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Dib is sitting on a metal bench just outside the hospital doors when Zim pulls up in his Voot runner.
Well, 'pulls up' is a very groundlocked human expression. What Zim actually does is drop down out of the sky, activating the ship's jets to form a cushion of air for just long enough to avoid damage to the hull. He does not, however, avoid damage to the road, bits of gravel of asphalt showering around the crater he's just created.
Dib doesn't look surprised, face completely blank as he flicks a small pebble off his shoulder. "Hi," he says, once Zim hops out of the ship.
There's a lit cigarette in his hand. Zim eyes it disdainfully.
"Thanks for, uh, coming to get me," Dib says, standing. The other teenager has, unfortunately, not gotten shorter during his time incarcerated (the Dib-Father had another name for it, but Zim immediately and with great malice forgot what it was), and Zim has to look up to continue the conversation.
"You'd better be grateful," Zim sneers, kicking at the shattered sidewalk curb. "This horrid prison reeks of antiseptic."
There's an itch under his skin. It drives him to run, to flee this rancid place and its stench of death and fear. And though he's loathe to admit it, that same itch demands he bring Dib along with him. The Dib does not belong in a place like this- it wears him down, dampens the fire in his eyes that Zim has come to rely on as the one true constant of this planet.
The seasons may shift, the trends may change- Irk, even the language seems to morph and twist with every passing year- but Dib remains steady. Always as irritatingly (and a bit terrifyingly) determined as the day Zim arrived.
"It's not a prison," says Dib, but his voice lacks any conviction, and when Zim scoffs, he doesn't argue further. Without being asked, he drops his cigarette, though it's still mostly intact, and grinds the cherry out under his boot. They've flown together enough times to know that the Voot's filtration system isn't powerful enough to keep Zim from hacking his lungs out after five minutes in close proximity to a burning pollution-stick.
(Zim doesn't mind the smell itself, though. Call it nostalgia, or a bout of insanity, but the wretched scent only ever reminds him of Dib.)
Zim turns on his heel and starts walking back to his Voot. He fully expects Dib to follow, and doesn't look back until he hears a soft grunt and a scattering of gravel.
He whips back around to find Dib white-knuckling the pole of a streetlamp, his other hand cradling his head. He looks nauseous.
With his arm up, Dib's sleeve slides down, and Zim spots a thick line of rust-colored bandages along soft brown skin. The scent of iron is palpable.
"Ugh, sorry, I- just give me a minute. These meds are fucking with me."
Zim nods, uncertain but determined not to show it. "What is it this time?"
"Uh… anti-psychotics, I think? I only caught a glance at the sheet this time. I think my Dad told them not to tell me anything."
Humanity. Zim fights the urge to sneer. Imagine thinking blood relation is a good enough reason to deny autonomy. Rank-based profiling is clearly a superior sorting system. "Is that allowed?"
Dib shrugs. "Yeah, I mean- no, but he basically funds the hospitals. But," Dib stretches out the arm that previously held the cigarette in hand, a bit too lax for the subject matter, "I'm eighteen now, so they're legally not allowed to keep me against my will for over seventy-two hours."
Ah. This hold had been shorter, hadn't it? Though it had still felt mildly endless to Zim, bored and scheming alone in his base.
"Hmph. That's something, I suppose." Zim mutters.
Now that he's no longer propelled by that sense of urgency he'd arrived with, Zim has a moment to process Dib's appearance. His hair is greasy and limp, and a few of his piercings are missing.
Also, there's a dried bloodstain on his blue shirt. Zim knows that Dib knows how to handle injuries- he's seen it first-hand. He must've had to press his arm against his shirt to stem the blood flow. It'd hardly be the first time Dib cut too deep. He's always been careless with his own safety.
Zim feels the insane urge to comfort the human. Dib looks dead inside, the fire in his heart smoldering down to ashes. Not gone, of course, never gone, but a cold comfort nonetheless.
But they're not friends. They're not even allies. Not only is the very notion disgusting and insulting and liable to get him stabbed in the back, but irkens aren't supposed to desire either of those relationships, let alone actually obtain them. Frankly, Zim has no idea why he even showed up here, other than that Dib texted him at 2am saying 'i need a ride' and Zim didn't even consider saying no until he was halfway across the city.
Dib is just… interesting, alright? More interesting than any of the other dullminded monkeys on this ball of dirt.
(Interest is allowed. Curiosity leads to knowledge, and recon is a highly important aspect of a successful invasion.)
"In. Now." Zim demands, pointing at the Voot again. They've spent enough time here. "Or must I put you there myself?"
Dib laughs a little. "I got it," he says, and clambers into the open hatch one long leg at a time.
To his traditionally-debt-filled credit, Dib doesn't try to sit in the pilot seat, although it doesn't escape Zim's notice that he lets his fingers drift over the control panel, expression torn.
Zim hops in after and swats his hospital-tainted hand away, but otherwise lets it go, because he's magnanimous like that. He'll disinfect the buttons later.
Dib kneels down so the hatch can close. He's facing the windshield, arms already propped on the dash so he can peek through the glass as they lift off.
"You'd have more leg room if you faced Zim," Zim points out, unable to keep his gaze from flicking towards the human even if the basic pilot safety standards drilled into his brainmeats have a number of complaints about it.
Dib hums. It's hard to be certain from this angle, but Zim thinks he catches a tiny smile on the human's face. The city lights, mere pinpricks below them, dance across his face. "That's alright."
Honestly. It's like he's never been in a spacecraft before.
