"Make all the schedules you want, just don't tell me about them." On their honeymoon, Amy gave Sheldon permission to schedule their physically intimate interactions. And so Sheldon created a flawless algorithm that took every possible variable into account. Or did he?

For reference, the events in this story take place at some point mid-season twelve (i.e. before the finale).

THE STELLAR ADJUSTMENT

CHAPTER ONE

The difference was in her kiss.

There, along the edges of warm pink and soft pulsing purple, was taste of . . . what, exactly? He couldn't describe it or even name it, but it was there. Something was definitely different.

Sheldon pulled back. "Amy?"

Confusion laced the word tight, and Amy responded first with that wrinkle between her brows. "Sheldon?"

A swallow. "Are you alright?"

The wrinkle deepened. "Yes, of course. Why do you ask?"

"I -" He stopped. How could he tell her that his lips had just brushed by something that wasn't there? "I just wanted to make sure you enjoyed your day."

Date Day had been of Amy's devising. First, they visited the new show at the Central Library downtown of Ansel Adam's photographs from the CalTech Jet Propulsion laboratory taken during the dawn of World War II. Then they set out for an exhibit at the craft museum on sewing and needlepoint techniques used by the British struggling under ration control during the conflict. Sheldon had agreed to join her for a knitting demonstration, and, even though he ended up with such a mess he looked like a house cat with his ball of yarn, Amy had saved the day by helping him detangle instead of finishing her own potholder. Grateful for her intervention, he'd agreed to dinner at a British pub, feeling that if he was in for a penny of World War II themed events, he was in for a pound. And, then, back at home, Amy was so inspired she'd queued up one of her favorite shows, Bletchley Circle. Which is how they found themselves snuggled on the sofa, which is where Amy had started kissing him at the end of another episode.

"You know I did. It was wonderful. All that history! What a great idea to do all those things we wanted to do in one day. They went so well together." She grinned, ear to ear, and Sheldon realized he must have imagined something that didn't exist. Surely she was correct; nothing was amiss, they'd left nothing out of their theme date.

Sheldon nodded and leaned forward again, brushing his hand along her thigh. He closed his eyes and took a soft taste of her, all pink again, and then the deeper tones when her lips parted and he tasted her tongue all red and hot -

There. It was there again. And yet not. He pulled away.

"What's wrong?" Amy asked, the wrinkle having returned deeper than ever.

"I don't know," he confessed. Had he forgotten to do something at work? Was there an error in one of his recent equations? If it wasn't Amy, then it was one or the other. Or perhaps it was something that wasn't really his fault; maybe Leonard had forgotten to water the avocado pit this week. Regardless, he needed to focus on his wife. This was a Date Day, after all. And it wasn't as if he could fix any of those things with her tongue in his mouth. "Here, let's try again."

Another kiss and Amy started to press heavy against him. No, it wasn't here now. Just Amy and her body and her heat and all of her love. Amy. He focused on her and the strange feeling went away, just as he knew it would. Kissing Amy was enjoyable and easy and - Amy suddenly straddled his lap and he made a surprised sound as his hands made contact with her tight-covered hips, her skirt having bunched up around her waist in the maneuver.

"Did my knee hit you?" she asked with a little smile.

"No." The change of angle put Amy in control and her kisses pressed harder and faster. This was new. Usually they sat next to each other on the sofa when they made out. Sometimes, she'd hike a leg up or they'd end up in some other awkward position but never this. Not that he minded, now that he was experiencing it. It was actually more comfortable than their limbs akimbo and twisting his neck. And it wasn't entirely new; twice now they'd had coitus in this position.

What happened next may have been a result of that thought. The recognition caused him to hitch in some sort of surprise, and Amy took the break in the kiss as an opportunity to trail her lips along his jaw. That wasn't new to making out, though, so he relaxed slightly and -

"Oh!" His involuntary exclamation resulted from the feel of her mouth on his earlobe, her surprisingly dexterous tongue swirling and flicking.

Several thoughts bombarded Sheldon's brain almost simultaneously, just like electrons and positrons colliding in a particle accelerator. The straddling was one thing, actually a perfectly reasonable introduction of ergonomics to their tryst. But the ear lobe thing . . . He shifted beneath her as he became of aware of the physical effect it was starting to have on him. The ear thing was one of Amy's favorite methods of foreplay. She had discovered he liked it and that it could be quite helpful with . . . he shifted again . . . that. Not that he needed any help, he mentally scoffed. But why was Amy doing it here? Now? They were making out as prescribed by Date Night. Making out on Date Night technically wasn't in the Marriage Agreement, a carry-through of their Relationship Agreement, not that it felt contractual anymore. Why was Amy trying to change making out? Why today? It didn't make any sense; she knew that making out and foreplay were two equally enjoyable and similar but very separate things that were highly unlikely to ever overlap, like the Avengers and the Justice League.

