FIC: Middles (1/1)
Middles
She invites him back to her place for "coffee".
Coffee? What does that even mean?
Does that mean the same thing that it used to? Or have the code-words changed? Thing is, he doesn't have the language. Doesn't speak "single". He hasn't been single since he was twenty-three.
And even when Barney was single he was terrible at this.
But Robin's funny and easy to talk to and they fall into a kind of drunken, champagne-fuelled rhythm. She's not like any woman he's ever known and he comes to the conclusion, admittedly a half-baked conclusion, that she just wants a buddy. He wracks his brain trying to remember if she's seeing anybody. But come on! She must be..?
And in the cab ride to her place, where they laugh too loudly and swear too frequently and the cab driver keeps shooting them hostile looks, he doesn't feel like he's "getting lucky".
He feels like he's won the freakin' jackpot.
And they get back to her place and they're still laughing and wiping the tears from their eyes. He has no idea why everything seems so hysterically funny, and when she takes his coat, he doesn't resist when she pulls it off him, like she's eager, like she's hot for him.
And when she kisses him, it's impulsive - like a surprise.
Like a really, really great surprise.
He doesn't have time to react. She pulls away, grinning, leaving him breathless. Her lips feel so different against his, so wrong and yet so right. Shannon never kissed him like that. Shannon did everything so reluctantly, like she was bestowing an honour on him. He always felt like it was a fight to get her to give him anything.
He wonders if Tyler is even his at all.
Way to go to ruin the mood, he thinks, suddenly feel a little too sober to be doing this.
Then he leans against the stereo system and the music switches on suddenly, filling the apartment with a hot and heavy disco beat. Robin begins to dance, moving her hips then shimmy-ing her shoulders, almost tripping over the coffee table as she tries to get rid of her heels. He grins, catching her arm, and this time it's him who kisses her.
Their lips connect, and she surprises him again by how quickly she parts hers, sliding her tongue between his teeth. She grabs the lapels of his suit jacket, then lets them go in order to take hold of his tie. His palm is pressed against her cheek and he kisses her desperately, trying to keep up, his heart racing because this is new, new and he wants to savour every single second.
He slows it down. He pushes her gently against the wall and he pins her there, taking his time to taste her - cherry lipstick and champagne, sweetness and grape and bubbles and fun and everything Shannon isn't (wasn't). Robin's body is soft, pressed against him, the swell of her breast against his chest, her hips jammed tightly against the wall so that every time she moves, undulates, lets out a sigh, a tiny tremor of lust spikes through him.
He's hard before her fingers sweep over his ass, squeezing it.
Then her cellphone rings.
He doesn't want to pull back, doesn't want to lose this, lose her, but the second he feels her tense and push at his shoulder, he reluctantly lets her go.
He moves back a few paces, heads to the kitchen while she takes the call.
"No… No, I said don't call me, Derek. You know why!" She's saying. She sounds angry and determined, kind of like the way she kisses. Who's Derek?
"It's been two weeks, Jesus. Just stop this!" She hisses. And finally he gets it. She's a rebound girl. She's looking for something (someone) to ease the pain and he's just… convenient.
And it hurts him, stupidly, even after all the times he's been hurt. And he doesn't want to be the middleman here. He doesn't want to be making love with her, only for her to be thinking of Derek.
He'd grab his coat right now if she wasn't leaning against it.
So he browses her bookshelves, not really looking, not really seeing. there's a pile of photographs, from that party at MacLaren's a few months ago - the last party that he and Shannon had attended as a (real) married couple. The last one before…
He leafs through the photographs with a masochistic urge. He still doesn't know who "he" is - the one Shannon's been sleeping with. He almost doesn't want to know. He pities the poor sap. He knows Shannon - her silky words and her promises of love everylasting, of forever… of the rest of their lives.
There are pictures of the both of them, frozen in time, smiling and innocent. Innocent… at least he was. Perhaps Shannon never was. She's always out for what she can get… another man, a more successful man… a new thrill.
And then he sees it.
The photograph drops from his hand and floating in slow motion so it almost seems as though he can catch it. But he doesn't want to catch it. Doesn't want to look again at that incriminating picture - of his wife, his wife… and that guy, Marshall's friend, the architect, Ted Mosby.
The man who was banging her.
Barney can tell. He can just tell. The body language, the way Shannon isn't looking at the other man in the photograph, but she's touching him. She's touching him.
God, how he misses her touch.
Every time he feels weak, every time he wonders if he's made a huge mistake divorcing her, hell, every time he thinks he should have stayed in a loveless marriage just for the sake of his kid…
He needs to think about that photograph.
He bends to retrieve it but Robin gets there first.
*--*--*
He deflects, stepping away from her, because he's shaken up and confused and his lips are still numb from kissing her.
"Bad break up?" He asks her. Direct. Shannon always complains (complained) that he's too direct.
She shrugs, looking at the photograph. "He's, like, a millionaire. He'll get over it." She doesn't look very upset. Maybe he underestimated her. Why does he keep doing that?
"That's my wife," he explains. "In the photograph."
Robin's lips thin. "And Ted Mosby. They had an affair?"
His guts turn to ice. "Yes," he whispers.
She looks up at him, blue eyes, wide and direct. She's direct too. "You wanna stay the night?"
It's casual, but it's an invitation. It's not a code or a special language and it's not open to interpretation.
The correct answer is "yes". The correct answer is "screw everyone, screw the world… I want to screw you." Because he does. He really does. He really wants to have sex with her, with Robin.
But he opens his mouth and says. "No, I don't think so."
Somehow, incredibly, she doesn't listen to the words but she hears the intention behind them.
And she wraps her arms around his neck and her lips devour his.
