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"Hey," Dib mumbles, shifting just enough to let Zim wriggle into the bed with him, covers already warmed with the human's heat.
The bed smells just as the room itself does, only stronger: uncleaned for months on end, caked in the scent of human and dust and blood and sweat and Dib. As it turns out, Zim doesn't mind most (any) of those things when they're Dib's fault. Familiarity borne from contempt, Zim reasons.
Zim doesn't offer a greeting of his own, but he makes a small hum in response. He tucks his head against Dib's shoulder.
From personal experience, Zim knows his antennae tickle, yet Dib never seems to care. It may have something to do with the thick strips of scar tissue that cover Dib's arms and legs, but Zim is convinced that it's just an intrinsic trait of Dib himself. Today is no exception; Dib throws the arm Zim was using as a pillow around him instead, then the other, dragging Zim halfway on top of him and letting Zim press into his far less scarred chest without any complaints.
He's not wearing a shirt, which is uncommon. Dib doesn't like being uncovered, particularly around other people. He is uncomfortable with his appearance.
…why does Zim know that?
"Y'u okay?" From the slurred note in his voice, it's obvious that Dib was asleep before Zim arrived in his room, or close to it. Still, he doesn't show any inclination to reclaim unconsciousness. Far from it, Dib reaches over and fumbles around for his glasses, shoving them onto his face in preparation for a longer conversation.
Zim makes another wordless noise, not keen on answering. Dib makes one back.
"Your arms are sticky," Zim says aloud, just now realizing it. Warm and relatively large compared to his own frame, but sticky.
Dib winces. He goes to pull away, but Zim growls and digs his claws into Dib's hips to dissuade him from that course of action. Dib could shove him away easily; he sighs and says, "Yeah, sorry," instead.
"What reason did you have this time?" Zim asks. Without looking, Zim knows there is lines of red stained across his back, maybe his PAK too. He doesn't mind. Even if he hadn't experienced being covered in the Dib's blood on multiple occasions, Zim has long since become accustomed to Dib's habits, as well as the scent of iron and antiseptic. Not everyone is privileged enough to have a PAK to sanitize their self-inflicted wounds, and his Dib did not make the cut.
Heh. Make the cut. Zim is hilarious.
"A stupid one. Why are you here?" Dib counters, and silence ensnares them both.
The night is quiet, peaceful. For all Zim knows, they are the only two beings in this human dwelling (as is often true), but all that truly matters to him is that they are the only two in this room, in this bed. That Dib is here and warm against Zim, and moreover, chooses to be here. There's nothing stopping Dib from instigating a fight besides himself. Sometimes, Zim can't reconcile that fact with the rest of his life, every lived experience that involved someone besides Dib eventually ending in disaster. Is it only a matter of time? Is Dib the exception or another perpetrator of the rule? Why?
Dwelling on these questions makes Zim's fingers itch for a blade; better not to think about them at all.
Dib's arms slide down, gentle against Zim's ribs and hips. Zim swallows down his instinctive response, which is to shriek indignantly at being felt up, because he knows what Dib is doing and it's often better to get it over with. It's certainly easier than answering such a question.
And as expected, Dib's roaming hands stop when they press into Zim's thighs, feeling for the grooves they both know are there. Zim hisses in slight displeasure.
It doesn't hurt, not much. Zim's PAK sees to his health, and it does a damn good job no matter how deep Zim manages to slice his skin open on a day-to-day basis. Perhaps too good, Zim admits to himself. The experience of having his skin heal around his leggings isn't one he's ever inclined to repeat.
A fact Dib knows, unfortunately. The human pinches a bit of the fabric between his index and thumb, lets it snap back against Zim's thigh. "You gonna take these off?"
It's a question, but Dib says it with all the grace of a demand. Zim bristles. "I was getting to it."
"Sureee you were," Dib drawls. The sleepy tone in his voice is vanishing fast, barely audible now.
Dib loosens his hold just enough to allow Zim to wriggle out of his boots and pants, fingers still tracing absent patterns along Zim's hips. When it seems like he might be in the way, Dib starts tracing upwards, under Zim's dress, like he's trying to commit each tactile sensation to memory. It leaves a hollowed out space in Zim's throat, an emotion somewhere between comfort and hunger.
Initially, Zim assumed Dib would get bored with the touches eventually. Dib's not known for his patience. Or his non-judgemental demeanor. And yet, this isn't the first time Dib has traced this exact same route, and Dib looks nowhere near wanting it to be the last.
No, he looks fascinated, even through his minor sleep-haze. He always does.
Zim looks away.
He kicks his leggings away somewhere under the blankets, to be recovered with great difficulty in the morning. If they're recovered at all. Multiple clothing items have met their end here in the maze of trash piles that is Dib's room, although Zim is somewhat suspicious that Dib is stealing them to research their material composition.
