Penny believes in magic.

She was raised by a practical farmer and a slightly weary woman on dusty fields. She was taught Jesus, and Land, and Family (in that order), and she knows that her parents are confused by her, largely appalled by her choices, and have had to reconcile their high hopes to Land and Jesus.

Her brother and sister have played their part in this, Penny knows, but it feels like their disappointment is all on her. She's the one who left. She's the one who had dreams

(and she'll never mention that those dreams weren't even of acting, but of just getting away, far from the dust and crops and glowing heat of summer, where everything shimmered and yet nothing seemed to move, and finding a new life, maybe somewhere that never stopped. She never thought she would miss the stark beauty that she hated growing up, but she knows she'll never miss it enough to go back, no matter what her momma predicted.)

that took her away from everything they knew to be true. No matter how supportive they try to be in the present, she remembers the tears in her daddy's eyes and the way her mom wouldn't speak to her for the week after her eighteenth birthday when she told them she was leaving.

She was raised this way, by loving people in a loving place and taught morals, and values, and what she decided to believe in was magic. It even surprises her sometimes. But it's not like she had a choice.

They make fun of her, the boys, her boys, for this belief.

Penny can't imagine being as smart as they are, but she knows she's no dummy either. She can see Leonard's gentle eye roll, quickly hidden, when she mentions her horoscope. She'll catch a glimpse of Howard's tilted smirk or make out half a joke at her expense, whispered from Raj into Howard's ear.

And Sheldon. Well, she doesn't listen to his constant lectures on why psychics are charlatans, on why crystals have no power to energize your physical form, on why your horoscope has nothing to do with your personality or future because so many thousands of people will share your birthday and even the exact time of your birth and then we would be in cloneville (or whatever) and why don't we leave that up to the scientists. He very well might be right. But that has little to do with magic.

She doesn't listen to Sheldon because he's part of the reason why she still believes.

#

The third time it happens to her is the first time she meets them, after what she affectionately refers to in her memory as the 'hi marathon.' They've invited her over and her eyes are drawn to Sheldon, the leanness of him, his height. He's not her usual type; she generally preferred more muscled guys with hardened cheekbones and cocky swaggers but something about his dark blue eyes, so steady and vaguely curious

(cataloguing her even then, or trying to, and she couldn't get it out of her head, what her Nana had told her at the age of 12, "PennyBlossom, always look close at the tall men who don't seem to realize their height. They'll protect you right, even if at the beginning they don't know they can," in her softly ruffled voice, and this Sheldon was trying to fit her in somewhere in his head, that much was obvious, but he couldn't figure out where)

and maybe attracted—okay definitely attracted, she was never mistaken about the sparks—makes her body follow in his direction when they enter the apartment. It's clear he doesn't know how to stand, where to put his hands or even his gaze, but that's okay because one of the things Penny has always tried to be is kind when other people feel awkward around her—it's one of her gifts.

But yes, it's there, his gaze on her face, the cautious intake of her body when she glances away. She calls him on being one of those beautiful mind genius guys (lucky she finally saw that movie, she thinks, only the previous week, and wonders if it's some sort of sign.) and he leans briefly against his squiggle board and then Leonard speaks up and she's properly admiring of him as well—he seems lonely, and eager to please, and that makes her heart hurt a little for him—and as she gets a whiff of the food she gets a

(those blue eyes, widened in a sort of surprised wonder, and face lightly perspiring as he chuffs out an exhale that makes her hair brush back. She sinks down onto him, feeling her legs clench, the inner core of her tightening and his hands scrabble for purchase on her hips, sure to bring violet bruises in the morning. As he lifts up, going deeper in time with her rhythm, she's abruptly certain that he's never done this before and even more certain that neither has she, not like this, and she leans in to plaster her body against his chest, so she can feel every inch of him as he makes a sound, like a whisper or a moan or a sigh that she knows she will remember for the rest of her)

brief flash that starts her skin tingling and ends immediately as she sits down on their couch. The boys are arguing about something she can't quite understand and she tries to shrug off the unsettled feeling (like being dipped in champagne and then blasted with a fire hose or something. Penny has never been good at analogies) that overtook her. She feels let down and is strikingly aware that Leonard is the one that wanted her to come over, the one who wanted her to have lunch with them. She likes him well enough for someone she just met; he seems sweet, if far more nerdy than anyone she's ever met in real life. She asks if it's okay if she starts to eat and Sheldon turns to see her.

