Fic: if no-one says anything it’s not even happening (Leslie/Penny, PG-13)

[oonaseckar]

if no-one says anything it’s not even happening

‘I fancy you with a passion, you're a Topshop princess, a rockstar too

You're a fad you're a fashion and I'm having a job trying to talk to you.’
‘Still Take You Home’, Arctic Monkeys

Leonard’s only slightly puzzled. After all, he thinks, girls like to hang out with girls and, um, girltalk. About ponies and boys and uh… He doesn’t really know, even now, and it’s better not to speculate because he’s run out of hand sanitizer.


And back when he was going out with Penny, in the age of heroes that still disturbs his dreams, she got on pretty well with Leslie. Surprisingly well, in fact, considering how well - or not - Leslie gets along with anyone.

So it’s not that weird, really, that out of the last four times he’s had occasion to knock on Penny’s door and oh, borrow her copy of ‘Charlotte’s Web’ for Sheldon, or ask her to at least not leave taunting messages on Sheldon’s Facebook wall every time she breaks the password for their wireless network… three times, Leslie’s been there. There for no apparent reason, really. Or at least, none that either of them seem to feel the need to explain.

‘If you drink enough to pass out before I get your panties off this time, I’m not coming round again.’ Leslie’s own voice is a touch slurred, but at least she’s vertical.

Penny replies from her regal state, prone on the couch, bottle in hand. No ladylike vino with a non-generic supermarket label, either: some nasty cheap vodka, with the coke bottle by the sofa leg, swig for swig, turn and turn about. That girl’s liver would not be accepted if donated for the benefit of medical science, Leslie thinks disapprovingly. Then hiccups.

‘Hey, no-one actually invited you this time. I mean, if you’re going to make me point it out…’

‘Rude.’ Leslie shakes her head, goes to retrieve the bottle before Penny drops it and wastes any. ‘As if you hadn’t already hurt my feelings with the implication that you need to get severely hammered before you can bring yourself to sleep with me.’

Penny sputters with laughter, then wipes her mouth, delicate and cat-like.

Leslie doesn’t mind taking the bait. She trusts in the might of her arsenal to allow her to crush the opposition given time, even if she concedes the odd battle early in the war. ‘So what’s funny, Princess?’

Penny points. ‘Feelings. You. And feelings. Same sentence.’

Howard and Raj stop by when they've been watching too much Iron Chef. (They want to apply the principles of chemistry to the local Chinese takeout's menu. Penny thinks of mentioning molecular gastronomy, then just shuts up and prays for no invitation to dinner.). But all plans are on hold when Howard spots his ex on the sofa, and Penny drops her guard enough to turn and ask her bud if there is indeed any rice wine vinegar, tartaric acid or dilute acetic acid in the larder.) In a moment Howard's eluded her and is through the barrier, settling down beside Leslie, hands up in an exaggerated stretch, ostentatiously comfortable. 'So what you girls watching? Chick flick night, right? I can go with that: Howard Wolowitz is all about the romance. Raj, what are you hanging round the door for? So, Leslie, how's it hanging?'

For the first time Leslie turns to look at him, breaking her iron concentration on Robot Wars. 'Deep, pendulous, somewhere round the knees, Howie. At least compared to present company. Touch my beer, I shave your eyeballs.'

Both girls turn to Raj. He gazes back, doe eyes eloquently expressing apology and regret and helplessness. He's going to be fuck all use.

Howard inches a centimetre closer, and Leslie gives him a gorgon glare. A lesser man than Howard would be... actually Howard is smart enough to protect his crotch, but he still says, 'So, Leslie, I hear you're currently not getting served. Now, normally I wouldn't offer, having my card marked, but as an old friend...'

Leslie's surveying the terrain for blunt instruments and concealed weapons. But as she homes in on a pink lampshade with a crystal base, a cry comes from beyond where Raj still poses awkwardly in the doorway. Penny. 'Oh NO! Oh dear. Oh dear dear oh NO!'

