Fic: Barely Coping (2/10)
Fandom: HIMYM (Samverse)
Pairing: Barney/Robin
Word Count: This part: 1800
Spoilers: for idioticonion's "My Way" and probably "Valentine". But nothing in canon (set in 2030).
Summary: Barney's nephew Sam learns to deal with the loss of a loved one.
Thanks to: idioticonion for allowing me to play with her fics as part of my personal catharsis, and to her and roland44 for the kind encouragement (and roland for the advice on how to salvage this part, as well).
AN: As always, let me know if there are any typos or if there's anything that doesn't make sense or needs clarification. Part 3's nearly done (hooray insomnia!) so I'm hoping to post that in the next couple of days as well. Oh, and this thing's going to be longer than 3 parts. Right now it's looking like 5, but by the time the next part is posted I could be up to 11. Who knows? Certainly not me.
Previously: Part 1
The day after they bury his Uncle Barney, Sam leaves everyone behind too, heading back to school upstate, three hours from home. James and Tom both want him to stay home longer, and for a moment he seriously considers staying - he knows James especially needs him there, as moral support if nothing else. But the longer he stays at home the more he feels out of place; since Uncle Barney’s death, his home and the people he loves have become unrecognizable. There’s not really anything more he can do there, anyway.
So he leaves his parents, with a forced smile, a wave and a promise to call, and heads back to what should have been his normal life, the one he’d left last Tuesday after getting that terrible phone call.
The off-campus apartment he shares with his two best friends is exactly the way he left it. Dirty dishes are still piled in the sink, and Craig is still sitting vegged out on the couch watching ESPN. As Sam wheels his suitcase through the front door, Craig actually shuts off the TV and smiles at him, with those pitying puppy-dog eyes he’s come to know and hate so well over the past week. Every stranger at Uncle Barney’s funeral sported that same look Craig gives him now.
“Hey,” Craig says, with uncharacteristic softness. Sam wants to punch him in the face for being so sensitive. “Aw, no,” he sighs in exasperation. “I told Carter to wash those before you got back.” He gestures towards the dishes in the sink.
Sam shrugs. “No big deal.” He’s doing his best to sound normal, so Craig can drop that bullshit compassion thing he’s doing right now. “Why’d you turn it off? Aren’t the Patriots playing?” He drops his bags and sits in the recliner, grabbing the remote right out of Craig’s hand to turn the TV back on. The screen flickers to life, and Sam sees that the Patriots are, for the first time in fifteen years, inches away from actually playing in the Super Bowl. “Can’t believe you wanted to miss this!”
He sounds too enthusiastic and even Craig knows it.
“I…” Craig looks confused. “Just thought you wouldn’t want to watch that right now,” he ends in a mumble.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Sam’s too absorbed in the TV to look at his friend.
“Well… because your uncle died.”
Sam still doesn’t look at Craig. He doesn’t want to see that awkward sort of sympathy that people who don’t understand his loss keep sending his way. “People die all the time,” he says matter-of-factly. And with that, Craig lets it drop, and both of them get absorbed in the football game. They cheer on their team, and for a moment Sam can pretend everything is normal. He does his best to forget that two of his family’s biggest Patriots fans are dead now. Luckily, the game is close enough that it takes up all his focus, at least for the time being.
But then the Patriots score a touchdown in the third quarter that puts them in the lead, and they both cheer as Craig puts his hand up for a celebratory high-five, and it all comes rushing back with the same kind of sharpness that he felt when first hearing the news. He returns Craig’s high-five, because, as he recites in his mind automatically, Bro Code article 107 clearly states that you never leave a bro hanging. If he had, Uncle Barney would have been ashamed of him.
He excuses himself not too long after and lets himself into his darkened bedroom where the sheets are still rumpled from the last time he slept in them. He lies on the bed and stares at the ceiling, not crying, not sleeping, not feeling - just concentrating on breathing, in and out, in and out. He refuses to think about Uncle Barney, knowing if he does so the floodgates that have been soldered shut after yesterday’s funeral might burst open again.
The one thing he’ll let himself think of is Aunt Robin, wherever she is, and how he let her leave on such a sour note in their relationship. Now that the alcohol has worn off, he can feel properly ashamed of the things he said to her, how he dared to blame her for Uncle Barney’s death when, rationally, he knows the only person to blame is the man who killed him. He dials her cell without thinking about the long-distance charges he’ll rack up.
