A/N: Wow! Thank you to all who reviewed! My goodness, I'm so happy! I ended up rewriting this chapter (it was far angstier) due to the feedback, and I hope you all like it! It's because of your feedback and interest that I was able to completely rewrite this, and I think it's way better now!
CHAPTER 5 – The Ill-defined Idiom Quandary
While Sheldon slept in her bedroom, Amy fidgeted on the couch, feeling herself finally sobering up. It appeared that Sheldon would never be interested in her the way she was interested in him. It was frankly impossible. Her experiment had failed, and she'd almost lost him as a boyfriend in the process.
Or had she lost him? He'd never confirmed it, shaken hands on it, or ceremoniously torn up a copy of the relationship agreement.
I was always told that when one door closes, another door opens, she mused. Where's the open door?
She felt the urge to check on Sheldon. He had hit his head quite audibly on the floor and if he caught her standing over him, it was a perfectly sensible rationale.
Slowly, Amy entered her bedroom to see Sheldon lying on his back, the covers tucked up under his chin. His eyes were closed peacefully and he did not so much as snore. She was intrigued. Leaning ever so gradually, she positioned her face over his nose to feel the rhythmic expulsion of each breath. It didn't look as if he'd gotten a concussion and he appeared to be fine. She would have checked the responsiveness of each pupil to light, but that would most certainly wake him.
She stared at Sheldon blatantly. It was nice to be able to gaze upon him without receiving a look of confusion or disapproval. Gingerly she reached a hand out and hovered it over his chest, feeling the warmth emanating from his body under the covers. He was so close, and yet, so very far away, just as he was during wakefulness.
Suddenly, Sheldon's hand moved to scratch his chest. In its unconscious journey to satisfy an itch, it stumbled across Amy's hovering hand. Amy sucked a breath in, her eyes widening. Why did she feel so much guilt for doing something romantic when she was in fact his girlfriend?
She didn't have much time to fully weigh out the consequences of this small act. Sheldon's hand had reached an impasse with her own. She felt the urge to pull her hand back but she was frozen with fear and could only stare at the convergence of hands.
It was then that Sheldon's hand moved over her own and his fingers constricted, clasping her hand in his own and lowering it directly onto the blanket which directly covered his chest. Amy felt butterflies in her stomach and—further below. She stared at his face—his eyes were closed, his mouth peaceful. She stared at her hand, now trapped within the confines of his hand. She'd never felt so aroused in her life at this spontaneous action. She attempted to move her hand away, but he held fast, his grip tightening. Amy took advantage of the rarest of opportunities to carefully crawl into bed with Sheldon.
Rather than close her eyes and sleep, Amy watched her boyfriend in the dark until her lids were heavy, taking in a sight she most likely would never experience again. All the while she thought of impossibilities: coitus, for one. As her optimism swung upward, she vowed to toss Gerard at the next opportunity. Sheldon's hands were not the least bit sweaty or unpleasant. Oh, why did this man tease her so?
By morning, Sheldon had turned toward Amy, his head lying on her shoulder, arms wrapped around her abdomen as if he were holding a human-length pillow.
Amy opened her eyes carefully to find Sheldon's face just below her chin. The smell of baby powder filled her nostrils and she was overjoyed. Sheldon had quite a snuggly, pleased expression on his face, his lips drawn up into a boyish smile. This she was only able to see because she had inadvertently left her glasses on the night before.
Truly, seeing Sheldon clinging to her in 20/20 vision was heaven. If coitus was any better than this, she would die... literally. She conjectured that by her constant sighs of pleasure, she'd deplete her body of carbon dioxide and her medulla oblongata wouldn't be able to respond accordingly to increase her respirations and retain a normal blood oxygen level. But for now, this was perfection.
She closed her eyes again and fell back into a sleep consisting of possibly attainable sexual forays with Sheldon.
"Mmm," he muttered, his voice no louder than a whisper. "Thanks for the pillow, Meemaw."
Amy's eyes fluttered open at the noise and she stared down at the semi-conscious Sheldon who hadn't yet gone into self-protection mode.
"My noggin's sore, Meemaw," he mumbled, nuzzling rather forcefully into Amy's shoulder. "Can you sing to me?"
Amy fell silent. Drat. Sing what, exactly?
Haltingly and in an artificially high voice, Amy began to sing rather off-key. "Frère Jacques, frère Jacques, Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?"
