Every evening at eight-o-clock, Dib Membrane woke up.
He'd spend an hour or so lazing around afterwards, working on his laptop, before getting dressed at around nine and heading downstairs. Same outfit every day; trench coat, t-shirt, and black dress pants.
Next he'd step outside to check if anyone had dropped off a package that day. Deliveries really only came about once a month, but since he didn't keep any calendars in the house he had to check every day anyway.
After that, he'd read for a while, cycling through any one of the thick mythology books that his library was filled with. He'd already memorized most of the facts they contained, but he loved rereading his favorite volumes.
He'd eat around midnight, then work on one of his various projects. Next he changed into his pajamas and dumped his clothes in the washing machine. To wrap up the night he'd watch an episode of Mysterious Mysteries, the ones he had on box set. It always made him nostalgic for the old days, but since he went to sleep right afterward it was a safe kind of nostalgia.
Dib had learned that the best way to keep from going insane was to have a routine. When you had as much free time as he did, you tended to realize that sometimes it wasn't doing too much that destroyed you, it was the absence of doing. Sitting still for hours upon hours, days upon days, until your life turned into a greasy smear of elastic sameness that threatened to drive you over the edge, thoughts turning in vicious circles that ripped apart the mind they were housed in.
He'd almost fallen into that trap once, a long time ago. He'd promised himself that it would never, ever happen again.
So now he'd filled up his life with routine, a structured block tower of safe activities to keep him from totally loosing it.
It worked pretty well until someone fell out of the sky and crashed into his life, sending the blocks tumbling.
LINE BREAK
The thing about cockpits was that, almost universally, they were filled with a lot of blinky lights that told you stuff about what was going on with the rest of the vehicle. The only notable exception to this rule were the transports of a small colony on the sixth moon of Halabash, but considering that their species had evolved without eyes nobody really counted them.
Astoundingly, the lights all meant roughly the same things, from Irken voot cruisers to the vast transport ships used by Foodcourtia. If they lazily blinked on and off in a calm fashion, you knew that all was well. If they blinked slightly faster, like irritated fireflies, you knew it was time to bring it down a few warp factors and take it easy pulling u-ies around planets. Most ships didn't survive the next stage, which was the 'lights going off like mad and if you didn't park for repairs right now you're going to die a fiery and burning death' mode.
There was, in fact, one more stage that had only occurred once in both recorded and unrecorded history. Every light on the entire ship, within the cockpit or no, had turned a brilliant, garish red, bathing the pilot's seat in a crimson glow. It might have been pretty, except for the fact that the serene quiet of outer space was now not so quiet anymore. It was punctuated by the wailing of alarms and the sound of buttons being slammed far too harshly on the console.
"Flirk!" Zim growled as he raced back and forth between the two sides of the cockpit, fingers flashing as he deftly manipulated the controls. Ideally there should've been two people piloting the ship, but he'd been reckless– as usual– and decided to head out without waiting for a copilot.
It was something he'd done hundreds of times before with no consequences whatsoever, to the point that the docking captains at either end of his route had completely given up lecturing him on how unsafe it was. Every time he'd stumble down the gangplank, completely alone and slightly dizzy, they'd just shake their heads and go pull the meteorite chunks out of the hull of his ship. Without asking first, of course, because given the choice he'd always opt to head out again without bothering about repairs. He loved to travel through deep space, and could never wait to be back behind the wheel again.
He was regretting it now, though. Holy flirk, was he ever regretting it now.
"You stray a little to close to an astroid belt, and just look what happens," Zim gritted out, almost completely unconsciously. His entire being was focused on keeping his craft from exploding, and considering that Irken ships were more or less fuel tanks with seats strapped on that was a monumental task in and of itself.
With his mind in a hundred different places all at once, Zim scarcely had time to notice that his craft was slowly being dragged in by the gravity of a nearby planet. In fact, he would have remained blissfully unaware of that fact had not an extremely loud warning popped up on the damaged hollo-projector.
The flickering image just barely managed to display a stocky, female Irken in soldier uniform. She looked Very Serious, just like the warning readers usually did, but Zim didn't take much note of that as he frantically waved a hand through the spray of light like he was trying to dissipate a cloud of steam. The warning, although probably at least somewhat important, was blocking the scrolling readout of exactly how his ship was malfunctioning, and without that information Zim had about as much idea what to do as a food drone knew about invading.
"Irken pilot," the soldier began, and Zim gave up waving and started yelling instead. He knew that there was no way the hologram would hear him– the message was one of a million proximity-triggered pre-recorded messages that the Tallest programed into every Voot. However, that knowledge didn't deter him in the slightest.
"Whatever the flirk it is, it can't possibly be more important than–"
"You are dangerously close to a planet that's been red-zoned," The hologram continued, "Quarantined by the intergalactic counsel for a level fifteen disease. Travel onto or off of the planet is completely forbidden, and unless you change your course within the next few minutes you will be in violation of that ruling. Please note that such a transgression is punishable by the death penalty and–" There was a pause as the Irken female turned slightly to the side, as if she was being given instructions by some unseen speaker. She sighed heavily, then hitched her features into an unenthusiastic smile. "Please have a nice day."
The department had been trying to make their warnings a little friendlier. At the time it had been amusing, but now, as Zim sat growling in a cockpit full of flashing lights, it was the most annoying thing that could ever have been conceived.
The hologram fizzled out.
The cracked screen behind it had stopped displaying a ship diagnostic, and now simply read the Irken symbol for six. Zim puzzled over that for a moment, wondering what it could possibly mean.
Then the glowing red symbol changed to a five, and Zim had just enough time for every thought in his head to turn into a streamlined blur of expletives before the countdown reached zero.
This cannot be good, Zim thought, and it turned out he was right.
The explosion was soundless in the vacuum of space, but from the planet below the light show was spectacular. The global scientific community, or what was left of it, was abuzz for weeks about what could have caused the strange phenomenon.
The alien theory was brushed under the rug, as usual.
Zim, however, didn't know any of that. All he knew was a nightmare world of sheer pain, and then. . .
. . .blackness.
LINE BREAK
Dib rolled over in bed, stretching out and hearing bones snap back into place. He'd been up for forty-five minutes now, and he'd already finished typing up his newest computer program. He hadn't tested it yet, but that was what tomorrow was for, wasn't it?
If there was anything he had in an endless supply, it was tomorrows.