She hears his comment with a sinking stomach. "Um, Penny, that's where I sit."

Oh. Oh.

She tries to turn it, but isn't surprised when it doesn't work.

#

Her first experience with the magic, the knowing of what could have been, was at fourteen when Mikey Tiller had asked her to his junior prom. Mikey was the quarterback and although Penny knew she was a shoo-in for cheerleader next year, she hadn't been able to try out this year due to a stupid sprained ankle that would've put her off horse-riding altogether if she hadn't been so stubborn.

But Mikey was just the cutest and the coolest and somehow always managed to bring the booze to the parties that Penny was only this year starting to get invited to, parties that usually consisted of a bonfire in a barren field, a boombox turned up too high, beer, and several blankets provided by hopeful high-school boys. She had attended a couple with her friends since Homecoming and found them vaguely boring but usually couldn't find a good enough reason not to go.

At the last two, Mikey had spent some time with her, and at the most recent party, he was at her side half the time until he finally asked if she would be his date at the Prom. Trying not to lean away from him (she would never get used to the smell of beer on someone's breath), shocked that he had asked her instead of Sandy Marks (that bitch, flirting with him all night and trying to draw his attention away from her), Penny said yes.

Technically, she wasn't supposed to be allowed to start dating until she was 16, but she had been so thrilled, so filled with excitement about going to her first real formal dance that her father had only given her a weak lecture, her mother had only rolled her eyes with a smile, and both of them had allowed Penny two hours of phone-time with Beth for the run-down of 'how'd he ask you,' and 'did he try to kiss you,' and 'what will you wear?' before insisting that she get off because it was almost eleven.

She talked to her Nana, she talked to Beth and Patty and Georgia. She went dress shopping, found a strappy black dress with a poufy tulle skirt inlaid with crystals that hit her at knee length that she could not afford with what babysitting money she had left over from summer. When her daddy wouldn't shell out the money for nothing, Penny helped him rebuild two tractor engines after school and on her day off- in addition to her regular chores and because Sundays were for church- until she had enough. Because Daddy was proud of her for working so hard, he surprised her by buying the shoes she had her eye on (she had resigned herself to wearing her momma's plain black pumps instead of the crystal studded, satin black heels that went perfectly with her dress) three days before the dance.

(And really, there was no way to describe how much those shoes meant to her, such pretty, girly things bought on a whim of fatherly love for the daughter he had practically raised to be the son who wouldn't let him down. She screeched at him with delight when he bowed low over the proffered box, and then put them on and insisted that he turn her around and around in the kitchen so that she could break them in, even though she could see that it made him sorta happysad to see her looking so grownup.)

She had gone on two kind-of dates with Mikey and a group of their friends down at the nearby Dairy Queen—because she was well aware that a school formal was the exception to dating, not the rule—in the weeks before the dance, and each time found herself crammed into the booth right next to him, marveling at how warm his leg was against hers, even through the denim, and at how her heart speeded up whenever the sleeve of his jacket brushed against the back of her neck. Each time she saw him, she liked him more.

