Fic: Half-Awake in a Fake Empire, one-shot, BBT/Dollhouse crossover
Title: Half-Awake in a Fake Empire
Author: Meg / juniperlane / betternovembers
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sexy times, f-bombs.
Pairing: Penny/Sheldon. Sort of.
Summary: Everything you want. Everything you need. He will be. Honestly, and completely.
Word Count: 1426
Disclaimer: The Big Bang Theory and Dollhouse do not belong to me.
Notes: Well, she_burns1, this is really in no way what you were asking for. But after you brought it up in the help_haiti auction thread, my brain turned your requested prompt into this and it really, really wouldn't let go of me. Sorry I got so ridiculously expensive. Many thanks to sinstralpride for the beta, who became my victim simply because she was the only other person awake, and had to deal with my unfortunate abuse of commas. Title is from The National's "Fake Empire."
The first time the black van pulls up at her house she's waiting outside on the lawn, in jeans and a t-shirt like she's a normal person again. Just Penny from Nebraska, toes stained green from the grass and a hand shading her eyes from the sun. The door slides open and she sees a shadow in front of a bank of electronics, a foot tapping impatiently, and then a hand with long fingers wraps itself around the edge of the door. He's ungainly and seems to be all angles and elbows, but his stride has purpose, and when his arms close around her waist and he lifts her as he presses his lips to hers, she thinks, Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all.
His eyes are so very blue.
They go inside, and Penny almost forgets about the van. This is her first mistake.
He doesn't have gaps in his memory, or know about the in-betweens. She wonders where he goes - who he becomes - if he gets hurt, or if he has to fuck other people. She sometimes dreams of a gun in his hand, his finger pulling the trigger. Most of all, she wonders what his name is. A small part of her wants to own him, but a larger part merely wishes he was real. There is a list of fictions he thinks are facts: she'd moved into the apartment across from his her first day in California, they'd shared a small circle of friends, a regular schedule filled with Thai food and tv shows and comic books, she'd wormed her way into his life, and a slow and steady burn as they'd dated and fought and fucked and did all the things normal people do. She had typed this alternate universe out one night, and in the safe cocoon of her bed and the soft laptop glow she'd remembered those early dreams of writing a screenplay, before the auditions started going well, before she had to start turning down phone calls and tossing scripts she didn't even have time to read. She thinks there's still a latent talent there, one that itches underneath her skin. Maybe someday she'll actually use it for something real.
It becomes a thing. And a thing she doesn't really want to stop, either. The phone call, the van, his hands spanning her back, watching his face when he comes to see if something flickers or gives (it never does). Then a man in a suit, Would you like a treatment? It always ends the same.
There's water in her eyes and the tiles are cold against her back, but he's got one hand steady against the inside of her thigh and his mouth is hot and persistent as it swings south from her belly button. One finger, then two, inside her. He's only gotten better at this. She brings her other leg up over his shoulder and the angle changes, then he's in up to his knuckles and his tongue curls around her clit. Ohfuck, she says, and she feels him laugh more than she hears it. Penny reaches down and drags her hand through his hair, her fingers trace the river running down his neck. He looks up, eyelashes heavy with droplets, his tongue wiping at the corner of his lips. If she had seen him on the street, she never would have given him a second glance, but now... Now is a different story. She tugs at the hair behind his ear a little, and then he's lifting her up, pressing her back against the shower wall. Her legs wrap around his hips and they settle into a familiar rhythm. She bites at the skin where his neck meets his shoulder, where there's a line of freckles. She never bites hard enough to break skin. She doesn't want to damage the merchandise.
The entire thing is cold and civilized. Three weeks worth of background checks, a transfer from her accounts, a contract she doesn't bother to read, and it's settled. A long elevator ride to an office that sparkles with L.A. sunlight, and a pair of jailers who carry themselves with perfect posture. She's told over tea: He's designed to know exactly what you want. She nods and sips her Oolong, but really, the entire thing reeks of impossibility. Not the fact that essentially she's renting a human being or even that that the technology exists - something she has yet to truly wrap her head around - but that he could know such things when she herself has absolutely no fucking idea. She's 26, aimless but not capricious, with an empty house she shares with a collection of awards that all have her name etched in stone and metal. She never looks at them. (If time travel existed, she'd go back and tell herself: It won't be anything like what you think. Not at all.)
She pretends not to notice the fact that the man standing at the door has a gun tucked away in his suit jacket. He nods politely at her when she leaves. He looks nice - like he could be someone's father - like maybe, underneath it all, he really does care.
The woman shakes her hand, and Penny goes home and waits.
He never tells her he loves her. She's grateful for that, at least. She's not sure what she would say if he did.
"What was his name, before?"
