Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sandy only knew about Hanahaki disease in passing. 

She’s an engineer, not a pathologist or epidemiologist. But during one of her waits for the material she needed to arrive, she ended up down the rabbit hole of rare diseases to pass the time. Hanahaki disease stood out and stuck in her head because of how strange of a disease it is. No virus, no bacteria, and no fungus was needed. Based on the cause, you’d think it a misfolded prion in the brain of some sort would be involved, but none of that. Nothing but the belief of your love being unrequited. The only reason the public wasn’t in a panic and shielding their hearts and affection was because of how unheard of it is, Sandy assumed.

She fell asleep not long after reading about it, and once her materials arrived, she stopped thinking about it. What are the chances that she’d run into something like that?

Higher than she could’ve anticipated, because now it was front and center in her, and the others, lives. SpongeBob had it, had the flowers removed, didn’t tell them before OR after, and what was the reason he gave for not giving them the chance to prove to him that they do in fact love him?

To make them happy.

“But if I can’t love everybody anymore, then I can’t annoy and bother them. I know everyone thinks I’m a nuisance,” he said. “It’s supposed to make you happy. Aren’t you happy?”

She wanted to shake some sense in that Sponge for ever thinking that.

She understood that he was hurt from being left behind, and even more so after finding out exactly why. They were only supposed to be gone for a day, but one day turned into two, then three. Then a week, then another week—

She sighed, and pinched the bridge of her nose.

Anyone would feel awful after that, especially someone who wore his heart on his sleeve. 

The damage is done, and the trigger was pulled that gave him a rare disease. She saw it in his eyes. From the look he gave when she, Patrick, and Squidward went over to his house to check on him, it was like he didn’t recognize them, just as Patrick said when he came to her treedome a crying mess. He held onto the broom like a shield between them, as if he expected them to hurt him.

Well, technically, they already have.

. . .

But she was going to fix this. She made a promise to find a way to fix it, and she wasn’t going to stop until she did.

--

First thing in the morning, Sandy holed herself in a corner of the Bikini Bottom Public Library. After going through the aisles, she grabbed every book on rare disease she could find, nearly covering her table in short stacks of books. One of these books must have what she needed. 

She only knew the basics of Hanahaki disease, the cause, the symptoms, and the treatments. But she needed more than that. Any research, any studies, any statistics.

Two stacks of books later, and she only found what she already knew. She checked the publishing dates of the books. Seeing that they’re decades old, she kept her hopes up.

Two more stacks later and she finally found something different.

“’There are two ways to treat Hanahaki disease. Reciprocity and removal’,” She read. “Already knew that.” She skimmed the next few paragraphs for anything new. “’Removing the flowers comes with the side effect of the patient losing the ability to love the person(s) of their affections. This side effect is permanent.”

Wait.

What?

“Permanent?” She whispered. “That. . .can’t be right. . .”

What she read before didn't mention it being permanent. Maybe this book was older, like the rest she’s read so far, and more discoveries about it have been made.  Sandy closed that book and opened the next. But, each time, when it came to losing the ability to love, she ran into the same word.

Permanent.

Permanent.

Permanent.

She wanted to throw these books through a wall; it felt like each one she opened was mocking her. They told her that her friend was stuck like this, and there was nothing to be done about it. 
Instead, she slammed her fists on the table. Luckily, the library was empty, and no one around to disturb.

Darn it, she promised SpongeBob she would help him! She can't just leave him like this, a shadow of his former self.

She opened the next book hard enough to nearly crack its spine. Someone, somewhere, had to have researched this. Some kind of experiment to reverse this side effect that she can bounce off of, or at the very least a hypothesis about the mechanisms in place that causes it in the first place.

“Here’s something,” she hummed. “’About 3 patients per year contract Hanahaki Disease. All patients diagnosed with this diseases have been Sponges. However, due to their low population, it’s difficult to conduct research on whether or not this is a disease exclusive to them’.”

Huh.

Sandy never thought about it until now, but SpongeBob was the only Sponge in Bikini Bottom, wasn’t he? He certainly hasn’t seen any others since she’s moved here, not even his parents. According to this book, they were in low numbers, so it made sense there weren’t any around and why her search for more information was turning up empty.

She couldn’t help but wonder. . .

“If Sponges are more prone to this disease, and their numbers are low,” She pondered. “Is Hanahaki disease causing them to die out?”

It certainly sounded like an unfortunate possibly. 