He ends up getting her voicemail, and as soon as he hears her away message his heart plummets once more (how much farther can it possibly fall today?). He should be hearing a giddy, drunken a capella duet of some song about sandcastles that he knows is (was) an inside joke between her and Uncle Barney, but instead all he hears is a rather businesslike:
“Hi, you’ve reached Robin Scherbatsky, leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.”
Her voice is bright enough that people who don’t really know her would think everything’s fine. But Sam knows better, because he knows her. And he hears the emptiness beneath her simple words, the pain that has replaced the life she once had with Barney, how her cheeriness is a weak farce.
She’s erasing him, he thinks. The thought should infuriate him, but it doesn’t, because he understands all too well the immediate need to move on, to act normally, and he knows it’s impossible for her to do that with his voice still on her answering machine. And he’s crying again and he hates himself for breaking down so easily, and as her answering service beeps all he can choke out is an “I’m sorry” before clicking his phone off and burying his face in a pillow that gets a wet patch on it far too quickly.
---
Her phone vibrates from where it rests on the nightstand, and once again, Robin just lets it go. Her phone’s been going off all day with texts and voicemails from her worried friends, but she doesn’t plan on responding to any of them. They shouldn’t have to worry about her when they’re all still dealing with their own grief. They had all kept their sorrow unbearably private even when staying in the same house. A little distance wasn’t going to make a lick of difference in the so-called healing process.
She stands out on the hotel balcony as the wind whips through her hair. Everywhere Robin looks, Beijing glitters in the morning sun, the supersized silver skyscrapers completely surrounding her, making her feel even more trapped than she had back in New York. She resolves to hop on another plane tomorrow, go somewhere else, somewhere where he won’t follow her.
Geez, Scherbatsky, getting restless already, are we?
“Shut up,” she mutters, yet again.
Halfway around the world, and she still can’t escape him.
It had been a mistake to come here, of all places. When she had arrived at the airport, she had only been looking for a flight that could take her far away from New York as soon as possible. It wasn’t until she had been seated in her first-class seat at 35,000 feet that she remembered she'd last come to Beijing with him, on some lost weekend last November, the last trip they'd taken together.
She’s taken leave from work; her boss understands, and tells her to take as much time as she needs, though she thinks she'll be back and ready to work by Monday. All this grief stuff has to be out of her system by then. There’s no way that, two days from now, it’ll hurt nearly as much as it does right now. It can’t. This thing that’s eating her alive has to be done with her by then.
She can feel she’s starving, yet she has no appetite. There’s a room service menu on the table beside her bed, but it’s all written in Chinese or Korean or something. If he were here, he’d be able to read it for her, and he’d force her to eat something so she wouldn’t starve to death.
But he's not here, and - Sam’s right - it is partly her fault. If she hadn’t needed to go out for cigarettes -
For what feels like the millionth time, she chastises herself. Robin Scherbatsky doesn’t wallow in depression like this. What’s in the past is over; there’s no point on dwelling on things that she can’t change. It shouldn’t be consuming her every waking thought and tormenting her in her dreams the way it is.
The night after he was killed, she woke up in the middle of the night from a nightmare (later, all she’d remember of it were murky shadows with the faintest whisper of “Marry me, Scherbatsky?” faintly audible through the smog) and reached over to where he was supposed to be, and all she'd felt was a cold empty space on the other side of the bed when she needed him there to comfort her.
Since then, there’s been a bottle of scotch by the bed to take care of the nightmares, and she’s been finding warm bodies to fill that hollow on his side of the mattress. So far, Beijing’s been no exception.
Sexual healing, eh, Scherbatsky?
“Don’t judge me.”
Oh, I’m not. Grief IS supposed to be the ultimate aphrodisiac, if our old bro Will Ferrell is a reliable source. You were there when my mom died, remember?
In her mind, he grins and winks mischievously, the smile crinkling the corners of his bright blue eyes that she knows are gone forever, but which she can see so vividly that that idea seems impossible.
And in spite of herself, she laughs, and he laughs along with her, and she knows she’s going crazy because he’s become just a little voice in her head when he should be standing at this railing right next to her, shoulders touching, observing the glorious view of the 27th story of a Chinese office building while planning out their day, most of which they’re going to spend in bed, she knows it. And now she feels tears are rolling down her cheeks, and she’s not sure how they got there. Probably because of how hard she’s been laughing.
She’s spinning uncontrollably, or maybe the world continues to turn and she’s just standing still.
She reaches for the bottle of champagne and takes a large swig straight from it. No point in pouring out a glass when she plans on finishing this entire bottle herself. Turning 50 was a cause for celebration, right?
Happy birthday, Robin.