"I'm not at liberty--"
"I won't tell anyone you told me. I just want to know."
DeWitt frowns, and turns back to her computer. "I'm afraid rules are rules. And in this case, they are explicit."
Penny looks over DeWitt's shoulder, and sees a photo of him appear on the screen. She forces herself to stand still, to wait for DeWitt to give her a sign.
DeWitt spins in her chair, hands flat on the arm rests. When she looks at Penny, her face is schooled into an expression that suggests complete indifference. Her eyes, on the other hand, are sad and knowing. "You must excuse me, I've been remiss. Can I offer you any refreshments? Tea? Water? A cocktail?" And then DeWitt is walking to the opposite side of her office, leaving a clear path for Penny to advance to her desk.
His name is Sheldon.
Penny can't bite back the question. "A doctor?"
DeWitt's pouring two glasses of something. "Physics," she answers.
Penny wants to know everything: why he handed over his life, if he was running away, what he plans to do when he's himself again, wants to know if the real man - Sheldon Cooper, Ph.D. - likes cheeseburgers and Batman and playing practical jokes. But all she's been given is this photo and his name. It has to be enough.
She hears DeWitt settling herself on the couch, hears the sound of a glass being placed on the table. A pause. "He'll remember nothing of his time here. To him, he will have closed his eyes in 2007, and when he opens them again, it will miraculously be 2012. It's a kindness, really. A gift that only we can give."
Somewhere, right now, he's out in the world - a completely different person than the one she's made up. In her head there's a drumbeat of why, why, why.
DeWitt smiles, a tired one that doesn't reach her eyes. "It's a unique sort of freedom, being anyone and everyone."
Penny sits and picks up the glass that's been left for her, tips it slightly in DeWitt's direction before taking a sip. The whiskey is good, definitely expensive.
They sit in companionable silence until their glasses are empty, and then it's over and done with, and Penny's on her own, again.
They're in bed on a lazy Saturday morning, and her coffee is still too hot to drink, so she places it carefully on the bedside table so she doesn't spill. She's in one of the t-shirts she bought for him, that he leaves in his drawer before he goes each time. It smells like him. He's got the sheet wrapped around his waist and is already deep into the crossword. He presses an absent-minded kiss to her forehead when she leans her chin on his shoulder, and gives him the answer to fourteen down. He's terrible with the pop culture clues.
He'll have forgotten all of this (the sex, the crossword, her) in a few hours, but she won't. She won't.
Author: Meg / juniperlane / betternovembers
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sexy times, f-bombs.
Pairing: Penny/Sheldon. Sort of.
Summary: Everything you want. Everything you need. He will be. Honestly, and completely.
Word Count: 1426
Disclaimer: The Big Bang Theory and Dollhouse do not belong to me.
Notes: Well, she_burns1, this is really in no way what you were asking for. But after you brought it up in the help_haiti auction thread, my brain turned your requested prompt into this and it really, really wouldn't let go of me. Sorry I got so ridiculously expensive. Many thanks to sinstralpride for the beta, who became my victim simply because she was the only other person awake, and had to deal with my unfortunate abuse of commas. Title is from The National's "Fake Empire."
The first time the black van pulls up at her house she's waiting outside on the lawn, in jeans and a t-shirt like she's a normal person again. Just Penny from Nebraska, toes stained green from the grass and a hand shading her eyes from the sun. The door slides open and she sees a shadow in front of a bank of electronics, a foot tapping impatiently, and then a hand with long fingers wraps itself around the edge of the door. He's ungainly and seems to be all angles and elbows, but his stride has purpose, and when his arms close around her waist and he lifts her as he presses his lips to hers, she thinks, Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all.
His eyes are so very blue.
They go inside, and Penny almost forgets about the van. This is her first mistake.
He doesn't have gaps in his memory, or know about the in-betweens. She wonders where he goes - who he becomes - if he gets hurt, or if he has to fuck other people. She sometimes dreams of a gun in his hand, his finger pulling the trigger. Most of all, she wonders what his name is. A small part of her wants to own him, but a larger part merely wishes he was real. There is a list of fictions he thinks are facts: she'd moved into the apartment across from his her first day in California, they'd shared a small circle of friends, a regular schedule filled with Thai food and tv shows and comic books, she'd wormed her way into his life, and a slow and steady burn as they'd dated and fought and fucked and did all the things normal people do. She had typed this alternate universe out one night, and in the safe cocoon of her bed and the soft laptop glow she'd remembered those early dreams of writing a screenplay, before the auditions started going well, before she had to start turning down phone calls and tossing scripts she didn't even have time to read. She thinks there's still a latent talent there, one that itches underneath her skin. Maybe someday she'll actually use it for something real.