He shut his laptop with a smooth clack and sat up, feet swinging out from under the covers. Cool air rushed to beat back the warmth he'd just been settled in, and he shivered before carefully planting his bare feet on the polished floorboards. He stood, brushing the covers aside, and wandered over to his closet.
Trench coat.
T-shirt.
Black dress pants.
It wasn't like anyone was going to argue with him about his fashion choices, now was it?
Dib dropped his pajamas to the floor with a whumph and didn't bother making his bed– he'd just get right back in it after the night was over, so what was the point? With a heavy sigh, he padded through the doorway and swept down the stairs, trench coat flaring out behind him.
The house was lit up with moonlight, casting the woodwork in silver and painting the shadows like elegant black knots. Maybe that was a pretentious way of putting it, but everything about this mansion was pretentious, from the gaudy, overly complicated staircases to the elegant furniture you wanted to apologize for sitting in. Dib never though of the place as his, not really, but rather as a place he had colonized, tamed. His room was one of his sanctuaries of function, as well as the corner of the living room he'd populated with a ratty but comfortable couch and a thrown-together entertainment system. None of the pieces and parts were from the same manufacturer, but that was okay. It worked, and that was all that mattered.
First thing was first, check outside for deliveries. He wasn't expecting one, since the last drop-off had only been about a week ago, but it would be a good idea to check outside anyway and ohholyGog.
Dib was reasonably certain that there hadn't been a crater in his yard the night before, and by 'reasonably certain' he meant what on earth happened out here while I was asleep because this was not here before!
He took a cautious step outside– it wouldn't be the first time someone had tried to burn the mansion down, and the charred ring around the crater spoke an awful lot like fire to him. After a moment, though, he recognized the glint of metal embedded deep in the hole, and his caution turned to curiosity, then excitement.
He jogged to the edge of the crater, a grin starting to spread over his face. No way. This couldn't possibly be a. . . in his yard? A UFO, in his yard?
What were the chances of that?
As he knelt at the edge of the crater, his hopes were confirmed. The twisted form of some sort of starcraft lay crumpled tight against the ground, engine and cockpit damaged but not beyond recognition. The sleek outline was black with soot in places, but he could still make out some sort of alien symbol stamped on the side of the clear bubble that was the cockpit.
He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from squealing. He'd known– this whole time, he'd known they weren't alone. He'd known that there was life out there, and this. . . this was proof!
His smile slipped slightly as he realized that there was nobody around for him to share the discovery with, but his mood was only dampened for the briefest of moments before he shook it off. Maybe he couldn't share it now, but someday. . .
Dib stopped. He took a deep breath in, trying to catch and identify the slightest hint of something else that was hidden under the thick scent of fire and metal.
Something. . . different.
Something sweet.
Something very, very sweet.
Dib clapped a hand over his nose, standing abruptly. Now that he'd smelled it the scent was cloying, overpowering his senses until he wondered how he'd missed it in the first place. It wasn't quite right, and it smelled almost too sweet, but he knew exactly what it was.
Blood.
Blood and– if he wasn't mistaken– the sound of ragged, uneven breathing.
The pilot of the ship was still alive.
Dib didn't waste any time, just slid down into the crater. He fought to slow his decent, digging his heels into the harshly sloped ground and catching at the surface with the fingers of one hand. His feet hit the packed dirt next to the craft far sooner than he'd hoped, and his knees gave out from under him. He landed, awkward and painful, and spent a moment crouched there before straightening up.
He could see the pilot of the craft from where he was standing now, and some part of him– something buried deep in his psyche– recoiled in a sympathetic wince of pain. The glass– or maybe plastic, he couldn't tell– bubble that made up the front of the cockpit had shielded him. . . her. . . it from a lot of the damage, but even so, what he could see of the figure was battered and bruised and– yes– bleeding from a thousand scratches.
It had probably broken bones, assuming that it had any to break in the first place. The only thing good about its current situation was that it was too busy being passed out to feel any of the immense pain it would probably have been in otherwise.
But the sympathetic part of him was taking a backseat to the curious part. First and most interesting was the fact that the pilot– the alien– was green.
Really, actually, freakin' green. As in stereotypical-old-horror-movie-alien green. It wasn't that the color was an impossible one, it was just that. . . well. . . the possibility of it was so overly referenced that Dib had never considered that it might actually be true.
Dark green blood stained the dirt, sticky and sweet. It was a perfect contrast to the normal color, crimson, but Dib found himself tempted by it anyway. If he'd had any sense, he'd have gone back to the house right that instant and gotten a handle on the craving.
Instead, he slid his hands under the alien's arms and started to pull it free of the wreckage. As he did so he started to notice the other things, the things he'd missed initially that were buried in the rubble, things like antennae and gloves and a dark red tunic. But all that was hidden behind the shock of the creature's face.
It looked so human. Sure, the skin itself was green, and the nose was prominently and obviously missing, but its expression. . . the way the eyes scrunched up in pain and the way the mouth twisted subconsciously at every unintentional bump. . .
Dib swallowed hard and looked away. He was probably just reading into this way too much, after all, it was human nature to project your own emotions onto everything around you.
But Dib was still careful not to jostle the alien any more than he had to as he dragged it, slowly, back to the mansion. He rationalized to himself that it was pointless to damage the creature any further, and therefore his actions were ones of logic rather than baseless emotion.
With that cleared up he focused instead on the monumentous task of not thinking. Namely, not thinking about the sticky green blood starting to saturate the sleeves of his trench coat, or the fact that the alien's head was lolling very invitingly to the side, leaving its throat completely exposed. Nope, he wasn't thinking about that, nor was he thinking about the steady heartbeat that was teasing at the edges of his hearing, not the right rhythm in the slightest but still definitely there. Also he wasn't thinking about the sweet smell that was basically suffocating him, or the fact that the alien was unconscious and, therefore, completely helpless.
It was a really good thing he wasn't thinking about all that, wasn't it?
Around that point in time Dib became aware that he was talking aloud to himself in what could be construed as a strange and unnatural manner, and that he should really stop doing that as well.
He tried to think instead only of what he was doing at the moment. Opening the door. Dragging the alien inside the house. Closing the door. Dragging the alien up the flight of stairs, pausing twice on the way– Jegus, either it weighed a thousand pounds or Dib was just a lot weaker than he'd thought. The latter was probably more likely, what with. . . crap, Dib couldn't remember the last time he'd lifted something heavier than a laptop, and he'd never exactly been decent in gym anyway, not even after–
He was. . . talking to himself again. Swell.
