FIC: Too old (1/1) HIMYM
Too old
1. Four day weekend.
He feels it. Every inch, every yard, every mile. He feels every year between them.
He's too old for Robin.
The seconds, minutes, hours, days… they all wear him down, so heavy on his shoulders that his spine has twisted under the pressure. His back is on fire and it's agony, raging agony.
He blames the hospital.
Bad memories, remembering the knee that was damaged so badly when the bus hit. Now he's blown it out, clowning around to impress her because she's showing him the first bit of attention he's gotten since he hit himself in the eye.
Does he have to kill himself to win her love?
Love. Such a stupid, pointless, saccharine word when here he stands (hobbles), crippled by feelings, bowed down by fate and time and his own choices.
She's never going to love him back.
So he chugs the pills they give him and he screams at her to buy him scotch but nothing's going to dampen the acid burn inside of him.
He's too old for her.
2. Vostok of love
She can't believe it was the warm beer that did him in. And now he's being too proud, to stubborn, to damn awkward to accept her help.
But regardless of what he wants or needs, Robin shimmies her shoulder under Barney's arm and supports him through the doorway and into his apartment, because if she doesn't he looks like he's going to collapse. She expected him to be a crappy patient but this is worse than the whiney child he becomes when he's sick. The whole time in the ER he just sat there and glowered. He didn't even seem embarrassed by the stupid clothes they're both wearing.
Part of her's all like: Get over it, man! He spent the entire summer in traction. This should be a walk in the park for him. But he can barely move and it's all she can do to get him on the bed and on to his back, his teeth clenched, jaw fixed, his eyes tightly shut as he holds on to the pain.
It's creeping her out. When did he suddenly get so fucking stoic?
"You want a drink?" She says, keeping her voice casual. She fetches him whiskey without waiting for a reply and watches him knock it back, awkwardly, although he's never going to ask her for help.
"You want me to stay?" She says, in a mock-baby voice because it's them and they don't do sappy. "I can get a cab."
He shakes his head. "It's late. Crash here if you want. I won't even ask for sexual favours in return."
She laughs. He doesn't even crack a smile.
"You can sleep on the couch," he says, grouchily.
"Are you kidding?" She snorts, looking down at him. "What kind of gentleman are you?"
He looks weirdly broken, his limbs splayed out awkwardly, his features twisted in pain. It gives her a jolt and she's spooked by a memory, of how scared she'd felt all those months ago when they'd first heard he'd about his accident. Because this is Barney and he's so full of life that she can't imagine losing him.
Plus he looks fucking ridiculous in those clothes. So she helps him out of them and he's too tired and stoned from the pain pills put up much of a fight as she climbs on the bed beside him. "You gonna get under the covers?" She quirks an eyebrow
Predictably, he groans. "Hand job?" He asks her, but his game-face is flickering, showing something softer, more human underneath.
"You're keeping your shorts on, lover-boy," she tells him. She wants to stay, to keep an eye on him, fuss him like he's her little brother. Make him take the antibiotics and the cocktail of other drugs they gave him at the hospital. It's weird that all the doctors seemed to be on first name terms with him.
That's his gift, she guesses. The Barney-factor.
He sighs. "Tell me a story?"
Se laughs at that, because he's returning to normal after the earlier weirdness. It's probably because the drugs are kicking in. "What kind of story do you want?" She asks, pulling off the ridiculous pink wig, being extra careful of his bandaged right ear.
(She still thinks he should have actually dyed his hair)
"Sexy story…" He slurs into the pillow.
"Okay," she says, settling down next to him. "Okay, there were these two girls…" But before she can get any further, she hears a snuffling sound and his breathing's slowed right down. She smiles fondly as he falls into a peaceful slumber.
3. The devil behind my smile
Does she feel any remorse at all? He thinks. Any guilt?
No, of course not. He'll never let her see that she needs to.
But she's his partner-in-crime, his sponsor-in-foolishness and so maybe she's partly to blame. Maybe her tacit approval is what's allowed him to get away with being an immature jerk for so long.
None of them really call him on it, the pranks, the schemes, the dizzying heights and the horrifying lows. None of them do, especially not her. She's the one who chuckles along with him, her evil laugh matching his evil laugh.
