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Dib told himself not to look. He stared instead at a cheesy JOIN THE RESISTY poster of a small huddle of aliens, each a different species, in uniform, standing together. It was supposed to inspire bravery, encouragement, and loyalty but instead, Dib thought of those stupid Believe in Yourself inspiration posters the school counselor kept in his office in high school. His train of thought scattered to those years, so far away now, and he thought of lunchroom arguments, late-night skirmishes, and early, early mornings spent in that little clearing on the outskirts of town when he and Zim were in rivalry limbo, and the alien would explain to him all the secrets of space he knew, the galaxies Dib might someday see, and all of Zim’s favorite planets that weren’t Irk.
“Do you remember that party after prom night? At Torque’s? When you-” Dib turned his head to look at Zim and remembered, all at once, that one, Zim was still really mad at him, and two, his left arm was being held open in its middle by metal forceps, it’s insides being lit up with an ugly purple light. Zim glanced at him with half-lidded, irritated eyes through blood-spattered goggles and Dib felt his stomach roil. He looked pointedly away. “N-nevermind.”
Even while looking away, he could feel Zim’s glaring, could hear the burning of the little laser scalpel he was using to clear away ruined bone which shrapnel from an Irken grenade had splintered or embedded itself in. Zim had explained that Irken technology could easily rebuild all of Dib’s bone and viscera. When asked how Zim had mumbled he’d had bone and blood samples from Dib on him already. And while it was fascinating all Irken technology needed to entirely heal an entire bone was but a fragment, he was still very curious as to where Zim had gotten that fragment in the first place.
“Perhaps if you were not so stupid your own insides would not sicken you so badly,” Zim tutted quietly. It was the first thing he’d said in what felt like hours. Dib rolled his eyes, kept looking away.
“I’m not gonna keep apologizing over something that wasn’t my fault,”
“But it was , Dib-stupid,” Zim’s voice was hard and gravelly.
“Oh, yeah I threw that grenade myself. Thanks,” Dib shook his head. Zim growled.
It gave him whiplash that just a few hours ago he’d nearly lost his arm, then a few hours short of that, he was high as a kite on alien morphine, and now he was sitting in a dark, very quiet infirmary room with a simmering Zim.
Dib had fainted when he’d first seen the damage. Zim hadn’t been around, he’d been manning a ship, laughing; even as the blood had pooled at Dib’s feet and he’d stared for a few long seconds at how his left arm was barely hanging on by a few tendons and muscle, he’d heard Zim’s wild laughter in his earpiece.
“That’s seven ships Zim’s taken out, Dib-filth! Beat that!” Had been the last thing he’d heard before he’d swayed. He’d been lucky there’d been others around him, a few other aliens who’d been able to get him back behind ally lines. That’d been a few hours ago, though. It still sorta embarrassed him, the idea of himself being dragged back covered in blood and filth. But oh well.
Dib grimaced. He couldn’t even really say it’d hurt because he’d passed out so quickly, but he did recall this horrible ringing in his ears, then the numbness in his arm, then a sudden bright searing feeling which probably would have been horrible, terrible, mind-numbing pain. Then all had gone black. He’d woken up in an infirmary a short time later; it turned out shock didn’t always knock you out for very long. There’d been a lot more pain, but even then they’d already pumped so much weird, alien pain-relieving shit into him he’d been dizzy with it.
He remembered a handful of things waking up that first time. Bright lights, some concerned talking, then a high-pitched, nasally voice arguing and yelling a lot. He remembered the blood, too, how it stained everything, his uniform, his pants, he could taste it in his mouth. Some shrapnel had gotten in his face, little bits that had to be carefully removed with tweezer-like tools.
In the haze of these memories, he was certain he heard Zim rapidly speaking angry Irken to one of the other doctors and Dib had been hardly lucid enough to follow it, except for a few frantic lines here and there, like, ‘ why is there so much blood, put it back, it has to go back! ’
That had made him laugh. The feeling had made his entire self ache.