“That would mean most of them choose not to get treated and pass away instead,” she pondered. “I’m getting off track.” Closing the book, she stood up. If Sponges are the ones who at least get it the most, then maybe the books on Sponges had more information about Hanahaki disease, and she was just looking in the wrong place. She’ll just go grab a few books and start from there.

. . .

. . .

There wasn’t a ‘there’ to work from.

There were plenty of books, shelves even, on the different kinds of Fish, Squids, Starfish, Crustaceans, Shrimp, practically every other sea creature, but nothing, not a single book on Sponges. That was more evidence of the idea that they were going extinct. Why else would there be so little information about them?

She was ending up with more questions than she started with.

Whether or not Sponges are dying out, the information she needed wasn’t here. If there was any hope of finding a way to fix this, then she was going to need information about how Sponges worked and what made them more prone to Hanahaki disease in the first place. But to get that information, she needed to talk to the one Sponge she does know.

That was going to be tricky. She heard from Patrick that it was hard to get more than a few words out of him at a time, let alone spend any time with him. She had her work cut out for her on that front. But she made a promise, and a friend always keeps a promise.

Still, she had to consider all possibilities. What if all these books were right, and there wasn’t a way to reverse it? And he was stuck like this?

. . .

She didn’t want to think about that. It’s too painful to think about, the first person she met when she came down here, the first to not treat her or look at her like some kind of alien, suddenly didn’t care about her, or any of his friends, existence, and the possibility that there was nothing that can be done about it. That he'll keep avoiding them like the plague, barely sparing them a glance or a few words. 

“I can't think like that,” she said, as she placed the books on the return cart. “There's got to be a way to fix this. And if there's not. . . then. . .we'll figure something else out.”

Yeah, that's it. Maybe it’s possible for him to build up a tolerance to being around and talking to them. None of these books had anything about the full scope of what it was like to lose the ability to love, what it limited and what it didn't. What was going on in that square head of his was anyone’s guess. 

But she can't work on guesses. Not with something like this. It's too important.

With a growing list of questions, finding and convincing SpongeBob to answer them became her next priority.

Chapter Text

Fortunately, finding SpongeBob wasn’t the hard part. He didn’t go much of anywhere from what Patrick told her, and if that’s the case, that narrowed down the list of places she should look. All she had to do now was go down that short list and hope that he was willing to talk to her, the actual hard part. Sandy braced herself for the likelihood that she would only get yes or no answers out of him. She can work with that, but the more details she could get, the better.

She went over her list of questions over a dozen times, rewording them, adding more and taking off others. If there was a limit to how much SpongeBob could stand to be around them, then she needed to be careful of how many questions she had and what order she was going to ask them. Plus, she had to be careful to old back on her own personal questions, because she had plenty of those.

Today the Krusty Krab was closed, meaning her best bet was to try finding him at home. She knocked on the metal door and called for, wondering if he would ignore her if he was in there.

“He’s not in there.”

She turned and saw Squidward looking through his mail.

“Howdy, Squidward. How have things been with him at work.”

“Still quiet, still leaves everyone alone,” Squidward said. Sandy didn’t think it was possible, but the cephalopod looked even more glum than usual. “Still keeping his promise to not bother me anymore.”

“Sounds like nothings changed,” she huffed. “Do you know where he is? I’m trying to find a way to fix him.”

“He’s in the back, in his new greenhouse,” he said. "You think you can actually fix him?”

“I’m certainly gonna try. But I need to ask him some things first,” she said. “Thanks for letting me know.”

He nodded and she walked away. Going around his pineapple, she not only spotted the greenhouse Squidward mentioned, but a whole new backyard complete with a fence. She jumped over without a problem and approached the building. It was as tall as his house, though not was wide. Sandy made out the familiar square shape and yellow body of her friend through the semi-translucent windows. 

Instead of barging in, she knocked on the door.

“Patrick, I already told you I don’t want to go—oh.”

“Howdy, SpongeBob,” she said with wave. He stepped back, but didn’t close the door in her face. 

“What do you want?” He asked.

“I was wondering if you could help me with something,” she said. “I tried looking up more information about Hanahaki disease, but it only left me with more questions than answers. Questions that I think only you can answer.”

“No. I'm busy today,” he said. 

He stared to close the door, but Sandy stepped her food in the doorway to stop him.

“Please? It’s the only way I can get the information I need to help you,” she pressed. “This research is very important.”

