important general disclaimer: hi! this is not necessarily a 'b x r have a cute baby' story; i'm not going to cover a year and a pregnancy and a birth and all that. this is much more the story of them deciding whether or not they want to have a baby at all, with maybe a couple flashforwards to 2016 and the ramifications of their choices.

Upper East Side, Manhattan.

Monday, August 17th, 2015.

The sofa is new. They argued for weeks about the material, the colour; powerpoint presentations were involved. Barney stands up from it in one smooth motion when she opens the door, his hands running down the sides of his shirt to smooth any wrinkles borne of slouching as he crosses the living room. Robin sets her keys on the shelf and turns to him and his smile. His hands go up to her face, fingers sliding towards her ears; she curls her fingers around his wrists and tries to smile back.

"I got you a blue raspberry lollipop at the doctor's," she says, and he kisses her, and she kisses him back.

He draws away. "Are you going to start hurling again?" His expression amused. He removes his hands from her jaw; slides them into her coat pockets. Comes out with the lollipop and unwraps it deftly. There's a joke floating there, about his ability to quickly open wrappers; Robin watches him put the candy in his mouth, considers his teeth and tongue. He smirks, lifts his eyebrow. Takes the candy from his mouth. "'Cause if you do, we're pretty much done. Forever." He moves closer, his other hand pulling from her pocket, sliding under her coat, curling around her hip.

It was probably in their vows somewhere: a laundry list of acceptable bodily fluids, not extending to vomit on Dolce & Gabbana, and she knows he means it as a joke but she pulls away from his attempted kiss, the mood broken. "No," she says. "I mean, no, I'm not going to hurl." It feels a bit like lying. She definitely is nauseous, but she thinks this may be borne of something different. She toes off her shoes; walks around him to collapse on the new sofa.

"Hey." Barney follows her. She draws her feet up and he sits down. "Are you okay? Want something to drink?"

His hand on her calf. "It's nothing," she says.

"Okay." He turns on the TV, settles back into the sofa. Keeps glancing back at her. Turns the remote over and over in his hands.

She thinks about their new sofa, about the way he likes to keep things clean and neat, starts giving her looks when she leaves messes in corners, sinks. (And pointed comments soon after.) His clothes, always perfectly pressed and starched. The suitcases in their bedroom, still not entirely unpacked. "Okay, yeah," Robin says. "It's not nothing." She sits up. He turns the TV off. She looks at him, the stick of the lollipop still hanging out of the corner of his mouth. She thinks about the vomit clause of their marriage. Christ. She can't do this. "You know how I've been feeling weird since we got back from Nicaragua last week?"

Of course he does. She's been barfing and headachey for days, and annoyed at the unfairness the whole while: her groaning on the bathroom floor and Barney laughing about his superior, American, immune system; refusing to stand too close to her while she's heaving, pushing all the pillows on their bed at her, buying crates of oranges, and forcing her to drink unsweetened tea. Being the biggest pain in the ass while she's sick.

"Are you sick? Like, for real? What did the doctor say?" It's his expression that does it, open and concerned, ready to buy more fruit baskets. Not ready to risk sick on his clothes. Their quiet, clean apartment. His fingers tight around her ankle, reflexively clinging on.

"No. Well, yes. Kind of?" Robin hazards, covering all of her bases. Trying to guess all his reactions. She hasn't even tried yet to figure out hers. "I'm —" Beat. "Take the candy out of your mouth."

"What?" He rolls the stick from one corner of his mouth to the other, his eyes squinting in confusion. She gives him a look, and he obeys, removing the nub of the lollipop and setting it on the corner of a newspaper on the coffee table. "Okay, what's wrong with you?" he asks, frowning, with a decent stab at light-hearted. "'Cause I'm starting to freak out a little, and —"

She braces herself and says what she never ever thought she would. "I'm pregnant."

He stops talking. He doesn't move.

She doesn't breathe in after that exclamation, and her lungs, her throat, quickly begin to tighten, clamour for air. She doesn't dare move, doesn't dare blink, just watches her husband take in the news. He stares at her, mouth still open from her interruption, his face — his body — perfectly still. Barney is never perfectly still. He's never still. Even sleeping he twitches around. (She's digressing. Her temples pound. She needs air.) Robin finally sucks in a breath and sees his shoulders rise as he breathes in, too.