Leslie doesn't move, but calls out, strong and musical. 'Give us the story.'

'I've dropped a precious possession down the lift shaft!'

Howard is more attentive, but his eyes flick around, unwilling to give up established territory. 'Is it intimate? Laundry? Thongs? Contraception? Because I'm sure I can spare-'

'It runs on batteries. And it is very very dear to me.' Penny's voice is the voice of one who is not going to waste subtlety on Howard Wolowitz.

Thirty seconds later Penny's back on the sofa with Leslie, after kissing Raj on the cheek and making him giggle, then slamming the door on him.

They watch in silence for five minutes. At the ad break, Leslie says, 'So what was it?'

'Can of chilli.'

'Hey, you lied. No batteries.'

'I put the broken can-opener down too.'

'That's my girl. Moral qualms, even dealing with the Wolowitz.. You know they could break their necks down that shaft, right?'

Penny shrugs. 'Raj didn't go. Is Wolowitz going to be a great loss to engineering?'

'Not so much you'd notice. And if I was short of dick he wouldn't be first choice either.'

'Okay then.'

'So why won't you go with me?' Penny asks. If she wasn't Penny, she could swear there was a trace of a whine in her voice.

Leslie turns over and away, emphatic, pulls half the duvet with her. 'I will go with you. You know, on a strictly platonic, offically buddies-only basis.'

'Well, what did you think I meant?' Penny's voice is genuinely puzzled.

You can hear the screech in the air as Leslie mentally backs up. 'Hey. Whoah. So you were planning on introducing me to all your buds at a stupid engagement barbeque as your best girl pal?'

Penny has, 'Well, duh,' face on. 'What did you think?'

Leslie has her head twisted round: but now she reverts back to facing Penny. She bounces on the mattress as she lands. 'So, wait. Let's get this clear. You're ashamed of me? You're embarrassed by our big flaming Sapphic love?' Leslie can't word anything without snark: but there's actual fury in her Whitby jet eyes.

Penny looks definitely uncomfortable. 'Honey... you know, I don't know exactly how to say this...'

'Don't worry, you don't have to say anything, you won't have to again.' Leslie's climbing out of bed, narrow limbs quivering with rage. But Penny grabs her arm and makes her stay, strong from cheerleading and gymnastics and hours of waitressing.

'Actually, I'm just embarrassed about what a flaming bitch you are,' she says. Leslie stills properly, though she still doesn't turn around.

'I don't think I know anyone who's going to give a shit if we roll around on the lawn and pour barbeque sauce on each other,' Penny continues thoughtfully. 'Although I do know a few guys who'd film it and sell it. But I do have friends who've seen me though one asshole boyfriend after another. And... well...'

'An asshole girlfriend might be more than they can take?' Leslie enquires. Her voice is smooth and sweet, vanilla milk. 'Don't you think I can play nice?'

She rolls around, sees Penny's pop-eyed, brow-creasing restraint and tact. She laughs. 'I can do it. Bet you money I can do it. What, you don't think I'm nice?' Her face comes up against Penny's neck and nuzzles sweetly as her fingers slyly stray behind both their heads. Warmth in Penny's chest gives her the sensation of something more momentous than two young women kissing in a bed in the dark. She really doesn't want to be in love with Leslie... since anyone in love with such a psycho emotionless bint is fairly well fucked... but...

'Oh for fuck's sweet sake, Leslie. Not again. Not the hair, again!' As she instinctively pulls away, she's yanked back by the point where her smooth blond mane is swiftly, narrowly, efficiently plaited in with Leslie's wild dark corkscrew curls. How does she do it? How does she do it so fucking fast and undetectably?

'Jesus Christ effin' Godsake, woman, why why why why why?' She leans her face in to Leslie's, feels the fierce flush, breathes deep, with rage and maybe something else.

