Saving Zim: Epilogue by Dib07
Summary:
When you had it all. When old age forces you to change.
When life isn't what you'd imagined.
When you aren't prepared to be so powerless.
When a soldier's undetermined future remains his greatest fear.
Disclaimer:
I do not own the IZ characters. However this story and this idea is mine.
Cover art beautifully made by Timmicita! All credit goes to him, please do not use without his permission, thank you :)
Warnings:
Character death. Character angst. Blood. Swearing. Gary.
Dib07: A very special and warm thank you to all those who reviewed last chapter: Invader Johnny, Piratemonkies64, Golden Chains, RissyNicole, Megxolotl, timmicita, ZimsLovePig03, HaleyRiler, and Rocky Rooster!
Your reviews cheered me on to the moon and back, so I'm really happy how much you enjoy this little (well, uh, mad long) series!
I want to really extend my special thanks to RissyNicole and Piratemonkies64 and Timmicita for being the heart and soul of my inspiration and courage. And Timmicita, thank you SO MUCH for your incredibly touching gift art. It means a lot to me. Every Invader Zim picture you draw captures the spirit of the show time and time again, and so it means something extra special to me when you are inspired to draw from stories. What makes me dizzy with excitement is that you READ them! You go out there and find them! I'm so happy this fandom is so strong because of you, and so many dedicated creative minds. The show will always live on in us. No. Matter. What.
CHAPTER 2: Dreams, Doubt and Heartache
'The mind is its own place,
and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.'
John Milton
-x-
'I'm walking down the line
That divides me somewhere in my mind'
Green Day - Boulevard of Broken Dreams
-x-
Dib possessed this grave look of sombre resignation, looking like a man who had taken on too great a responsibility and was left to contemplate it.
Though his eyes were staring at the TV screen, she could tell that he wasn't paying complete attention.
On the screen was an episode of Mysterious Mysteries of Strange Mystery, and the host was addressing the audience as he said: "And the biggest debate of the century that's mystifying the world: what happened to the planet Mars? Stay tuned as we look into this shocking discovery."
He was leaning against the armrest of the sofa, toying with that empty vial that had a drop of some pink liquid inside. His hair was scruffy and he was in his flannel pjs. She had tried to cheer him up with some hot chocolate but the mug was still sitting, untouched on the side table. It had gone cold.
Clara sat down beside him, and then chose to lean closer. He responded by wrapping an arm around her. When he squeezed her, the contact had a touch of desperation to it. His eyes kept that vacuous look to them.
She didn't know what else to do other than offer her support. His exhausted mind was a mix of worries, fears and responsibilities. He was used to taking too much onto his shoulders, but this decision required something more. Maybe he was still guilty of dragging her into it. Suffice to say, she couldn't be happier.
She had chosen on her own terms even though she had been unwittingly pushed into doing surgery. That was a hard way of making Zim's acquaintance and gory first introductions were never her speciality.
Besides, life would certainly be boring without the two of them.
The phone buzzed on the side table. He stretched to pick it up, seeing that he had one new unread message. He tapped on it, revealing a short punctual text.
It was from his father.
'And how did it go? All's well I trust?'
He quickly thumbed a reply: 'Too early to tell. Zim is in a state of shock.' Then he hit send.
The host on TV was now discussing the satellite Juno, and how it had disappeared at around the same time that Mars had, and that they were pinning all their hopes on the new satellite Juno II to investigate further. Apparently Jupiter's orphaned moons were now all over the place without a gravitational field, and that they might someday become a threat as they travelled aimlessly around the solar system.
Wherever Zim had gone, he sure left his mark.
"You don't think this is going to work out, do you?" She asked while carefully reading his expression.
He avoided her question completely. "And what will you do once I go back to work?"
Clara shrugged. She hadn't had much time to think about the future. "Your father said that Zim shouldn't be left alone so I guess that means one of us needs to stay home. Besides, the chores will keep me busy, that and watching episodes of Mystique. I have like, thirty to catch up on. I gotta feed you both up too, so I'll be doing a lot of cooking."
"What about your old home?"
"It's still up for sale. I haven't had many buyers. There are a few things I need to grab but that's all."
There was yet more silence. Clara got an extraordinary sense of disquiet. Dib was usually very chatty, as there was always so much he wanted to talk about.
He was probably thinking about the past as well. His hand was twirling that vial in his fingers that would not go amiss around the neck of a sorcerer. Looking into the past heralded its own pain, but also a sense of accomplishment. Of a long journey coming to its conclusion.
Maybe Dib was wishing Zim had a little more time to enjoy living free. Or maybe he was reliving the choices he had made, and wishing things had gone a little differently.
Then he looked at her, realized the way she was looking at him, and put on a tepid smile. "No more going back and forth to my dad's lab. You must be tired from all that travelling. I know I am."