Suddenly Sheldon raised his body from Amy's shoulder and sat up on his side of the bed, rubbing his shut eyes with his fists.
"Soft kitty!" he exclaimed poutily, still rubbing his eyes. Amy nearly stopped breathing. Was that his pet name for his Meemaw? Strange…
"Meemaw, we're both well-aware that your grasp of French is exécrable…" Suddenly his eyes opened and he turned to focus on the source of the French lullaby. Inconceivable. He blinked rapidly and rubbed his eyes once more to see the same visage. "Amy Farrah Fowler?"
Sheldon had awoken to Amy Farrah Fowler in his bed. Amy found herself stammering at Sheldon's shocked gaze, as he croaked out her name. She had to explain this, or all would be lost.
"I—I came to check—"
"I remember now," he asserted, pointing at her. "You got me drunk and now I have the worst hangover headache. Ugh, I must have the alcohol dehydrogenase levels of an Asian teetotaler," he said, clutching the back of his skull. Haltingly he clambered out of bed and stood facing Amy, who sat on her side of the bed.
"No I didn't, Sheldon," she said in a calming tone. "I poured approximately 1 mil of my 80 proof bourbon into an approximately 400 milliliter drink. So essentially you consumed 0.5 mils of alcohol. Not nearly enough to induce inebriation."
"Then how did we end up… sleeping together?" he sputtered.
"I came in to check on you, and your body trapped me here."
"W-what?" he sputtered. "Impossible."
"Sheldon," she reassured him. "It happened. As you can see, I'm still here."
Now his face was stark white and his jaw hung open, his eyes set and focused on something indistinct.
"Impossible," he muttered unblinkingly. "I am far too evolved to partake in such… folly."
Just what did he mean by folly, anyway? Amy was just as unrehearsed as Sheldon in the world of sexuality to understand exactly what was happening here. She equated sleeping together to just that, sleeping together, whereas Sheldon had already made the connection to intercourse. Certainly Howard Wolowitz was most likely responsible for Sheldon's understanding of idioms that he'd never have learned on his own. Amy did not pick up on this.
"Certainly you've done this before," she responded cheerily. "For one, you called me Meemaw."
His eyes went wide with horror.
"Oh Lord, you've gotta be kidding me," he deadpanned, his Texas drawl suddenly very thick.
"Nope," she said with a smile.
"And that didn't… bother you?" he replied, staring uneasily at her.
"No, in fact I thought it was rather sweet."
Sheldon nearly felt faint, and could only stare at her with his mouth open. This was sick and wrong. Sometimes he hated being part of the human race. This was one of those times. His heart pounded in his ears at a deafening volume.
"I have to admit that I really enjoyed sleeping with you," she replied, shrugging. "Although you presumably weren't fully conscious when you invited me to stay, you inherently know what you're doing." With that, she winked at him.
"I do?" he asked, his face twisted with confusion. It was then that he looked down at his clothes, which were fully intact but were sadly not the pajamas he normally wore. This certainly had been an impromptu sleepover.
"Yes. I am putty in your hands," Amy admitted, bowing her head to him.
"Are you lying to me, Amy Farrah Fowler?" he asked her, narrowing his eyes. "My clothes are wholly intact."
She blinked with confusion. "Of course they are intact. What do you take me for, some kind of blanket yanker?"
"Blanket yanker? I don't want to know…"
"But I'm not lying to you, Sheldon. The proof is in the pudding. For instance, we are both still here."
Sheldon fidgeted nervously.
"I guess what I'm asking is… how was I?" he inquired.
"The best," she admitted, nodding her head excitedly. "Not to wax poetic with Barry White but you are my first, my last, my everything."
"If I was not drunk, as you claim, why am I not able to remember this… occasion?"
"You were unconscious," she said matter-of-factly, still unable to pick up on any insinuation that he meant anything but sleep.
"I was what?" Now he was blinking rapidly, his right eye twitching ever so slightly.
"Unconscious, for the most part," she repeated. She thought of his hand, of his cute little motions and noises during the night. "A squeeze here and there, a little moan or nuzzle, but more than likely your brain never registered."
"Well, that explains it," he muttered dryly. "My higher brain function would have never allowed me to do that."
"I know, and I'm sad for you," she replied, "because it was the best night of my life."
A/N: Please review! I need all the encouragement/feedback/comments I can get, because the next chapter is yet unwritten! Especially if you like this story enough to favorite it or want to be alerted to the next chapter, please review!