Fantasies (takes place after The Rosie Project)

"Clark Kent wore glasses."

"As a disguise, so no one would know he was Superman. Not because he needed them. Besides, Clark Kent wasn't the superhero," Sheldon pointed out.

"Maybe. But he was a more interesting character. Not to mention more handsome," Amy said.

"Handsome?"

She shrugged coyly, "I always had a little fantasy crush on him. Maybe it was the glasses." Then she leaned forward and whispered, "You know, I could move my end of the conversation over to the iPad and then over to the bedroom and we could start another topic that we certainly didn't attempt ten years ago."

"Amy! As I said before, it's not that type of phone call!"

"Oh, come on, why not? We're consensual adults."

Sheldon did not admit it, but he was tempted. More by the twinkle in Amy's eyes than by the idea of any actual cybersex. Is it still even called that anymore? But, no, he just didn't think he could bring himself to do it. Plus, he doubted it would be satisfying. He already knew that his most pleasurable physical interactions with her were the ones in which she was very close to him, with his face buried in her somewhere, not 2407.38 miles away.

"Well, there's the concern over Internet privacy for starters. Although it's an active, live feed, it is still being routed through servers that - Amy?" Suddenly Amy's face with the bookshelves behind her were gone, replaced by the ceiling. The moving ceiling. "Amy, did you switch to the iPad?"

The view shifted again, and Amy's smirking face filled the screen, the great room of their home moving behind her. "Indeed I did. I know you well, Sheldon Cooper. I have no doubt that even if you are using the free WiFi provided by your hotel, you will have set a private browsing and chatting session so there are no temporary Internet files saved on your device. As have I."

"But I don't think I told you they assigned Leonard and I adjoining rooms!"

She was entering their walk-in closet now, and Sheldon watched as Amy seem to be adjusting the iPad on one of the shelves. "Is the door to Leonard's room open?" she asked.

"Um, no."

"Unlocked?"

"No, I locked it while I was waiting for you to call back," Sheldon mumbled.

"Okay then," Amy said. Then she stepped away and started to unbutton her cardigan. Oh, dear!, she's going to perform a strip-tease! I cannot handle that! Even the thought of that had an undesired effect on his body.

But it seemed that Amy had sensed Sheldon's trepidation. She did undress in front of him, but there was nothing more salacious about it than her usual evening ritual; certainly no repeat of the chess incident. Not that it mattered; he had undressed next to Amy a thousand times, but to just be lying there in bed, watching it, it felt . . . exciting. At last, her nightgown shimmied over her body, and she walked back over to the screen.

"Okay? You still with me?" Sheldon nodded. The screen moved again, the chaotic, rapid movements of being carried. Then Amy's face was back, sideways, resting on her pillow. She had put the iPad on his pillow. He smiled softly at this view; he missed it terribly. She said softly, "We can just talk."

"I'd like that. Here." Sheldon picked up his own iPad and adjusted it so that it was on the side of the bed that would be Amy's if she were there. He curled up on his own side to face her. "I'm sorry the lamp here doesn't have a dimmer. Is this too bright?"

She shook her head. "No, it's good. It's almost like being back in bed with you. What shall we talk about?"

"Do you really fantasize about Clark Kent?" Sheldon blurted out.

Amy chuckled. "Are you jealous? Maybe fantasize is too strong of a word. I just think he's more interesting. Think of all the excuses he's constantly making, all the times his dinner is burnt because he had to leave while it was cooking, all the relationships that he can't have because he's always leaving unexpectedly or showing up late for a date. It's an unexplored world, the lonely world of superheroes' alter egos."

"Their superhero is their alter ego, not their everyday cover," Sheldon said.

"I'm not so sure about that . . ." Amy said, trailing off.

Sheldon blinked slowly at her. How strange, he had never previously considered it from that point of view. That was just like Amy: to say something so fresh and new and suddenly so obvious.

"What about Thor? You fantasize about him, and he cannot be separated from his superhero version."

Her lips screwed up slightly. "How do you know I fantasize about Thor?"

"Because, well, you sometimes read my Thor comic books. And you like the movies."

"I like Norse mythology. And, okay, there is something about that golden mane of hair that I enjoy. But the movies . . . how do you know I'm watching Thor?"

