A/N: Hey! SO, my writing is positively dying lately, and I don't know why…so I went back to basics, a good ol' introspective drabble. Hope ya like!
Well, maybe I lie.
Maybe I lie…a lot.
It's not like he'll ever be able to find out. If I have to nag him for three weeks straight to take out the garbage, he'll never check my hardware on his own to see what I'm thinking. Besides, he wouldn't do that, and I wouldn't let him. So he'll never find out. So I don't have to worry.
There's no way he can find the truth. I wouldn't slip up that bad, it's near impossible, anyway. So I don't have to worry.
Maybe he wouldn't be that mad. He would be upset for a little while, then forgive me, and just…no, he would hate me. There's no other alternative. That's what happens when you do something stupid and selfish like this.
He would hate me.
Forever. I can't take that.
I don't know what it started, and I'm not sure if it will ever end, but it's there, and it's growing. And I won't stop it, because logic tells me (which I'm very good at, thank you) that it's the smartest thing to do, and the only way to keep the world stable. To keep the ocean wet, to keep home happy, and to keep Bikini Bottom from falling into apocalypse.
There's the little genius now.
"What?" Do I sound annoyed?
"I'm going to steal the formula."
Sometimes, I wonder if he's even trying anymore. If he even cares, if he's beaten down too low, if it's sucked the energy out of him. That's when I have to help him. Give him a nudge.
"I believe in you, honey."
Hesitation. That doesn't usually happen.
"Promise?" His voice cracks. Not good.
I pause. This is always as close as he gets to breaking me. Just by asking, just by checking in, just by simply wondering if I'm really behind him. I stare, through my analyzers and scanners, at the ground, with its stains dating back to our first fight, twenty-six years ago. My fingers twiddle together, an organic trait I picked up a few years ago, I suppose. The metal is too cold for my own sensors, and I split them apart. No wonder I wasn't meant to do that. Maybe I should stop. Maybe I should just think. Maybe if I keep thinking, keep ignoring my husband right outside the room, then all this will go away.
"Yes, I promise." My equivalent of a breath releases, and I feel better.
"Love you." I mean the words a little more each time I say them. I suppose that's why I say them so often.
"Love you more."
I huff slightly. He's depressed, that should be loads of fun to deal with after he fails later. He will fail, after all. I know he will. Because he's not supposed to win.
I don't like doing this to him, understand. It's not fun to cause the bane of your husband's existence, and I didn't choose to do it, but now that I'm processor-deep into the muddy wasteland, there's not much else I can do. I'm stuck, clinging to the one thing that holds my life together and everything I know.
I'm sort of his stress-toy, if you can call it that. I'm his favorite thing in the world, and don't ask how I know that. Second to me is the formula. Chip and Spot are probably somewhere between me and the formula in an odd half-spot, but who knows. All I know, and need to know, is that I am number one, and the formula is next.
I'm going to keep it that way until the day my motherboard fries.
If he gets it, if he finally accomplishes his goal, if everything comes crashing down around the world, what does he need me for? What am I, if not a distraction, helper, and an emotional supporter until he gets that blasted recipe? Am I anything to him?
I might be wrong. Maybe I am. Maybe if he got it someday, he would still keep me in that spot.
I'm not willing to find out.
So I lie.
I lie…a lot.
Half of his failures are because of me. Maybe that cork on the formula didn't really need to be opened the next day, maybe I could have gotten at it. Maybe I could have stolen the formula a thousand times by now. Maybe I warn Krabs, anonymously, of course, when my husband is coming.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Like said, he doesn't need to know.
And as long as I'm his computer wife, he never will get that formula. Because I can't be in second place, or worse. And I'm not willing to find out just how much I mean to him.