“Give me that bottle,” Zim’s voice snapped him from his reverie, and he nearly jolted. The infirmary had small rooms for intense operations. Dib wasn’t sure if this operation required its own space (he’d seen aliens receive amputations in the open infirmary hall with not even a curtain to hide the gore), but Zim had insisted.
“Uh,” the table to his right was littered with vials, bottles, medical tools Zim hadn’t touched, claimed he didn’t need them. Everything he’d used to slowly put together Dib’s arm had come from his PAK. He blinked.
“The pink one you imbecile, ”
“Zim, most of these are pink-”
Zim scoffed, sounding venomous, and shot out a sharp PAK leg to snatch up a bottle that looked like it might be cologne, narrowly missing Dib’s face. “That one was more violet than pink-”
“Shut up,”
Zim refused to acknowledge his possible color blindness. Dib had stopped trying to convince him. He sighed. “Whatever.”
Zim huffed. He continued his work and Dib continued looking away.
One of the infirmary nurses, a Vortian with pale pink horns, had tended to him initially before Zim had arrived and demanded to take over. He recalled her leaning over him and muttering, “ You know, you might not like hearing this, but when we told him you were in the infirmary with pretty serious injuries, he just got this look. I’ve never seen him so angry.”
“Who?” Dib had asked in his confusion, and she’d blinked and said, “ Who else?”
He put his chin in his good hand and stared at the Resisty poster. He understood why Zim was so bitter but he certainly didn’t need to be such a dick. Then again this was Zim. He let his thoughts wander elsewhere.
As Dib had come to realize his arm would be fine, completely functioning by the morning, he began to think that this would be an excellent story to swap. But up in space, these injuries were uninteresting. Most aliens were far more resilient than humans. In fact, most were more fascinated with how squishy and easily harmed Dib was. He’d had many conversations with extraterrestrials where’d they show him a weapon, explain how it worked, then ask, “So… One shot would wipe out a human?”
Dib would nod his head as if this were obvious, say yes. When he’d ask if that didn’t apply to their enemies they’d glance at each other, explained that while Irken’s were very difficult to kill, so were most aliens. Many had regenerative properties to their biology or such technological advances that made most life-threatening injuries a walk in the park. It was partially why the war had lasted as long as it had, not including the Empire’s sheer numbers. From there came another interesting fact; so far, humans had the shortest life spans compared to every other alien he’d met. It was a bit of a downer. Zim didn’t like to talk about it.
Dib sighed.
“Quit moving, earth-worm,”
“I hardly moved,”
Zim’s grip on his other arm tightened threateningly, and Dib hissed in pain. “It’s completely unfair you’re this angry with me,” he snapped.
“Of course Zim is angry with you, I told you to be careful-”
“This is a war, Zim, what do you expect-”
“For you to listen to me, earth filth!!” Zim’s voice rose quickly as his fist slammed down onto the table. The tools rattled. Dib glared at him. The Irken glared back. He was an odd man out, being the only Irken in the Resisty. While Dib knew the Irken empire controlled most of its people with a hive mind mentality and intense punishment for traitors and deviants, the fact still surprised him. Zim didn’t seem to care at all, and when asked, he was flippant and brief. It certainly came with some pros and cons. The other Resisty members were afraid of him. Dib saw the stares and whispers, saw the canyon created between them both and everyone else in the cafeteria. He noticed the scowling most of all. Lots of rumors and distrust. No one wanted Zim on a mission with them, no one wanted to share a dorm with him, there were occasional fights.
Despite their peaceful cause, the prejudices of the Empire had long since seeped into the main consciousness of much of the universe. Dib saw this reflected most in Zim’s dislike of most other aliens, however, it shone harshly in the other species’ they worked with as well. When another alien had called Zim a defective during a mission gone awry ( because of Zim, granted), he’d pounced said alien and torn out two of his six eyes.
Aside from Dib and Lard-Nar, he didn’t see Zim interact with any other alien in the Resisty.
He looked away from the Irken’s sharp glare and stared at the table again.
