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:

Hi, it's me again! One more update I think before I give this a break. Thanks to your continued support! If it wasn't for the soul-lifting feedback I would not have spent half as much time writing, and editing this BIG story. It's been a pleasure, and an honour sharing this! Wanna dedicate this chapter to Piratemonkies64 also known as Slothfantasy on tumblr, not only for her love and dedication that inspires me, but because of all her hard work she shows in the 'Saving Zim' audio chapters!

Thank you so much to HaleyRiler for her sweet fanart on Tumblr that I so adore! Your inspirational artwork is amazing! I dedicate this chapter to you as well! (heh, so many dedications!)

RissyNicole, you know what to look for! XD This is a first for me! I've never done cameos, and it was your idea that inspired me and I loved doing it! Your amazing and fascinating quirks are rubbing off on me! :)

side note to all: due to the chapter length, I was tempted to remove the 'star gazing' part, but found it too cute to part with. Read it as you wish, or read on past it for the main story! :)

Guest:

He's had it rough. I think they've all had their fair share one way or another.


CHAPTER 4: Another Part of Me

-x-

-One week later-

-x-

Before retiring for the night, he fastidiously checked on Zim to make sure he was in bed, sleeping. It did loads of good for his own psyche. But when he knocked on the door and opened it wider to poke his head in, he was taken aback to see that the bed, and the room, was empty. The window was open, allowing a cool chill to breeze in. The blankets of the bed, including the quilt, had been pushed aside. He had left his bedside light on.

"Damn you Zim."

It had gone ten thirty. He had crept out without a sound.

Anger and worry surmounted, fighting for a superior place in his mind as he stomped back downstairs after discovering that he wasn't in any of the upstairs rooms either; the blue door remaining locked.

The downstairs rooms were as he left them, vacant and dark. No glittery eyes stared back at him out of the gloom.

"Zim?" His urgency made his tone harsher. How could such a loud, destructive Irken be so stealthy and surreptitious when he needed to be? The very creature glowed like a nightlight.

He hurried into the dark kitchen. Everything in here was veiled in the black of night that gave up its own lonely serenity. His eyes fell on the backdoor, and saw that one of the dining chairs had been moved to stand close to it. When his hand fell on the handle, it opened. He had locked it, he was quite sure.

He stepped out onto the back porch where the ochre light of the moon limed his profile in silvery amber. It was so bright it cast long, shifty shadows that made the garden seem full of crafty approach. The spring wind, though warm, did not help dim this menacing effect.

Other than the sly rustle of leaves, the only thing he could hear was the sharp cry of a night owl.

Funny, how quickly and truly the dark still intimidated him. This was his back garden, another alcove of safety in a busy and crazy world, yet the deepening black beyond promised no comfort.

Above him was the immensity of the stars, pirouetting so beautifully across the zenith of the night like lost crystals in a vapour trail that had tumbled out the back of someone's wagon. How ominous, scary, and wondrous space was: the ultimate unknown. Zim was far braver than he could have imagined, travelling in the void so ordinarily, while he spooked from the night in his own garden.

He looked down, and saw that soft, dim blue cresting tiny circles of pink. Dib headed out into the deeper dark, slippers treading through dark grass. He could smell the loam of the soil, the sap of the pines bordering the fences. Spring nights were always a thing of nostalgia.

Not to jump him, he called as he approached. Zim was sitting on an open breadth of grass, hands splayed on either side of him wearing his thick, squishy purple nightwear that had such a big collar that it kind of hung from his neck. He had been staring up at the cosmos. His right antenna tweaked upwards first before he reacted. He glanced around spitefully a moment, an intransigent act of self-defence he had never been able to overcome. When he saw who it was, he relaxed but his eyes were still edged with diehard suspicion.

"Come to herd me to bed, human?"

Well, yeah. He thought, but knew better. "Just wanted to know where you were, that's all. What are you doing out here?"

Zim just stared up at him, as if Dib's question was too dumb to be answered.

"I thought you said the stars didn't interest you?"

Zim looked downwards for a moment, eyes searching. His masks were shifting. The pugnacious sum of his militarism was never far away, and for just a moment, the Irken seemed close to revealing why he was sitting here, under the quiet span of the cosmos. Then his pride clapped over whatever else may have been there, and he flicked a thumb in the direction of the house.

"They don't. Who said they do? Now go and stand and gap somewhere else! My brilliance needs time away from you dear cretins of mine!"

Dib stuffed his hands in his blue pockets of his robe, and raised a bemused eyebrow at him. Zim had already turned to look back up at the stars, his true intent losing its disguise. The light of the moon shone down, casting a surreal light on the green of Zim's upturned face, and giving him this almost omniscient look that contributed to the enigma of his nature, and his ostracism. The Delphic skies were mirrored back in the undisclosed depths of his eyes, both the sparkling stars and the subterranean mysteries beneath. He looked so singular, and fragile, sitting there, as if begging the infinite abyss for answers that might reassure his half life.

Deciding to stay, he quietly sat down in the grass beside his old friend, and looked up too. There was silence between them for some time, but it was a serene sort of quiet that comforted them both.

A shooting star wicked across the ink of the sky, gone in a blink. Dib shut his eyes, and made a wish. He didn't care how childish it was, so he was doubly shocked to open his eyes to find Zim doing the same thing. He didn't dare say anything in case it stung the alien's pride.

