Fic: Independence - R/L - PG
Title: Independence
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Guess what I don't own? Yes. Guess what I don't make from this? Got it in one.
Spoilers: Legion.
Notes: A St. Patrick's day story I did not finish in time. I seem to have a habit of not finishing seasonal stories in time. Written for the fanfic100 challenge - my table is here.
“Lister?” The slightly nasal klaxon of Rimmer's voice rang out behind him in the kitchen, but Lister had trained himself over the years not to react to it. The hologram seemed to get off on getting a rise out of him, so Lister did his best to make that as difficult as possible.
“Yeah?”
“Correct me if I'm wrong, but is that my painting supplies you're pouring into that thing?”
Rimmer didn't breathe, which was a blessing, as Lister was spared the annoying feeling of hot breath on his neck. Even so, he could almost sense it anyway. Rimmer had this uncanny way of getting under your skin, and no amount of metaphorical armor plating could keep him out. “What if it is?”
“Well if it is, then it's mine, you goit!”
“So?” Lister tipped the small can upside down, and a few more drops of vivid green fell into the barrel of his BrewMaster. It was only a 5000, not a 12000, but Lister had heard that the Twelve-Triple-O's had design flaws that made them unstable, anyway. Besides, when your shopping mall was an abandoned derelict, you couldn't afford to be choosy. He put the can carefully back on the table, where it promptly fell over and started to roll, leaving a faint trail of green as it went along.
“So, normal people ask before they just avail themselves of other people's things!”
Scooting his chair back quickly, knowing it would force the other man to jump back or get hit in the knee, either of which would improve Lister's mood, Lister craned his neck around. “All right then; Rimmer, may I please use your miniature paints to dye me beer green?”
“That's better,” Rimmer snorted in approval. “And no, you may certainly not. Now give it back!”
Lister watched the rolling can critically. “I think it's finished.”
Rimmer rolled his eyes. “Well, how wonderful. How absolutely splendid! Not only do you steal my personal belongings, but you use them up without a moment's thought. What do you do for an encore; nick my boots? Literally steal the shirt off my back?”
“I was just borrowing it,” Lister mumbled, trying to balance the can with his fingertips. It kept rolling away.
“Lister, it's not borrowing if you can't actually give it back.” Rimmer sniffed at the BrewMaster sceptically. “You should be glad that stuff's non-toxic. Who in their right mind would want to dye beer green, anyway?”
Lister raised an eyebrow. “It's for St. Patrick's day. What, they didn't have that on Io?”
Straightening his back, Rimmer began to circle the BrewMaster, glancing into its yeasty bowels from time to time. “We only had sensible holidays on Io, Listy. Not silly made-up ones where you have to drink from condoms, or pop erectile dysfunction aids and see who goes the longest without having a wank, or,” he waved a hand, “dye beer green.”
Slamming the lid shut, Lister shook his head. “I didn't make it up, Rimmer; it's a well known Irish holiday.”
“Really?” Rimmer snorted. “And you're Irish, are you?”
“How am I supposed to know? I was adopted, wasn't I? Might be Irish, might be part Welsh, part Venezuelan; what does that have to do with anything?”
“Well, were your adoptive parents Irish?”
Lister pushed the 'start' button down hard with his thumb; it wouldn't budge. “No.”
Rimmer threw his arms out in exasperation. “Then why the smeg would you want to celebrate some obscure holiday dedicated to green alcohol?”
Kicking the button a few times until a small light finally lit up, and the machine started to shake gently, Lister leaned back against the wall and gave Rimmer a look. “It's not about the beer. That's just what you drink to celebrate it. It's about...” he waved his hands as though they could explain the concept better than his words, “independence. I think it used to be about something else, but then they changed it, you know, when they...” he gestured again, “you know, became... independent,” he finished lamely.
“Right,” Rimmer said in mock comprehension, “well, my mistake then! You obviously know all about this splendid tradition. Pray, enlighten me; when did they gain this independence? How?”
“Erm...” Lister shuffled his feet uncomfortably. He wanted to stalk out of the room and just ignore the bastard, but Rimmer was blocking his way, and with his new body, that was an actual hindrance now. “Hundreds of years ago. In the past. Does it matter?”
