fic: crawl across this world (how i met your mother)
apocalyptothon ficathon: daffybroad requested laser tag coming in handy, Barney/Robin, McLaren's -- two lovers leading a human resistance in the wasteland that was New York; other characters welcome; character death, either pre- or mid-story, encouraged.
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: The truth is far less Hollywood.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATIONS: Barney/Robin
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
THANKS TO: daygloparker for betaing. Much appreciated.
WORDS: 1,482
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; July 2009.
* * * * *
Crawl across This World by anr
* * * * *
You find him in McLaren's, sitting in your old booth, his shoulders slumped and heavy. The room is choked with debris, a mess of broken furniture and shattered glass, splinters and shards, but the booth itself looks relatively undamaged. You wonder at that -- the last time you were here, neither you or the aliens were holding back.
"Hey," you offer quietly, when he doesn't say anything.
He doesn't look up. "Hey."
Stepping inside, you pick a path towards him, strangely reassured to realise that, up close, the booth isn't nearly as undamaged as you'd first thought. The extra chair you'd always dragged over is long gone, no doubt part of the rest of the firewood slowly rotting on the floor, and the jukebox side of the booth has deep acid burns across the seat.
Sliding in next to him, you place your shotgun next to his P90 on the tabletop.
"How'd you find me?"
Where else would you have gone today? "Followed the potholes," you say instead. It's still the truth, and he nods.
"There must be a nest nearby," he says, "I saw a couple of warriors on the next block too."
Your fingers twitch back towards your gun out of habit. "We'll have to bring a team down here."
"Mmm."
His knife is out, the sharp tip methodically scratching grooves into the tabletop, and you find your thoughts drifting as you watch him.
There was a time, in the beginning, when you thought he'd be the first to go.
It wasn't that you didn't think he would be smart enough to survive (you've only ever doubted his intelligence once since you first met -- the day you overheard him telling Ted you were the suit) or that he wouldn't be able to handle the pressure of potential annihilation from a race of parasitic, acid-for-blood warrior aliens (the man flourished at Goliath National Bank, after all). You hadn't even doubted his ability to weather the shock of your civilisation all but dissolving (his gross materialism had been a conscious, adult choice, far removed from his childhood).
No, your thoughts had stemmed from his apparent lack of self-regard when it came to you and your friends. The man had once stepped into the path of an oncoming bus, his head too full of Ted to think straight, and you'd thought, for sure, that a repeat of that blind concern would be only too quick in coming.
Not that Ted's dead, or in any kind of danger, or anything. Sure, it's been awhile since you've seen or heard from him (thirty months and counting, ever since he went to meet the future in-laws the weekend before the end) but the lack of contact isn't too surprising. Just because GNB has its own, still functional, cell phone network, that doesn't mean the rest of the Tri-State was as awesomely prepared -- and it's not like Ted can abandon all the nutmeggers he's busy saving from the evil space aliens just to come back and say hi.
It was Barney, of course, who worked that all out, about a month in, Marshall quickly seconding the theory. It makes sense, he agreed, I mean, what other reason could there possibly be?
All you know for sure is that, when Barney explained Ted's absence, you stopped having nightmares about buses and flashing 'don't walk' lights, shreds of Armani fluttering in the wind.
"I was thinking, earlier, about the time I let Lily stay with me," he says, almost unexpectedly.
"I remember that -- 2007, yeah?"
"'06." He frowns, the knife stilling. "She replaced all my porn with books."
You roll your eyes. "Wow, I'm surprised you didn't have her charged with high treason."
"Had she been a bro," he says seriously, "I would have."
You don't doubt that. "I remember her trying to convince me once I should get a perm."
That makes him smile a little. "Was this before or after Robin Sparkles made her New York debut?"
"Strangely enough, after." You laugh quietly. "She said it would 'accentuate my cheekbones' or something."
He shakes his head. "That Lily."
"Yeah." Your smile softens. "That Lily."