“Thanks, Barney,” she whispers before taking another drink.
Next part...
Pairing: Barney/Robin
Word Count: This part: 1800
Spoilers: for idioticonion's "My Way" and probably "Valentine". But nothing in canon (set in 2030).
Summary: Barney's nephew Sam learns to deal with the loss of a loved one.
Thanks to: idioticonion for allowing me to play with her fics as part of my personal catharsis, and to her and roland44 for the kind encouragement (and roland for the advice on how to salvage this part, as well).
AN: As always, let me know if there are any typos or if there's anything that doesn't make sense or needs clarification. Part 3's nearly done (hooray insomnia!) so I'm hoping to post that in the next couple of days as well. Oh, and this thing's going to be longer than 3 parts. Right now it's looking like 5, but by the time the next part is posted I could be up to 11. Who knows? Certainly not me.
Previously: Part 1
The day after they bury his Uncle Barney, Sam leaves everyone behind too, heading back to school upstate, three hours from home. James and Tom both want him to stay home longer, and for a moment he seriously considers staying - he knows James especially needs him there, as moral support if nothing else. But the longer he stays at home the more he feels out of place; since Uncle Barney’s death, his home and the people he loves have become unrecognizable. There’s not really anything more he can do there, anyway.
So he leaves his parents, with a forced smile, a wave and a promise to call, and heads back to what should have been his normal life, the one he’d left last Tuesday after getting that terrible phone call.
The off-campus apartment he shares with his two best friends is exactly the way he left it. Dirty dishes are still piled in the sink, and Craig is still sitting vegged out on the couch watching ESPN. As Sam wheels his suitcase through the front door, Craig actually shuts off the TV and smiles at him, with those pitying puppy-dog eyes he’s come to know and hate so well over the past week. Every stranger at Uncle Barney’s funeral sported that same look Craig gives him now.
“Hey,” Craig says, with uncharacteristic softness. Sam wants to punch him in the face for being so sensitive. “Aw, no,” he sighs in exasperation. “I told Carter to wash those before you got back.” He gestures towards the dishes in the sink.
Sam shrugs. “No big deal.” He’s doing his best to sound normal, so Craig can drop that bullshit compassion thing he’s doing right now. “Why’d you turn it off? Aren’t the Patriots playing?” He drops his bags and sits in the recliner, grabbing the remote right out of Craig’s hand to turn the TV back on. The screen flickers to life, and Sam sees that the Patriots are, for the first time in fifteen years, inches away from actually playing in the Super Bowl. “Can’t believe you wanted to miss this!”
He sounds too enthusiastic and even Craig knows it.
“I…” Craig looks confused. “Just thought you wouldn’t want to watch that right now,” he ends in a mumble.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Sam’s too absorbed in the TV to look at his friend.
“Well… because your uncle died.”
Sam still doesn’t look at Craig. He doesn’t want to see that awkward sort of sympathy that people who don’t understand his loss keep sending his way. “People die all the time,” he says matter-of-factly. And with that, Craig lets it drop, and both of them get absorbed in the football game. They cheer on their team, and for a moment Sam can pretend everything is normal. He does his best to forget that two of his family’s biggest Patriots fans are dead now. Luckily, the game is close enough that it takes up all his focus, at least for the time being.
But then the Patriots score a touchdown in the third quarter that puts them in the lead, and they both cheer as Craig puts his hand up for a celebratory high-five, and it all comes rushing back with the same kind of sharpness that he felt when first hearing the news. He returns Craig’s high-five, because, as he recites in his mind automatically, Bro Code article 107 clearly states that you never leave a bro hanging. If he had, Uncle Barney would have been ashamed of him.
He excuses himself not too long after and lets himself into his darkened bedroom where the sheets are still rumpled from the last time he slept in them. He lies on the bed and stares at the ceiling, not crying, not sleeping, not feeling - just concentrating on breathing, in and out, in and out. He refuses to think about Uncle Barney, knowing if he does so the floodgates that have been soldered shut after yesterday’s funeral might burst open again.
The one thing he’ll let himself think of is Aunt Robin, wherever she is, and how he let her leave on such a sour note in their relationship. Now that the alcohol has worn off, he can feel properly ashamed of the things he said to her, how he dared to blame her for Uncle Barney’s death when, rationally, he knows the only person to blame is the man who killed him. He dials her cell without thinking about the long-distance charges he’ll rack up.
He ends up getting her voicemail, and as soon as he hears her away message his heart plummets once more (how much farther can it possibly fall today?). He should be hearing a giddy, drunken a capella duet of some song about sandcastles that he knows is (was) an inside joke between her and Uncle Barney, but instead all he hears is a rather businesslike:
“Hi, you’ve reached Robin Scherbatsky, leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.”
