Fanfic: "Your Ex-Lover is (Not) Dead" (HIMYM, B/R)
Title: Your Ex-Lover is (Not) Dead
Chapter: 1/5
Pairing: Barney/Robin
Summary: "Introduced" by a mutual acquaintance, an estranged Barney and Robin find they're not as estranged as they thought they were.
Disclaimer: I do not own HIMYM or anything remotely related to it. This is only my own personal what-if speculation that came out on its own.
~*~
“Excuse me, Barney.” Barney turned at the tap on his shoulder to face Maurice, a potential GNB client and the host for the night’s soiree. Good enough as French parties went, and one more night alone in his hotel room was going to drive him out of what little of his mind he’d managed to retain in the past year. Volunteering to scope out international prospects for GNB got him out of New York, but too much of the old baggage followed him, even here in Paris. “Haaave you met Robin? She is from New York as well.”
Robin Sherbatsky stood next to Maurice, her dress black lace over nude satin. The hair was new, longer than he remembered, and a slightly different shade, but definitely, unarguably Robin. The world tilted around him, the white lights strung about the shapes of the topiary garden swirling in a crazy kaleidoscope. Barney transferred the glass he held to his left hand and extended his right. “Barney Stinson. Small world, huh?”
“Robin Sherbatsky,” she said as she placed her hand in his. “Nice to meet you.”
Still Sherbatsky. Thank God. Though that didn’t necessarily mean anything. He chanced a glance at her left hand. No luck there; the wrap she carried over her arm obscured her ring finger.
Maurice clapped them both on the shoulder, his long, thin face breaking into a wide smile. “I will leave you two to get acquainted. Such a big city, you must have something in common, eh?”
Be cool, Barney told himself as Maurice waved to his next target, another guest on the other side of the garden, leaving him alone in the crowd with Robin. “Well, that was awkward.”
Robin shook her head. “Nah. Maurice’s pretty clueless about these kinds of things. He’s pleased enough to have remembered you and I once lived on the same continent. That fulfills his duties as a genial host. If he talks to either of us for the rest of the night, I’ll be surprised.”
“And you and Maurice are…” Barney let the sentence dangle, raising one brow as he put the glass to his lips and let the scotch slip down his throat.
Robin’s mouth pursed, then straightened. “Colleagues. He’s a producer, but you know him.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “How do you know Maurice?”
“GNB. That’s why I came to Paris. He defaulted on a big loan and either I get payment in full or I whack him.”
“You are not a hit man.” Robin paused. “Are you?”
He’d missed her, missed this, but this wasn’t time for a game of real or fake. “I’m not,” he said, “just wanted to try out what I’m going to tell that blonde over there in the red dress.” He gestured with the half-emptied glass.
“Good luck with that. Her husband is a mixed martial arts fighter who collects antique swords, and she owns her own blowtorch.”
Barney allowed the ghost of a smile for the briefest second. He knew all of that. He’d had dinner with the pair of them, and their portfolio, the night before. “Maybe not, then.” He leaned against the stone railing behind him with practiced nonchalance. “So, I take it we’ve just met, Mademoiselle Sherbatsky?”
Chapter: 1/5
Pairing: Barney/Robin
Summary: "Introduced" by a mutual acquaintance, an estranged Barney and Robin find they're not as estranged as they thought they were.
Disclaimer: I do not own HIMYM or anything remotely related to it. This is only my own personal what-if speculation that came out on its own.
~*~
“Excuse me, Barney.” Barney turned at the tap on his shoulder to face Maurice, a potential GNB client and the host for the night’s soiree. Good enough as French parties went, and one more night alone in his hotel room was going to drive him out of what little of his mind he’d managed to retain in the past year. Volunteering to scope out international prospects for GNB got him out of New York, but too much of the old baggage followed him, even here in Paris. “Haaave you met Robin? She is from New York as well.”
Robin Sherbatsky stood next to Maurice, her dress black lace over nude satin. The hair was new, longer than he remembered, and a slightly different shade, but definitely, unarguably Robin. The world tilted around him, the white lights strung about the shapes of the topiary garden swirling in a crazy kaleidoscope. Barney transferred the glass he held to his left hand and extended his right. “Barney Stinson. Small world, huh?”
“Robin Sherbatsky,” she said as she placed her hand in his. “Nice to meet you.”
Still Sherbatsky. Thank God. Though that didn’t necessarily mean anything. He chanced a glance at her left hand. No luck there; the wrap she carried over her arm obscured her ring finger.
Maurice clapped them both on the shoulder, his long, thin face breaking into a wide smile. “I will leave you two to get acquainted. Such a big city, you must have something in common, eh?”
Be cool, Barney told himself as Maurice waved to his next target, another guest on the other side of the garden, leaving him alone in the crowd with Robin. “Well, that was awkward.”
Robin shook her head. “Nah. Maurice’s pretty clueless about these kinds of things. He’s pleased enough to have remembered you and I once lived on the same continent. That fulfills his duties as a genial host. If he talks to either of us for the rest of the night, I’ll be surprised.”
“And you and Maurice are…” Barney let the sentence dangle, raising one brow as he put the glass to his lips and let the scotch slip down his throat.
Robin’s mouth pursed, then straightened. “Colleagues. He’s a producer, but you know him.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “How do you know Maurice?”
“GNB. That’s why I came to Paris. He defaulted on a big loan and either I get payment in full or I whack him.”
“You are not a hit man.” Robin paused. “Are you?”
He’d missed her, missed this, but this wasn’t time for a game of real or fake. “I’m not,” he said, “just wanted to try out what I’m going to tell that blonde over there in the red dress.” He gestured with the half-emptied glass.
“Good luck with that. Her husband is a mixed martial arts fighter who collects antique swords, and she owns her own blowtorch.”
Barney allowed the ghost of a smile for the briefest second. He knew all of that. He’d had dinner with the pair of them, and their portfolio, the night before. “Maybe not, then.” He leaned against the stone railing behind him with practiced nonchalance. “So, I take it we’ve just met, Mademoiselle Sherbatsky?”