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World Domination's a Solitary Art

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"I love you, Sheldon."

"No, you don't, Wheaton. You're just saying that to annoy me."

"How dare you be so dismissive of my emotions?" Wil buries his face against Sheldon's shoulder and lets out an exaggerated sob.

"You're losing your touch. I didn't even remotely believe that." Sheldon can feel Wil's facial hair scratch against his bare skin as Wil shakes his head sadly. "You're not getting any sympathy from me, either."

"Maybe you're having a positive effect on my so-called 'evil powers'," Wil says, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Sheldon's shoulder.

"Maybe. Or maybe you're just biding your time until the opportune moment." Sheldon settles himself closer in Wil's loose embrace, coming eye to eye with his nemesis. Not to mention groin to groin, since Wil loses no time in hooking a leg over his and dragging him closer still. "Trying to lull me into a false sense of security before you do something really diabolical."

Wil slides his hand in between them, palming Sheldon's cock, shifting until he presses against Sheldon and can get his hand around them both. "That's not who I am any more," he says to Sheldon's closed eyes and gasping mouth, and the words sound sincere. "You've changed. Couldn't I?"

The only response Sheldon can make is a gasping groan.

He thinks, as he gets the bus home from Wil's place, his body still suffused with the oddly pleasant sensation of sexual fulfilment, that if he could change so radically, maybe Wil's not lying after all.

And that's Monday night.

Then, on Wednesday night, there's the car accident.

The screech of tires is not so unusual in Pasadena; indeed, if they were at home Sheldon might even assume it was Penny missing her parking spot again. But there's a sickening thump from outside, and then Captain Sweatpants yells, "Oh my God, no!" and drops his comic.

He drops his comic and yells, "It's Wil!"

And Sheldon drops his comic and runs.

The headlights make Wil's skin even paler. They highlight the rivulet of blood that is dribbling from the corner of his lips. They spotlight the way Wil's jacket is ripped open, the smudged white of his t-shirt underneath, the ragged red edge that looks like a misshapen open monster mouth. Wil lifts one hand, batting at the light, his hand like a moth's wing, and Sheldon reaches out to take that hand in his and to shield Wil's eyes from the light with the other.

The driver is telling anyone who will listen (in a familiar voice Sheldon can't place right now) that Wil just ran out in front of him, that he came from between two parked cars. Other cars roll past, honk their horns. Captain Sweatpants is on the phone to the hospital. Stuart and Leonard, Raj and Howard, everyone's gathered around.

Wil's eyes are unfocused, even with the light out of them. His chest is moving only shallowly. Villains aren't supposed to fall to anything so banal as a Ford Pinto, for God's sake.


"I'm here. The ambulance is coming."

Wil blinks blearily at him. "I..." A fresh rivulet of blood spills over his cheek. "I..."

Sheldon squeezes his hand. "Don't talk. Just keep breathing."

"...wish you'd said it back."

Sheldon is familiar with the pain of losing something he really wanted. But monopoles have nothing on this.

"Wheaton. Wil. I." He clears his throat and it makes the next words come out louder. "I love you."

"What?" says Leonard, Raj, Howard, Stuart, Captain Sweatpants, and the other half a dozen customers who were browsing at the same time, along with a handful of rubberneckers.

And Wil starts laughing.

Sheldon only has to do about half a double-take before he gets it. Captain Sweatpants on a silent cellphone that never called for help. Lonely Larry the driver of a car that had no accident. And Wil -- Wheaton -- drooling fake blood and laughing.

He doesn't say anything. Doesn't try to deny anything. He just gets up and walks away, trying his utmost to ignore the catcalling from behind him (mostly those three, although he's pretty sure he can hear Raj laughing as well).

Wheaton, he vows, is going to pay for this.