He didn’t like that Zim went on missions alone. He didn’t like that it didn’t matter if he did join Zim; what was he in comparison to a several-century-old alien with regenerative abilities, sharp teeth, claws, and an advanced piece of technology as unique as a PAK...
He listened to Zim unscrew the bottle, and then suddenly there came a hot, sharp pain, like alcohol against an open wound. Dib choked out a gasp, nearly yelled, then bit down hard on his knuckles of his right hand. He shot a look at Zim, who was glaring at him, goggles still on, as the PAK legs, one by one began to fold themselves away.
“What the f- fuck was that for?”
“Would you like to get a horrible infection that would eat away at your meager, human brains and make you stupid? Oh but then, you are already very stupid,” Zim growled. He took out a roll of gauze and bent over Dib’s arm a final time. Dib decided it was safe to look, and found his irritation disappeared near instantly.
He had expected his arm still to be open and was shocked to find it seemingly whole, although it was wrapped up in thin, gauze-like material that was only a tiny bit bloody.
Zim peeled off his medical gloves (they were lavender colored; Zim loved his purples, pinks, and fuschias, and since the Resisty uniforms were all sleek black, he took what colors he could). He tossed them into a waste bin.
“Holy shit,” Dib breathed. Usually, he withheld compliments from Zim if only because they inflated an already massive ego. But he’d been so anxious earlier. His arm had been nearly obliterated. “This is amazing! Will it leave a scar?” He sorta hoped it would.
Zim glared a second longer then answered, curtly, “No.” He stood up, shoving the chair behind him, letting it scrape against the floor as he removed the goggles. “Do not get the bandages wet. Do not touch it with your filthy, germ-infested fingers. Do not poke at it. Do not mess with it at all, pig-filth. ” If Dib wasn’t so fascinated with having his arm back, the feeling returning pretty rapidly now, he might’ve noted how Zim grimaced, clenched his newly gloved hands into fists and began marching for the door.
Dib turned to tell Zim thank you when the door slammed shut. He hadn’t even gotten to watch him go. He listened to the distant clicking of Zim’s boots along the corridor, then stood up himself, testing the arm, the way his fingers moved perfectly. The temptation to peer beneath the bandages was near impossible to ignore but, if only to avoid Zim’s wrath, he withheld himself.
In the mess hall, Zim was nowhere to be found. Dib sat at their usual table and ate alone, dodging glances from the other aliens. He would eventually have to return to their dorm room and find Zim, would likely spend the evening slipping insults into everything he said. He was clearly in one of those moods, where he was tense, bitter, and just waiting to be pushed into a fight. Despite their alliance (despite their relationship being more than an alliance), they still physically fought. To human standards, this certainly made their relationship questionable, but Dib wasn’t sure it would ever be any other way. Perhaps it was an instinct that made Zim’s eyes glint with wild, exciting adrenaline when Dib grappled with him, and perhaps it was only natural he still had a few fading bite marks from the last time an argument had spiraled into a heated attack in the close quarters of Zim’s voot two weeks ago.
“Is Zim still angry?” Dib blinked, looked up to see a Vortian with strangely stiff horns looking down at him. The Vortian stood with his tray just steps away.
“Do you think Zim’s still angry?”
“What did you do to make him so mad?” He asked, lowering his voice. “Everyone thought you two were, you know. Like this,” he made a gesture with his fingers that to a human resembled crossed fingers. Dib assumed it had similar connotations.
“Uh,” he blushed, looked aside. “Well, Zim is still Zim.”
“Yes, I suppose he is…” He looked thoughtful. “I must say, I have never seen an Irken who… Well, most aliens think it’s impossible, for Irken’s to feel much of anything at all. They’re… Complex yet simple creatures. Zim is certainly no exception to that rule… I suppose you must feel flattered, to have likely the only Irken who… Feels something other than hatred.”
“Flattered,” Dib repeated, “is an… Interesting way of putting it, to say the least.”
“I’m happy to see your arm is no longer in pieces. Try not to get killed,” the Vortian nodded, beginning to continue on his way, “I don’t think we could handle Zim’s wrath then.”