"Who else would you be watching?" Sheldon adjusted, so that his head was resting on his arm, which was easier in his new glasses.

"There's Loki."

"Loki!"

"Yes," Amy smiled. "He's tall and thin and his hair is dark and he has the most beautiful blue eyes . . . that's more my type, really."

Sheldon blushed.

"Enough about me, who do you fantasize about?" Amy asked.

"What?" Sheldon lurched slightly. "No one. Why would I fantasize?"

"Because you're a healthy, sexually active human male," Amy said matter-of-factly. "There has to be someone, some actress or character that you've seen or read about that you imagined yourself snuggling up to at night."

"Amy!"

"I said snuggling. If you thought I meant something else, well," she shrugged, but a devilish grin was on her face.

Sheldon licked his lips. "Well, when I was a teenager, sometimes, I, uh, well, this is embarrassing, I imagined Catwoman. Or Deanna Troi."

Her head went up slightly. "Deanna Troi?"

"I was fourteen in 1994! She was wearing Spandex! And she took the bridge officer's examination in 'Thine Own Self.' You know how I admire a woman that can run a tight ship."

Amy's head went down and she laughed. "Okay, all's fair. One of my most embarrassing teenage fantasies was Jeff Goldblum's character in Jurassic Park."

It was Sheldon's turn to be surprised. "Dr. Ian Malcolm?"

"All that talk of DNA and probability and cloning. Mmmmm," Amy said. "Not to mention he's tall with dark hair and glasses . . ."

"I may not be a specialist in chaos theory like Ian Malcolm but I think I'm sensing a pattern here." Sheldon paused. "Where, exactly, did you think you would have the time or place to, um, snuggle with him? While you were running for your lives from a velociraptor?"

"Oh, it wouldn't be in Jurassic Park. I would imagine the main reading room of the Thomas Jefferson Building in the Library of Congress. After it closed. With only a few emergency lights on. Alone. Maybe on the floor beside the -"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. I'm right here!" Sheldon interrupted.

"You know, Sheldon, just because the place hasn't changed, it doesn't mean it's still Ian Malcolm," she said softly.

"It isn't?" he replied, slightly breathless.

"No. It would still be after it closed. Only a few lights on, a dim yellow glow. We'd be alone, you and I. You'd have just published a new book, something about Albert Einstein. It's a shoe-in for the Pulitzer prize -"

"Pulitzer, not Nobel?" Sheldon interrupted.

"Welllll . . . I still think even my fantasy Sheldon would prefer to write in concrete facts inside of the nuances of the human experience that is fiction. And the Nobel is only given for fiction," Amy said.

"Yes, I suppose so." Sheldon waited for her to continue.

"Where was I? Oh, yes . . . I'd put on my best cardigan and sexiest heels, and I'd go to your book signing, and I hang back until the end. You're wearing a tweed jacket with elbow patches over your tee-shirts and -"

"Tweed jacket?"

"It's a fantasy, Sheldon," Amy said firmly.

He put up his free hand. "Okay. Carry on."

"Anyway. I dazzle you with my wit and intelligence. And then you take me to the Library of Congress, with your keycard, because did I mention you also work there as a librarian?"

"Librarian?"

"Fantasy!" she huffed. Then she took a deep breath. "You give me a private tour and it ends in the main reading room. It's very dim and magical, and our voices echo in the cavernous space, so we whisper." Amy closed her eyes and her voice took on a dreamy quality. "Our heads get closer as our voices get lower. And then you brush my lip with your thumb just before you kiss me softly and -"

"Stop," he said softly.

"Sheldon?" she opened her eyes.

"I like it. It's just . . ." He made a motion with his hand, waving downwards.

Amy smiled. "I know."

"You vixen," he shot back. A pause. "Do you remember that dream you had once, where I was a time traveling physicist and you were a naïve young woman who traveled with me?"

"I don't know if I'd use the word naïve," Amy said, "but yes."

"Do you ever fantasize about that?"

"Hmmm, fantasize? No, I don't think so. Do you?"

"I just . . . they seemed so real, didn't they, just the way you described them to me. Never mind." Then he licked his lips. "Amy . . . do you . . . do you want me to tell you my fantasy?"

"Only if you want."

