(A/N: More Zimfics. Kinda fluffly, kinda not. Decide when you get there, and PLEASE review! I take down all fics that aren't reviewed in a week... so keep this one alive!)
To Win
Tenebrus
It reached the point where just to win was enough. Win once, win completely.
He felt it when an elevator broke. That was after the final transmission, but he never spoke of that. That was the first time. He could not get the toilet to flush, and he curled into a ball in the corner, emitting dry heaves as GIR fooled around with the computer. He grew silent when the little malfunction finally fixed the other one. His one saving grace was that he had never actually asked for help.
When the Dib-human pulled off his wig in class, four days later, no one noticed. He claimed premature balding and took his wig back, while no one listened to the whispered excuse. Dib sat in his desk on the other side of the room after that, and Zim could feel his chest expanding into his throat.
Food, supplies, and garbage started piling around the base by the second week. He noticed, but could not find the energy nor the desire to remedy the situation. Instead, it put everything in little piles and left them there, across the room like satellites. Or meteors.
By the following Thursday, he had stopped trying to contact the Tallests completely.
On Saturday, he realized that he had begun to use the Earth names for the passage of time. He lay in his corner, obscured now by a gargantuan pile of McMeaty's wrappers. He decided then to make a difference, to touch something, but could not move to throw away the trash.
It was never that simple for him. He found the Dib in his base the next day. They looked at each other. Your eyes are red, said Dib, and Zim replied, you've seen them before. This is the first time I've noticed, said Dib. Zim let him go out of spite. He felt a little better, and tried to breathe deeply. He got about two seconds in before coughing.
When Dib came to the base again, Zim tied him to the examination table and ripped off the human's clothing with his spindly, retractable arms. Some of Dib's liquid spilled on him, and it was then that Zim realized that tears were a very effective defense against the Irken Elite.
The next day, Zim was still nursing the burns when his nemesis came to the door. He didn't sneak in because Zim had torn his stealth outfit and the others were in the wash. He asked what the relationship was between them, and then he put up a good fight when Zim punched him and tried to force him out the door.
Every connected blow, skin on skin, felt perfect. It was only when Dib's blood began to scald him that Zim realized that it was in his best interest to keep the human intact. GIR brought them ice packs as they lay on opposite sides of the couch, neither finding the energy to turn off the Angry Monkey Show.
Dib didn't go home that night. Zim wondered why he didn't feel vindicated as he watched the other boy sleep in shackles.
The toilet malfunctioned again, and Dib offered a plunger before realizing that it wasn't actually a toilet after all. After they screamed at each other about the intricacies of the elevators, Dib began to walk out, and Zim captured him, resting a cheek on his back, and his arms – all of them – snaking around the human's too-thin waist.
When Dib stopped trying to walk out, Zim realized that he was getting somewhere.