Rimmer awoke to the familiar sound of Lister vomiting into the toilet bowl. He checked the hologram version of the guide book again. Dr. Watson-Smyth reassured Rimmer that it would all soon be over. It was week three. Only seven more weeks. Rimmer was glad he wouldn't have to go through this much longer. Still, it was a huge inconvenience being woken so early. Lister's odd sleeping habits meant that the morning sickness had no idea when to begin. Should it be morning-morning or wheneverhewakesup-morning, Lister's stomach wondered. It decided that 5am was close enough. Rimmer knew he'd never go back to sleep now his eight hours had been disrupted. He decided to go annoy Lister to take his mind off things. Lister was lying next to the toilet, gasping for breath when he went into the bathroom. The choking, gulping breaths we all take when we get a second's relief from chundering. "Don't breath like that, you'll make it worse," sniffed Rimmer. Lister spat out a bit of bile and tried to enjoy the brief peace before the urge to be sick arose again. "Help me take my mind off it." Rimmer pursed his lips and looked around for something to do. "Charades? Oooh no wait - anagrams!"
"Anagrams?"
"Certainly. Think of different ways to arrange the letters in say... 'Armitage Shanks', as you're already looking at it. Let's see... shank. Shark... got one - saint shark game!" Lister groaned and really wished he could hit Rimmer but a brand new wave of nausea broke his train of angry thoughts and his head was back over loo rim. "Charming," said Rimmer. "I was only trying to make this fun for you and you throw my friendliness back in my face. Well, throw it up at least," he chortled. Lister seemed certain he was emptied of all hormonal-induced vomit and slunk back to his bed. Rimmer went to his bunk too and lay for a while revising the book yet again. He kept forgetting each week as it came up. "Now this is interesting - the twins are about the same size as grains of rice. Hard to believe isn't it?" Lister didn't answer.
"Honestly Listy, try and be a little excited. You've always wanted two boys."
"Make an anagram of this, Rimmer - 'off smeg'." They were both quiet for a moment.

Lister shifted over to the side of his bunk and peeked over. Rimmer was deep in his book, and after a few seconds of staring at him, Lister finally said, " Look, I wanted Kris to have them. I wanted to have them with her." He sighed and turned over. His chest was becoming rather tender so he had to alternate which side he slept on to give each 'breast' relief. And he couldn't stand lying on his back. Sleeping on his stomach was becoming a problem too. It sounded stupid, but he was afraid of squashing the babies in his sleep. He turned over again. Rimmer suddenly spoke. "Lister..."
"Hn?"
"Perhaps I should bring this up now rather than later..." Rimmer scratched his arm nervously. "But maybe you should move into the women's quarter. You'd be nearer the medibay and you could sleep in a bottom bunk. Won't be fun climbing up once you hit 4 months and beyond." Lister pondered that for a few moments. The women's bunks were more comfortable. And being lower down would be a benefit in some ways. "I dunno man, I think the bunks may be too low. I'd never get up again!"
"Well, we could wheel in one of the beds from the medibay. You could sleep on that."
"I might fall off."
"Put the sides up then," Rimmer snapped and continued reading. Lister bit his lip. "Y'know, your bunk is about the right height..."
"NO." Rimmer peered over the top of his book to see Lister's head hanging over his bunk's side. "Go on, it's not like you really need this specific one. You can't tell the difference if you can't feel."
"This bunk has lots of memories. Not to mention my newspaper clippings."
Lister laughed at him, "Oh yeah - 'Arnie does it best'. That was a fantastic read." Rimmer ignored him.

The following week whilst the skutters were writing a full complex dietary guide for him with Rimmer's guidance down at the drive room, Lister turfed out all of Rimmer's stuff from his bunk and moved it into his own. Lister lay down to test the new bed. It smelt too clean, like his had on his first day on the Dwarf. But the bottom bunks were much nicer than the top ones; slightly larger, and easier to collapse into after a few too many drinks. "I'd kill for a pint."
"Kill Goalpost-head then, not me!" the Cat said as he twirled into the room.
"Cat!" Lister sat up, knocking his head on roof. Or was it the bottom still? "Where've you been?"
"Where haven't I been?" he grinned mischievously and thrust his hips forward. Lister rolled his eyes, knowing full well there was nowhere the Cat could've been in that sense. "I've been real busy. Look!" he proudly held up a pair of hand-made, satin, all-in-one baby suits. Lister became choked up and burst into tears. The Cat left the clothes on the table and backed out nervously. "He's nuts," he remarked as he passed Rimmer in the corridor. Rimmer was surprised to see Lister hugging the baby clothes when he entered. Lister wailed louder, "I'm going to be a smegging mum!" when he saw Rimmer. Rimmer consulted the book. Yes, it mentioned over-emotional outbursts and mood swings. I'd better not mention Lister's influx of acne, Rimmer thought and coughed and smiled in an uncharacteristically nice way. "Cup of decaffeinated tea?"
"No thanks," Lister sniffed.

By the 8th week Lister had turned mood swings into an art form. The Cat wasn't sure whether it was from hormones or because Lister was suffering withdrawal from his drink and curry. The cigarettes hadn't been much of a loss. He didn't have those very often. Drink was his real vice. His crutch ever since his dad died. He'd drunk before of course, but it was after the death of his best friend, his adoptive father, that Lister came to rely on drink. It was almost impossible for him to enjoy a night out without it. Alcoholic would be too strong a word for him. Drink-dependant suited his situation better. Whatever his psychiatric condition, Lister knew one thing only - this was emotional hell. He couldn't even have curries every night. Rimmer tried introducing him to other foods, but if it didn't napalm his tongue Lister wasn't interested. Luckily it was week 8. At the end of each month, Rimmer promised Lister could have a curry. The first month, Lister was too steeped in depression to think about curry so he was determined not to miss out now. Under Rimmer's strict orders, with a penalty of being rogered with a scalpel by a skutter, Lister had agreed to a mild curry. Korma didn't sit too well with him, so he'd managed to haggle a Tikka Marsala out of Rimmer. It was mild enough. He gladly sat down to his meal with Rimmer watching, a look of disdain on his face. "Stop it," Lister mumbled as he gobbled a curry-soaked Naan bread.
"Well I suppose if they're Deb's kids they can survive it. But you'll regret it..." Lister nodded without really listening to Rimmer, washing down the Peshwari Naan with some root beer. It had beer in its name, so it was close enough. Rimmer climbed up into his new bunk. When he first realised Lister had swapped their bunks, he had been extremely annoyed. But lister was right - it hadn't made much of a difference. It didn't feel different because he couldn't feel. He'd also noticed that Lister had made some pen-knife graffiti on the ceiling of the bunk, which had given Rimmer something interesting to read for about 12 seconds. Now he was sick to death of looking up at 'D (heart symbol) K 4EVA' when he woke up. But he wasn't about to argue with Lister. He was on a constant warpath with everyone. A tinny clanging sound brought Rimmer back from his inner-world and he laughed a little as Lister dashed past him towards the toilet. He was right. The curry hadn't sat well after all.

Author Notes;
Armitage Shanks joke - Can't take credit for that one, that belongs to some female comedian I saw one night. Probably on 'Live at Jongleurs'