The Trouble with Barney (4/9)
Author's Note: Ok this is a long one, wherein these two behave badly. It's what I do.
Disclaimer: Don't own HIMYM or Barney or Robin or any of that.
Chapter 4: Holding is a foul, so why don't you just let this go?
He calls her Scherbatsky.
Over and over again he opens his mouth and her last name comes spilling out with that boyish charm weaving its way through every syllable.
Scherbatsky.
Heart-stoppingly endearing. Insignificant, really, but still somehow able to make her think warmer things and feel a little bit girlish and reminiscent. Robin has gotten excellent at hiding her reactions every time he uses her last name and it reminds her of other places and other people she’d thought she’d forgotten. She’s gotten very very good at pretending she isn’t charmed by him.
Her very first boyfriend, the one who she had kept a delicious secret from her father, had been a transfer student from Montreal and had one of the meanest slap-shots she’d ever seen. He had played on her regional hockey team and he’d been cute and he’d been mysterious and he’d spoken French to his mother on the phone which was a thing even then that Robin could hardly resist.
He had liked Robin right away, smiling at her when they introduced him as a new addition to the team, winking at her during drills, whispering in her ear when they sat next to each other on the bench. And then one afternoon after a game against the Pirates that Robin had mostly watched from the penalty box, the new kid - who said things like je pense que non and merci beaucoup - had kissed her.
Really kissed her.
Back behind the locker room in the freezing cold air of the rink with his gloves falling down next to her skates and his arms wrapping up around her shoulders, his lips sweet and soft and insistent against hers. He had kissed her with that hint of promise guys sometimes had and he’d smiled against her skin and she had remembered so clearly, then, all the things she was that her father had tried to make her forget. He had kissed her.
And then he’d said “I think you’re pretty,” and she had chuckled at the childishness of it. His mouth had tipped into a smile against her ear in response, pulling a hot flush to her neck that made her shift in sweet discomfort. “What’s so funny, Scherbatsky?” he’d asked, and she’d felt a tug in her chest. Something…affection.
Scherbatsky.
Her last name, all warm sounding like some term of endearment, some word she’d never heard before.
Scherbatsky.
And god…She had fallen in love with him right then. What’s so funny, Scherbatsky? he’d asked her, and she’d felt like saying Nothing is funny or maybe kiss me again. She’d felt like saying thank you and merci beaucoup.
Robin is admittedly not a nostalgic kind of person, but every once in a while lately she’s been feeling that same tug in her chest, that same flutter of French float through her brain. She’s been feeling that same something…affection…when Barney Stinson winks and smiles and whispers her last name into her ear. Something about it pulls a teenage shiver down the notches of her spine and something about it makes her lean a little closer to him, hoping that he’ll say it again.
He calls her Scherbatsky.
Over and over again.
Like some term of endearment or some word she’s never heard before.
He calls her Scherbatsky and she likes it.
She vows to herself never to mention how much she likes it to Barney because god knows what he would do with the information. She’s pretty sure he’d never call her Robin again, and the last thing she needs is a constant reminder that Barney Stinson sometimes seems miles beyond attractive and sort of like exactly what she’s looking for in a man.
He’s not what she’s looking for.
He’s disgusting and crude and whorish and insensitive and he is not at all what she wants. He’s totally…not.
He only seems like it lately because of all of the not-having-sex she’s been doing, she figures.
He only seems like it lately because of all of the not-having-sex he’s been doing.
He seems like what she wants because she’s been watching his every move and because he’s been everywhere, showing up wherever she is and following her with a keen eye, teasing her, encouraging bad behavior. She’s been turned on by him for like six days in a row because he’s been sexy lately and swaggering, cocky, he’s been calculating and manipulative and reserved and refusing to give in and…Jesus Christ.
This bet is ruining her life.
Also, it’s making her melodramatic. And horny.
So she’s reminding herself of all of the ways Barney Stinson is not what she wants. She’s listing out her reasons for loathing him when she climbs the stairs of the apartment building, each step she climbs reserved for a different fault of his, and each corner she turns reserved for a variation on the phrase “I hate this goddamn bet.”
