—if they can't keep each other, then they're determined to destroy anyone else who tries. [yeah, still au]

I recently said to ImperiumWife that last train isn't a revenge fic. Well, this one is. I have no illusions; the base idea for this fic came plainly out of hatred for Ted. Also out of the writers proving that you can do everything right and still have everything go so wrong. Well, guess what? This time they're going to do it wrong.

quick, before they cast you outta heaven

In hindsight, when Robin walks into the bar that night, he probably should have been paying more attention.

She slides into the seat across from him, her fingers gripping her glass until her knuckles flush white, and she downs the contents in one throwback. Her jaw is set; she's muttering hot things underneath her breath, and her free hand is twitching against the wood it sits on.

He leans over, and moves his hand on top of hers to cease the movement. "Hey." His voice is low, and he squeezes two warm pulses into her palm.

Her eyes take their time finding his; detached, floating. "Hey," she breathes at him, her words rasping, her eyes glazing over with a fine layer of salt.

Something in her voice, in that one word, strikes something hollow in his throat, a gaping hole in his chest; a chasm.

"Robin?" he says, and pulls his hand back into his lap. "What's the matter?"

Concern eats away at the insides of his words, turning his syllables flimsy, honey coating his tongue.

She stares into her empty glass. "Nothing," she mutters, "It's nothing."

He sits back. "Come now, Scherbatsky," he says, and her eyes slowly drift back to him, "This isn't Ted or Lily you're talking to. It's me. Now confess."

She laughs, at that. "Yeah," she clears her throat, "Uh, yeah. It's not really—anything," she pushes her glass away from her, brings it back, pushes it away. "Not much. Bad day at work. And now I don't even have Ted to talk to," she lets out a crisp, bitter laugh, "Not that I would really... want to. Not really. I'm not into that touch-y feel-y crap of his, I... I don't know. I guess it's nice... to have someone."

He nods. He knows all about safeguards. He knows what it's like to suddenly be falling, and have no one there to catch you.

"You have me."

She laughs again, but this time, it's genuine and light. "Yeah, right, Barney."

And that hurts him, a little. "What do you mean?" he says, taking a swig from his glass to hide pain that shouldn't be there, "You always have me, Scherbatsky."

She arches a brow. "You're not the most ideal..." she stops, she must see his face falling or something, "... never mind."

He doesn't really know why her words make his throat coat with something he doesn't like, why he's blinking faster, why he's on a diagonal tilt.

Words, even Robin Scherbatsky's words, shouldn't hurt him this much.

He swallows, puts on a smile that collapses all too quickly. forces himself to breathe; his chest radiates with a tight feeling, a twisted feeling. "Yeah. You're right. Never mind." He mutters.

He's still pinwheeling, looking through a broken lense, not fully incorporated into reality; he tells himself it's the scotch.

He straightens, pastes on another brittle smile that shows too many teeth, and gestures to her glass. "Another round, on me?"

She blinks at him for a moment, like she's trying to figure him out. He's not worried; he's been playing at this game far too long for even her to figure him out. Her stares are sideways, combing for any piece of shrapnel he'll give her. Her eyes shred through him, turning his shattered pieces over, trying to find a weak point, a strategy, an easy way in.

And, as predicted, she fails.

She sighs, letting out her rushed breath, and he stops trying to smile for her.

"Yeah, thanks."

Neither of them knew this night would be the beginning of the worst storm of their lives.

x

Barney sighs.

It's another slow night at MacLaren's, and once again he's the only properly dressed guy in sight.

He's about to go hit on a brunette down by the other corner of the room, giggling with her friends over glasses of cheap whiskey, all bright eyes and big cans, when Robin sits down and any and all thoughts of a rambunctious nature simply shudder to a stop when he sees the look on her face.

"Hm," he says, staring into his glass rather than looking at her face, "You seem... troubled."

He's talking to her in a smooth voice, a blunt voice, one of the many voices he uses to pick up women because he's been trying to sort it all out in his head but he really doesn't know how to talk to her now.

"Yeah," she says in a fast mutter, her eyes roaming everywhere, blue irises turning up tables and looking behind doors, "Whatever. Hi."

"Distracted, Scherbatsky?" he says, and her eyes flick to his for a fraction of a second, and for half a panicked moment she's turning him up, looking behind his doors.

He breathes, he breathes and swallows down more scotch. "What's the matter?"

He hasn't seen her for about three days, give or take, and he can't help but think maybe some part of him is glad.