Rimmer began to chuckle. Lister had always found it slightly disturbing, as though Rimmer didn't really know how to do it, and was following the written instructions in Emotional Displays for Dummies.
“What?” Lister yelled, a little creeped out.
“Oh, nothing. It's just funny, really; you celebrating independence.”
“Eh?” The BrewMaster hummed busily, and the sound usually never failed to cheer Lister up. Rimmer had managed to ruin even that small pleasure, however. Ah, here the anger came creeping. He mustn't rise to it; he wasn't about to give Rimmer the satisfaction!
“Rather ironic, don't you think? We're three million years and change into deep space, and you're still clinging to the idea of holidays most people probably didn't even care about when they still existed. You're hung up on the idea that you can make things normal just by pretending that they are. Well, they're not; we're smegged to hell and back, and there's nothing you can do about it! These silly celebrations are nothing but crutches. You need to shake off your fantasies and grow up, Lister. Face reality like a man. Like me,” he added, as an afterthought.
Dangerously nearing his limits, Lister pushed Rimmer violently aside. He needed to walk away; calm himself down, and just go about his business. But dammit, he just couldn't let a comment like that go. “Oh yes, Mister Independence, you are! If I'm so pathetic, how come yer always hanging out with me, eh? You've made it clear you hate my guts, but even so, you couldn't move out from underneath my bunk until ya got a bloody copy of yerself to hold yer hand. And we all know how that turned out!”
“What?” Rimmer's nostrils expanded in nervous confusion.
“You can't handle being on yer own, can ya? That's why ya keep bothering me all the time. You need someone to annoy with yer boring stories and yer whining so you can feel better about yerself. Smegging independent, that is!”
Rimmer shifted. “That's the most absurd thing I've ever heard in my life,” he said in a deadpan, but his nostrils were quivering like a those of an asthmatic bunny.
“All right.” Lister took a stand opposite Rimmer, looking him straight in the eye. “That brew's gonna take twenty-four hours to get done. If you can stay away from me for that long, I'll sit through yer entire lecture series on Napoleon's campaign in Poland. I'll even take notes.”
Rimmer looked at him oddly. “What kind of a challenge is that? I'd happily shag a GELF for the chance of spending less time with you.”
“Whatever you say, Rimmer.” Lister mentally shook hands with himself. This was pure genius! There was no way he'd lose, and even if he did, he'd still have earned himself a whole day free of Rimmerine intrusion. That was worth almost any number of Napoleon lectures. “So, we on then?”
Eyes narrowing, Rimmer pursed his lips. “What's in it for you?”
“If I win, you stop bothering me for a whole week. No talking, no early morning drills, no smegging small-talk during cockpit shifts; no nothing. And when we don't have to be in the same room, you stay the hell away.”
“In other words; either way, I win? You're on, miladdio!” Rimmer reached out his hand to shake Lister's, then gave a lopsided grimace. Lister shook it anyway.
“Done.” Lister grinned as he sauntered out of the kitchen. This had lifted his spirits immensely. “See ya soon,” he shouted over his shoulder.
“Not a chance, matey!” Rimmer yelled in reply, but Lister was already happily out of range.
“Is it ready yet?” The Cat's silk and satin checkered suit shone like an emerald in various shades of green. Lister wondered if he had somehow managed to polish the fabric.
“Just about,” Lister replied, checking the gauge on the BrewMaster's side. “It's been nearly a day.”
“Any sign of sausage skin trousers yet?” Cat batted at the humming, vibrating machine, and Lister pushed his hands away gently.
“No. I think he might make it, actually.” Lister wasn't exactly looking forward to hours of tedious military strategy and thinly veiled creepy hero-worship, but on the other hand, his day had been blessedly free from annoyance. He'd slept until noon, undisturbed by pointless drills. He'd been allowed to take a shower without comment being made about their frequency, or lack thereof. His breakfast had not been sneered at, and so, had been enjoyed to a much higher degree. He's spent his cockpit shift laughing and slacking off with the Cat, and so far, not a single joke had been made about his personal grooming habits, habits or intelligence. All in all, he figured, it had been worth it.
The little yellow light went from yellow to green, and the lid opened with a soft 'ping'. Cat leaned over, and sniffed at the contents suspiciously. “I dunno, bud,” he said doubtfully, “I'm not sure if green is a good color for a beverage made from urine re-cyc.”