Mwhahaha for Mwahaha.
And maybe that's why she can never love him? She sees the devil in him and it doesn't scare her away. But who wants to live with the devil?
His dreams are odd hallucinations, he keeps drifting between wakefulness and slumber, the hours dragging by, feeling her beside him and unable to do anything. Is this them now? Has he fallen into purgatory? The dreaded "friendship" zone? Does she see him as nothing but a tame fucking puppy-dog?
Whatever.
He's too old for this shit.
4. If
He wakes up stiff. He makes some joke about that, but it's half-hearted.
"What do you normally do on a Sunday morning?" She asks him.
He's silent, chewing the inside of his cheek. She's just about to repeat the question when he says what she thinks sounds like "go running". She asks him to repeat it because she both can and can't imagine him doing that. Running.
"Strippers," he says, more loudly.
She punches him lightly on the arm and he winces.
"Massage," he holds up a hand to fend her off. "Seriously. Helps with the joint pain."
He doesn't elaborate so she assumes that's part of the physiotherapy that he never gave up and suddenly it peeks her curiosity. "Let me?" She suggests.
"Let you what?"
"Give you a massage?"
He gives her an odd look, like two different expressions are holding a pitched battle on his face. Finally the leer wins out.
"Seriously. I dated a few hockey players in my time who picked up back problems and the like. I have serious skillz."
His lips twitch into a smirk. "Skillz with a Z?"
She nods.
He stretches out his arms, his lips pulling back over his teeth as the waves of pain hit him. "I'm all yours."
She straddles him, perching her behind on his thighs as she gets to work on his arms and shoulder, kneading the flesh, working at the knots of tension and soothing his injuries, old and new. At first he just stares at her boobs like a kid who's being told he can have his candy only if he finishes up his supper. But after a while he closes his eyes and drifts away.
She's good at this.
She encourages him to roll over, firmly, gently, and she starts on his back. He's lean and lightly muscled like a gymnast, broad shoulders tapering down to a trim waist, tight butt, firm thighs. She explores every inch of him, sometimes pounding, sometimes with the lightest of touches. She feels where the muscle is torn in his back and he barely makes a whimper. His knee is fucked. He'll be hobbled for days.
She wonders vaguely if he'll use the injuries to get laid.
Although he won't get much action with his back in that condition.
And the thought sends her mind in weird directions where there's baby oil and it's her tongue tracing it's way across the planes and dips of his body, followed by her lips and teeth. And she imagines she's got him in her mouth, sucking him down hard because she knows just how he likes it but before he can come she's on top of him and riding, riding him…
Her hands freeze over the waistband of his shorts as she hears his sharp intake of breath. She's conscious of the warmth between her legs, the insistent throb.
She pats him on the shoulders, all businesslike. "Better?" She asks.
"Better," he groans. "God that's better…"
"Get up then," she orders him. "Take a really hot shower before your muscles seize up again?"
There's a pause. "Gimme a minute…" he says, his voice sounding weird.
"Barney, I'm not joking," she says.
"I said gimme a minute!" He barks at her.
And then she gets it.
Embarrassed, she swallows, gets to her feet and heads for the shower instead.
5. Colorado Beetle
He does feel better.
After jerking off in the shower, he feels a million times better - brighter, more optimistic.
When he gets out, Robin has somehow found one of his yoga videos. She's watching it with vague interest, trying to copy some of the forms.
He should explain, tell her that the videos are therapy, that he got them after the accident and never stopped using them once he realised how relaxed they made him.
Instead he laughs. "Stupid Korean porn site. Sent me the wrong thing."
She shrugs as if she doesn't care, still striking a pose, a delighted smile plastered across her face. He should be embarrassed but he isn't.
"You wanna do it together?" She asks him.
It's his turn to shrug, but he's soon standing beside her, following the screen, his body adjusting to a ritual it's carried out a thousand times before.
"Yoga… You really are ten percent girl, aren't you?" She laughs at him, making him lose his balance during The Tree.
He should tell her to get lost, to get out, because she's screwing with the single calm place he has left.
But he doesn’t. He sucks it up. Because he doesn't want her to leave.