The owl called again, its lonely call resounding across the garden.

"Never had the time to look at the stars the same way you do." Zim quietly admitted in the silence, as if he had been reflecting on Dib's earlier question.

The stars glinted like city lights on his glasses. "See? It's not so bad here."

"Living on Earth has definitely been...informative." He agreed. He had been trained to destroy beauty as much as ignore its falseness. There was no denying it now. He even enjoyed the way the moon's eerie light made the flowers shine in a secret splendour he would not otherwise have seen.

"See that star?" Dib pointed at the centre of Orion's Belt.

"Red Magnus P-34." Zim said, reciting from memory.

"Well, we 'humans' call it the Betelgeuse star. It belongs to Orion's Belt. See the pattern, space boy? It makes the shape of a man drawing a bow."

Zim chuckled. "You m-mean you draw pictures from stars?"

"Yeah. See that one over there? That's in the shape of a bear. Ursa Major, the great bear. Part of it forms the Big Dipper."

"The madness." He chuckled again. "I should expect no less."

"Try it. See a constellation, and make it into something. Anything."

"What a perfect waste of my time." He looked anyway. "Okaaay. I see a... a squid." He said, pointing at this jumble of stars, and feeling stupid for indulging in this childish fantasy game for infants. He did not see the fun in it.

Dib snorted a laugh. "That's Pegasus! But I like it! You're trying!"

"What's a Peggie-sus?"

This prompted another snort. "A flying horse. From Greek myth."

"You mean those long legged-creatures you call horsies can fly?"

"I think your translator is broken Zim. And no, they can't fly. Only in stories."

"I don't get it."

"Don't worry, alien. You don't have to. It's like the stories Clara reads to you. It's fun to imagine things, and to break away from reality now and then."

Zim huffed, but not from irritation. He fell quiet, busily thinking as he looked up.

Dib was careful not to disturb his thoughts. He was aware of how plainly and deeply Zim had been cleansed of his frustrations. Since being freed from his Empire, he had stopped tearing through life at break-neck speed, and his deep-rooted aggravations had settled too. The unrelenting stress of duty had gone, giving more time for the old guy to breathe. But there was also a facet of loneliness, made more remarkable with this serenity. Peering into the scopes of space reminded him of places he could no longer reach. As such, his Irken ostracism was complete.

Dib was also very aware that he was not used to letting things happen around him without making things happen by his own hand. He lived to control. Not the other way round.

-x-

The next morning

"Zim? What are you doing to the washing machine?" He had walked into the kitchen to go out through the backdoor for a morning cigarette when he saw the mess on the linoleum floor, and the sight of his Irken kneeling in the viscera of the appliance. He had unscrewed the front plate, and the back, and was now dismantling its tubes and parts from the wall.

This bodge-job of Irken influence was beginning to infiltrate the house little by little. Zim had installed eight little security cameras over the front door, nine more covering the back, and a further ten still under development on his desk. He had already got to the cleaning products, and had blasted the house in all kinds of antibacterial sprays, and about slaughtered any room with a RAID can whenever he spied an uninvited flying insect. He was becoming slowly more active by busying himself with these projects, but like any creature hampered by age, he got tired quickly, and was often found dozing on the sofa with a cleaning spray still in one hand.

"I'm improving its efficiency, stupid! What does it look like?" Zim spared his human the briefest moment as he looked his way.

"Well, from here it looks like you're destroying it."

"It just needs an amplifying T-emetic. Then it'll wash your filthy clothing in seconds, not hours!"

"Your filthy stuff gets washed in there too, Fudge." Dib sipped at his coffee, finding this so bizarrely amusing that he hadn't the heart to stop him, even though he had the power to step in at any time and save what was left of the washing machine.

A screw bounced from Zim's aggressive manipulating as he busily tried fitting this 'T-emetic' thingamajig. "Here. Be useful and hold this." He handed over a part of the machine's hose connector. Dib took it, sipping his coffee with the other hand. Panting, the Irken sat back, his claws covered in grime and oil. It left smears on his pastel pink hoodie top and grey pants. "Finally! It's done! It'll even wash away the fabric, it'll be so powerful!" He cranked himself up on stiff legs, and hit the ON button, a screwdriver gripped in his right hand as he gave his human a tempestuous smirk.

"Zim... I don't think..."

There was an incredible BANG inside the washing machine, followed by a waft of greasy smoke. As Clara pounded down the stairs to see what had caused the commotion, the washing machine completely spilt apart, almost cartoon-style, with Zim standing where the front of the appliance used to be. As Clara came screeching to a standstill, he looked accusingly up at her, waving the screwdriver around. "This isn't my fault! Your crappy machine couldn't handle the power of my materials!"

Clara looked on in horror at Dib, as if he was an accomplice to the washing machine's impromptu murder.

"What is going on? I can't have the kitchen destroyed!" She was staring wildly at them in disbelief and dismay. The machine's dismantled parts were still smoking, and on cue, a high pitched alarm sounded in the hallway. Dib rushed to turn off the smoke detector.

Clara stomped over to the sink and opened the kitchen windows to coax some of the smoke out.