Leslie strokes her face, assumes a seductive tone. 'Why, Penn. You're beautiful when you're angry.' She tries to curl one perfectly straightened lock. 'What colour was this straw originally, anyway?'

Penny pulls away again, flinches. 'Cheeky bitch.'

Leslie's arms come around her shoulders, push her down on the pillows with careful synchronization: careful, careful, no pulls, no tangles, everything very - very - smooth. 'Relax, doll. I know you're a natural blond.'

When Amy Farrah Fowler comes by for a girls' night in it's their fault entirely. It's a regular thing, or has become so, somehow, inadvertently. Amy steps in as soon as the door is opened, beaming as far as her face is capable of such a thing. She's bearing chips and low-alcohol wine, some low-glycemic index snack or other with heart-friendly benefits.

Penny loves Amy. She really truly does, like the runt of the litter that's been kicked once too often and has finally found a home. She can't turn Amy away, so she relies on Leslie's lusty brutality. They had, after all, had to crawl out of bed and drag on jeans just to answer the door.

She's never, ever seen a helplessness, a motherliness on Leslie's face. Not like this. Sod all use she's going to be, then. What use is Leslie Winkle if she's not the jack-booted crusher of kittens?

Fifteen minutes later and Amy has them fixing sundaes in the kitchen. Leslie's searching through the cupboard for sprinkles - Jesus - and Penny kicks her in the shin for the spineless traitor she is.

An hour in and Amy choreographs a pillow fight in the bedroom. Penny wonders about cartoons, about bricks in pillowcases, about justifiable homicide. Amy doesn't seem to get the playful point, and she's surprisingly well-muscled into the bargain: her swipes leave grazes and can whack the air out of the lungs of an unfortunate recipient. A minute in and Penny's had enough: she collapses on the bed, claims mortal injury, does a full-blown dying swan. It's enough to fluster Amy into a tizzy, and she heads off to the kitchen in search of a mythical first aid box.

'You utter wuss,' Leslie says drily. 'Show me your alleged injuries.'

Penny sticks her tongue out, more obscene than playful, and does better than that, lifting her tee to flash her bits. Leslie muses, chin in hand. 'I dunno, babe. They look fine to me.'

'Horrible mean lady. I have a baddie. I's hurtin',' Penny protests. A little babytalk, a little wrestlin', really... 'Really, you are too easy.'

'And you're a humungous slut. Any complaints?'

So that's how Amy comes to walk in on them with Leslie's hands down her jeans and in a state of disordered dress. Penny just thanks God that she'd been interrupted on the point of trying to get a 'Soft Kitty' rendition out of Leslie. Because when the story does the rounds of the nerds, that would be one humiliation too far.

Mostly the funny and the appallment comes from Amy's pop-eyes, followed by her attempt to normalise the situation. Her voice is only a little high-pitched as she sets down candy and a two thirds empty bottle of gin on the bedside cabinet. They watch her, frozen: what purpose is a rearrangement of limbs going to serve? 'I couldn't find any first aid box or painkillers, so I brought chocolate and a bottle of spirits. I believe I've often heard you express the opinion that enough sugar and ethanol can cure any wounds, or words to that effect, Penny.'

She takes a deep breath and turns to face them. 'As to our next round of, ah, entertainment for the evening, I must say I have considered the prospect, although I wasn't expecting it to appear on the itinerary quite so early. However, since Sheldon's performance has failed to... due to Sheldon, I am now seriously considering the Sapphic way. Therefore I must conclude by saying that...'

Leslie's gnawing her fingernails with alarmed anticipation. Penny's just frozen, mascara'd lashes stretching out... and wider... and wider... Amy evidently decides that if words fail, then actions must speak, and...

Two minutes later Amy's outside in the corridor, bag and blouse firmly dumped beside her. Leslie's regained her inner brute, hooray, and Penny picks her up and swings her in celebration. But Leslie shivers in her arms, clings on like she'd normally never lower herself to do. 'Jeez. Did you check out the lingerie? Where do you even buy that stuff any more?'

