Hello, world of fanfiction. Yes, this is another oneshot from me. Someday, I swear, I will write a multichapter fic, and then we will all be happy. But for now, this is what you get.

Beta: HeCallsMeHisChild

Dear Dad,

Funny way to start this letter. With an absolute lie.

He is quiet, perfectly calm. His hand is steady, the letters neatly formed, and this strengthens him. This acceptance, unwavering, is what differentiates this letter from those before, the ones that were shredded and hidden away.

…..

"Sir, I realize you're busy—"

A rare sigh of frustration nearly escaped the professor. "Simmons, filming begins in thirty minutes. If I'm late, the world will dissolve into utter chaos!"

Simmons nodded eagerly, waving the phone like a grand-prize trophy. "I-I understand, sir, but he said it was an emergency…and…well…" his voice trailed off rather pathetically. His cheery grin weakened slightly on his face as he continued to stupidly hold out the phone.

Professor Membrane felt a twinge of annoyance, but he took the phone anyhow.

"Hello?"

…..

He leans back for a moment, pencil hesitating over the paper as he considers. It is difficult, so difficult, to choose the words. He wants to be certain that every thought he's ever felt, everything he's ever wanted to say, is perfectly and properly expressed.

A thought—more of a concept—runs through his mind, and he bends over the notebook once more, writing slowly and carefully.

Right now you're probably shaking your head over how childish and petulant that sounds. I honestly couldn't care less. After all, by the time you find this…wait, maybe that's assuming too much. I don't know that you'll read this at all.

He presses too hard, and the tip of his pencil punctures the paper.

You were always too busy to make time for me while I was alive, so why would you start now?

…..

"Hello?" repeated the professor.

He heard someone breathing on the other end of the phone. The sound was low and slightly shaky.

"Hello? I was told this was an emergency. I'm very busy right now."

There was a silence of about three seconds that seemed to go on forever before, hesitantly, someone spoke.

"Dad?"

It was instantaneous. His reaction to that voice, using that word, was more reflexive than anything else. Irritation, disappointment, and a sort of resigned patience. He should have known…that boy…always calling him just to shriek and ramble on about his paranormal nonsense, ghosts and Bigfoot and aliens…the professor wondered how a genius such as himself could have produced anything so mundane, so unsatisfactory.

…..

I guess, in a way, I can understand it. You've lived in the spotlight since before I was born…and when I was, I was a disgrace. Your "poor, insane son"—that is, when you remembered you had a son.

…..

"Dad…I-I need to talk to you. I—"

"Son, I'm very busy right now. The fate of the world rests on my shoulders! I don't have time for your paranormal nonsense, or your ramblings about your little foreign friend…Zig, or whatever his name was."

"It's Zim!" A little bit of the old enthusiasm found its way back into that quavering voice. "And he's—ugh, never mind. I'm not calling to talk about him anyway. I need to talk to you."

It was the second time he'd used that phrase, and the Professor had no patience for repetition; in fact, he could muster up very little patience at all at the moment. "There's no time now, son! Filming begins momentarily. In fact, I'm already late." This wasn't quite true, but, as Professor Membrane argued to himself, it soon would be if his son and his long-winded explanation detained him any longer. He was seconds away from hanging up the phone when the voice on the other end spoke, almost gasped, the tone frantic.

"Wait! Don't hang up."

A sigh of annoyance nearly escaping him, the Professor hesitated, moving the phone just a few inches away from the receiver. "What is it now, son?"

"…A-are you coming home tonight?"

…..

I've been in your way from the very beginning, haven't I? Just one more demand to get pushed to the back of your schedule. I hated it, Gaz hated it…we got used to it, though. Sort of.

…..

"Son…" he shook his head, sighing. "I thought we'd discussed this. The annual family night out isn't for months yet."

"I know that, Dad!"

Another glance at the clock; two minutes to five. He was cutting things far too close. "Well then, why ask?"

His son's voice exploded in frustration and anger. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe I hoped you might be willing to give your own family a little more than one evening a year."

The Professor felt a rare urge to raise his voice. It took a conscious effort to keep it at a normal level. "Now, now, son, there's no need to use that tone."

A long silence. A heavy, shuddering release of breath into the phone.

"Y-yeah. Sorry."

…..

His hand trembles slightly. Looking back at the shakiness of the past few letters, he leans back, closing his eyes and trying to steady his breathing. That instability is what has had him turning back time after time, and he'd sworn to himself that this night would be different. No weakness. No second thoughts. No other option.

I wish I could say I'm doing this for unselfish reasons, to make all our lives easier, but that's crap. I'm doing this because I'm fed up, and I don't want to live a long life in a padded cell, straitjacketed and stuffed full of happy pills.

…..

5: 01. I'm officially late. Tapping his foot impatiently, the Professor cleared his throat and forced himself to use his politest tone. "Is there anything else you wanted to say to me, son?"