Right, up the stairs, into one of the guest rooms, get the alien on the bed. Simple. What was not so simple was trying to figure out what the heck he was supposed to do now.
The alien was still bleeding, but Dib didn't know what the crap he was supposed to do about that. Bandage up the cuts, sure, but he'd probably have to remove various articles of clothing to do so and he knew precisely zip about this alien's anatomy, much less the 'privacy policy' of whatever race it came from. That could get awkward, especially if the alien turned out to be a girl, which would just be typical of his luck.
Then there was the fact that, once he'd gotten the alien onto the covers, he'd noticed a metal half-sphere wired directly into its back. That meant it couldn't lie down flat, but if Dib flipped it over it would probably suffocate as its own weight pressed it down into the pillows.
Crap, did it even breathe air? Maybe it was suffocating already, maybe the atmosphere was toxic to it, maybe this thing was supposed to be breathing completely different chemicals than the makeup of the earth's atmosphere. That would be fan-friggin-tastic, to have this thing die because of something Dib had no control over.
Oh, Gog, what if–
"Stop it. Stop panicking right now Dib Membrane, or so help you Gog you're going to have to smack yourself."
Dib groaned, running a hand through his hair. So he was back to talking to himself. Fun. He supposed it was to be expected after living so long in isolation, but it was still a ridiculously annoying habit to be developing.
Come to think of it, he'd been talking to himself a lot more in the past few months– maybe he was finally starting to loose it. Maybe this alien was just a hallucination.
Dib shook his head. No, hallucinations didn't– couldn't– possibly smell this sweet.
So, he was back to square A, bandaging the wounds up before he went completely out of his mind.
In the end, he just left the alien's clothes on and wrapped a few layers of gauze over each of the cuts, of which there were a lot. He decided against trying to clean them out, mainly because he had no idea what chemicals were harmful to the alien. Antiseptics stung a bit to humans, sure, but for all he knew they'd melt this thing. Unfortunately, if something did get infected, he was pretty much screwed, since he'd have no clue how to treat the infection or, for that matter, what signs there would even be of an infection in the first place.
Eventually, though, every abrasion and laceration had been wrapped up, and although Dib knew the alien probably needed a lot more medical attention he couldn't do anything more on the base knowledge that he had, which was precisely squat. Also, he was starting to get seriously lightheaded, and if he didn't get out of the room pronto he just knew he was going to do something he'd regret later.
He took one last glance at the alien before he left, and still couldn't quite shake that feeling of something human buried under the green skin.
Well, he had known it was sentient, right? How else could the species have built spaceships?
Thinking that over, he swept down the stairs into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of. . . something he'd rather not think about, to be honest. . . and popped it in the microwave. His fingers left sticky green smudges on the glass, and as the microwave hummed to life Dib gave the green streaks on his hands a contemplative look.
It wasn't like it would matter now if he tasted some, right? The alien was as patched up as it was going to get, and since the liquid had already left its body there was no real reason that Dib couldn't try some. He'd just wind up washing it off anyway, and besides, it smelled really good and umphuguuuh. . .
Dib groaned, running his tongue over the tacky emerald. It wasn't warm anymore, and it was definitely starting to clot, but holy mother of Gog, this was amazing. It was like someone had melted down sugar and decided to inject it straight into someone's bloodstream.
He was suddenly very glad that the alien wasn't in the room with him. It was all he could do to keep himself downstairs, actually, and when the microwave finally beeped at him his hands were shaking as he pulled the now-steaming glass out.
The. . . okay, he'd think it, blood almost tasted bitter now in comparison. Gog, he hated this. Hated that it actually felt nice to be drinking this. Hated the way his thoughts started to clear the second he started swallowing. Hated the fact that he was reaching to fill a second glass after those same thoughts started to turn once more to the unconscious alien upstairs.
Dib Membrane was not a happy vampire.
LINE BREAK
"Are you. . . sure?"
Tallest Red had never sounded so unsettled in all the time Purple had known him. Sure, there were the moments when the two of them had to make the really tough decisions, the decisions where hundreds of lives hung in the balance, and when making the wrong decision could cause the extinction of their race. Those were the moments when Red's voice would start to crack a little around the edges, and Purple knew he had to do his very best to rip the gravity away from the situation.
But that was okay. That was why they were the Tallest, because between the two of them they could make the important decisions, they could make everything work out, if not perfectly, then at least alright.
This was different. This was a new kind of unsettled. And Purple didn't quite know what to do about it, especially what with him feeling so unsettled himself.
The information drone was nodding, saying something else, but all Purple could hear was white noise. It just couldn't be right. Zim, the Zim, the one who was stubborn and childish and clung to the title of 'Invader' despite the fact that there had been no active invasions for a hundred years at least. . . he couldn't be dead. It just wasn't possible.
It wasn't that the two of them had liked Zim– quite the opposite, in fact. They'd hated the other Irken with a fiery passion usually reserved for mass murders and people who drove too slow in the fast lane. But the thing about Zim was that he was a survivor. You could toss him into a sun and he wouldn't burn for an instant. There was no way that he'd been offed by something as simple as an explosion.
Purple sat down heavily on one of the hover-chairs. He felt like a rug had been pulled out from under his feet, only there had been no floor underneath the rug and now he was pinwheeling through the empty space that used to be filled with his loathing for Zim.
He was pretty sure this had to be a sign of the apocalypse. The skies burn, seas boil, and Zim actually respects the laws of probability and physics.
He caught the tail end of the drone's final sentence and looked up. ". . .wanted you to have this," he was saying, holding out an odd-looking SIR. It had been switched to the power-save-mode, bright red eyes dulled down to gray, and as Purple watched Red accept the 'present' he tried to sort through why it looked so familiar.
Red dismissed the drone with a wave of his hand and, as soon the doors had shut behind him, collapsed next to Purple.
"I feel like. . ." He began, then trailed off.
Purple blew out a sigh. "I know."
One of Red's fingers tapped a rhythmic tattoo against the power-on button, and after another moment of mutual silence he pressed it.
And it was silent no more.
"Helooooooooo big heads!" The robot shrieked happily, voice oscillating between auto-tune pitches like a pop-star on drugs. "Mastah Zimmeh said Imma stay wif you until he gets back! It's gonna be sooooo fun!"
With that, the tiny metal bot squirmed out of Red's hands and latched onto Purple's head.
Now he remembered. This was the defective bot he and Red had given to Zim! It seemed that, in a final valiant act of sheer unadulterated annoyingness, Zim had given instructions for it to be returned to them after his death.
