(no subject)
Author's Notes: Sequel of sorts to The Mistletoe Incident. There will likely be a third part, but it took me a year to finish this one. No promises.
He is not sure how it happened. The mystery of it all disquiets him, but then he finds so much about Penny unsettling. He does, however, have a working hypothesis.
It had been four months and sixteen days since her relationship with Leonard came to its inevitable conclusion. It did not seem too acrimonious, but then again he still does not fathom the vagaries of human emotion. What he did notice is that her presence from his life began to dissipate.
He had grown used to her near-constant appearance in their living room, her voice trickling down the hall, slipping underneath his door, and making him long for better quality ear plugs. He had grown accustomed to her habit of touching everything. Always insanely curious, she would pick up carefully arranged items just to visually inspect them before carelessly plopping them down whatever flat surface she happened to be standing next to. He started to Penny-proof the apartment, putting his more valuable acquisitions under glass or too high for her to reach. He had acclimated to her disruptions of his routines from the insistence on watching reality shows during clearly scheduled Star Trek blocks to her spontaneous desires to cook dinner on nights designated for take out. Besides, she never cleaned up the kitchen and he was forced to follow her around with a sponge.
When the relationship ended and she stopped intruding into his life so regularly, he was elated at first. By the end of the second month, however, he found himself noticing the absence of her. Everything in the living room remained in its proper place, but he continued to check every day, seeking some sign of change. The TIVO still had a season pass for American Top Model, but he didn’t delete it, telling himself that he was pandering to Howard’s puerile mindset. It was quiet more often in the apartment. No riotous sound passing itself as music, no unending questions and commentary about everything, no bare feet slapping against the kitchen tiles despite repeated lectures about hygiene, and no high pitched giggles floating in the air.
He was standing alone in the living room one Saturday morning, looking around, and realized everything is immaculate. There was nothing to clean, nothing to straighten, nothing to fix. So he used her emergency key and cleaned her apartment while she was at work. He told himself that since his living environment was so perfect, it made her apartment an even more glaring aberration.
It took him an extraordinarily long time since she clearly had been neglecting even the basic household chores. He was smoothing out the wrinkles on her freshly made bed when he heard her key in the lock. Caught. He straightened quickly and his stomach clenched unpleasantly. Crossing cautiously to the doorway of her bedroom, he peered out. The door was still open and she was standing there, keys in hand, just staring at the now pristine couch. She was wearing her uniform, the apron splattered with food stains, tendrils of her hair escaping her ponytail, curling around her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her skin was glowing, and she was shifting her weight from foot to foot, the way she does when her feet are hurting. He suddenly felt wildly restless and he was quite sure he’s never experienced this physical sensation before. He crossed his arms over his chest and the motion caught her gaze. She looked at him, her green eyes narrowing, but then she glanced around the sparkling apartment. Her gaze returned to him and he fidgeted involuntarily for a moment before he caught himself. The quiet stretched between them and he thought suddenly that he was quite tired of all this never-ending silence.
She sighed, a small weary exhale, disturbing the still air. She fully entered the apartment, shutting the door behind her, dropping her keys into the bowl he’d given her for her birthday last year. He winced when she dropped her bag on the floor by the end table, but remained silence, knowing the yelling will start soon enough. She settled down on the newly stain free couch, lifting her feet to rest on the shining coffee table. Leaning forward, she grabbed the universal remote that was perfectly aligned with the edge of the table and clicked on the TV & DVD player. He tentatively left the protection of the doorjamb. She still hadn’t said anything. Where was the yelling, the accusations about breaching her privacy? Was she employing the schoolyard punishment of the ‘silent treatment’?
His fingers dug painfully into his arms. From his studies into social interactions, this was not one of the acceptable means of conflict resolution. If she was going to behave childishly after he spared some of his valuable time to assist her, he would simply leave and turn his attention to more important tasks. Dropping his hands to his side, he moved behind the couch and headed for the door. Just as he was about to reach for the knob, familiar dialogue blared from the television. She was watching the last Star Trek movie. He turned and she was watching him, a small smile on her lips. She told him to go make popcorn to his anal specifications. He felt lighter, the crass remark setting something right in his world.