He starts to carve again and you shift to glance over your shoulder -- it's habit, though whether you're looking for Wendy or something more dangerous it's hard to say -- only to freeze when the phone in his pocket rings, the cell vibrations caught between you. Turning back, you watch him tap his earpiece, yours conferencing in automatically.
"Go for Barney."
"Dude, it's Lando, over."
You roll your eyes. "What's up, Marshall?"
"Leia! Codenames! Over."
"Marshall," you repeat, not really sure why you're bothering, "they're aliens. They don't underst--"
"You don't know that! Over. Solo, explain the 'xenomorph learned behaviourisms' theory to her again. Over."
"I've tried, bro, but she --"
Movement out of the corner of your eye. Without thinking, you snatch the knife out of Barney's hand and throw it across the room, severing the tip of a tail. Your shotgun is up and firing a split-second later, shattering the face-hugger mid-leap and spraying acid across the far wall.
"-- Jesus, Scherbatsky!" His own gun is raised and scanning the room even as he curses.
"Guys? Guys! What's going on? Are you okay? Guys!?"
Marshall. Adjusting your earpiece, you slide out of the bench, cracking open your gun and reaching into your pocket for new shells. "We're fine, Marshall."
"Are you sure? Do you need backup? Should I send in --"
Barney joins you beside the booth. "All good, Lando. Robin just bagged a Monica is all." You throw him a brief, quizzical look, and he shrugs. "Monica Stanton, age twenty-three. Had a tongue like a Marvel character -- at one point I thought she was trying to give my lungs the Heimlich." He pauses. "Good tail, though."
Gross. Over the line, Marshall chuckles. "Oh yeah you did. Over."
Barney grins. "Bluetooth high five!" he says, and there's a set of muffled bumps as the guys both tap their earpieces. When Barney looks at you, crestfallen, you sigh and tap your own.
"Whenever you're ready, Marshall," you prompt in an attempt to get back on track.
"Oh, right. You guys said earlier you wanted Red team to patrol Hamburger sector tonight, but it turns out Red leader got burnt earlier. Who do you want to send instead? Over."
You exchange a look with Barney, thinking it over. Johnson, maybe? Barney nods.
"Send in Purple," he says.
"Roger," says Marshall. You listen as he pulls his phone away briefly to relay your orders.
Barney has a dozen different explanations for why you're both in charge -- ranging from, whoever said laser tag wasn't educational clearly didn't know what they were talking about, to, just because McClane was a bad guy, doesn't mean we can't learn from his methods -- but you know the truth is far less Hollywood. Your arsenal, after all, came from the security vault at GNB, and you can't remember anyone from your past ever failing to go along with one of his schemes. Had the world not ended, you seriously wouldn't have been surprised if you'd woken up one day to find him leading a corporation, or country, or cult of some description.
Marshall comes back. "So, where are you guys exactly? Neither of you said when you --"
Barney freezes imperceptibly. "Eighth street," he lies smoothly, cutting Marshall off. "Near the old CD store." He doesn't bother to check your reaction -- the two of you made an unspoken pact a year ago to never mention anything that could relate to Lily to Marshall unless he said it first. "We're on our way back now."
"Sweet, see you soon. Over."
"Over," Barney repeats, cutting the connection.
You tilt your head towards the back wall. "You want your knife back?"
"Nah," he shakes his head. "We've got plenty at home." He nudges your shoulder with his own. "You coming?"
"Yeah." As he turns to go, you reach out and catch his arm, halting him just enough to brush his lips with a kiss. Your eyes close as you summon your courage to blurt out, "Iloveyou," in a familiar rush of vowels and consonants.
When you open your eyes again, he gives you that combination smile/shudder you adore. "Iloveyoutoo."
You nod, and let him go, watching him step over a pile of rubble, before glancing back at the booth, at the sharp grooves he's etched into the surface, a first anniversary memorial:
LILY ALDRIN
1978 - 2011
"Hey." Looking up, you find Barney waiting for you at the door, his eyebrow raised as if to ask, you okay?