“Y-yeah, I’ll try,”
The Vortian waved off. He looked down at his food, most of which he hadn’t touched. Dib spent not much longer in the mess hall, all too aware of the conversation surrounding him, and his apparent severe vulnerability. He dumped his tray and wandered for his and Zim’s quarters.
The Resisty ship was large, but it’s crew was nearly twice it’s accommodating size. Some quarters were shared by up to three aliens, depending on their species and sizes. Zim despised sharing a room with Dib, but they simply couldn’t accommodate him to have his own room, and he certainly wasn’t going to share with anyone else.
Dib could not quite stand the lack of personal space, either. Zim was needy and angry. He wanted attention often, but when he didn’t, he wanted absolute isolation. Sometimes he’d lock their door and not allow anyone in, even Dib, for hours at a time. What he did in those hours, Dib didn’t know; pacing holes into the floor or perhaps working quietly on his SIR unit, who had been deactivated upon the Control Brains’ realization that Zim was defecting. They’d yet to learn how to reactivate Gir, and though Zim would not admit it, claimed he ‘ didn’t need the dysfunctional piece of junk, anyway’, Dib knew it bothered him. He had caught him more than once sleeping with the limp robot tight in the crook of his arms.
Dib had never brought it up. He imagined Zim would appreciate the silence on the issue.
He tried the door. To his surprise, it pushed open, unlocked.
Within, the room was dark, and Dib left the light’s off, stepping silently in. Upon the top bunk bed, he caught the faint, glowing pink light of Zim’s PAK. Peering up, standing on his tippy toes, he saw Zim’s tiny form, wrapped in a blanket, supposedly sleeping.
Zim’s PAK had had to be rewired upon entering the Resisty; otherwise, he was not allowed to join, having been initially a walking mole. Despite being Defective, the Control Brains had an uncanny ability to override some of Zim’s emotions, actions, and thoughts. When he had initially defected, he had probably been the most unstable Dib had ever seen him; frantic, violently impulsive, and very self-destructive. The first mission he took from Lard-Narr had nearly gotten him killed, mostly because he’d fucked it up.
Amongst the many workings which needed adjustments, all pertaining to commands, modifications, and direct control from the Control Brains, was the Irken’s lack of ability to sleep. It had to do with an elaborate, complicated form of mind control, one Dib still didn’t quite understand and one that had disgusted Zim. What he’d hated more, however, was sleeping in itself, the dreams and nightmares which flooded in its wake. He considered it a nuisance of sorts. Primitive and useless.
Dib furrowed his brow, watching the way his breath came and fell slowly… Zim absolutely hated to fall asleep on his own.
Once, Dib had been sent on a mission with several other aliens, none of which had included Zim. When he’d returned nearly a week later, he’d come back to an absolutely horrible looking Zim, who had not had a wink of sleep since his departure. Dib had carried him back to their room while Zim slurred his words as if drunk and held Dib’s face with clawed hands, murmuring something in Irken he could not understand.
If he’s so mad, he can handle sleeping on his own…. Whatever. Dib sighed softly and went to his bed and drawers.
The room was square and rather small, with perhaps less than ten feet of walking room. There was a small closet, a bunk bed with underneath storage, and a tall drawer for their belongings. Upon it, Gir lay covered in a thin white sheet. If he peeked under, he’d find the robot near sparkling from the care Zim took to keep dust from gathering.
Dib undressed and climbed into pajamas, waiting for some quip, some snarky remark to thrust them back into their routine because he knew Zim couldn't have fallen asleep already. The silence stretched on, however. Uncomfortably, Dib allowed it to. He crawled into bed, winced at how it creaked over-loud, and lay on his side.
