Fic: The Duplicity Hypothesis (2/3)
Title: The Benedict Arnold Theorem
Author: MrsVC
WC: ~1,400
Rating: R
AN: A sequel for The Blue Gingham Corollary Thanks to fujiidom for the quality check!
Written for Fiction Friday/Smutty Saturday: OTP challenge
He just wanted to do his laundry in peace. It was a simple matter. He wished to wash his clothes without distractions; distractions he had to battle internally, constantly. But, there she was, like clockwork, standing in the door frame with her laundry basket balanced on one hip and her sleep tank top bunching above her hipbones. She didn't realize what she did, how she looked to him just then. Perhaps, he speculated, she knows precisely what she does to us. He focused on his attention onto his Superman shirt, ignoring the way her bare feet pattered gently on the tile floor.
"I would not go barefoot in this room, Penny," he said, proud that his voice held just the right amount of disdain and superiority when he spoke. Sheldon could see her bare feet in the corner of his vision and he stopped moving altogether. She shifted her weight to her toes, arching her foot to swivel quickly around. The muscles in her calves were taut and firm and he went back to his folding as quickly as possible.
"Ugh, Sheldon, don't be so uptight." He saw her turn back on her toes and heard her dump her entire load into a washing machine. He rolled his eyes, feeling himself mixed between amusement and shame. He quickly folded the rest of his t-shirts. He heard a thump and turned his head quickly to see her pushing herself up to sit on the empty washing machine next to her used one. She was wildly, vastly different from the Penny from the rodeo, the Penny who had made fire in his blood, did things to his body. This Penny didn't have any make-up or carefully designed hair. She didn't glow from external sources but seemed to radiate from somewhere within. This Penny was normal, average, workaday; and she lit a fire deeper than before. The pale natural pink of her lips was more alluring than any false color she could paint on them. Her eyes the brightest green when not clouded by heavy powders and shimmering cosmetics.
He watched as her heels bumped the metal machine behind her rhythmically and he knew that was aware of what she did to him.
She smiled and he grabbed his basket roughly off the table.
"You don't have to leave," she said quickly. He didn't want to turn around. To turn around was to admit that he, in fact, didn't have to leave. He needed to leave. He had to get out of there, away from her, away from the way she planted treacherous thoughts in his brain. He thought he could feel her closing in behind him, feel a whisper of a breath on the skin of his neck, that same ghostly touch of her hand. He left the room as fast as possible.
---
"Are you avoiding me?" Sheldon leveled a dark gaze at her as she sat again on that washing machine, another Saturday, another distraction.
"You could only say that if I had ever purposefully sought out your company," he deadpanned, eyes trained on the blue plastic before him.
"Just thought I'd ask, Sheldon," she scoffed, kicking that washing machine again.
"Have no fear, Penny, our relationship paradigm is quite rigidly set. There is no reason why we should change it in any way." He looked up to see a curious look fitted on her face. He refused to define it. He pushed into that ever helpful box of Human Interactions He Would Forever Shun and Misunderstand. In that box, he wouldn't feel the intense desire to break it apart, define it, know it. There, he could lock it away safely. She crossed her toned and tanned legs. Did she remember those moments after the rodeo? Had she read different emotions and meanings into the actions? Back into the box, safely tucked away.
"I just thought that maybe..." bang, bang, bang went her feet against the metal washing machine.
"Not surprisingly, you thought wrong. Not quite as unusual as it might seem to you." She jumped from her perch and grabbed her laundry out of the dryer. Sheldon's eyes narrowed as she threw the dried clothes unfolded into her basket and stormed from the laundry room without looking back.
At first, relief that he could do his laundry in peace flooded through him. It was quickly replaced with the image of her perfectly painted toes and the way he could see the outline of white lace under her almost transparent pajama shorts. And then he realized that he could never force her to storm out of his mind, no matter how many insulting things he said or how many boxes he built inside. Instead, like a poltergeist, she would forever remind him of her presence with noises and chaos.
Bang, bang, bang was the rhythm he folded his shirts.
Bang, bang, bang was the sound his feet made on the stairs.
Bang, bang, bang was the jeering lullaby that kept him from sleep that night.
The problem with his consciously built boxes was that it was the greatest fun his unconscious could have; to unpack his carefully guarded thoughts and leave them haphazardly scattered around his brain. So when he would awake from very few hours of sleep, his body would be thrumming with coarse, hot blood and muscles taut with anticipation. His mouth would be open and slack, his breath harsh and hot, his head pressed back into the pillow. He would shut his eyes, clench his hands, dig his clipped nails into the soft flesh of his palm. He tried to force those images from his mind: flashes of white lace and tanned skin, thumbs trailing down a flat stomach to rub the crests of her hips, pink toes tangled in navy blue sheets. Images that were born of imagination and desire, not experience or knowledge.
