Pak Withdrawal Symptoms

by XxzimisinhellrightnowxX

ATTENTION MY BELOVED FILTHIES AND ZIM FANS. In light of a sickening lack of zadr/f fanfics where Zim gets thrown in an injury blender and Dib has to cutely nurse him back to health with NO ulterior motives, I am writing one myself. Updates will be Frequent and Terrible. Zadr will probably happen. Blood and flesh will rain from the sky. Stay tuned, loyal readers!

3. Chapter 3

! Please read the author's note!

A/N. Hi! I'm autistic and I grew up with very little innate empathy, and I approve this fic in which I write Zim and Dib as autistic, with very little innate empathy. Pretty much all aspects of this fic are based on my experiences, and I'm using it as a way to talk about them and to vent about the shit I go through as a disabled person w chronic pain, fatigue, and illness.

If it seems goofy to you how Dib stims or Zim's symptoms/response to withdrawal, or how overly angry Gaz gets, that's totally fine! But despite the lack of experience I have writing about all of this and the ridiculous medium I've chosen to express myself through, this is all shit I've gone through. Not the alien skin melting. Or the robots. But pretty much all the other stuff.

Please be mindful before you comment anything about how I'm being ableist or any opinions you might have on stimming. I'm writing this remarkably campy bullshit because I'm disabled, not as a way to make fun of disabled people. There are plenty of fanfics that portray your favorite Invader Zim Characters as able-bodied and Allistic.

Thank you so much for reading my very silly autism-fueled fanfiction, and if you don't enjoy reading it, I genuinely hope you have a lovely day and find something you do enjoy reading.

Rawr XD, wafflez and tacoz, and so on,

XxzimisinhellrightnowxX

Ch. 3

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Dib is greeted with the uncharacteristically still silhouettes of Zim's robots. Gir and Minimoose sit silently in the dark, lit only by Gir's glowing eyes and the occasional lightning strike. Gir is wearing his 'disguise' now, with the hood off. It's pointless for him to wear the haphazardly-assembled, dog-themed onesie here – and Dib's being generous by calling it that. He has no idea how Gir passes for a dog to anyone. The suit is visibly stitched together and neon green, for fucks sake.

Maybe Gir's programming tells him to wear it whenever he goes outside Zim's base. Or maybe he likes how it feels. Does Gir have a sense of touch? Dib sees him 'feeling' and cuddling things, and he loves eating very specific foods, so he probably has a sense of taste. Maybe Zim is just a shitty programmer and Gir was supposed to be a little brother or son or actual companion –

Gir's shrill voice interrupts Dib's pointless, runaway train of thought. "This episode. Not so good." The little robot points to the black, powerless tv. Minimoose, almost wholly swaddled in a fluffy blanket, wiggles and nyahs in agreement. Gaz must have deposited them downstairs in front of a kid's show or something.

Dib takes a few breaths, trying to recover from everything, and prep himself for everything else. "Yeah. The power got knocked out by the storm, my dad will fix it when he gets home –" shit. Isn't Dad due home sometime next week? At least Dib won't have to explain all of this. Good for you, absent father. "Or maybe it'll come back on by itself. I'm sure it'll be back soon and then we can watch more tv." Dib is talking like his classmates' obnoxious mothers used to do on parent-teacher night. Is being insufferable while interacting with kids just a human instinct? Why the fuck would humans have that? "For now, we can. Uh. Um."

Gir's eyes are huge and teary. Why the fuck did Zim program all of his robots with the ability to cry? "Where's my master? Where Zim go? Why he all sleepy and squishy?"

Damn, a whole series of hard-hitting questions from babybot. Before Dib can explain the concept of allergies, or a life-threatening chemical reaction, or whatever it is that's probably going to render Zim a lifeless pile of mystery organs, Zim himself helps explain the situation by letting out a series of agonized screams from upstairs, only slightly muffled by the distance and closed door. Gir and Minimoose's panicked eyes turn upward. Dib begins to take a deep breath, but isn't afforded the luxury of finishing it. He finds himself fending off Gir and Minimoose, trying to keep them from flying upstairs and interrupting Gaz's doctoring.

"NO! NO GIR! He's fine, I PROMISE –" Dib catches hold of Gir and scoops the distraught robot up into his arms.