"I am a little tired." She confessed. "All this stress and worry has made me feel dizzy all day."
"Me too."
"Are you happy?" She asked.
She felt him squeeze her hand. "More than I'd ever imagine."
"Then why do you look so sad?"
"I guess tomorrow scares me a little."
"We're all afraid of the future Dib, and we're brave for living and facing each day that comes."
He nodded ever so slightly, though not looking totally encouraged.
-x-
His eyes flew open the moment he thought something had just brushed past him.
Shallowly breathing, he propped himself up on one elbow, scrutinizing into the near-dark for the perpetrator.
He felt a corresponding necessity to call upon the computer to notify him that all was safe.
The mosaic of friendly colours, fracturing upon the lilac walls from the humming nightlight, suggested no menace. Even so, his diminutive body stiffened with a habitual tension as his eyes darted to and from every drop of shadow.
Greedily his claws plucked up the quilt and he swept it fast to his chest like a small child who had glimpsed the outline of the passing bogeyman.
His stern martial scrutiny caught the humped remains of his robot sitting in its nest of wires on the desk. He pensively stared a moment, antenna drawing low. He was scared of so many things without that robot to demonstrate to him what was safe.
Time was a slow beat stretching forwards; as ponderous as the ticking of his bedside clock.
It was a strange position to exist in after being on top of his little kingdom. And he had traded it all in for a beat in his chest.
He knew it was not easy to let go of his former assets, his established persona and his wings and crown to see another day.
It hurt. But it hurt because he was alive.
The feelings, the turmoil...it roused a new kindling flame. He was now free to follow his own missions, his own agenda. He was an Irken who had the sovereignty to dream, even if it meant accepting a heavy penalty.
Gazing from the relative safety of his bed, he gave the room another obsessive inspection.
The simple furniture, with all its boring lines and hard edges, both annoyed and upset him. His base had wrapped around him so well, always giving him that safe sensation that helped him feel cocooned in some way. Every little touch of a panel or button responded to his commands, his personality. He had been part of a symbiotic coalition with his machines, his base, and his computer.
His antenna, primed for any noise - be it benign or antagonistic - perceived the acoustic creaks of someone treading across the landing outside his partially opened door. He kind of hoped someone would pop in and check on him so that he wouldn't have to feel so lonely, but they didn't. And their footfalls retreated until he could no longer hear them.
He took a deep draw of breath; a decision that reminded him of the ache down there. When he felt the tickle of a cough coming on, he pinched his eyes shut until the urge faded.
You need to sleep.
He gently nodded to himself at that very simple logic. He knew he wasn't well, and knew how important it was to rest, but the braver part of him insisted that he get up, go out through that door and take control. He needed to do some good old reconnaissance and begin a perimeter check. Then he could focus his energies on anything and everything that might have need of his attention. It would be a suitable distraction from the whirling deluge of emotions that were doing their damndest to keep him immobilized.
And his room was so big! So open! The ceiling seemed to breathe down on him as if it harboured a touch of winter. The only small place he could retreat to was beneath the bed, but he wanted to be brave.
Something tapped on the window behind the purple curtains. He choked out a whimper and pulled the quilt over his head. It was no more than a twig hurtling across the glass pane as it travelled on the wind, but to him it was an intrusive finger knocking to find the entry point. Wanting to come in. Trying to find him.
Worm baby! Worm baby!
Shut up shut up!
The voices fluttered through his mindscape like vipers, as dark and as foul as the shadows capering just beyond the featherlike luminosity of his nightlight.
Something was opening in his head. Instinctively he slammed it shut, often leaning against it in case something nightmarish came bursting out from the other side. It was a nonsensical, to be afraid of those carnal instincts that had driven him through his military career and his life. This inner creature paced like a wild animal penned up in a cage. It wasn't this new environment that upset it so. It was this complete lack of revenge on the Tallest. Of letting things be. Of not destroying those who had robbed Gir of his bright vitality.
This angry part of him was also terrified of the inevitable end he had accepted.
Slowly he dropped the blankets down to his chin and peered over them, cocking his antenna at a sound imagined as he began to slowly rock himself back and forth.
The same unvarying serenity greeted his fraught anxieties.
All this stress he was putting himself through and nothing was even happening!
The clock beside him beat out the seconds like a click-clacking metronome.
If this was freedom, then what was he to do with it?
Shaky and exhausted he sunk back down under his covers, little body succumbing to nervous shakes.
What do... humans do in... human places? He thought. He really had no idea. He hadn't found the topic worthy of his interest, and now he was frightened of finding out the hard way.
His head dropped against the pillow, the plush doll of Gir suddenly finding a place against his chest as he pressed it almost angrily to him.
He lay slightly inclined so that he could breathe a little easier. It was a position he was now more or less used to.
