, now, his disbelief was well-founded. Craig could not even look at him in the guise of Lister; he had to turn to Robert – no, Kryten – to force, "I love ya, man. I really love ya," out of his lips. His back to Chris. Well, in all fairness, Chris himself would have enjoyed the experience no more than Craig would have if the other man had faced him. Better that he see a deerstalker and a fall of fake hair, and focus on that – the character - while Craig delivered that line.

Nevertheless, when it came to that last scripted moment of betrayal, when the rest of the crew assure Rimmer that no, they never did actually care about him, Chris made sure to look directly at Craig.

It was a direct enough answer.