The Rain

It is cool outside.

The rain pours from a soup of gray cotton, endless, for hours.

Thunder rolls over shivering treetops and rattles panes of glass.

The bed is warm.

The sheets are soft and cocoonlike, and the comforter is heavy and safe.

The silent whoosh of breath on breath fills the chilly air with moist heat.

Strong, pale arms are closed tight on the slender frame they never want to release. The littler form is curled close, legs tangled with its companion's.

Here there is no mission; no duty.

Here there is no shame. Inhibitions are obsolete.

There are no fears or stressors or worries. There is only comfort. Only human and Irken.

There is only the knowledge that the only other individual who matters us present, safe. Enclosed in the other's embrace.

Dib can feel his tongue pregnant with the words; can feel the calm of the creature he so vehemently protects, even in his sleep.

"I love you, Zim," he mutters.

The little thing in his arms stirs slowly. Claws ghost over his chest as Irken breath bleeds onto his neck.

"Sleep, Dib-thing."

The rain pounds down heavier; the thunder growls to punctuate his statement. Zim wriggles to get settled as if he is pleased with it all.

The howl of the cold rattles across the roof, making the mass of sheets and warmth and sleep feel even safer.

Dib smiles and does as he is told.