Fic: Robin
Fandom: How I Met Your Mother
Genre: Poetry
Pairing: Barney/Robin
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1075
Spoilers: 3.05 "How I Met Everyone Else"
Summary: Robin says no 16 times. Barney reacts.
Notes: Written as an assignment for creative writing class. Another repost because it got nominated for a Legendary Award! =D
The five of us have clustered in our usual booth:
Me,
my best friend,
his best friend,
his best friend’s wife,
and… her. Robin.
From the way my shoulder bumps hers as we sit together,
and the way she laughs at my jokes,
a stranger makes the fatal mistake of asking us
if we’re In A Relationship.
I’m about to laugh it off
when she starts grimacing, giggling,
frantically shaking her head.
The only word she can get out is “no”.
In fact, she says it sixteen times. (That’s right, I counted.)
My smile freezes on my face.
Seriously?
She’s saying no to this?
To me?
But… I’m awesome!
Money, laser tag, jokes, my fortress of an apartment,
wit, charm, devastating good looks,
cigars, scotch, high-fives, suits-
You’re saying no to the suits?
The sartorial symbol of our combined awesomeness?
She’s the only one that’s willingly suited up with me,
our unspoken display of solidarity.
So I squint, perplexed, at her, still saying “no” to the very thought of me,
Unable to meet any of our eyes, even shuddering slightly.
The Windsor knot at my neck is starting to suffocate me.
I clear my throat, question her: “Sixteen no’s. Really?”
keeping my voice casual enough to disguise my hurt,
leaving the smile painted on my mouth.
By now, it feels more like a grimace.
And, good for her, she has the grace to look ashamed, and
she shrugs in apology to soften the blow, but it still stings.
Why didn’t you just slap me instead?
At least that pain goes away eventually.
Okay, yeah, I’m not exactly a catch,
What with the bars and the gambling and strip clubs and the porn
and the random hot women and the elaborate schemes to seduce them
and the outlandish lies and the legendary sex
and the running away when they’re in the shower
and the never calling them again.
What can I say?
It’s all just part of being awesome.
(Right?)
But, come on.
She knows me better than I ever let any of those girls know me.
We’ve been friends for years.
We know each other’s likes, dislikes, quirks, darkest secrets-
she might even be the only person on Earth
who doesn’t see me as a monster.
You know, even my best friend sincerely calls me “Satan”.
So I would have expected this reaction from any other woman, but not from her.
Because the money, the suits, the sex?
They’re great and all--
Oh, who am I kidding?
They’re as awesome as… well, I am.
(After all, it’s better to be called “awesome” than “asshole”.)
But… were all those no’s really necessary?
It’s not like I have zero redeeming qualities.
I’m not the soulless, selfish lothario our friends see me as.
After all these years, she should know that.
She’s one of the lucky few I can show kindness to
without seeming weak or un-awesome:
We played laser tag one night before we were really friends,
the first night anyone had bothered suiting up for me,
the first night I spent with a woman without ending up in bed with her.
She saved my life from bloodthirsty twelve-year-olds.
I hoped she could save me again, this time from myself.
Once I looked at her and the word “beautiful” slipped out,
such a foreign concept for me when it came to women,
and yet I knew it was tailor-made for her.
Her boyfriend, my best friend, left the contents of his stomach on her front step one night.
I know she thought that he’d replaced the doormat, but really, it was me.
It almost killed me to keep my mouth shut when I saw how happy it made her.
But at the same time, I knew I would never tell anyone about my secret good deed.
Let him take the credit; he’s already been cast as the good guy.
I don’t have to parade my good deeds around for praise the way he does.
I let her cry on my shoulder when he broke her heart (as she’s breaking mine now),
holding her close and stroking her brilliant brown hair
as she mourned the end I had seen coming from miles away.
Her world was falling apart, but for one brief moment I was her rock.
She ruined that particular suit with her grief;
the jacket’s still hanging in my closet, the tearstains still visible.
I can’t bring myself to get it cleaned. (Is that weird?)
I wish I had known, back then, what she really thought of me.
Because she’s just proved that she, like my so-called friends,
is blinded by the label of “sleazy, evil woman-hunter” they gave me so long ago;
I used to think she could see past that,
past the babes and suits to my secret noble heart,
and yet, she said “no.”
Sixteen times over.
I must’ve fooled her too, then.
I play this “awesome” part too well.
I put on the suit and all the good parts disappear under layers of tailored armor.
What used to be my costume is now inseparable from me.
(When did that happen?)
Our friends are talking about who-knows-what now.
I can barely hear their words over the sound of “no” still echoing in my mind.
My eyes are fixed on the dregs of my drink,
and I can’t get her enthusiastic rejection out of my head.
(Am I really that repulsive?)
I swirl my glass’s contents absently, pursing my lips,
thinking of the way her nose had wrinkled in disgust
as she contemplated a life with me.
She’s smiling and chatting about work, friends, sports, whatever,
her words (or really, word) to me forgotten, shrugged off so carelessly.
She doesn’t even realize that she’s poisoned me
with the deadliest syllable in the English language.
I set the glass back down. Scotch isn’t going to help this time.
The silken serpent winds tighter about my neck;
I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t escape who I’ve become.
Glancing at the bar, I start to scope for a gullible girl
who can provide a distraction from
thoughts of the woman who sits beside me, our knees accidentally touching,
thoughts of her face and her eyes and her smile and her laugh
and the way she said “no”.
A bead of condensation forms on the side of my tumbler
and glides slowly down, coming to rest on the top of our table.