Zim isn't sure how to feel about the fact that Dib is willing to turn his squishy human back on him. Perhaps slightly less weird than the fact that Dib texted him at all.
Speaking of… "How did you get my number?"
Snickering, Dib asks, "Do you really want the answer to that?"
Zim ignores the spike of anxiety those words bring. Dib knows exactly what he's doing; his threats may be empty these days, but he's keenly aware of how to phrase them to most deeply embed them under Zim's skin. Luckily, familiarity goes both ways. "Cut your crap, Dib-monster. Tell me. Now! Or may I remind you that only one of us will survive a fall from this height."
Dib sighs, aggravated, and utterly fake. He loves bragging about as much as Zim does. "GIR updates your Facebook page. Almost weekly, actually."
"…goddamn it," Zim says amicably, after a moment of deliberation. Dib laughs.
"Don't blame him. He really does have a knack for finding and sharing good waffle recipes on there."
"I'll figure out some childish safety settings," Zim waves a hand. "I cannot have my SIR unit revealing my plans to my enemies."
"You have other enemies?" teases Dib, easily, the sort of ease that only comes from extreme sleep deprivation. He turns away from the lights to smile at Zim, just for a second. Zim wants to trace the darkened hollows under his eyes until they vanish.
Zim sniffs, tilting his head back like a mistress in one of GIR's c-dramas. "All your endless spying doesn't mean you know everything about me, boy-human."
Dib laughs again. Maybe it's from Zim's behavior, or his words, or something else entirely. Zim finds that he doesn't particularly care.
Suddenly, the human's cellular phone buzzes, and they both pause. Dib fishes it out of his pocket, instantly frowning at what he finds on the screen. He puts it away without responding to the message.
"What?"
Dib's laugh is hollow this time, and there's only one, short and clipped. "My dad's assistant. Says there'll be a company car waiting for me when I get out tomorrow."
Zim blinks. "Get out? But the Dib is already out."
"Yup," Dib pops the 'p'. "Isn't that funny?"
"What's funny about a poorly managed timetable?" Zim asks, confused. "Punctuality and communication are key to an effective militia. A miscommunication of this degree implies either a lack of care or a lack of intelligence."
This makes Dib look at him again, expression unreadable. After a minute, wherein Zim struggles to maintain an appropriate amount of eye contact without crashing the Runner into the unforgiving concrete city below, Dib smiles faintly. "You know, you're right. I guess it's not funny."
The ship whirrs, the only sound for the next hundred and sixty seconds. Zim tries not to think too hard about his internal clock as it dwindles to their destination, but it's difficult not to without anything else to focus on.
Dib's house rests below them, but Zim doesn't land the ship. Dib doesn't ask why. He doesn't seem interested in looking out the window anymore, and in fact seems to be actively avoiding glancing in the direction of his house.
Zim drums his claws along the control stick. A lesser being might call it a gear-shift. Dib is picking at his bandages; they look old and blood-encrusted enough to be unbearably itchy. Likely a holdover from Dib's first day in the hospital. Bandages should be replaced daily, but Zim knows from experience the amount of care that Earth denizens, even doctors, put into their work. The amount is usually zero.
"My base could fabricate medical supplies." Zim isn't sure what possesses him to say this. "Better ones. You won't believe how much better, really. They're very advanced."
Dib doesn't raise his head, but looks up at Zim through his lashes, glasses smudged and dirty. Zim's spooch thuds sickeningly against his chest, leaving him breathless. "Yeah?"
"Yes. You could… stay there."
Dib says nothing this time, eyes wide then narrow.
"Stay there." Zim repeats, more firmly than before. "With Zim. Don't go home."
It doesn't make sense. It doesn't it doesn't it doesn't. Zim knows this. And he also knows that Dib has been gone for three days, and has bloody wrists, and smells like hospital and cigarettes, and Dib is not supposed to be any of those things. Not unless they're Zim's fault.
He doesn't know what he'd do if Dib just… didn't walk out those hospital doors, next time. He doesn't know, and that's terrifying. It's awful to want- to want-
Zim stops thinking. The reasoning doesn't matter. He wants this, and irken elites always get what they want.
"In exchange for this generosity," Zim continues, because Dib still hasn't said anything yet, "the Dib will let Zim destroy his medication."
Dib raises an amused eyebrow. As far as non-verbal communication goes, it's no antennae signaling, but Zim can't deny that there's a certain elegance to it. "I will, huh? Why's that?"
"You look like one of those zom-bees from your ridiculous horror shows. It reflects poorly on me as your nemesis."
Dib lets out a tiny puff of air. He pushes his greasy cowlick out of his face, corner of his mouth drawn back in a dull sort of disgust. "Can't argue that."
Horrible warmth alights in Zim's chest now that he's so close to achieving his goal. The fact that it's an idiotic goal has become less and less important. Zim can worry about that later, once their status quo has been restored and Zim doesn't have think about Dib alone in that house where people happily sentence him to imprisonment for the thoughts in his head. "So you'll stay?"
"I shouldn't," says Dib. It's not a 'no'.
"You have said yourself that the father is not expecting you until tomorrow," Zim points out, leveling a finger at him. "Would any of them notice?"
"I…" Dib stops touching his bandages, genuinely considering the question. His voice is quiet when he answers. "I don't think anyone notices anything about me, Zim."
Zim gnaws at his lip. It's a human habit, from a race with sharper teeth than irkens. "Hm. We will go to my base, then. Your bandages are old, and you stink of pollutants."
Dib stares at him, visibly surprised. Zim pretends not to care, merely stirs the ship back into motion and sets a course for home.