You smile. "Hey."
Shouldering your gun, you follow him outside.
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: The truth is far less Hollywood.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATIONS: Barney/Robin
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
THANKS TO: daygloparker for betaing. Much appreciated.
WORDS: 1,482
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; July 2009.
* * * * *
Crawl across This World by anr
* * * * *
You find him in McLaren's, sitting in your old booth, his shoulders slumped and heavy. The room is choked with debris, a mess of broken furniture and shattered glass, splinters and shards, but the booth itself looks relatively undamaged. You wonder at that -- the last time you were here, neither you or the aliens were holding back.
"Hey," you offer quietly, when he doesn't say anything.
He doesn't look up. "Hey."
Stepping inside, you pick a path towards him, strangely reassured to realise that, up close, the booth isn't nearly as undamaged as you'd first thought. The extra chair you'd always dragged over is long gone, no doubt part of the rest of the firewood slowly rotting on the floor, and the jukebox side of the booth has deep acid burns across the seat.
Sliding in next to him, you place your shotgun next to his P90 on the tabletop.
"How'd you find me?"
Where else would you have gone today? "Followed the potholes," you say instead. It's still the truth, and he nods.
"There must be a nest nearby," he says, "I saw a couple of warriors on the next block too."
Your fingers twitch back towards your gun out of habit. "We'll have to bring a team down here."
"Mmm."
His knife is out, the sharp tip methodically scratching grooves into the tabletop, and you find your thoughts drifting as you watch him.
There was a time, in the beginning, when you thought he'd be the first to go.
It wasn't that you didn't think he would be smart enough to survive (you've only ever doubted his intelligence once since you first met -- the day you overheard him telling Ted you were the suit) or that he wouldn't be able to handle the pressure of potential annihilation from a race of parasitic, acid-for-blood warrior aliens (the man flourished at Goliath National Bank, after all). You hadn't even doubted his ability to weather the shock of your civilisation all but dissolving (his gross materialism had been a conscious, adult choice, far removed from his childhood).
No, your thoughts had stemmed from his apparent lack of self-regard when it came to you and your friends. The man had once stepped into the path of an oncoming bus, his head too full of Ted to think straight, and you'd thought, for sure, that a repeat of that blind concern would be only too quick in coming.
Not that Ted's dead, or in any kind of danger, or anything. Sure, it's been awhile since you've seen or heard from him (thirty months and counting, ever since he went to meet the future in-laws the weekend before the end) but the lack of contact isn't too surprising. Just because GNB has its own, still functional, cell phone network, that doesn't mean the rest of the Tri-State was as awesomely prepared -- and it's not like Ted can abandon all the nutmeggers he's busy saving from the evil space aliens just to come back and say hi.
It was Barney, of course, who worked that all out, about a month in, Marshall quickly seconding the theory. It makes sense, he agreed, I mean, what other reason could there possibly be?
All you know for sure is that, when Barney explained Ted's absence, you stopped having nightmares about buses and flashing 'don't walk' lights, shreds of Armani fluttering in the wind.
"I was thinking, earlier, about the time I let Lily stay with me," he says, almost unexpectedly.
"I remember that -- 2007, yeah?"
"'06." He frowns, the knife stilling. "She replaced all my porn with books."
You roll your eyes. "Wow, I'm surprised you didn't have her charged with high treason."
"Had she been a bro," he says seriously, "I would have."
You don't doubt that. "I remember her trying to convince me once I should get a perm."
That makes him smile a little. "Was this before or after Robin Sparkles made her New York debut?"
"Strangely enough, after." You laugh quietly. "She said it would 'accentuate my cheekbones' or something."
He shakes his head. "That Lily."
"Yeah." Your smile softens. "That Lily."
He starts to carve again and you shift to glance over your shoulder -- it's habit, though whether you're looking for Wendy or something more dangerous it's hard to say -- only to freeze when the phone in his pocket rings, the cell vibrations caught between you. Turning back, you watch him tap his earpiece, yours conferencing in automatically.
