John Denver Said it Better: Chapter 5
John Denver Said it Better (5/?)
Story: John Denver Said it Better (5/?)
Author: Stablergirl
Category: Romance, AU, Humor
Rating: MA
Spoilers: Up to and including The Leap, from there it goes pretty AU at this point.
Pairings: Barney/OFC, Barney/Robin, Ted/Mother
Author's Notes: Here goes! I promise I'm not intentionally dragging this out. She just doesn't want to rush and I do not want to cross Ann McHale the wrong way. Enjoy it, the next chapter should be forthcoming relatively quickly (which admittedly isn't saying much.)
DIsclaimer: HIMYM does not belong to me.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
It didn’t make sense.
Not really. Not entirely. But in certain circumstances a girl can very easily turn a blind eye to silly things like sense. Am I right?
Because the man was like a panther or a tiger or a really badass lion on some nights.
He would pin me to the wall and act like I had the vitamins and nutrients he needed to make it through one more painful hour of his life. His lips were like dripping burning wax against my skin (take notice, my friends: this is the part where the hours I’ve spent reading trilogies with Fabio on the cover finally pay off,) his lips were like dripping wax and his breath was steam and his body was hard and relentless and he was focused and sizzling with energy. It was catching.
I was suddenly sexy, which for me was a shocking thing.
I was sexy like I had never been sexy before - all hidden secret sexy. French sexy. Pouty and withholding type sexy. It was like I sold cigars to gamblers while wearing a tiny sized cocktail dress for a living instead of walking a bunch of overweight dogs while wearing sweatpants from Old Navy every day. Like in my spare time I maybe spoke Russian, or practiced parachuting out of a private jet, or leaned on the walls of some underground club that was invitation only, instead of sitting on my sofa watching reruns of Saved by the Bell.
And it would thrum through me because his fingers played it against my nerve endings, and then it would cool like the air off the river and I would float in it. Sexy.
Really, really sexy.
His tell me what you want’s and if you hold back, this is over’s could make a woman drop to her knees. He was a master of the art of murmuring in somebody’s ear and there is nothing I like more than a good, masculine, rumbling, sweet nothing.
It’s a tricky thing to pull off, actually.
We had good quality sex and we were very very naked for hours at a time, which again for me was a shocking thing.
And any man who can make a woman forget all the reasons she should never ever be naked is a man for all seasons. He should have a statue built in his honor and put up in the museum of sex. He should offer classes to those less fortunate and less gifted. He should quit his job and become a gigolo. He should certainly never opt out of sexual activity.
But every once in a while that was exactly what he did.
It didn’t make sense.
On Monday he was hot and pushing his hands under my bra and ripping my underwear practically in half, and then on Tuesday he kissed my cheek on the door step and walked away. He would sometimes say things like “I have an early morning” or “My brother’s coming to town tonight” which to me didn’t seem particularly outlandish at the time…but I didn’t know Barney Stinson well enough then.
The man never uses excuses to get out of having sex.
He’s a sex machine.
He’s made for sexing.
He thinks about it twice as often as an average male, which means he thinks about it every 2-3 seconds… aka constantly.
I didn’t realize how out of character it was at the time, I just felt the kind of half-hearted disappointment a woman feels when she was hoping for a warm body to push herself up against and realizes she’ll have to wait another twenty four hours to get it.
I would say one out of every three dates we ended up ravenous and rated NC17.
One out of every three.
That’s like…
It’s like the sexual ice ages for this guy, but at the time I had no idea. I was fine with it. Women are fine with that kind of thing. In fact historically I was known to get a little annoyed by too much body heat and often slept MUCH better when I was the only one snoring, so I was kind of happy with the situation as it unraveled. I was fine with it.
Totally fine.
All the while wondering whether this was how he’d been with Robin, and then secretly chastising myself for wondering.
This is how my mind works, sadly. A never ending cycle of self-doubt followed by self-flagellation.
Then right before we hit our two month mark as a somewhat serious couple it was revealed to me that nothing about this scenario was fine by any stretch of the imagination.
Cut to Ted and Robin’s apartment.
We were all supposed to meet for game night and I was foolishly on time (as most of these people almost always aren’t,) and predictably - you can see where this is heading - the only person home was Robin Scherbatsky.
I remember hating the powers that control the universe.
I’d done very well up to that point at avoiding being alone with the woman since I could tell she was not interested in bonding or talking or being within ten feet of me if she could help it. But, honestly, given the amount of time I spent with the group as a whole, this was destined to occur. This was bound to happen. This was written in the stars, unfortunately, and I had no idea. (I had no idea about pretty much everything, it seems. It totally sucks to be the new kid in a tight knit group of New Yorkers.)
On this particular day I was stupidly on time so that Robin Scherbatsky answered the door and her face kind of…fell in disappointment.