In his own nightmares, he’s always getting disemboweled or dissected or overwhelmed by some acidic alien goo which apparently the Irken empire had in their possession, and was rumored amongst the Resisty as being ta horrifying monstrosity. In his worst nightmares, he’s on Earth again, and no one is home. His father and Gaz are gone and there’s not even a note on the fridge to tell him where they might be. The house is cold and dark but much the same as when he’d left, except for a heavy, lingering guilt that weighs on Dib’s shoulders until their creaking from it. You left without saying anything. But then, what was there to say? Dad was never around, dad didn’t care, and Gaz was Gaz. Gaz didn’t seem to care either. Rarely reached out to him. You rarely reached out to me. But wasn’t he justified? You were the older brother. Yeah, he supposed he was. These voices are always his own, not some lingering, whispery thing which led him down the halls to his bedroom, which is the same as when he was a kid, plastered glow in the dark stars and peeling posters.
These dreams are quiet and wordless. No one slips out of the shadows to drag him away and there’s no acidic goo to eat away at his skin slowly. It’s just silence. No one asks for him and no seems to care to, and worst of all, he begins to think he didn’t really exist at all in this house, to begin with. He might call for someone, might even try the front doo to at least wait on the front lawn where there’s air to breathe and a sky to escape to, but always it’s locked no matter how hard he pulls while some disappointed, saddened gaze glares into his back…
… There was a claw against his chest, following some sort of mutter, and Dib’s eyes fluttered open. His chest felt tight. Two sharp, narrowed fuschia eyes glare at him just inches away. He near jumped away, before recogniztion flooded in, following a scowl from Zim.
“Your incessant whimpering is more worthy of a smeet, earth-pig,” he snapped, “and Zim cannot sleep when you act this way,”
“Sorry,” his throat felt dry. Zim squinted at him. An insult was bubbling behind his teeth, Dib could feel it; but Zim struggled with nightmares, too. In fact, right now, he had the impression Zim had crawled into his bed as soon as he had sensed the human had fallen asleep, long before the sounds had began. Nonetheless.
One of Zim’s hands gripped Dib’s upper arm, just above where the bandages began. “Zim will accept your apology…”
“It wasn’t for earlier,”
Zim’s scowled deepened, “It should have been, filthy human, you wasted Zim’s time putting your pathetic arm back together.”
Dib rolled his eyes. He was too tired to argue and he was all too aware of how drawn, how tight Zim’s shoulders were. He was drawn close, very close, snuggled beneath Dib’s blankets and pressed against him, legs half way intertwined with his own.
“Sorry I worried you-”
Instantly, Zim was sitting up, glaring down at him, “I was not worried, Dib-Beast, merely INFURIATED because Zim knew I would have to be the one to spend several hours putting your stupid body back together! Your species is so worthless you cannot even regenerate yourself! Pathetic! Zim was not at all worried over your feeble body. Aliens die every day. What difference do you make, earth-worm?” Then he was turning over, yanking the blanket up higher, and throwing himself back down into the bed, facing away from him. When Zim lied, his left antennae twitched. Dib stared at him and sighed.
“Ohh...Kay… Fine. You weren’t worried-”
“I wasn’t, ” he hissed.
“Okay,”
“Do not tell me Zim was worried,”
“Fine.” He scooted closer to him. Zim’s PAK was warm, a welcome heat to the coolness of the ship. Dib wormed an arm beneath him and Zim allowed it. He had changed out of the longer, black tunic he’d been given upon joining and wore only the black long sleeves and leggings which came beneath it, high neck, sleeves ending just below his palms. Dib didn’t know if Zim got cold or just preferred to stay covered up. He figured the latter.
Beside him, he tension hadn’t left Zim.
“You smell like toxic waste,” he muttered into the dark.
“I can leave you know,”
Zim said nothing. Dib leaned forward, hid his face into the bony crook in Zim’s neck. His skin was soft, softer than any humans despite the lack of hair. He felt almost like velvet.
“Your species bodily fluids are disgusting. You bleed too much. Stop it,”
“I’ll try not to bleed next time-”
“There will not be a next time, Dib-thing,” Zim ground out angrily, gripping at the blankets so tight his knuckles paled. “Zim shall ask you to be demoted from-”
Dib’s eyes shot open, “What..?! No way, Zim, that’s completely unfa-”
“What do you mean,” Zim was sitting up again, turning to narrow his eyes back at Dib, “ no ?”
