Saving Zim by Dib07

Summary:

He was almost autumnal in a sense, as if he had lost the leaves of youth and didn't quite know what to do as a chill swept in. There was a gloom in his eyes, and a new slouch to his shoulders. When he held Dib's gaze in the rear-view mirror on the way home there had been something in his eyes, something that he couldn't quite say.

Disclaimer:

I do not own the IZ characters. However this story and this idea is mine.

Cover art beautifully made by TheCau! All credit goes to her, please do not use without his permission, thank you :)

Warnings:

Character angst. Blood. Swearing.


Dib07: Hey there! This chapter will be a little tiny bit different to the original, but in a good way!

Zimothy: I've been looking forward to these chapters I have to admit! Glad you are enjoying them like before! Ah yes Zim, sorry but you and angst are the perfect combo! (much eveil laughter) and I'm glad I've been able to do Zim's character justice too, trying to anticape how he'll react when in such an awful situation, so um, yeah!


Dismay and Loyalties

Dib fumbled open a slither of window, allowing ice cool air to pour in even if it did nothing to ease his fever or the climbing panic that was steadily drowning him. With a trembling hand hooked to the steering wheel in something of a death grip, he groped for his Bluetooth ear piece he'd left in the door compartment and brought up Clara's number. Much of what he told her he would later forget, the memory coming back in splinters and fragments where panic shut out most of everything else.

Zim was making noises like nothing he'd never heard: pain-choked squeaks and mewls that cut up his heart. The Irken didn't know how to fight it, lost and overcome by agonies he had never felt.

Holding onto the steering wheel was the only way to ease the febrile shakes that had spread to his arms, knees and feet. Focusing on the glaring headlights cutting a path through the dark and rain helped direct his unravelling concentration, but it was never long before he was anxiously glancing at his passenger.

He didn't know what to do.

When he got through to Clara, he tried to master the stutter that kept skewering his words. "Hey there. Are y-you at m-my place?"

"Are you all right? I can barely hear you."

"Can you do a favour for me?"

"Sure." Her voice was telling. It was likely she believed he was either drunk or was coming down from harder substances.

His eyes wandered from the ghoulish glow of his headlights towards the creature slumped against the seat. "Can you... can you go to your place for t-tonight? There's something I need to work on. I'll call you later..." He was running out of strength. He was back in that bricked dead-end, spinning round in the dark, looking for a way out.

"Urm... sure." Her careful reply sounded uncertain. "Is it to do with work?"

"Kinda. It's just for now, okay? I'll see you s-soon?" Drained and shivery, he ended the call.

He was floating in a bubble that wouldn't break. Gravity seemed to have left him in free-fall. He was directing the car around bends and straights, but he may as well have been perched on a footstool before a simulation while the fever spread to every fibre in his body.

The invader's eyes were squeezed tight, sopping gloves weakly clutching at the blanket for warmth. His squeaky breathing, tiny shoulders moving up and down to a feverish rhythm of gasps, was becoming shallower, and any green left in his cheeks was a pale grey.

It was getting harder to shake the numbness spreading like ice through his body, harder to keep talking and harder to reach out to him.

He didn't do a very good job of parking, he kind of just rammed his car shy of a few inches from the house and threw the car door open, with bitter cold streaming down his face. Snapping back the wet seatbelt, the urgency rose like a fever when he fetched his arms around a boneless ragdoll of an Irken. His clothing was something of a suffocating wet suit. "We're here now, you're gonna be okay..." Bringing him to his chest and holding him tight, the patchwork blanket slipped off his PAK to reveal its blinking red light. The seat beneath was a dark avocado green.

Dib kicked the front door open, barely hearing the keys hit the floor as he slapped a bloodied wet hand on the light switch.

Zim's lethargy was worrying. Eyes opened just shy of a wince, pained fuchsia staring mindlessly at nothing. Dib began to really fear that the pain and shock would be enough to kill him.

Rapidly blinking, eyes trying to adjust to the flooding light of the house, he carried Zim to the bathroom while remnants of rainwater dripped off them.

