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Dib is curious. He knows the best way to resolve his curiosity is to ask, to inquire about his… inquiry. But he also knows that the likelihood of him getting a straight answer is slim to none. Emphasis on the none.
So Dib is curious, and knows that the second best way to resolve his curiosity is to test his hypothesis. It’s not much of a hypothesis, though. He doesn’t have an “if ‘x’ happens, ‘y’ will change, because of ‘z’ reason.” He doesn’t have variables—controlled or otherwise. He’s just got a single question, and sheer determination to resolve it. So he’s going to test his not-hypothesis.
Easier said than done, as is often the case.
(He and Zim have been dating for a while, and as such some less-knowledgeable people might think it’s ludicrous that Dib can’t simply ask Zim about his question. And they’d be right. It is ludicrous, absolutely so. But it’s also the law of the universe, as far as Dib can tell. Dating Zim is as ridiculous and exhausting as being arch-rivals with Zim. Dib likes it, most of the time. Even now. Even knowing that this plan will blow up in his face, inevitably.)
(Some people might also say it’s absurd that he and Zim have never kissed, despite dating for a while. These people are also right, and Dib accepts only half the blame. While he’s been unsure of proper alien etiquette (and yes, he does care about that marginally more now that he’s dating the alien invader, as opposed to just trying to kill him frequently) Zim has never once initiated a kiss. Hand-holding, sure. Hugs, even, on occasion. And the best kept secret in all of their town is Zim’s preference for cuddling. But a kiss? Not once, not even a spared longing glance at Dib’s lips.)
(He’s not offended. Maybe a little. Not that much. Doesn’t matter.)
(The point is, Zim is just as much to blame for the lack of lip-locking as Dib is. Maybe even more so.)
The first step in his plan is to watch a lot of movies. He knows they aren’t bound in any sense of reality (or are they?) and he knows it’s probably a bad first step, but he does it anyway. He lines up a dozen or so major blockbusters from the past three decades and sets aside a weekend, all alone, to burn through them. The entire while, he takes notes upon notes until he’s filled up three college-ruled notebooks.
By the end of it, he still feels like there’s more to know. That’s when he turns to television. Much the same as before, he rounds up the best sci-fi or otherwise alien-related television of all time. He churns through those in a week and a half spent with minimal sleep and ending with a massive hand cramp. And six more college-ruled notebooks full of notes.
He still feels lost, after, but with a little more sense of direction than before.
Kinda.
Sorta.
Not really.
After about two months of solid research, Dib has compiled a lengthy list of possibilities. The hard part will be testing them all, but he’s determined. He’s going to figure this out if it kills him.
He hopes it won’t, but he’s entertaining all options just in case.
They’re sitting tangled on the couch when he makes his first move. His legs sprawl along the length of the couch, nearly dangling over the edge, and Zim is pressed all along his front. Zim’s focus is on the TV; Dib’s focus is on Zim.
Specifically, his antennae. They twitch every so often, at a sound or a flash of light. They lay flush against Zim’s head briefly, before springing to life with interest again. They’re mesmerizing on a normal day. Dib relishes the little glimpse into Zim’s thoughts that they offer, as though he’s peeking around a corner of Zim’s mind. Today, however… today, Dib can’t stop staring.
He doesn’t even realize Zim has started to speak, doesn’t hear the words tumbling from Zim’s lips in a low growl. Dib is too intent on his mission. Without jostling his partner, Dib reaches up and gently, carefully strokes along the base of one of Zim’s antennae.
The fact he lands on the floor is hardly surprising.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Zim snarls from where he sits, glaring down at Dib.
“Uh,” Dib swallows. “Touching you?” He doesn’t miss the faint blush bleeding across Zim’s skin, blotchy yet endearing.
Zim seethes. His antennae are pressed tight against his head and they twitch only minutely. “Do not touch them,” Zim grinds out with clenched teeth.
Dib sits up slowly. “Sorry, I didn’t realize—?”
Zim’s narrows his eyes, then scoffs. “Whatever,” Zim declares. He settles at the far end of the couch, leaving the other end open for Dib.
The invitation is clear (ish) so Dib moves slowly until he’s propped up stiffly in his usual spot. Eventually, he and Zim end up tangled again, and Dib keeps his hands as far away as possible from Zim’s antennae.
The next time he tries it is both better and worse.
They’re sitting at the table, positively domestic (which shouldn’t fill Dib with so much delight and disgust simultaneously), as GIR flits around the kitchen. He’s screaming something, cooking something, Dib doesn’t know or care what. He’s, once again, focused intently on Zim. And Zim’s attention, again, is elsewhere. On the news, to be precise. Tinny voices crow from the tablet in his hands, chattering on about doom and despair and the end times—usual stuff.
Zim’s holding the tablet with one hand; the other is palm down, one claw tapping on the wooden table. He’s not wearing gloves, never does anymore unless they’re going out.