"Do you even know my name?"

This was carrying things too far. It was time to put his foot down; this defiant attitude couldn't be allowed to continue. Assuming his sternest voice, Professor Membrane attempted to end the conversation. "Of course I do, son. I love you very much. Now, you've already made me late, and I've no more time to listen to your prepubescent grumbling."

Yet another silence.

"…Okay. Forget it. I'm sorry for bothering you."

The Professor forced himself to chuckle into the phone. "Oh, that's all right, son." He moved to hang the phone up, when—

"Dad?"

"Yes, what is it now, son?"

"…Nothing. Goodbye."

Click.

…..

His handwriting has evolved from neat, perfectly formed letters to a nearly unintelligible scrawl, heavily slanting its way across the paper. His hands, his shoulders, his knees…his entire body shaking with something he refuses to name as he bites his lip, attempting to hold back the wetness forming behind his eyelids. It crosses his mind that he shouldn't care this much, that he's prepared himself for this moment, that he shouldn't feel every thought pounding inside his skull. Still, his hand grips the pencil, moving without his telling it to do so.

I kept putting this off, hoping things were going to change. I gave you every possible warning, even though you were never here to see it. Maybe this is the only thing I can do to make you notice. Do I finally have your attention?

He forces himself to stand, supporting himself by leaning on his desk, frantically scribbling out the last few sentences. If he stops now, he will never finish—and he has to finish. This has to be the last time. The finale.

Good. I promise I won't take up much more of your time. All I want to say is goodbye, and I'm sorry, and

The next four words slip from his pencil unbidden. He freezes despite himself and stares down at them. They look back, both taunting and comforting him.

Furiously, he erases them, scrubbing the paper clean until it tears. He drops the pencil and he runs, the tears he no longer notices streaming down in thin, sparkling pathways. Up long flights of stairs, towards his childhood hiding place, the safety of the roof under the quiet field of stars. He runs and runs, keeps running—he disregards his last instincts screaming no—

And for one full, perfect second of forever, he has wings.

He falls.

…..

Everything is as normal. Nothing different. Nothing changed. So why this odd weight in the pit of his stomach, this nagging at the back of his mind?

Filming. Production. Cameramen, crewmen, staff, alternately yelling instructions and fawning obsequiously at his feet. He wonders why it seems like such an ordeal, why he can't wait for it to be over. Minutes drag past like hours that stretch into months.

Finally over. Finally. Simmons runs towards him, once again holding out the phone. "Sir, the phone's hardly stopped ringing since—"

"Simmons?"

He falters, still grinning. "Yes, sir?"

"Reschedule all my appointments for tonight. I'm going home."

His eyes widen, stunned, as his mouth moves soundlessly, groping for words. "But—but, sir, you—"

"Take care of it. I'm leaving." He walks out the door without a second glance, digging into his coat pockets for his keys, slipping them into the ignition of the car he's nearly forgotten how to drive.

Home. The door is unlocked. He closes it behind him. The house is quiet.

"Kids! I'm home!"

Silence. Unrelenting silence.

He walks slowly to the couch, fumbling for the remote. He turns on the television, flipping mindlessly through the channels. He doesn't care what's playing; he only wants some sound, some noise to relieve this emptiness.

It's not enough.

He waits.

Only hours later does he notice the answering machine, thirteen new messages flashing. He flips through them one by one, listening to only a few seconds of each. Hospital. Police. Hospital.

His feet take him mechanically up the stairs. Part of his mind understands what is happening, but he does not grasp it. This only happens to other people, to bad people—not to him, not to his family, not to his son…

Gaz's room is empty.

He takes the five steps down the hall, his hand grasping the doorknob and twisting it, pushing the door open, stepping inside.

It waits for him on the desk. He reads it three times without absorbing any of it, the phrases floating past him. They don't belong to him. They can't. He will not allow it. The words remain just that; words. Just words on a page. It is not until the third reading that he sees the furiously erased smudges and bends close, squinting to decipher them, smoothing out the torn paper, disregarding where drops of damp have smeared the graphite. He silently mouths each letter. Finally, finally, the meaning seeps into the letters. It echoes in a relentless whisper that crescendos to a scream, relentless, embodied mercilessly in four swift monosyllables, and it strips away the last remnants of his strength as he slumps to the floor, crumpling the paper in his fist and knotting his fingers into the worn, dark blue carpet.

"I love you too, son."

Poor Dib. His life sucks…or, it did. Now the Professor's life sucks.

Leave me a review and tell me what you thought. I'm not sure about the ending…I was hoping for it to be a little more on the subtle side. Maybe I'll change it later. Anyhow, review! If you'd like to flame, by all means, go ahead.

I've got a few fic ideas floating around in my head right now, and almost all of them are Dib-centric. I don't understand it. I'm a Team Zim person! I've got nothing to do with Dib! SHUT UP, YOU!