Here it is, Day 3…
Disclaimer: Red Dwarf was created by Rob Grant and Doug Naylor
Day 3, Part 1
The next morning, Lister blearily opened one eye and looked around the room. He leaned over and peaked over the side of his bed. Rimmer was already gone from his bunk. Lister kicked off his blanket and sat up, yawning widely and stretching his arms above his head.
He sat back against the cramped wall of his bunk, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Smiling, he pulled up his t-shirt with one hand and stroked his stomach with his other hand. "Good morning," he said happily. He couldn't see any changes yet, but he knew that they were there.
Lister slid out of his bunk and onto the floor, wincing slightly as he massaged his aching chest. He went over to the sink and picked up his toothbrush from the holder. He uncapped the bottle of toothpaste, made sure Rimmer wasn't there to tell him off, and then squeezed the bottle from the middle. The toothpaste squirted out of the bottle in a long white stream, two feet into the air. Lister opened his mouth wide and caught some of it in his mouth. The rest landed on Rimmer's pillow.
Lister quickly turned the pillow over. "Our little secret," he said. "What Rimmer doesn't know can't hurt him."
Lister looked in the mirror as he brushed his teeth. Lister wasn't sure why he felt so cheerful today—probably because he hadn't thrown up today. It was only a bad curry after all, there was nothing to worry about. Yes, that was it.
Lister paused when he was brushing his bottom left molars. He didn't feel so good all of a sudden. He swayed where he stood, bright spots of light dancing in his vision. He waited for the nausea to pass. It didn't. He felt that horribly familiar lurching feeling that he had yesterday morning. "Please no…"
He waited. It didn't pass. It only got worse.
"Oh no," he whimpered, his hand over his eyes. "Not again…"
He gagged, covering his mouth with one hand. No. He refused to go through that morning ritual again. His eyes and mouth watered. He felt acid burning his esophagus again as it climbed up his throat. He realized he couldn't avoid it.
"Crap!" he moaned. The toilet didn't revolve but remained stubbornly in its place, safely concealed into the wall. "Crap! Crap! CRAP!"
Reluctantly, the toilet swung around, also saying, "Oh no, not again…"
Lister fell to his knees and barely had time to lift the lid up before he heaved into the toilet, vomiting possibly even more than yesterday.
"Feel better now?" asked Rimmer from the doorway.
Lister sank back and laid on the floor. "I don't get it," he whispered, wiping the corners of his mouth on his sleeve. "I woke up feeling so good…"
"Well, it's not morning sickness, that's for sure," said Rimmer.
"Why? How do you know?"
"Because it's half past twelve," said Rimmer. "So you can hardly call it morning sickness, can you? Here, I have something that I read might help. Skutters!"
Two of the skutters glided through the doors and came up to Lister. One of them held a syringe, the other had a long skinny plastic package.
"Can you do it in me arm this time?" asked Lister, turning his arm so the soft side of his elbow was facing up. The skutter with the needle rolled over to his arm and bent its long neck, stabbing at Lister's arm. It missed its mark the first few tries until it finally hit the vein in his arm.
"And what's this smeg?" said Lister, holding his elbow with his good hand and reaching for the long package. He tore it open and stared at it in distaste. "Saltines?"
"I read that they're good for morning sickness," said Rimmer. "If that's what it is, and if you do indeed have morning sickness, which I doubt. It's probably just your body reacting to all of these new hormones. Anyways, they're supposed to help keep your food down. Just eat a couple of those every morning before breakfast."
Rimmer strode out of the sleeping quarters, the skutters in tow. Lister gingerly picked up a saltine and took a bite. He chewed slowly.
He finished the cracker and took another and another. They wouldn't be bad with some salsa, mango chutney or madras sauce or something. With lots of cheese. And olives, and pickles…
By the time Lister had made the trip from the sleeping quarters to the dispensing machines the bag of saltines was half empty. He ordered breakfast from the machine and trekked back to the sleeping quarters, a massive headache beginning to pulse in his brain.
