The mystery of Penny's abandoned acting career kept tugging at a corner of Sheldon's mind. It was a puzzle with missing pieces, and he hated those. Using the powerful computer in his bedroom—built by himself —he started digging.
His starting point was her last known role. If she'd kept trying, she would have auditioned for things filming soon after. He pulled up casting notices and production lists, making a spreadsheet of every project that might have wanted someone like Penny.
Then he looked deeper. He cross-referenced producers and directors, checking university-accessible legal databases and industry forums for whispers of trouble. It was tedious, like sifting sand for one particular grain.
One name started popping up too often, attached to projects she'd likely have gone for. It was a name he still remembered across lifetimes. The name was a dark smudge on the data: Harvey Weinstein, executive producer of Piranha 3D.
Sheldon stared at the screen. It wasn't proof, but the pattern was clear and ugly. A sickening realization took shape: Penny hadn't given up. She'd been pushed. And this man was the most probable shove. He saved the file, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with Antarctica.
———
He was pulled from his grim search by the unusual quiet of the apartment. Leonard, Howard, and Raj were gone, off to the Mojave to watch the meteor shower. Their departure had been a chorus of gleeful relief at his staying behind.
"No one to correct our star charts in real-time!" Howard had cheered.
"No one to enforce a 'meteor appreciation schedule'!" Raj added.
Sheldon had merely waved them off. "Have fun staring at random lithospheric debris. I'll enjoy a refrigerator where the condiments aren't juggled like circus props."
Now, in the peaceful solitude, he was preparing a perfect baked salmon when a sharp cry pierced the wall, followed by a heavy thud and a strained, "Ow, ow, OW! Dammit!"
Sheldon froze. That was Penny. And it wasn't the sound of a dropped hair dryer. It was pain. He set down his kitchen timer, wiped his hands, and went to her door, knocking firmly.
"Penny?"
"SHELDON! GET IN HERE!"
He opened the door. "Penny? Where are you?"
"BATHROOM! JUST… COME IN!"
He walked to the closed bathroom door and knocked again. "I am at the bathroom door. What's wrong?"
"I slipped! In the shower! I think my shoulder's popped out! I can't move it!"
Sheldon processed this. A dislocated shoulder. Serious, but not catastrophic if handled correctly. "I'm coming in."
He opened the door. Penny was lying in the empty tub, tangled in her torn shower curtain like a very upset caterpillar. Her face was pale and tight with pain.
"I tried to get up and… the whole curtain came down and I just… gave up," she said, her voice trembling.
Sheldon quickly assessed her. Her right arm was held in an unnatural way. "It looks like an anterior dislocation. Trying to fix it here would be a bad idea. We need to get you to the ER."
"I can't go like this!" she cried, gesturing weakly at the curtain.
"That's a fair point. Let's get you to your room first."
With careful, deliberate movements, he helped her out of the tub and guided her, shuffling and clutching the plastic, to her bedroom. He kept his eyes politely averted, focusing on her injured shoulder.
"I need clothes," she said, sinking onto the bed.
Sheldon opened her dresser drawer and was met with a tangled explosion of fabrics. "Your organizational system is… abstract. What's the logic here? By fiber content? By day of the week?"
"Sheldon! There is no system! Just grab some sweatpants and a t-shirt! From the clean-ish pile!"
He held up a pair of shorts. "These have a glittery badger on them."
"Not those! The grey ones!"
After a few mismatched attempts, they settled on grey sweatpants and an old, soft Caltech shirt. "Okay," she said. "Now, close your eyes. I don't need an audience."
"Sure," Sheldon said, squeezing his eyes shut. "Tell me what to do."
What followed was a clumsy, intimate dance. With his eyes closed, Sheldon helped her maneuver the shirt over her head, his hands careful and certain as he found the sleeve for her good arm. "I don't need to see to understand the geometry," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle as he guided her injured arm through. "I have a… perfectly adequate mental map."