"Why is everyone panicking?" Zim asked, watching the two humans fumble about.

Clara came out of a screen of developing smoke, grabbed his wrist and jerked him away from the piles of washing machine.

"Hey!" He snapped angrily at her as he was forced out the kitchen, his little legs trying to keep up with her, "Let me go! Don't push and pull me around!"

The detector was turned off but the smoke kept building up. Then there was a dull thudding sound as Dib raced down the basement stairs Zim didn't know they had to turn off the main power supply to the house.

Clara led Zim into the lounge, her face an avid blend of anger, worry and disapproval.

"Give that to me." She said firmly, holding out her hand for the screwdriver.

Zim thought about it for a second. Then decided she had no authority to take things from him. "No." He said.

"And look at you! You are filthy!"

"So? Work is filthy." He coughed into his hand. Seconds later his right antenna could pick out the short, angry bursts of a fire extinguisher from the kitchen. He was pretty sure the slight implosion hadn't been that bad. He imagined Dib was putting on a show to make this slight incident seem worse than it was.

"What you just did was dangerous! What have you got to say for yourself? Are you proud, Zim? Proud of trying to blow up the house? Or getting someone hurt? What do you think might have happened if we were forced to call the fire department?"

"It's just a washing machine!"

"That's beside the point! You can't go round...destroying things!"

"I wasn't destroying! I was improving!" He croaked in retaliation.

"That didn't go so well, did it?"

More distinct blasts from the fire extinguisher. Dib was definitely hamming it up. Smoke, thinner, and with whiter curls, barrelled its way down the hallway.

Embittered anger stormed through Zim's fragile walls. He wanted to kick and lash out. All he could do instead was sulk. As much as it hurt him that Clara was telling him off, it was his love for her that hurt him the most.

"Zim? The screwdriver! Now please!" She continued to hold out her hand.

He gave it, snorting out a nasty sneer. "There! You happy? You go and fix things from now on! Let's see how long it takes before this hovel you call a home falls around your stinkin' ears!" He walked away from her and began to tackle the stairs, leaving dirty footprints.

"Zim!" She called, about to pursue him when there was a CLANG in the kitchen, followed by a string of curses. She went towards the sounds, holding the screwdriver. She waved her hand through the smoke, smoke that was clearing. Dib was in the rubble, spying for any more timid flames about to sprout like budding flowers through the hot debris. The chaos seemed to be over. The open windows were steadily clearing the air, and whatever was left was just a smoky mess.

"It's that T-emetic thing Zim installed. Sent a power current too great through the mains in the wall." Dib said, then, like Zim had done, he stopped and coughed; soon forced to press his arm against his mouth and nose.

"Where did he get this T-emetic thing?"

"He made it. Out of anything he could find. He's good like that. If he wanted, he could make a plasma rifle out of a toaster."

"And you didn't think of stopping him?" Clara demanded.

"I know, I know. It was stupid. Didn't think he'd cause this much trouble so soon." As Clara stared, wanting more of an apology, he added flippantly, "It's okay! I'll buy a new washing machine. Money isn't the issue here. Kinda wanted that Xeon model in the Argos catalogue anyway."

"You don't get it, Dib." She walked away, found a chair by the dining table and sat down, hand covering her eyes. "It's not the washing machine I care about. Or the house. It's the two of you."

Dib walked through the debris, his boots cracking on bits of metal plating. He joined her at the table, and put his hands around hers. "Told you he's not house trained."

She sighed, too full of tension and the sudden fright of the explosion to give the sentiment much credit.

He let go of her hands to give her a sad, delicate smile. "I'm sorry." He said. "Zim's not used to the practicalities of living with others. Or personal safety. But he knows now. He won't do that again."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because you laid down the law. He does things to impress you, Clara. Why else would he bother with a washing machine? He wants to make your life easier. That's all. He figures out what bothers you, and he tries to well...mend it. And maybe he's now more hypersensitive to mechanical problems since he can't exactly fix himself."

She bridged her fingers against her forehead, and took a deeper breath.

"I'll... I'll talk to him." Dib offered.

"No. I'll go."

She recognised resentment when she saw it, and she wanted to vanquish it straight away before it could grow. Funny, how closely an alien adopted and displayed emotions as well as any human being.

Clara took to the stairs, feeling the interval of each step as she climbed. It was quiet on the landing. His door was shut, and she expected to hear him ranting behind it; expecting at least to hear his confused, conflicted grumbles, maybe even the sounds of something being knocked moodily to the floor. But the silence was somehow more disconcerting than the noise of rebellion.

Being polite, she knocked on the door with a few taps. "Zim? It's me. I'm coming in."

She had never been afraid of him. She hadn't known who he was before he had got old. But there was a tension in her body when she thought of what he might do, what he could do to her when he got angry. That circuit board in his head that governed logic and reason might have short-circuited for instance, or he might have not had one at all. She had seen the weapons that had come out of his PAK when the professor had 'disarmed' him. He had been equipped for battle at all times, representing a life of violence.

She cracked open the door, and then swung it wide.

There was no sign of him.

Everything was pristine and in its usual place. The desk had not been tampered with. The wallpaper was not slashed to buggery. In fact, there was no clue he had ever come up here to vent or otherwise.