Her lips returned to his and he breathed a small sigh of relief into them. That had been an unexpected and confusing few seconds but now it was over and - Sheldon's eyes popped open as Amy's hand fumbled at the bottom of his tee shirt, brushing his stomach, tugging at his belt buckle.

"Wait. Amy, wait." He managed to reach down and still her fingers as he pulled away from her, just the little distance that he could.

For a second, they remained motionless, Sheldon leaning back at an angle with Amy trying to cover him. She stayed so close he could hear her breath and feel it puff against his face. This close she was a little fuzzy, but he watched her eyes widen and widen further still and then, with what seemed like excruciating slowness, fill with tears.

"Oh, Sheldon." She jerked off of him, sideways on the sofa, and squeezed her fingers under her glasses and against her closed eyes.

Why was Amy crying now? Sheldon had no concept of what had changed and how. Had he spoken too harshly when he stopped her from undoing his belt? He replayed his words; no, he didn't think so. Nevertheless, he whispered the next question, "Why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying." Indeed, no tear had fallen. But he saw them in her eyes, even as she blinked rapidly to try and prevent them from spilling over. "If I were - and I'm not - you'd think it was stupid anyway."

"Well, I usually do, but that doesn't mean I don't want to know."

Her only reply was an ugly cross between a snort and a sniff as she wiped her palm across her face, a sound Sheldon knew meant she was trying to gather and calm herself. He really didn't think he had upset her, but one thing he had learned as a husband was that an apology, no matter how unwarranted, was never misplaced with one's wife. "I apologize if I spoke too sharply when I asked you to unhand my pants. I was just confused about what was happening."

"I'm not angry with you." Amy shook her head. "You had every right to tell me to stop. I -" There was another of those strange breathless snorts and Sheldon reached to hand her a tissue, wishing she'd just allow herself to sob so that she'd stop making that noise. She took it with a sad grin. "I know I shouldn't touch you like that without your consent. I should be the one apologizing. I'm so sorry."

Sheldon reached over and rubbed her shoulder. "It surprised me, that's all. I had consented to make out with you, and that's what we were doing." But he frowned after he spoke. Somehow it felt like that wasn't the correct term for whatever had just happened. Nor did he feel it explained the extent of Amy's reaction. He waited for her to blow her nose and then asked, "Amy, what's wrong? I mean, other than my belt."

"Nothing. You have to believe me. Everything today has been so wonderful, even more than I could expect. I never thought you'd agree to the knitting demonstration. You have to believe me."

You have to believe me. Why was she already pleading for a thing he didn't even doubt yet? And believe, she said. Why was she categorically denying a lie not told? He swallowed. Or was it a lie not yet detected? Although, it wasn't like Amy to lie. "Why wouldn't I believe you?"

She took a deep inhale. "I don't want you to think I'm not satisfied with the day. It was perfect. It's just . . . I thought it might be nice to end it by making love. And I guess I got carried away with - with the kissing and the belt and everything."

"Oh." So the ear thing had been foreplay. Amy had been hoping for coitus this evening. Except, until she'd climbed onto his lap, and only because it was new for the sofa, the thought hadn't crossed his mind. Which wasn't surprising as today was not on his well-plotted coitus schedule.

Amy put her palm up. "I know, I know. I said you could make the schedule, so I'm not asking you, especially after what I just did. I just want you to know how much I love you, how perfect the day was, how perfect you were, and . . ." She shrugged. "Believe me when I tell you I'm not asking for anything more. I'm not asking you to make love . . . I'm just . . ."

"Saying you want to," Sheldon finished for her.

She looked away and nodded.

"I do. Believe you, that is." She loved him so much, she'd had such a wonderful day with him, that the only remaining way she wanted to show him was the one way he . . . wasn't really interested in. Certainly the one he hadn't planned on. And she knew that. He understood her reticence to bring it up. And, as someone who had spent years being reticent to bring it up, he understood the overwhelming emotions that had resulted in her fighting back tears. Not that he'd ever been driven to them, of course, but he understood the need for the lightening of such a burden, the value of a pressure release valve. And Amy seemed unlikely to even consider six weeks on a train.