The statement hung in the air, awkward and incredibly sweet at the same time. Penny felt her face grow warm. Sheldon's ears turned pink. He then helped her step into the sweatpants, pulling them up with a brisk, blind efficiency that was somehow both ridiculous and kind.
"Okay," she breathed. "You can look."
At the hospital, Sheldon was in his element. He filled out her forms with flawless detail, listing her medications and even her preferred pharmacy. When a nurse asked who he was, he said, "I am her primary emergency logistical support. I have her insurance information, her medical history, and a better understanding of triage protocols than your intern. Please fetch the doctor."
As Penny waited, pale and shivering in a gown, he sat beside her. When she winced, he didn't say 'it'll be okay.' Instead, he said, "The pain is natural. Breathe through it. Talk to me. Tell me about your day, about any interesting customers." And for some reason, it helped.
———
Under the vast desert sky, the meteor-watching expedition was falling apart.
Raj had managed to get free satellite TV. The debate was between Dune and Real Sex.
"One is a foundational text of ecological sci-fi," Leonard argued half-heartedly.
"The other has nudity," Howard stated. The decision was unanimous.
Nearby, a group of friendly women in a tie-dyed VW bus had given them a plate of homemade cookies. "You look like you could use some sweetness under all those stars!" one said.
The cookies were delicious. Pecan-chocolate chip with a… funny, herbal aftertaste. Twenty minutes later, the Leonid meteor shower became the most philosophically profound light show ever conceived.
"The cosmos…" Leonard whispered, flat on his back. "It's not just expanding. It's… breathing. In rainbows."
"I can feel the planet spinning," Howard announced, clutching the ground. "It's going too fast! Someone hit the brakes!"
Raj grabbed his chair's armrests and squeezed. "There. You're welcome."
He then dissolved into giggles. "Your voices sound so silly. Like talking Muppets."
Their scientific mission forgotten, they spiraled into a shared, giggly haze. Howard confessed, in vivid detail, about his traumatic, fish-related first time with his cousin Jeanie. Leonard insisted his name was now 'Spike.' Raj became convinced he could communicate with a nearby jackrabbit and was planning its political ascension.
Soon, a cosmic hunger took over. They tore into their supplies, eating pudding with their fingers, gnawing on beef sticks like cavemen. The blue ice packs started looking like giant, delicious popsicles. Howard, in a moment of stoned genius, produced his mother's care package: a whole, cold brisket with vegetables. They devoured it with their hands, groaning with pleasure as the brilliant streaks of meteors, utterly ignored, painted the sky above.
———
Sheldon drove a drowsy, medicated Penny home. Her shoulder was back in place, her arm in a sling, and she was floating on painkillers.
"You're like a really smart robot butler," she slurred, smiling sleepily at him. "Like if C-3PO knew first aid. And wasn't so uptight. Okay, maybe just like C-3PO."
"I choose to take that as a compliment," Sheldon said, executing a perfect parallel park.
He helped her inside and to her bed. As he turned to leave, she caught his hand with her good one. "Stay for a minute? My brain feels like a fuzzy cloud."
He hesitated, then sat stiffly on the edge of her mattress. In her softened, vulnerable state, the truth she'd been holding back finally seeped out.
"It was too quiet when you were gone," she murmured, eyes closed. "I hated it. And then… my stupid acting thing. That disgusting, greasy producer… he just made it all feel dirty and small." A tear slid out.
"Don't go off to the ice again. Things make more sense when you're here. You're my… north star or whatever."
She fell asleep still holding his hand. Sheldon sat there for a long while, the weight of her words and her trust a palpable thing in the quiet room. He carefully slipped his hand free, pulled her blanket up to her chin, and turned off the light.
Back in his own apartment, the salmon was dry and overdone. He ate it anyway, each deliberate bite. Then he picked up his phone and dialed.
A man's wary voice answered. "Hello?"
Sheldon's voice was calm, clear, and carried a quiet, dangerous finality. "It's him."