Work Text:
Here’s a funny joke: how many bugs does it take to build a couch?
Anyone in the audience? No? Okay, it’s—
“Two.”
“What?”
“There’s supposed to be two parts to this section.”
Quirrel glances over at the half-built ottoman he’s standing over. It doesn’t look incomplete. If anything, it appears perfectly-built with his very competent claws. Just because he isn’t working towards an engineering degree like his girlfriend is doesn’t mean he’s incapable of putting Slot A into Tab B.
“I’m pretty sure it’s fine, Hornet,” Quirrel dismisses with a claw. He goes to sit on the sofa end just to prove his point before an ominous crack echoes through their tiny apartment, and then he’s crashing through the middle. Thankfully, the cushion prevents his ass from being shattered on the ground.
“Or not,” Hornet grumbles.
“Look,” Quirrel says, rising from the now-broken seat, “if you didn’t throw away the instructions, we could have gotten this done hours earlier.”
“Oh, so it’s my fault?”
“Uh, yes! We need the instructions to put this thing together. Where did you even buy it? There’s a million pieces in a thousand plastic bags and nothing looks like it goes together.”
Hornet pulls up her phone, face full of spite. Quirrel expects the store she bought the sofa from to be somewhere reputable, a place that sells nice furniture even though they can’t really afford anything that pricey right now. Being a grad student doesn't pay much, and being an undergrad student pays nothing. So, they're kind of— okay, super— broke right now.
On Hornet’s phone screen, Quirrel sees that she bought it from Amazon. Then, he reads aloud the product name.
“105.5-inch multi-functional sofa, modular sectional sofa, 3-seater comfy couch with movable ottoman, deep seat couches for living room, linen, beige.”
What the fuck does that even mean.
“It’s Amazon-recommended,” Hornet spouts. “Which means thousands of people have bought the exact same thing as us. Ergo…”
And when the hell did she start saying words like ergo?
“… we don’t need the instructions.”
“I’m not following.”
“I do stuff like this every day,” she says with a sniff, bending over to grab a packet of nails and a tool that Quirrel is trying to remember the name of. “It’s like second nature to me to build things. Here, use these on the ottoman and I’ll get started on the other part.”
It’s probably because they’ve been at this for three hours now, but Quirrel is getting slightly angry. Annoyed. Whatever word you want to use. Point is, he’s not in a great mood and now he’s got a bundle of nails in his claw and what looks like the wrong tool for them. He discards the cylindrical thing and grabs the hammer instead.
Hornet didn’t tell him specifically what to do with the implements. Part of him wants to ask for clarification. The other part of him is vexed enough that he thinks, fuck it, and just does whatever he thinks is correct.
He lines the nail up onto the ottoman’s broken wooden side panel and then bashes them in. Bang, bang, bang—
“Quirrel, what the fuck are you doing?”
Quirrel looks up from his work.
“Following your illustrious instructions, Miss Engineering,” Quirrel huffs. “See?”
He shows her his hard work, which only gets him a horrified look. Quickly, Hornet rushes over and runs her claws across the grain and then grabs the hammer from his claws. She turns the thing around and tries to pry the nails out.
“These are screws, Quirrel. I gave you a screwdriver.”
Oh. So that’s what that was.
“Well, I don’t see your part of the couch being anywhere complete,” Quirrel shoots back, mostly because he’s feeling spiteful and it’s true that she hasn’t made much headway. In fact, Quirrel saw her not moments ago absently looking around at the pieces while on the borderline of sighing, probably frustrated because she also has no idea what in the gods' names to do. She's too proud to admit that, though; and it's a trait that Quirrel both adores and loathes right now.
But this is apparently the wrong thing to say to your hot-headed girlfriend who is annoyed with you— and you, with her. Hornet whips around and waves the hammer in Quirrel’s face, teeth grinding.
“Look here, Mister Biomedical,” she hisses, “I thought you were supposed to be smart.”
Quirrel crosses his arms, indignant.
“How was I supposed to know they were screws?”
“Everyone knows what screws look like!”
“Generalization is the killer of a thesis.”
“You can’t academic your way out of this one, Quirrel!”
Hornet would never hit Quirrel, he knows this. But she isn’t beyond wrestling, considering she grew up with two older siblings that took every kind of sports lessons as children. With a leap, Hornet jumps over the fractured ottoman and throws herself at Quirrel. They both go tumbling to the ground with a clatter as she shakes the lapels of his shirt.
“You,” Hornet says pointedly, sitting on Quirrel’s chest and blowing all the air out of him, “are so lucky you’re cute. I’ve done worse to bugs who have pissed me off less.”
“Like that time you were arrested—”
“Oh, that’s it!”
The couch never gets built. Quirrel didn’t want to tell Hornet, but the size of the sofa was also a few inches too big for their living room. They’d have to move the plants around, shuffle the coffee table, and it would have been a big thing that neither of them would have wanted to deal with when all was said and done.
In the end, they’re left with one half-completed ottoman with screws hammered into its wooden sides. They both sit on the end and watch the television as the anger fizzles out the atmosphere, Quirrel’s arm slung over Hornet’s shoulders as she sighs.
“I hope we can get a refund.”
“Just tell Amazon that it never arrived. That always works.”
A few days later, they get their refund. Seems like some things work out in the end.
Not building couches, though.