Sleepily, he watched the merry-go-round of the swirling lights splay imperceptible shapes across the wall and furniture. They were pretty to look at, hypnotic even.
"Com-Computer..." He muttered sleepily, "Lock down all perimeters."
He went limp, eyelids crashing down like shutters. A short ten minutes later he'd come flying out of his sleep in a sightless panic, snorting out a worried squeal as he thrashed out of his blankets.
He felt like he had dropped off the edge of nothing, falling straight down into a swathe of green fire. Flames had rushed in and around him as though the fire had taken on the form of sentient green wraiths.
Usually his dreams liked to carousel around Gir leading him somewhere, taking his hand and well...that was as far as the dreams had ever gone. This time he was encapsulated in an emerald conflagration that was saturated in human screams. He had been surrounded in the same poison they were inflicted with, a green so toxic and so radiant it had hurt to look at. The fluorescence of these strange embers had run up his skin as if he had been drenched in lighter fluid.
"Won't the s'ploding hurt?"
Gir's voice resounded in his head. He too remembered the savagery of the heat. It made him run a hand up the sleeve of his arm in memory. The burning pain had been so awful; he would have thrown his Tallest into the void just to make it stop.
''If I can bring the time field around the explosion back up to regular speed it'll fix everything."
He brought a heavy hand to his head as dizziness marched loosely across his vision.
They were just stupid dreams. They meant nothing.
Every now and then something from his past liked to rear its ugly head as if his past failures had never rested easy in his mind.
His surviving antenna drooped over his face. Gently he pushed it back.
The little clock on his nightstand next to his box of tissues and a bottle of menthol cough medicine read 10:03pm. Every time he shut his eyes, awful nightmares returned as if they all had personal invitations with which to visit. Even the totality of his fatigue could not block them.
Nervously, antenna twitching, eyes looking, he urgently wished to communicate his woes to Gir, his computer, Dib or Clara.
He needed to be at his command console to cathartically remedy himself of these unwanted reservations.
Instead, he had to seek other, poorer solutions to escape the invasion of his own imaginings.
He awkwardly sat up with the doll gripped in his claws, the left hand not making such a good job of it.
It was that Clara – must be - making him feel repentant, and softening his callous sentiments.
The things he had done...
It was an accident. A weapon...gone out of control.
Why oh why did that nightmare have to be? He hadn't thought of it in years. He didn't dwell a whole lot on any of his past mishaps, or explosions, and the hamsters that had gone out of control. Each new mission presented before him were what mattered, not the ones before.
He clutched his head tightly with both claws, cursing his rebellious brain as the doll slumped on the blankets. He took a stronger breath to try and placate the panic, only to encounter a wall there as well. His chest would not expand as if the very air aversely hurt his lungs.
It felt like being on a ship that was losing oxygen. His attempt to push back the asphyxiation only exaggerated those straggly squeaks in his chest.
Coughing helped. He leaned forwards slightly and hacked against the back of his hand.
Dib and Clara were presumably asleep in the next room. The silence was absolute beyond his partly open door, but in that silence he tried to guess at what they might be up to. What they might be doing. What they might be plotting!
But the window! That he would have to open. He needed to breathe.
The former Elite pushed himself against the headboard, bright, panicky fuchsia eyes mostly riveted on the door in case of an anticipated threat to come stealing through. He settled his socked feet on the little steps from his bed and carefully climbed down them. He then walked over to his daybed, climbed those steps and reached the window. Claws fell on the window latch. The curtains he ignored, his head slipping through them.
"Come on, come on!"
The latch was stiff. It hadn't been oiled or used very much, but with a hard wrench from his right hand he opened it, and he sat, chest pressed against the ledge, whistling down cold spring air into his lungs.
Soon his eyes caught the sprawl of stars above him, and he instantly drew back, slamming the window shut. He turned away, the night sky now veiled by his dark purple curtains. On his face was the pure look of horror. The void of space embodied deep loss. He was a wingless bird, unable to take flight with his own kind. But in the gloom of this amputation from the Empire grew certain serenity. He had been released from their demanding expectations. No longer required to follow orders.
Did that make him a deserter?
He closed his eyes, and his inner swaying eased a little.
Moving almost soundlessly, he left the daybed and padded towards the door, antenna judging for those sly sounds on the other side. Cool, sleek claws tapped on the lowermost handle as if to verify its authenticity. With a swift push, he snapped the door home then he stared at it awhile, convinced that the moment he would turn his back, it would burst wide with enemies. So he stood in his little oasis of glowing blue, and waited. Nothing happened.
That sweet, suave voice butted through, as if, for all his efforts, he had never really kept the door shut on his militarism. What is the great Zim doing? Sitting here, like an itsy bitsy little weakling? Waiting, for his enemy to do the thinking for him? Pathetic! Take control, you dumb worm baby!