She fell asleep towards the end of the movie. She was facing his direction, her cheek pressed into the couch, as if she’d lost consciousness while talking to him. He wasn’t familiar with the proper etiquette for this situation. Does he leave? Finish watching the movie? Awaken her so she doesn’t get a crick in her neck? He should do something, but instead he looked at her. There were shadowy circles beneath her eyes, a physiological indicator that she was not getting enough REM sleep. She was frowning a little and she looked tired, even in sleep. He raised his hand to wake her because, clearly, she needed sleep in a proper bed, but as he grabbed her shoulder, his thumb brushed her neck. Her skin was soft, smooth, and, at the tentative touch, she made a little noise, the frown melting away. He repeated the movement again before regaining control over himself. He shook her awake and when she blearily blinked up at him, he quickly made his excuses.
That was three months and three days ago.
Sometimes, lying in bed at night, he imagines he can still feel the heat of her skin. Occasionally, when he sees Amy Farrah Fowler in a social capacity, he looks at the curve of her cheek, tries to picture touching her. He is not remotely tempted. It’s not that he wants to touch Penny, it’s that he wouldn’t necessarily be opposed to it, despite her past as a plague-bringer.
He has no idea how to handle it when she touches him.
Just mere minutes ago, she’d kissed him. She’d crumpled his shirt and likely caused him to strain a neck muscle by yanking him down to her height. She’s always seemed disproportionately strong to him and this only proved it. Before he had time to assess the situation and ascertain the proper response, she was kissing him.
He grips the sink with shaking fingers, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He’s already gargled with mouthwash twice and brushed his teeth once, but against all logic, he can still taste the strawberry lip gloss she’s so fond of. His pupils are dilated, his breath is rapid, and he’s sweating. He’s attempted to direct his thoughts into the Kolinar mindset, but he keeps contrasting the feel of her skin against the brief brush of her lips.
Beyond the door, he hears the cadence of her voice, the rise and fall in volume, as she addresses the rest of their social circle. He squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to eliminate all outside stimuli. It doesn’t work. Deception is not something he is skilled in and as he opens his eyes to meet his own gaze, he cannot lie to himself.
He wants her to do it again.
He is not sure how it happened. The mystery of it all disquiets him, but then he finds so much about Penny unsettling. He does, however, have a working hypothesis.
It had been four months and sixteen days since her relationship with Leonard came to its inevitable conclusion. It did not seem too acrimonious, but then again he still does not fathom the vagaries of human emotion. What he did notice is that her presence from his life began to dissipate.
He had grown used to her near-constant appearance in their living room, her voice trickling down the hall, slipping underneath his door, and making him long for better quality ear plugs. He had grown accustomed to her habit of touching everything. Always insanely curious, she would pick up carefully arranged items just to visually inspect them before carelessly plopping them down whatever flat surface she happened to be standing next to. He started to Penny-proof the apartment, putting his more valuable acquisitions under glass or too high for her to reach. He had acclimated to her disruptions of his routines from the insistence on watching reality shows during clearly scheduled Star Trek blocks to her spontaneous desires to cook dinner on nights designated for take out. Besides, she never cleaned up the kitchen and he was forced to follow her around with a sponge.
When the relationship ended and she stopped intruding into his life so regularly, he was elated at first. By the end of the second month, however, he found himself noticing the absence of her. Everything in the living room remained in its proper place, but he continued to check every day, seeking some sign of change. The TIVO still had a season pass for American Top Model, but he didn’t delete it, telling himself that he was pandering to Howard’s puerile mindset. It was quiet more often in the apartment. No riotous sound passing itself as music, no unending questions and commentary about everything, no bare feet slapping against the kitchen tiles despite repeated lectures about hygiene, and no high pitched giggles floating in the air.
He was standing alone in the living room one Saturday morning, looking around, and realized everything is immaculate. There was nothing to clean, nothing to straighten, nothing to fix. So he used her emergency key and cleaned her apartment while she was at work. He told himself that since his living environment was so perfect, it made her apartment an even more glaring aberration.
