"Do you know anything about sewing on buttons?" Artie asked, rolling into the living room. "I figured it couldn't be that hard, but this button has like 10 holes."
She grinned. "I've never seen a button with 10 holes. Let's see?"
He handed her the button.
"Artie, this has four holes. It's a normal button. Just sew it on like the other ones! It's not that hard."
"That's not the answer I was hoping for," he said, looking sheepishly at her. "I was hoping for something more along the lines of, 'Oh, Artie, let me take that button from you and sew it onto your shirt so you don't accidentally hurt yourself. Real men shouldn't have to sew on their own buttons!'"
She giggled. "It's a button. How could you possibly hurt yourself? It's a button! And real men? What?"
"But this involves needles!" he said. "And last time I tried to sew I ended up with the sock I was trying to fix sewn to my pants. And real men don't sew on their own buttons!"
She rolled her eyes. "Right, because that actually happened!"
"It did!" he said, reaching for something beside his leg. "Here, I saved them for you so you'd have proof."
She stared at him as he handed her a pair of his jeans, with a sock sewn to the thigh.
"Well...I hardly doubt you'll accidentally sew a button to yourself, so you should be fine with that," she said. "You have to know how to sew your own buttons! It's a life skill!"
"But...I can't get blood on my shirt when I stab myself with the needle!" he said, sounding slightly exasperated. "I need this shirt!"
She giggled. "Stop being a drama queen. It's a BUTTON, Artie. You'll be fine. If you like, I can supervise you."
"Couldn't you just do it for me?" he asked, looking up at her. "Please?"
She shook her head. "What happened to Mr. I-Don't-Need-Any-Help-With-Anything?"
"That doesn't extend to the realm of button-sewing," he said. "I actually might cry if you don't help me with this."
She rolled her eyes. "If you cry because I won't sew a button on for you, then you obviously have serious issues, and a button is the least of your worries."
He burst out laughing. "Ok, fine, so I won't cry, but I'll...be really, really sad?"
She grinned. "Well...if you're going to be really sad..."
"Thank you!" he said, handing her the button. "I'll go get the sewing stuff."
"Obviously I was kidding," she said, handing the button back to him. "You're doing this yourself. Go get the stuff, and I'll watch."
"Fine," he said, his shoulders slumping. "If you don't care about the fact that my fingers will soon be leaking blood, then I guess I'll just do it myself. I'll be right back."
"Ok, now just stick the needle through the hole," she said, watching his hands. "And then tie it off, and you're done!"
She grinned at him as he proudly finished the knot on the thread, and held it up to examine his craftsmanship.
"Not bad, if I do say so myself," he said, showing her. "Just let me put this stuff away now."
A moment later, he uttered a curse, and tossed the sewing box onto the couch.
"Are you ok?" she asked him, looking over.
"I just got attacked by an entire container of projectiles!" he said, pointing towards the box. "What's in there?"
She opened the lid, revealing an open box of pins. "Projectiles? They're pins, and they're just lying there. Projectile implies that they were flying through the air."
"They may as well have been!" he said, holding up his hand, which had several small puncture marks. "My hand flew right into them!"
She grinned. "So...basically it's your fault?"
He stared at her for a moment, before nodding sheepishly.
"Well, at least you didn't get blood on your nicely fixed shirt," she said.
He nodded, and then looked down. "My shirt may be fine...but I'm going to need to go wash these pants."
A/N: The Quartie Ficathon may be coming to an end tomorrow, but don't let that stop you from flooding the system with Quartie! QUARTIE FOR ALL!