Using the secondary pulley-system attached to the handle, he pushed down, and the door clicked open. He shoved gently against the wood and the door swung wide on silent hinges.
The landing was cloaked in inky darkness that spawned yet more potential menace but the light of the ochre moon poured through like candlelight from the little bathroom window, casting a silvery, ghostly glow on the top banister rail. The brooding dresser stood like a sentry against the far wall. Zim baulked a moment, suddenly terrified of the absence of sound; colour; and regulated familiarity.
The greying-point of his antenna tipped all the way up; sternly trying to listen to the unmistakable sounds of a crafty approach; for the strafe of enemy advancement. His own swallowing was loud in the din of silence.
He wanted to hear Gir's noisy cartoons: the loud ambience of his playfulness that drove away this isolation.
Restively, Zim's claws clacked together in front of his chest as he spared a moment to look dubiously across at the partially opened white door on the landing. In there, Clara and Dib were nested together, sleeping in their beds. Consequentially he felt unwelcome, as though their very presence would oppose his. Trudging in there, unbidden, in the dark, would scare them.
He went over to the blue door. Stupidly he reached for the handle, but of course it was too high for him to do anything about it. It was the one room he had not seen, and it got on his nerves that he could not see what was in there. He gormlessly stared at it a moment or two before moving on again.
Antenna nervously trembling up and down in a twitchy, confused way, he started his sly way across the landing to the top of the stairs. Going down was a problem. Getting back up again was perhaps too much cardio for his body to cope with. And he did actually want to cling on to the life Membrane had gifted him with. He knew not exactly how the scientist had done it, but was wise enough to know that it could not have been easy.
He just wanted to check the primary doors down there. Make sure everything was locked and secure. He did it every night before retiring down to the lower levels of his base. He never left it up to Gir, and he couldn't leave it up to Clara or Dib either.
Zim reached for the wooden bars of the banister rail, and gripped tightly with his right as he took each step one at a time.
It was an awfully long way down, the stairs better made for giants than little Irkens. The old wood, even though it was felted with carpet, still produced these long, tired creaks with each tread; cleaving the silence with every step.
His left hand tingled with unwelcome numbness, and he wasn't able to grip so well with it even after flexing it a few times. Likewise, his foot on the same side couldn't manage his full weight, and the tips of his toes were sparking with pins and needles.
Halfway down, he paused, wary of a noise his antenna had caught, and he stood, as tense as a cord of wire.
Sweat made his pink starry pyjama shirt stick like glue to his lean abdomen and the bandages on his chest. His eyes glanced up, down, and around. The open darkness at the bottom of the stairs offered no opponents.
Zim stretched down with his left foot first, bad choice, and before he knew, it buckled under him and he went tumbling the rest of the way down with clonks and thumps. He found himself lying on his front at the bottom, his head speedily whirling with dark, murky feathers. His heartbeat lost its rhythm for a few moments and he was sure then and there that he'd really messed up.
Gradually his vision cleared as if he had just come out of water, and the world came back to him.
He edged himself up onto his elbows, then his knees, wiping at something suddenly wet from the corner of his lips. He looked down at the oily green smeared across the back of his wrist. He'd probably just spilt his lip.
Eyes screwing shut a moment; he angrily hit his left leg twice for betraying him.
The pulsing azure glow of his external tube reassured him that all was well with his PAK at least. He couldn't afford to bash that about.
He woozily looked back up the see-sawing stairs, trying so hard to listen for footsteps. Had they heard him fall? Maybe they were just too tired. They had exhaustively taken care of him, and had run on fumes for the majority of the week.
Zim picked himself up, knowing he had earned himself some new bruises that would show up later as testimony to this incident.
Failing machines he could kick at, and fix. The nuisances of a malfunction never lasted long. As he rested, leaning one hand against the wall, he wondered how he was going to endure the malfunctions of his own body. Kicking and scratching at what hurt didn't help, even if it did wonders for machines.
"Computer?" He asked into the dark confines of the hallway, knowing that his request wouldn't work, but doing it anyway because it felt normal.
Eyes compulsively sweeping to and fro, he limped through the expanse of the hallway that felt about as lonesome as a cathedral. There was little to accompany him except the striking ticks of the old grandfather clock as it sternly stood in full residence against the wall.
Zim took in a phlegmy breath and fought the brutish need to cough. His claws parted from each other so that they could commence their habituated fist-clenching. The front door to the outside, prim and old fashioned in its decor, was intact. He counted the locks, one of them being a simple bolt, the other consisting of two locks.
It was locked, wasn't it? There were too many awful things subsisting out there, and he had to make sure the door would keep them out.
He overviewed the area at the door and its lintel for places where he could install nodules for a force field. He gave the area a nod of approval. Yes, there was room for them.