“Who smegging cares about the color, man!” Lister rummaged around for some glasses, knocking bowls and various other housewares off the shelves in his excitement. “It's beer!” Supplies had been low for the last few months, and as usual, beer and comfort foods had been one of the first things to go. Cat watched in disgust as Lister placed a hefty glass under the BrewMaster's dispenser, and unscrewed the tap. Far too thick, gooey liquid schlopped down in increments. Unperturbed, Lister allowed the glass to fill half way up, then added water from the protesting sink.
“You realize that's just more re-cyc, right?” Cat asked, his nose wrinkled.
His head buried in the glass, Lister tried to nod. It looked and tasted revolting, but it wasn't as bad as the wine they'd made that one time, and it was clearly quite potently alcoholic. When words and head gestures failed him, he gave an enthusiastic thumbs up.
Cat rolled his eyes. “All right, give me some of that. At least if I throw up, it'll match my outfit.”
Several hours and hurried visits to the bathroom later, Lister made his way carefully to his quarters. At least, that was the intention. In actual fact, he found he'd made several wrong turns; impressive in a lander that could barely house the four of them comfortably. The giddy stage of happy drunkenness behind him, he had entered into a state of mellow, if groggy and confused, contemplation. Where, he wondered, was Rimmer hiding? At least 30 hours had gone by; the bet was well won. It wasn't like the git to give up a chance to rub Lister's defeat in his face and bask in his own victory.
As these thoughts churned in his mind, Lister looked up to see he'd reached the door to one of Starbug's basic living quarters. It looked familiar and yet not, and it quickly struck Lister why that was; this was Rimmer's room. He'd been there the odd time, usually to keep teasing the smeghead about something as long as he possibly could. Sometimes he'd even resorted to shouting jibes through the not-too-thick doors. Well, that was it. Rimmer had to be in there, hadn't he? Must have been there all day, which would explain why Cat and Kryten hadn't seen him either. He'd locked himself in his quarters and waited there for the duration. Maybe he'd lost track of time? But no, that didn't sound like Rimmer. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but Lister got a sudden, paranoid urge to check if Rimmer was really there. He could have sneaked out, couldn't he? Spent the day in stasis; cheating! Would be like him.
Hovering near the Door Open switch, Lister hesitated. After all, if he barged in there now, what would that say about his dependence on Rimmer? Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Rimmer wasn't exactly known for his stamina or self discipline. He had to have done something to weasel his way out of this, or Lister would eat his own locks for breakfast. Resolutely, he opened the door.
At first, Lister felt a delicious surge of triumph. The room appeared to be as deserted as it was dull and bare; there was nowhere to hide among these spotless walls and sparse furniture. “Yeees,” he whispered, doing a little victory dance, and having to support himself against the wall when his feet refused to cooperate with such extravagance at this time. Rimmer wasn't here - he was cheating! Off in stasis, no doubt, and oh... was he going to be surprised and smegged off when Lister caught him in the act! As he tried to right himself again, Lister's eyes fell to the small desk a few feet away. A book that had not been returned to its proper place on the nearby shelf lay open on it, next to a couple of pens and an object Lister's blurry vision couldn't quite make out. He inched himself closer, narrowing his eyes. When he was close enough for it to bump coldly against his nose, Lister jumped back in startlement, losing his balance and falling flat on his ass, staring. It was Rimmer's light bee.
Lister was out the door in two seconds flat.
Hurrying towards his own quarters, not looking back, Lister rubbed his nose absentmindedly. He had no idea what, if anything, Rimmer could sense while he was switched off like that, but he hoped it wasn't much. From the bee's angle it must have looked like he was trying to get off with it or something. Lister shuddered. Well, he thought, trying to push that particular image away, it was a laugh, wasn't it? Pathetic bastard was so useless that he'd shut himself off rather then spend a few hours in his own company. Funny, yeah? Rimmer may have won, technically, but knowing why, Lister didn't feel like much of a loser. Yeah, a right laugh. But Lister did not laugh.
Reaching his own quarters, he stumbled inside and onto his bunk, clothes and all, and just lay there, thinking about nothing in particular. From time to time, however, the image of a small, metal oblong lying neatly on a table kept returning to him. And all that night, exhausted as he was, Lister found he could not sleep.
