Author's notes: A little one shot that picks up where The Anything Can Happen Recurrence's tag left. This episode is set to air on April 24th. Needless to say, spoilers ahead. Nothing more than a quick idea that popped in my mind after reading the report yesterday and wrote today to distract myself from a cold − not happening, by the way.

Huge thanks as always to my beta Melanie (ZephyrCamida) and everyone that reads, favourites and comments my fics: your words put a smile on my face.

The Night Time Infusion

Watching Amy get down to pick her blue trenchcoat − her hair covering her face like curtains, the pleated red skirt brushing the floor while leaving a gap between her bare legs and the ground, her also bare arms folding it − made way for one thought above others in Sheldon's mind: this wasn't making it up to him, as much as he appreciated the sentiment. This was leaving him with no chance to escape.

Two years before, as an ongoing experiment to increase his feelings for her, she dressed up as Nurse Chapel and they had played Doctor. She never touched him as she promised she wasn't going to, but there he was pinned to the couch, waiting for more, asking her not to stop. The results of that experiment were still present − in fact, more and more kept adding up.

Then, a year before, she knocked on his door and Snow White laid on his couch, waiting for the prince's kiss. As much as he thought her cosplay was impeccable, seeing her dressed as a princess made him think he wanted to see her wear the tiara he gave her, and that left him uncomfortable for the whole evening, even after she left. He didn't want to know the implications, he put them away for later analysis.

As he let her in this time − her girlfriend turned schoolgirl − his sight was bombarded with signals again; the skirt was swaying from side to side matching the movements of her hips − little hints of her thighs peeking out.

He reminded himself to close the door.

Is this what happened to her when she saw him in the suit he bought to make it up to her, too? Her favourite colour covering him from neck to toe. He caught her eyes roaming his body more often than not when he wore it. Once, under the effects of alcohol, she suggested to him: "Take off your tie. I want to see your undershirt." She said it was very sexy.

Was she sexy now? Sheldon pondered on the word's meaning and how he could associate it with her. If her cardigans made her his cute little lump of wool, her lab coat made her a hard working scientist he was proud of, did that outfit make her his v−

Sheldon suppressed that thought and sent it right where it came from.

As he observed her from behind move towards the kitchen isle − his eyes fixed on her skirt − he had to resist the urge to walk up to her and kiss her, value the consistency of the fabric as he studied the curve of her hips with his hands; he damned the inventor of high-waisted skirts. And with a hint of regret, he realized this wasn't Date Night − he couldn't do it. And wasn't he... well, mad at her anyway (and that's why she was making it up to him and was wasting his time)? And wasn't he supposed to solve his work-related conundrum instead?

A rare wave of sarcasm hit him when he considered that Amy was most definitely the key to his endocrine system. She wasn't supposed to be there. She was throwing him for a loop. Truth was, he didn't want her to go home. He wanted to be with her anytime. But that, as things were currently, was extremely exhausting.

Suppressing thoughts − of any kind − wasn't solving anything. Even if he were to do something else and ignore her, he knew already memories of that evening were going straight to the bathroom or the bedroom with him − right in that tricky thing he called the Release Fodder. It started with images of Amy's pale shoulders, but it was quickly degenerating recently.

He didn't know what to do with himself, he was just becoming embarrassing.

Based on her actions after, Sheldon could tell Amy noticed he was making himself a cup of tea before she arrived, so she picked a yellow cup to go with his blue one and asked him which tea he preferred. Agreeing it was Anything Can Happen Thursday, they both went with green tea and lemon zest − two teabags in a cup. She then smiled at him in a way he couldn't quite place. He joined her at the kitchen isle, sitting on a stool.

Now that the lower side of her body was hidden from him, he could just concentrate on her movements. She reached for the tea box, unwrapped the bags and unhooked the string from them, one by one.

His focus was on her arms. He asked Amy if she was cold, her hairs were erect from goose bumps. She said she was fine. His eyes travelled from her shoulder to her elbow, from her elbow to where her hands were working the teabags − he could catch a glimpse of her veins when her wrists turned. Then, she put two in each cup, raising them up and down, letting them sink in the water, before Sheldon absently mumbled to her − his eyes still on her hands − that she mixed the bags; now it was the same kind of tea times two per cup. As the water turned dark from the tea leaves staining it, she shrugged before telling him it was Anything Can Happen Thursday, after all.

Memory, dream and reality all mixed together and turned into a confusing mess as Sheldon woke up loudly with his face pressed against the pillow, the sheets twisted and wrapped around him, the well-known uncomfortable stickiness in his pajama pants.

He was trapped.

He wasn't even frustrated − the afterglow spreading around his body was denying him any other feeling, and it wasn't a bad thing at all − but he had to get up and go to the bathroom for a night time shower. Cleaning the traces of whatever happened while he was drunk previously that month was enough of a reminder for a lifetime. That, and waking up the morning after sticky and cold just wasn't a very pleasant experience.

He heard a snicker from behind the wall. He knew what was coming.

"Now what we're done with teabags, can we go back to sleep?"

"Grow up, Leonard."