“That’s not your decision to make-”
“Of course it is, pathetic-”
“Quit calling me names.”
Zim’s eye twitched. In the dark, his they glowed like his PAK, very faint, but there, like the brush of bioluminescent paint. Narrowed to sharp slits, it might’ve been intimidating.
“What’s your problem tonight?”
Zim glowered at something in the dark. “For someone so… Intelligent, it is pitiful you don’t know, ” Well, clearly he was trying not to be insulting. Failing to do so, but, there was an effort. Dib gathered up the patience he had left and forced out a sigh.
“You’re so tense,” he offered gently. Zim did not answer. “It’s fine if you were scared, you know,”
That left antennae, always giving him away, “I was not -”
“You’ll feel better if you just admit it,”
“Oh yes, Zim shall feel better if I lower myself to your horrible human standards of vulnerability. Irkens fear nothing. I was scared of nothing.”
A long stretch of silence, Zim’s form only slightly blurry from where Dib watched without his glasses.
“It’s you who are so weak, Dib-human,” he went on, finally. “You should never have followed Zim here. I did not want you to, and in fact, I wish you’d never come. You should have remained on that dirtball of a planet to live out the rest of you miserable days trying to prove Zim’s identity.”
Dib stared at him, half-lidded and uninterested, now uninterested in being comforting. When Zim felt cornered, he liked to bite. Better to ignore him, like a crying infant. Dib turned over, listened to Zim sputter as he tugged the blankets up, and closed his eyes.
“How dare you ignore ZIM-”
“You’re just spouting hot air-”
“Hot air? Hot AIR?! This is more than- Dib-human! Listen to Zim!” Zim crawled onto Dib’s side and rolled over so that he had to face him again. He nearly slid off the bed, and Dib’s anger was dampened by just the act of doing what he just did. Jesus, Zim was so tiny, and Dib withheld a snicker. “This is not funny, human!” He hissed when Dib’s smile betrayed him. “You are like a twig or-or even an Ikren smeet! You could be squished, like this!” He pinched two thin fingers together in front of Dib’s face. “Do you understand?”
Dib grumbled, “So? I thought you said it didn’t make a dif-”
He made a cry of frustration, “Zim can’t stand it! You make me sick with-with your putrid human emotions you have infected Zim with! Absolutely sick with it, you vile, earth-monkey! And you act as if it were nothing! Things that would do nothing to Zim would absolutely obliterate you, would tear the skin from your bones, and you- you are so- so,” Zim threw out his arms, shouting. “SO STUPID about it!! So flippant! The insolent-Dib-thing is Zim’s, my enemy, no one else’s, and you can not die! Do you understand this?” Now he pointed a sharp claw into his chest, then reached one trembling hand up and weaved fingers between his antennae to tug at it tightly, “But how could you understand it! You thought once of only your own foolish heroics to save your doomed PLANET, now it is the galaxy as if anyone shall ever thank you for it! Your life is but a blip on their radars! Your disregard for your feeble life is- It is irritating! And even after you promised Zim you would remain mine forever?! Are you taking back these declarations of loyalty you so promised because if so, then I will have no choice but to disembowel you myself!” He had grabbed the front of Dib’s shirt. Dib took a moment to notice the darkness beneath either of Zim’s eyes, the paleness, too. He worked constantly within the Resisty, rarely rested, only slept when Dib did, or when they were alone in their room and Dib would work silently on his own projects while Zim lay behind him, back against him. And so often, in those moments, he wouldn’t even sleep. Close his eyes or look straight ahead, silent, thoughtful. Now, Zim set his teeth then moved suddenly backward until he was near the very edge of the bed. He put his face in his hands, taking slow, uneven breaths. “This wretched… Exhaustion,” he muttered.
The silence fell again and DIb watched him in the darkness, unsure of what to say. He couldn't exactly make any promises aside from, I’ll be careful. That was hardly enough.
“You need to sleep,” he said, finally, when it was all he could really think so to say. Zim made no response. He let him breathe before he reached out. His hand rested on the Irken’s jaw, all sharp angles, felt the tiny twitch of surprise. His skin was shockingly thin as if his bones were just aching to snap out.