Continue to Work or Pleasure? (Mobius Designs)
1. Four day weekend.
He feels it. Every inch, every yard, every mile. He feels every year between them.
He's too old for Robin.
The seconds, minutes, hours, days… they all wear him down, so heavy on his shoulders that his spine has twisted under the pressure. His back is on fire and it's agony, raging agony.
He blames the hospital.
Bad memories, remembering the knee that was damaged so badly when the bus hit. Now he's blown it out, clowning around to impress her because she's showing him the first bit of attention he's gotten since he hit himself in the eye.
Does he have to kill himself to win her love?
Love. Such a stupid, pointless, saccharine word when here he stands (hobbles), crippled by feelings, bowed down by fate and time and his own choices.
She's never going to love him back.
So he chugs the pills they give him and he screams at her to buy him scotch but nothing's going to dampen the acid burn inside of him.
He's too old for her.
2. Vostok of love
She can't believe it was the warm beer that did him in. And now he's being too proud, to stubborn, to damn awkward to accept her help.
But regardless of what he wants or needs, Robin shimmies her shoulder under Barney's arm and supports him through the doorway and into his apartment, because if she doesn't he looks like he's going to collapse. She expected him to be a crappy patient but this is worse than the whiney child he becomes when he's sick. The whole time in the ER he just sat there and glowered. He didn't even seem embarrassed by the stupid clothes they're both wearing.
Part of her's all like: Get over it, man! He spent the entire summer in traction. This should be a walk in the park for him. But he can barely move and it's all she can do to get him on the bed and on to his back, his teeth clenched, jaw fixed, his eyes tightly shut as he holds on to the pain.
It's creeping her out. When did he suddenly get so fucking stoic?
"You want a drink?" She says, keeping her voice casual. She fetches him whiskey without waiting for a reply and watches him knock it back, awkwardly, although he's never going to ask her for help.
"You want me to stay?" She says, in a mock-baby voice because it's them and they don't do sappy. "I can get a cab."
He shakes his head. "It's late. Crash here if you want. I won't even ask for sexual favours in return."
She laughs. He doesn't even crack a smile.
"You can sleep on the couch," he says, grouchily.
"Are you kidding?" She snorts, looking down at him. "What kind of gentleman are you?"
He looks weirdly broken, his limbs splayed out awkwardly, his features twisted in pain. It gives her a jolt and she's spooked by a memory, of how scared she'd felt all those months ago when they'd first heard he'd about his accident. Because this is Barney and he's so full of life that she can't imagine losing him.
Plus he looks fucking ridiculous in those clothes. So she helps him out of them and he's too tired and stoned from the pain pills put up much of a fight as she climbs on the bed beside him. "You gonna get under the covers?" She quirks an eyebrow
Predictably, he groans. "Hand job?" He asks her, but his game-face is flickering, showing something softer, more human underneath.
"You're keeping your shorts on, lover-boy," she tells him. She wants to stay, to keep an eye on him, fuss him like he's her little brother. Make him take the antibiotics and the cocktail of other drugs they gave him at the hospital. It's weird that all the doctors seemed to be on first name terms with him.
That's his gift, she guesses. The Barney-factor.
He sighs. "Tell me a story?"
Se laughs at that, because he's returning to normal after the earlier weirdness. It's probably because the drugs are kicking in. "What kind of story do you want?" She asks, pulling off the ridiculous pink wig, being extra careful of his bandaged right ear.
(She still thinks he should have actually dyed his hair)
"Sexy story…" He slurs into the pillow.
"Okay," she says, settling down next to him. "Okay, there were these two girls…" But before she can get any further, she hears a snuffling sound and his breathing's slowed right down. She smiles fondly as he falls into a peaceful slumber.
3. The devil behind my smile
Does she feel any remorse at all? He thinks. Any guilt?
No, of course not. He'll never let her see that she needs to.
But she's his partner-in-crime, his sponsor-in-foolishness and so maybe she's partly to blame. Maybe her tacit approval is what's allowed him to get away with being an immature jerk for so long.
None of them really call him on it, the pranks, the schemes, the dizzying heights and the horrifying lows. None of them do, especially not her. She's the one who chuckles along with him, her evil laugh matching his evil laugh.