And I couldn’t help myself from spitting out some honesty.
“Nobody else is here?” I asked. She pursed her lips and shook her head, and I sighed. “Well this is uncomforatble,” I murmured and she huffed a laugh instead of taking offense, and she nodded in agreement and I started to maybe like her a little.
A woman never wants to accidentally start to like her rival, so this was an unfortunate turn of events.
“I guess we should start drinking,” she proposed and I nodded my head and unbuttoned my coat like I was preparing for battle.
So she got me a beer, and there we were: Ann McHale and Robin Scherbatsky. Awkward and unhappy. Alone together in a New York City two bedroom apartment, drinking Heineken in stony silence.
I could practically hear my watch tsk tsk tsking my on-time arrival and the room itself seemed to heave a heavy sigh.
“So you walk dogs. I used to have dogs,” she blurted finally and I nodded my head.
“Oh yeah?” I responded. She nodded her head.
“Yep,” she confirmed.
Riveting.
Fascinating.
Should have filmed it and shown it at Sundance as a masterful example of stilted and realistic awkwardness.
“You don’t have them anymore?” I asked, only vaguely masking my disinterest.
“I gave them to a farm,” she told me.
And then there was silence while I watched the door, praying that somebody else would show up. Anybody. Ranjit, even. Just another person to look at so I could stop considering her brick house figure and practically perfect hair…so I could stop considering my unflattering hips and unfortunately necessary makeup.
I waited and there was nobody.
I sipped my beer.
She cleared her throat.
Then finally she shook her head like she’d decided something, and she sat down on the arm chair, gesturing for me to sit on the sofa instead of lingering in the entryway.
So I sat, and she began to talk and say things that were sure to totally unravel any security I might have had in my relationship, but it was purely accidental. She genuinely (I could tell) did not mean to blow my sense of comfort completely out of the water, and so I continued - unfortunately - to kind of almost like her.
“So you’re with Barney,” she stated, “How’s that going?”
“It’s good,” I answered simply.
“Are you sore in places you never knew existed?” she wondered with a coquettish sort of smirk, and I recognized it for the leveler that it was meant to be. I could tell her tone of voice was one of female bonding and was meant for the removal of any sense of competition, but instead of feeling the click of camaraderie…I was a little perplexed. Confused.
“Huh?” I asked her.
“Sex four times a day can do that to a girl am I right?” she asked, laughing to herself in fond remembrance.
I felt my stomach clench just a little.
“Four times a day,” I repeated, thinking, considering, panicking ever so slightly, “Yeah…”
“Are you doing it more than that?” she asked, “Cause if you are, he’s not being fair to you. The man doesn’t really understand how the female anatomy actually works. Tell him to back off and he will,” she advised.
I stared at her, wide eyed, wondering and thinking and considering.
And Robin Scherbatsky blathered on about Barney Stinson’s sexual antics like we were talking about the Knicks and it got worse as she went. The more she talked the more I realized that I was dealing with a man who was known to go to great lengths…to postpone million dollar deals…to dress in costumes or learn new languages just to get himself laid. I already knew I was dealing with a master, but I had no idea I was dealing with somebody who would pay a guy to create a life-like robot if there were no actual warm-bodied women around.
I couldn’t help the nervous silence. I had nothing to say.
And I sat there and watched the warm nostalgia wash over her even as she attempted to cover it up. The fond remembering happened to her and I watched her not be able to help herself. She rambled on (something about an old man costume, and something else about pancakes and syrup…) and I sat there and felt my mind freeze in unfortunate realization.
Four times a day? I thought to myself in disbelief.
Four times a day.
We weren’t even once a day. We weren’t even close. We weren’t even in the ballpark.
And I watched her with honest eyes and she missed it completely in her self-absorption and reminiscing and she continued to blather until the door opened and Lily walked in.
I started to ask myself why Barney Stinson wasn’t trying to have sex with me four times a day. Not that I wanted sex four times a day, but he should want it…right? There was no beating that. No competing with it. No way to come back from it once I knew that with Robin he’d been insatiable, an animal, a sex addict.
And with me he had an early morning or his brother was coming to town.
There’s no coming back from something like that.
And I assumed…as women are wont to do…that if he wasn’t having sex with me four times a day…he must be having sex with somebody when he wasn’t having sex with me.
I was a trapped on a dog-track of self-doubt following the carrot of Barney’s past and it was humiliating. It was honestly humiliating. I don’t like to relive it so you should feel honored I’m even telling you this.
I was angry. I was mortified. I was…just…
I wanted out.
Once everybody had arrived it was like I was hearing everything through the glass of a fish tank and I heard an echoing voice determine we needed more beer and other echoing voices laughing and having a good time, and I was seeing red and Barney was touching my back and I just wanted out.
So so badly.