Slowly, he turns himself away from her, shifting on the sofa so that he's facing the television again, as if the black screen is more important than the fact that she is — that they are — that this is a genuine situation, and her heart is going at eighty miles a minute. She takes another deep breath, and then a third. "Seriously, Barney?" she says, angrily, but at least she doesn't scream.

"Give me a minute!" he says, his voice high and tight, his fingers fluttering, clenching and unclenching on his thighs. Last time, he'd been happy, she thinks, and then tries her very best to never, ever think of that again. Too late. Last time, he'd been excited, and they hadn't even been together, and what's changed between now and then? Four years and a marriage? She's too old now? She doesn't want this kid either, but he could at least be happy, at least be excited, at least be one check in the pros column, at least make her feel like she wasn't miserable and alone.

"Yeah?" she says acidly, wanting to throw up for reasons much more based in anxiety and terror than tropical diseases-cum-morning sickness. "Sure, how much time do you need? Five months? Six? Because we don't have much longer than that, and," she stops herself. He's put his head in his hands, grinding his palms against his eyes. She swallows. Closes her eyes. Takes three more breaths. "Because this? This was never supposed to happen." Not like this. Not ever. There were options, she knew that, but accidents were supposed to be one hundred percent off the table. "I don't know how it did happen."

Barney straightens back up, takes a deep breath. Looks about how she feels — nauseous; frightened — but with something else around the corners. He licks his lips. Clears his throat. She watches his expression change. "Well — Robin — when a man and a woman love one another very much, or, alternatively, if the man is an irresistible god among men who women can't help but drop trou for due to sheer sex appeal —"

"—A god among men who didn't use a condom." She knows he's just joking to try and lighten the mood, but she can't. Not right now.

He glances at her sidelong, half smiling. "Let's be honest here, with the number of condoms we go through and the economy in the state it is in, 'free love' was totally a wise financial decision for the Scherbatsky-Stinsons."

"Kids aren't exactly cheap either," she says cooly.

His face falls. He nods, then shakes his head. "Are… " He hesitates. Using his real voice again, allowing the worry to show through once more. "Are you going to… go through with this?"

"It's not me," she says harshly. "It's us. Are we going to have a kid?"

"Are we?" he asks softly. Robin can only stare at him. Are we? Why can't he just say what he thinks about it? Show an opinion? Do something besides get all stoic and crack jokes and look to her? She doesn't know! She didn't think this would ever, ever be a situation she'd be in again, and she still doesn't know if she wants kids. She knows he doesn't — but does he? He did once, or said he did, and she doesn't know what she'd do if the answer is yes. Why can't he just tell her?

"Robin," he says, dead serious now. She holds her breath again. "I want whatever you want," he continues. "I mean it," he adds, narrowing his eyes when she starts to protest. "If you want to have this kid, then I'm with you, one hundred percent. And if you don't," he hesitates very slightly, just long enough for Robin to wonder then what, wonder if he led with the option he prefers, the panic coming back in a heartbeat, "then same deal. Whatever you want to do, I'm with you."

"You can't just put it on me!" she says, and her voice is shaky and she wipes at her eyes in a furtive motion. "Barney, I'm scared to death, and maybe you think this is supportive, but I can't make this decision on my own!" She means to leave it at that, swinging her legs down to the floor, thinking she needs to move, get some water, throw up, something, but the words burst out of her like, well, vomit. "What if I make the wrong one, huh? What if I pick one and- and you say oh, I'm with you, and then this time next year you're resenting me for - for taking away your one chance at having a kid, or for having a kid who pukes all over your suits? What if I'm the one who…" Who resents the kid, who resents him, who lives with regret the rest of her life. She's only just figured out how to be a wife. How can she possibly —

All at once, he moves to her, sliding over the sofa cushions and taking her into his arms, half pulling her onto his lap. She leans into him, wrapping her arms him in turn, wanting this, something warm and solid and familiar. The smell of his ridiculous, expensive soap and the clean scent of his clothing, the feel of his hair against her cheek, his chin on her shoulder. Good things. Things she loves. She rests her head against the crook of his neck, feels his fingers in her hair. "I'm fucking terrified," she says after her heart stops racing, after she can breathe again. "I don't know what to do."

"Me neither," he says, threading his fingers through her hair. "Me too."

They're silent for a long time. She can feel his heart pounding, hear him breathe in and out. His breaths are calm, robotic. His heart is at a million beats a minute.

"How far — how much time do we have?" he asks finally.