"Zim?" She called, looking around. The bed had been made with a supreme, obsessive neatness; illustrating his military tendencies. The Gir doll sat lopsided on the coverlet. The window had been opened a tad, but the gap was not large enough for him to have squeezed through. There was a tiny pot of black paint on his desk. Its lid had been coasted aside for an even smaller paintbrush.

She stood for a moment, thinking he was hiding behind a curtain, or had found a cranny by the wardrobe as a means to take cover. She supposed that, in battle, he had learnt to use any cover possible.

"Zim? Where are you?" She drew out a harsh sigh, her eyes coming to rest on the bed, wondering if it were at all likely.

She crouched low, fetching the draping coverlets over her arm, and lifted them. There, in the darkness beneath the bed, crouched Zim. His eyes, glowing that rounded, sparkling fuchsia, were staring out at her. Just behind the pair of eyes was the ardent pink and blue glow of the PAK. By his curled feet were a few storage containers, and the boxed defibrillator unit.

"Zim." It staggered her that he felt the need to hide, like a frightened child who had punished by his parents. "What are you doing under there? Are you hiding from me?"

"No." Came a moody grunt in the dark.

"I'm sorry for shouting at you." Those curious sparkling eyes of crimson mauve blinked; echoing the dark splendours of the galaxies, but he did not budge from his place of safety. When an alien who liked secret confines had nowhere else to go, this was the place he had been forced to choose. "You know I was angry. That was a dangerous thing you did. But I know why you did it, and I forgive you. Now come out."

"No." He repeated quite adamantly.

"You can't stay there all day, Zim."

"I can. And I will." That seemed to be the long and the short of it.

"It's dusty down there."

No sound from him this time. She could only hear the sounds of his wheezy breathing.

She thought of reaching in, and pulling him out. It was only a single bed, and he was within arm's reach if she went round the other side, but he would surely move away from her grasp, making an awkward situation more awkward, and in the end it would only cause him more stress.

Dib had been left with the mess downstairs. A new washing machine was now an immediate necessity, which meant buying and installing a new one, and such a job would involve at least one or two company people to help the installation go smoothly. That would not have been a big deal in the past, but now that they had an alien in their house, any attention from the outside world was not so readily welcomed.

She stood up, and reached for a book, any book. Moving from a crouched position to full-on standing made her a little dizzy, and it felt like someone had stuffed wool down her ears. It passed over her, just as the corners of her vision speckled with strange colours. Then she sat by the bed on the floor, opened up a book and began to read to him, keeping her voice low enough so that Zim had trouble hearing her if he remained where he was.

Without persuasion or force, Zim naturally edged towards the light, wanting to better hear the story. His head and antennae poked out from under the drapes of the coverlets. Black soot was smudged down his face and clothing as if he'd been up a chimney. She didn't dare stop reading; so easily could he dive back under the bed again. He warily viewed her as if she had all the powers of a scorned Empress. Finally he sat by her side, right antenna pricking up and down as he listened to every word.

She got to the end of the chapter, and closed the book.

Zim looked away from her sulkily, folding his thin arms. Despite his great age and long military career, he acted like such a child. He was not used to having a structured family life; not used to having his Irken imagination and energy restricted by healthy limits. Perhaps he had been searching for a mother all his life, and in his zeal to impress her, had only stumbled and failed.

Gently she wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. He went to resist, stiffening up and growling. But in the next moment he was softening, with claws nervously digging into the crook of his elbow. Clara clenched him tenderly, one hand plucking the claws away from his arm. "Let's get you all cleaned up, Zim."

He softly growled again, probably at the mention of 'being cleaned.'

She looked over at his PAK, at the signature blue tube, and the glowing ports that weren't quite as bright pink as she remembered them being when they had first met. Her eyes then trailed up to his antennae. The right one wasn't tipped grey. It was now a matted black. She thought about it for a minute, and then laughed. This instantly made him tense up again, face contorting into a hurt snarl. "You painted your antenna black? Oh sweetie, why didn't you say anything? I can buy dye for you. It's much better. That paint will only crack as it dries, and come off again."

Because he was doing his usual sulking thing, she reached over and took his sooty hand. It always surprised her how cold his extremities were.

As if had just been kicked from behind, he looked up at her suddenly in extremes of confusion as if she had just asked him a very self-incriminating question. That snarl weakened on cue and his right antenna lifted as high as it could reach. He leaned towards her, and gently poked her arm as if he doubted the physicality of her existence even though she was already holding his little hand.

"You're...different. It's getting worse by the day." He croaked. His expression, usually noncommittal due to his nature when he wasn't angry, had the hard edges of real worry. His right antenna then slanted to an eighty degree angle. She had come to learn that when he tilted his antenna like that, it meant he was either curious or concerned.

She cocked her head at the soldier; expecting him to verbally harass her a little more after the washing machine incident, and maybe hike up a coy remark based on her conduct.

"Different? In what way?"

"I... I don't fucking know. You're a human thing, how can I ever understand your bizarre customs and behaviours?"

"You're not distracting me from bathing you, are you?"

"I don't need to be bathed by you anymore!"

"Not until you can show me that you can do things without getting dizzy."

"You get dizzy too." He angrily defended, quickly averting his eyes from her.

She frowned at him. How could he have noticed? She hadn't said anything, or told Dib.