“Hey,” he whispered. “Relax. I’m right here,” Zim muttered something in Irken, too quiet for Dib to catch. He cleared his throat. “Um. Thank you. For telling me this. It’s important you talk about these types of things, you know…”
Through his fingers, Zim shot him a glare; he hated when Dib did this whole couple's therapist act and Dib immediately shut his mouth. Zim sighed again, looking miserable. One of his hands left his face to lay atop Dib’s. Without his gloves, the joints in his fingers were prominent, strange; he did not have nails, simply hardened, frightening claw-fingers which, if he were not careful with, left deep scratches. Usually, he wasn’t careful. “I try to be careful, for your sake…”
Zim looked at him, that misery still there. For your sake. Dib watched him try to formulate an angry response to that, and fail, utterly. His glare had lost all of its edges. Generally, this was as vulnerable as Zim would allow himself to be; a look, a glance, perhaps a few words which, if one peered between the lines, might be read as an utter confession of something. But usually not.
Dib knew his existence justified Zim’s own, was seemingly all that justified Zim’s own. And while that was wildly unhealthy, he’d yet to get Zim to understand his loyalties, his very meaning did not have to tie someone or something else. Irken’s, however, were bred to be sacrificial. Highly prideful, and arrogantly self-preserving in some moments; painfully flippant for their own lives in others. Without an empire to slave for, without a mission to work towards, Zim was left unsure.
Zim stared a second longer at him, then glanced down at a spot at Dib’s neck. His other hand, still against his face, reached out. It found Dib’s collarbone, painfully soft, and held there as if he were searching for a pulse.
“Your horrible body is like glass,” he said, finally, avoiding Dib’s eyes. “Zim could break you, like that, if I wanted to. I hate it.”
Dib smiled, shrugging. “Do you want to?” Zim’s frown set deeper.
“If I must choose that the Dib-thing is hurt, it’s better by my hand.”
“That so,”
“It is,”
“Well, next time I’ll try to let it happen that way,”
Zim’s eyes narrowed, “I tried to find the Irken who did it. I couldn’t. But when I do, Zim shall tear their spine from their putrid mouth.”
“He’s your own species…”
“He blew up your arm,”
“I’m alive, though,”
“You wish for mercy for the Irken who tried to kill you?” Zim asked, testing.
“N-not necessarily, but…” he trailed off. Zim’s pertinence for violence, while similar to Dib’s own, had an aggressiveness to it that always set him on edge.
Zim clicked his tongue. “ I am not a coward. Zim can kill anyone if I wish it. I shall find him and present you his skull, as per the rules of courting,”
“We’re way past courting now, Zim,” Dib chuckled softly. He wasn’t twelve anymore and an Irken skull would just gross him out.
Zim squinted at him, “Nonsense! Zim is not finished courting the Dib-human. You’ve seen nothing yet.” He drew closer in, snuggled close against Dib’s chest. Much of the tension had come off him now, as he draped arms around Dib’s waist. “Now silence. If I must submit to your pathetic limitations of sleep, I want to get it over with.”
Dib placed a hand on the back of his head, drawing him closer. When Zim slept, he often made a soft, cat-like pur in the back of his throat. Dib would never mention it out of fear Zim would stop sleeping with him, but God was it cute.
“You need to quit avoiding this whole sleeping issue, Zim… You’re gonna pass out behind the wheel of a ship one day and crash…” But the Irken only grumbled for him to shut up. Dib sighed. Pressed a soft kiss to his forehead and waited for the inevitable dim of his PAK as he fell asleep, the way his breathing slowed, and his shoulders, forever squared and tense like the soldier he was, loosened and fell limp. It was a little disarming to see Zim asleep. He was always so on edge. Even at their best moments, all it took was the wrong phrase, a loud enough noise to make him straighten. He supposed one-hundred-plus years of training, brainwashing, and plenty else would take near a lifetime to correct. He made an effort on the battlefield to ensure he was around to see Zim through it.