Ripping a towel off the rack and roughly laying it on the bathroom rug, he laid the invader down on it as gently as he could. Even as rattling shivers tore down the length of his body, Zim was still trying to curl up as Dib fought to find the damage. "You're going to be okay stupid, you're going to be okay..." He murmurs were automatic mantras that he didn't register. Trying to get his fingers to work was a problem, and his numbed, stupid brain wasn't much help either. With panic soaking through him as quickly as the rainwater, icy fingers pulling back on sopping little gloves, a metal spear shot out, narrowly slicing open his hand.

He stared dumbly at it for a second as Zim wrapped arms around himself, the PAK leg slithering out like some agitated snake. Lack of energy or control had the appendage thump heavily onto the carpet where it then tried to rest over the Irken like a gangly pipe.

"No, no, you idiot! It's okay! I'm not hurting you!" He laid hands over it, feeling the warmth through the material, Zim staring out at him from hooded, ghostly eyes. "Please, Zim, I can... I can help!"

Zim at last turned away and closed his eyes, curling tighter, but the PAK leg slipped back in, hitching towards the end as if it couldn't quite fit.

He didn't want to see what was under those wet gloves, believing the flesh had festered to bone, but as Zim choked, legs weakly fidgeting to escape the pain, Dib wrestled away his personal fears and tugged them off. His claws hadn't melted as much as he feared, but the skin was overly soft and heavily blistered, a mere touch causing the skin to completely split apart.

Bright tears ran down Zim's grey and scuffed cheeks, his panicked whimpering shrill in the quiet of the bathroom.

He tore open the medical kit from the cabinet. When it opened, packets of gauze went everywhere, but it was only the scissors he cared for.

Trying to wield the scissors in numbed, shaky hands, Dib started snipping at a sodden tunic, but his work was slow, aware of how easy it was to cut the suppurating skin that had melted to the fabric, and this was made especially hard by Zim's prevalent shivering. He had no choice but to pull, watching flesh come away like mushy paper. It was horrifying to injure him further, and as each bloody wrap of tunic came away despite his best efforts, he then covered the weeping welts with a towel.

A slender and clammy claw tried to push the hand working the scissors through his noose of a neck collar. Even as Dib muttered and murmured empty comforts, he had stopped expecting a response, let alone a coherent one, and was further heartbroken when Zim pushed himself to speak. His terrified squeaks were broken, breathless pleas: "Y-y-you promised... you... wouldn't cut me open..." Pink, rolling pupils tried to see him under drooping eyelids struggling to lift. "The... th-the wire...!"

"Shush, it's okay, I remember, Fudge." He didn't want to risk nicking the soldier's jugular so he put down the scissors to peel back the rest of the collar. Grabbing another towel, he stroked it as roughly as he dared over Zim's bleeding neck and face to dry him. "Where does it hurt? Point if you can..."

Zim tried to turn away, from Dib, from the pain, as if he could hide his vulnerabilities even now.

He managed to cut the tunic from end to end (the resistance of the material made this very difficult) and as he peeled it off, sleeves and all, it revealed blotched, festering lesions. Removing the leggings, last bootie and socks was easier, but not so much on his heart. Smoke steamed off the invader as if he had been shoved into a fire. He wasn't sure how else to soothe such wounds except to wrap him in towels.

Breathing heavily, heart hammering against his ribs, Dib saw the problem.

His old wound had reopened, with something like mucus or blood trickling from the tear in his abdomen. When he brushed cool fingers over it, eliciting a croaky pain squeal from the shivering Irken, he could feel how felt hot and inflamed it was.

He suspected some kind of intestinal injury which sprung loose one vital question. I don't understand... Why didn't it heal...?

Taking the last towel from the rack, he wrung it into something of a rope and wrapped it around the Irken's scrawny middle, crisscrossing it the centre to make a knot. Though it would stem the bleeding on the outside, it was the internal damage he was worried about.

