Self-Control (takes places after The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry)

"Dance with me. Even though it's not prosaic." She walked to the middle of the living room. He smiled, her favorite smile, and got up to her join her.

The first song ended and they smiled once more at each other.

"Again? We should dance more often," Sheldon said.

"Yes," Amy replied but it ended with a yawn.

"Poor kid, you really are exhausted."

"Sorry. It was my idea, and I'm spoiling it."

Sheldon dropped his hands and walked over to her computer. The music stopped. "No, we'll do it again another night. We'll schedule it."

Amy smiled at him again, softer. "Sheldon, would you mind if I went to bed instead of watching TV with you?"

"Go. I'll clean up the kitchen." He walked back toward her.

She reached up and put a kiss on his cheek before leaving for the bathroom.

Sheldon applied himself to cleaning. Ah, the simple joys! But when everything was cleaned to his satisfaction, he felt at loose ends. He wasn't sure why. He kept thinking back to Amy's tired face. Work never made him tired. He would always eagerly talk about any project, no matter how long he'd been working on it. And Amy normally loved to talk about her work. She really was the most exhausted he'd ever seen her tonight, and it unsettled him.

Frowning, he went to the bedroom. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her shoes off but otherwise she was still dressed. She was playing idly with her hair.

"Amy?" She jumped. "Are you okay?"

She smiled softly. "I guess I zoned out there. I was going to braid my hair, but I just sort of . . ." She shrugged.

"Here," he sat on the bed next to her, "let me."

She turned away and let him smooth her hair. "I still can't believe you know how to braid hair."

"It's not very difficult. A chimpanzee could do it." His fingers deftly worked the three sections into a manageable plait.

"Sadly, I suspect that study has already been done." She sighed.

Sheldon finished the braid, allowing a minute to pass before speaking. "Amy?"

She reached over her shoulder with the hair elastic, and, even though he took it, it was not want he wanted. "Are you alright?" He wrapped the end of her braid.

Turning back around toward him, Amy shook her head. "I'm fine. I really am just tired. And, well," she looked down, "sometimes after I finish I study I wonder if it's any good enough."

"What? Why do you think that? The only person as smart as you is me." What had happened to Amy's bravado?

"I know. I really do know. But sometimes . . ."

"Amy Farrah Fowler, listen to me. I do not, repeat, do not, pair-bond with average people. You are the most intelligent person I know. If someone doesn't understand something in your work, then they are clearly wrong." He leaned over to kiss her softly, but he brought his hands up the buttons on her cardigan.

Silently, he unbuttoned her cardigan and slid it off her shoulder. He folded it next to them on the bed. Then he repeated the steps with her blouse. He wasn't sure, exactly, what he was doing. Amy let him, but her face was unreadable. He thought maybe he should leave her alone, to sleep, that is what she had asked for; but he didn't want to leave her without her knowing how perfect she was. But it felt wrong to start this, to ask her to do something for which she was too tired. Maybe if he could find a way to relax her instead.

"Amy, would you like me to massage your back?" Massages are supposed to be relaxing.

Her eyes lit up. I've pleased her. She nodded. "Let me take these off first."

She stood and removed her skirt, tights, and, he noticed after a barely perceptible pause, her bra. He took them from her and folded them on the pile. Pulling her braid away from her back, she sat down again, presenting her back to him, awaiting the promised rub.

Except Sheldon had no idea what to do. Why does this always happen to me? Why does Amy always drive me to do something spontaneous, when I am clearly uncomfortable with the concept of spontaneity? He frowned.

"If you take your right hand and -" she said.

"No, I'll do it," he interrupted her. It would not be relaxing for Amy to tell him what to do. But he was quickly regretting his offer, because he needed time to research this first. His only experience with anything close to a massage had been when Amy had instructed him on how to soothe the tension from his own shoulder.

And that is where he would start. Remembering her own precise instructions, he started the sequence. He was using his knuckles in noogie-like fashion when she let out something between a deep breath and a moan.

Oh boy. He cursed his body. This was meant to be relaxing to Amy, not foreplay! He took a couple of Kulinar breaths, trying to keep them as quiet as possible, and straightened his spine. No, I will do this for her.

He repeated the same steps on the opposite shoulder, and then started to knead the top of her shoulders like they were balls of sour-dough bread (kneading is like massaging, right?). "Is this okay?"

"Mmmm, it's nice."

Her appreciation was encouragement. He took his thumbs and pushed down lightly on either side of her spine. Making circles, he pushed a little harder. Amy gave another little breath-moan and leaned forward slightly. Sheldon slowly inched the circular rubs all the way down her spine.

Taking his hands away from her, he was at a new loss. What now?

"Sheldon? Would you mind rubbing my legs?"

Double oh boy. The last time, the only time, he'd massaged her legs . . . "Um . . . okay. Maybe you should lie down."

"Yes." She got up and started pulling the covers down. He jumped up to move the pile of clothes to the hamper, refusing to look at his topless wife.

She laid down on her side of the bed and closed her eyes. He was glad he had braided her hair, because the very idea of it fanned across her pillow was almost too much. He picked up one of her feet and starting rubbing it while keeping a steady gaze on juncture of the ceiling and the wall.

"What are you looking at?"

"I thought your eyes were closed." Now I have to look at her.

"They were, but I opened them."

"Uh, well shut them again. This is supposed to be relaxing. Shut your eyes. And don't talk. That's not, um, relaxing."

She shut her eyes again, but not before Sheldon saw the twinkle in them. The twinkle both mortified him (she knows of my struggle!) and made the struggle worse (the twinkle drives me mad!).

Sheldon worked his way up one leg, making deep, squeezing motions. When he made it up as far as he dared (am I perspiring?), he started on her other leg. He heard her breathing deepen.

Was she asleep? When he finished her second leg, he bent down to her ear and whispered, "Do you want a nightgown?"

She didn't answer. He softly kissed her forehead. He wanted to tell her so many things. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was when she slept. He wanted to tell her how much she excited him in the most carnal of ways even at inopportune times. Most of all, he wanted to tell her that she was astute and perceptive and resourceful and exceptional and wise. He wanted to tell her that her brilliance was brighter than any sun in the universe. He wanted to tell her that he never wanted her to think otherwise.

Instead, because he was Sheldon Cooper, he whispered, "I love you, Amy."

He got up, pulled the blankets over her, turned off the light, and went to take a much-needed shower.