Whatever sadness he'd been feeling vanished. The hole where his hatred had been filled right back up. The two Tallests, masters of the Irken race and among of the most powerful beings in the galaxy, spent the rest of the day trying to keep the robot away from their snacks and complaining to each other about how annoying Zim was, alive or dead.
They pretended not to know that they could always just switch the bot off, and nobody in their right mind would ever have dared to mention the possibility.
LINE BREAK
The alien on the bed stirred, groaning a little and shifting awkwardly. Its back was still arched far off the bed, curtesy of that strange device wired into its spine, and it wriggled in a way that seemed it was extremely unhappy with the position it had found itself in. Dib wondered briefly if the race had to have holes cut into their beds for it, or if they all were just stomach or side sleepers.
Then the alien's solid red eyes opened slowly, blinked once, twice. . . and looked right at Dib.
"Good. You're awake," Dib said, closing the book he'd been flipping through, and immediately he wanted to smack himself. 'You're awake?' Seriously? He'd always hated it when, in books or movies, someone came suddenly out of a deep sleep and all anyone could think to say was 'Good, you're awake.' He'd specifically told himself an hour ago that he was not going to say something stupid like that, and there he went, saying it anyway. Could there be anything worse to say in a situation like this? Obviously it was awake, that was evident to both of them, and all remarking on it did was make him look like a total creep.
Then again, he'd underestimated the complete lack of other things to say. Maybe that was why characters in movies said it in the first place, because what else was there to mention? Hey, nice weather we're having, not that you'd know having just woken up from a coma. Riiight. . .
The alien slowly levered itself upright, letting out occasional grunt of pain and clamping one gloved hand over the side Dib was almost certain had a few broken ribs. Or. . . whatever the alien had instead of ribs. It took a few deep breaths, glanced at the haphazard bandages, and– suddenly– snapped his head back around to look at Dib once again, eyes narrowing. The alien's lips drew back in a snarl, sharp, uneven teeth bared. Whatever humanity Dib had projected onto this. . . thing, this alien, he'd been wrong. There was nothing here but rage and hatred.
Oh, crap, Dib thought, followed immediately by several stronger words that he would probably never find occasion to repeat.
LINE BREAK
Zim drifted back into consciousness and immediately wished he hadn't. Everything hurt. His head was throbbing, and his entire body felt like he'd been thrown roughly into a landslide and picked out again with a club. Every muscle in his body, even those he'd been wholly unaware of before now, was screaming at him.
There was someone else in the room. Sounds– vaguely word-y sounding ones– slammed into his headache like a hammer, but comprehension was a little beyond him at the moment. His gaze locked on the stranger briefly, taking in the bare minimum– pale off-white skin, dark clothes– and then he focused his efforts on simply sitting up.
No, you don't wanna do that, said his sore muscles, You don't wanna do that especially because you may have broken some–
Zim flinched, hand closing over his side. Ribs. Might be broken. Flirk. Someone had bandaged him up, although they'd done it over his clothes. That was going to hurt like Flirk to fix, and for a few moments he stared dumbly at the clumsy medical work, uncomprehending.
A single clear thought presented itself through the haze of pain that was his current mindset.
Pale off-white skin?
Zim's head snapped back around, and even though he almost whimpered at the pain of it he kept his focus. The person– thing in the room with him was not an Irken. This thing was an alien.
It was an enemy.
Zim growled, baring his teeth, trying to get his feet under him even as his body screamed at him that this was not not not an okay thing to be doing just now. The alien looked startled, hands rising slightly as if in preparation to defend itself. Flirk flirk flirk, he had no idea what this thing even was, its coloration and physical structure were like nothing he'd ever seen before. He didn't even know how he'd gotten here, or what this thing wanted, even.
His arm buckled under him, threatening to give way. Zim just gritted his teeth through the pain. Irkens were a lot tougher than to be felled by something like this.
That was what he told himself, anyway.
"Hey, I'm not gonna hurt you, okay?" the alien said in what was probably meant to be a soothing tone of voice. Zim was crouching now, feet under him and weight pressing on one arm, the other still clutching his side.
"What, you think I'm worried about you hurting me?" he spat, glaring at the alien with all the venom he could manage. Which wasn't especially much, considering that every fiber of his being just wanted to curl up in a little ball and sleep for a year.
The alien hesitated, eyebrows furrowing up, and Zim guessed the nature of its confusion pretty much instantly. "What, surprised as to how I'm speaking your stupid primitive language?"
"Not really. I bet you've got a translator built into that machine of yours. Probably works on more of a mental level, though, so you know what you're saying and I know what you're saying but if we had someone in here who spoke another language they'd understand it too. Pretty simple design, but elegant in conception and. . . uh. . ." The alien trailed off, probably put-off by the look he was getting from Zim.
Right. So he was the captive of a halfway-intelligent species, was that it? Probably going to be experimented on or ohholyflirk.
He was on that planet, wasn't he? Of course he was, because that was just his luck, the explosion had probably flung him straight to the planet's surface and now he'd been taken prisoner and holy Gog this was one of them, wasn't it?
"My, uh. . . my name's Dib," the alien. . . the Dib-alien said, but Zim wasn't paying too much attention to the words. There they were, fitted neatly into Dib's mouth, catching the dim light as it spoke, fangs.
"I. Don't. Care," Zim growled, backing up slowly until his boots hit a wall. Flirk, he was trapped. All he had now were words. "Stay away from my blood, Dib-filth."
The Dib flinched at the words, and Zim was struck with a sudden fear that he'd been bitten while he was asleep. He rocked back on his heels, balancing carefully, and caught at his throat with his now-free hand.
No wounds. Thank the Tallests for small miracles.
"How do you. . . ah. . . know about that?" The Dib asked, almost sheepishly, and Zim wanted to kill it.
"This planet's been under quarantine for years, Dib. How was I not supposed to know?"
Flirk, flirk, this was not good. This was the exact opposite of good. Irkens generally ignored rulings by the Intergalactic Counsel, but this particular quarantine? This was one they were completely prepared to accept. Flirk, they probably would've made their own ruling if the Counsel hadn't beat them to it. For Irkens especially, this planet was dangerous.
Zim didn't know a lot about it except for the bare minimum, the facts that every traveler through this route had to know. This planet had been a relatively peaceful one, only ever warring with its own inhabitants, right up until the sickness came.
The denizens of the planet had turned in on themselves, preying on their own species for sustenance, and when the Irkens had tried to intervene– because what better opportunity for invasion was there?– they'd discovered something that made them abandon the idea entirely.
