Rut
GIR is proud of those words, when they are spoken once – so much more special than twice! – so carelessly, so monotonously and wearily, shouted:
"You dirty, rotten, malfunctioned, good-for-nothing piece of scrap metal!"
/
He screams in delight at each syllabic infliction, at each bark, snarl and twist of pale green lips, at the glint of dark, dark pink eyes boring into his own azure, blank orbs. The revelation is mountainous, like a terrain of pebbly dirt stained in horrific shadows, streaks of crimson soaking through its surface to seep underground, to end up nowhere, anywhere, stopped short only by a rut—a mindless, brainless, completely illogical rut.
/
The scrap metal is he, and he is the epitome of utter rubbish!
Which isn't very surprising, considering the stale, gooey blob of fake pink that makes up his brain, and the discarded, broken bits of a previous SIR unit that makes up his frame. The word "brain" itself is put very lightly, in lieu of 'a complete waste of organic air', as nothing but hollow space occupies his central processor – hollow space and bitter pieces of paperclips. All he receives, when rational enough to think heavily about it, is a barrage of errors and glowing, flashing specks that speak only nonsensical words: 'Taco, taco, taco, ZZZZZZ!'
/
Rubbish indeed!, or, well, that's what his master continuously says, anyway. The context in those words is startling, and maybe somewhere in there, he detects a hint of loathing underneath the symphonic notes of Irken language, because deep, deep down inside – in a place at once nonexistent and yet wholly, overwhelmingly palpable – GIR thinks something is not quite right. That something is not quite sane—not quite as beautiful or lovely or simple as he believes it to be. That maybe, just maybe, maybe, when his master says those (hurtful? wonderful? truthful? IRK-SOME?) things, Zim might actually mean them. And that, when it's left for him to interpret it, alone, with nothing but dumb silence and green walls to assuage the verbal abuse, he can feel his internal, fritzy, ditzy, loopy, whoopsie whirlwind of a robotic organ flare once – so much more special than twice, twice! – with something akin to... (pain).
/
But noooo!
/
Afterwards, GIR screams in delight at his lapse in mental insanity, at each horrific revelation unfolding before his dull, maniacally brilliant blue eyes, letting it seep and seep closer under the surface, only to end up nowhere, everywhere, stopped short by the dark, black hole of a rut.
In his empty head; in his unfeeling, robotic heart.
/
"You good-for-nothing piece of scrap metal!" his master has always screamed, for ever. To which he accepts gratefully, laughing in inane amusement, the sound coming out meshed tight, running together brutally, devastatingly childish.
"THANK YOU, MASTAH!" GIR screams back, proud of those words—when they are spoken so truthfully, so hatefully, that it would make the coldest, most uncaring member of his species curl into a cube, tears foaming over optics to pool onto the ground, pleading back desperately, "Please, please, please, please, please... Give SIR another chance... Please, please, please, please, please, Master."
But he is not a SIR.
He never ever will be.
/
So he says it, instead, "THANK YOU SO MUCH, MASTAH!" His smile wide and blank, his brain devoid of any sense or logic, his limbs haphazard and heinous. And when those furious pink-red eyes widen in shock, annoyance, exasperation, confusion, there is a secret answer to his outburst. All GIR has to do is tilt his head to the side, a carefree laugh on his mouthplates, gleeful at his master's revelation, from just that one simple insult.
Somewhere deep down under there, under those pebbles of crimson, electrical, alien components, Zim is sighing. Smiling, shaking his head, sighing. Smiling, shaking his head, laughing.
/
"What am I going to do with you?"
"NOTHING!" GIR suggests, proudly, only to wrap his arms around his master's waist a second later, as he usually does. As always.
"Nothing." Zim repeats. He blinks his narrowed eyes before slowly closing them. His arms twitch sporadically next to GIR's, body shaking in either anger or impatience.
The robot squeals, squeezing his master closer to him, as much as he can without Irken suffocation posing a threat, expecting nothing, hoping for something, anything.
His master remains silent, immobile, and completely uncaring. His eyes remain closed. Saying nothing, doing nothing.
/
"Thank you...!" GIR whispers softly, against the fabric of Zim's shirt.
/
Oh, how proud he is! Proud of these limbs—how tightly they're wrapped around his master, cold and indifferent and weak all at once; proud of this mind—how soundly it sleeps against the empty walls of his metal casing...
Proud of these glowing, dull eyes—how docile they've become...not a single tear dripping loose from the depths of his nonexistent, maniac, robotic heart to stain the Irken's shirt.
/
(And that, too, is something he is grateful for.)
Fin.
A/N: Just a character analysis drabble about GIR and his thoughts on Zim. Much angst and ooc goodliness, yes I know. (Forgive me, since this is my first fic in the fandom Q_Q) I just love GIR and Zim's relationship, and wanted to dedicate something to them. Hopefully I did GIR some justice. If not, then feel free to shoot me. C:
Anyways, hope you guys enjoyed.