And even though Dib knows it’s stupid, he figures it’s worth a shot.
He reaches out slowly and knows the exact moment Zim senses the movement. Zim’s gaze just barely flicks over to him but he doesn’t speak or pull away. So Dib keeps moving until he can brush two fingers along Zim’s own claws. He does it slow, gently, until the tips of their hands rest together.
“Dib,” Zim drawls lowly. “What are you doing?” The venom from last time is absent. Instead, it’s replaced with drawling amusement, an undercurrent of mockery.
Just as unsurprising.
“Uh.” Dib says. “Nothing,” he coughs out the word while taking Zim’s hand firmly. They’ve held hands before, holding hands is normal, he’s being totally normal.
One of Zim’s antennae quirks, as does the corner of his mouth. He hums curiously, but doesn’t press it.
Dib knows it’s too good to be true (Zim never gives up on something like this, ever) but takes the out all the same and lets the topic drop.
Dib comes home to Zim sitting primly on his bed and his notebooks—his notebooks—strewn absolutely everywhere.
“What the hell, Zim?” Dib asks as he drops his bag at the door. He’s mostly referring to the notebooks and their complete destruction. This is not the first time Zim has showed up unannounced at his apartment, and won’t be the last. Dib is also a little put out that, judging by the open bedroom window, Zim broke in, rather than simply using the key Dib gave him. Dib resigns himself to the fact that some things will never change and focuses on tuning in as Zim starts to speak.
“What the hell indeed,” Zim agrees. “You’ve been… studying.” Zim looks disdainfully at the notebooks, the loose papers, the mess that is now Dib’s room. “I could barely make sense of your chicken-scratch rambling, but it helped that you titled every single page with your… query.”
Zim looks over to Dib now. “How do aliens kiss?” The same corner of his lip quirks again, and his teeth glint in the low light of the bedroom.
Dib wishes that his floor would open up and swallow him whole. It’s done so before, plenty of times, just never when it’s convenient for Dib. This time is no different.
Zim stands and brushes out imaginary wrinkles from his tunic. “You’re an idiot, Dib.”
Dib nods before tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Just, mock me all you want. Get it over with.”
“Oh, I intend to.” Zim murmurs agreeably. “Antennae touching, really?”
Dib shrugs helplessly.
“And the—what was it, Vulcan?” He spits out the word like a bad taste. “That was simply moronic. Even more so than usual.” Zim crosses his arms over his chest. “And the rest of your ideas? Ha!” He barks out a laugh and ignores Dib’s answering wince.
“I get it, Zim. I’m an idiot.”
“That is nothing new,” Zim says while waving off Dib’s admission. “This is an entirely new level, even for you.” Zim lets the words hang in the air for a long, heavy moment, before breaking the silence with a sigh. “But since you are my idiot, I suppose I should put you out of your misery and answer your ridiculous question.”
Dib’s gaze snaps from the ceiling to Zim so fast his neck cracks in protest. He doesn’t even acknowledge the dull ache, instead staring dumbfounded as Zim takes him by the wrist and tugs him over to the bed.
“Sit.” Zim demands.
Dib sits.
Zim sits, too, though he’s practically straddling one of Dib’s legs and bracing his hands on Dib’s shoulders for balance. “For the sake of time and simplicity, I won’t regale you with the various ways that all aliens kiss.”
Dib’s hands cautiously find their way to Zim’s hips.
“I will just show you how I kiss.” Zim nearly purrs the words against Dib’s lips before catching them in a kiss. Positively normal, though the only experience Dib can draw as comparison is a messy make-out in a closet with Gretchen during an ill-fated round of seven minutes in heaven. This is so much better than that; no braces scraping his lips, no nervous little noises spilling from girlish lips. Only Zim, soft and pliant and sharp where his claws dig through the fabric of Dib’s shirt.
Dib’s lungs start to burn and he uses his grip on Zim’s hips to push him away.
Zim sits back, his hands slide from Dib’s shoulders and instead he crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, Dib?”
“Uh.” Dib comes back to himself slowly. “Good. That was, uh. Good.”
Zim scoffs.
Dib’s gaze narrows in on Zim’s lip—flushed, as though burned. “Does my spit burn you?” Dib asks in surprise. He leans forward in interest and even goes so far as to skirt his fingertips across Zim’s lips. “Shit, that’s… that’s kind of a problem.”
Zim scoffs again, even louder and more mocking than before. “It is nothing. Hardly stings.”
Dib doesn’t miss the shiver that runs through Zim’s frame when Dib keeps brushing along his kiss-swollen lips. “Well, in that case.” He leans in and is gratified when Zim meets him half way. He’d almost call the other eager, if he knew it wouldn’t earn him a lecture or time in the proverbial doghouse. Instead, Dib just relishes the way Zim moves against him, moves closer. The way Zim’s claws cling to his shoulders again, and how Zim’s lips fall open and welcome Dib’s invading tongue.