"Lister?" Rimmer called, peeping his head into the Drive Room. He wasn't there. He must be in the sleeping quarters.
Rimmer made his way to the bunks. When he arrived there, he was startled to find that the lights were off. "Listy?" he called again. "Are you in there?"
He waited. No answer.
"Why do you have the lights off? It's only two in the afternoon!"
Rimmer stepped into the pitch black room and squinted in the darkness. He made out a faint shape moving in the distance. "Lights!"
Rimmer took a step back in alarm, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light. He rubbed his eyes furiously and blinked several times as the surprise of the bizarreness of what he was seeing sank in.
Lister was huddled in the corner of his bunk like some bizarre nocturnal creature, his eyes flashing. He was hugging his knees to his chest and he had a red hot water bag wrapped around his head. Beside him was a box of saltines. In his arms there was a can of whipped cream, and a package of yellow marshmallow Peeps. On his right side was a line of crackers, each with a Peep in the center, whipped cream smothering their tiny yellow sugary bodies. Another cracker sat on top of their heads like some absurd flat hat. They were saltine Peep whip cream sandwiches. Where in the name of Titan had he come up with that?
Rimmer and Lister stared at each other for several awkward moments.
"Umm," said Rimmer finally, backing towards the door. "I should probably just walk away slowly and pretend that I didn't see anything, shouldn't I?"
Lister nodded slowly. Dangerously.
"This didn't happen, right?" Rimmer said hastily, pointing to the Peeps.
Lister nodded again, chewing slowly. Glaring. At him.
"Right. I'll just be—umm—" Rimmer jerked his thumb towards the door, turned and bolted out of the room like a weasel on steroids.
"Lights," said Lister, and the lights went out. He popped another Peep into his mouth and titled his head back, squirting whipped cream into his mouth on top of the Peep, in all its sugary goodness. "That's right," he said thickly, licking his fingers. "You didn't see anything."
That afternoon, Lister, Rimmer, and Cat were all lounging around the sleeping quarters doing nothing in particular. Lister was laying in his bunk reading a comic book and eating a bag of crisps. The Cat was doing his laundry. He had a clothesline strewn across the room and was sitting in Rimmer's bunk, a basket of dirty laundry in front of him, licking each of his garments clean one by one. Rimmer was once again reading the book that Arlene had sent over, much to Lister's annoyance. One of Rimmer's Learn Esperanto tapes was playing in the background. No one was really paying it any attention. Rimmer had a new strategy. Maybe if he just listened to the tape as background noise when he busied himself with other activities, his mind would subconsciously pick up the lessons and he would be fluent in no time. It was humiliating that even Lister was picking up on the language before he was.
"Lister?" said Rimmer suddenly, putting down the book. "I was just thinking."
"About what?" said Lister, not looking up from his comic book.
"You know perfectly well about what," said Rimmer. "This ship is in no condition to have the arrival of two babies. Look at the place! It's a death trap! We're completely and totally unprepared. I hope we have enough time to put Mr. Yuck stickers on everything in sight."
"Rimmer, I've only been pregnant for three days!" said Lister in exasperation. "We have plenty of time."
"That's what you think, Listy," said Rimmer. "But you'll see that time really flies sometimes. In time, as the big day approaches, you'll see how totally unprepared you truly are."
"Most people are," said Lister, turning the page in his comic book.
"He's right, bud," said the Cat, squirting more cleaning detergent onto his sandpaper tongue. "You've got to be primed. A thing like this can really screw up the rest of your life. I mean, things will never be the same again once they get here."
"What?" said Lister, holding his place in the comic book with his thumb as he leaned over the side of the bunk concernedly. "Do you really think everything will be different?"
"Of course it will," said Rimmer. "Obviously things will be different. Movie nights will be Sesame Street Presents: Follow that Bird or Die Trying—or Barney's 'Who Says I Can't Ride a Rainbow?' That's the kind of tot we'll be forced to watch in nine months time."
