Number Sixty Six (3/?)
They all know Robin doesn’t speak to him.
They all know there’s something strange about his showing up.
They all know there’s serious panic in Robin’s eyes, and they all notice the contrast of Charlie’s unrelenting calm.
They all know some things, but really in moments like these they realize that actually…they don’t.
To fill the silence, Ted talks about baseball.
Robin walks away.
‘If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year
Do you suppose,’ the Walrus said,
‘That they could get it clear?’
‘**
“Explain to me how this happened,” she demands, her elbows braced on the scratched wooden surface in front of her as she glances back at her friends. They’re still in the booth trying to make conversation with her estranged father and as she watches she thinks this must be what guilt feels like. Guilt, she thinks, that she’s not strong enough to face this, guilt to have left them there with him. It’s an odd feeling, a backwards thought. “How did this…” she inhales. “What the hell was that, before? How do you know him?”
She’d walked away from Charlie, from the booth and the situation, in a panic, like in a blind need because she’s been waiting for this to happen…she’s supposed to be ready. She’d walked away angrily to the comfort of the corner of the bar and Barney was the one who had followed without being asked.
She’d honestly expected Ted. Maybe Lily.
Instead it’s Barney and she doesn’t have time or room to react to that because he’s pushing up close to her, the front of his shoulder solid against her back, the bulk of him towering in between her and the man she doesn’t want to have to face. She’s not sure whether Barney thinks he’s shielding her from something or whether it’s his way of apologizing - she doesn’t need him to do either. He hasn’t stopped looking floored, looking dumbfounded and astonished and full of disbelief since he found out Charlie is not Jack and not…
Just…not who he thought, she figures. She’s seen people look this way before.
“I, I don’t…” Barney stutters, leaning his palm against the bar and frowning, thinking hard, exhaling a heavy breath. “He was in line ahead of me at Starbucks,” he tells her, shrugging, his expression telling her he knows there’s something strange about that, and she feels the muscles in her jaw twitch. “That’s your father?”
“Yeah,” she answers, clipped and irritated.
“The guy you haven’t spoken to in three years?” he confirms, disbelieving, shell-shocked, unconvinced.
“It’s actually more like ten years,” she admits, rolling her eyes. He just stands there staring at her, motionless, bewildered. She ignores it. “So, what? He was at Starbucks this morning?” she asks, her voice cutting and hard, and she watches Barney’s brow furrow even further and she sees his confusion thicken and she’s seen this all happen in other places with other people so none of it surprises her much.
“Since Monday,” he breathes, “but he told me his name was Jack, and I had no idea he was…” and she shakes her head to silence him. Of course he’d had no idea. If he’d had an idea she wouldn’t be speaking to him right now. If he’d had an idea she would be angry with him or disappointed in him or disgusted by him instinctively, but she’s not. He’s still Barney, and he still doesn’t know. He tilts his head at her. “Robin, what exactly…”
“It’s ok,” she says. She’s been saying it to herself for years and it sounds just as false out loud as it always has in her head. She licks her lips and avoids Barney’s stare, her spine straight, her jaw set. “It’s ok, don’t worry.”
He’s quiet beside her and she focuses on the way he breathes, the sound of fabric shifting as he puts his hand in his pocket, the scent of his cologne swimming in her nose. Something about him, right now, grounds her. Something about him reminds her that sometimes she’s Robin Scherbatsky, a quirky news anchor with just one pop-star-skeleton in her Canadian closet.
Sometimes she’s simple and easy.
She leans fractionally closer to Barney Stinson hoping to soak up all she can and she stares down at her fingers. She’s worried simple and easy is leaving her, she’s worried something is about to break.
She’s worried.
“I can’t go back over there,” she whispers, her shoulders losing their straight relentless position and drooping a little bit. She was supposed to be ready. She was supposed to be prepared for this.
Barney dips his head closer to her.
