A/N: So I'm dipping a toe into the HIMYM fanfic-writing stuffs. Woo! This isn't that original, just one of the dime-a-dozen BRo oneshots. Thank Jamie55 and SMBShaneomaniac for getting me into this. Or pelt them with rotten fruit, depending on how much you like this.
Disclaimer: I don't own "How I Met Your Mother" or anything related. This is a fan work, not intended for profit.
He really hadn't meant to. Fall in love, that is. It went against his upbringing, his instincts, to ogle one hot brunette from across the room but ignore the dead-eyed, skimpily-dressed blonde at his side, who was snorting with slightly drunken laughter. He nodded to her with a wry grin, the kind only the four people closest to him—scratch that, his brother knew him well enough too, but that was beside the point—would recognize as being false, a placation to make her think he was listening. He let his eyes wander across the room. They settled on the brunette. Curses.
After a moment of indecision, he sighed and excused himself with a mutter from the blonde's company, going to their regular table. He slid in beside her, so close that they were almost touching. He bore the teasing of his friends for backing out on a conquest and started into a long saga about the blonde's hideously horrific past and even more hideously horrific boyfriend. He sneaked a glance at the woman beside him. She was laughing, so he had to keep talking until he had exhausted every comedic outlet of his fictive tale. By that time, the conversation had shifted anyway and he was beating a dead horse, so he was glad to let it go. Or he could have been, if the subject switch didn't mean that her eyes were no longer on him.
So he butted in with remarks that he knew would make her laugh by this time of night, even if they weren't funny. When she talked, he made sure to look at her for no more than seven consecutive seconds. If he stared, she'd know something was up. But she remained oblivious, thankfully, until she left the bar.
She was the first to go because she needed to get up early for her job. He stayed for a little while longer even though he no longer took part in the conversation and spent the rest of the time fiddling with the salt shaker and tracing lines on the tabletop. He didn't want to look needy. He wasn't needy. There was no reason to stop living once she left the room.
But there was no reason to stay, really, either, so he left a half hour later. Early, for him, but not that early. He was tired anyway. No one tried to get him to stay longer. He knew they'd guessed why he didn't want to stick once she was gone. He wanted to prove them wrong, he did. But his brain was tired. He'd make excuses in the morning. Like he always did.