On the day of the dance, Penny carefully shampooed and conditioned her hair

(can't breathe! "Stop it!")

and slipped into black stockings and the strapless push-up bra she had secretly borrowed from Patty who hadn't been invited to the dance, but who was—luckily—her size. She unzipped her perfect dress and shimmied it up over her hips

(pinned down with hard hands, too strong to struggle against and no room in the cab of the truck to pull away and a cruel set to those lips she had dreamed of kissing and mean laughter in her ear and the sound of her dress tearing and fear, ohmygod she was gonna throw up)

and zipped it up before pinning her hair up with rhinestone clips—stopping because she felt weird and dizzy for a moment—and then put the finishing touches on her make-up. Penny sat on her bed to slip on her shoes

(this was actually happening this isn't what she thought this hurt so bad he seemed so nice her cheek was throbbing and she could taste blood and oh her beautiful dress was ruined and she stared at his shoulder as he grunted above her and waited for him to)

but paused, one of them in her trembling hands and one of them, waiting, on her lap. It was fading already, that feeling, but Penny was nothing if not stubborn—nothing if not sure—and she carefully put her shoes aside, leaned over, and picked up the phone on her nightstand, dialing the number she hand memorized before she could change her mind.

He picked up on the second ring. "'Lo?"

"Mikey, it's Penny."

"Hey Babe!" He sounded pleased. "I was just 'bout to leave."

He sounded so nice, so sweet, that she felt herself hesitate for a second and then pushed on, too scared not to. "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, but I think I'm sick. My stomach—"

His voice changed, just slightly, took on a hardness that somehow felt familiar even though she had never heard it before. "You don't sound sick."

"I just. I think I ate something. Wrong, you know?"

He exhaled explosively. "Well, do you think you'll be feeling good enough to go on a drive after the dance is over?"

"No," she said slowly, "I think I'm in for the night."

The silence hung heavy for a moment before charming Mikey Tiller said, "Fuckin' cocktease," and slammed down the phone in her ear.

Later, when her brother Tommy came home and mentioned that Mikey had been at the dance with Sandy as a last-minute but apparently perfectly acceptable substitution, Penny felt unnerved. The jealousy she kept expecting to hit her never came; neither did the automatic irritation she felt whenever Sandy horned in (or tried to) on something that was hers. It wasn't until she was lying in bed, unable to sleep, that she managed to pinpoint what she was feeling as worry.

And it wasn't until Monday, when Sandy showed up to school unnaturally quiet, with a fat lip and a bruised jaw that Penny—with a sickening lack of surprise—understood why.

#

There aren't as many people as you'd hope in this world that are both caring, steadfast and comfortable to be around. Usually, Leonard hits three out of three (although sometimes two when Penny looks close enough and feels a little smothered by just how big his crush has gotten on her), and Penny feels herself falling in love with him slowly.

Or. Well. She cares about him enough to want to care about him as much as he cares about her. He just moves so fast, emotionally, and she's pretty certain that Beverly has a lot to answer for in terms of his emotional development—although Penny wouldn't ever claim to be healthy in the area of relationship choices. Leonard was supposed to be the chance to make a better decision and she's not sorry even though… Even though—

The point is, she cares about the guy. He's funny and warm and works hard at making her happy. Sometimes Penny wonders how hard someone should have to work

(like how hard she always feels like she's working, pulling out all of the stops in bed, things he'd never experienced because she can't compete with his other girls in other ways, brainy ways, so she has to have something to give him. Or how she always tries to be Happy!Penny and Supportive!Penny all because a little over a year ago he gave her a college brochure and succeeded in making her feel more stupid than Sheldon ever had, and it kind of hurts too much to be reminded that he ever thought less of her like that; at least Sheldon is always honest.)

to make someone happy, if they're meant to be together. He lets her pick the movies sometimes, and then laughs nervously when she asks him if he liked it; he compliments her food like she can't taste it herself when she's done a bad job (really only laziness; her Nana taught her to cook better than any of them—with the exception of maybe Sheldon—grew up eating), and Penny can never decide if these traits are endearing or annoying. Sometimes they're both.

But Leonard is, above all, a good person, unlike a lot of the men she's known before. He was the first one (the very first) to treat her like she was something precious, someone he could aspire to, rather than someone he could get and own and sling an arm around possessively (although if there's a certain amount of possessive arm-slinging, she's willing to ignore it as a good trade-off) and it feels nice.