She’s reminding herself of his flaws, and she’s blaming all of these Barney-centric thoughts on her celibacy and the effect a lack of sex is having on her brain when she finally reaches the apartment and pushes into the living room.
And she’s actually not surprised to see him sitting on the couch.
Because, honestly, it’s fitting. Plus, she sort of knew he’d be there.
She’s irritated, but she’s not surprised.
It is, in fact, the fourth day in a row that he’s been sitting here when she’s gotten home, the rest of the apartment completely silent and noticeably empty. It’s the fourth day she’s wondered who let him in and it’s the fourth day she’s wondered what the hell he’s thinking. It’s the fourth day she’s tried really hard to ignore him.
The past three days she’d greeted him and then she’d proceeded to carry on with her routine silently, not speaking a word and figuring if she ignored him she could ignore whatever dirty thoughts she’d been having regarding him and she could somehow will him to vanish completely. She could just pretend he wasn’t there in her living room the same way she was pretending he wasn’t there in her head.
She could imagine affection was indifference and the thumping of her hot-blooded pulse was just a normal heartbeat.
He’d mostly been opting for leaving once she was in her pajamas and watching television, once he was satisfied that she was in for the night and not looking to socialize or seduce anybody, that he knew of. Every time he left she breathed a sigh of relief.
Today, though, instead of completely ignoring him she can’t take it anymore and opens her mouth. She comments on his presence because this is getting ridiculous. Her thoughts and the situation and the bet and everything in the world right now…
Officially ridiculous.
Or it’s…what’s the word for beyond ridiculous? She licks her lips and squints.
“You realize this is creepy, right?” she asks him, dropping her purse onto the floor and then crossing her arms as she eyes him, her tilted head silently asking for an explanation. He grins but doesn’t look up from his blackberry and she tries really hard not to enjoy the casual way he’s sitting there.
Because she’s annoyed by this, she reminds herself.
She’s annoyed, not charmed or intrigued or endeared. Annoyed.
And he just sits there, quiet, probably working on some kind of silk trade or weapons deal, and she feels a sigh of impatience brewing in her chest.
Instead of letting it out she says his name.
He turns his head finally, looking confused, perplexed, innocent as hell. She hates when he does that.
“Why are you here?” she asks.
“Hm?”
“Why are you always sitting here when I come home? How did you get in?” and he huffs a single laugh and offers her an incredulous facial expression that makes her start to shift from irritated to angry.
“Please,” he tosses. She finally lets out that sigh she’d been holding in and she pops a hip out to go along with it, which makes him grin, which makes her even more annoyed.
“Is there something wrong with your place?” It’s mostly a rhetorical question because she knows there isn’t and she’s also pretty sure why he’s here.
The notorious and debilitating bet.
She’s having a hard time, though, figuring out what he thinks his constant presence in her apartment will do to make her go out and have a one night stand.
She knows why she thinks it could force her into that, but she’s not sure why he would think so. She’s pretty sure none of her mushy, girlish insides have spilled out at his feet so far. She's pretty sure he has no idea what sorts of things she's been thinking.
There’s a distinct possibility he’s attempting to fill her with frustration of any kind because he knows her well enough to know she’ll eventually turn to philandering to get any and all frustrated feelings out of her system. She hates that he knows that about her.
“Yeah, there’s something wrong with my place - you aren’t in it,” he answers, his voice deep and cocky and she just offers him a blank stare until he breaks and shrugs at her, “I’m just hanging out, is there something wrong with that?”
She chews on the inside of her cheek, wondering whether she really needs to explain that yes there’s something very wrong with it if he’s breaking into her and Ted’s apartment every day.
“Seriously,” she warns, narrowing her eyes, and he chuckles at her, slipping his blackberry into his inside jacket pocket and standing up to head into the kitchen. She watches him from just inside the door and shakes her head, battling a grin because really her frustration is less frustration and maybe more…
Well, whatever.
He grabs two beers and hands one to her.
“This is the only way we can both be sure everybody’s clothes are staying on,” he explains. “I take my bets very seriously, Scherbatsky.”
He calls her Scherbatsky.
Over and over again, he calls her Scherbatsky.
Part II