Zim's friable crying was growing weaker. Velvet lines of antennae had flopped uselessly upon the towel. "Stay with me, you idiot." Chilled hands cupped his Irken's abraded cheek that burned with fever. Magenta eyes flittered open wildly as he came back. "That's it. Don't go anywhere..." His heart raced. "...I'm, I'm gonna get you warm, okay?"

Ripping open a cupboard he tore out more towels and spare blankets before tucking them around every twitching leg and arm as thunder and rain lashed and screamed outside.

Zim did not react much to his touches when he felt him over for any latent injuries he might have missed, like broken ribs or a fracture harder to notice. His older wounds were comparatively minor as if those same tricky 'stairs' he so tirelessly blamed were still the reason he ended up looking so bruised. Dark, greenish marks ran down his left leg as if he had landed heavily on that side, his ankles were puffy as if they were swelling up, and there were scratches running laterally across his chest.

"Who's done this to you?"

Scouring through his medical supplies, he grabbed rolls of gauze, a bottle of antiseptic solution, common plasters and tweezers. Unrolling the gauze as quickly as he could, he started binding the wound after loosening the knot. He kept adding gauze when each layer had warm green coming through. Applying stitches was probably the better option, but even if he had the equipment and the know-how, and if Zim would be still enough while he attempted it, he wasn't sure that sealing it up was the solution.

We've been here before, haven't we, little guy?

His fear didn't ease, even as he secured the bleeding behind more gauze. It called into question why the injury hadn't healed. Zim had battled through life earning numerous wounds, some of which left scars and broke bones, but no matter how deep or severe they were they always healed over time.

Dib placed a final plaster over the growing blot of green permeating the centre of gauze before hoisting an utterly limp Zim into his arms. The Irken weakly squealed, trembling in panic as much as pain when he felt himself being lifted. Cuddling him up with fleecy blankets of various colours to try and drive out the cold, Dib hugged him closely to his chest and tried to get some of his body heat into him.

"You're gonna be okay, you're gonna be okay..." He ran his hand over the Irken's bundled shoulders through the warming fleece, feeling those shivers bully the little creature's bones. He did not expect any amount of comfort to soothe him, believing that any constrictive contact would only cage the Irken, but in the minutes that followed, Zim's crying soon weakened. His trembling was more erractic, coming and going violently, and Dib worried it was from shock.

It took him slow seconds to remember how to breathe himself. Green was on the wall tiles, the floor, and the bathroom sink. When Dib would later peer, aghast at himself in the mirror, he would find that his face and clothing hadn't been spared.

There was an insensible gulf inside him, drawing all warmth and colour until everything had a grey and deadened centre to it. He was only aware of the Irken's deeper shivering and the squeaky, laboured breaths that ebbed in and out of his chest. Dib counted the span of each tired gasp, heart lifting when the next lungful would follow the last.

He'd never been so scared, and was astonished that Zim had been at all able to bring out these emotions so easily.

Was the PAK no longer working? But if it couldn't function, wouldn't Zim cease to function as well?

Besides, the Irken knew his own technology inside and out. No way would he let such a vital piece of equipment fail him.

Without his attire, every scrap of dignity stripped away, it revealed less of a soldier and more of a fragile, torn-up animal. The only thing that gave any substance was the still-blinking PAK, its crimson flashes washing out its customary pink hue. It was also incredibly hot. He could feel it burning into him through layers of bloodied towel and damp blanket.

Though Zim's lifeless eyes were open to splinters of red, they weren't focused, and his body was rag-doll soft.

Dib swallowed, feeling the lump in his throat. He took a breath, and then another, fighting the tears as rain pitter-pattered heavily outside.

Each time Zim coughed, a new line of blood would trickle down his lips.

I... I think he's haemorrhaging inside...

His thoughts were a spinning top that couldn't balance. Each time Dib peeled back the blankets, he saw the dark algae-coloured stain in the gauze growing by the hour, even when he applied pressure. The Irken was no longer shaking quite so fiercely, but the skin that hadn't melted remained chilled and pale. And no matter how warm the bug was, and how much time passed, the top port of his PAK continued to blink, the red light never fading, and every now and again, as the rain thrashed over the eaves, terrible and frightening cranking sounds would come from it. He clasped Zim tighter once he knew where the sounds were coming from. They would come at intervals, with no pattern or distinction, and sometimes they weren't even that noticeable.