To put it simply, Irken blood was candy to these freaks.
"Hey, woah, calm down," the Dib was saying, the words spilling out of its mouth in a stumbling rush. "I already said that I'm not going to hurt you, alright? You crash-landed in front of my house, and you were pretty banged up, so I got you in here and patched you up as best I could, okay? That's it. No underlying desire to hurt whatsoever."
Zim wasn't about to let the terrified anger go. It was the only thing keeping him from collapsing back onto the bed and bursting into tears. "What, and this was the best job of bandaging that you could manage? A smeet could do better! An Irken child!"
"I'm sure they could," Dib agreed dryly, seeming nonplussed but also slightly sarcastic. "Especially since they'd have a better idea of your anatomy than I do. I had no idea if the earth method of treating wounds was gonna be toxic to you or not, and I figured it was better to be safe than sorry."
That threw Zim for a loop a bit. It was the last thing he'd been expecting the Dib-alien to say. "I. . . but you. . . your species fought mine off this planet! How could you have no clue about us?"
"Probably because I haven't been in touch with my species for. . . for a very long time."
There was hurt in the Dib's voice, and an uneasy silence settled over the two of them. Zim wasn't sure what exactly he was supposed to do. Apologize? But for what? And anyway, he didn't apologize to anyone, much less an alien and certainly not a stupid-head like this one.
So he just crouched there, unsure and uneasy, afraid to break whatever spell was making the Dib chew his lower lip and stare off into space.
Finally, the Dib broke the silence as gently as possible. "So. . . the human race knows about aliens now, huh?"
"I. . . suppose so. . ." If the 'human race' was the species that populated this planet. Zim wasn't entirely sure, but from the context it would make sense. The Dib went back to thinking for a bit, but just as Zim was about to interrupt it the alien let out a heavy sigh and spoke again.
"Right. Alright then, I guess that means all that's left to do is help you fix your ship and send you on your way."
Fix his ship? The Dib was seriously just going to let him go?
There had to be a catch.
"But let me guess, you're gonna be after my blood the whole time I'm still here, right?"
The words were bitter, and Zim was okay with that. It helped to mask his underlying terror.
"I already said that I'm not going to hurt you!" the Dib snapped, standing abruptly, and Zim realized that he must have inadvertently offended the alien. Strange. This must have been a sensitive subject for it, for some unfathomable reason.
"I was going to help you fix yourself up, but I guess you don't want me anywhere near your blood, right? Fine. The bandages are on the table next to you. Have fun and don't bother me."
And with that the Dib was gone, doors slamming in its wake. Zim sat, shell-shocked, for a moment longer before collapsing back onto the bed with a groan of pain.
That could have gone much better.
On the other hand, it could have gone infinitely worse.
He walked himself through re-bandaging his wounds, motions automatic and fitful. Injuries, now those he could take care of. Irkens tended to get hurt a lot, so none of this was exactly new territory for him, although it still hurt every time he moved and pulling off his boots and tunic was excruciating. When he'd finished he rolled onto his side, one hand resting against his broken ribs, and shut his eyes.
It couldn't hurt to sleep a bit longer, right? His head hurt so badly. . .
In just a few moments, Zim drifted back into unconsciousness.
LINE BREAK
Dib woke up the next evening and immediately felt guilty. His first thoughts were of the exchange between him and the alien the night before– how could they not be? Unfortunately, rather than feeling triumphant at having stuck it to the stuck-up prick, he was starting to realize he'd overreacted.
The alien had obviously been scared of him. That shouldn't have been surprising, practically everything was scared of him, but with the warlike stance and razor teeth he'd kind of assumed that the alien was some sort of predator, unafraid and impossible to intimidate. Then again, from what the alien had said, Dib could assume that its species had fought against vampires at some point or another, and judging by how sweet its blood had tasted he could also draw a pretty good conclusion regarding exactly how that altercation had ended.
Jegus, no wonder it had been scared. No wonder it had been mean. No wonder it had wanted him far, far away from it.
But he still felt the sting of its words. It had had no way of knowing that just the subject of him being a vampire was a sensitive one, but that didn't matter. It still hurt.
But now instead of hurt and angry, he just felt hurt and guilty. It was a much worse combination, one that settled in the pit of his stomach like liquid lead. He was going to have to apologize.
Right after he got something to eat, that was, because he didn't relish the thought of sitting in a room with someone who was still actively leaking blood, especially on an empty stomach. So after a trip down to the kitchen– one he found himself purposefully dragging out– he stood outside the door to the alien's room and, hesitantly, knocked.
There was a thud from within, like someone falling off a bed, followed by a groan of pain and annoyance. A second later the door was opened a crack and Dib found himself staring into the red eyes of the alien.
"Yes? What do you want?" it snarled, and it took everything in him for Dib to back down.
"Nothing I just. . . wanted to apologize. I'm sorry about yesterday, I shouldn't have freaked out on you. I just. . . the whole 'blood-drinking' thing is kind of a sore subject." Sore subject, hah. That was a nice way of putting it. Nice and understatement-y.
The alien didn't reply for a long time, and Dib started to feel uncomfortable. Had he said something wrong?
Finally, the alien ground out, "Zim."
Dib blinked. "What?"
"My name," the alien said, pulling the door open the rest of the way, "Is Zim. Now, where's my ship?"
Dib took that to mean he was forgiven. He got the feeling that. . . Zim. . . was the kind of person who didn't apologize or accept apologies from anyone, at least not to their faces. It was a little like Gaz, in that respect, and crap no don't think about her, think about something else now.
Like maybe the fact that Zim was no longer. . . as dressed as he had been. Normally Dib would have been fascinated and rushing for his notepad, but since apparently aliens were old news now he settled for simply being fascinated.
From the waist up Zim's anatomy seemed to be entirely humanoid, despite the lack of a belly button, although its hands were notably down a finger from the normal human count and tipped with dark green claws. Its skin was completely smooth, save for the scars that crisscrossed the surface of it like pale accents.
The black pants– now that they were no longer tucked into its boots– pooled around its bare ankles, and again the feet were normal, save for the claws and missing toe.
"Do you mind?" Zim asked, sounding annoyed as usual, and Dib's gaze snapped back up to its– although it really looked like a he, so 'his'– face. He could feel his cheeks flushing. Zim's expression was nearly murderous, and its antennae were lowered against its head in what Dib assumed was a slightly threatening posture.