Still holding onto his hand, she helped him stand back up. "I can't have you trailing soot around the house. We'll sort you out, and then we'll have lunch."

Because he would not follow her this time and willingly permit himself to her whims that might involve 'baths,' she picked him up and carried him to the bathroom.

She called downstairs to the poor bastard who was still picking up pieces of washing machine and putting them into a plastic bin liner, "Dib! I'm giving Zim a bath. Can you bring me up some pre-boiled water? Make sure it's hot!"

"Just a minute!" Came the strained reply.

She stood him on the fluffy bathmat and then set down the little tub on the floor. He was still watching her carefully as if she was in the habit of transforming sporadically. But he did stop long enough from his grunting to realize how filthy he had got. He pulled on his hoodie top, and blinked when he saw how much soot and grime had got onto the pink fabric.

Dib came with the sterile, warm water that was in a large hand-held container. He did the honours of pouring it into the little bathtub while Clara added in some baby-safe shampoo. Zim watched, fetching agitated looks between them.

"Dib stink! Your Clara!" He was doing that thing with his claws; tapping them together and standing stiffly, legs touching, as if he was standing on a teardrop of land in the middle of the ocean. "Do you not notice the horrible difference with your Clara?"

Dib had no idea what he meant by that. He finished pouring the water. "What do you mean, Fudgekin? What difference? That she's wearing something else today?"

"I did put on different perfume." She suggested. "Maybe it's that?"

Zim was shaking his head. "It's not that smelly-smell you put on!"

Dib put a hand on his tiny shoulder, and felt the shakes in his bones, and saw the worry twice reflected in his eyes. "Zim, why are you so worried? What's gotten into you?" Was this his way of getting back at his foster mother? Zim was a master manipulator in the psychological sense, and would have no doubt earned himself a master's degree in that field of study if he had gone to a human university. But if that were so, his composure would have been very different.

"There's something wrong! With her!" He pointed at Clara, angry that he was not being taken seriously.

"Zim, this had better not be a joke, or one of your confusing and spiteful attempts at revenge, understand?" Dib told him in a low, sober voice.

The pain of his response made Zim's eyes look brighter and more vivid. His claws were back to clutching savagely at his right arm, antenna slinging low.

Dib turned to his fiancée who was kneeling beside the small, bubbly bathtub looking puzzled. He could see nothing amiss at all other than the soot on her frumpy jumper where she had hugged the Irken.

"Do you feel any different, Clara?"

She seemed conflicted; as if there was perhaps a grain of truth to Zim's sudden exclamations, but not enough to warrant a full-blown confession. "I have been feeling a little dizzy, but I haven't been getting that much sleep."

Dib grinded his jaw, worried to believe in Zim's bizarre claims for a moment, but also worried of not believing in them. "Clara, I think maybe we should get you checked out, just in case. If Zim's up to his usual deception, then we have nothing to worry about other than his bad choice of lies. If however he's right, and he can sense something we can't, I'd rather be safe than sorry."

"But it means leaving him, alone. I don't want to do that."

"I'll be fine." Zim stammered, looking very annoyed.

Dib was unable to soften the next demand: "Zim, STOP hurting your arm like that!"

He did so, begrudgingly.

"I'll get him cleaned up. Then we'll go."

"Fine. Just don't take too long." Dib left without looking back. Clara pulled Zim into her arms, and cuddled him softly, promising him that they'd be back before he knew it. He was quite clearly miserable at having been dismissed like that.

"After your bath, I'm going to leave you with some orange juice and a small bowl of peach slices. I want them eaten up by the time we get back. That's an order."

He really wished he hadn't opened his big mouth. Grumpily he avoided eye contact, and his mood was not helped by unshakable coughs. He wasn't sure if it was a smell, a feeling, even her aura. Deep down, there was a wrong. Something imbalanced. A single digit, not lining up with the orderly correspondence of others. Yesterday, he had felt that same 'off' feeling with her, but today it took his attention more ardently. Maybe humans went through seasonal changes, like the animals they were, and living so close to them made him more aware of their strange, alien alterations.

Now they were going to leave him.

Usually he would not have minded; would have readily welcomed it actually, but the pain might come creeping back. So might the frightening cramps, the episodic coughing.

"When will y-you humans be ba-back?" He asked.

"I don't know honey. We'll try to be as quick as we can."

-x-

They sat in the doctor's waiting room side by side, Dib's hand uncomfortably squeezing on hers. Several times she told him to ease up on the pressure.

She sat with her handbag on her lap as if it were a shield to hide behind. The room was stuffy and full of people waiting their turn to see the doctor. It had gone half four. They had expected to leave Zim alone for no longer than an hour and now they had been sitting here for almost two hours with little chance of being seen any time soon. She was grateful now to have left the mite with a small lunch to last him. She could not get over the way he had seen them off at the door; the total worry encompassing his face, the stilted way he walked as if the very weight of them never coming back was already a certainty.

Dib's hand clutched hers too fiercely again. He really wanted a cigarette.

And he was helpless to watch people leave their seats, and slip into the doctor's office one at a time. The cheap, plastic clock on the cracked plaster wall clapped out the seconds that blended inharmoniously with little kids crying. He hated these places. They carried these depressing undertones, and were infested with a chemical smell he could never quite place.