"Yeah," said the Cat, bubbles floating out of his mouth as he spoke. "What'll become of our Game Night? There'll be no more strip poker or how many drinks can you down until you lose your vision? It'll be two hours of patty cake and peek-a-boo every night."
"No," said Lister, shaking his head fervently. "We'll still be able to have fun once the kids are in bed."
"Lister, do you honestly think you'll have anymore free time when the babies are here?" said Rimmer incredulously. "It's a full-time job. You'll never be able to just slob around by yourself and do nothing for years to come."
"You what?" said Lister worriedly. "D'you really think so?"
"I know so," said Rimmer plainly. "It's always the same. You're young and carefree, having six drinks a night and going to sleep at three in the morning. Then you have kids and everything changes. Your life will be entirely controlled by the twins—you'll be on their schedule, not yours. There will be loads of crying, of course. It's their favorite pastime after sleeping and eating. I may even consider switching to some other quarters—did you know that they wake up screaming two to three times a night? And that's if you're lucky. They'll need to be fed every two hours or so. It's like they have some sort of internal alarm clock. Two AM. We're hungry now. It doesn't matter if you just got to sleep, they don't care. Then you have to burp them and change their diapers every few hours—"
"Rimmer, just stop," said Lister, holding up his hands. "You're just trying to patronize me, aren't ya? It can't be all that bad."
"Oh, yes it can," said Rimmer, smirking. "If you don't believe me, you'll soon see for yourself."
"Yeah, but I don't have to worry about that for awhile," said Lister, laying back and picking up his comic book again.
But he couldn't read right now. He was replaying everything that Rimmer had just told him in his head. Oh, smeg. What if he was right? What had he got himself into?
"I don't feel so good," Lister complained for the umpteenth time.
"So you've said," said Rimmer dully. "I'm sure it's nothing-- it's only a headache."
"You really do think I'm a hypochondriac, don't you?"
Lister did have a headache. A killer headache. A headache to top all other headaches. It felt as though someone were repeating punching his temple whilst attempting to drill into his skull with an electrical drill.
He was laying in his bunk with his head buried into the pillow. His eyes were shut tight and he had the lights off again. His eyes were being extremely sensitive to light. He had his eyes covered with his arm.
Lister massaged his pounding head as Rimmer flipped through a textbook from the medical unit on headaches, reading by the dim light of the pink student lamp. Lister wouldn't let him turn on the other lights.
"It sounds like you're having a migraine," said Rimmer. "Do you see any bright, colorful spots in your vision?"
"Yeah," Lister moaned. "When I open me eyes. Is there anything I can do about it?"
"You could take some ibuprofen or aspirin," said Rimmer. "But you shouldn't take any of those until I look into it and make sure it's safe for you to take them. That should ease the pain somewhat. Other than that, there's nothing you can do but wait it out. Or there's this other stuff I found in the medical unit, called Head On, apply directly to the forehead…"
"Why am I having a migraine?" said Lister irritably. "I've never had a migraine in me life."
"It could be your body's reaction to the hormone inoculations," said Rimmer thoughtfully. "Yes, that's probably it. Just another one of the side effects."
"It hurts," Lister whined, his brain thumping a beat against his skull.
"Oh, it's nothing compared to the pain you'll be dealing with later," said Rimmer.
"Don't remind me," groaned Lister, turning over and facing the wall. He would try to get some sleep to distract himself from the migraine.
Rimmer researched the use of pain medication during pregnancy and informed Lister that it should be fine if he took just a small amount of ibuprofen. Lister gratefully took the pill and his head ache began to recede over the next few hours.
Lister returned to the sleeping quarters that evening from the cinema where he had been watching Some Like It Hot with Cat. Rimmer was already in his bunk, once again reading the huge volume that Hilly had transferred.
"Are you ever going to put that thing down?" said Lister, annoyed.