Four times a day was bouncing around in my head and that look of heartfelt fondness on Robin’s face was flashing in front of my inner-eye and I started to feel like maybe there wasn’t enough air in the room. I couldn’t catch a full breath. I was…emotional. Unattractive. Generally stupid.
Ted announced that he would go for beer and he would be back in ten minutes, and my mouth opened up practically on its own and words came out: “I’ll go with you.”
I’ll go with you. And he said fine.
And I followed him out the door and down the stairs and once the cool wind hit my face and my feet hit concrete and my lungs finally filled completely with air, once I was out from under that stare of hers and the nostalgia draped on that way-too-beautiful and makeup-free face…I started to cry.
I started to seriously cry in a seriously embarrassing show of pathetic self-pity.
We’re talking puffy-eye inducing tears, here.
All I can think now is…poor Ted.
He stood there for a second while I stood and cried gross fat tears, and he eventually forced out one word: “Whoa.”
“I am an idiot,” I responded through heaving breaths.
“You’re…what?” he asked sort of stepping toward me and almost lifting an arm around my shoulders, but stopping a few inches short in uncertainty.
“I’m an idiot, Ted, I’m a stupid moron idiot who should…be...thrown in a crawl space and fed cooked squirrel for the rest of my life.”
“That’s…” clearing his throat he led me to sit down on the steps and then sat down next to me with just enough space for me to breathe, “…extreme,” he finished and I whimpered through a half chuckle.
“Yes it is,” I conceded. “But it’s also accurate.”
“What did he do?” he wondered and I shook my head pitifully down at my Old Navy covered lap.
“He didn’t do anything, really, but we don’t have sex four times a day,” I forced out.
There was a beat of quiet consideration and I can only imagine, now, knowing his face the way I do, the look that must have been draped across it. Probably pinched confusion.
“Do you…want to have sex four times a day? Won’t that injure something?”
“No! I don’t want that. I’m more of a twice a day kind of girl, but I’m…” and I sighed in aggravation.
“Ok, sorry, I don’t know why I would think that. You don’t seem like a sex fiend or anything, and I already accused you of being a hooker once before so this is not a good track record I’m setting. I’m just trying to follow you and I don’t think I get it,” he assured me and he was warm and unassuming. And I appreciated him. And he was well on his way to being my favorite person.
Ever.
“So what exactly is the problem?” he asked me and I picked my head up and gave him a leveling stare.
“Robin Scherbatsky,” I stated.
And he nodded knowingly and breathed out “ah” because (while I didn’t know it yet) he’d been in this situation a few times before.
I continued to explain in a childish running monologue, basically talking to myself with only occasional acknowledgement that Ted was even sitting there: “Barney and Robin were together and having sex four times a day, and I’m sure you know that, so it’s not news to you, but it is news to me because he doesn’t talk about himself that much. And he and I have sex like twice a week, not that you need to know and you will never repeat this to another living soul especially not Robin, but basically I’m…not Robin. And Barney’s not interested. And this is my most embarrassing day so far, which is saying a lot because I’m a pretty embarrassing person,” I confessed. I paused to wipe at my eyes and shake my head at myself. “He should want to have sex with me four times a day. And if he’s not attracted to me, I don’t know why he asked me out in the first place. He should just stick with models and news anchors who don’t watch workout videos purely to make fun of the instructors while drinking milkshakes like I do.”
“Ann, Barney’s attracted to you. He'd have to be blind or crazy or totally...stupid...Just trust me, he's attracted to you.” Ted promised.
“Clearly he’s not,” I answered petulantly, sure that I was right and sure that Ted was placating me in order to make me feel better. “If he were attracted to me he would want to have sex with me four times a day,” I told him.
“Well, first of all I’m pretty sure Robin is exaggerating. Three times a day, maybe. Four is just…there's no way they…” and I watched him mull this over and tilt his head at me and he kind of pursed his lips. “Four times a day?” he questioned, “Really?”
“That’s what she said,” I told him, shrugging in indifference. “And anyway, twice a week is way less than three times a day, too, so you’re not making me feel any better really.”
“You guys are just starting out.”
“Stop it,” I chastised. “I don’t deal well with patronizing reassurances.”
“Ok look,” he sighed and it sounded like a concession and I felt myself sink a little bit.
Even though I didn’t want reassurances I did kind of want somebody to call Robin a liar. Just once.
“Robin doesn’t know what she’s talking about with this. She’s kind of out of the loop lately,” he promised.
Score one for Ted Mosby on the telling girls what they want to hear front. I watched him skeptically and waited.
“Barney's had a really hard time lately, and in all seriousness he’s a totally different person than he was when they were together. He did a total one eighty after the whole baby incident.”
And my eyes went wide and I’m pretty sure I swallowed my tongue.
The baby incident.
Unusual event number one.
Chapter 6: The Chapter in which a game of telephone is played so you know the deal.