He cracked open the door, still holding onto it as he looked at her up and down as he tapped his foot and scratched the side of his head. She never felt uncomfortable around him but right now, she felt awkward under his gaze.

“Research. . .?” He mumbled. “Okay.”

“Really? Great!”

He nodded, and stepped back further into the greenhouse. Sandy followed him inside, careful of the distance between the two of them while taking a sweeping look at everything. He’s been working on it for a while it seemed; there were terra cotta pots neatly placed on the counter that lined the walls, each growing something in abundance. She didn't have much of a green thumb herself, but it looked impressive. 

“I haven't been able to find much about Hanahaki disease in any of the books I've looked through, but I did find something interesting,” she said. “A few of them said that the only ones found to ever get it are Sponges. Do you have any clue as to why that is?”
She watched as he stopped mid-trim of a plant on the opposite end of the room, before slowly closing the sheers. 

“. . .if we're. . .and. . .hmm,” SpongeBob mumbled. “I guess that makes sense.”

“It does? How come?”

“Sponges are loving,” he said, adding trimmings to a pile on the counter. “We love everyone around us, openly and wholly. It's just part of who we are.”

So it's not necessarily a SpongeBob thing to be as friendly as he is. Or was. It's an overall trait Sponges tended to have. Interesting. Sandy quickly added that detail to her notes. That certainly explained, at least partially, how they were more prone to a disease that involved love. There simply was more of an opportunity.

She looked up from her note pad and saw him standing in the middle of the greenhouse, holding a tray full of herbs.

“I need to go in my house,” he said. “You're in the way.”

“Sorry.” She stepped out of the way, letting him pass.

She followed him through the back door and into the kitchen. As soon as the door opened, even through her air helmet she smelled the aroma of something delicious cooking. The kitchen was an organized mess, with crates stacked around, a cabinet half put together, boxes, and a table covered in green after SpongeBob placed what he was carrying there.

“After I saw how many more Sponges get it than anyone else, I tried looking up information about them, but I couldn't find anything,” she said. She took a seat at the table, watching him check the oven. “I don't mean to sound rude of nothin', but are Sponges endangered? All I could find was that ‘Sponges are too low in numbers to study'.”

“There's plenty of us,” He sad, closing the oven. “We've been going through a baby boom for the last 7 years.”

“It's just that I couldn't find a single books on Sponges, and you're the only one in Bikini Bottom. . .”

“My family lives on the outskirts,” said SpongeBob. “Most of them work in the family business.”

“Oh. Well that's good to hear. Why don't any of them come into town?”

After he searched through a few drawers, he came to the table and sat in the chair opposite to hers and started sorting through the harvest between them.

“Because they're smarter than I am.”
. . .

What's that supposed to mean? SpongeBob had his moments of naivety and gullibility that got him in trouble, and his insistence on seeing the good in everyone when danger was clear and apparent was frustrating, but she wouldn't call him dumb by any means. He's plenty smart in his own way.

Maybe he was alluding to something else. . .? But what could that be?

“Can I ask you a question?” SpongeBob interrupted her train of thought.

“Sure, go right ahead.”

“You never answered my first question,” he said. 

“Wha-"

“Was it fun?”

Sandy nearly dropped her pencil. She had forgotten about that, when he asked her and she didn't have it in her to answer. Whether it be telling the truth or conjuring up a lie, she stayed silent when he first asked. However, he hadn't forgotten. 

“I. . .uh,. . .that's a complicated question.”

He looked at her as he wrapped the bundles of herbs together. Waiting for an answer.
Sandy remembered how, in the midst of his crying, Patrick had said that ‘even his eyes are different'. She didn't seen what he meant at first, SpongeBob's eyes were still the same striking shade of blue, still the same shape and size. But right now, as he stared at her waiting for an answer, she saw what Patrick saw. 

Or rather, what he didn't.

There was something missing, something Sandy couldn't put her finger on. Something that made her uncomfortable and sent a small chill down her spine. There wasn't any hostility there, she was sure of it. He wasn't sizing her up or anything.

He blinked.

And she sighed. “Yes, it was fun.”

SpongeBob nodded, and stood. He hung the bundles over the doorway to the living room, leaving them to dry.

Once his eyes were off her, she felt a sense of relief, though she didn't know why.

When he returned to the table, it was with a box he pushed over, a cutting board, and chefs knife. It didn't seem like he was going to ask another question, so Sandy took the opportunity to take back control of the conversation.

“You don't like us getting to close or touching you, and that's fine, I won't do it if that's what you want,” She said. “But how come?”