It becomes a thing. And a thing she doesn't really want to stop, either. The phone call, the van, his hands spanning her back, watching his face when he comes to see if something flickers or gives (it never does). Then a man in a suit, Would you like a treatment? It always ends the same.
There's water in her eyes and the tiles are cold against her back, but he's got one hand steady against the inside of her thigh and his mouth is hot and persistent as it swings south from her belly button. One finger, then two, inside her. He's only gotten better at this. She brings her other leg up over his shoulder and the angle changes, then he's in up to his knuckles and his tongue curls around her clit. Ohfuck, she says, and she feels him laugh more than she hears it. Penny reaches down and drags her hand through his hair, her fingers trace the river running down his neck. He looks up, eyelashes heavy with droplets, his tongue wiping at the corner of his lips. If she had seen him on the street, she never would have given him a second glance, but now... Now is a different story. She tugs at the hair behind his ear a little, and then he's lifting her up, pressing her back against the shower wall. Her legs wrap around his hips and they settle into a familiar rhythm. She bites at the skin where his neck meets his shoulder, where there's a line of freckles. She never bites hard enough to break skin. She doesn't want to damage the merchandise.
The entire thing is cold and civilized. Three weeks worth of background checks, a transfer from her accounts, a contract she doesn't bother to read, and it's settled. A long elevator ride to an office that sparkles with L.A. sunlight, and a pair of jailers who carry themselves with perfect posture. She's told over tea: He's designed to know exactly what you want. She nods and sips her Oolong, but really, the entire thing reeks of impossibility. Not the fact that essentially she's renting a human being or even that that the technology exists - something she has yet to truly wrap her head around - but that he could know such things when she herself has absolutely no fucking idea. She's 26, aimless but not capricious, with an empty house she shares with a collection of awards that all have her name etched in stone and metal. She never looks at them. (If time travel existed, she'd go back and tell herself: It won't be anything like what you think. Not at all.)
She pretends not to notice the fact that the man standing at the door has a gun tucked away in his suit jacket. He nods politely at her when she leaves. He looks nice - like he could be someone's father - like maybe, underneath it all, he really does care.
The woman shakes her hand, and Penny goes home and waits.
He never tells her he loves her. She's grateful for that, at least. She's not sure what she would say if he did.
"What was his name, before?"
"I'm not at liberty--"
"I won't tell anyone you told me. I just want to know."
DeWitt frowns, and turns back to her computer. "I'm afraid rules are rules. And in this case, they are explicit."
Penny looks over DeWitt's shoulder, and sees a photo of him appear on the screen. She forces herself to stand still, to wait for DeWitt to give her a sign.
DeWitt spins in her chair, hands flat on the arm rests. When she looks at Penny, her face is schooled into an expression that suggests complete indifference. Her eyes, on the other hand, are sad and knowing. "You must excuse me, I've been remiss. Can I offer you any refreshments? Tea? Water? A cocktail?" And then DeWitt is walking to the opposite side of her office, leaving a clear path for Penny to advance to her desk.
His name is Sheldon.
Penny can't bite back the question. "A doctor?"
DeWitt's pouring two glasses of something. "Physics," she answers.
Penny wants to know everything: why he handed over his life, if he was running away, what he plans to do when he's himself again, wants to know if the real man - Sheldon Cooper, Ph.D. - likes cheeseburgers and Batman and playing practical jokes. But all she's been given is this photo and his name. It has to be enough.
She hears DeWitt settling herself on the couch, hears the sound of a glass being placed on the table. A pause. "He'll remember nothing of his time here. To him, he will have closed his eyes in 2007, and when he opens them again, it will miraculously be 2012. It's a kindness, really. A gift that only we can give."
Somewhere, right now, he's out in the world - a completely different person than the one she's made up. In her head there's a drumbeat of why, why, why.
DeWitt smiles, a tired one that doesn't reach her eyes. "It's a unique sort of freedom, being anyone and everyone."
Penny sits and picks up the glass that's been left for her, tips it slightly in DeWitt's direction before taking a sip. The whiskey is good, definitely expensive.
They sit in companionable silence until their glasses are empty, and then it's over and done with, and Penny's on her own, again.
They're in bed on a lazy Saturday morning, and her coffee is still too hot to drink, so she places it carefully on the bedside table so she doesn't spill. She's in one of the t-shirts she bought for him, that he leaves in his drawer before he goes each time. It smells like him. He's got the sheet wrapped around his waist and is already deep into the crossword. He presses an absent-minded kiss to her forehead when she leans her chin on his shoulder, and gives him the answer to fourteen down. He's terrible with the pop culture clues.
He'll have forgotten all of this (the sex, the crossword, her) in a few hours, but she won't. She won't.