"NOOOO MARY, WE GOTTA GO SAVE ZIM FROM THE BEES!" Gir wails as he kicks and arches his back, trying to throw himself out of Dib's grasp.

"Hey, I didn't know you knew his name-MINIMOOSE NO, We have to stay down here, NO STOP NO –"

Dib jumps, barely grabbing hold of one of Minimoose's little nub-feet as they attempt to zoom over his head. Minimoose somehow keeps going, defying their small stature with an incredible amount of strength, and haphazardly drags their living ankle weight halfway up the stairs, slamming Dib's head into every single one. Zim's health is not worth this series of concussions, Zim's health isn't worth a single goddamn can of Poop Cola –

"FOOD!" Dib yells as he chucks Gir back down the stairs and grabs one of Minimoose's antlers with his newly-freed hand. "Don't you guys want some, uh — OW, MINIMOOSE, STOP IT — food or something?"

The harbingers of chaos stop crawling back up the stairs and trying to free themselves respectfully. Dib would be grateful that Minimoose hasn't tried to electrocute him, and Gir hasn't chewed off any of his limbs in an attempt to reach Zim, if it weren't for the concussions. He has seen them inflict far worse injuries on others, for much smaller infractions. Thank fuck they had taken a shine to him for absolutely no reason.

Gir and Minimoose think for a moment, before Gir hesitantly voices their concern.

"But, Zim –"

"Zim," Dib chokes out, praying that his ribs aren't cracked and his brain isn't irreparably damaged, "would want you to eat. Zim has... left me in charge of you while he gets better. Isn't that –" He pauses to cough and shift so the staircase isn't jutting into his windpipe. "Isn't that nice?"

Gir considers this narrative against what he knows about Zim. Dib would hold his breath if he weren't gasping for air. Fortunately for everyone involved, Gir's childish optimism wins.

"Awww, he's such a nice boy!" Gir chirps happily as he climbs to sit on top of Dib. Minimoose sees Gir relax and hovers down to nuzzle Dib's cheek, squeaking what sounds like an apology. Dib takes comfort in the thought that if his ribs were seriously damaged, Gir sitting on them right now would probably puncture his lung, and that would hurt even more than it currently does. It still really fucking hurts. Small comfort, but he'll take it, he guesses.

One more gasp, and he pushes himself into a sitting position. The robots cuddle into him, and after a minute of hard-earned recovery, Dib grasps the stair rail, pulls himself to a stand, and makes his way down the stairs, robots in tow. Gir feels a lot less heavy when he isn't sitting on Dib's ribs or shaking him and tearing his hair out, so Dib begrudgingly carries him all the way to the kitchen. The robots chatter back and forth, but still cast worried glances back at the stairs. Okay, Dib just has to keep them distracted, with no power or toys. He can do that. Easy. It's not like he's tired and entirely made of bruises. He can make it through this. For paranormal science.

Dib walks up to Foodio, praying to every entity that he can think of that it's charged up and didn't get zapped by the storm. It would have been nice if Dad bothered making them food for even a fraction of the time it took him to build a food-making robot, but at least it was more convenient this way. For everyone. "Hey, Foodio, we need a – oh." He looks down at Gir, who's staring back at the stairs, intently listening for more screams. "Hey, uh, buddy? What do you want?"

Gir blinks, and looks up at Dib, then to Foodio. Foodio starts up, lights glowing and posture straightening, adorned with a warm, back-lit toothy smile. "Hello! Boy-child! Oh! And Hello, Metal-child and Antler-Bird! FOODIO is pleased to meet you! What form of nutrition would you like?"

Dib sighs in relief and annoyance. Their various care-bots over the years had, on accident or purpose, all eventually defaulted to how Dib and Gaz's father referred to them at his most absent-minded. It's comforting to hear the familiar ridiculous 'nicknames' sometimes. Other times, it pokes at the never-healed pile of daddy issues Dib keeps accumulating. He could have been in college by now if he bothered with grades, or ran away, or given himself up for adoption or sale if he was really badly off. But he is, technically, cared for. And their father does love him. So he and his sister stay together in the house of purgatory and distant affection, waiting for something to change. Every few years they get a new carebot, in place of the video calls from their father that steadily decrease in frequency and length. The calls eventually turned to interactive recordings. And then faded to nothing at all. Just a quiet house, waiting for Dib and Gaz to fill it with yelling and fights and bright videogames and strange creatures, anything anything anything but quiet. What the fuck would he do without his fights with Zim? What the fuck will all of them do until the power comes back on, with its soothing bright lights and sound effects and boss fights and video essays about the Jersey Devil?

