FIC: Fired (2/4) HIMYM AU
Part 2
It gets worse over the next few days. Barney gets ragged. His usual polished appearance degrades. There's a shadow across his jaw, and beneath his bloodshot eyes. He gets drunk every night and clumsily hits on anything that moves. There's an air of desperation about him that seems strained.
Marshall's always secretly admired Barney's carpe diem philosophy. But this is different. This is a man on the edge of a breakdown.
Ted gently ribs Barney about it, saying that he's still cut up about Robin, and even she joins in. But there's an air of desperation about Robin too, in her need to convince everyone she's still attractive, and also with her weird jealousy about other women in the bar. But maybe that's normal? It seems normal. After a breakup, isn't it's perfectly usual for someone to take a pretty big hit to their self esteem?
What's happening to Barney isn't usual.
None of the others notice the bruises, but Marshall spots the ring of something, cream coloured, discolouring the collar of his friend's shirt. Makeup, to stave off any more awkward questions.
*--*--*
In bed at night, with his arms wrapped tight around his wife, his nose buried in the chocolate-warmth of her hair, Marshall lies awake, worrying. Sometimes he and Lily skirt the surface and they almost get there, Marshall almost opens up.
This is serious business, he almost says. Barney's neck - was he hung? Strangled? Marshall spends a lot of time in denial, because it seems like he must have imagined the bruising. It doesn't feel like real life. In real life, you don't walk around with this sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, worrying that your friend my be in danger. That sort of thing only happens in movies, like something out of the Bourne films. Or on that show, 24. This is out of his league.
He's just a lawyer.
He shifts on to his back and Lily turns with him, because in bed, there is never an inch of air between them. A questing hand or foot is always extended, then the body pulls in and they are one again. Marshall doesn't resent the soft touch of Lily's hand, draped over his hip, but it feels weird, holding something this big inside him without being able to confide in her. It's not like him, he's not like this. He doesn't know how to deal.
He guesses that he's so worried because this is not an irrational fear. This is not a fear of dark places, or a phobia of cockroaches or mice. The bed dips beneath the weight of his worry and he feels the pressure push down on his chest the whole night through.
*--*--*
Lily picks up that something is wrong, because Lily always does. It isn't from Marshall but from Barney himself, because it's plain, Marshall thinks, it's almost screaming out. Barney's clearly bothered about something, but his wife wilfully misinterprets because she wants to put Barney into a box labelled "happy" so that he can somehow move on with his life; become a "real boy". Sometimes Marshall thinks that pretty condescending of Lily, but then he feels guilty. He knows that she means well.
She just doesn't see how scared their friend is.
In the occasional unguarded moment, Marshall wonders if it's not that Barney is scared as such, but more like he's terrified.
The devil is in those details.
*--*--*
And it's weird how in retrospect you often remember, when the big moments happen, what you were doing on the day before your life changes.
That morning, Marshall picks up a bagel on the way to the office and talks to Richardson (aka Twitter Guy) in the elevator. He snacks on the bagel and works through the Bernard Client Account for three hours until he hears this tune, something about ten million fireflies, on the radio and it gets stuck in his head. It goes around and around and he's still whistling it when he eats his lunchtime sandwiches and calls his wife.
For weeks afterwards, Marshall can't listen to that song without feeling a little sick, at odds with its happy, chirpy message.
Finally, out of nowhere, yet out of everywhere, it happens.
Richardson bursts into his room at about 2 p.m. and can barely get the words out. He stands there opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water.
"What, dude?" Marshall says with a half-laugh, because he's expecting Richardson to tell him something awesome has happened in his tweets, or twits or whatever it is he's supposed to know about.
"It's Mr Stinson," Richardson says, like it's causing him physical pain to get the words out.
"What?" Marshall repeats, the smile frozen on his face.
"He's been shot."
Part Three
It gets worse over the next few days. Barney gets ragged. His usual polished appearance degrades. There's a shadow across his jaw, and beneath his bloodshot eyes. He gets drunk every night and clumsily hits on anything that moves. There's an air of desperation about him that seems strained.
Marshall's always secretly admired Barney's carpe diem philosophy. But this is different. This is a man on the edge of a breakdown.
Ted gently ribs Barney about it, saying that he's still cut up about Robin, and even she joins in. But there's an air of desperation about Robin too, in her need to convince everyone she's still attractive, and also with her weird jealousy about other women in the bar. But maybe that's normal? It seems normal. After a breakup, isn't it's perfectly usual for someone to take a pretty big hit to their self esteem?
What's happening to Barney isn't usual.
None of the others notice the bruises, but Marshall spots the ring of something, cream coloured, discolouring the collar of his friend's shirt. Makeup, to stave off any more awkward questions.
*--*--*
In bed at night, with his arms wrapped tight around his wife, his nose buried in the chocolate-warmth of her hair, Marshall lies awake, worrying. Sometimes he and Lily skirt the surface and they almost get there, Marshall almost opens up.
This is serious business, he almost says. Barney's neck - was he hung? Strangled? Marshall spends a lot of time in denial, because it seems like he must have imagined the bruising. It doesn't feel like real life. In real life, you don't walk around with this sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, worrying that your friend my be in danger. That sort of thing only happens in movies, like something out of the Bourne films. Or on that show, 24. This is out of his league.
He's just a lawyer.
He shifts on to his back and Lily turns with him, because in bed, there is never an inch of air between them. A questing hand or foot is always extended, then the body pulls in and they are one again. Marshall doesn't resent the soft touch of Lily's hand, draped over his hip, but it feels weird, holding something this big inside him without being able to confide in her. It's not like him, he's not like this. He doesn't know how to deal.
He guesses that he's so worried because this is not an irrational fear. This is not a fear of dark places, or a phobia of cockroaches or mice. The bed dips beneath the weight of his worry and he feels the pressure push down on his chest the whole night through.
*--*--*
Lily picks up that something is wrong, because Lily always does. It isn't from Marshall but from Barney himself, because it's plain, Marshall thinks, it's almost screaming out. Barney's clearly bothered about something, but his wife wilfully misinterprets because she wants to put Barney into a box labelled "happy" so that he can somehow move on with his life; become a "real boy". Sometimes Marshall thinks that pretty condescending of Lily, but then he feels guilty. He knows that she means well.
She just doesn't see how scared their friend is.
In the occasional unguarded moment, Marshall wonders if it's not that Barney is scared as such, but more like he's terrified.
The devil is in those details.
*--*--*
And it's weird how in retrospect you often remember, when the big moments happen, what you were doing on the day before your life changes.
That morning, Marshall picks up a bagel on the way to the office and talks to Richardson (aka Twitter Guy) in the elevator. He snacks on the bagel and works through the Bernard Client Account for three hours until he hears this tune, something about ten million fireflies, on the radio and it gets stuck in his head. It goes around and around and he's still whistling it when he eats his lunchtime sandwiches and calls his wife.
For weeks afterwards, Marshall can't listen to that song without feeling a little sick, at odds with its happy, chirpy message.
Finally, out of nowhere, yet out of everywhere, it happens.
Richardson bursts into his room at about 2 p.m. and can barely get the words out. He stands there opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water.
"What, dude?" Marshall says with a half-laugh, because he's expecting Richardson to tell him something awesome has happened in his tweets, or twits or whatever it is he's supposed to know about.
"It's Mr Stinson," Richardson says, like it's causing him physical pain to get the words out.
"What?" Marshall repeats, the smile frozen on his face.
"He's been shot."
Part Three