“It's our love language.”

“’Our'?”

“Sponges,” he said as he rapidly chopped the vegetables he pulled from the box. “When we're born, we're just squishy blobs with closed eyes and a mouth. We don't have any of our senses until we’re a year old. Touch is the first one to develop, so physical affection our most important love language.”

“And because you don't--"

“Can't.” He corrected.

“Can't love us, you can't touch or get too close to us,” she said. SpongeBob nodded. That makes sense. He's always been affectionate towards others, especially physically. Always giving hugs at the slightest bit of happiness or excitement. But now that's come to a grinding halt.

“It feels wrong. It is wrong,” he said. “It's. . .violating.”

“But if touch is so important for you, won't it have some kind of side effect if you go without it?” Sandy asked. 

He shrugged. “I won’t die.”

As she took down more notes and scribbled down the beginning of an idea she can explore later, she watched him go back forth from the table to the other boxes and counters. Then her eyes landed on the unfinished cabinet nearby, and she had an idea.

She wasn't much of a romantic, but Sandy was aware of the different love languages. And she was curious to if this particular change in behavior extended to the others.

“I can finish putting that cabinet together for you,” she said.

“No.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind.”

“I don’t need any help.”
. . .

“I see you’re doing something different with your kitchen, looks like it’s coming along well.”

SpongeBob paused, mid-step, with an armful of food containers. He quickly placed them on the table and scratched at the side of his head. Sandy winced at the sight of it, that side of his head was covered in raw and half-healed scratch wounds, that were starting to bleed but that didn’t seem to stop him. 

“I don't see what my kitchen has to do with your research,” he mumbled. He rushed out of the kitchen and headed upstairs.

Sandy made a note to not poke at any love languages.

When he returned, that side of his head was covered in bandages.

“I have another question,” SpongeBob said. He sat across from her again after bringing cooked food to the table from the fridge. He must’ve cooked it not long ago, as most of it was still warm and smelled delicious. If it wasn’t for gift giving also being a love language, she would’ve asked for a bite.

“It's for my cousin,” he said. “She just had a baby and I'm making her food so she doesn't have to cook.”

“That's nice of you.”

He nodded and sat down.

“Who’s idea was it?”

That caught her off guard. Again. This time, he wasn't staring her down; his attention was focused on sorting the food into those smaller containers. But he did spare her a few glances.

“SpongeBob--"

“I deserve to know.”

Well, Sandy couldn't argue against that. It made sense that he’d want to know that, especially after what it's caused him to go through. She knows she would want to know if she was in his place. And to be fair, she didn't think he had it in him to seek any sort of revenge, he's too nice for that kind of maliciousness. 

“It. . .wasn't so much as one persons idea as much as it was a consensus,” she began to explain. “Someone, I dunno who, made a complaint. Then more people did, and it snowballed from there, and a town meeting was called in he middle of the night with everyone except you, and someone shouted the idea and so many people agreed, we all just went. I don't remember exactly who it was who said it.”

“Hmm.”

She watched him for any sort of response, a change in expression, anything. But the neutral expression he had and kept when she first arrived still remained. SpongeBob was always an open book when it came to his emotions, he was easy to read. But now it felt like the opposite, she couldn't get a read on him at all.

What was he feeling? What was he thinking?
. . .

This was getting off track.

“Patrick told me that you don't talk to him much anymore. How come you're talking to me just fine?”

“Because you're asking me this stuff as a scientist,” he said. “Not someone who thinks we're still friends.”

Sandy bit her tongue. As much as she wanted to protest what he said, the only reason she was getting any information out of him was because of the context it was taking place under, and it'll end if she suggested otherwise. 

SpongeBob scratched at the other side of his head. 

“What does it feel like, to not love anymore?”

“It doesn't feel like anything. I have to love someone to feel anything about them. So I don't care, and I don't care that I don't care,” SpongeBob explained. “Since I can't love you guys anymore, there's nothing there.”

“If you don't think of us as friends, then what do you think of us as?”

He hummed, looking up at the ceiling before answering.

“People,” he said. “You all are important. You have to be; I have too many memories with you all for you to not be. But important in a distant way.”

“What about Patrick?”

“He's. . .an acquaintance.”

“Squidward?”

“Coworker. Neighbor.”

“Mr. Krabs?”

“Boss.”

“Me?”

“. . .hmm. . .acquaintance?”

