A/N: Still learning how to write the sort of arguments these boys would have - hopefully it sounds acceptable. I would appreciate some ideas on how to take this story further!

Four

For the first two hours and thirty-two minutes, Rimmer remained on his bunk. He found himself fixating on the bed above as he allowed his mind to run wild with various emotions. It had taken some time for the initial shock to settle; he'd lain on the mattress, mouthing insults at individuals who would never hear them. He was still acclimatising to the weird sensations he experienced; he could hear his tongue flapping around and feel his jaw muscles work, yet not a scrap of intelligible sound emerged.

If he was still in his hard light form, Rimmer felt he could've been coping with his predicament better. The fact that he was cut off from everything made it all the worse. If only I could get to the holographic projection suite - at least then I could get myself something to read. War and Peace is starting to sound good right about now.

A part of him also felt ashamed. He hadn't willingly used his soft light form for years; he'd become so accustomed to being able to touch and taste that he now realised he'd been taking it for granted. He waved his hand through the bunk above his head, watching dejectedly as it passed through to the mattress above. Maybe I can give Lister an electric shock in his sleep or something - that'll cheer me up.

He idly scratched around his collar. Despite not needing to practice personal hygiene like Lister (who Rimmer was still convinced only showered once a year), he could tell he'd been wearing the same uniform since he collapsed outside the lift. A fresh wave of frustration rippled through him. How the smeg can I tell that I'm itchy, yet I can't feel my damn hands when I scratch it?!

In an act of desperation, Rimmer shoved a fist into his mouth and bit down with more force than he would have ever used in his hard light form. Yet when he examined his skin afterwards, not a single dermal pixel was out of place. So this must be what it's like to be a real ghost.

By the time Lister and the Cat appeared with their dinner and parked themselves in front of the game console, Rimmer realised he had progressed from anger to depression. Never used to believe all this psychology smeg, but now it actually makes sense. He hurriedly turned to face the wall and attempted to relax in the hopes they would think he was asleep.

A faint shush was heard from Lister. "Poor man; he's probably exhausted."

Rimmer couldn't help but feel surprised. He's legitimately concerned about me? That's certainly a change. Who are you and what have you done with Lister?

"He's been asleep for two days! How the hell can he be tired? He's not a cat!" Cat quipped, taking another mouthful of tuna.

Rimmer rolled his eyes as Lister shushed the feline again. "Give him a break, Cat. He's goin' through a lot right now. I mean, imagine if you woke up and found out you'd been really smeggin' ill, and now you can't talk. How would you feel if you were Rimmer?"

"I don't know! I'm not him, am I?" Cat snapped. "And I'm glad I'm not him anyway. He's got zero sense of style."

Rimmer bit his tongue to hold his retort, only to realise he couldn't voice it anyway. This is coming from the same man who looks as though he stumbled into Caesar Flickerman's closet.

"Alright, man. Let's just leave it," Lister threw himself off the couch, somehow keeping his curry from spilling. "How 'bout a round of Mineopoly? Yer poker face could use some maintenance."

"We've been playin' that game every night this week, bud! I'm sick of it! I'll never get the hang of that 'pokie face'." The Cat said indignantly. "Now, if you want a real game that'll challenge that monkey brain of yours, you should try the String Game sometime!"

"I'd rather play a game that requires more than three braincells, ya smeghead," Lister scoffed.

"You don't know what you're missin!" Cat pointed in the direction of the bunks. "Why don't you play with Goalpost Head? Maybe he'll let you win for a change!"

In no universe would I willingly allow Lister to destroy me at Mineopoly. I'd rather die a second time.

"What did I just say, you gimp?! He's ill! He can't smeggin' talk! How is he supposed to play?!" Lister slammed his curry on the table. "We're just gonna leave him to his own devices until he wants to interact with us, okay?!"

The Cat inhaled another mouthful of tuna and shuffled back on the couch. "Whatever you say, bud. But come on; you gotta admit this is nice, right?"

"What's nice?"

"Not hearing him rantin' in your ear every two seconds? That's gotta be a nice change, right?" Cat grinned. "I want this as my birthday present next year!"

Rimmer felt his teeth clench. And I will happily bribe Father Christmas if it means I get to throw you out of the airlock, you stupid moggy. Unwilling to keep up the fatigued pretence, he rolled over to face his crewmates, who were quickly settling into their second heated argument of the day.

"Smeggin' hell, Cat! That was uncalled for!" Lister grabbed his dreads in frustration. "How'd you feel if all I set all ya clothes on fire and then asked if I could set you on fire next time?!"

"Ay, ay, there's no need for extra fire! I'm already smokin'!" Cat flapped his coattails angrily. "Besides, Monkey Boy, I'd set your dreadlocks on fire in a heartbeat!"

"You touch me dreads and I'll throw every damn suit ya ever owned in the waste disposal!"

Rimmer couldn't help but smirk. He leant on one elbow and crossed his legs, eager to watch the performance. Now this is what I call entertainment.

"Is that right? In the time it'd take you to find those suits, I'd have already made another ten!" Cat raised his hands, flexing his claws in warning. "I'd make the same threat about your clothes, but I wouldn't touch 'em with a ten foot claw!"

Lister's mouth fell open. "I'm not that disgustin'! At least I don't use my tongue to clean me joy department!"

"You better watch it, buddy, or I'll stitch your eyelids shut and glue little tassels to your eyebrows!"

"Brilliant! I wouldn't have to look at ya prancin' around the ship lookin' like a smeggin' Kardashian!" Lister stuck out his rear in an attempt to impersonate the Cat's poses, though this only succeeded in causing Rimmer to release a silent bout of laughter.

Growling, the Cat opened his mouth to throw another round of insults at Lister when Kryten appeared in the doorway. "Ah, there you are sir!"

Rimmer realised immediately that he was Kryten's intended target, but being robbed of his voice meant he couldn't stop Lister from jumping the gun. "Kryten, can you spare it for a minute? I'm about to make meself a nice cat-skinned windcheater."

The Cat growled. "My skin would still make a nicer jacket than that travesty you're wearin'! Even an art student wouldn't be caught dead in it!"

"Gentlemen, please!" Kryten sighed. "I was, in fact, addressing Mr Rimmer, sir. I merely came by to check how his lightbee diagnostics are coming along."

"But Rimmer's asleep…" Lister's eyes widened as he trailed off. He whipped around to face Rimmer, his expression quickly morphing to reflect his embarrassment. "Oh smeg. You weren't really asleep at all, were ya? You heard every word of that conversation."

Rimmer quirked an eyebrow. Your conversation makes interesting listening.

"So you've been listenin' this entire time?" Cat raised a shy smile. "You heard how nasty Dreadlock Dave was to me then! I mean, comparin' my posing to such an animal. You gotta agree that was a low blow, yeah?"

Rimmer smirked proudly as he flashed both men the finger, allowing the digit to convey his thoughts for him. Who needs books when I can watch these smegheads?