Some part of him can't help but think it might just be by design.

"It's nothing, not really." She says. "Another day at the office, you know how it is," she lets out a small laugh, a nervous laugh, a laugh that tells him more than she could possibly want to tell.

He eyes her. "You don't work in an office."

Her nostrils flare, her jaw is set, as she turns on him. "Okay, well, whatever. Shut up."

Her hurried words make something stir inside of him; concern, maybe, and he tries his best to shut it down at the source. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

She snaps to attention. "What?" she stops, starts again, mumbles, "Sorry."

He stares her down. "What's wrong?" his words are softer, slower, this time around.

Her eyes stop spinning out of control; she centers her body toward his, clasping her hands on the table, and actually looking him in the eye. "I'm sorry."

He stares at her sideways. Laughs a small laugh. "Hey, it's okay," he says, taking one of her hands and squeezing out two short beats. "I don't even know what you're apologising for, but it's okay."

She shakes her head, laughs as well. "You're an idiot."

He grins. "Thanks."

She lays her head down on the table, breathing low, breathing jagged, and so he just pets her hair.

"Hey, Barney?"

He works to untangle his fingers from her curls. "Yeah, Scherbatsky?"

"I'm..." she stops, coughs, chokes on her own words, "I'm sorry. For real. Sorry," she says, her words getting faster and faster, "I'm, uh, sorry. About the other day. You're... you're great. I mean... yeah. You're great."

His fingers brush over the freckles on her neck. "It's okay."

"You know, I really didn't mean—I didn't," she stops. "Oh God, I don't know. I don't know what I didn't mean. How insane does that sound? A lot. I bet it's a lot. I bet—"

And so he stops her. "Scherbatsky."

She stirs, eyes moving up to him. "Mm?"

He leans down and kisses her forehead. "We're good."

She tangles her fingers through his. "I'm glad."

He hasn't realised it yet, he's already in too deep, and even if he did realise it he wouldn't be able to do a single thing about it.

Maybe he wouldn't want to.

x

"Hey, Barney."

The fact that tonight she is looking exceptionally gorgeous is one he can't help but note. The very sight of her makes his skin jump, turn his lungs to fire and fill his eyes with stars, her at the center, the nucleus, a galaxy of light amongst a world that remains grey.

He nods at her to sit. "Hey."

She maneuvers in across from him, the heel of her shoe skimming over his shin. She doesn't seem to notice. "You want something to eat?"

He's just about to wave Wendy over when Robin smiles, shakes her head, "Not tonight. I'm meeting here with Ted for dinner."

He arches a brow. "Dinner?"

She nods. "Mm-hm," she says, "At that little bistro downtown."

"The smurf penis bistro?"

She laughs. "That's the one."

He takes a sip from his glass; alcohol flows through him, highlighting him, spreading fire. "Ted's a lucky guy, you being dressed like that for just some date."

"I know, it's great, isn't it?"

It is. It is great. She looks great. Wearing a tight, short dress that shows enough cleavage to attract every straight guy in a five mile radius, deep red and glistening lipstick smoothed over her full, kissable lips, hair blown into waves coming down over her shoulders and legs so long he's tripping over his own.

He clears his throat. "Yeah, sure," he avoids her eyes, her smile, avoids that fire flaring up from the pit of his stomach, "You look great."

She grins at him. "Thanks."

Her phone trills in her purse, pulling him out of any less than appropriate scenarios about to play over in his head. "Who is it?" his voice is strained, he's holding his glass tighter.

"It's Ted."

He coughs. "Right, Ted. Your boyfriend! And what a great boyfriend he is," he says, "What's your boyfriend, my best buddy in the world—uh, what's he saying?"

She blinks at the screen. "Oh."

He stops. "Scherbatsky?" he says, softly. "What's wrong?"

She shakes her head quickly, thumbs at her eyes and clears her throat, "It's, uh—it's nothing. Turns out he..." she swallows, "Turns out he can't make it. It's okay, it's okay."

His first thought is no, it isn't. "Robin... I'm sorry."

She sniffs, then tries to make out like she didn't. "Seriously, it's fine. I'm okay. It was a stupid date anyway. It was a stupid, stupid..."

He shakes his head and slides out of his seat, then goes to sit down beside her instead. He wraps an arm around her without saying anything, and she leans into him, head falling against his chest.

He murmurs against her hair.

"Are you okay?"

She shakes, a little.

"No."

And he holds her, close against him, for as long as he possibly can.