Nothing snaps Dib out of his wandering, rambling pity party. He just eventually realizes that three sets of robot eyes are staring at him, likely waiting for directions. He doesn't even have the furious stares of his sister or archenemy to zone back into. Just vacant, mechanical nothing. Waiting for him to do something they can artificially respond to. Thank fuck they run on whatever they run on, the storm didn't stop every distraction and coping mechanism. Dib can continue barely hanging on.

He shakes his head and readjusts the oddly still Gir in his arms, so he's more easily supported. Every caring thing humans do is on instinct.

"Sorry, Foodio, can you repeat that?"

Foodio's smile never faded the whole time it was waiting. Strange, small, eerie comfort. "Of course! Hello, Boy-Child! Oh, and hello, Metal-Child and Antler-Bird! FOODIO is pleased to meet you! What form of nutrition would you like?"

No response from Gir or Minimoose, they just stare blankly at Foodio. Maybe they aren't used to being asked what they want? Zim probably isn't the type to give them a lot of autonomy. From what Dib has seen, Gir and Minimoose get most of what they want by steamrolling over or sneaking past their tantrum-prone overlord, so they might be thrown into shock by this small gesture of kindness. Or because they saw the being closest to them get sort of impaled just an hour or two ago. It feels like a year.

Dib speaks in his annoyingly soft, mother-of-his-classmate-on-parent-teacher-night voice. "Hey Gir? Foodio's talking to you. You can have anything you want to eat. Minimoose can too, you just might have to translate for him." Dib congratulates himself on breaking the cycle of trauma, by engaging in more attentive parenting in 5 minutes than his own father had bothered to attempt in nearly two decades.

Gir blinks (Why did Zim program his robots to do this much unnecessary shit? Maybe if they didn't have to eat and sleep and vomit and blink and cry, they might actually WORK some of the time). Then a slightly deranged, fully gleeful smile breaks out across his face.

"WE WANTTT..."

Minimoose seems to be directing at least some of the ordering, squeaking to Gir, who repeats it in English to Foodio. "A KRAZY TACO AND A SUCK MUNKEE AND CLOWN TAQUITOS THAT GRANPAS NEVER GIVE ME AND A MACMEATIES BIG OL MEAT CANNON AND SOME POOP COLA AND A –"

Foodio's smile flickers on and off. "FOODIO is truly sorry, Metal-Child! But due to Copyright Law in the State Of New Jersey, I am programmed to –"

"AND A RIBWICH AND A SPARKLEDIP AND THOSE TINY TACOS FROM KRAZY TACO –"

To combat Gir's enthusiastic, endless ordering, Foodio simply turns its voice volume all the way up, never dropping its cheerful tone. Dib's ears hurt. "FOODIO IS PROGRAMMED TO BE UNABLE TO MAKE FOOD THAT CONTAINS ANY COPYRIGHTED MATERIAL OR IMAGERY! MY APOLOGIES!"

Dib would like to not be doing this. He covers Gir's mouth so he can speak to Foodio. "Then could you — GIR, NO BITING! Could you make a generic version of the food?"

Foodio gives a thumbs up. Likely something else it had picked up from the overdramatic Membranes: their constant gesturing. AI for the win. "Foodio can create anything you describe!"

Dib detangles his hyperactive assailant from his arms and sets him on the ground to play (with hopefully minimal destruction and casualties). Gir and Minimoose dance in circles, hollering and squeaking about their favorite foods. "Okay, fine. So you can make a generic Suck Munkee, then?"

"FOODIO can create anything you describe with no branded words and slightly more detail!"

Dib groans. Today has been so, so long. He is being such a good robot dad. Robots' dad. "Can you make. A chocolate. And bubblegum. Milkshake. Please. Foodio."

"Certainly, Boy-Child!"

"I'm 18."

"My apologies! Certainly, Boy-Adult!"

