"You sound like you're worried, but that can't be right."

He wonders sometimes if he should’ve stayed away, way back then. If he should’ve left her to her fossils and artifacts, parsing stories of the living from the remains of the dead. If he should’ve left her reconstructing the world, instead of cataloging all the ways it’s falling apart.

This fic contains: explicit sexual situations, rampant infidelity, emotional fuckery, unhealthy romantic relationships, and the potential abuse of all forms of basic punctuation. Don't say you weren't warned.

She wishes she’d thought to turn and look at him, wishes she could’ve seen him in this moment, with his face so bright and his heart so close to the surface. She’s pretty sure he doesn’t look like that when he plays Chopin, and understands a little better why he walked away from the conservatories and the concert halls. She might’ve thought it weakness once, or a flaw of character, but she knows now that it was desire, and determination, and courage. Walking away from what had been handed to him, choosing to work at something instead. She’s never thought him brave before, but she’s learned better now.

It starts in Pasadena, after their flight from Kansas City and a layover from hell, when he backs her up against the wall at Stuart’s store before they’ve even finished unpacking all their gear, with all the guys oblivious just around the corner and Penny’s heart beating madly in her chest. Things go fairly quickly after that.

Adelle has nightmares. In most of them, she's a doll, wandering around the house with dull, vacant eyes, a pleasant smile on her face. She dreams this almost nightly. It gets less horrible every time.

“Singer wanted; instrumental proficiency a plus; whistlers need not apply."

Rose smiles and looks at her desk, and Gwen follows her eyes, sees Rose’s hands spread wide on well-worn books, her fingers scratching at the backs of volumes older than the two of them put together. She’d never noticed before, but Rose is young, younger than she’d thought, younger than Gwen even.

She likes to pretend she sees Ron smile. She often leaves them moments alone, times when Harry can say the things he can't say with her there. She likes to pretend she can't hear Harry's sobs through the door.

He takes his cocoa and settles into his spot on the couch, one hand around the warm mug, the other pressed flat to the empty seat cushion on his right. He watches a marathon of Doctor Who Christmas specials, regenerating hands and runaway brides, and luxury space cruisers and Cybermen. There are whole stretches where he doesn’t look at the TV at all, but counts the red lights, the blue lights, the yellow lights in the strands hanging along the ceiling. He counts lights and listens to Time Lords and misses Penny.  It’s been a month since she left. She hasn’t been back, but he hung the lights for her anyway.

Sheldon’s eyes are narrow when she finds them, and his voice is a warning. “My mental faculties are currently preparing to decimate you.”