Sheldon made a decision. "I suppose I should have anticipated this would happen at some point. The day would come when my combination of good looks, knowledge of early jet propulsion systems, willingness to try handicrafts, and collection of facts about the Earl of Sandwich would become overwhelmingly irresistible." He looked down at his watch. "It's a little late, so we'd better get started."

"What?" Sheldon didn't understand why she looked confused.

"Coitus," he explained. "Biologically speaking, it's something I'm capable of. You've admitted to being randy, and, as your husband, I guess it's my duty."

Amy's mouth hung open a little. "Biologically speaking?"

"Yes. Just because I didn't have this scheduled for today, my genitals are fully functional. Your treating my earlobe like a melting ice cream cone will probably be sufficient." He stood up and looked down at her. "Chop, chop, before we lose what you already started."

"No, Sheldon." She shook her head and stood next to him, grabbing their empty tea mugs, and marching toward the kitchen. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"No?" Sheldon followed her. "But you said you were hoping to. I'm offering you exactly what you want."

Amy sighed softly when she reached the counter. "This is why I didn't want to say anything. I don't want pity sex, Sheldon. Or duty sex or whatever you want to call it. I know you're physically capable of doing it, but it's not the same. I only want sex if you do. I thought maybe if we made out, maybe you'd . . . get in the mood. I realize that was silly, I know that's not how your sexuality works. And - and it's selfish." She shrugged and turned around to open the dishwasher.

"Amy," Sheldon touched her shoulder blade, "I don't want you to feel that you can't say anything. You promised on our honeymoon that you would inform me if the schedule became inadequate for your needs."

The mugs clinked together as she put them in the dishwasher. "It's not that. Really, it's not. Actually, the apparent timing and interval of the schedule has been perfectly adequate. I'm honestly thrilled that we make love as often as we do. I thought - I thought . . ." She shook her head. "I thought it would be quarterly or even semi-annual or something." She smiled up at him as she shut the door, but it was thin and didn't reach her eyes. "So, see, I have nothing to complain about. I'm a sexually satisfied woman."

"But not tonight?" Sheldon prodded. "Your actions and words don't seem to correlate."

"You know what, forget I said anything. I'm sorry I reached for your belt buckle and mounted you on the sofa. That was mistake. I'll wait for the next time you've got it scheduled. Everything's fine."

But fine stood between them. Sheldon gulped and considered whether it was better to follow his wife's verbal instructions or whether it was better to follow his wife's clear physical wishes.

"I don't like this," he admitted. "I feel . . . conflicted. Confused. You say you're sexually satisfied with a schedule of my devising and yet you want to make love outside of its parameters. Will you try to explain it to me?"

"I said forget it. It's fine."

"Amy." He reached out to touch her again and tried to soften his voice. "I want to try to understand. If you thought it was important enough to act upon, then it's too important to forget."

Her lips twisted as she seemed to weigh his words. "Okay. I don't think those two things are contradictory - being overall satisfied but occasionally wanting more. I always love it when you initiate being intimate, you know that. I've never turned you down."

"But you know that you can?" Sheldon asked, a tiny bit of panic rising in his throat.

"Of course." She reached out and brushed her hand against his arm. "Let's see if this makes any sense: imagine you are an amateur astronomer -"

"If I were going to me an astronomer, I'd be a professional," he interrupted.

Amy sighed. "You asked me to try and explain it to you, remember? Work with me." She waited for him to nod and then she continued, "Astronomy is just a casual hobby for you, and you have one of those cheap telescopes. Occasionally, you're moved to use it, but it's not a huge draw for you. But you like the moon, so you usually use it when the moon is at its fullest, to get the best view." She paused and he leaned back against the counter top, crossing his arms as he listened. "But your wife loves the moon, and so she is excited to look at the moon with you. It's a thing you do on a schedule because moon is full, and it's nice." She shook her head. "No, it's better than nice. It's great, because you're doing it together. Are you with me?"

"Got it. Moon equals coitus."

"Right. But sometimes your wife wants to see the stars, too. And the full moon is so bright it can blot those out."

He put his hand up. "Wait. If the moon is coitus, what are the stars?"

"Sheldon," she reached up to rub her nose under her glasses, "they're both coitus."

"Then why does the wife want the stars instead of the moon?"

