Around the 10th week, Rimmer realised Lister hadn't had an ultrasound scan yet. They both knew the babies would be fine, perfectly healthy, large, bonnie boys, but Rimmer was exceedingly paranoid. Lister, of course, was perfectly relaxed about it all and had taken Rimmer's constant demands of 'take it easy' to the extreme and barely moved from his hijacked bunk. An empty beer bottle sorted out any toilet urges and the TV was operated by voice control. Lister only moved for 'number two's' and to fetch any food too large for the skutters to manage. Lately he was craving bread. Any bread at all: he was eating it by the loaf. He especially enjoyed tearing the edges off and rolling a slice or two up into a ball with his hands until the surface was smooth and shoving it into his mouth whole. Or better yet, an unsliced, crusty white loaf he could scoop the insides from and then roll that into one huge ball. He was eating one as a skutter spread conductive jelly onto his bulging belly. Rimmer grimaced at it. "You're eating for three, Lister - not three hundred!"
"Leave me alone, Rimmer."
"It's disgusting. You look 5 months gone, not 2 and a half. Not that you were exactly Hugh Laurie's twin brother to begin with. When was the last time you saw your toes, Lister? When you last needed to count to 20 I expect." Lister shot him a hurt look and balled up a few more slices of bread. Suddenly two faint heartbeats filled the room and Rimmer looked around him as if the sound was coming from the walls themselves. "What's that?"
"You stupid smeg, it's the sonogram. It's Jim and Bexley!" Lister said and stroked the TV monitor, tenderly tracing what he hoped was one of their heads. Rimmer leaned in to take a closer look at the two indistinguishable floating blobs. They were definitely Lister's relatives. One even seemed to be practising holding a beer can; it's little webbed hand clawing at empty space. They could almost hear it's tiny cry of "where's me smegging vindaloo?". For the very first time, Rimmer could see Lister glowing. Lister was enjoying the idea of having babies, even in this unorthodox way. Lister's eyes became soft and warm as he stared at the once alien creatures. He suddenly wanted them with him right then and there so he could be sure they existed, be sure they were safe, sheltered in his arms. Another 7 months? He couldn't bear the idea of being apart from them a moment longer. They felt so far away even though they were closer than they could ever be. His ex-girlfriend, Kristine Kochanski had once told him that the reason he was so amiable was because under his laddish exterior cheeky-monkey grins and childish attitudes, he was a doting, warm and kind person with a lot of love for anyone and everyone. Hell, he was even nice to Rimmer. Now and again. Maybe that was why... Why he fell so deeply in love with his two boys. Even before they were born.

The Cat looked around him carefully. Up the corridor and down the corridor. No one. He tip-toed overdramatically down towards Lister's room. A small clank from behind him caused the Cat to dive forward and roll sideways commando-style until he was safe inside. He peeked out to see that it was only a skutter, dropping Lister's lunch tray filled with the vile fresh fruit and vegetables Rimmer had ordered before heading down to the library. "Is he there?" The Cat jumped at the sound of Lister's voice. He was lying on a gym mat trying to catch his breath from his pre-lunch exercises. One whole sit-up. The Cat pulled a small lint brush from his pocket and began to tidy his scuffed leopard-print suit. He said, "You OWE me buddy. You owe me big time," before reaching into his jacket and pulling out a selection of bras. "There was a time and a place I wanted to encounter these and it was NOT here and now." Lister nodded gratefully and began to hold the bras up to his chest. "Too small... too big... too frilly... oh I'm keeping this one!" he grinned and hid a Wonder bra under his bed. "Not for me! Just in case we find a woman who can do it justice," he assured the Cat.
"Buddy, with your dress sense, women's underwear will be an improvement." Lister chuckled almost shyly and then found the perfect cup size - a B. He pulled it around his chest and realised he wasn't going to fit into it. "It's a 36B," he groaned. "No way am I going to fit into that. Were there any other Bs?"
"Not one that would fit you."
"Smeg." Lister collapsed into Rimmer's bunk and nuzzled into the pillow. It was beginning to smell like a bed should but it was still too clean and Rimmer-y. He rolled over and studied the bra for a while. If it wasn't for the fact that his breasts were rubbing raw against his t-shirt and lactating through the material he'd have never ever considered something so degrading. "Pass me one of the C's." The Cat huffed at being treated like a slave and kicked a 40C towards Lister. It landed on his arm and he studied this one as carefully as the other. "If I wear those lactose pads this should fit, right?"
"Lactation, not lactose you gimp," said Rimmer as he marched in. Lister buried the bra under the sheets in embarrassment. Rimmer shrugged. "Honestly Listy, you think I'm this horrible person; an opportunist who'll insult you whenever the chance arises."
"You ARE."
"Now now, Lister. No need to get bra-ssed off!" Rimmer roared with laughter and even the Cat joined in, holding his aching gut. Lister's face grew redder and he rolled over to bury his newly acquired lingerie even more.

After a while, Rimmer stopped teasing Lister every hour about his women's underwear. It became every day instead. Lister grew more and more interested in Jim and Bexley and constantly poked and prodded his stomach trying to figure out where they were and what they were doing, goading Rimmer for answers to his questions of when, why, how and where. Rimmer soon wished that Lister had the incentive to read the book for himself. But the last book Lister probably read was a pornographic magazine. And as he himself knew very well, there wasn't much reading involved with those. "When will I feel 'em moving about, Rimmer?" Lister called again from his typical position of lying on Rimmer's bunk with his putrid feet up on Rimmer's cushion.
"Won't be long now. According to Dr. Watson-Smyth's Guide to-"
"Sometime today, Rimmer."
Rimmer cleared his throat and monotonously recited the text, "Around the fourth month. You should currently be able to feel their placental sac just three inches under your navel. The babies are 3 and a half inches long. " Lister complained that four months was ages away but Rimmer reminded him that the pregnancy would be over sooner than he thought, and then he'd wish the little smegs were quiet and still and back inside his abdomen. "You're such a loving, considerate aunt," Lister snapped with coated irony. "The only reason yer so interested in the pregnancy is coz you love finding new ways for me to experience pain or discomfort." Rimmer nodded shamelessly and Lister rolled his eyes in return. "You're a smeg." He picked up a box of Pot Pourrai and began to wolf it down.
"Fragranced dried flowers are the catch of the day, eh Listy? I must say it's better than last week when you fancied the smell of washing detergent and slept with my shirts every night."
"That NEVER leaves this room."

Author notes;
Hugh Laurie rules!