Mwhahaha for Mwahaha.
And maybe that's why she can never love him? She sees the devil in him and it doesn't scare her away. But who wants to live with the devil?
His dreams are odd hallucinations, he keeps drifting between wakefulness and slumber, the hours dragging by, feeling her beside him and unable to do anything. Is this them now? Has he fallen into purgatory? The dreaded "friendship" zone? Does she see him as nothing but a tame fucking puppy-dog?
Whatever.
He's too old for this shit.
4. If
He wakes up stiff. He makes some joke about that, but it's half-hearted.
"What do you normally do on a Sunday morning?" She asks him.
He's silent, chewing the inside of his cheek. She's just about to repeat the question when he says what she thinks sounds like "go running". She asks him to repeat it because she both can and can't imagine him doing that. Running.
"Strippers," he says, more loudly.
She punches him lightly on the arm and he winces.
"Massage," he holds up a hand to fend her off. "Seriously. Helps with the joint pain."
He doesn't elaborate so she assumes that's part of the physiotherapy that he never gave up and suddenly it peeks her curiosity. "Let me?" She suggests.
"Let you what?"
"Give you a massage?"
He gives her an odd look, like two different expressions are holding a pitched battle on his face. Finally the leer wins out.
"Seriously. I dated a few hockey players in my time who picked up back problems and the like. I have serious skillz."
His lips twitch into a smirk. "Skillz with a Z?"
She nods.
He stretches out his arms, his lips pulling back over his teeth as the waves of pain hit him. "I'm all yours."
She straddles him, perching her behind on his thighs as she gets to work on his arms and shoulder, kneading the flesh, working at the knots of tension and soothing his injuries, old and new. At first he just stares at her boobs like a kid who's being told he can have his candy only if he finishes up his supper. But after a while he closes his eyes and drifts away.
She's good at this.
She encourages him to roll over, firmly, gently, and she starts on his back. He's lean and lightly muscled like a gymnast, broad shoulders tapering down to a trim waist, tight butt, firm thighs. She explores every inch of him, sometimes pounding, sometimes with the lightest of touches. She feels where the muscle is torn in his back and he barely makes a whimper. His knee is fucked. He'll be hobbled for days.
She wonders vaguely if he'll use the injuries to get laid.
Although he won't get much action with his back in that condition.
And the thought sends her mind in weird directions where there's baby oil and it's her tongue tracing it's way across the planes and dips of his body, followed by her lips and teeth. And she imagines she's got him in her mouth, sucking him down hard because she knows just how he likes it but before he can come she's on top of him and riding, riding him…
Her hands freeze over the waistband of his shorts as she hears his sharp intake of breath. She's conscious of the warmth between her legs, the insistent throb.
She pats him on the shoulders, all businesslike. "Better?" She asks.
"Better," he groans. "God that's better…"
"Get up then," she orders him. "Take a really hot shower before your muscles seize up again?"
There's a pause. "Gimme a minute…" he says, his voice sounding weird.
"Barney, I'm not joking," she says.
"I said gimme a minute!" He barks at her.
And then she gets it.
Embarrassed, she swallows, gets to her feet and heads for the shower instead.
5. Colorado Beetle
He does feel better.
After jerking off in the shower, he feels a million times better - brighter, more optimistic.
When he gets out, Robin has somehow found one of his yoga videos. She's watching it with vague interest, trying to copy some of the forms.
He should explain, tell her that the videos are therapy, that he got them after the accident and never stopped using them once he realised how relaxed they made him.
Instead he laughs. "Stupid Korean porn site. Sent me the wrong thing."
She shrugs as if she doesn't care, still striking a pose, a delighted smile plastered across her face. He should be embarrassed but he isn't.
"You wanna do it together?" She asks him.
It's his turn to shrug, but he's soon standing beside her, following the screen, his body adjusting to a ritual it's carried out a thousand times before.
"Yoga… You really are ten percent girl, aren't you?" She laughs at him, making him lose his balance during The Tree.
He should tell her to get lost, to get out, because she's screwing with the single calm place he has left.
But he doesn’t. He sucks it up. Because he doesn't want her to leave.
Continue to Work or Pleasure? (Mobius Designs)