It took him an extraordinarily long time since she clearly had been neglecting even the basic household chores. He was smoothing out the wrinkles on her freshly made bed when he heard her key in the lock. Caught. He straightened quickly and his stomach clenched unpleasantly. Crossing cautiously to the doorway of her bedroom, he peered out. The door was still open and she was standing there, keys in hand, just staring at the now pristine couch. She was wearing her uniform, the apron splattered with food stains, tendrils of her hair escaping her ponytail, curling around her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her skin was glowing, and she was shifting her weight from foot to foot, the way she does when her feet are hurting. He suddenly felt wildly restless and he was quite sure he’s never experienced this physical sensation before. He crossed his arms over his chest and the motion caught her gaze. She looked at him, her green eyes narrowing, but then she glanced around the sparkling apartment. Her gaze returned to him and he fidgeted involuntarily for a moment before he caught himself. The quiet stretched between them and he thought suddenly that he was quite tired of all this never-ending silence.
She sighed, a small weary exhale, disturbing the still air. She fully entered the apartment, shutting the door behind her, dropping her keys into the bowl he’d given her for her birthday last year. He winced when she dropped her bag on the floor by the end table, but remained silence, knowing the yelling will start soon enough. She settled down on the newly stain free couch, lifting her feet to rest on the shining coffee table. Leaning forward, she grabbed the universal remote that was perfectly aligned with the edge of the table and clicked on the TV & DVD player. He tentatively left the protection of the doorjamb. She still hadn’t said anything. Where was the yelling, the accusations about breaching her privacy? Was she employing the schoolyard punishment of the ‘silent treatment’?
His fingers dug painfully into his arms. From his studies into social interactions, this was not one of the acceptable means of conflict resolution. If she was going to behave childishly after he spared some of his valuable time to assist her, he would simply leave and turn his attention to more important tasks. Dropping his hands to his side, he moved behind the couch and headed for the door. Just as he was about to reach for the knob, familiar dialogue blared from the television. She was watching the last Star Trek movie. He turned and she was watching him, a small smile on her lips. She told him to go make popcorn to his anal specifications. He felt lighter, the crass remark setting something right in his world.
She fell asleep towards the end of the movie. She was facing his direction, her cheek pressed into the couch, as if she’d lost consciousness while talking to him. He wasn’t familiar with the proper etiquette for this situation. Does he leave? Finish watching the movie? Awaken her so she doesn’t get a crick in her neck? He should do something, but instead he looked at her. There were shadowy circles beneath her eyes, a physiological indicator that she was not getting enough REM sleep. She was frowning a little and she looked tired, even in sleep. He raised his hand to wake her because, clearly, she needed sleep in a proper bed, but as he grabbed her shoulder, his thumb brushed her neck. Her skin was soft, smooth, and, at the tentative touch, she made a little noise, the frown melting away. He repeated the movement again before regaining control over himself. He shook her awake and when she blearily blinked up at him, he quickly made his excuses.
That was three months and three days ago.
Sometimes, lying in bed at night, he imagines he can still feel the heat of her skin. Occasionally, when he sees Amy Farrah Fowler in a social capacity, he looks at the curve of her cheek, tries to picture touching her. He is not remotely tempted. It’s not that he wants to touch Penny, it’s that he wouldn’t necessarily be opposed to it, despite her past as a plague-bringer.
He has no idea how to handle it when she touches him.
Just mere minutes ago, she’d kissed him. She’d crumpled his shirt and likely caused him to strain a neck muscle by yanking him down to her height. She’s always seemed disproportionately strong to him and this only proved it. Before he had time to assess the situation and ascertain the proper response, she was kissing him.
He grips the sink with shaking fingers, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He’s already gargled with mouthwash twice and brushed his teeth once, but against all logic, he can still taste the strawberry lip gloss she’s so fond of. His pupils are dilated, his breath is rapid, and he’s sweating. He’s attempted to direct his thoughts into the Kolinar mindset, but he keeps contrasting the feel of her skin against the brief brush of her lips.
Beyond the door, he hears the cadence of her voice, the rise and fall in volume, as she addresses the rest of their social circle. He squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to eliminate all outside stimuli. It doesn’t work. Deception is not something he is skilled in and as he opens his eyes to meet his own gaze, he cannot lie to himself.
He wants her to do it again.