"S-sorry, I've never really seen an. . . Irken before?" Dib stuttered, fumbling over Zim's species. That was the term Zim had used the previous night, and from the subtle half-nod he received Dib assumed he was correct in the name.
"My ship, Dib," Zim repeated, folding his arms over his chest and slouching against the doorframe. Dib wondered if it was a self-conscious action or just a comfortable one.
"It's outside, but. . . it's pretty banged up."
It was a little more than banged up, to be honest, and from Zim's sharp intake of breath when he first lay eyes on it Dib figured it was pretty much kaput.
"This is going to take a long time to fix," Zim muttered, and Dib bit back a tiny smile at his tone. It was almost adorable how the fierce alien was reduced to growling obscenities under his breath.
"You can take as much time as you need," Dib responded, the offer of a place to stay buried in his words, and he knew from the relieved grin Zim didn't quite hide that the alien was going to be taking him up on it.
LINE BREAK
Dib Membrane had a new schedule now. Get up, get dressed, eat breakfast, watch Zim work. They'd dragged the ship– a 'voot cruiser,' Zim called it– into Dib's garage, and there was something almost charming about seeing the alien bustle around, covered in oil and grit but still, somehow, content. Sometimes he'd help out– as much as he was able to, anyway– but most of the time he just grabbed a book and half-read-half-watched as the hours slowly ticked by.
In the beginning, Zim had been uneasy in his presence, twitchy and awkward. Gradually though, he'd warmed up to him, almost coming to expect Dib's presence as a given.
Dib would practically have to drag the Irken away from the voot when it was time for dinner– Dib wouldn't eat it, but apparently Zim mostly subsisted on sugar and carbs. Anything else was toxic to him.
So Dib got pretty good at baking cookies, despite being unable to eat them himself. If Gaz had been there, he'd have had to endure so many jokes about what a 'good housewife' he was. Luckily, Zim didn't know enough to be able to needle him about it, which was good because otherwise the Irken would have teased him mercilessly.
Then they'd both wander up onto the roof to stargaze before dawn started to light up the sky. At first it had been in a comfortable silence, but occasionally they'd strike up a conversation with each other to fill up the air.
Like they were doing now, for example.
"So how come you like stargazing with me? Does it remind you of your home planet?" Dib asked. He didn't look over at Zim, just stayed sprawled out on the roof with his hands behind his head.
"Not really, no. I mean, the constellations are completely different here, so it wouldn't matter."
"But it reminds you of something, right?"
There was a lengthy pause, then a sigh. "Yeah. I never actually spent much time on Irk, but I really loved to fly around. Running messages or transporting things, mostly, but I just wanted an excuse to be out in space."
"Huh. Cool."
And that was all he really needed to say.
LINE BREAK
Black oil on green skin. A clawed hand reaching to wipe it off, then stretching out to grab for something.
"Wrench."
The metal handle slapped into the green palm.
Life continued.
LINE BREAK
"Dib?"
"Yeah?"
"How come there're no calendars in the house?"
"It's a long story."
". . .alright."
LINE BREAK
A failed attempt at frosting cookies. There's green-tinted sugar everywhere, all over the kitchen, and especially all over the bewildered vampire standing in the middle of it all.
Someone laughs, swipes a glob of the icing off the vampire's cheek, licks at it with a purple tongue.
"Only you could make a confectionary explode, Dib-stink."
". . .shut up."
LINE BREAK
Tiny snapshots. Little moments that were soon forgotten, but that all built up to make new ones.
Much like the one that was happening now.
Dib groaned, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from slamming his fist into the nearest wall. It had finally happened. Maybe it had been inevitable, or maybe he could have prevented it with a little foresight, but it was happening now either way and there was nothing he could do to change that.
He had run out of blood.
He hadn't thought that it could happen, not with the monthly deliveries that arrived like clockwork. Every month he got a new supply of blood bags, although he didn't know who brought them, and in the past there had always been several extras by the time the next delivery was made.
But having Zim around had changed things– Dib had started to drink more, to combat the temptation the Irken's blood held for him. And it had worked pretty well, right up until two days ago when Dib had run completely out.
He'd been getting through his routine by the skin of his teeth, trying to keep as relatively far away from Zim as he could. If the Irken noticed he gave no sign, and Dib had felt relieved and increasingly lightheaded as the days passed slowly by.
But this evening he'd woken up and he just knew he couldn't get out of bed. What had been lightheadedness the night before had turned into a world-spinning, stomach-churning dizziness. His hunger was like a sharp wire twisting through his insides, tearing him apart from the inside out. His throat was dry and he could hear a throbbing pulse in his ears, probably Zim's, but he wasn't exactly going to go find out.
He didn't know just when the next shipment was due. Another curse of not having calendars around. Even though Dib knew exactly why he didn't keep track of time, right now he was almost regretting it.
He could have another day to wait. He might have to hold out a week. He had no way of knowing which it was, and he was starting to realize that he was not going to last much longer.
Zim had probably been up for hours now, but Dib had yet to set foot outside his room. He didn't trust himself to be able to keep his head, not with the way he was right now. Right now he was about one scraped knee away from just jumping the nearest person with a heartbeat, human or no, friend or no, and he didn't want that.
So he stayed curled up in his bed, occasionally kicking a wall or hurling a pillow across the room. He couldn't do this, couldn't last another second, and–
Footsteps, coming up the stairs. Wandering towards his room. The heartbeat was getting louder, the rhythm wrong wrong wrong but sounding so so so good to him just then, and get out of here Zim, you don't want to come in here just turn around and leave right now–
The door opened slowly.
"Dib?"
LINE BREAK
It had been the silence that had woken Zim. Normally the Dib was the first one up, doing whatever it was the Dib did early in the evening– probably eating– and he'd make enough noise running up and down the stairs that Zim would drag himself out of bed as well, grumbling all the while about how annoying earth-vampires were.
But this evening there had been no noises, and Zim had woken up to an apparent absence of the Dib. At first he'd been thrilled, because Dib could get ridiculously annoying, but as he wandered downstairs to start work on the Voot again he'd started to feel uneasy. Two hours later, after he'd asked aloud for a wrench for what was probably the fifteenth time, forgetting once again that Dib wasn't there, he'd decided he was fed up with this new brand of annoyingness.
He'd stormed up the stairs, pissed at having to interrupt his work, and stalked right over the the Dib's room, fingers closing around the doorknob.
That was when he hesitated. He wasn't entirely sure why, just that something deep in his psyche was telling him it was probably a very bad idea to open it.