“Sure you can,” he says, shrugging. “You’re…I think you should just talk to him, get it over with,” Barney suggests. It’s an intimate sound - his voice in her ear. It’s low and hypnotic and she’s never heard him sound quite this way before. She’s never heard him speak carefully, like warm milk and honey, and it makes her wish she could disappear into the mellow sound of his voice.
She thinks she’s glad he followed her instead of Ted or Lily.
She thinks he’s better at knowing how to speak to her, staying calm and taking hints and not asking too many questions.
“Get it over with?” she repeats, trying to pretend she doesn’t feel the way tears might be creeping into her eyes, trying to pretend she doesn’t feel like she might faint at any moment, trying to pretend she doesn’t know that Barney has somehow stepped up to a metaphorical plate he probably doesn’t even realize exists.
Barney shifts a millimeter closer to her and she tries to pretend it doesn’t mean anything.
“You hate him, right?” he asks. Robin feels her eyebrows quirk as if to say it’s an understatement. “So,” Barney goes on, “Be awesome. Be Robin Scherbatsky. Yell at him, wave your gun in his face,” he instructs with a slight grin in his voice and she finds herself returning the grin without looking, without thinking, without actually meaning it in any way. He sighs and she feels it through her shoulder, sliding down her spine, reminding her that she’s standing on two feet and that the earth is still turning and that life always somehow goes on even when a person is certain it shouldn’t. Then Barney Stinson opens his mouth and playfully says: “Throw a left hook.”
Her eyes narrow.
She turns and looks at him - hard, serious, unintentionally alluding to other things he knows nothing about.
His flirtatious smile disappears.
He watches her, searching, taking in her expression the way he’s been doing lately and, like always, she wishes he wouldn’t. She feels like telling him to back off. She feels like turning away from him, but there’s a stubborn refusal in the core of her and so instead she stands there, looking at him, letting him look at her, letting the quiet linger and confess things of its own accord and it’s like silence has the power to betray her. He squints.
Robin doesn’t breathe.
“This isn’t about what I think it’s about, is it?” he asks quietly.
She just blinks at him, her vision getting blurred by the water in her eyes and her jaw starting to ache from the tension. This is what happens when a person's nightmare arrives unexpectedly, this is what happens when a person is faced with a childhood fear.
She doesn't think it matters how badass or gun-toting or ready and toned you are, you stand like a deer in headlights.
Robin doesn’t breathe.
“No, ok. Go upstairs,” he says, finally. His voice is melted butter or expensive scotch, liquid, slipping into her ear in a way that makes her realize he’s seen something on her face she doesn’t mean to show him. Go upstairs. She frowns and she looks back over her shoulder, guilty again, feeling all kinds of sorry for the fact that Ted and Marshall and Lily are stuck over there, awkwardly immobile and unsure of things, feeling all kinds of sorry that she’s about to run away from this, she’s about to be a coward. Barney reaches out and plants his hand against the bar stool beside her so she’s surrounded by him, the sound and smell of him distracting and enveloping her and pushing away the shock and the guilt for just a second. For just one fantastic, god-sent second. “Hey,” he says, his voice pulling her gaze back to his, “Go upstairs and pull it together. I’ll cover for you.”
She looks at him and she thinks… ok. It’s ok. She thinks he’s on her team, maybe, and this could be ok.
It’s ok, she thinks, don’t worry.
Within moments the sound of MacLaren’s has gone silent behind her as the door swings closed and she’s out on the sidewalk. She looks around and inhales the New York air. It’s ok, she tells herself, straightening her spine.
It’s ok.
**
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
She’s relentless the next day because her veins are full of boiling blood, so she punches hard at the punching bag and she forgets her mantra and she forgets her father for just a little while. She hits, and her knuckles bleed despite the tape. She ignores reality, replacing it with the burn of adrenaline.
Hours go by, sweat slips down her spine, her muscles ache but it’s still not enough.
She wipes at the sweat on her cheek and takes the hallway at a jog.
“I changed my mind,” Robin says while hovering in the gym’s office doorway, and she recognizes her own abruptness. She recognizes the way she’s lacking in social grace at the moment, catching her trainer off guard so the woman snaps her head up from some paperwork and furrows her brow.