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Guess what I don't own? Yes. Guess what I don't make from this? Got it in one.
Spoilers: Legion.
Notes: A St. Patrick's day story I did not finish in time. I seem to have a habit of not finishing seasonal stories in time. Written for the fanfic100 challenge - my table is here.
“Lister?” The slightly nasal klaxon of Rimmer's voice rang out behind him in the kitchen, but Lister had trained himself over the years not to react to it. The hologram seemed to get off on getting a rise out of him, so Lister did his best to make that as difficult as possible.
“Yeah?”
“Correct me if I'm wrong, but is that my painting supplies you're pouring into that thing?”
Rimmer didn't breathe, which was a blessing, as Lister was spared the annoying feeling of hot breath on his neck. Even so, he could almost sense it anyway. Rimmer had this uncanny way of getting under your skin, and no amount of metaphorical armor plating could keep him out. “What if it is?”
“Well if it is, then it's mine, you goit!”
“So?” Lister tipped the small can upside down, and a few more drops of vivid green fell into the barrel of his BrewMaster. It was only a 5000, not a 12000, but Lister had heard that the Twelve-Triple-O's had design flaws that made them unstable, anyway. Besides, when your shopping mall was an abandoned derelict, you couldn't afford to be choosy. He put the can carefully back on the table, where it promptly fell over and started to roll, leaving a faint trail of green as it went along.
“So, normal people ask before they just avail themselves of other people's things!”
Scooting his chair back quickly, knowing it would force the other man to jump back or get hit in the knee, either of which would improve Lister's mood, Lister craned his neck around. “All right then; Rimmer, may I please use your miniature paints to dye me beer green?”
“That's better,” Rimmer snorted in approval. “And no, you may certainly not. Now give it back!”
Lister watched the rolling can critically. “I think it's finished.”
Rimmer rolled his eyes. “Well, how wonderful. How absolutely splendid! Not only do you steal my personal belongings, but you use them up without a moment's thought. What do you do for an encore; nick my boots? Literally steal the shirt off my back?”
“I was just borrowing it,” Lister mumbled, trying to balance the can with his fingertips. It kept rolling away.
“Lister, it's not borrowing if you can't actually give it back.” Rimmer sniffed at the BrewMaster sceptically. “You should be glad that stuff's non-toxic. Who in their right mind would want to dye beer green, anyway?”
Lister raised an eyebrow. “It's for St. Patrick's day. What, they didn't have that on Io?”
Straightening his back, Rimmer began to circle the BrewMaster, glancing into its yeasty bowels from time to time. “We only had sensible holidays on Io, Listy. Not silly made-up ones where you have to drink from condoms, or pop erectile dysfunction aids and see who goes the longest without having a wank, or,” he waved a hand, “dye beer green.”
Slamming the lid shut, Lister shook his head. “I didn't make it up, Rimmer; it's a well known Irish holiday.”
“Really?” Rimmer snorted. “And you're Irish, are you?”
“How am I supposed to know? I was adopted, wasn't I? Might be Irish, might be part Welsh, part Venezuelan; what does that have to do with anything?”
“Well, were your adoptive parents Irish?”
Lister pushed the 'start' button down hard with his thumb; it wouldn't budge. “No.”
Rimmer threw his arms out in exasperation. “Then why the smeg would you want to celebrate some obscure holiday dedicated to green alcohol?”
Kicking the button a few times until a small light finally lit up, and the machine started to shake gently, Lister leaned back against the wall and gave Rimmer a look. “It's not about the beer. That's just what you drink to celebrate it. It's about...” he waved his hands as though they could explain the concept better than his words, “independence. I think it used to be about something else, but then they changed it, you know, when they...” he gestured again, “you know, became... independent,” he finished lamely.
“Right,” Rimmer said in mock comprehension, “well, my mistake then! You obviously know all about this splendid tradition. Pray, enlighten me; when did they gain this independence? How?”
“Erm...” Lister shuffled his feet uncomfortably. He wanted to stalk out of the room and just ignore the bastard, but Rimmer was blocking his way, and with his new body, that was an actual hindrance now. “Hundreds of years ago. In the past. Does it matter?”
Rimmer began to chuckle. Lister had always found it slightly disturbing, as though Rimmer didn't really know how to do it, and was following the written instructions in Emotional Displays for Dummies.
