Ink splatters a path upon the metal limb, touching to the very base of his little blue shoulder are streams of pink and green and silver and blue. The colours entwine, twist into the mixed blend of chaos and innocence.
Giggling, GIR takes up the black pen and places it onto his paper. There are no sounds reaching past the walls of his own sanctuary; no squeaks, no smoke alarm, no commands. Just the pen, rubbing back and forth, and the sweet laughter as he works.
Finished! He sets the pen astride the others to admire his work. He wishes his master would hold his hand, as they do in the picture, and smile as if the world shines upon him and him alone. Never before has GIR put so much effort, so much time into one little drawing. This is not one to be thrown into the file atop the mismatch of pen and crayon scribbles; this is special. This is what he strives for, to make his master smile.
"I know! I will show it to Mastah! Then we aaalll have burritos together! Ok piggy?" Typically, the rubber pig gives no sound of response, but the protests of his strained belly squeaker as GIR hugs it to his chest.
The toy remains within his grasp as GIR sits atop the couch, waiting, as he waits every day, for his master to return home. Upon entering the teen years of his life it became rather common for Zim to remain absent from the base for great periods of time. The hours following the skool timings were the absolute worst; days came by where the Irken did not make an appearance until the shy moon had poked his head from the edges of his blanket. And here comes another day, where such occurrence is underway once more.
As Earth's lonesome moon rises higher and higher, so does GIR become lost deeper within his agitation. So greatly, that he ignores all the commands given to him that very morning, and slips into his little dog disguise to go and search for his Master.
It is not difficult to go undetected; over his time on Earth GIR has learned that if he keeps his head down, as though following the sensational scent of another canine's markings, and pretends to follow a different human at any one time, then his bitter nemesis, 'the Pound', will not stop to investigate his actions.
He can easily detect Zim's location, by allowing his own mechanical workings to hone in on fellow Irken technology. The energy emitted from an Irken PAK draws GIR in as a fly rushes to honey.
Hidden within the darker corners of the city's park, GIR watches his master. Tears swell, and fall, his artificial body overwhelmed with the sudden desire to feel blood spray upon metal.
Human voices chant as one - fight fight fight - closing in around the wild flaring of human and Irken limbs. The human is enormous, all muscle and brutal fury in great contrast to the slim little Irken. Yet the size differences have no bearing upon the battle that ensues, as is all too clear to see.
"Fight fight fight!"
The human's face contorts into ugly hatred as his bone-splintering fist dives forwards, only to collide with the brisk crossing of Irken arms. Zim pushes back upon the strike, and as the human stumbles Zim lunges, claws raised, slashing, soaking the boy, the air they breathe in red as he ribbons the delicate flesh. The boy cries out, but makes no attempt to call for assistance. His arms weave beneath gouging claws, thrusts once, twice, to the sensitive area of Zim's squeedily-spooch. The air rushes from his body in a wild shoot of agony; Zim is thrown back. The human looms above him, launches his assault of furious kicks and curses.
The crowd goes wild. "FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT!"
GIR cannot bear it. "NO! Not my Mastah!" Red shines great light through the material of his disguise; in the single batter on an eyelid jet packs come alive and GIR dives into the mix. Humans leap aside; make an unintentional path for GIR to reach his beloved master. Some get hit, some burn beneath the strength of his jets – they do not matter. Nothing matters, but for his battered Zim within his grasp, flying home together, safe and sound.
The familiarity of home blazes into Zim's gaze, breaking through the spinning of the world around him. He is dropped; the soft, pillowing caress of the couch breaks his fall. It does not break the icy wall of his mood. His eyes narrow into slits and burn a hole through GIR's form; so hot and deadly the android would surely melt beneath his look.
"What on Irk were you playing at?!" Zim's roars are tremendous, to shatter the glassy walls of his minion's private world.
Stripped from his dog-like disguise GIR trembles, as a leaf trembles, once separated from its siblings. "All those people were hurting you, Mastah. I just wanted to help . . ." His whimpers match his discarded costume; puppy-like, heartbreakingly pitiful, great enough to strip Zim's face of his custom arrogance and burning fury. Oh, such innocence before his eyes; his face tints purple, he averts his gaze.