He leaned back, and tried to elude every nasty thought that came his way: the frequent worries and too frequent questions most husbands-to-be ask themselves. Was it cancer? What if it was cancer?

Could Zim sense the looming threat of illness in others? No, no, that was just stupid!

Oh but Zim was surely making it up, surely playing a mean-spirited joke on her? The ex-soldier couldn't help himself. That grain of evil in him would always resurface every now and then, like a bad smell from a drain. There was no reason to ever resent Zim's behaviour. He did what he did. To cope, perhaps. To belittle them because he felt belittled. As a hurt and punished child would drop a plate, so would Zim, and spite them back when he had been wronged.

"It's going to be nothing, Clara. I'm sure it will be nothing."

"But he looked so worried. He's sensed something. I'm sure." Then. "I wish we'd brought him with us."

"And pass him off as a child wearing an alien costume? Besides, it's too soon for him to be out the house."

"Well, I guess it's high time I had a check up anyway. I can't remember the last time I saw a doctor."

She was so forgiving. It hurt Dib for her to be so accepting of Zim's tomfoolery.

Her first and last name came up on the overhead screen above them: CLARA VERDEN ROOM 4. DR K. ETCHEPARE.

"That's us." Dib kept clutching her hand, refusing to let go. They rose together, and went down the wide, pale blue corridor to room 4. Stencilled on a bronze coloured metal plaque was the name: Dr. K. Etchepare. Dib opened the door.

The doctor turned towards them on her swivel chair. She was sitting at her desk by a computer. She rose, and shook Clara and then Dib's hand. She was a surprisingly young doctor with long locks of brown hair that cascaded down her slender shoulders, but her smile was very warm and genuine. There was a rare sort of joy in her eyes too, not the usual tiredness doctors sometimes exhibited. She at once offered to take Clara's hand, which she returned.

"Afternoon Miss. Vernon, is it? I'm Karissa Etchepare. Sorry for the delay. We've been running behind all day." She turned to Dib, and shook his hand too.

"I'm Dib Membrane." He returned. "I'm her fiancé. If it's okay, I'd like to stay as Clara's moral support."

"Of course! Please! Have a seat!" She gestured at the two vacant seats by her desk. Clara sat down closest to the doctor, still clutching her handbag. Because she wouldn't pipe up first, Dr. Etchepare breached the subject first. "So what appears to be the problem?"

Clara nervously looked to the doctor. She had no idea what to say, as she had no idea if there was anything wrong.

"I was wondering if I could just have a general check up." She said with sombre quietness. She didn't know how else to convey Zim's warning, if it was a warning, to the doctor without sounding like a hypochondriac.

"I'd like it if Clara was to have a blood test, and screened for cancer." Dib said, bowling into the delicate conversation with a no-time-to-waste attitude. "Please."

"And why the concern? Have you been displaying any unusual symptoms as of late?" Karissa kept her attention on Clara.

She only shrugged. "I've just been feeling a little tired but that could just be anaemia. I don't eat red meat, and I haven't been taking any iron tablets. I have... I have been feeling nauseous but it could just be a stomach bug."

The doctor nodded. "All right. I will perform some general tests in the room next door. Dib, I'd ask if you were to wait here."

He nodded. "Okay..." He felt weak inside.

Karissa led Clara into the next room, a room for more private tests, such as blood tests and the like. Maybe even urine tests, who knew. That room probably had a bed for the patient to sit or lie down on.

Dib was forced to sit and wait, twiddling his thumbs with his eyes on the time. There was another big ugly cheap clock on the far wall with large hands. He had his wristwatch too, so he just kept glancing at both. The clock on the wall was precisely three minutes fast. Every so often he'd clutch at the vial around his neck, twisting it around at the base of the string, and back again.

The palms of his hands were sweaty. Leaving Zim alone was a huge gamble, and it directly disobeyed one of his father's sternest of rules.

He had visions of coming home and finding Zim unconscious. Maybe he was stressing out at this very moment, or...maybe the opposite was true, and he was having the time of his life?

Dib heaved out a sigh, and slid his phone out of his pocket. If he called home, would Zim even pick up? There was a phone in the lounge that was close enough for him to reach, but what if he was upstairs, heard it chime, and had an accident on the way down? What if the simple noise of the phone scared the green out of him?

Just ring. And if he doesn't answer, leave a message so he can understand that's it's me calling.

He dialled his home number anyway, figuring out he'd try. The dialling tones did their little musical notes, and he waited for the old bastard to pick up.

He waited. And waited.

After about two minutes, the answering machine kicked in.

Hearing his own recorded voice speak, he waited for the tone before saying: "Zim, it's me. We're gonna get home soon, okay? Nothing better be broken when we get back. We're still at the clinic, so I'll see you later I guess." What else could he say?

He put the phone away, wondering if Zim was perhaps using this opportunity to find all the hidden old-Zim memorabilia and paranormal files he had collected and then stashed in his childhood and teen years. They had been dumped in one corner of the basement, locked up in metal cases, along with his old PAK legs and tools. He could imagine Zim being daft enough to super glue the PAK legs back on him again.

