phonecall: Rachel and Brooke
He called Rachel. He had meant to do that. He'd thought about doing it. Just...hadn't. Just instead had sat there watching Barney sleep off the night.
And finished the wine.
He slinked into the bathroom, as clean as it was going to get. Didn't want to wake Barney.
But first, he smashed the empty bottle. He understood why Barney had kept breaking things. It felt good. It felt a little too good, and he hurriedly cleaned up his own mess. No need to keep making comparisons. No need to turn into him. No need to worry anyone.
But he worried everyone. He wasn't sleeping. He hadn't eaten since that afternoon. Just wine. He wasn't going to leave Barney alone. Not like this. Not after everything. He was paranoid even now that the second he walked back into that bedroom, he'd be gone, or hurting himself more, or breaking something else.
Worried and tired and hungry and drunk. And yet he still thought he was doing a pretty good job at the whole fixing thing. Or keeping things from falling apart.
He just hadn't considered keeping himself from falling apart.
It had been clawing to get at the surface all night. But one of them had to be strong, and it had to be him. What good would it have done if they were both a big mess?
And when he finally got Barney hauled back into bed, he went back to cleaning, just like he said he wouldn't. Maybe it was creepy. Maybe he hated it. But it felt better than doing nothing. Cleaning up what was broken. Doing something useful.
And then once that was all said and done, he had nothing left. Nothing left but himself and his sleeping friend to watch over.
He looked at his shirt again, having ignored it all night. He couldn't stand to think about it, but now he had to, because there was nothing else.
Barney's blood. Soaked into his shirt. How did it come to this?
It felt all wrong. He didn't know what to do about it. Logically, he knew that it was a simple case of changing his shirt and tossing the stained one away, but it was like something in his brain told the logical side to take a hike. Something broke through.
Tears, in fact.
He hadn't cried in front of Barney. He wasn't sure he ever had, though the opposite had happened many times. He broke now, when he wasn't being watched, when he had blood on his shirt, when he had nothing to numb himself, when he had to think, think things through instead of act.
He grabbed the wine bottle, pulled up a chair beside Barney's bed, and cried. Drank and cried. What would've happened if Billy had never shown up? What if he'd let Barney walk out? What if things didn't get better?
What if they never got better?
He cried because he didn't know what to do, because he had a friend who didn't want to be fixed, because his emotions had been under assault since the dinner that never was that he finally had to let it all out before he exploded.
And now he was sniveling in the bathroom (the scene of the crime, as far as he was concerned), cleaning up a smashed bottle and dialing Rachel's phone.
Part of him hoped she wouldn't pick up.
And finished the wine.
He slinked into the bathroom, as clean as it was going to get. Didn't want to wake Barney.
But first, he smashed the empty bottle. He understood why Barney had kept breaking things. It felt good. It felt a little too good, and he hurriedly cleaned up his own mess. No need to keep making comparisons. No need to turn into him. No need to worry anyone.
But he worried everyone. He wasn't sleeping. He hadn't eaten since that afternoon. Just wine. He wasn't going to leave Barney alone. Not like this. Not after everything. He was paranoid even now that the second he walked back into that bedroom, he'd be gone, or hurting himself more, or breaking something else.
Worried and tired and hungry and drunk. And yet he still thought he was doing a pretty good job at the whole fixing thing. Or keeping things from falling apart.
He just hadn't considered keeping himself from falling apart.
It had been clawing to get at the surface all night. But one of them had to be strong, and it had to be him. What good would it have done if they were both a big mess?
And when he finally got Barney hauled back into bed, he went back to cleaning, just like he said he wouldn't. Maybe it was creepy. Maybe he hated it. But it felt better than doing nothing. Cleaning up what was broken. Doing something useful.
And then once that was all said and done, he had nothing left. Nothing left but himself and his sleeping friend to watch over.
He looked at his shirt again, having ignored it all night. He couldn't stand to think about it, but now he had to, because there was nothing else.
Barney's blood. Soaked into his shirt. How did it come to this?
It felt all wrong. He didn't know what to do about it. Logically, he knew that it was a simple case of changing his shirt and tossing the stained one away, but it was like something in his brain told the logical side to take a hike. Something broke through.
Tears, in fact.
He hadn't cried in front of Barney. He wasn't sure he ever had, though the opposite had happened many times. He broke now, when he wasn't being watched, when he had blood on his shirt, when he had nothing to numb himself, when he had to think, think things through instead of act.
He grabbed the wine bottle, pulled up a chair beside Barney's bed, and cried. Drank and cried. What would've happened if Billy had never shown up? What if he'd let Barney walk out? What if things didn't get better?
What if they never got better?
He cried because he didn't know what to do, because he had a friend who didn't want to be fixed, because his emotions had been under assault since the dinner that never was that he finally had to let it all out before he exploded.
And now he was sniveling in the bathroom (the scene of the crime, as far as he was concerned), cleaning up a smashed bottle and dialing Rachel's phone.
Part of him hoped she wouldn't pick up.