“Ok,” she responds, confused, visibly unsure of what they’re talking about.
Robin straightens her shoulders and inhales a deep breath. “I mean, I want you to put me on the rotation,” she explains.
Her trainer nods, pleased, wary but trying hard not to show it.
“Good for you, Robin, I think you’ll do great.”
Robin doesn’t care how great she’ll do; she just knows she needs something more satisfying than punching at a bag for hours at a time. She knows she needs something more satisfying than the dull thump of her fist hitting leather.
She’s prepared to take this to the next level.
She needs to take this to the next level.
She heads to the locker room on determined feet and in the shower where nobody's watching her, waiting for her to break open, her tears leak out. But they only fall for a few minutes, which she sees as a bit of a victory.
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand…
**
Her father is standing in front of her building when she gets home and she just blinks at him, her face pale and blank, devoid of makeup, devoid of expression.
“Your friend says you’re not feeling well,” he tells her, a tilted grin on his face and laced through his words. It makes her stomach tighten slightly so that she thinks whatever Barney had told him was probably not exactly a lie.
She certainly isn’t feeling like herself.
“Why are you here?” she asks, and it’s the second time she’s asked him the same question. She hopes now he’ll give her an answer that doesn’t make her want to scream or shoot something.
“I’m settling my affairs,” he says cryptically. “I’m here to apologize.”
It’s rich.
She laughs a flat, emotionless laugh.
His eyes narrow, his smile is cold, “I’m staying until you forgive me.”
**
‘If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year
Do you suppose,’ the Walrus said,
‘That they could get it clear?’
“Get up,” he’d said and she had wondered, like she always did, how he could sound so unaffected when there was thunder stuck in his eyes, how he could sound like a hero when he was most certainly the villain.
She’d had stubborn refusal in the core of her so even when he got impatient, even when she had the taste of pewter on her tongue she’d simply sit there, refusing to stand because it was the only thing she was able to control.
‘I doubt it,’ said the Carpenter…
And shed a bitter tear.
(Chapter 4)
They all know there’s something strange about his showing up.
They all know there’s serious panic in Robin’s eyes, and they all notice the contrast of Charlie’s unrelenting calm.
They all know some things, but really in moments like these they realize that actually…they don’t.
To fill the silence, Ted talks about baseball.
Robin walks away.
‘If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year
Do you suppose,’ the Walrus said,
‘That they could get it clear?’
‘**
“Explain to me how this happened,” she demands, her elbows braced on the scratched wooden surface in front of her as she glances back at her friends. They’re still in the booth trying to make conversation with her estranged father and as she watches she thinks this must be what guilt feels like. Guilt, she thinks, that she’s not strong enough to face this, guilt to have left them there with him. It’s an odd feeling, a backwards thought. “How did this…” she inhales. “What the hell was that, before? How do you know him?”
She’d walked away from Charlie, from the booth and the situation, in a panic, like in a blind need because she’s been waiting for this to happen…she’s supposed to be ready. She’d walked away angrily to the comfort of the corner of the bar and Barney was the one who had followed without being asked.
She’d honestly expected Ted. Maybe Lily.
Instead it’s Barney and she doesn’t have time or room to react to that because he’s pushing up close to her, the front of his shoulder solid against her back, the bulk of him towering in between her and the man she doesn’t want to have to face. She’s not sure whether Barney thinks he’s shielding her from something or whether it’s his way of apologizing - she doesn’t need him to do either. He hasn’t stopped looking floored, looking dumbfounded and astonished and full of disbelief since he found out Charlie is not Jack and not…
Just…not who he thought, she figures. She’s seen people look this way before.
“I, I don’t…” Barney stutters, leaning his palm against the bar and frowning, thinking hard, exhaling a heavy breath. “He was in line ahead of me at Starbucks,” he tells her, shrugging, his expression telling her he knows there’s something strange about that, and she feels the muscles in her jaw twitch. “That’s your father?”
“Yeah,” she answers, clipped and irritated.
