AN: So I was totally done with this story when I posted the first part of it. But then I wasn't done, so here's this little follow up. This is the end for this fic, though. At least as far as I know right now.
Outside, the storm was picking up speed, the lightning and thunder coming closer and faster on one another. Inside, Penny and Sheldon were in their respective spots on her couch. Firefly played on the television, the episode where Mal unintentionally declared a duel. He had seen it enough times that his mind was wandering, only paying attention to the plot with half his focus. Penny had a blanket draped over her, and her feet were slowly but surely encroaching onto Sheldon's cushion. He pretended not to notice.
"Penny," Sheldon said suddenly.
"Hm?" Penny's eyes were glued to the TV, though her feet did inch closer.
"You rearranged your living room."
"What?" She glanced at him for a second, an odd look. "Sweetie, no, I didn't. Your spot hasn't moved at all."
"I am aware of that. Perhaps I should have said, 'Penny, you have changed your décor.'" He nodded to the framed photo on the end table behind her, the one that had been troubling him all evening.
Previously, that table had held a vanilla scented candle in a jar, a framed collage of photos of their friends, and, usually, at least one dirty glass that he would wash and put away. Tonight, the candle remained, and he had already washed the two glasses that had been sitting there—one had remnants of orange juice, and the other white wine—but the photo collage had been replaced. In its place was a framed 8x10 photo he'd never seen before. It showed a young, thin blonde woman, beaming down at the golden-haired toddler, unsteady on her feet, who latched onto her hands.
Penny's face was soft as she reached for the photograph. She gazed at it for a moment before pausing the television.
"This is my mom and me," she explained, somewhat unnecessarily. Of course he'd already noted the similarities between the woman in the photo and the woman across the couch from him: her stature, the shape of Penny's jaw and mouth, the color of her hair and eyes.
"She passed away a few years after this picture was taken," Penny explained further. "It's one of the only pictures I have of us."
"What happened?" Sheldon immediately bit his lip; he hadn't meant to ask that. He'd known, of course, for years, that both of Penny's parents were deceased, but he had never known how it happened, and whenever he had wondered, a firm voice in his head that sounded an awfully lot like Meemaw assured him it would be rude to ask.
Penny's face changed in a subtle way he wasn't sure how to quantify. If he were given to colorful descriptions, he might say it clouded over. Inaccurate, of course, but evocative of what occurred.
"It was an accident," she told him quietly. "She'd been in the barn, and she fell out of the loft and got hurt. My dad said by the time he found her and called an ambulance, she was already dead."
"Were you not home?"
She shook her head. "No. I was visiting my grandparents. I was only seven then."
They were quiet a moment, Penny staring at the photo in her hands, Sheldon staring at Penny. When she reached for the remote to start the show again, Sheldon stopped her, his hand resting on top of hers.
"What happened to your father?"
She hesitated. "Died in a storm. Tornado. It leveled half our house."
"That must have been frightening."
She squeezed his hand. "I made it to the cellar. I was safe."
Sheldon held her gaze, frank and honest as it was, and thought he understood. He nodded. "I'm…glad."
She smiled at him. "Me, too."
Penny scooted closer, shifting so she could rest her head on Sheldon's shoulder. He reached for the remote and pressed play, Captain Mal's swordfight once again swinging into action before them.
As Penny shared her blanket with him, Sheldon put away the rest of his questions.
The most important thing was that Penny was safe.