Her voice is bright enough that people who don’t really know her would think everything’s fine. But Sam knows better, because he knows her. And he hears the emptiness beneath her simple words, the pain that has replaced the life she once had with Barney, how her cheeriness is a weak farce.
She’s erasing him, he thinks. The thought should infuriate him, but it doesn’t, because he understands all too well the immediate need to move on, to act normally, and he knows it’s impossible for her to do that with his voice still on her answering machine. And he’s crying again and he hates himself for breaking down so easily, and as her answering service beeps all he can choke out is an “I’m sorry” before clicking his phone off and burying his face in a pillow that gets a wet patch on it far too quickly.
---
Her phone vibrates from where it rests on the nightstand, and once again, Robin just lets it go. Her phone’s been going off all day with texts and voicemails from her worried friends, but she doesn’t plan on responding to any of them. They shouldn’t have to worry about her when they’re all still dealing with their own grief. They had all kept their sorrow unbearably private even when staying in the same house. A little distance wasn’t going to make a lick of difference in the so-called healing process.
She stands out on the hotel balcony as the wind whips through her hair. Everywhere Robin looks, Beijing glitters in the morning sun, the supersized silver skyscrapers completely surrounding her, making her feel even more trapped than she had back in New York. She resolves to hop on another plane tomorrow, go somewhere else, somewhere where he won’t follow her.
Geez, Scherbatsky, getting restless already, are we?
“Shut up,” she mutters, yet again.
Halfway around the world, and she still can’t escape him.
It had been a mistake to come here, of all places. When she had arrived at the airport, she had only been looking for a flight that could take her far away from New York as soon as possible. It wasn’t until she had been seated in her first-class seat at 35,000 feet that she remembered she'd last come to Beijing with him, on some lost weekend last November, the last trip they'd taken together.
She’s taken leave from work; her boss understands, and tells her to take as much time as she needs, though she thinks she'll be back and ready to work by Monday. All this grief stuff has to be out of her system by then. There’s no way that, two days from now, it’ll hurt nearly as much as it does right now. It can’t. This thing that’s eating her alive has to be done with her by then.
She can feel she’s starving, yet she has no appetite. There’s a room service menu on the table beside her bed, but it’s all written in Chinese or Korean or something. If he were here, he’d be able to read it for her, and he’d force her to eat something so she wouldn’t starve to death.
But he's not here, and - Sam’s right - it is partly her fault. If she hadn’t needed to go out for cigarettes -
For what feels like the millionth time, she chastises herself. Robin Scherbatsky doesn’t wallow in depression like this. What’s in the past is over; there’s no point on dwelling on things that she can’t change. It shouldn’t be consuming her every waking thought and tormenting her in her dreams the way it is.
The night after he was killed, she woke up in the middle of the night from a nightmare (later, all she’d remember of it were murky shadows with the faintest whisper of “Marry me, Scherbatsky?” faintly audible through the smog) and reached over to where he was supposed to be, and all she'd felt was a cold empty space on the other side of the bed when she needed him there to comfort her.
Since then, there’s been a bottle of scotch by the bed to take care of the nightmares, and she’s been finding warm bodies to fill that hollow on his side of the mattress. So far, Beijing’s been no exception.
Sexual healing, eh, Scherbatsky?
“Don’t judge me.”
Oh, I’m not. Grief IS supposed to be the ultimate aphrodisiac, if our old bro Will Ferrell is a reliable source. You were there when my mom died, remember?
In her mind, he grins and winks mischievously, the smile crinkling the corners of his bright blue eyes that she knows are gone forever, but which she can see so vividly that that idea seems impossible.
And in spite of herself, she laughs, and he laughs along with her, and she knows she’s going crazy because he’s become just a little voice in her head when he should be standing at this railing right next to her, shoulders touching, observing the glorious view of the 27th story of a Chinese office building while planning out their day, most of which they’re going to spend in bed, she knows it. And now she feels tears are rolling down her cheeks, and she’s not sure how they got there. Probably because of how hard she’s been laughing.
She’s spinning uncontrollably, or maybe the world continues to turn and she’s just standing still.
She reaches for the bottle of champagne and takes a large swig straight from it. No point in pouring out a glass when she plans on finishing this entire bottle herself. Turning 50 was a cause for celebration, right?
Happy birthday, Robin.
“Thanks, Barney,” she whispers before taking another drink.
Next part...