“The guy you haven’t spoken to in three years?” he confirms, disbelieving, shell-shocked, unconvinced.
“It’s actually more like ten years,” she admits, rolling her eyes. He just stands there staring at her, motionless, bewildered. She ignores it. “So, what? He was at Starbucks this morning?” she asks, her voice cutting and hard, and she watches Barney’s brow furrow even further and she sees his confusion thicken and she’s seen this all happen in other places with other people so none of it surprises her much.
“Since Monday,” he breathes, “but he told me his name was Jack, and I had no idea he was…” and she shakes her head to silence him. Of course he’d had no idea. If he’d had an idea she wouldn’t be speaking to him right now. If he’d had an idea she would be angry with him or disappointed in him or disgusted by him instinctively, but she’s not. He’s still Barney, and he still doesn’t know. He tilts his head at her. “Robin, what exactly…”
“It’s ok,” she says. She’s been saying it to herself for years and it sounds just as false out loud as it always has in her head. She licks her lips and avoids Barney’s stare, her spine straight, her jaw set. “It’s ok, don’t worry.”
He’s quiet beside her and she focuses on the way he breathes, the sound of fabric shifting as he puts his hand in his pocket, the scent of his cologne swimming in her nose. Something about him, right now, grounds her. Something about him reminds her that sometimes she’s Robin Scherbatsky, a quirky news anchor with just one pop-star-skeleton in her Canadian closet.
Sometimes she’s simple and easy.
She leans fractionally closer to Barney Stinson hoping to soak up all she can and she stares down at her fingers. She’s worried simple and easy is leaving her, she’s worried something is about to break.
She’s worried.
“I can’t go back over there,” she whispers, her shoulders losing their straight relentless position and drooping a little bit. She was supposed to be ready. She was supposed to be prepared for this.
Barney dips his head closer to her.
“Sure you can,” he says, shrugging. “You’re…I think you should just talk to him, get it over with,” Barney suggests. It’s an intimate sound - his voice in her ear. It’s low and hypnotic and she’s never heard him sound quite this way before. She’s never heard him speak carefully, like warm milk and honey, and it makes her wish she could disappear into the mellow sound of his voice.
She thinks she’s glad he followed her instead of Ted or Lily.
She thinks he’s better at knowing how to speak to her, staying calm and taking hints and not asking too many questions.
“Get it over with?” she repeats, trying to pretend she doesn’t feel the way tears might be creeping into her eyes, trying to pretend she doesn’t feel like she might faint at any moment, trying to pretend she doesn’t know that Barney has somehow stepped up to a metaphorical plate he probably doesn’t even realize exists.
Barney shifts a millimeter closer to her and she tries to pretend it doesn’t mean anything.
“You hate him, right?” he asks. Robin feels her eyebrows quirk as if to say it’s an understatement. “So,” Barney goes on, “Be awesome. Be Robin Scherbatsky. Yell at him, wave your gun in his face,” he instructs with a slight grin in his voice and she finds herself returning the grin without looking, without thinking, without actually meaning it in any way. He sighs and she feels it through her shoulder, sliding down her spine, reminding her that she’s standing on two feet and that the earth is still turning and that life always somehow goes on even when a person is certain it shouldn’t. Then Barney Stinson opens his mouth and playfully says: “Throw a left hook.”
Her eyes narrow.
She turns and looks at him - hard, serious, unintentionally alluding to other things he knows nothing about.
His flirtatious smile disappears.
He watches her, searching, taking in her expression the way he’s been doing lately and, like always, she wishes he wouldn’t. She feels like telling him to back off. She feels like turning away from him, but there’s a stubborn refusal in the core of her and so instead she stands there, looking at him, letting him look at her, letting the quiet linger and confess things of its own accord and it’s like silence has the power to betray her. He squints.
Robin doesn’t breathe.
“This isn’t about what I think it’s about, is it?” he asks quietly.
She just blinks at him, her vision getting blurred by the water in her eyes and her jaw starting to ache from the tension. This is what happens when a person's nightmare arrives unexpectedly, this is what happens when a person is faced with a childhood fear.