He padded into the hushed kitchen, almost taking a turn when something burbled and clonked among the kitchen cabinets. Dizziness rose like the tide as he approached complete blackout – then he realized with colossal relief that it was the fridge freezer making those noises, and hot water running through the pipes that would reach the radiators.
Sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes: stinging them. The places around his vision were pulling away, becoming grey and feathery. He forcibly pushed on, and walked over to the main dinner table where he located a stool. Settling his slim trembling claws upon its laminated wood, he started pushing it along the tiled flooring. It produced low, shunting noises as he laboured against it. He manoeuvred it from the kitchen, across the lintel of the doorway and across the hall. Once it was shoved against the front door, he allowed himself a terse break. His shuddering would not quit. More nuisance blood dribbled out of his mouth. It went away with a rub of his pyjama sleeve.
Grasping the top of the stool, he was about to work his way up it when the clock chimed the hour. He screamed: the noise pealing out of him as if he had held it in for an eternity: right antenna flying all the way up in a cartoonish way.
In his mind his PAK legs shot out of their ports; rising like javelins above and around him, assembling like protective arms that shielded him from harm.
The dinging of the grandfather clock eventually fell back into an intimidating silence, but only after it had clanged and dinged about eleven times. Then its horrible ticking resumed.
Zim was breathing out in stucco bursts as he stood crouched by the door in his illuminated little halo of blue.
His brutal shaking was off the charts. He felt unattached to the floor – to gravity – as if he was floating away on the string of a balloon.
He hatefully eyed the clock again for a long minute, daring it to mock him a second time, of which it did not.
Antenna pressed low, bloodied mouth jerking as he breathed hard, he waited. Everything was quiet around him, but now he trusted this silence less.
Reassigning himself to the task, he gingerly got up on the stool to access the lock-bolt. It was of simple iron. He had had one installed on his front door too.
He snapped it out of its slot to make sure it was working as it should, then snapped it home. But no. Had to make sure it still worked sufficiently. This was part of his perimeter check.
He slid the bolt back out of its slide, then back in.
Yes. Okay. It's locked. Stop it.
No. One more time.
Just to make sure.
The blot slid out. Then he slid it back in.
Okay now. It's enough. It's real. It's solid.
No no NO! Check again, damn you soldier!
The sweat was trickling heavily down his neck, causing a wet sheen on his collarbone. He adjusted his pyjama neck collar as he shifted the bolt out of its lock.
That's it.
It's locked!
Leave it be!
In went the bolt, but he pushed it back out again, convinced that it needed a re-check.
It's done now. Go check the backdoor and their hangar – I mean their measly attic! And they have so many windows!
He again performed the compulsion of pushing the lock back in then out. He tried to look for faults in the bar of metal. Could a push on the other side snap that? Maybe he could reinforce it.
The ticking of the grandfather clock, presiding behind him like an expectant Tallest, made him feel all the more miserable.
Then a sharp: "What on Earth are you doing?"
Zim spun round on the stool and nearly slid off it, chest heaving, and eyes so wide they looked like they might tumble out of his head. His deafness had made it harder to pick up on surprises such as this. Clara was standing there, arms open in consternation. Her honeyed hair, usually flouncy and well brushed, was scattered and unkempt. Her eyes, stern above the tired blemishes, were interrogating him for answers.
Those PAK legs could not branch out. He was laid open. No weaponry. No tools. All he had left was sharp language and a narrowed countenance.
He could feel the shivers work their way through him as if he had his claws jammed on a live wire.
"Well?" She asked again, her tone a little gentler this time.
"I amm... Z-Zim is..." His words came out all slurry, the debilitating stutters threatening again to smear his dignity. He took a breath: forced himself to slow down a little. "...Just CHECKING your fallible se-security is all! Don't you have a place... to... uh...be? Off with you now Clara girl! And don't jump up on me like that again!"
"Zim, the doors are already locked, like they are every night. You can indulge us in a little trust! Why didn't you come and wake me if you're worried?"
"Wake you? Why do I have to seek permission from you?"
"Zim, that isn't what I meant!"
"I don't have to listen to yo-ou anyway, and I don't wa-want to!"
"Zim!" Her sharp rebuke made his antenna snap downwards in aggression. "Do you not realize how unwell you are? You think this is a good idea, risking your health like this, after everything we've been through, after everything we've worked towards? You can't wander around like this!"
"We're going to have a problem then, aren't we?" He said hoarsely, eyeing her from hooded eyes.
Clara didn't retaliate straight away. Instead she eyed him up and down, noticing the blood on the fleece of his sleeve, the bright wet shine on his exposed skin, and the jerky way he was looking at her. "I know how hard this is for you." She said more softly. "But you have no reason to worry. Let me take you back to your room."