"She wants both!" It came out sharp. "I'm sorry. I'm not angry. It's not a good metaphor, I know, but I was trying to come up with something on the fly. What I'm saying is, the timing is off sometimes. The husband is only interested in the moon - and the wife loves that, she'd not unhappy with the moon at all - but sometimes . . . she wants some stars in between."

"An occasional unanticipated variable in synchronicity," Sheldon murmured.

"Yes, exactly. I am satisfied with the schedule, Sheldon. It's just that . . . I think about it other times, too."

"Alright." Sheldon chewed on his lower lip, considering what she said. It made sense to him in an abstract sense, if he didn't think too deeply about what a hackneyed metaphor she had used to try and explain it. To him, viewing the heavens and loving the one he was viewing them with were combined into one emotion. For him, any physical desire he had discovered always started with how mentally close he wanted to be to Amy, but then he knew that his sexual drive was . . . unique. "To continue your metaphor . . . Why don't you get the telescope out yourself then? I'll go draw a bath and even light some candles for you." He stood up straighter to walk to the bathroom. "Wait, are you saying you're out of that special bath oil? I'll order you more." He pivoted toward his laptop resting on the dining table.

Amy's hand reached out and stopped him and she shook her head. "I can get the telescope out, as it were. I - I -" She blushed slightly. "I still use the bath oil, Sheldon, although not as much. Yes, sometimes I just want the telescope for, um, purely physical reasons, but other times it's because I love you and I want to be that close to you. I can pretend it's your . . . telescope but not your heart. I guess it's not always about the telescope. It's about standing at the window together, sharing something just between the two of us, feeling that sense of awe, whispering about it."

Something about that hit him hard, and he sucked in his breath. Astronomy he understood perfectly. Astronomy was easy. He could do Raj's job with his eyes closed without the need for telescopes, phallic or otherwise. But the intangible, the time spent together, in awe, trying to grasp the sublime minutiae and meaning of the heavens . . . that was physics. That was love. That was Amy.

"Amy, when we're intimate, it's always like that to me."

"Me, too. And that's why sometimes being alone in the bathtub isn't enough."

He reached out and pulled her close, wrapping his arms tightly around her. "I love you and I want to make you happy."

"I know."

"If you want to make love right now, I'll do it for you, Amy," he whispered into her hair.

"I know you would." Amy pushed back softly and looked up at him. "But it wouldn't be the same. Which doesn't mean you don't love me, I know that, too. I know it's probably the greatest act of love you could do, because it would be entirely for me. But it would be different somehow."

"You're probably correct," he agreed. He licked his lips. "I fail to understand, though, how scheduled coitus, even though you don't know the schedule, doesn't suffer from this same problem."

"Because you're looking forward to it, I think." She reached for his hand on her shoulder. "You've always been so open with me, sharing your struggles with your sexuality, and I think I've learned enough to say you've found something about physical intimacy that you do enjoy and you do look forward to, but I also know you just can't turn on your desire. I've always assumed that your schedule includes a warm-up period. Maybe the schedule is even more of a window of time than a single hour."

Shifting uncomfortably on his feet, Sheldon thought about the Amok Time theme song that went off. About the hours of building anticipation that followed. It sounded cold when Amy described it, as though it was chore he had to mentally condition himself to undertake. "You knew?" he whispered, embarrassed.

His wife stretched up to kiss his cheek. "I like it. There's a spark in the air."

"I like it, too," he admitted. Sexual desire so rarely crossed his mind now that Amy had taught him that love was more important than coitus, that to have a prescribed time to concentrate on sexual intimacy, the ability he'd discovered to bring it to the fore, to experience it in even a small amount felt like both a release and a triumph rolled into one. And then he got to share that with her.

"What can I do? To help you see the stars?" he asked.

"Tonight? Nothing. Honestly. The mood has passed."

"Do you want to cuddle and watch another episode?"

"There's nothing I'd like more."

They sat on the sofa and when Amy leaned against his shoulder, he adjusted to wrap his arm around her, to hold her close. The rest of the episode passed like that, neither of them moving or speaking, and Sheldon wondered if neither of them were watching, too.

To be continued . . .

Astute readers may have noticed a similar tone and a few familiar details from my story The Sexuality Quandary. And you'd be absolutely correct. This story was written to take place in that same "world," but I feel that world is the most faithful to canon of all my stories and thus nothing I write in that vain can be considered a sequel. In addition, it's entirely possible to understand this story without having read The Sexuality Quandary; however, if you enjoy this story, please check out that earlier work.

And, as always, thank you in advance for your reviews.