Penny is firm, strokes back errant curls reassuringly, mops the sweat from that perky miniature hobbitty little brow. 'That wasn't lingerie, babe. That was structural underpinnings. Howard probably designed it.'

Leslie groans as she listens to the crashing of pans and plates in the kitchen. Goddamn, and she'd assumed that by this point she'd got away with it. Women... bringing things up hours, days, months after they should have been buried. Even Howard might be better than this.

'So, what did you mean, anyway? No, come on, I want to know.'

'Can we just drop it? I'll buy you fucking flowers if we can just drop it. I'll remember our anniversary.'

Penny comes out and stands in the kitchen doorway, scrubbing at a pan. She's going to scrub a hole in it at this rate. 'We're not going to get that far if I don't get an answer. ' Strictly platonic, offically buddies-only': what the hell does that even mean, anyway? So you want to deny me?'

Leslie pulls the throw over herself and tries to just stare at the TV, but the eyes on the back of her head are going to laser right through in a minute. 'Hey, we've already established that you're embarrassed to be dating, let me quote, 'such an unmitigated bitch.' Nice vocabulary development, by the way.'

Penny preens, then catches herself. 'Nice try. I'm not even taking you to this thing if you don't-'

'Hey, I'm just not big on the whole PDA thing, okay? Is it such a big deal if I don't want you going all soft on me and kissy-kissy and being half of a couple and expecting me to be half of it too?' There's a slight sheen of sweat on Leslie's brow, as Penny approaches. It could be panic. Probably is.

'That's it?' Penny asks. She's still holding that saucepan: swinging it. 'You're embarrassed to be in love?'

Leslie shies like a horse on a rally car track. 'Love? Back up, back up, who said anything-'

She gets silenced the usual, the traditional way. But hey, at least the little lady isn't mad at her any more, and she won't be sleeping on the couch tonight.

When Sheldon knocks on her door he only wants one thing. And the second time he knocks. And the third, fourth, fifth, along with the incessant muttered, 'Pennypennypennypennypenny-'.

How do they know he only wants one thing? It's easy, because as Leslie opens the door, Penny standing behind her, chin on her shoulder, he announces, 'Penny - oh, hello Leslie - I only want one thing from you!'

And he might have gone on. He probably would have gone on, even though the presence of Leslie Winkle, his nemesis, is sufficient startlement, and just compounded by two ladies answering the door in a state of undress involving panties and tees and yawns and glares. But he's chosen the wrong night. The wrong night entirely. After too many days, nights, afternoons, of answering doors to uninvited guests, of fending off unwelcome thirds, of interrupted sex.

He will never, probably, entirely recover from the shock of being grasped by the neck of his Spock tee by Leslie Winkle, as she snips out mean little words in his face. 'That's all right, Sheldon. Come on in and get it, baby: I was just thinking that what we needed was MORE DICK!'

No. Sheldon will never recover. Or that's what the rest of the nerds think, when he's finally stopped running, when they eventually track him down on the outskirts of the city via the GPS on his malfunctioning phone. Or at least it's going to take a whole, big lot of Soft Kitty. They're going to have to take it in relay.

Leslie wakes at midnight on Penny's couch, throw over her, half-suffocated by her own curls. She's a touch disoriented at first: she's not in the doghouse, right? What has she done wrong now?

But this is Penny, leaning over her, quiet and cautious. 'Babe? You awake? Come on, come to bed. I told you it was impossible to stay awake through Bad Boys II.'

For some reason, Leslie doesn't answer. She just feels... something. She feels something, that's reason enough to make like she's still asleep. A hand roughs up her hair, not enough to wake a sleeper. Then there's a kiss to her brow. 'You will ache in the morning, frosty little queen. Never mind. Love you.'

She's abandoned, for the comfort of an extra-firm mattress and a bunch of stupid soft toys. Her smile makes no sense.

After ten minutes she gets up and joins the blond, not committing to having heard anything at all.