"There's lots to learn, Listy," said Rimmer. "Would you like me to read you some passages that I've highlighted?"
"No thanks," said Lister, sitting down at the student desk and putting his feet up on the table. "I'm good."
He reclined back in the chair at ease and sat with his hands behind his head, staring meditatively at the wall. The medicine was beginning to wear off and he was beginning to feel his headache making a comeback. He gritted his teeth as the pounding resumed.
The noises around the room bothered him. The soft humming of the engine. The buzzing of the lights. His own breathing. The clock on the wall ticking. The whirring of a skutter cruising down the corridor outside.
His eye began to twitch. There was a heartbeat in his head. Rattling against his skull. He felt as though he were about to snap. He heard Rimmer turn a page and exploded.
"DO YOU HAVE TO DO THAT?" Lister bellowed, leaping up out of his chair with such force that he knocked the chair over in his haste.
"Do what?" said Rimmer, startled.
"Do you have to turn those pages so loudly? Do you even have to read that smegging stupid book?"
"I was just—" Rimmer began, but Lister silenced his with a look.
"Do you have to sit there with those flared nostrils and those ears that stick out the side of your head like two satellite dishes? Is it really necessary to wear your underpants so they're pulled up to your armpits?"
Rimmer smiled blankly at him.
"And why do you do that?" said Lister aggressively. "Do you think something's funny here? Stop smiling like that! Stop it! It drives me crazy!"
Rimmer regarded Lister for a moment before saying observantly, "I'm getting the impression that you're upset about something, Lister."
"No way, Einstein!" said Lister sarcastically. "Where'd you get that idea from?"
"You're just tired," said Rimmer. "You'll feel better in the morning.''
Lister went to climb into his bunk and paused. He bent over and stared Rimmer in the face. "You can't sleep in here tonight."
"Why?" asked Rimmer.
"You're bothering me," said Lister. "This ship is huge. Why do we have so sleep in the same quarters?"
"But—" Rimmer began. He stopped himself. Lister did have a point there. "I'm afraid of the dark," said Rimmer lamely.
"Just for tonight," said Lister. "I need me space. I just want to be by myself for awhile."
"Are you sure?" said Rimmer, sitting up. "Is it something I did?"
Lister closed his eyes and shook his head. "Just go, okay?"
Rimmer got up out of his bunk slowly. He paused in the doorway and looked back at Lister over his shoulder. "I just want to say—"
"GO!"
Rimmer stayed rooted where he was. Lister yanked the pink student lamp from its wall socket and raised it over his head.
"I'm going, I'm going!" said Rimmer, putting up his hands as a gesture of peace. "Please don't hurt me…"
Lister watched in satisfaction as Rimmer scurried out of the room at lightning speed. He put the lamp back down on the table.
Lister took off his trousers and tossed them carelessly aside. He didn't bother changing his t-shirt and climbed into bed, and was asleep within moments. Rimmer walked in, and saw Lister snoozing in his bunk, sucking on his thumb. The git. It should be safe for him to go to his own bunk now. Rimmer noticed in amusement that one of Lister's trouser legs was in the goldfish bowl, and Lennon and McCartney were staying at the other side of the tank, looking quite spooked.
ARNOLD J. RIMMER- MY LIFE, MY DIARIES
21 SEPTEMBER, 3,000,002, 181
Tape on. I can't believe it. I've been kicked out of my own sleeping quarters by Lister. The place where I've slept every night for my twelve years living aboard Red Dwarf and well into my death. It's unbelievable. Sure, he's had a headache, but he completely lost it over nothing. He has a worse temper than a short red head with PMS and a Napoleon complex. I know that I can't entirely blame him—those shots he's receiving have got to have some side effects, emotionally as well as physically. He'll soon find that out. He could also work on his throwing accuracy. When I came back to the bunkroom after he fell asleep I discovered that he had carelessly thrown his trousers into the fish tank. Tape off.