Zim brushed the thought aside and opened it anyway, neglecting to knock.
"Dib?" he called. The room was dark, but after a moment his eyes adjusted and he could make up the shape of Dib curled up under the covers, his back to Zim. Zim snarled in irritation. "If you're still sleeping so help me Tallest I will–"
"Get out of here, Zim."
Zim blinked, taken aback. Dib didn't sound angry or scared, just. . . growly. He'd never heard this tone coming from Dib, and he wasn't entirely sure that he liked it. Rather than leave, Zim shouldered his way into the room, bewilderment giving way to disgruntledness. "No, Zim will not leave. You're acting crazy, Dib-smell, and I'm–" Zim wasn't sure how he was going to finish that sentence. Worried about him? He wasn't worried. Zim didn't worry about anyone or anything, and he definitely didn't worry about Dib, not even if Dib started locking himself up in pitch-black rooms and growling. Fed up with his. . . annoyingness, that was probably what he was going for, yes.
It didn't matter what he was going to say, though, because Dib sat bolt upright and turned towards him, snarling. "I said get out of here, Zim! Out!"
And maybe Zim would have made a break for it then, if the first, instinctive step back he took hadn't slammed him into the door, closing it behind him and sealing the room into pitch blackness.
There was silence for a moment. Then, over Zim's own panicked breathing, there came the sound of covers shifting and bed springs creaking as Dib slowly got to his feet. Zim didn't know where the vampire was or what exactly he thought he was doing, but as the Irken groped blindly for the doorknob he felt a cool hand close around his wrist.
Zim's heartbeat was suddenly pounding in his ears as he rediscovered every bit of the fear he thought he'd gotten over– fear of Dib, fear of what Dib was, of what he was capable of doing.
His voice, when he finally found it, was a little choked, but Zim quickly found determination replacing his nerves. He wasn't an invader for nothing– there was nobody in the whole of the universe that could scare him off for long. Vampire or not, Dib was no exception to that rule.
"Open the door. You can see in the dark, right, Dib-stink? Open the stupid door because I've got work to do on the Voot, so help me Tallest–"
"Zim, shut up."
Dib wasn't growling anymore, but his voice had gone soft in a way that Zim had trouble identifying. He didn't, however, have any trouble whatsoever bulldozing right over it.
"No, I will not 'shut up'. Zim refuses to shut up. You might be perfectly happy sitting in the dark all night, but–" He cut himself off as he felt something press against his shoulder, and Dib's voice in his ear. This close, he realized what the softness in Dib's voice was– it was the wavering tone of someone who was barely keeping himself in check.
"I mean it, Zim. Just. . . give me a second, okay?" Dib whispered, and Zim felt warm breath spreading across his throat.
He had never felt more vulnerable in his life.
Zim's free hand clenched into a fist, and he found himself caught between wanting to shove Dib off and knowing that there was no way he'd be able to. Dib didn't. . . sound like he was planning to hurt him, but at the same time Zim wanted to scream, wanted to curse, wanted to tell the vampire to get away and shove his 'shut up' order somewhere not very nice.
But on the off-chance that it was actually important, he managed to hold his tongue.
For all of five seconds.
"Dib, don't you dare bite me, don't you even dare attempt to do so–"
Dib was growling again. Dib was growling again. Flirk it, Flirk it, he should've just kept his mouth shut.
Because outlined in what little light leaked through the doorframe, Zim could see the flash of fangs.
LINE BREAK
Dib hadn't meant to bite him. He really hadn't. Zim had just smelled so good that he couldn't help taking a few steps closer. . . and a few more. . . until he was pressing up against the Irken with his nose buried in the fabric of Zim's shirt. He vaguely remembered Zim saying something about the door, but his grip on himself was slipping and words were a distraction he couldn't deal with.
Good was an understatement. Saying that Zim smelled good was like saying the sun was kind of a little bright. His blood smelled sweet and thick and amazing and Dib could feel his mind start to shut down more and more with every breath he took.
He wasn't going to take any. Really, he wasn't. He just needed this for a minute, needed to stand here breathing in Zim's scent, needed to feel the pulse in Zim's wrist under his fingers, needed this little relief from the stomach-turning hunger he'd been putting up with for the past few days. He deserved this much for keeping a handle on it for this long.
Dib was slowly coming back to himself, and he would have let go of Zim's arm if the Irken hadn't started to talk again, words spilling out in a panicked, snappish rush. Dib growled deep in the back of his throat, turning to press his mouth into the crook of Zim's neck, mostly to shut the alien up and ohholygog that tastes sogood.
Dib trailed his tongue along the Irken's throat, catching up under his chin and nudging Zim's head back, out of the way. He was squirming now, trying to push Dib off, and maybe it would have worked a few minutes ago but right now Dib was stronger than his prey and they both knew it.
His grip tightened on Zim's wrist and his free hand came up, slamming into the door right next to Zim's head, caging the Irken in. Dib could feel Zim flinch, and the pulse he felt against his lips hitched in what was either surprise or terror, Dib couldn't tell and by now he didn't care. He just cared about how sweet Zim smelled, how amazing his skin tasted and ughblufghf.
Liquid sugar. That was what he'd thought at first and it was still true now, but so much better than that made it sound. There was a sharp sting like smarties on the back of his tongue, maybe something like red velvet cake and he was drinking, swallowing down mouthfuls of the warm, thick sweetness that was Zim's blood. He felt, rather than heard, whimpers and tiny grunts of pain coming from the Irken underneath him, and for a moment he reveled in the perverse pleasure of simply not caring. He did not care that he was hurting someone, because this tasted like nothing he'd ever tasted before and it was sogood, he could feel the roughness in the back of his throat disappearing and the hunger was finally, finally going away.
But of course, the not caring. . . that didn't last. In a split second he realized what he was doing, who he was hurting, and he pulled back from Zim's throat with a gasp as he realized he hadn't been breathing.
His eyes caught Zim's and they stayed there for a moment, frozen, the only sound Dib's harsh panting.
". . .sorry," Dib said at length, knowing exactly how inadequate that was and having no idea whatsoever what he was supposed to do about that. Sorry didn't cut it, didn't come close to being enough here, but apologies kept spilling out of him anyway. "Zim, I am so, so sorry, I didn't mean to, I just–"
"Shut up," Zim said dully, and Dib flinched. Zim's tone wasn't upset– actually, it just sounded thoughtful– but the words were more than enough to make the guilt start churning up some more.
