Penny blinked at the text from Amy: 'Request: art lesson. Casual affection metrics unknown. Initiate?'
She grinned. Of course Amy wanted a lesson. Of course. Because apparently, learning to draw basic shapes was now a 'scientific social experiment', and Penny was both the teacher and the friendly variable.
Amy arrived twenty minutes later, her glasses sliding slightly down her nose. She perched on the couch like a delicate owl.
"Greetings, Penny," she said stiffly. "I am prepared for artistic instruction."
"You're going to do great," Penny said, sitting cross-legged opposite her with the coffee table between them. "Step one: drawing doesn't have to be precise. It's not neurobiology. You can… mess up."
Amy tilted her head. "Mess up intentionally? That contradicts the concept of data integrity."
"Not intentional," Penny replied, "more like… let your brain relax. Sometimes chaos creates magic. And sometimes you get a stick figure that's terrifyingly perfect."
Amy raised an eyebrow. "I am willing to test this theory."
By the end of the first half-hour, Amy had drawn a surprisingly symmetrical cat. Penny raised her eyebrows. "Okay, that's… adorable. And very… mathematically stable."
Amy blinked. "I am glad the feline conforms to expected standards."
Penny smiled softly. Beneath the precise lines and monotone observations, she realized something: Amy was starved for casual affection. She'd never had anyone just sit with her, laugh at her weird observations, or casually touch her shoulder in reassurance. And Penny got to give that to her.
"You know," Penny said, picking up a red pencil, "it's okay if the cat has two left feet. Or three tails. Or… well, whatever you feel like."
Amy paused mid-stroke. Then, very quietly: "You… do not appear to require perfection in social behavior either."
Penny laughed, a short, happy sound. "Oh, trust me. I'm the opposite of perfect. Sometimes I walk into walls just for variety."
Amy's lips twitched at the corners. Penny's heart did a little flip. There it was—the tiniest sign of relaxation, a spark of trust forming in real time.
Then,
Knock-knock-knock.
"Penny?"
Knock-knock-knock.
"Penny?"
Knock-knock-knock.
"Penny?"
Penny's chest gave a little flutter.
She opened the door. Sheldon stood there, hands clasped awkwardly in front of him, like a man unsure of how to approach a potential hazard—or a woman he secretly cared for more than he wanted to admit.
"Hello," he said carefully. "I… was curious regarding what sort of social interaction was ongoing here."
Penny smiled warmly. "Sheldon," she said softly, leaning slightly toward him, "I was hoping you'd come watch."
Amy, surprisingly, perked up. "This is a controlled environment. Your observation is welcome. You may record data."
Sheldon's eyes lit up. "Excellent. I have prepared three hypotheses regarding pigment saturation and neuro-affective response!"
Penny chuckled, sliding a pencil toward him. "Go ahead, Professor. I promise we won't break anything."
By the second half-hour, Sheldon was leaning over their sketches, asking detailed questions about pencil pressure and shading angles, while Amy answered with surgical precision. Penny scribbled her own chaotic doodles, secretly delighted at the way these two worlds—analytical and literal—were colliding in harmless chaos.
"You know," Penny said, watching Amy gently correct Sheldon's pressure angle, "you're… really good at this."
Amy blinked, then looked almost embarrassed. "I… appreciate the compliment. Informal praise is… rare."
Penny's chest warmed. "Well, you deserve it. You're trying. You're… you."
Amy's lips twitched again into the ghost of a smile. Penny thought she might actually be glowing.
At one point, Penny held up her sketchbook to show a little doodle for Starfall Valkyrie. "See this?" she said. "Elisabeth Eiriksdottir's hero, Lyra, she's supposed to be a little chaotic, a little fearless."
Amy leaned in, inspecting it carefully. "Your pseudonym is… deliberate? This is… intriguing. A separate identity for creative output. Logical."
Penny said softly. "Sometimes it helps to have an alternate universe where you can just… do the thing you love, without worrying about anyone else."
Amy nodded thoughtfully, a quiet understanding passing between them. Penny realized again how hungry Amy was for connection that wasn't about research or observation.
At some point the other boys came to hover by her doorframe, peering in.
Leonard hovered, attempting casual conversation but failing miserably. Every time he peeked at Amy and Penny together, he felt a tiny stab of resentment and it showed by how his lips pursed and his brow furrowed.
Howard, seeing Leonard's discomfort, whispered, "Dude, you're jealous. Admit it."
Leonard glared. "I am not… It's… situational awareness."
Raj snickered. "Sure, situational awareness. That's why your face is turning fifty shades of red."
---
By the time the pencils were put away, Penny and Amy were sitting cross-legged on the floor, comparing their finished cats. Sheldon hovered like a proud scientist, occasionally pointing out the exact angle of a tail relative to gravity. Leonard sulked in the background.
Amy's cat was perfect. Penny's was… abstract. Neither cared.
"You know," Amy said softly, "I… feel… welcome. Here. With you. It is… good."
Penny smiled, feeling her chest swell. "You are welcome, Ames. And… you're stuck with me now."
Sheldon tilted his head. "Fascinating. Penny exhibits unparalleled skill in forming social bonds while maintaining instructional integrity. A rare combination."
Penny laughed, elbowing him lightly. "Yeah, Sheldon. Go ahead and study it. I won't mind."
Leonard muttered something under his breath, clearly still bitter. Penny ignored him. Let him stew.
Because for once, she wasn't just watching timelines drift and bonds form—she was actively creating one. And in that small apartment, surrounded by pencils, sketches, and two brilliant weirdos, Penny realized something simple: maybe derailing canon wasn't just okay. Maybe it was exactly what she was supposed to do.