"I'm ready."
Although he hadn't technically done anything wrong, Squidward felt like a huge jerk. Well. Maybe it was wrong. But he hadn't technically done anything different; he sneered at SpongeBob all the time. In fact, it was almost routine for them.
"I'm ready."
And he hadn't technically caused SpongeBob to cry. He'd just made a joke about it, like any other day, not knowing what had happened the day before, or the effect that it had had on SpongeBob, and just assuming (not unreasonably) that his usually predictable co-worker was having a standard patty-related crisis.
"I'm ready."
In order to suppress his guilt, he internally pinned the blame on SpongeBob.
"I'm ready."
How was anybody supposed to differentiate legitimate grief from the trauma of an incorrect portion size when the sponge expressed both in exactly the same way?
"I'm ready."
It was unfair. An unrealistic expectation. But nevertheless, his karma was damaged and so, in an attempt to reduce the level of karmic payback he was sure to receive at a later date, he had reluctantly agreed to accompany SpongeBob to some smelly rest home.
"I'm ready."
Also, Mr. Krabs had threatened to fire him if he didn't.
"I'm ready."
SpongeBob, apparently, was ready. Squidward welcomed his readiness; so far it had made this escort mission a whole lot easier than he had been expecting it to be.
"..."
Squidward had walked halfway up the home's planked pathway before he realized that SpongeBob had stopped chanting his trademark mantra and was no longer by his side. He whipped around, scanning the vicinity for SpongeBob's distinct bright yellow, and spotted him standing all the way back at the beginning of the path, toes flush against the first plank but unwilling to step on it.
"Get a move on, SpongeBob!" called Squidward, frowning and tapping a tentacle impatiently. SpongeBob didn't get a move on. Squidward tensed his shoulders irritably and retraced his steps back to where SpongeBob was stood rooted to the spot.
"You said you were ready. 47 times." Still receiving no evidence that anybody was home behind those wide, glazed-over eyes, Squidward gave the sponge a forceful nudge, hoping this would prompt him to get the anchor out of his square pants and start walking. It didn't. "All right. Whatever. I was hoping I wouldn't have to use this but you leave me no choice."
He rummaged underneath his shirt until he found what he was looking for – a smooth, silicone handle. He gripped it and pulled, revealing a familiar stainless steel spatula that he had brought along in case a situation like this were to arise, and slowly swung it into SpongeBob's field of vision. This was a trick that Mr. Krabs had taught him and, judging by the way SpongeBob's eyes immediately lit up and locked onto the metal glinting in the underwater sunlight, was about to serve him well. The fry cook sprang to life, tracking the spatula with now attentive eyes as Squidward flicked it up and down, his face cracking instinctively into a wide, toothy grin.
Given the lightness of the kitchen utensil, a single powerful pitch was enough to send it arcing through the water, straight through the open doors of the rest home, leaving a blazing trail of bubbles and its owner bounding after it in a joyful frenzy.
Squidward followed behind, recoiling slightly as he stepped into the rest home and was greeted by a stale waft of eau de octogenarian. He blinked several times to help his eyes adjust to the cool dimness of the reception area. SpongeBob stood a few feet away, the spatula held loosely in his left hand, the fleeting and fickle moment of joy evaporated as quickly as it had come. He turned to look at Squidward, fearful and almost pleadingly, then opened and closed his mouth several times before fight-or-flight took over and he made a break for the exit.
"Did I tell you that I have to pick up the dentist from a birthday party?"
"Stop it, SpongeBob!" snapped Squidward, grabbing him by the back of the shirt. "I didn't come all this way for you to back out now!"
"I can't do it, Squidward," said SpongeBob miserably, though he stopped struggling, the temporary surge of energy once again leaving him like a deflated balloon. "Please … let's just go back to the Krusty Krab. It's lunch time, Mr. Krabs is probably-"
"In case you forgot," interrupted Squidward, releasing SpongeBob from his grip and causing him to fall face-first onto the floor with a squeak, "It was Krabs who ordered you to come here in the first place."
"Mmphmmrmm," said SpongeBob. Squidward used his foot to flip the uncooperative sponge right side up. He was beginning to find SpongeBob's despondent behaviour unsettling. As much of a pain in the neck SpongeBob usually was, his blind optimism and overzealousness was infinitely more preferable to the Squidward 2.0 that lay listlessly before him.
"So what are you going to do? Just never come back here again? Never make friends with another person over fifty?" Squidward snatched back the spatula. "Don't make me throw this again. My aim is terrible and somebody might end up with a serious spatula injury. You wouldn't want that on your conscience, would you?"
"OK, OK, I'm going!"
True to his word, SpongeBob straightened up and approached the reception desk, the squeak of his shoes reverberating throughout the hallway with every step he took. The fish manning the desk looked up from his paperwork. He looked surprised to see SpongeBob and a little apprehensive.
"Hey, Frank," said SpongeBob. So far so good.
"Hey, kid," he replied, relaxing into a friendly smile, "You doing OK?"
SpongeBob nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine."
Squidward narrowed his eyes and glanced suspiciously at SpongeBob. Either this was the blind optimism speaking or SpongeBob had finally learned how to lie convincingly.
"Well, it's nice to see you again. And Mr. …?" He glanced at Squidward quizzically.
"Oh, yeah," said SpongeBob, wrapping an arm around Squidward and drawing him close, "This is my friend-"
"No."
"Buddy-"
"No."
"Accomplice."
"Unless I've been robbing banks with you in my sleep I don't think you understand the meaning of that word."
"Acquaintance?"
"Let go, SpongeBob, you're crushing my ribs!" gasped Squidward.
"This is my acquaintance, Squidward," finished SpongeBob. Squidward detached himself from the uninvited embrace and massaged his ribcage resentfully.
Frank watched this exchange with a look of bemusement on his face, then seemed to remember something and ducked underneath the counter. "You came for these, right?" He dumped a heavy stack of "Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy" comic books on the desk.
"My collection! Thanks!" SpongeBob dragged them closer, thumbing eagerly through the top one. He lingered on the center page, a pull-out poster which depicted the younger of the two titular heroes. "But actually … I'm here to see Barnacle Boy."