She nodded, adding that to her notes. It definitely hurt to hear him say that about them, with no emotion or sign of remorse in his voice. He was more focused on sorting the food and piling the dishes in the sink than what he casually told her. They were all essentially demoted in his life.

“What else did everyone do there?” he asked. “I already know about the effigy.”

He was staring at her again. it's so strange, how uncomfortable she felt when he looked her with those eyes. She didn't want to think that he was trying to make that feeling of guilt bubbling up each time he asked a question worse. If it was anyone else she'd assumed she struck a nerve and the questions he asked was an attempt to hit her back. But, from her notes and what she's heard so far from him suggested that he wasn't capable of doing that.

But she couldn't shake the feeling.

He blinked.

“Are you worried about hurting my feelings?” SpongeBob asked. “You take a minute to answer my questions. Squidward. . .yelled at me a few days ago. He said some mean things. At least, the words add up to something that I think other people would see as mean. But I didn’t feel anything when he said it, so it's hard for me to say. It just made me itchy. You don't have to worry about hurting my feelings, you can't anymore.”

Sandy didn't know how to feel about that.

“Most people into smaller groups for most of the time, so I didn't see everything,” she started. “I saw a few piñatas made to look like you. It was in a valley, so some took advantage of the echo it made and shouted out their frustrations.”

“Mmm.”

'Please don't ask what everyone screamed.' 

'Please don't ask what I screamed.'

“Did anyone ask if they should come back?” Asked SpongeBob. “It's 'No SpongeBob Day', not 'No Spongebob 3 weeks, 2 days, 13 hours, 17 minutes, and 45 seconds.'"

'He kept count? What am i saying, of course he would.'

“Since we left in the middle of the night, everyone decided to stay another day. Then it turned into three days, then a week, then another week. . .”

“Having fun.”

“. . .Having fun. We didn't mean to stay that long. We just lost track of time.”

“I know.”

“We didn't do it to hurt you.”

“I know.”

“We just needed a break.”

“I said I know. I get it.” He finally broke eye contact with her, choosing to looked outside the nearby window instead of at her. He swung his legs and scratched the unbandaged side of his head. It looked like he wanted to say something, so Sandy waited. She looked at the clock and saw that the two of them have been talking for 90 minutes. It felt like they've been talking for hours. Her notebook was filled, with only the last few pages unused.

“Sponges are. . .” SpongeBob finally spoke again. “Loud. We're loud, we're energetic, high-spirited. My grandma calls us exuberant. But other sea creatures find us difficult to tolerate for long periods of time. They think we're too loud, too energetic, too clingy, too excitable, too destructive, too unpredictable. That's why there aren't a lot of us around and it looks like we're going extinct. Most of us live in our own cities, unmarked on any maps, far from everyone else ‘cause we know that other sea creatures think we're too much.”

“But what about Sponges who live outside of those cities, like you?”

“We have to find a way to make ourselves tolerable,” he said. “But it never works out in the end. So I don't understand. . .why are you trying to ‘fix' me? Everyone left to get away from me because they couldn't tolerate me anymore. Now I'm leaving them alone, shouldn't you all be happy? Why do you want to bring that back?”

“Because this isn't you, Spongebob,” she said, closing her notebook. “We know we hurt you, and we're all really sorry, but the answer isn't to have a key part of yourself removed for our sakes. You didn't give us a chance to fix things before going for the most drastic cure! If there was a way for you to love us again, wouldn't you take it?”

“No.”

“. . .No?”

He shook his head. “No. It's better like this.”

“But it's not better! We're all hurt by this. It hurts seeing you like this and not like yourself. And you can't just live without love. You said it yourself how important love is for Sponges. We miss you, SpongeBob. We all do.”

He only shrugged and stood out of his seat. “I think you should leave, now.”

Sandy watched as he went back to avoiding eye contact with her and turned his attention to tackling the massive pile of dishes in the kitchen sink. Seeing that he was finished with this conversation, she took her leave. As soon as the metal door shut behind her, she took a deep breath.

That conversation took more out of her than she expected, and left her feeling drained. It was one thing to imagine and hypothesize what things were like for him, and it was something completely different when learning right from him, unfiltered. She had a notebook full of more information than what she found at the library, but she had to question if it was worth anything. If he didn't want to be able to love them again, then she can't force him, no matter how much she wanted to shake some sense into him. No matter how much she wanted to think that, maybe, his ability to say that for sure, was hindered, she could only go by what he told her.

She had a lot to think about.