He cringed. Those voices, screaming into a vindictive orchestra: You're a worm-baby! Worm-baby! WORM-BABY!
"No." He told her.
She looked away a moment, looking spent and exasperated. She then kneaded her forehead with one hand as if recollecting her energy for this.
"It's gone eleven. You need sleep. I need sleep." She paused, looking him directly so that he had little choice but to acknowledge her. "Please, stop being stubborn, at least for a few days until you feel more at home."
"I'm not your worm-baby."
"I never said you were. Look. I'm tired and you're exhausting yourself. We can continue this fight tomorrow."
He awkwardly dropped down from the stool so that his inner wobbling wouldn't end up throwing him off. "Look, you Clara sir!" And he pointed antagonistically at her. "You think I don't know what you're scheming?"
"Scheming?"
"You're not ordering me around anymore! I'm done with it!" He shouted it from the border of his own pain: of how haunted he still was from all the days and nights spent lying in a sick bed. Better to forsake these feelings. Surely now these humans would change. And forsake him.
And perhaps, if he pushed her just enough, he might see just what she was underneath and if she truly meant what she said and did. How could someone be so genuine without harbouring an inner darkness?
He also said it to keep himself from tears. Her selfless acts always confused him. Could their friendship be genuine? He wasn't sure and feared otherwise.
She did not reply, at least, not straight away. It was clear that he had hurt her.
He waited, suspecting a great long monologue of why he shouldn't do that and why he mustn't behave like this and so on and so forth.
She reached towards him with her hand, palm up. He got an echo of a moment in the professor's lab: of how she had offered to take his hand.
Where were the reprimands he had been ready for? The steady stream of lectures?
He didn't know what to do. What did her offering mean?
Confused, stuck in the spotlight to make a decision, he hesitantly reached out, swallowing hard, and placed his hand in hers. Maybe now she'd punish him.
Her hand engulfed his as she squeezed it with maternal warmth.
"I'd never do anything to hurt you. And if I ask something of you, Zim, it's to protect you. I know this transition is hard. And you can hate me, if it makes it easier, but I will look out for you. I recognise the torment in your eyes. We've both been pushed into corners for a long part of our lives. You want to believe in freedom but you're worried it's going to dissolve the moment you trust in it."
Clara gave him a pained smile, a smile he recognised. Then she let his hand go. The departure of it hurt him terribly.
She was genuine.
How could he have been so stupid?
He did not normally pause and consider others. But in a moment of widening his scope, he fathomed why she understood. She had been in a similar situation; out of a routine orphanage, and placed into a stranger's house and encouraged to think poisonous thoughts.
The inexplicable realization: the only thing she had ever wanted was his returning affection. She admired him for being him. For being brave. For shouldering the hurt but looking ahead. Of course she wanted him to be happy and comfortable here. She wanted to learn more about his legacy, and had never found the right timing to ask.
She took a step back, her eyes wounded. It appeared as though she meant to leave him there.
He fiercely clung to her leg before she had time to make that decision. Clara paused, a little nervous when he could adapt to a different emotional transition.
And emotionally, he was a mess.
A soldier, trying not to be a soldier.
He did not know what to be.
Once perfectly at home in solitude: now terrified of it.
No mission to keep things simple. Nothing for him to manipulate. No easy method of control. And still, he had compulsions that had to be acted upon.
He wanted to let go, and didn't know how.
Trapped in a body that was no longer reliable.
His subservience to his military regimes had mostly likely been a drain on him over time. She did not really know what he had done, and what the full extent of his duties had involved, but she knew enough that some of the things he had done must have been terrible. Military men usually came home after a war suffering for the rest of their lives with PTSD; forever haunted by the things they had done once the immediate duty of keeping them cold and indifferent was over.
He bitterly snorted at her in confused, angry distress when she began to peel his arms off her, but he relaxed the moment she drew him into her arms. His smooth skin was cold and wet with icy perspiration that had soaked through his pjs, and his palsy made him rattle continually.
"We'll check the locks together." She said. "But I am going to have to put my foot down. If you're still restless, you're going to sleep with us. You've got one last chance, honey. And that's all you're getting."
He muffled something to angrily demonstrate his aversion of this plan, and it didn't sound like it was in English.
Clara let him go and turned towards the kitchen. She flicked on a light switch as she went which turned on the main ceiling bulb. Zim watched, duly startled. They had to manually turn on the lights? He sighed in exasperation. It was another job to add to his vast list of things to work on.
"See?" She gestured apathetically at the lock on the backdoor. "All shut up tight."
Zim nodded, but the look on his narrowing face indicated that he was unimpressed. "Nothing will warn you of an intrusion. I can work on one." He added, trying to be helpful rather than forceful. "Do you have a panic room?" He asked after a barking cough. "Is that what the blue door is for?"