But what if there was no trick, and no malice at play? What if Zim was still standing at the front door, frantic and worried; waiting for them to come home? They had left him standing all crooked in the hallway like a frightened animal when they had grabbed their respective bags and coats.

Dib combed his fingers through his black hair as he hunched forwards. He felt like he had been the one doing all the betraying, and not Zim at all. It left a bad taste in his mouth.

Twenty minutes passed by, and he could hear the soft, gentle pitch of Clara's voice as she spoke in demure tones to the doctor. He would not snoop. Would not barrel into the room to see what was up. No. He would be a good, reliant partner. He would wait.

It was almost a quarter to six when Clara finally left that little private room, all flushed and glassy-eyed as if she'd had a run through cold autumn winds. The doctor followed her out, looking less confident somehow too. Dib leapt from his chair, and grabbed her cold hands in his. "Clara? What is it? Did the doc find anything?"

She hesitated, trying to look past him almost, as if she was ashamed. The fine shade of subtle mascara that she had applied under her eyes had smudged.

"You can tell me! I'm sure whatever it is, my dad can fix it!"

Dear god, had the doctor really found something? His mind was racing to all kinds of worries and ailments and diseases...

"Dib." She began, then hesitated as if her sure-fire courage had crumbled just as readily. She closed her eyes for a few moments, and then came out with it. "I'm pregnant."

But she said it as if it was a thing most terrible.

Karissa offered them a gentle, warming smile. "We need you back for a scan to make sure everything's okay. If this is your first pregnancy, it's always good to have its development monitored every few weeks for the time being."

"Thank you doctor." Dib took her hand again.

-x-

It had started to drizzle when they left Karissa's office. It covered the car in a fine wet skin.

Dib almost didn't feel the car's leather seat as he slid onto it, or the chilly cold as solemn clouds marched like an assemblage of soldiers across the sky to misplace the setting sun. As such, an unwelcome shadow filled the parking lot.

Clara joined him on the passenger seat on his right, clutching her bag just as tightly as she had done in the waiting room. Her eyes were like wary animals, flickering to and fro in search of predators.

"I asked her to double check. Dr. Karissa did. The results came back the same." She paused, looking befuddled and out of her depth. "Are you...pleased?" The gravity was in her eyes, her heart. They hadn't discussed kids much. Hadn't had the luxury. They had been too busy running from mad robots, saving heartbroken Irkens and keeping tabs on a passing semblance of normality. Putting the bricks down for their own life had been involuntarily put on hold many a time.

Dib deepened his grip on Clara's hand, and then clasped her into a half-clumsy, half-hungry embrace.

To be a father...

"Of course I am." He still could not believe it, like a poor man who had lived off scraps all his life couldn't possibly believe he'd suddenly inherited a million dollars. And he was pleased. He supposed. "My dad's gonna be a grandfather. And I'm gonna be a...a dad!"

It just felt a little too soon though. A little too much right now. Maybe she felt the same, hence that haunted look in her glassy eyes.

"Aren't you happy, Clara?" He asked, searching her eyes, her face, her body language when they'd parted.

"I... I don't know." She smiled again, but it was a bleak attempt at divulging the real thing. "I think I am. I thought we'd wait a couple of years. How did this happen so quickly? I'm not even sure we're ready."

"Of course we're ready."

She stared ahead, through the windshield as rain drizzled onto the glass. "I wonder what Zim will think when we tell him."

"Should we tell him?" Dib settled his hands on the cold steering wheel.

"Of course we are! Silly!" She chuckled, mock hitting him with her handbag.

He backed the car out of the parking space and hit the road, still feeling high and heady as if he had just doped himself to the hilt with cocaine. It didn't feel real. Like owning a million dollars didn't feel real.

Everything was coming into place. It made him nervous for a reason he couldn't fathom.

"How many weeks along are you?" He asked.

"The doctor said around four weeks. It explains the headaches I've been getting. The dizzy spells when getting up. I thought I was just tired."

"And Zim's perceptions are off the board. He needs to seriously think about starting a career as a witch or wizard. Jesus. Aliens. How did he know?"

"He's a perceptive little guy."

The windwipers worked at the rain while his mind tried to do the same thing with this deluge of worry. "Gotta tell my sister. My dad. You've met her, right? Gaz?"

"Once. At the hospital when you were injured."

"And will you drop the news on your step parents?"

"No." She said without having to think about it. "I don't want them to know."

"They have a right to know." He said, hoping he wouldn't make her angry by saying this.

They hadn't planned this pregnancy. She had missed taking a contraceptive by mistake, fool for her, and neither she nor Dib had been in the mood.

"Well," Dib continued, "looks like we might be getting married earlier than we'd planned!"

This evoked a truer smile from her. "You're sure you're not mad?"

It was hard to look at her straight to ram home the seriousness he felt about being a father when he was driving, so he did all he could to reassure her in words. "I'm gonna be a dad, Clara! This is great! We need to get you booked in for a scan. And no more heavy lifting for you!"

"I'm not weak and pathetic!" She giggled, a line she had taken from the notorious Irken. They both laughed.

He drove them up the last hill, turning into Canvas, and parked in front of the house. A cruel cold had risen up, and the sun, trapped for the duration of the evening, wasn't making a return. He got out, and watched Clara walk to the front door.

There was something growing in her now. It was hard to imagine it, hard to conceive it.