"Go for Barney."
"Dude, it's Lando, over."
You roll your eyes. "What's up, Marshall?"
"Leia! Codenames! Over."
"Marshall," you repeat, not really sure why you're bothering, "they're aliens. They don't underst--"
"You don't know that! Over. Solo, explain the 'xenomorph learned behaviourisms' theory to her again. Over."
"I've tried, bro, but she --"
Movement out of the corner of your eye. Without thinking, you snatch the knife out of Barney's hand and throw it across the room, severing the tip of a tail. Your shotgun is up and firing a split-second later, shattering the face-hugger mid-leap and spraying acid across the far wall.
"-- Jesus, Scherbatsky!" His own gun is raised and scanning the room even as he curses.
"Guys? Guys! What's going on? Are you okay? Guys!?"
Marshall. Adjusting your earpiece, you slide out of the bench, cracking open your gun and reaching into your pocket for new shells. "We're fine, Marshall."
"Are you sure? Do you need backup? Should I send in --"
Barney joins you beside the booth. "All good, Lando. Robin just bagged a Monica is all." You throw him a brief, quizzical look, and he shrugs. "Monica Stanton, age twenty-three. Had a tongue like a Marvel character -- at one point I thought she was trying to give my lungs the Heimlich." He pauses. "Good tail, though."
Gross. Over the line, Marshall chuckles. "Oh yeah you did. Over."
Barney grins. "Bluetooth high five!" he says, and there's a set of muffled bumps as the guys both tap their earpieces. When Barney looks at you, crestfallen, you sigh and tap your own.
"Whenever you're ready, Marshall," you prompt in an attempt to get back on track.
"Oh, right. You guys said earlier you wanted Red team to patrol Hamburger sector tonight, but it turns out Red leader got burnt earlier. Who do you want to send instead? Over."
You exchange a look with Barney, thinking it over. Johnson, maybe? Barney nods.
"Send in Purple," he says.
"Roger," says Marshall. You listen as he pulls his phone away briefly to relay your orders.
Barney has a dozen different explanations for why you're both in charge -- ranging from, whoever said laser tag wasn't educational clearly didn't know what they were talking about, to, just because McClane was a bad guy, doesn't mean we can't learn from his methods -- but you know the truth is far less Hollywood. Your arsenal, after all, came from the security vault at GNB, and you can't remember anyone from your past ever failing to go along with one of his schemes. Had the world not ended, you seriously wouldn't have been surprised if you'd woken up one day to find him leading a corporation, or country, or cult of some description.
Marshall comes back. "So, where are you guys exactly? Neither of you said when you --"
Barney freezes imperceptibly. "Eighth street," he lies smoothly, cutting Marshall off. "Near the old CD store." He doesn't bother to check your reaction -- the two of you made an unspoken pact a year ago to never mention anything that could relate to Lily to Marshall unless he said it first. "We're on our way back now."
"Sweet, see you soon. Over."
"Over," Barney repeats, cutting the connection.
You tilt your head towards the back wall. "You want your knife back?"
"Nah," he shakes his head. "We've got plenty at home." He nudges your shoulder with his own. "You coming?"
"Yeah." As he turns to go, you reach out and catch his arm, halting him just enough to brush his lips with a kiss. Your eyes close as you summon your courage to blurt out, "Iloveyou," in a familiar rush of vowels and consonants.
When you open your eyes again, he gives you that combination smile/shudder you adore. "Iloveyoutoo."
You nod, and let him go, watching him step over a pile of rubble, before glancing back at the booth, at the sharp grooves he's etched into the surface, a first anniversary memorial:
LILY ALDRIN
1978 - 2011
"Hey." Looking up, you find Barney waiting for you at the door, his eyebrow raised as if to ask, you okay?
You smile. "Hey."
Shouldering your gun, you follow him outside.
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*