This he could have dealt with, the betrayal of his body. He could forgive himself for feeling the searing heat of her flesh on his, for losing his breath when she would whisper in his ear words no woman had said to him. It was normal, evolutionary, justifiable. But to have his mind revel in the pride he had at wrapping his hands around her waist and lifting her hips to meet his, or the way he couldn't help but smile when she sighed into his mouth with satisfaction. He couldn't forgive his mind, trained rigorously like a soldier by himself, had let him delight in these phantom caresses and fantastical lies.
So, he breathed and hoped his body would calm. He could feel his face twisted with unfulfilled desire, feel his body rigid with demand. He dug his hands into the sheets to waylay the temptation, to keep his mind in check. But, instead, his mind ran away with him. In the absence of her corporeal self, Sheldon's mind supplied a specter form. He could feel her hands sliding up the outside of his thighs, her thumbs hooking in the elastic waist of his plaid bottoms. He could almost feel her breath on him, hot and wanting and as desperate as he was.
He jolted out of bed and put himself in the corner, head hanging in shame. He couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Bang, bang, bang went his head on the wall. He heard Leonard coming through the hallway so he stepped back, arms crossed across his middle, back to the door.
"Sheldon, what was that?"
"I'm not convinced that this wall has the proper amount of support." Sheldon took the chance to glance over his shoulder. It wasn't a lie; he didn't believe that wall had to proper amount of support.
"So, you set out to knock it down at four in the morning?"
"I couldn't sleep-" he trailed off but Leonard finished the thought for him.
"With the danger of a collapsing wall in your immediate vicinity, yeah, I got it," Leonard said in that voice, that voice Sheldon had come to know as the "I'm going to tolerate your crazy because you are my friend" voice. "Night, buddy." He heard the door shut and he held a hand to his face to stop the tics.
He wouldn't lose the only person in this world who tolerated him, who used that voice with him.
He wouldn't lose that to some Benedict Arnold dreams and hormonal fluctuations. He wouldn't.
Part Three
Author: MrsVC
WC: ~1,400
Rating: R
AN: A sequel for The Blue Gingham Corollary Thanks to fujiidom for the quality check!
Written for Fiction Friday/Smutty Saturday: OTP challenge
He just wanted to do his laundry in peace. It was a simple matter. He wished to wash his clothes without distractions; distractions he had to battle internally, constantly. But, there she was, like clockwork, standing in the door frame with her laundry basket balanced on one hip and her sleep tank top bunching above her hipbones. She didn't realize what she did, how she looked to him just then. Perhaps, he speculated, she knows precisely what she does to us. He focused on his attention onto his Superman shirt, ignoring the way her bare feet pattered gently on the tile floor.
"I would not go barefoot in this room, Penny," he said, proud that his voice held just the right amount of disdain and superiority when he spoke. Sheldon could see her bare feet in the corner of his vision and he stopped moving altogether. She shifted her weight to her toes, arching her foot to swivel quickly around. The muscles in her calves were taut and firm and he went back to his folding as quickly as possible.
"Ugh, Sheldon, don't be so uptight." He saw her turn back on her toes and heard her dump her entire load into a washing machine. He rolled his eyes, feeling himself mixed between amusement and shame. He quickly folded the rest of his t-shirts. He heard a thump and turned his head quickly to see her pushing herself up to sit on the empty washing machine next to her used one. She was wildly, vastly different from the Penny from the rodeo, the Penny who had made fire in his blood, did things to his body. This Penny didn't have any make-up or carefully designed hair. She didn't glow from external sources but seemed to radiate from somewhere within. This Penny was normal, average, workaday; and she lit a fire deeper than before. The pale natural pink of her lips was more alluring than any false color she could paint on them. Her eyes the brightest green when not clouded by heavy powders and shimmering cosmetics.
He watched as her heels bumped the metal machine behind her rhythmically and he knew that was aware of what she did to him.
She smiled and he grabbed his basket roughly off the table.
"You don't have to leave," she said quickly. He didn't want to turn around. To turn around was to admit that he, in fact, didn't have to leave. He needed to leave. He had to get out of there, away from her, away from the way she planted treacherous thoughts in his brain. He thought he could feel her closing in behind him, feel a whisper of a breath on the skin of his neck, that same ghostly touch of her hand. He left the room as fast as possible.