"Well . . . alright, I forgive you." As Zim gives a sigh GIR's head lifts upwards, eyes wide. "Not because I like you or anything, let me make that clear!" He snarls briskly, wincing in face of pain creeping a path across his belly. The android watches in growing concern as Zim lifts his tunic, to reveal beneath the material dark blotches; purples agony blossoms beneath the surface of his skin. When he brushes his fingers to it, Zim hisses.
"GIR! Fetch me dry ice," the Irken orders, and for not the first time he curses his PAK's inability to heal bruising and mild cuts. Impure words soak his lips as he sits atop the couch, wincing again, as the force of impact burns his battle injuries. "GIR, where's that ice?!"
GIR blinks, his eyes fixated, the ice none-existent within his head. "I has a better idea!" he yells, and suddenly dives upon his master. Zim shrieks, only to growl, and finally blush, as GIR presses the cold metal of his torso intimately close to the flowered purple. A blaze to rival the very bruising ignites a wave upon Zim's face. He wants to tell GIR to move, but words fail him. The android's cool form is soothing, so soothing.
It – no, he - . . . does not feel bad at all.
As Zim finds himself startled into silence, it works to quell his foul mood. Or maybe it is only when GIR allows his head to rest upon his beloved master's belly, and claws rise to stroke the firm metalwork, that his anger well and truly dies.
"Why does Mastah fight the bad-y humans?" Muffled innocence seeps into Zim's injured belly; he has no answer to give. What can be said? He fights to become stronger, as all people fight. He does not desire to come under face of GIR's begging for him to stop, to stay and be safe.
He knows that he will lose to those bottomless eyes.
As the Irken allows himself to relax, his eyes to slide to a close, he feels something, an odd textured sensation, brushing against his back. He frowns. "GIR?" Zim pulls his minion's arm to his eyes, to discover coating the metal limb splatters of multi-coloured spots, forming a path up and down his arm.
The frown deepens. "GIR . . . What have you been drawing?" A great dread overcomes Zim's relaxing state. On the last occasion he returned to the base with ink of GIR's arms, he had been mortified to discover his own lab and kitchen, overrun with the scribbling's of a bored life. Zim leans his head around to try and find the graffiti. When he discovers nothing his head snaps downwards, his own magenta eyes bubbling molten anger. He opens his arms, and lets GIR fall to the floor. "What have you been doing?" he hisses.
GIR is defeated. He has no choice but to allow the top of his head to open, and pass forth the drawing for his master's awaiting hand.
His head droops. He foresees only the fury.
Zim studies the image locked within his claws. The drawing is amateurish; the excited running of gel pens over-exceeds the outer lines that create the shape of himself and GIR. In the picture they are both smiling.
And holding hands.
Inch by slow inch Zim lifts his head towards the artist. His tongue is dead, and when no judgement is given GIR launches himself at his master's feet. "P . . . please don't be sad and fight, master! I just want you to be happy, and smile, and eat burritos with me, and -" His words are cut off, as Zim places his hands beneath GIR's armpits, and lifts, to press, once more, the soothing body against his own.
GIR sniffs, and looks up. "C . . . can we still eat burritos?" he asks.
Zim nods once; his head dipping far enough down so he can press a kiss to GIR's forehead.
The hallways are alight with the screeches of students anticipating the weekend to come, and the free-running of souls not yet entered the classroom. Zim is at his locker, retrieving work-books when the gang from the previous day approach. Smirks of malicious triumph plaster across their ugly faces. "Hey, ya green fag! You're a right pussy, running away like that yesterday!"
As laughter rains upon him Zim raises an eye-rim, untouched by the degrading sounds. "I did not run away, Torque. I turned the other cheek." The Irken returns to his locker.
Having no intelligent response Torque turns to leave, until a brilliant flash of mismatched colours sparkle in the corner of his eye. He stops, and points to the image pinned to the locker's inner door. "Oi! What the hell's that? Did ya boyfriend draw it for ya?"
Even though the laughter returns Zim only rolls his eyes in great boredom. He knows that they are referring to the Dib as his 'boyfriend'. It does not upset him – words are words. This charade is becoming very old.
Although admittedly he does certainly wish they would stop referencing his only friend in such a repulsive fashion.
He waits for the laughing to stop. "No Torque, the Dib did not draw it for me." Zim closes his locker; his teeth are bared in a soft smile. "Someone very special did."
And Zim seels up his locker and moves to join his friend for Maths.