What had his father felt in the discovery of his mother's pregnancy? Was he happy? Excited? Worried? Even angry or scared?

He felt like there were not just butterflies in his stomach, but in his blood and in his brain as well, as if they were taking over control of his limbs and his actions.

Now he felt like Zim when he asked himself; what do I do with babies? He felt like he needed to start reading encyclopedias on them.

"Dib, it's locked."

"Sorry, huh...?" He broke reluctantly out of his thoughts with a jolt.

"I can't get it open."

"What do you mean?" He sidled up beside her, took the keys from her hand and tried himself. The tumbler in the lock turned, but the door did not open. It had been locked from the inside. Zim must have slipped home the bolts. He shot a look at the array of cameras under the eave and waved a hand frantically at them. "Hey, idiot! Let us in! We're home!"

"The cameras don't have audio yet." She exclaimed.

"Oh great. So if he's not looking at the security feed, he won't know? Jesus!" Temper getting the better of him; he started banging on the door, amply using his fists and the metal doorknocker. He stood back after making a sufficient racket, lips pursed, hands winding into fists. They waited in the spitting wind and rain. The door did not open. "I'm going to see if I can access the back door. You wait here."

"But the fence!"

"I'll see if I can climb over it."

"You'll hurt yourself!"

He ducked low under a growing bush of honeysuckle and hurried down the side of the house. He reached the first span of fence, and tried the wooden back gate. It was locked as well, no surprises there. Stepping back, he briefly gave a quick inspection of the fence's summit. It was a long horizontal line of large, wooden triangles all the way to the back of the garden.

He couldn't believe he was trying to break in to his own goddamn house, and Clara was waiting at the front door, getting cold. Hell, it was still likely that Zim would realize his mistake and let her in.

Dib measured how far he'd have to jump to reach the pinnacle of the fence. This was not his ideal route, and in his younger alien-crusade days, this would have been no obstacle at all, but he was in his middle thirties and he was losing that spring in his step. He feared injury more so now than he did back then, and with the heavy knowledge of being a father-to-be, his self-preservation had never been greater.

He took another step back and then ran at the fence, jumping as high as he could. His hand made a wild swing at the fence post, managing to acquire some grip. He grabbed at the wood with his other hand, and pulled his body up. The dark garden rose into view. It was quiet. Nothing to hear but the sprinkle of rain.

Swinging his legs over was the biggest hurdle yet. He didn't want to skewer a thigh, his crotch. Getting stuck up here was not his idea of fun and his hands took a beating from the hard, scratchy wood as he manoeuvred himself over as quickly as he was able. He felt a tip of triangle tear into his buttocks as he pushed himself off, and he landed awkwardly in Clara's newly planted rose patch. The fall wasn't graceful, and his ankle buckled under him. He cursed. But he'd made it over.

When he next took a step, he stumbled under the pain. He tried to lurch forwards on it anyway as he limped to the backdoor. He tackled the handle, but it would not turn. It was locked too.

"ZIM!" He banged on it, anger sluicing into worry. Why wasn't he answering? Could he not hear them? Again, the cameras out here glared down at him from their dark silent lenses.

Getting wetter in the drizzle and ever more desperate, he glanced around for another way.

There! The kitchen window was open by about an inch. He scrabbled painfully over to it, and hooked his fingers under its ledge. He pulled it open a little more, and then swung it wide. It would be a tight fit. These windows weren't designed to be opened all the way, only by about 90 degrees. He was thankful for his skinny build.

Purchasing a foothold on a potted plant, he squeezed his shoulders through the opening. The pot teetered under his weight. Beneath his nose was the sink and faucets. The kitchen itself was eerily quiet and dark.

"Zim?" He entreated, hoping he'd see the alien saunter in through the doorway from the hall and smile leeringly at the way his human was caught halfway out the window.

He reached in with one arm, and scrabbled for a faucet as leverage to pull him in with. The potted plant fell over, and he nearly popped right out the window, but he held on, and squirmed on through like a snake. Plates and cups fell from the drying rack to the floor, creating enough of a racket to alarm even the deafest of Irkens.

Finally inside, Dib jumped down onto the linoleum floor with a hiss of pain. He was in!

Leaving muddy boot prints as he went, he limped through the kitchen to the hallway. He shunted aside the bolts and opened the door. Clara bustled in, stripping off her wet coat. "Did he let you in?"

"No." He gulped, out of breath, his skin hot and clammy from the exertions, "Had to climb over the damn fence, then squeezed in through back window."

"I told you we shouldn't have left him alone. He must have worried." She said.

"That's no reason for him to lock us out like that."

"And you're limping!"

"Yeah, well, that fence has quite a drop. It's my damn ankle."

"We'll get you some ice, or it'll swell."

They went into the kitchen. Dib carefully removed his muddy boots, feeling how stiff his ankle was already getting. "I'm going to go look for him. My ankle can wait."

"Dib." When she looked at him from the counter, her face was whiter than it had been in the cold and rain. He looked bewilderingly her way. "One of the kitchen knives is missing."

The knife board had four steak knives. Only three sat in their custom slots.


Dib07: If you specifically want an update, please ask away! In the meantime I'll be working on other projects! Thanks so much for reading! Hope you enjoyed!