He ran a hand gently over its spherical shape, finding nothing out of place, only the usual collection of bumps, dents and scuffs on the mantle, but he found that he had to take his hand away before it burnt him.

Muddled with fear, stomach roiling with nausea, he knew he had to keep focused and fight. He would accomplish nothing if he just sat here, worrying.

"Don't know if you're still awake, space jerk, but I think moving into the lounge will be more comfortable. What do you say?" He smiled sadly, feeling a leg twitch in response to his voice.

He proceeded carefully out of the bathroom, his gait gentle when he not sure how conscious Zim was, and he didn't want to do anything that would frighten him.

Propping up cushions one-handed, Dib carefully deposited him on the sofa, hand stroking the top of a burning cheekbone. You're gonna fight this, Zim, you're not allowed to leave me here. You made that promise too.

Moments later he was hauling stuff from upstairs, grabbing any blanket and pillow he could and arranging them before the radiator. Each time he came in with another collection of things, he looked over at his alien, hoping he might stir, that the PAK was just taking a little longer to 'fix' him. Despite his deafness, his left antenna was still good at picking up subtle vibrations in the air like the whiskers on a cat, but the old Irken remained a lifeless huddle.

I can't stand to see him this way.

What would his father think of him if he ever found out he was harbouring an alien - for the second time?

If I were caught, would I be put in the electric chair?

He wasn't sure if there even was a punishment for harbouring extraterrestrial life, unless they invented one especially for him.

Laying down a sheep-skin rug, he meticulously arranged the bedding in front of the radiator. The internal heating was on full blast, and the warmth had him sweating in his still-damp shirt and pants.

The hodgepodge of bedding turned into a comfy nest of various colours. It was better to have Zim lying near the hot radiator and on the floor rather than have him on a bed or sofa where he would feel less secure and be more likely to tumble off. He didn't know if Zim even had a bed at his place, or slept in some kind of insect-type burrow.

"Okay, Fudgekins, time to move you somewhere more comfortable." He approached the little blanket-huddled Irken and gently scooped him up, feeling Zim's abnormal floppiness. Cradling him against his chest, he brushed a thumb over the Irken's surprisingly dry and burning forehead. "Why didn't you come to me sooner? Is your pride worth this much misery?"

Before the words had even left his lips, dread and horror opened up inside. The... the phone call that... that I...

Guilt pooled in, filling him with cold ice.

With legs that were beginning to wobble, Dib carried him over to the little nest pile and lowered him into it, guiding his head and body down. When he was well and truly bundled to the rafters, he eased Zim over onto his good side to help him breathe. Grabbing his laptop, he sat down beside him and typed SEVERE BLOOD LOSS into the Google search bar. The results weren't enormously helpful.

'Raise the appendage above the level of the heart.'

'Dial 999.'

'Keep the patient calm and warm.'

'Apply pressure on the wound.'

Like he had the luxury of dialling 999. He could almost imagine the stupid conversation that would come with it. "Yeah, you see, I've got an alien here, he's Irken, and he's bleeding like, really badly. Any tips?"

"Sorry, you have a... what?"

"He won't like ambulances, and he won't like hospitals. In fact he won't even like the paramedics. Can you just walk me through it? Also this PAK he's attached to keeps making noises. Is that normal?"

He gave out a sigh, wondering if he should keep his hand pressed against the wound, but it would cause more pain and more distress, and he didn't want to put Zim through any more of either.

I should give him pain relief but I just have some aspirin and paracetamol, and that might screw up his system.

After a moment's hesitation, he typed in SHOCK.

The classic signs epitomized the dread like nothing else. The words 'fatal' glared back, accompanied by deteriorating symptoms that included low blood pressure, a rapid pulse, convulsions, death.