He feels nice. She's surprised by their sexual chemistry, so disappointingly lacking in the beginning, this man-boy who she'd brushed up to great proportions in his absence over the summer. But then he'd okie-dokie'd her (thank God, how horrible would that have felt, to give up that acceptance that he so willingly offered after one jumbled bout of sexual awkwardness), and things started tripping along smoothly.

He's easy to please in a lot of ways and Penny is grateful for that. So she doesn't understand why Sheldon is the one that she has this—this, sense for, this magic with. It hasn't happened with Leonard yet, not in the three years that she's known him, not in all of the time she's spent wrapped up in sheets with him, tangled on the couch with him, laughing over jokes she almost understands with him. She has such a fondness for Leonard, and barely understands Sheldon at all, so when things happen

(like feeling an anxious sort of delight, not while he's dressing her or copping an accidental feel after her fall in the shower, but later, when she's lying in bed next to him, drowsy from the drugs, and feels his fingers brush over her hair and the word glimmering hushes quietly in her mind, in his voice, as though he had spoken it aloud when he most certainly hadn't.

Or

the sour anger—that she immediately twists into surprised amusement because what right does she have to be angry?- pooling in her stomach when she watches Beverly grab Sheldon and kiss him far less tenderly anyone should ever kiss someone like Sheldon for the first time because somehow Penny knows that kissing him should start slow, and gentle and involve nibbling on his unexpectedly full lower lip.

Or most disturbingly

when he hugs her after she says she'll bow out of going to Switzerland with Leonard—and good Lord does she deserve a hug for that one; who the hell turns down Switzerland with their boyfriend on Valentine's Day?!—and she has to push away a flush of arousal when she feels his warmth encompass her for the second time and she has a sudden clear image of sitting at a beautifully set table with beautiful food and watching a beautifully dressed Sheldon get up (bending carefully to kiss her so lightly on the corner of her mouth it feels like a shiver) to deliver a speech and suddenly Penny knows she's in Stockholm and Sheldon has just won the Nobel Prize in Physics and she's so proud she wants to cry…)

she feels guilty, like shouldn't they be happening with the man she's in a relationship with? Shouldn't they be happening with the man who cares about her too? But they're so fleeting, each instance, it's easy to pretend to ignore them, especially when Sheldon tends to treat her with the determined indifference of a grudging pet-owner to an excited puppy.

So when the end comes with Leonard, she knows it's her own damn fault for not loving him enough to say it, for nurturing this—this thing that keeps happening in her head with Sheldon, for being so uncertain about the right course, for the first time in her life. She deserves this heartbreak, has brought it on herself, and yet can't stop herself from a first few guilty moments of relief, a feeling she successfully manages to ignore in the following days until she runs into Sheldon at the mailboxes and ends up inviting him to a spaghetti dinner.

He shows up, an hour and a half later, more disheveled and sweaty than she can ever remember seeing him—and she's seen him returning home from the arctic, and after a nine-hour Halo session.

All goes well as a reboot of friendship-after-coitus-with-his-roommate and Penny has started to relax slightly after dinner and a dessert of cheesecake that Sheldon oddly only picks at (she knows for a fact that he likes it; it's the only one he ever orders when he decides to get dessert at the restaurant), and when he offers to help her with the dishes she accepts just to avoid a lecture on how much dangerous bacteria will be festering on them if she leaves them in the sink overnight.

They stand side by side and at last Sheldon starts to sound like Sheldon as he explains why he uses a counter-clockwise circular motion with the scrubby side of the sponge ("if you start at the innermost center and circulate outwards, any residual food particles will be successfully transferred off the plate and into the sink for a more thoroughly clean dish. Please remember to do this at least for a count of twenty on each plate next time, and then run them under the water for at least the same amount of time; I'm fairly certain I saw at least two spots on your plate before you served up the spaghetti and whether that's food particulates or left over soap stains, it's unacceptable. No matter; my plate met with rigorous inspection.") before handing them to her to dry which Penny does, haphazardly, before placing them in her dish strainer.

