fic: What's Underneath (Barney/Robin)
Title: What's Underneath (Part 1 of at least 2 or 3)
Pairing: Barney/Robin
Rating: R
Disclaimer: If I owned this show I wouldn't be writing this.
Summary: What's underneath the crap of this season, through Barney and Robin's POV. Trying to make sense of their characters while being pessimistic.
She pretends it doesn’t matter. She pretends it’s not killing her inside. That she doesn’t get queasy and have to breathe deep and even excuse herself to vomit in the Maclaren’s ladies’ room where they once fucked.
It’s always at the bar.
They don’t talk on the phone much anymore, they don’t play laser tag or see a movie where they root for the bad guy. They are friends. They are friends who have to be around other friends to be friends. But that’s ok.
He’s so funny. He’s meant to be this way. Her smiles are genuine when he spouts off ridiculous stories; advice and anecdotes on how to bed dumb girls. It’s funny because she understands the game. She knows she wasn’t a dumb blonde conquest. But then again she doesn’t quite know what she was.
But then she’s alone with him. At the bar. He’s mourning the end of the pharmaceutical era and he’s talking to a stage. But the stage is only her. Robin, whom he dated. Recently. It doesn’t matter.
Five minutes later she’s puking in the bathroom again, gasping for air and telling herself the tears at the corners of her eyes are caused by the gagging. Ten minutes later she’s back at the bar and downs another tumbler of whiskey. Fifteen and she’s unable to fake it much longer. Twenty and she’ll let her dryness crack. Twenty five and she excuses herself.
She hasn’t been to the shooting range. She hasn’t smoked a cigar. She’s let go of that scotch swilling, gun toting, New Yorker she once was. She feels like she’s cracking. She can’t cover up how much of a fucking walking cartoon she is now.
She needs validation. She dates awful men. Oh God, she’s the girl Barney bags now.
Would he go for it? Most likely. If she initiated it. Would she?
And sometimes, at the most random of times, she almost calls him. She almost gets in a cab. She wants to scream at the top of her lungs that she doesn’t care how, but just be with her. Fuck the dumb blondes all you want but just come home to her at the end of the day and laugh about it. Be her equal, be her match.
At least….just…look at her. Sometimes. The way you used to. Sometimes.
Pairing: Barney/Robin
Rating: R
Disclaimer: If I owned this show I wouldn't be writing this.
Summary: What's underneath the crap of this season, through Barney and Robin's POV. Trying to make sense of their characters while being pessimistic.
She pretends it doesn’t matter. She pretends it’s not killing her inside. That she doesn’t get queasy and have to breathe deep and even excuse herself to vomit in the Maclaren’s ladies’ room where they once fucked.
It’s always at the bar.
They don’t talk on the phone much anymore, they don’t play laser tag or see a movie where they root for the bad guy. They are friends. They are friends who have to be around other friends to be friends. But that’s ok.
He’s so funny. He’s meant to be this way. Her smiles are genuine when he spouts off ridiculous stories; advice and anecdotes on how to bed dumb girls. It’s funny because she understands the game. She knows she wasn’t a dumb blonde conquest. But then again she doesn’t quite know what she was.
But then she’s alone with him. At the bar. He’s mourning the end of the pharmaceutical era and he’s talking to a stage. But the stage is only her. Robin, whom he dated. Recently. It doesn’t matter.
Five minutes later she’s puking in the bathroom again, gasping for air and telling herself the tears at the corners of her eyes are caused by the gagging. Ten minutes later she’s back at the bar and downs another tumbler of whiskey. Fifteen and she’s unable to fake it much longer. Twenty and she’ll let her dryness crack. Twenty five and she excuses herself.
She hasn’t been to the shooting range. She hasn’t smoked a cigar. She’s let go of that scotch swilling, gun toting, New Yorker she once was. She feels like she’s cracking. She can’t cover up how much of a fucking walking cartoon she is now.
She needs validation. She dates awful men. Oh God, she’s the girl Barney bags now.
Would he go for it? Most likely. If she initiated it. Would she?
And sometimes, at the most random of times, she almost calls him. She almost gets in a cab. She wants to scream at the top of her lungs that she doesn’t care how, but just be with her. Fuck the dumb blondes all you want but just come home to her at the end of the day and laugh about it. Be her equal, be her match.
At least….just…look at her. Sometimes. The way you used to. Sometimes.