Working up the courage, he lifted a flap of blanket to peer at Zim's swollen ankles. Can shock do that to an Irken? It might if he has an infection. He lowered the edge of blanket, heartache wrapping him in chains. Why do I care? His hand curled into a fist, nails cutting into the palm. He's the enemy! You think he'd show me the same mercy?

He pushed the laptop away, hands clutching his head as he slowly rocked himself to and fro.

Madness arrived, uninvited, and perfectly disguised to those unaware, and he wondered if it was happening to him too.

The Irken's mortality was too real. To disregard everything they'd weathered, sacrificed, survived... just so that he could turn away.

His eyes lastly fell on the bulk of PAK that was abnormally heavy for one so small. It was a brutal machine, purposely suited for combat and warfare that must have served Zim well in previous skirmishes, but to him it epitomized Irken slavery as opposed to its savagery. Despite its vindictive purposes, it was Zim's life support: enabling complete dependence. There was nothing inordinately amiss with it, at least, not by looking. It was now humming steadily, its oval ports shining an unhealthy pink, but the light in the topmost port was still blinking red. He waited for it to crank out those awful noises again, and wondered why they came and went of their own accord.

He sat back, haunted whenever he looked at the crooked and split antenna that had never healed, leaving the invader deaf and slightly weaker on that side for the rest of his life.

He shook his head. Now was not the time to revisit the memory.

"Hey, Fudgekin, you awake?" He brushed a soft fingertip under Zim's closed eye, and did not get a reaction. His breathing, though ragged and shallow, was a little steadier, but the soft jade in his cheeks wasn't returning. Dib didn't know if Zim would naturally stabilize on his own, or slip and slide all the way downhill. He wanted to try getting some warm liquids down him, but things good for a human might not necessarily be good for an Irken.

Dib dipped his hand into the warmth of the blankets and placed his palm over Zim's chest to feel the strength of his heart. The rhythm was choppy and tired: heartbeats tapping away with no energy.

I don't know what else to do for you.

The rain drumming outside had him shivering despite the room's comforting warmth.

Restless, worried, looking for someone to talk to, he phoned Clara while he battled with feverish shakes of his own. He clutched the phone tightly to his ear, haunted eyes darting to the Irken in compulsive cycles. The old Elite's complete inertia concerned him as purely as the blood loss. No Irken should be this quiet, least of all Zim.

"Oh, I'm just doing the laundry." She was saying, "But I got distracted. They were showing these creepy documentaries on channel 7 about Edward Earlstone. Did you know that someone broke into his mansion a few years ago?"

Dib looked wearily down at the blood he was covered in. As it dried it turned his clothes hard and brittle. "Hmmm, yeah." He said without really hearing her. She sounded so distant - she might as well have been talking from Antarctica.

"Is everything alright? You sound..."

"I've got a question to ask you, hypothetically of course. What would you do if you came across an alien?" He asked, only to hear Clara laughing.

"Well, I'd run the other way. They could be dangerous. Why else would they come to Earth other than to experiment on us?"

"Yeah, exactly." Dib said, feeling foolish.

"I would like to study it if it was safe to do so, and compare its biology with ours. But to be honest, I'd rather find a new species of animal."

"Y-Yeah."

"So, how's this project you're working on?"

"Project?"

"Yes. The one you mentioned earlier?"

"Oooh, that project..."

Dib could hear her tone change into something cool and indifferent. "It's okay. I understand."

He wanted to blurt it all out to her, but every time he tried, he froze, and couldn't get the first word past his lips. "I... I want to see you, but something's come up. I have a lousy house guest this evening. You'd hate it. He's loud and obnoxious."

"Is it Zim by any chance?"

"Yeah..."

"He's quite a colourful character isn't he?"

"You can say that again."

"Well I won't keep you. Say hi to him."

In defeat, he wished her goodnight, and ended the call.

