Author's note: Spoilers for "The Colonization Application." But, not really. More like, inspired by it. Title taken from the song "St. Patrick's Day" by John Mayer.
Disclaimer: The Big Bang Theory is an American sitcom created by Chuck Lorre and Bill Prady, and is produced by them along with Steve Molaro. It is a Warner Bros production and airs on CBS. All characters, plots and creative elements derived from the source material belong exclusively to their respective owners. I, the author of the fan fiction, do not, in any way, profit monetarily from the story.

It was a couple hours after the end of Amy's illustrious Victorian pre-Christmas dinner, which—in Sheldon's estimation—was a smashing success in every way. By that time, however, all the guests had gone home, and Sheldon was helping Amy with the dishes, while their conversation meandered from topics as diverse as commerce practices in the pre-Columbian Americas to what Mrs. Fowler meant when she called Sheldon's Captain America watch "predictable". Sheldon thought it was redundant; all watches were predictable. Amy thought it meant he should wear something different the next time. There was a lull in the conversation, several minutes of easy quiet, and after a while, Amy watched him as he dried the final plates. "What time is it?" she with a sigh and, as he looked up to answer, she slowly brushed her weary hand across her forehead, leaving a streak of soapy bubbles its wake. Instead of answering "1:06" as he'd intended to, he distractedly reached down and swept the bubbles away from her face with his thumb, and he doesn't understand why these things happen, but suddenly he felt the same tugging yearn in his chest that happens sometimes when she's close to his body and her eyes are gazing up at his. They stood there for a moment, looking at each other, and he suddenly discerned that she was about to hug him. And then...he felt a moment of trepidation. A moment where he winced inside. Where he thought, "I don't want this. This shouldn't happen." A moment of dread. Because, if he's being completely honest...

Sheldon is still not completely on board with hugs.

Or, more specifically, being hugged. Perhaps it's some ingrained reaction built into his DNA that, after so many years, refuses to die. But it's a phenomenon that persists. Sure—when he's feeling spry and dangerous—he's not above throwing his arms around the occasional childhood idol or two. And he's definitely noticed a difference in himself from the days when the mere threat of a hug jeopardized his bowel function. Actually, there have even been some hugs he's liked—or at the very least, didn't dislike. Like, the one his mother gave him after his niece was born, or the half-hug Leonard gave him after his nasal surgery; those weren't so bad. Still, for every one of those hugs, there's a squeeze from the weird lady in the cafeteria, an embrace of an over-zealous grad student, or an attack from Professor Dorfman, who "doesn't believe in handshakes". Sheldon doesn't believe in handshakes either, but he doesn't think assault is a suitable alternative. The man seems hell-bent on collapsing one of Sheldon's lungs.

There's something, though, that's...changing.

Because, beyond the "not-bad" hugs and the torso attacks, there's a third category of hugs—hugs that manage to keep him from re-instating his strict "no-touch" policy and then squirting hand sanitizer at people that don't understand what "personal space" means.

It's months after Christmas now, a stone's-throw away from Saint Patrick's Day, and Amy and Sheldon are on the couch, sitting much closer together than they used to, the lights much dimmer than they used to be. As Rocket Raccoon bemoans being a victim of genetic experimentation, Sheldon hazards a glance at Amy. He's transported back to that night last December in her apartment. Her hair smelled of frankincense and myrrh, and her eyes were soft and fetching. She'd drawn closer to him and, placing her head against his chest, she hugged him. And that's when he'd remembered, like he always does, that that feeling, of being tucked in Amy's arms, is nothing to be afraid of. With Amy, he's secure and he's calm. He's safe. He'd found himself returning her embrace; his own hands rose to cradle her back, and his chin rested on her head.

He's interrupted from his reverie when Amy laughs at the movie. At what, specifically, Sheldon doesn't know, since he's distracted, but she looks up to find him watching her.

"What is it?" she asks.

He just shakes his head. She takes a deep breath, and works her hand into his, their fingers wound together. Then, she tucks her other hand his arm, and gently snuggles in, her head leaning against his shoulder. After a moment, he slowly lowers his head to hers, and stays that way a while. It's not bad. It's...nice.

He knows he may never be the "hug bug" his mother wishes he were—and frankly, he finds his family's brand of full-body greetings excessive—but he's glad that this is a part of his life now. He's proud that he can do this for Amy. He wants to do it; she deserves it. And, really, he enjoys it too. He thinks that, maybe, he was wrong about some stuff. That, if this isn't as scary as he thought it would be, that maybe there are other things that are the same way. That maybe he should think about giving those things a try. And that one day, when he's ready, he can give her more.

THE END