“What?” Lister yelled, a little creeped out.
“Oh, nothing. It's just funny, really; you celebrating independence.”
“Eh?” The BrewMaster hummed busily, and the sound usually never failed to cheer Lister up. Rimmer had managed to ruin even that small pleasure, however. Ah, here the anger came creeping. He mustn't rise to it; he wasn't about to give Rimmer the satisfaction!
“Rather ironic, don't you think? We're three million years and change into deep space, and you're still clinging to the idea of holidays most people probably didn't even care about when they still existed. You're hung up on the idea that you can make things normal just by pretending that they are. Well, they're not; we're smegged to hell and back, and there's nothing you can do about it! These silly celebrations are nothing but crutches. You need to shake off your fantasies and grow up, Lister. Face reality like a man. Like me,” he added, as an afterthought.
Dangerously nearing his limits, Lister pushed Rimmer violently aside. He needed to walk away; calm himself down, and just go about his business. But dammit, he just couldn't let a comment like that go. “Oh yes, Mister Independence, you are! If I'm so pathetic, how come yer always hanging out with me, eh? You've made it clear you hate my guts, but even so, you couldn't move out from underneath my bunk until ya got a bloody copy of yerself to hold yer hand. And we all know how that turned out!”
“What?” Rimmer's nostrils expanded in nervous confusion.
“You can't handle being on yer own, can ya? That's why ya keep bothering me all the time. You need someone to annoy with yer boring stories and yer whining so you can feel better about yerself. Smegging independent, that is!”
Rimmer shifted. “That's the most absurd thing I've ever heard in my life,” he said in a deadpan, but his nostrils were quivering like a those of an asthmatic bunny.
“All right.” Lister took a stand opposite Rimmer, looking him straight in the eye. “That brew's gonna take twenty-four hours to get done. If you can stay away from me for that long, I'll sit through yer entire lecture series on Napoleon's campaign in Poland. I'll even take notes.”
Rimmer looked at him oddly. “What kind of a challenge is that? I'd happily shag a GELF for the chance of spending less time with you.”
“Whatever you say, Rimmer.” Lister mentally shook hands with himself. This was pure genius! There was no way he'd lose, and even if he did, he'd still have earned himself a whole day free of Rimmerine intrusion. That was worth almost any number of Napoleon lectures. “So, we on then?”
Eyes narrowing, Rimmer pursed his lips. “What's in it for you?”
“If I win, you stop bothering me for a whole week. No talking, no early morning drills, no smegging small-talk during cockpit shifts; no nothing. And when we don't have to be in the same room, you stay the hell away.”
“In other words; either way, I win? You're on, miladdio!” Rimmer reached out his hand to shake Lister's, then gave a lopsided grimace. Lister shook it anyway.
“Done.” Lister grinned as he sauntered out of the kitchen. This had lifted his spirits immensely. “See ya soon,” he shouted over his shoulder.
“Not a chance, matey!” Rimmer yelled in reply, but Lister was already happily out of range.
“Is it ready yet?” The Cat's silk and satin checkered suit shone like an emerald in various shades of green. Lister wondered if he had somehow managed to polish the fabric.
“Just about,” Lister replied, checking the gauge on the BrewMaster's side. “It's been nearly a day.”
“Any sign of sausage skin trousers yet?” Cat batted at the humming, vibrating machine, and Lister pushed his hands away gently.
“No. I think he might make it, actually.” Lister wasn't exactly looking forward to hours of tedious military strategy and thinly veiled creepy hero-worship, but on the other hand, his day had been blessedly free from annoyance. He'd slept until noon, undisturbed by pointless drills. He'd been allowed to take a shower without comment being made about their frequency, or lack thereof. His breakfast had not been sneered at, and so, had been enjoyed to a much higher degree. He's spent his cockpit shift laughing and slacking off with the Cat, and so far, not a single joke had been made about his personal grooming habits, habits or intelligence. All in all, he figured, it had been worth it.
The little yellow light went from yellow to green, and the lid opened with a soft 'ping'. Cat leaned over, and sniffed at the contents suspiciously. “I dunno, bud,” he said doubtfully, “I'm not sure if green is a good color for a beverage made from urine re-cyc.”
