[fic] tbbt - stream
Jun. 12th, 2009 10:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
damalurbackupStream. Penny/Sheldon, Penny/Raj. Written for Porn Battle VIII. And so: She is drunk. She has regrets. Raj is available.
STREAM
The odds of dying in a plane accident that year were one in five-hundred-two-thousand, five-hundred and fifty-four. She'd looked them up on the National Safety Council website; the number flits through her head constantly, the same way a snippet of a song or a jingle from an ad would.
It's not what was that haunts her, but what could have been. She wasn't - they never - Sheldon was always just there, alright? Annoying, sort of gawky, occasionally kind of okay to be around, but now she finds herself thinking about the oddest things - the cant of his chin when she mouthed off to him, the precision of his fingers as he folded laundry.
And so: She is drunk. She has regrets. Raj is available (physically he is available, physically he is present in close geographic proximity and physically he is alive and in good health; these are points in his favor). Raj is not Leonard; Raj did not survive when other people did not, or if he did -
(And he did - )
Or if he did, it was not at the expense of her might-have-beens.
And so: They have sex.
In the morning, she will feel: Guilt, grief, remorse, and so on. (Sheldon would say: und so weiter, as if he actually spoke German.) These are things that she will feel in the morning. She will feel angry, but -
At this moment in time - she wonders if it's possible to freeze moments, to capture them on a reel and play them back in an endless loop - at this moment, she does not feel anything. She is paying careful attention to way the green of the mint garnish in her mojito blends with the green of Raj's grasshopper. They do not speak.
And she says: "Kiss me."
And he says:
And then he says: "Excuse me? Penny, I do not."
"Rajesh," she says, and the two syllables form nicely in her mouth, so she says his name again. "Rajesh. Shut up and kiss me now."
He kisses her.
They go to bed.
She wants to run her fingers through his hair; she does not, for fear that she will find it not short-cropped but thick.
Six weeks ago today, she threw Sheldon's laptop out the window. She doesn't remember why. The reason doesn't matter. She'd give the man beneath her to have her underwear strung up from the telephone wire one last time.
She doesn't have a clean uniform for work tomorrow.
She is being unfair to Raj. Raj, she reminds herself, dislikes Indian food; Raj, unlike Sheldon, has an appreciable sense of humor; Raj, unlike any sensible person, owns a Mac - who in their right mind would use a Mac when they could run Linux on a PC for far less cost?
She still runs Windows. A virus deleted all the contacts from her address book yesterday.
It doesn't matter.
STREAM
The odds of dying in a plane accident that year were one in five-hundred-two-thousand, five-hundred and fifty-four. She'd looked them up on the National Safety Council website; the number flits through her head constantly, the same way a snippet of a song or a jingle from an ad would.
It's not what was that haunts her, but what could have been. She wasn't - they never - Sheldon was always just there, alright? Annoying, sort of gawky, occasionally kind of okay to be around, but now she finds herself thinking about the oddest things - the cant of his chin when she mouthed off to him, the precision of his fingers as he folded laundry.
And so: She is drunk. She has regrets. Raj is available (physically he is available, physically he is present in close geographic proximity and physically he is alive and in good health; these are points in his favor). Raj is not Leonard; Raj did not survive when other people did not, or if he did -
(And he did - )
Or if he did, it was not at the expense of her might-have-beens.
And so: They have sex.
In the morning, she will feel: Guilt, grief, remorse, and so on. (Sheldon would say: und so weiter, as if he actually spoke German.) These are things that she will feel in the morning. She will feel angry, but -
At this moment in time - she wonders if it's possible to freeze moments, to capture them on a reel and play them back in an endless loop - at this moment, she does not feel anything. She is paying careful attention to way the green of the mint garnish in her mojito blends with the green of Raj's grasshopper. They do not speak.
And she says: "Kiss me."
And he says:
And then he says: "Excuse me? Penny, I do not."
"Rajesh," she says, and the two syllables form nicely in her mouth, so she says his name again. "Rajesh. Shut up and kiss me now."
He kisses her.
They go to bed.
She wants to run her fingers through his hair; she does not, for fear that she will find it not short-cropped but thick.
Six weeks ago today, she threw Sheldon's laptop out the window. She doesn't remember why. The reason doesn't matter. She'd give the man beneath her to have her underwear strung up from the telephone wire one last time.
She doesn't have a clean uniform for work tomorrow.
She is being unfair to Raj. Raj, she reminds herself, dislikes Indian food; Raj, unlike Sheldon, has an appreciable sense of humor; Raj, unlike any sensible person, owns a Mac - who in their right mind would use a Mac when they could run Linux on a PC for far less cost?
She still runs Windows. A virus deleted all the contacts from her address book yesterday.
It doesn't matter.