.
She invites him back to her place for "coffee".
Coffee? What does that even mean?
Does that mean the same thing that it used to? Or have the code-words changed? Thing is, he doesn't have the language. Doesn't speak "single". He hasn't been single since he was twenty-three.
And even when Barney was single he was terrible at this.
But Robin's funny and easy to talk to and they fall into a kind of drunken, champagne-fuelled rhythm. She's not like any woman he's ever known and he comes to the conclusion, admittedly a half-baked conclusion, that she just wants a buddy. He wracks his brain trying to remember if she's seeing anybody. But come on! She must be..?
And in the cab ride to her place, where they laugh too loudly and swear too frequently and the cab driver keeps shooting them hostile looks, he doesn't feel like he's "getting lucky".
He feels like he's won the freakin' jackpot.
And they get back to her place and they're still laughing and wiping the tears from their eyes. He has no idea why everything seems so hysterically funny, and when she takes his coat, he doesn't resist when she pulls it off him, like she's eager, like she's hot for him.
And when she kisses him, it's impulsive - like a surprise.
Like a really, really great surprise.
He doesn't have time to react. She pulls away, grinning, leaving him breathless. Her lips feel so different against his, so wrong and yet so right. Shannon never kissed him like that. Shannon did everything so reluctantly, like she was bestowing an honour on him. He always felt like it was a fight to get her to give him anything.
He wonders if Tyler is even his at all.
Way to go to ruin the mood, he thinks, suddenly feel a little too sober to be doing this.
Then he leans against the stereo system and the music switches on suddenly, filling the apartment with a hot and heavy disco beat. Robin begins to dance, moving her hips then shimmy-ing her shoulders, almost tripping over the coffee table as she tries to get rid of her heels. He grins, catching her arm, and this time it's him who kisses her.
Their lips connect, and she surprises him again by how quickly she parts hers, sliding her tongue between his teeth. She grabs the lapels of his suit jacket, then lets them go in order to take hold of his tie. His palm is pressed against her cheek and he kisses her desperately, trying to keep up, his heart racing because this is new, new and he wants to savour every single second.
He slows it down. He pushes her gently against the wall and he pins her there, taking his time to taste her - cherry lipstick and champagne, sweetness and grape and bubbles and fun and everything Shannon isn't (wasn't). Robin's body is soft, pressed against him, the swell of her breast against his chest, her hips jammed tightly against the wall so that every time she moves, undulates, lets out a sigh, a tiny tremor of lust spikes through him.
He's hard before her fingers sweep over his ass, squeezing it.
Then her cellphone rings.
He doesn't want to pull back, doesn't want to lose this, lose her, but the second he feels her tense and push at his shoulder, he reluctantly lets her go.
He moves back a few paces, heads to the kitchen while she takes the call.
"No… No, I said don't call me, Derek. You know why!" She's saying. She sounds angry and determined, kind of like the way she kisses. Who's Derek?
"It's been two weeks, Jesus. Just stop this!" She hisses. And finally he gets it. She's a rebound girl. She's looking for something (someone) to ease the pain and he's just… convenient.
And it hurts him, stupidly, even after all the times he's been hurt. And he doesn't want to be the middleman here. He doesn't want to be making love with her, only for her to be thinking of Derek.
He'd grab his coat right now if she wasn't leaning against it.
So he browses her bookshelves, not really looking, not really seeing. there's a pile of photographs, from that party at MacLaren's a few months ago - the last party that he and Shannon had attended as a (real) married couple. The last one before…
He leafs through the photographs with a masochistic urge. He still doesn't know who "he" is - the one Shannon's been sleeping with. He almost doesn't want to know. He pities the poor sap. He knows Shannon - her silky words and her promises of love everylasting, of forever… of the rest of their lives.
There are pictures of the both of them, frozen in time, smiling and innocent. Innocent… at least he was. Perhaps Shannon never was. She's always out for what she can get… another man, a more successful man… a new thrill.
And then he sees it.
The photograph drops from his hand and floating in slow motion so it almost seems as though he can catch it. But he doesn't want to catch it. Doesn't want to look again at that incriminating picture - of his wife, his wife… and that guy, Marshall's friend, the architect, Ted Mosby.
The man who was banging her.
Barney can tell. He can just tell. The body language, the way Shannon isn't looking at the other man in the photograph, but she's touching him. She's touching him.
God, how he misses her touch.
Every time he feels weak, every time he wonders if he's made a huge mistake divorcing her, hell, every time he thinks he should have stayed in a loveless marriage just for the sake of his kid…
He needs to think about that photograph.
He bends to retrieve it but Robin gets there first.
*--*--*
He deflects, stepping away from her, because he's shaken up and confused and his lips are still numb from kissing her.
"Bad break up?" He asks her. Direct. Shannon always complains (complained) that he's too direct.
She shrugs, looking at the photograph. "He's, like, a millionaire. He'll get over it." She doesn't look very upset. Maybe he underestimated her. Why does he keep doing that?
"That's my wife," he explains. "In the photograph."
Robin's lips thin. "And Ted Mosby. They had an affair?"
His guts turn to ice. "Yes," he whispers.
She looks up at him, blue eyes, wide and direct. She's direct too. "You wanna stay the night?"
It's casual, but it's an invitation. It's not a code or a special language and it's not open to interpretation.
The correct answer is "yes". The correct answer is "screw everyone, screw the world… I want to screw you." Because he does. He really does. He really wants to have sex with her, with Robin.
But he opens his mouth and says. "No, I don't think so."
Somehow, incredibly, she doesn't listen to the words but she hears the intention behind them.
And she wraps her arms around his neck and her lips devour his.
.