Until what, she wonders. Birth, or the point where birth becomes the only option? Her entire body seems to clench in cold fear. His hand rubs circles on her back. "I'm ten weeks."

"Okay."

They fall silent again.

It's not supposed to be like this, she thinks. She should have opened the door and announced it proudly; he should have swept her in his arms and kissed the hell out of her. They should have been calling everyone else with the news, opening bottles of champagne and lighting cigars — well, maybe not the latter two. And come to think of it, how much has she drank over the last ten weeks? Not as much as back when they were all in the bar every night, but god, she's already a terrible parent. Terrified, on the verge of a panic attack, and more alcohol in her system than can possibly be okay. She should be happy, excited. She was told she could never have children; this should be their miracle child, the universe smiling down on them. They should be celebrating.

"It'd be a high risk pregnancy," she says.

"Bed rest?" he hazards.

"We have money," she says. "We can afford it." She'd have to quit, or at least go on leave from, her job. She tries to imagine staying in bed, on the sofa, for six months, and reflexively wants to take off running. She'd need to get hobbies. Take up crafting or something. Decoupage. Imagines herself learning to cook, her body huge and heavy, greeting Barney at the door in the evening in a dress and apron. Giving him a cocktail. He holding a briefcase, swatting at her ass. Her giggling behind her hand. A laugh track playing. Everything in black and white.

After another long silence, he pulls away from her and just looks at her. She smiles queasily back.

"Okay," he says, and reaches out, brushes his hand along her cheekbone and kisses her softly. He still tastes like artificial blue raspberry. He draws back again, squares his shoulders. "Okay, here's the play. We have the kid." Her heart catches. He spreads his hands out before them, painting the scene. "We leave our jobs. You go on bedrest, except, we take off. Five weeks in Bejing. Next five, Spain. Four star hotels all the way. First class plane tickets. Ooh, we can get a boat. I bet the Captain has a couple spare boats! Weeks ten through fifteen, we go live in Amsterdam! And then after thirty odd weeks of travelling and staying all bed in day — not just because you're knocked up, what up, you pop out a baby with your eyes and my bone structure…" He pauses dramatically; she doesn't dare move or blink; "…And then we give him to Ted."

She laughs; a sharp, unexpected sound, and he's grinning at her. She punches his arm, then kisses him again, because she'd needed that laugh, needed the break in the tension. "We can't give him to Ted."

"Please, we can totally give him to Ted. Ted would cry."

"He'd totally cry. One kid's not enough for him, you know he and Tracy are going to want another."

"Greedy bastards," Barney sighs, shaking his head.

Robin thinks: one would be enough for us. Robin chuckles. Robin's not sure what she's thinking anymore. She reaches for and takes Barney's hand. Strokes her thumb over his. "Can we… take a couple of days?" she asks. Ten weeks. They have a couple of days. "Bust out the yellow legal pads and pro-and-con up this bitch?"

"Totally. Awesome," he says.

"You know it," she says lightly, the fear, for now, buried a few centimetres below the surface.

She watches him run his hands over his face, take a deep breath, a sigh of relief and draining tension. She tries not to read too much into it. "Okay," he says. "Okay. I really need a cigarette." and he's been good so far, no panic attacks or fat jokes, so Robin doesn't remind him that he's supposed to be quitting, has been 'quitting' for about a year and a half. She remembers his heart racing. He's been very good.

She thinks: if we're keeping this kid, he's going to need to quit for real. If. If. Pros and Cons. Bedrest, setting her career back, a child she's not sure she wants, knows how to want, that will change their apartment and their lives. A sudden lack of alcohol. Her husband's lingering smoking habit; his expensive clothes. High risk pregnancy, and all the potential for heartbreak that entails. Barney stands up from the couch, heads for the balcony. Pros, she thinks, and thinks of the play. She believes him that he'll be happy either way. She wonders if one will make him happier, and if she's the kind of person who could make that kind of choice.

"Hey, Barney?" she calls before he reaches the doors, curling herself up on the sofa and thinking: good thing we sprung for the comfortable one. Pros and cons. She feels another powerpoint presentation coming on, and stares listlessly at the black TV.

"Yeah?"

"Five weeks in Beijing, ten weeks in Spain and Amsterdam… where do we go for the last trimester?"

"Uh," he opens the door, and the faint noises of the city spill into the apartment. She hears the click of his lighter, smells a faint whiff of tobacco. "I don't know." He snaps his fingers. "How do you feel about Quebec?"