"Panic room? Oh no, we have nothing like that." Clara gave the door another look, his suspicions working on her own anxieties.
She heard a sudden clack of claws on the linoleum and sharply looked around. Zim was sitting on the floor, breathing harder, as if something had just given way and he had crumpled on the spot.
He was looking gormlessly ahead in wounded surprise. Shadows of fatigue were darkly prominent beneath his eyes.
She knelt in front of his glassy stare and felt the corner of his head, and then his left hand, both of which were suddenly icy cold. She knew how hard the first night was going to be for him, but refusing to rest was doing the creature's body no favours. "Zim, this won't do."
"Go-got to get stronger." He said with a guttural choke.
"I know but not like this. Pushing yourself isn't the way to do it."
"I don't kn-know any other way!"
"And I suppose everything the Professor taught you went right out the back door did it?"
"Back...door?"
She gave out a sigh. He was never very good at understanding humour.
Clara lifted him up and hugged him against her chest. "I'll fix up something to help you sleep. You like cartoons, right?"
"I guess so."
She sat him on the sofa, propping his glowing PAK with cushions and wrapped him in a soft blue blanket from the side cupboard. Then she took a closer look at the blood on his mouth. "Looks like you split your lip somehow. I'm really angry with you, you know. But I know shouting at you won't really help."
"Clara." He said softly, eyes whisking down in shame, but in shame of earning her disappointment. "I'm really...really..."
She tapped him on the place where the bridge of his nose would be. "Were you about to apologize?" She asked with a smile.
He looked back with a nervous half smile. "No. Of course not."
Leaving him to watch cartoons from the mid 1960's, she went back into the kitchen to boil the kettle and stir in a batch of chamomile. She was relieved when she came back to see that he hadn't moved. He was leaning into the cushions, watching the antics of the characters on the screen from sleepy eyes.
"Here. Drink what you can, but you must take this cough syrup."
There was a dark stroke of resentment in his gaze when he saw the measuring cup of gooey orangey cough medicine next to the steamy mug of chamomile. He picked it up from the tray and swallowed it down just to get it over with. Clara put the mug on the side table and slid Zim onto her lap. She admittedly anticipated a snort of annoyance, but he willingly relaxed against her with no crafty pretences. It was as if he had just wanted the company.
"Dib. Where is that boy?"
"In bed, sleeping, like a sensible person."
"Is he okay?" He asked.
"Yes, just tired. Like you."
The furrows under his eyes were no longer quite so creased, and his tension had gone.
Clara knew he was frustrated. She had watched him test his limbs from time to time in the lab, as if his body was a complex component that had to be re-evaluated, rediscovered. His wiry muscles should recondition over time, and she knew it was the first thing he'd actively tackle. Once he was more comfortable in his own body, she knew he would demolish his reservations about them. He was already willing to change. Just not all at once. But he carried this air of disgrace about him. Afraid even, to reach out and welcome what was newly given to him.
She had been like that with her new step parents. She hadn't trusted them, in fact believed they had an ulterior motive as to why they had chosen her and not the 'prettier' girls. And it was hard to erase that feeling of failure. His eyelids lowered, and he muttered something along the lines of 'computers locking down all perimeters.' Then he limply dropped against her as sleep took him. Any trace of frightened tension melted away, allowing his body to soften. During the weeks spent in the lab, he had slept in someone's company.
The cartoons playing in the background seemed to give Zim some sort of secure ambience. It was hard to believe that an alien soldier was capable of finding solace from animated caricatures.
The cold in his hands signified inadequate circulation and her worry deepened. Maybe leaving him to rest in the bedroom alone for the first time hadn't been a very smart idea, especially when his sleep was at times disturbed by fits of these aggressive dyspnoeic episodes.
She let him sleep for a good hour in her arms, worried that the moment she made a move to go upstairs, she would frighten him awake. The chill in his hands was improving, and his shivering had melted away entirely. She did not want his midnight wanderings to become a habit, and treating him like a captive wasn't the solution. He needed more self-control; time to look at himself kindly, and accept a little more patience. No doubt he was better equipped to handle less personal problems, and deal only with the complaints of the inorganic, such as his machines, and the algorithms of data, and the missions he undertook.
Tonight they had allowed him some freedom, and he had only meandered around, lost, confused and anxious, thinking perhaps that diving under the helm of control would banish all other problems that were less feasible to administer. But this wayward method he clung to would only hurt his convalescence. It was a cyclical condition that needed to be stopped.
There was a gentle tap on the open lounge door. She looked over to see Dib standing there, looking a little disorientated and shaken. He must have woken up, finding himself alone, only to further his confusion at finding them both gone. "What's going on? Is he okay?"
Clara winced at him apologetically. "He couldn't sleep. I found him examining the locks on our front door."