And with that, Foodio makes its usual fabrication noise, a fairly loud, straining grunt. Even after years of hearing it multiple times per day, it still makes Dib uncomfortable. It produces two milkshakes inside its oven-esque 'stomach' out of thin air and light. The milkshakes appear to stretch vertically and shrink horizontally, turning into a line, teleporting, and reforming on the floor in front of Gir, who pauses his chanting and dancing to observe the cup in awe. "Where you come from?!"

"That's your Suck-Munkee, Gir."

"Nyah!" Minimoose attempts to keep their balance after the other milkshake teleports on top of their head, in between their antlers. Dib almost cracks a smile.

Gir's eyes narrow as he studies the cup. "This got no Munkee." They widen again and fill with tears as he stares up at Dib. "Where the Munkee go?"

Dib inhales sharply, forcing the air back out slowly. "Gir, it's the same kind of milkshake –"

"DID THE MUNKEE GET SICK AND LAY DOWN LIKE ZIM?" Unnaturally blue tears begin to trail down Gir's metal cheeks. "IS THE MUNKEE GONNA DIE, MARY?"

"What? No! Nobody's going to die! Just try the milkshake!"

Gir sniffles (an impressive feat for someone without a nose) and picks up the cup for a sip. Minimoose levitates their cup down to their single toothed mouth and does the same. A moment passes. Then Gir bursts into full on sobs and wails, "IT TASTES BAD COS THE MUNKEE DIED!" He throws the milkshake one way and rolls the other way across the floor. Minimoose follows suit, robots and milkshake fly everywhere. Well, fuck.

Foodio gasps politely and begins cleaning up the mess (its programming to care for anything food related limits its cleaning duties to the kitchen, but Dib will take it).

Dib massages his temples. At least they're rolling around downstairs. He figures that he has a few minutes until they get tired of throwing a tantrum; he has to come up with something to distract them before they remember to make another break for the stairs.

Dib briefly considers ordering the plethora of requested fast food on YoumConsume, but he has already made the mistake once of:

1. Ordering a latte on an app where the tagline is "we throw it at your door so you gotta pay more" and

2. opening the door right after the notification said his order was arriving. He never managed to get the stains off that shirt. When he messaged customer service, they asked for a picture just to send back a video of them laughing at him.

Dib doesn't feel like being assaulted with taco meat. Ordering milkshakes and all that other shit is out. The menaces can't be reasoned with; they're creeping back towards the stairs already, eyeing him, ready to bolt the second he lets his guard down. Fuck.

"Are you SURE there's nothing else you want to –"

"SUCK MONKEE!"

"NYAH!"

And they're still inching ever-closer to the stairs. It occurs to Dib, as he searches for his wallet, that if he had stayed home all day and done anything else, literally ANYTHING else, he wouldn't be about to go out into what sounds like a goddamn hurricane just to get his enemy's pets a milkshake. And he can't find his wallet. He pats down his body, every possible place it could be hiding, increasingly frantic. Surely it still isn't in his trenchcoat, he can't exactly run upstairs and get it –

As Dib slaps at every pocket in vain, Gir stops his exaggerated tiptoeing and turns back to watch. After a few seconds, the deranged little monster giggles and starts imitating Dib's movements, doing his own version of the I Can't Find My Wallet Oh Fuck Macarena. Whatever, as long as he's entertained and not running upstairs to mangle Dib's specimen. Patient. Whatever whatever whatever, Dib chants mentally, searching through the kitchen drawers, the couch cushions, anywhere a wallet could possibly fit. Whatever, whatever, whatever. He's just trying to remain sane as Minimoose turns into a DISCO BALL, SOMEHOW, and starts squeaking what might be the most off tune rendition of Dancing Queen ever attempted. Does Zim play music for them? Do they play music for themselves? Is Minimoose just a monkey at a typewriter, inevitably reinventing Shakespeare? Where the FUCK is his WALLET –

A thud reverberates behind Dib and he whirls around to see his metal wallet has collided with the wall, hard enough to get stuck in the plaster. Gir and Minimoose have frozen in their dance, waiting for Dib to scream at them the way Zim usually does.

Dib has the briefest glimpse into empathy for Zim. If any mechanical animal-children hybrids deserved to be yelled at, the two prime candidates are standing in front of him. But yelling takes energy. And the robots appear to at least be able to simulate feelings and attachment. So Dib just sighs and goes to pull the wallet out of the wall. It comes out after a few tugs, full of cash, but his cards are missing.