"Um, well." Why had he offered? What was he thinking? Verbalizing that? "Because it's a fantasy, they award the Nobel Prize in June."

"Your sexual fantasy is about you and the Nobel Prize?" Amy asked.

"Just listen. You didn't like it when I interrupted you!" Sheldon barked.

"I'm sorry. I'll be good. Continue."

He sighed. "I'm sorry I snapped. I never thought I'd be saying this."

"Sheldon, you don't have to. We can just say goodnight," Amy said, leaning toward the screen.

He looked at her for a few seconds, her dark hair, her green eyes, the dim light of their bedroom, so far away, surrounding her. Catwoman? Deanna Troi? No, he didn't want her to have any doubts.

"Can I close my eyes?" he asked. "I want to see it when I describe it."

"I'll close mine, too," Amy offered. And she shut her eyes.

Sheldon smiled softly at that, before he shutting his own. "June twenty-first to be precise. The summer solstice. You and I both have one, we each get our Nobel Prize on the same date. We sneak out of the banquet early, before the dancing is finished. Because we don't want to embarrass everyone further with our superior dance moves. We walk along the waterside promenades. It's beautiful: the old buildings with turrets and patina roofs and those precisely trimmed Scandinavian trees. There's a café somewhere with soft music and laughter. Stockholm is beautiful, you know, one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Because it's June twenty-first, the sky is still blue, although a deeper blue because of approaching twilight, the sunlight scattering in the upper atmosphere, with just a trace of remaining fluffy cumulus clouds in the sky, and the sunset glints off the medals that we're still wearing around our necks and we laugh when people look at us oddly. Because we're dressed up. You're wearing a dress with a big skirt, lots of layers, but your hair is down. It's just a little breezy, just enough to lift up the ends of your hair. I've reserved a sailboat as a surprise -"

"A sailboat? You hate boats," he heard Amy ask

Sheldon opened his eyes, but she still had her eyes closed. He shut his again. "I'm a man of many talents. Especially in my fantasies. Anyway, we sail away, past the Opera and Parliament and the Royal Palace, until we're in the archipelago proper. We make love on the boat, in just our medals, and it's perfect, so perfect we don't even whisper. There's that light that is unique to the white nights of the North. The only sounds are the waves of the Baltic sea and the seagulls and the noise our medals make when they clink together as we move and your . . . breath."

Opening his eyes as though he has just woken from a dream, once again he found Amy's green eyes looking at him. She didn't even try to pretend she hadn't been peeking. It didn't matter, her look was perfect.

"Perfect," she whispered. "It seems you have a gift for describing the nuances of human emotion, after all."

"I think we should say goodnight," Sheldon whispered back. "I love you."

"I love you, too." Amy blew another kiss, even slower than the one she had sent him earlier, and he closed his eyes for a brief second, to imagine she was really next to him in bed, kissing him goodnight. Then her screen went dark.

Sheldon reached over and turned off his iPad, but left it resting on the extra pillow. He rolled over his on his opposite side and sighed, taking off his glasses and turning off the bedside lamp, thinking of his fantasy and the reality. Maybe he shouldn't have told her. No matter how she was looking at him at the end. He wanted her to know the reality - the reality of non-Nobel laureate Amy in her nightgown, in their bed - was just as perfect. He shifted uncomfortably and wondered what Amy was thinking, what Amy was doing.

Was she doing . . . that? He suspected she was. He wondered how she started, without him there to kiss. Did she run her hands down her sides, did she slowly lift up her nightgown? Did she caress her breasts? Sometimes, when he pleasured her, she would touch her own breast. He liked watching it. What then? Was she slow, deliberate, like he would be? Did she stroke the skin of her inner thigh first, teasing herself the way he did, that skin that he knew from experience was the smoothest, softest, creamiest skin on her entire body? Was her breath full of eager anticipation? Did she moan when she first made contact, like she often did for him? Amy, in their bed, in the dim light of their bedroom, thinking of him, not talking, only imagining him touching her, fantasizing about him touching her. The only sounds would be the occasional rustle of the sheets and her soft cries.

He sighed again, even more deeply, grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the bedside table, and rolled over on his back. "Amy Farrah Fowler, you will be the death of me," he whispered as he lowered his pajama pants.

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