“Who smegging cares about the color, man!” Lister rummaged around for some glasses, knocking bowls and various other housewares off the shelves in his excitement. “It's beer!” Supplies had been low for the last few months, and as usual, beer and comfort foods had been one of the first things to go. Cat watched in disgust as Lister placed a hefty glass under the BrewMaster's dispenser, and unscrewed the tap. Far too thick, gooey liquid schlopped down in increments. Unperturbed, Lister allowed the glass to fill half way up, then added water from the protesting sink.
“You realize that's just more re-cyc, right?” Cat asked, his nose wrinkled.
His head buried in the glass, Lister tried to nod. It looked and tasted revolting, but it wasn't as bad as the wine they'd made that one time, and it was clearly quite potently alcoholic. When words and head gestures failed him, he gave an enthusiastic thumbs up.
Cat rolled his eyes. “All right, give me some of that. At least if I throw up, it'll match my outfit.”
Several hours and hurried visits to the bathroom later, Lister made his way carefully to his quarters. At least, that was the intention. In actual fact, he found he'd made several wrong turns; impressive in a lander that could barely house the four of them comfortably. The giddy stage of happy drunkenness behind him, he had entered into a state of mellow, if groggy and confused, contemplation. Where, he wondered, was Rimmer hiding? At least 30 hours had gone by; the bet was well won. It wasn't like the git to give up a chance to rub Lister's defeat in his face and bask in his own victory.
As these thoughts churned in his mind, Lister looked up to see he'd reached the door to one of Starbug's basic living quarters. It looked familiar and yet not, and it quickly struck Lister why that was; this was Rimmer's room. He'd been there the odd time, usually to keep teasing the smeghead about something as long as he possibly could. Sometimes he'd even resorted to shouting jibes through the not-too-thick doors. Well, that was it. Rimmer had to be in there, hadn't he? Must have been there all day, which would explain why Cat and Kryten hadn't seen him either. He'd locked himself in his quarters and waited there for the duration. Maybe he'd lost track of time? But no, that didn't sound like Rimmer. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but Lister got a sudden, paranoid urge to check if Rimmer was really there. He could have sneaked out, couldn't he? Spent the day in stasis; cheating! Would be like him.
Hovering near the Door Open switch, Lister hesitated. After all, if he barged in there now, what would that say about his dependence on Rimmer? Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Rimmer wasn't exactly known for his stamina or self discipline. He had to have done something to weasel his way out of this, or Lister would eat his own locks for breakfast. Resolutely, he opened the door.
At first, Lister felt a delicious surge of triumph. The room appeared to be as deserted as it was dull and bare; there was nowhere to hide among these spotless walls and sparse furniture. “Yeees,” he whispered, doing a little victory dance, and having to support himself against the wall when his feet refused to cooperate with such extravagance at this time. Rimmer wasn't here - he was cheating! Off in stasis, no doubt, and oh... was he going to be surprised and smegged off when Lister caught him in the act! As he tried to right himself again, Lister's eyes fell to the small desk a few feet away. A book that had not been returned to its proper place on the nearby shelf lay open on it, next to a couple of pens and an object Lister's blurry vision couldn't quite make out. He inched himself closer, narrowing his eyes. When he was close enough for it to bump coldly against his nose, Lister jumped back in startlement, losing his balance and falling flat on his ass, staring. It was Rimmer's light bee.
Lister was out the door in two seconds flat.
Hurrying towards his own quarters, not looking back, Lister rubbed his nose absentmindedly. He had no idea what, if anything, Rimmer could sense while he was switched off like that, but he hoped it wasn't much. From the bee's angle it must have looked like he was trying to get off with it or something. Lister shuddered. Well, he thought, trying to push that particular image away, it was a laugh, wasn't it? Pathetic bastard was so useless that he'd shut himself off rather then spend a few hours in his own company. Funny, yeah? Rimmer may have won, technically, but knowing why, Lister didn't feel like much of a loser. Yeah, a right laugh. But Lister did not laugh.
Reaching his own quarters, he stumbled inside and onto his bunk, clothes and all, and just lay there, thinking about nothing in particular. From time to time, however, the image of a small, metal oblong lying neatly on a table kept returning to him. And all that night, exhausted as he was, Lister found he could not sleep.