He turns his exhausted gaze to Gir and holds up the wallet. Gir points at Minimoose. "You dropped it while we were running SO fast. And then master was screaming and the purple one made us go away, and then we were watchin angry monkey show, and Squeaky got hungry and they ate your bookmarks!"

Dib has passed empathy, and is now wondering how Zim hasn't fed Gir and Minimoose to a woodchipper.

There is no woodchipper handy, so he trudges over to pat down Minimoose and Gir in the vague hope that they're lying. He even peers inside Minimoose's mouth, and shoves his arm far deeper inside than he logically should be able to. Their interior appears to be a physics defying, light sucking, endless void. Any other day, this would be the most exciting discovery Dib had ever encountered. But it's Today, and Dib just wants to eat some junk food and go into a 87-year-long coma.

Dib pulls open Minimoose's mouth with both hands and screams into it. Not at Minimoose or Gir, he just screams into the void. It almost completely swallows up the sound; he knows Gaz can't hear it or she'd be yelling for him to shut up. Fascinating. Another win for Dib, paranormal science, and the human race. Minimoose eats sound.

This thought barely brushes Dib's conscious mind as he finally gives up on maintaining any semblance of composure. He stomps, shaking his fists and letting out muffled grunts of frustration. Minimoose and Gir settle down on the floor, patiently waiting for Dib to regulate himself. It's like they're used to seeing this.

Does Zim have meltdowns as well? Yes, of course he does, Dib has seen him tantrum and dance around and pull at his antennae and chirp to himself. Come to think of it, Zim almost never stops stimming. Perfect. Zim is autistic too. Dib shakes his head furiously, until it hurts, trying to get relief from everything that has ever happened to him ever, a short break from his nonstop endless puzzling and hypotheses, from an oversized stockpile of paranormal facts that accompany and try to take over his every waking moment.

Dib breaks out into an unhinged smile, alternating between cry-laughing and sobbing as, for the first time today (look at him, making it all the way to 4 pm! A new record!) tears finally begin to stream down his face. Good hypothesis, Dib! Look at you, being a Real Scientist! You sure proved Dad wrong, with your brilliant new theory that proposes Aliens Can Have Autism. Good. Great. As a result of his magnificent discovery, foolproof and airtight as it surely is, Dib and Zim will be best buddies in no time! They'll be the greatest of pals, stimming and talking about their fucking special interests. As soon as they can glue Zim's skin back on.

Dib takes a breath, throws his head back, and laughs deliriously. He is NOWHERE near regulated. He's an idiot and insane, just like Dad always said, and his head fucking HURTS from the shaking. He groans, takes another deep breath, and starts spin-jumping around, hopping from foot to foot. Thank heavens the little robots are being patient, because Dib REALLY has to finish fleshing out his brilliant theory. Zim's special interest is probably what, death? Destruction? Enslaving the human race? Obscure Irken Media? The Irken equivalent of steam trains? Great. Fuck. Why is this important right now? Why does he care if the psyche of the alien in his house resembles fucking anything, it's going to die in a few hours anyway –

Dib spins a little too hard, slips on some milkshake, loses his balance, hits his arm on the counter, and goes down. As he recovers from what must be the hundredth injury of the day, he rolls over on his back, lets out a final, tiny, strangled noise, kicks his feet a few times, and goes limp.

Gir and Minimoose wait a minute to ensure Dib is finished and won't accidentally (or purposefully) boot them across the room, then make their way over to gaze down at him as he catches his breath, finally regulated. Or worn out. He doesn't care. After Dib has finished breathing so heavily and has finally forced his voice to work again (sometimes it just doesn't, thank fuck it's mostly doing its job today), he turns his head to lock eyes with Gir.

"So. Minimoose ate the cards?"

Gir nods, with the cutest little smile, seemingly unconcerned about Dib's meltdown or current position on the floor.

"And they probably aren't coming back out?"

Gir shrugs.

"Okay. Cool. Awesome. Minimoose, please don't do that again."

"Nyah." Minimoose nods solemnly.

"Thank you for telling me, Gir."

Gir beams down at his favorite human.

Dib is never having kids.