Missing You
He could deny it no longer. He missed him. Eventual slash implied. Short prologue up. Please R&R.
All right. I think I'm just over my writer's block. A good summer holiday; that really does it for ya. I'll get cracking on GTGT right away; I promise you it'll be done by the end of the year. So patience, please; have a little patience. That goes for you too, forgottenhobbit.
This fan-fiction will appear in chapters; chapters put less pressure on me in the long run. This chapter is a tiny prologue, just to inform you what this whole crazy mixed up story is about.
This fan-fic is also a lot more angsty than the pre-developed Good Times Good Times, but it seemed an excellent idea when it came to me in bed. And an excellent idea to me is like chocolate to a chocoholic (LOL). Feedback is appreciated at this much-tricky test stage, pwease.
Disclaimer: I don't own SpongeBob SquarePants, though I do like to pretend I own Squidward Tentacles sometimes. This disclaimer will remain in effect throughout the whole story, so when it comes to later chapters don't yell at me saying I've ripped Steven Hillenburg off.
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Prologue
Pour. Sip. Gulp. Hic.
Pour. Sip. Gulp.
Pour. Sip. Gulp. Hic.
Would this monotonous routine never come to an end? How long had he been doing it for? 10 minutes? 10 hours? 10 days? Who knew?
He didn't. He didn't know much anymore. Mind, this was only because he couldn't see through or beyond the drunken haze floating in front of him. But perhaps this was a good thing, especially if the state of his "house" was anything to go by.
Pour. Sip. Gulp. Hic.
Squidward sighed. Was this his fate, sitting on the couch in a drink-stained mauve bathrobe, confined to the bottle? Staring blankly into empty space, awaiting the maniacal mad-cap laughs that would never come? Externally torn, internally broken?
Hic.
Was he destined to sit like this forever, a drunken mess? Nose crinkled from all the tears shed earlier, eyes that looked like they'd been run over by a lorry with 10-tonne wheels, raw brown stubble ever growing around biscuit-and-drink covered mouth?
Hic.
How had his life come to this? He'd been doing great so far; he'd had a home, he'd had a job, he'd been happy. Not happy enough to be able to tolerate all the bad luck tossed at him, but happy just the same.
What had happened to wreck it all?
Hic.
SpongeBob and Patrick had happened.
Pour. Hic.
But this time, they hadn't blown up the Krusty Krab for the third successive time. They hadn't completely modified his house to make it look like he was even remotely interested.
No, they'd done something much worse than that.
Hic.
They'd left Bikini Bottom.
And it was all his fault…
Sip. Gulp. Hic.
Pour. Sip. Gulp. Hic.
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Please R&R. Pwease?
Band8PGeek.