She doesn't think it matters how badass or gun-toting or ready and toned you are, you stand like a deer in headlights.
Robin doesn’t breathe.
“No, ok. Go upstairs,” he says, finally. His voice is melted butter or expensive scotch, liquid, slipping into her ear in a way that makes her realize he’s seen something on her face she doesn’t mean to show him. Go upstairs. She frowns and she looks back over her shoulder, guilty again, feeling all kinds of sorry for the fact that Ted and Marshall and Lily are stuck over there, awkwardly immobile and unsure of things, feeling all kinds of sorry that she’s about to run away from this, she’s about to be a coward. Barney reaches out and plants his hand against the bar stool beside her so she’s surrounded by him, the sound and smell of him distracting and enveloping her and pushing away the shock and the guilt for just a second. For just one fantastic, god-sent second. “Hey,” he says, his voice pulling her gaze back to his, “Go upstairs and pull it together. I’ll cover for you.”
She looks at him and she thinks… ok. It’s ok. She thinks he’s on her team, maybe, and this could be ok.
It’s ok, she thinks, don’t worry.
Within moments the sound of MacLaren’s has gone silent behind her as the door swings closed and she’s out on the sidewalk. She looks around and inhales the New York air. It’s ok, she tells herself, straightening her spine.
It’s ok.
**
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
She’s relentless the next day because her veins are full of boiling blood, so she punches hard at the punching bag and she forgets her mantra and she forgets her father for just a little while. She hits, and her knuckles bleed despite the tape. She ignores reality, replacing it with the burn of adrenaline.
Hours go by, sweat slips down her spine, her muscles ache but it’s still not enough.
She wipes at the sweat on her cheek and takes the hallway at a jog.
“I changed my mind,” Robin says while hovering in the gym’s office doorway, and she recognizes her own abruptness. She recognizes the way she’s lacking in social grace at the moment, catching her trainer off guard so the woman snaps her head up from some paperwork and furrows her brow.
“Ok,” she responds, confused, visibly unsure of what they’re talking about.
Robin straightens her shoulders and inhales a deep breath. “I mean, I want you to put me on the rotation,” she explains.
Her trainer nods, pleased, wary but trying hard not to show it.
“Good for you, Robin, I think you’ll do great.”
Robin doesn’t care how great she’ll do; she just knows she needs something more satisfying than punching at a bag for hours at a time. She knows she needs something more satisfying than the dull thump of her fist hitting leather.
She’s prepared to take this to the next level.
She needs to take this to the next level.
She heads to the locker room on determined feet and in the shower where nobody's watching her, waiting for her to break open, her tears leak out. But they only fall for a few minutes, which she sees as a bit of a victory.
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand…
**
Her father is standing in front of her building when she gets home and she just blinks at him, her face pale and blank, devoid of makeup, devoid of expression.
“Your friend says you’re not feeling well,” he tells her, a tilted grin on his face and laced through his words. It makes her stomach tighten slightly so that she thinks whatever Barney had told him was probably not exactly a lie.
She certainly isn’t feeling like herself.
“Why are you here?” she asks, and it’s the second time she’s asked him the same question. She hopes now he’ll give her an answer that doesn’t make her want to scream or shoot something.
“I’m settling my affairs,” he says cryptically. “I’m here to apologize.”
It’s rich.
She laughs a flat, emotionless laugh.
His eyes narrow, his smile is cold, “I’m staying until you forgive me.”
**
‘If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year
Do you suppose,’ the Walrus said,
‘That they could get it clear?’
“Get up,” he’d said and she had wondered, like she always did, how he could sound so unaffected when there was thunder stuck in his eyes, how he could sound like a hero when he was most certainly the villain.
She’d had stubborn refusal in the core of her so even when he got impatient, even when she had the taste of pewter on her tongue she’d simply sit there, refusing to stand because it was the only thing she was able to control.
‘I doubt it,’ said the Carpenter…
And shed a bitter tear.
(Chapter 4)