"Sorry, sorry, I um, I couldn't–"
"I said shut your mouth hole, Dib!" Zim snapped, and this time he really did sound annoyed, scrunching up his eyes at Dib like he was wondering exactly where he should start punching at the darkness.
Dib swallowed hard, the taste of Zim's blood lingering on the back of his tongue, and realized belatedly that he was still gripping the Irken's wrist. He let go with a jolt, fingers shaking slightly. Gog, he wanted to die. He just wanted to curl up in a little ball and die. Why did this always happen to him? Why didn't he have some flirking self-control?
Zim's voice cut through the darkness, effectively interrupting his self-pity-party. "When's the last time you ate, Dib-smell?"
"A. . . couple days ago. . ." Gog, had he really only made it that long? If he could've handled it for just a few more days. . .
"That. . . explains it. . ." Zim trailed off, voice strained, as he slowly started to slide down the door, knees giving out underneath him.
Dib was fairly sure he might've actually squeaked. He caught under Zim's arms, pulling the Irken back to his feet.
"Flirk, Zim, are you okay? Crap, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have–"
"Stop apologizing, Dib!" Zim groaned. "Of course Zim is fine." He said it in the same tone he often employed when saying "Dib, you colossal ignoramus," and all of a sudden Dib was pulled up short. He'd been stumbling over apologies and Zim didn't really seem. . . upset.
"You're not. . . mad?"
Zim growled, scowling at where he probably thought Dib's face was. "Flirk no, of course I'm pissed, why the flirk wouldn't I be? Next time you decide to play starvation camp, tell me before I wind up with your fangs in my flirking neck." He paused for a second, either letting his words sink in or trying to find the right ones to continue with. "But, no, Zim's not. . . mad about the biting thing. I. . . do you know how many species throughout the galaxy happen to think Irkens are delicious? Too flirkin' many, that's what. It's kind of something you grow up hearing horror stories about and. . . getting eaten alive is. . . one of the the things Zim is. . . less brave about."
By the end of the sentence, Zim's voice had lost the annoyed edge and turned kind of soft. Oh, nice, he'd brought up childhood trauma. Dib was about to start apologizing again when Zim's voice came back, a lot stronger than it had been before.
"You didn't flirking hurt me, I guess, is what I'm trying to say. Anything that can think of an Irken as prey is vicious, and you're. . . just not. You're a wimp, actually. I. . . Zim got hurt a lot more than that in training as a smeet. I'm just pissed off at you because you should've flirking asked, you moron!"
The sick feeling in the pit of Dib's stomach hadn't gone away, but now instead of overwhelming guilt he just felt. . . awkward. He'd apologized, and Zim had– in a roundabout sort of way– forgiven him, but he still didn't know what else he was supposed to do.
"Sorry," he said again, the word starting to feel dull and useless, "I'll–"
He'd what? Ask permission next time? That would involve there being a next time and Dib was never going to do this again, not if he'd been out of blood for a year.
"Gog, quit being a stupid-head Dib!" Zim's eyes narrowed, antennae lowering in annoyance. "You're still upset, Zim can tell, and I will seriously punch you in the stupid–"
"Zim, why do you think there aren't any calendars in the house?" Dib blurted. Zim looked about ready to follow through on his threat to 'punch Dib in the stupid,' but he answered anyway.
"I don't know, why?"
"It's because–" Gog, he'd never told anyone about this before, he didn't want to have to explain about how pathetic he really was, but there was no going back now. "Look, back when all this. . . everything. . . started, my dad. . . he was this awesome inventor, you know? Science, rah rah rah, and he didn't believe the whole 'vampire' thing was real. He just shoved it under 'strange viruses to be cured next thursday' and went on with his life. So. . . when I came home turned into. . . this. . . he didn't react so well. It wasn't that he wanted to hurt me, he just. . . didn't understand what to do anymore, and eventually we just. . . stopped talking.
"Anyway, but so Gaz. . . my sister, Gaz, she basically pulled every string she could trying to figure out a way to 'fix me,' not reverse the infection– because at that point we all knew it was impossible– but just to get me somewhere where I couldn't hurt anyone and no one could hurt me.
"So I moved into this mansion that nobody came near and I said goodbye. Every month someone drops off a box of bagged blood, but I don't know who it is and I don't want to. Because if it's Gaz it means she's still around, but if it's not. . ."
Dib was crying now, not loudly or even audibly but there was the tiniest of cracks in his voice and he could feel tears sliding down his cheeks. Zim couldn't see them and Dib had no desire to point them out, so he just sniffled a little and kept going.
"Vampires live forever, you know? Humans. . . humans don't. And it's better to not know if Gaz and Dad are still out there than it is to know that they're both. . . dead. It's stupid and cowardly but that's why I cut off all my ties to them, that's why I never, ever contact the outside world, that's why I make sure that I don't know how long it's been since Dad kicked me out of the house.
"So that's why you can't possibly be okay with this. My own dad couldn't deal, and he's. . . he's family, and even if you were fine with it I can't. . . I couldn't deal with loosing someone, I know I couldn't, because if I could I'd have been brave enough to keep talking to Gaz!"
Zim had shut his eyes at some point during the story, and Dib wondered for a moment if he'd passed out of if he just didn't want to talk to him. It was probably the latter– Dib had basically just spilled out his whole life story for the alien, and they both knew it was a moot point since Zim would be leaving soon anyway. The Voot was close to being fixed.
Dib was going to be alone again.
"Hey," Zim said softly, and Dib jumped at the unexpected interjection. Zim was opening his eyes now, and the dark red had never seemed more peaceful to Dib. "Do you know how long Irkens live?"
Dib wordlessly shook his head.
Zim yawned, blood loss apparently starting to take its toll, and slumped forward, head resting against Dib's shoulder.
"As long as we have to," he murmured, and drifted off.
LINE BREAK
Zim couldn't work on the voot cruiser for a week after that– he said that the blood loss was addling his brain-meats. Dib didn't question it, just kept baking cookies.
The new shipment of blood arrived the next night, and neither of them brought up what came to be known as 'the incident' for a long time after that. It wasn't that they wanted to pretend it hadn't happened, it was that it didn't matter anymore.
Dib still ran out early sometimes, and that didn't matter either.
LINE BREAK
"Zim?"
"Yeah, Dib?"
"How long is it going to take you to fix the Voot Cruiser?"
"That depends on how much time I have to work on it."
A pause. Then,
"Zim?"
"Yeah, Dib?"
"I could make sure you don't have any time for it at all."
A smile.
"I think I'd like that."