He hands her the last glass (and, really, those tips he's been rambling on about that she's already forgotten must work because that glass wasn't as sparkly when she first pulled it out of the box) and Penny doesn't know what it is—maybe the way she was admiring his hands at the moment, long and graceful and reddened from the hot water; or the fact that she let herself enjoy how it felt to stand next to him and not feel too tall; or that she inhaled and could smell the soap and the water and Sheldon's shampoo (Johnson's Baby Shampoo, she's pretty sure) and maybe something else from him, a whiff of markers or dust or something she can't quite figure out—but when she reaches out to take the glass, her hand covers his for a moment and

(if if if. His hands thread delicately through her hair and he murmurs, "I have always admired that the scent of your shampoo has never made me sneeze."

"That's what you admire?" she teases back lightly, walking backward to the couch, careful not to lose his touch.

"I won't deny that there are appealing qualities beyond that. The smell of oranges is long reputed to be refreshing; most citrus scents are," he says quietly, dipping his head again to kiss her—not quite chastely, but with none of the hurriedness she associates with other men. Her tongue traces the inner curve of his lower lip as his hands slip from her hair, down her back and to her hips. She lowers onto the couch and he follows, perching on a knee between her legs, hunched over, thoughtful, taking his time.

Her hands come around to his chest, and she thinks, 'It is so easy for me to love you,' as he lowers himself more fully against her and her heart skips in response to the slow shuffle of his clothed body against hers. One large hand reaches down to cup her breast and she tilts her head back, arches her body into the feeling and her right leg comes up to encircle his hips while)

she freezes, Sheldon freezes, and for one never ending moment she is looking into his eyes

(blue, blue eyes peeking up at her from a face buried in her lap. She feels, rather than sees his smile as is fingers and tongue and dedication to learning and perfection work their magic on her body and Penny shudders against him, feels the waves overtake her, distantly hears her own voice crying out)

and she's sure, somehow sure that he can see it too, that he's right there with her. Penny knows with a flash of intuition that if she leaves her hand on his that this crystallized moment in her mind will someday happen; knows that not everything she's thought about Sheldon's quirks is true or at least not insurmountable; knows that, as passionate as she is, there is so much more passion out there that she ever could have anticipated.

(if if if.)

But Penny almost-loves Leonard, far more than she could admit to herself a few days ago when he told her he loved her and her heart hurts in a way it didn't even when Kurt cheated on her, when any of the others hurt her because Leonard was her boyfriend and surprising best friend and she can't let herself see any kind of a future with someone else, not yet.

(no matter how much she wants it in that instant and she does, she does)

And so she jerks her hand away.

The moment ends and Sheldon gives a strangled hiccuppy gasp as the glass drops out of his hand and hits the floor where it breaks into, luckily, only three large pieces.

He mutters, "What—"before shaking his head and leaning down to cautiously pick up the glass. His eyes glance up at her from the height of her hips and Penny clutches at the edge of the sink, her knuckles turning white as she resists the pull of that memory, that goddamn knowing that she can't explain.

It seems to take forever before he straightens and clears his throat awkwardly, shaking his head a little as he deposits the broken glass into her trash can.

He turns to face her and Penny braces herself for a demand or explanation or something and Sheldon coughs mildly again before saying, "When I came out of the restroom, I heard you on the phone. You're planning a trip to Disneyland, soon, I gather?"

Penny shifts, not sure what to say for a second. (Why is he the one that can do that to her? Was she wrong? He didn't' see it?) "Yeah, next week," she finally answers.

"You know, the Disneyland monorail is actually quite the feat of engineering," Sheldon starts and with some amount of determination, Penny lets go of the feeling, the memory, and lets Sheldon talk to her about trains.

#