Leonard's anxiety driven crash was gradual, then total. It began when he returned from a futile trip to the comic book store and saw, through the windshield of a parked Mustang, Penny laughing. Her head was thrown back, her hand on the arm of a man with overly-gelled hair and the defined trapezoids of a gym enthusiast. Then she leaned in and kissed him. It was not a chaste kiss.
Leonard's universe, which had recently added a new, blonde axis, imploded.
For three days, he was a specter in the apartment. He moved from his bed to the couch with a sighing, shuffling gait. He left half-eaten bowls of cereal on the coffee table, a violation that normally would have triggered a Sheldon-imposed sanitation protocol. He responded to questions with monosyllabic groans.
Sheldon observed this deterioration with clinical detachment, then with growing professional concern. This was not simple lethargy; it was a major self depriciating episode, triggered by an observable social stimulus. Letting it fester was illogical.
On the fourth evening, with Leonard staring blankly at a physics documentary he wasn't processing, Sheldon muted the television and sat in his spot, turning to face his roommate.
"Leonard, this is affecting your professional work. You have entered a feedback loop of despair based on a singular piece of information: Penny's engagement in a romantic interaction with a male who is not you."
Leonard didn't look at him. "His name's Chad. Or Trent. Something with pecs. Just leave it, Sheldon."
"I cannot. You ate a cheesecake today, despite your well documented lactose intolerance. You are using my designated soup mug for generic brand orange juice. The situation is no longer tenable." Sheldon steepled his fingers. "Your error is in your passivity. You are treating Penny as a fixed star around which you merely orbit, hoping for gravitational capture. This is a flawed astronomical model for human courtship."
"She kissed him, Sheldon! Game over!"
"Nonsense. A kiss is not a binding contract; it is a physiological exchange of saliva and possibly pathogens. It indicates interest, not exclusivity. Your own data set on Penny is vastly larger than 'Chad-or-Trent's.' You assisted with her television. You performed inefficient but well-intentioned manual labor. You share a proximate habitat. You share dinner with her, including her in your friend group. These are foundational social bonds."
"She sees me as a helper monkey! A nice, safe, non-pectoral neighbor!"
"Then you must recalibrate her perception. You must introduce a new variable: clear romantic intent." Sheldon leaned forward. "The solution is not to wallow in a serotonin deficit. It is to ask her on a date. A defined, social outing with romantic potential."
Leonard finally looked at him, a flicker of hope drowned instantly by terror. "I can't just ask her out. She'll say no. She's dating Pecs!"
"You are presupposing failure, which is a logical fallacy when the outcome is empirically unknown. The probability of her saying 'yes' is currently low, I grant you. But the probability of her saying 'yes' while you are lying here emitting mournful pheromones is absolute zero. My calculations show that a non-zero chance is preferable. I don not wish to hear you sing heartbreak songs out of tone. It's grating."
The logic, in its own cold way, was irrefutable. It took two more days of Sheldon strategically placing studies on the psychological benefits of risk-taking next to the orange juice carton, but Leonard finally cracked.
"Fine! I'll ask her to get coffee! But not as a date date. Just as… friends hanging out."
"A semantic camouflage. Acceptable as a first step."
The execution was a masterpiece of pathetic manipulation. Leonard lurked by the mailboxes, sweating through his shirt.
"Penny! Hey. So, I was thinking, you've been stressed with the new job and all… and I'm going to that new café on Colorado tomorrow afternoon to, uh, read some astrophysics journals. They have surprisingly good scones. You should come. You know, de-stress. No big deal. Just two neighbors. Having scones."
Penny, clutching a bill she could barely afford, smiled at his rambling. He looked so genuinely, nervously hopeful. It was sweet. And she was stressed. "You know what? That sounds really nice, Leonard. I'd love to."
Leonard nearly fainted.
The next day, at the café, Leonard was a bundle of nerves. Penny was relaxed. He'd paid for her mocha and blueberry scone before she could object. He asked about her work, listened with rapt attention, and made her laugh with a story about Sheldon and a misdelivered package of Lithuanian mineral samples.
She had a lovely time. It felt easy, supportive. A bright spot.
Later that evening, Sheldon was calibrating his microscope when Leonard floated in, a beatific smile on his face.
"It was amazing, Sheldon! We talked for two hours! She laughed! She thinks the guy with the pecs is kind of shallow! I think it went really, really well!"
Sheldon looked up. "Did you use the word 'date' at any point? Did you articulate your romantic objectives?"
"Well… no. I didn't want to ruin it. But she knows. She has to."
Across the hall, Penny was on the phone with a friend back home. "...and then my sweet little neighbor Leonard took me out for coffee and a scone, just to cheer me up. Isn't that the nicest thing? He's like a really thoughtful, non-threatening puppy. It was just what I needed."
She had no idea she'd been on a date. Leonard's manipulation of the truth was complete. He was orbiting a star that shone brightly for him, but under a light he himself had filtered. He was happy in the illusion, and Sheldon, observing the dramatic rise in Leonard's mood metrics and the cessation of the orange juice mug violation, decided the operation was, for now, a success. The foundational social bond had been strengthened. The rest, he mused, was a problem for future Leonard to solve, with hopefully less wallowing.