During the long hours that followed, Dib cut up one of his old black jackets as a means to stay occupied while Zim slept. The Irken's uniform was completely ruined, so he threw it in the bin, and customised an old jacket to fit one so tiny. He cut off three-thirds of the sleeves, and then he cut away the lower part of the jacket from the back all the way to the front to make it shorter. Then he cut out a huge strip from the back before crudely stitching it together to make it narrower, remembering to leave a hole for the PAK to fit through. It was still two sizes too big, but it was something he could wear. One of his sister's old purple shirts looked more or less suitable. He could still see the old logo 'Evil Never Rests' on the front.

The clock struck two in the morning. Objects became blurry, his head pounded and his throat and eyes stung. The pained screech Zim had made when he had run to the car in the rain kept resounding in his head; his creatural screech was too familiar: uncovering an agony he had never been quite able to bury.

I might need to keep him here. And what will Clara think if I keep making lame excuses? She'll believe I'm not interested in her anymore.

He ran a hand against the back of his head, tired eyes falling helplessly on the Irken. He had half hoped Zim would rise back to life. His resilience had helped him to shrug off one disaster after another as if any aftermath was but dust to brush off. He had even left his laptop open and unobstructed by passwords beside the Irken in the hopes that this little gesture would tease out the deviousness in him as good cooking smells stirred a sleeping cat, but it hadn't worked.

He reached over like he had done so many times and massaged a tiny little hand protruding from a corner of blanket. The skin was sore, the numerous crater-like boils still overly warm, but they weren't sizzling or steaming anymore.

What if he gets worse... and dies...? What do I do with his... body? He closed his eyes against the image, an image he had conjured too late. No. no, that's not going to happen!

He unconsciously squeezed on the hand again; a hand whose claws were strangely soft and pliable when there was no tension in them.

I will have to tell Clara everything eventually, even if it will destroy what we have. Good God Zim, you are the Master of Bad Timing!

At a quarter to three, Dib dulled the lights after changing out of his blood encrusted clothing, numbly slipped into casual wear and uneasily lay down on the floor beside the wheezy Irken in the vague hope he might sleep. He had rummaged up some thin, bent mattress from the basement with a heavy blanket so that he could stay close to him, even if his comfort would be marginal.

He wished those bright eyes would open to reveal nebulas of fuchsia that had splatters of crimson in them. Eventually he dipped his head down, reluctant to close his eyes, but just listening to Zim's laboured squeaks of breath was enough of a lullaby to shake some of the tension.

The dreams quickly tumbled in, fetching him in and out of troubled dozes that were less like naps and more like hallucinations. The dreams were hazy, muddled shadows from narrow recesses that twisted and turned beneath the weight of darker anxieties. He was flicking through his old lullaby book in a lavender painted room when Zim came over and stood by his side wearing a droopy purple robe that hung down to his knees.

"I know what happiness is now." Zim croaked, a dainty but sincere smile lifting the wrinkles from his eyes.

He woke, drenched in cold sweat, gasping for air when he heard strange, animalistic sobs and squeaks. The noises were faint, and were little more than fractured, meaningless sounds.

Dib slowly sat up, keeping his voice purposely soft and gentle to avoid scaring him, "Hey, you. I'm here space bug." He went to touch him, remind him that he was safe when he watched the soldier feebly twitch and jerk beneath the blankets.

He's dreaming...

"Shush, it's okay..." He tentatively rested a hand on the little bundled heap, aware that Zim was twisting up again, skin wet and shiny with fever. Easing back the blankets to allow the bug to cool, he noticed Zim rubbing his claws on his wrist in a clumsy, directionless way as if he was trying to massage a particular hurt. The ministrations reminded Dib of a moment in Skool when he was first introduced to the class. A device had appeared from the hem of his glove when he'd made those same motions of his hand.

His eyes slowly widened when he realized what Zim might be trying to do, even in sleep.

"Zim? Hey?" He rocked a hand on his shoulder, but received the same unsettling inertia.

What if he doesn't wake up?

This... this isn't working... He's not getting better, and the pain keeps coming back...

He was afraid of giving him human painkillers that could trigger anaphylaxis, and as much as he tried holding it off, he had no other option. Giving the little bug one more squeeze, he dived into the kitchen, brought the kettle to a boil and opened a sachet of aspirin.