"W-Why?" He staggered drunkenly over, half asleep, and with a ton of adrenaline raging through his system. He looked like someone who had just escaped from a bad dream. "Is he in pain?"
"No, no, Dib! It's not that. Imagine if you were in someone else's home, and having to relinquish control. It's not easy for him, that's all."
"I know that." He said bitterly. "Those stairs. How did he manage to get down them on his own?"
"I... I don't know."
He looked distraught, and not altogether happy. "Why does he have to go and be such an idiot?" He whispered under his breath. "Thank god you found him. What made you notice that he wasn't in his room? Why didn't you tell me?"
Clara shrugged. "I thought... I thought I heard someone shriek. It woke me up. I went into his room to check on him, and found the bed empty. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. You've been so tired."
Zim's eyelids trembled as he started to inch towards consciousness. When those brilliant magenta eyes peeked out from between his eyelids; swerving over to see what was going on, Dib started for a moment. Then, shrugging off his anger, he came and stooped over the Irken. "Zim, I'm taking you back to bed."
"You're all h-here?" He croaked, fetching worried looks between them.
"Yes, we are." He nodded at his fiancée to relinquish him. She was evidently reluctant to give up her warm little bundle, but she tenderly passed him to Dib.
The same nervous tension returned, and he could feel Zim's bony body falling into a light paroxysm. It was very likely that his muscles were just cramping from sustained exertion.
Keeping his arms snugly wrapped around him, he carefully and methodically went up the stairs and back into his room, the glowing blue from his PAK illuminating the way. The room gave strong evidence of his restless wanderings. The coverlet was all rumpled, and a blue blanket had been left abandoned on the carpet.
This foolish excursion of his underscored Zim's existential anxieties as he struggled to cope with so many sudden changes. Being weak and dependent on their care was the chief reason for this continual distress.
It was not a great start. And without proper rest, his frail body was overly exhausted; stuck as it was on tireless overdrive since this morning. His father had given him sedatives in case such issues like this occurred, but Dib was loath to drug him.
"Okay space jerk. Safe and warm in bed again." He sat him down, fluffed up the pillow for him, and encouraged the stubborn bastard to lie down. The pyjamas under his arms were cold with sweat, and the shakes were disconcerting to feel. "You didn't fall down the stairs, did you, Zim?"
The shock of such a fall would be enough to do damage. Or maybe he'd been smart enough to go down them one at a time, but Dib was duly aware of his accident track record and his low pain threshold.
"N-no, of course not." He answered this tiredly, his right antenna limp; not really even trying to pick up on the verbal communications sent down by his human companion.
"This is the second time we're tucking you in. Is the bed that uncomfortable?"
"S-Sorry Dib stink."
Dib felt his heart break. "No, no don't apologize. It's okay." He eased the fleece quilt and blanket over him and slipped a little cushion under his legs for circulatory alleviation. Zim moaned, frustrated perhaps at these uncontrollable paroxysms coursing through him. "It'll pass soon, Zim. It'll pass. You shouldn't have got yourself into such a state."He breathed out an extra angry sigh, mostly to make sure Zim knew how darn mad he was with him. "Are you in any pain? Is that why you can't sleep?"
"Would you stop with your panicking panic, human? I can go wh-where I damn well please." He noticed that heavy, leery way Dib was glaring at him. "I don't hurt." He said at last, knowing that was what he wanted to hear. Once he admitted this, the human's gaze softened, as did his posture. You could almost say his strings had been cut.
"Good. I'm glad." He pulled up a chair, a stethoscope in one hand. Zim watched him from hooded eyes, and even to Dib it was obvious how plain the relief was on his face when he realized he was staying. He was too proud a creature to admit that he wanted company.
As if happy to shake off duty to another, Zim closed his eyes and turned to rest on his side. Before long he was fast asleep. His perennial shivering took longer to settle. Now that he had well and truly worn himself out, Dib was sure he'd sleep well into the morning.
He sat with his dark and brooding thoughts as he twiddled the instrument in his hands.
It's all right for you Zim. You were unconscious through most of your heart attack. You don't know what it was like from my perspective. You don't know what I had to go through. What I had to see. And how much of it still haunts me.
He placed his elbow on the edge of the quilt and rested his chin on his hand, watching Zim's chest swell up and then down.
"Why do you do this to me, you bastard?" He whispered. "If you knew how long you had left, you wouldn't even think of having mini adventures in the middle of the night. But I won't tell you. Because I want you to prove my dad wrong. I know statistics and facts never weighed you down and they never will." He sighed again, his eyelids dropping low.
He could not deny the surprise he felt at Zim achieving so much in one day but some things had to be taken slowly. From now on, he would have to put soft reins on the Irken, and devise a better method for bedtime. This kind of thing could not happen again.
Dib07: Thank you very much for reading! Hope you enjoyed!
