Disclaimer: Considering that slash makes Jhonen ill to his stomach—and that I find slash simply delicious—my guess is that I'm not Jhonen and, therefore, own none of this.

Author's Note: This idea has been in my head for a while. XD I hope everyone likes!

Warnings: YAOI—ZADR and implied tidbits of (one sided?) ZAGirR; slight OOCness on Gir's part, but because he's in SIR mode the entire course of this fic, I'm gonna let it slide. :) Also, weird poetry-like setup.

Summary: Jealousy is a little red-eyed robot. . . Gir's thoughts as he watches Zim go off to spend 'quality time' with Dib.

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Through the Window

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Master is leaving again. I watch him silently as he enters the main house through the toilet, marching silently towards the door.

I observe; I pretend to watch TV.

He doesn't look my way.

Not once.

Master is leaving again. The door slams shut loudly in his wake, but not loudly enough to cover the soft whistling sound he makes.

I observe; I wait for a moment.

He doesn't look my way.

Not once.

Master left again. I hop off of the couch and trot to the window—he is walking casually down the sidewalk, trying vainly to hide a little blush on his cheeks.

I observe; I stare fixedly at him.

He doesn't look my way.

Not once.

Master left again. I press my hands and face to the glass, trying to keep him in my sight. He's almost down the street now, about to round a corner.

I observe; I squint and grunt in aggravation.

He doesn't look my way.

Not once.

And I'm alone again. I'm here alone again, with nothing else to do but watch TV or eat. I suppose I could break my toys or his equipment, but Master doesn't react to that the way he used to. Not anymore—no hour rants or threats or glares. Master has. . . calmed slightly. Master has opened up.

Master calls it 'luv'.

I know about luv. I see it on TV— saliva exchanges and oozing liquid from every pore and orifice. Luv is very physical, with lots of special words involved. Human words, human emotions.

But Master hates saliva, and liquids, and anything else wet. But Master hates words that don't predict doom. But Master hates humans more than me.

I don't understand. I observe, but I don't understand. I listen, but I don't understand. I research, but I don't understand.

So what is this 'luv,' Master? What do you see in it?

Why can I not have it? Why can he?

Why do you no longer pay me any attention? Why am I forgotten?

Am I so horrible that you'd char your tongue and body shell with the boy's moist touch rather than spend time with me?

You used to watch TV. You used to eat waffles. You used to plot. You used to munch on candy sticks. You used to yell and kick and laugh and smirk with me by your side.

Am I replaceable? Did I bore you? Was I not crazy enough, helpful enough, smart enough?

Just not enough?

I can be better, Master. I can be anything you program me to be. I am metal, not flesh or spit. You could touch me without the agony. And I will never age, or wither, or die. I will exist as long as you—maybe even longer. Would that make you happy?

Or do you like the pain? The angst? The forbidden luster around the worm-child? I'm sure I could be just as pathetic as him if I tried. There is a hose outside that will squirt water onto fires; I could run around in that. Then my touch would hurt. I could rust and become useless— a defect, an outmode. I could shut myself down. That would be death enough, yes?

I will do anything, Master. I will do anything for you. Anything to leave this window behind. To be the one outside it, with you. To be the one observed.

I want the Dib-human to wait, to watch, to hope for your return—I want for him to stay flush to the glass for hours, counting down the minutes until he sees Master walking near. . . Just to have Master bypass him without a second glance.

Yes. . . then he will hurt like Master; the sting of his worries. He will hurt like me; the pang of abandonment. But, at the same time, he will hurt worse than either of us; for he will receive both wounds at once.

That is what I want. More than anything else in the world—I want to see Master looking at ME; looking at ME with those eyes full of softness. Looking at ME with understanding and concern; with desire and 'luv'. Not anger or frustration or embarrassment.

Looking at ME. Just ME. Not HIM.

ME.

My reflection glows a bright red; I stand at attention.

Master is coming home again. I watch him silently as he rounds that corner, walking with a slight limp. His flesh is discolored from blisters—scarlet and pussy.

I observe; I stay pressed to the window.

He doesn't look my way.

Not once.

. . . not once.

XXX