---
"Are you avoiding me?" Sheldon leveled a dark gaze at her as she sat again on that washing machine, another Saturday, another distraction.
"You could only say that if I had ever purposefully sought out your company," he deadpanned, eyes trained on the blue plastic before him.
"Just thought I'd ask, Sheldon," she scoffed, kicking that washing machine again.
"Have no fear, Penny, our relationship paradigm is quite rigidly set. There is no reason why we should change it in any way." He looked up to see a curious look fitted on her face. He refused to define it. He pushed into that ever helpful box of Human Interactions He Would Forever Shun and Misunderstand. In that box, he wouldn't feel the intense desire to break it apart, define it, know it. There, he could lock it away safely. She crossed her toned and tanned legs. Did she remember those moments after the rodeo? Had she read different emotions and meanings into the actions? Back into the box, safely tucked away.
"I just thought that maybe..." bang, bang, bang went her feet against the metal washing machine.
"Not surprisingly, you thought wrong. Not quite as unusual as it might seem to you." She jumped from her perch and grabbed her laundry out of the dryer. Sheldon's eyes narrowed as she threw the dried clothes unfolded into her basket and stormed from the laundry room without looking back.
At first, relief that he could do his laundry in peace flooded through him. It was quickly replaced with the image of her perfectly painted toes and the way he could see the outline of white lace under her almost transparent pajama shorts. And then he realized that he could never force her to storm out of his mind, no matter how many insulting things he said or how many boxes he built inside. Instead, like a poltergeist, she would forever remind him of her presence with noises and chaos.
Bang, bang, bang was the rhythm he folded his shirts.
Bang, bang, bang was the sound his feet made on the stairs.
Bang, bang, bang was the jeering lullaby that kept him from sleep that night.
The problem with his consciously built boxes was that it was the greatest fun his unconscious could have; to unpack his carefully guarded thoughts and leave them haphazardly scattered around his brain. So when he would awake from very few hours of sleep, his body would be thrumming with coarse, hot blood and muscles taut with anticipation. His mouth would be open and slack, his breath harsh and hot, his head pressed back into the pillow. He would shut his eyes, clench his hands, dig his clipped nails into the soft flesh of his palm. He tried to force those images from his mind: flashes of white lace and tanned skin, thumbs trailing down a flat stomach to rub the crests of her hips, pink toes tangled in navy blue sheets. Images that were born of imagination and desire, not experience or knowledge.
This he could have dealt with, the betrayal of his body. He could forgive himself for feeling the searing heat of her flesh on his, for losing his breath when she would whisper in his ear words no woman had said to him. It was normal, evolutionary, justifiable. But to have his mind revel in the pride he had at wrapping his hands around her waist and lifting her hips to meet his, or the way he couldn't help but smile when she sighed into his mouth with satisfaction. He couldn't forgive his mind, trained rigorously like a soldier by himself, had let him delight in these phantom caresses and fantastical lies.
So, he breathed and hoped his body would calm. He could feel his face twisted with unfulfilled desire, feel his body rigid with demand. He dug his hands into the sheets to waylay the temptation, to keep his mind in check. But, instead, his mind ran away with him. In the absence of her corporeal self, Sheldon's mind supplied a specter form. He could feel her hands sliding up the outside of his thighs, her thumbs hooking in the elastic waist of his plaid bottoms. He could almost feel her breath on him, hot and wanting and as desperate as he was.
He jolted out of bed and put himself in the corner, head hanging in shame. He couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Bang, bang, bang went his head on the wall. He heard Leonard coming through the hallway so he stepped back, arms crossed across his middle, back to the door.
"Sheldon, what was that?"
"I'm not convinced that this wall has the proper amount of support." Sheldon took the chance to glance over his shoulder. It wasn't a lie; he didn't believe that wall had to proper amount of support.
"So, you set out to knock it down at four in the morning?"
"I couldn't sleep-" he trailed off but Leonard finished the thought for him.
"With the danger of a collapsing wall in your immediate vicinity, yeah, I got it," Leonard said in that voice, that voice Sheldon had come to know as the "I'm going to tolerate your crazy because you are my friend" voice. "Night, buddy." He heard the door shut and he held a hand to his face to stop the tics.
He wouldn't lose the only person in this world who tolerated him, who used that voice with him.
He wouldn't lose that to some Benedict Arnold dreams and hormonal fluctuations. He wouldn't.
Part Three