Dib's still watching him when he looks back up, unabashedly examining every exposed part of Zim's body, cuts included. The blankets have fallen into disarray, so Zim tugs them back around himself to hide within, pretending not to know that Dib already has full sketches and photos of his anatomy hidden around this room. Besides, it also has the nice side effect of stealing Dib's portion of the blanket.
"Talk about it?" Dib asks.
"Absolutely not, since there is nothing to talk about. And, if there were, you should go first, Dib-blood," Zim hisses, finally growing impatient enough to slap Dib's fingers away. They retreat, but Zim's head falls back against Dib's torso as if caught by an infernal, infuriating gravity, so it's a moot point.
His sides burn where Dib was touching. Nothing like the burn of the cuts on his thighs as they press against the mattress and blankets, no, more of a heated thrill that seeps all the way to his spooch. It's baffling. Also, annoying.
This not-favor needs to be returned, Zim decides. He reaches for Dib's arm, rest of his body remaining still in the process.
"You're so weird, man," Dib mumbles, but he shivers pleasantly when Zim's clawed fingers trace over an open cut. "And why the hell should I go first?"
Zim sniffs. Or pretends to. He doesn't have a nose, but he likes the look of the gesture on GIR's television programs, refined (relative to humanity) Victorian-era humans turning up their noses at the peasantry. "It's only polite," Zim says to him, "as Zim is your honored guest."
The word 'your' sends yet another enjoyable jolt through Zim. He pushes that sensation to the back of his PAK brain and tells it to delete the memory.
Three different error messages pop up in his peripheral vision. Zim frowns, dismissing all of them with a slight twitch of his head. Whatever. It's the thought that counts.
"More of an in-" Dib cuts off abruptly. "Uh. You're nobody's honored anything, space boy."
"Were you about to say invader?" Zim asks, gleeful. He sits up, forearms braced on Dib's stomach. The human is avoiding eye contact.
Too fast, Dib says, "No."
"You're lying. The Dib is lying. Liar." Zim pokes Dib's nose to emphasize the accusation. Dib bats him away, but he's grinning too.
"Nuh-uh! Lots of things start with in. Intruder. Invasive species. Um… inchworm."
Zim cackles. It's too loud- if anyone else was asleep in the house they certainly aren't anymore- yet Dib just continues to smile at him, a tiny quirk of his lips.
Lies are not supposed to be reassuring. But these are, they are, they are. Dib thinks he's an invader, a real one, slip of the tongue or not. From past experience alone, Zim knows that Dib thinks Zim is dangerous and cunning and worth the time and energy and sometimes abject humiliation it takes to fight him.
The way Dib acts around him makes Zim feel perfect. Seen. Wanted, for once in his life. It makes the cuts stinging across his skin feel wonderfully pointless.
(There is a name for this feeling, and Zim damn sure refuses to be the one to point it out.)
"…I don't want to talk about it," Dib admits, after a long moment.
Zim drums his claws along Dib's collarbone, earning himself another shiver. "Zim does not either."
"Okay." Dib sounds unbearably relieved. As if Zim has the power to make him do anything he didn't want to. He never has; not for lack of trying.
It used to feel stifling, to have one person Zim couldn't just eliminate when the urge struck him, but now, Zim just feels relieved that 'things Dib wants to do' seemingly includes spending time with Zim, even when they're not fighting. He's the first, by a long shot, and Zim finds the concept to be as addicting as blood running down his leg.
Dib closes his eyes. Zim watches for a few seconds, just to check, but Dib doesn't stir. This display of trust is just as strange as every other time. Letting your enemy into your room is one thing, falling asleep around each other is another entirely.
Zim reaches out to take Dib's glasses. Dib opens one bleary eye at him, closes it. Zim folds the frames and sets them on the nightstand before snuggling into Dib once more. He really is warmer than any mattress, even the ones Zim's fruitlessly tried to fabricate.
Automatically, Dib's arms come up around him, settling around the small of his back. Doubly warm. A tiny chirp escapes Zim's throat.
Dib laughs, soft and rumbling into Zim's skull. "That's still kinda cute. Think I could get you to do it again?"
"No, it's not." Zim's voice is muffled, but he doesn't turn his head. "And no. Shut your horrible Dib mouth and go to sleep."
Zim knows how this works; they're both still riding the endorphin high. It brings happiness to the forefront, a false sensation of comfort. The science behind it is clear.
And yet… it never feels as good as it does when Dib is with him.
They'll be enemies again tomorrow. These nights are a break in the norm, and Zim is happy to never acknowledge their existence outside the cover of darkness.
"Liar," Dib says, half-affectionate.
Zim smiles into his skin, and wonders if Dib can feel it.