Work Text:
At the beginning, he hates you and so, as is customary among most sentient creatures, you hate him right back.
He’s small, you gather, and has a southern accent and has hated you from the moment he laid eyes on you so you figure you are at least semi-justified in your hatred.
No. Wait. Not semi-justified. One hundred percent justified.
He literally gasped in horror upon seeing you and called you “a pox on humanity” under his breath when he thought no one could hear and even wasted, will refuse to sit on you. Hell, even when he was concussed and had the other boys rushing around in a tizzy to try to make him feel better, he wouldn’t let them sit him down on you.
Which, rude.
You are a great fucking couch. You would have supported his concussed-ass just fine.
Or maybe you would have stuck a spring into his lower back because how dare he manage to slur out “kee’ me ‘way from that nasty ass couch or so help me” when half-asleep and probably on some pain killers.
You are not a nasty ass couch. You are a great couch. You have supported this hockey team through hours and hours of video games, movies, twelve hour television marathons, make-out sessions, hook ups, day drinking, evening dinners, kegsters, Tuesday nights, and every moment in between. You manage to hold four hockey players at once on most nights and have held up to nine during a Superbowl party. You keep approximately thirty dollars in change safe for them and often the television remote and sure, Shitty still has no less than three school IDs tucked into the cushions but it’s not your fault that he never bothers looking properly for anything before going off to pout to Zimmermann and having him buy him a new ID.
Hell, one time you managed to produce a condom for Holster mid-hook up.
The point is: You do great work. You have been given one of the hardest jobs a couch can have and for the last nine years, you have done. your. job.
So, screw you, tiny freshmen. How dare he judge you.
Of course, then, to add insult to injury (literally, he injured you. He attacked you with a vacuum, ripped a huge hole in your left cushion and then just sighed and flipped it over without even bothering to stitch you up)– to add insult to injury, somehow the stupid tiny one is invited to move into your Haus.
Which means that now, everyday, you get to hear vague threats about how he is going to get rid of you before he graduates. Talk about an unsafe living environment.
Luckily, Shitty– you don’t have eyes but context clues tells he has a mustache– continues to defend you (and, dammit, he’s right. You are a part of history) and the one with the biggest butt (Jack) notes that you work just fine and the fucking giant (Holster) talks about how he has watched hours of television on you and, sure, the giant’s counterbalance throws you under the bus with some talk of a rash, but overall you vow that you will hate the small one for forever.
At this point, he really should avoid sitting on you because, fuck it, if you are going to be blamed for something, then you might as well do it. If Eric R. Bittle ever sits down on you, you are moving all your lumps into full horrific formation and sending up the dust troops and the spiders don’t always cooperate with you, but you feel confident that you could explain to them that without you, they are out a home and convince them to attack en masse.
You are ready to have your revenge on Eric Bittle.
Of course, there are a few bright spots to the year. Chowder joins the team and he works you into his pregame ritual and even though, you originally wanted to be mean to Chowder because Bitty clearly loves him, you love Chowder more. So you rearrange your stuffing to your Most Comfortable setting and you don’t even grumble too much when he puts his shoes on your left arm and when Chowder drops his keys into the cushions, you try to push them out the front so he finds them easily on the floor.
The only thing you don’t like about Chowder is how much he likes Bitty. You tell yourself that that doesn’t matter. You are still getting your revenge the moment you can.
Of course… Bitty does finally sit on you.
It’s in fall semester and it’s the temperature where the boys haven’t bothered to get out the throw blankets quite yet but you wish they would because it’s a bit drafty in the Haus and can get quite cold when you don’t have hockey players draped all over you.
(Also, Martha and Paul are lovely and it would be nice to catch up.)
(Plus, you think Chowder is getting a bit chilly during his nap and there’s only so much you can do besides try to send all heating agents into the cushions.)
Anyway, Bitty and Jack are in the kitchen, baking something or other, and you are a bit miffed because usually at this time, you and Jack get in some quality chill time (and, look, you are a couch. obviously, you are partial to that booty). But having Bitty around means Jack sits less and now that they are baking, he isn’t around at all and, yup, there it is. Now Jack is saying goodbye to Bitty and heading to his 4PM history class.
Great.
You decide to take a little nap yourself because Holster and Ransom will be back at 5:30 and they haven’t played Halo in a while so you have to get used to that particular brand of sitting, standing, and jumping when quite suddenly, there is a small dent on your right side.
Bitty.
Eric Bittle is sitting down.
His frame is just as small as you imagine and it’s just a shock to your system that you don’t attack right away and because as you take that moment, you notice that he is trembling.
“Oh… oh no.”
His voice is small. You pause in your negotiations with the spiders. He takes a few deep breaths that don’t actually help anything. You can tell. You are a couch. His leg is twitching up and down like Ransom’s usually does when he’s stressed.
“No.” This time it’s stronger. Firm. As if he’s talking to someone. “No, I am not going to do this.”
You wish you had paid more attention to whatever it was he and Jack were talking about in the kitchen. You don’t really know what’s going on.
“Right, then,” he says and he rises. “It’s… it’s fine. I’m fine. I’m not– I don’t–”
You would believe him more if he didn’t sink right back onto you in the next moment.
He goes silent then and his elbow rests on your right arm and you think he is covering his face with that hand while his other is wedged between his thigh and you.
“He’s a jerk,” he tells himself, unaware that you are listening. “Remember? He was a big old jerk and I don’t like jerks and– and…. fuck.”
His voice catches then and you were supposed to stick springs into him but instead you find yourself shifting some stuffing around so that he can sink into the corner a little more.
“Jack Zimmermann,” he says to himself. “No. I have a rule. Don’t fall for a–”
He cuts off with a desperate, sad little chuckle and you find yourself wishing that you had a cellphone tucked away. The boys all have each other on their favorites list. You might be able to ring one of them. Though what good that would do isn’t clear at the moment.
“Okay, I’ll just– it’s fine. Not a big deal. I can just–”
Bitty’s cell phone ringing is so surprising that you almost jump. As it is, you jerk a little bit Bitty leaps to get it and so probably doesn’t notice. You listen as he fumbles for it and then there’s a beat where he stares at it and then–
“Hello, Mama!” His voice is bright and happy and horribly fake, at least to you. “How are you?”
A pause.
“Oh, me? I’m just fine. Right as rain. Been baking and such all afternoon.”
You expect him to get up because Bitty usually paces on the phone, but instead he sinks back into you and on the phone, he sounds good enough, but the fingers of his left hand are rubbing back and forth along the seam of your cushion and his leg hasn’t stopped jumping up and down and there’s something in his voice when he continues:
“Everything’s fine up here, Mama. Nothing new to report.”
You don’t attack.
It doesn’t seem right.