A/N: Unbetaed. Spoilers for all of S5. Inspired by "Love the Way You Lie," by Eminem ft. Rihanna.
She spends the weekend soaking in her tub, listening to Fiona Apple and Alanis Morrisette, chain-smoking her way through an entire pack of cigarettes. Growing older is supposed to make her feel wiser, smarter about this whole thing. Instead, she has a string of failed relationships, if two can even qualify as a string, wondering if maybe she should have jumped on the whole Ted bandwagon earlier.
Smart city women are supposed to do things like go out to bars and date men, supposed to spend their free time analyzing the potentialities of love, supposed to pick up love advice from Sex and the City and make comparisons to their own lives.
She wonders if she was supposed to be taking notes the whole time.
Instead, she stubs out another cigarette on the ceramic of her tub, brushing the ashes into the wastebasket with the errant thought that she'll come back to clean up the smudges later. Lily and Marshall are moving forward, continuing their trajectory of Life As You Are Supposed to Live It while Life keeps tacking post-it notes onto her door detailing the ways in which she's been behind on her karmic payments lately.
She gave up the job of her life for a man she thought was perfect until he wasn't, finds herself trapped in a city she once thought held the keys to her future with four (though, really, three?) friends moving forward while her shoes are stuck in cement.
It could be funny, really, if she thinks long enough on it; a Harold and Maude-esque commentary on working single women and the illusions they have.
Lily calls her and invites her to brunch. She says yes, explains that she's fine, no, really, honestly, it's not like she had been seeing Don for that long anyway (except she was prepared to make life changes for this man and she feels ten-years-ago-Robin die a little inside because didn't she promise herself she would never be that person?) and no, you don't need to worry, Lily, ten a.m. tomorrow, okay.
The heat in Manhattan feels suffocating and she doesn't know if it's all mental, emotional, psychological, whatever.
She goes to work and she comes home like the millions of other people in the city; the doubting voice inside her chants the same words with every step she takes with each city block - you weren't so different after all.
She doesn't resort to watching Lifetime movies in the dark while devouring a giant bucket of ice cream; her situation hasn't quite gotten that desperate, though she understands why you'd make that assumption.
Brunch with Lily is stilted and a little awkward. Lily's trying to be the Supportive Best Friend, keeps trash-talking Don even though all Robin wants to do right now is eat her eggs and her hash browns without thinking about Don and what he's doing right now with the job she was supposed to have.
Lily sets her hand on top of hers, and she smiles back as best as she can.
"I'll be all right, Lily," she says.
"I know. I just wanted to hang out."
She ends up concocting an excuse to squeeze out early, and Lily just nods, always understanding. She wanders around Bryant Park a while, watching the progress of corporate lunches, the random passersby.
She feels the odd desire to call Barney, though they're poised even further apart than they ever were.
Her phone goes off an hour later; when she checks the contact, she has to laugh.
"What do you want?" she says and she wonders when she started sounding so sharp.
"Cigar and a scotch tonight?"
She sighs.
He says, "I lost an account today. And you sound like you need one too."
"You can't go alone?"
He chuckles. "You know what they say about drinking alone."
"Fine."
"I'll text you the directions."
They hang up without ending greetings, just like the movies.
They haven't been back to the cigar club in ages. He gets them both scotch and they sit like they used to, drink faster than they're used to.
Maybe five years ago, this is where she would have said, "This is probably a bad idea."
And now, she stares at a grim reflection of herself, lips pressed together in a thin line of determination against her life and where she has dragged it, tips the liquor down to light the rest of herself on fire before she ruins anything else.
Five years ago, she still believed she could change the world, make a difference to someone else's life.
Fast-forward like the way they taught her how to edit in university, and all she remembers how to do is survey the damage and prepare for the next battle.
He says, "Refill?"
But he reaches for her glass before she can even answer, so she supposes he's thinking the same thing she is.
She offers it up without a fight.
He doesn't offer to light her cigar, doesn't pretend to act the gentleman or the knave. His jacket's off, lying on the arm of the chair, tie loosened, and he looks every bit the warrior for the losing side that she always suspected he was.
Something about scotch and near-midnight that cuts them open, split down the center like pea pods; they breathe smoke silently, cloud the truths they have always tried to avoid.
He doesn't apologize for Don, doesn't try to comfort her.
She doesn't admit the shame she felt when she cried in front of him.
But they know each other's secrets as well as they know each other; they have always spoken each other's language as well as Marshall and Lily have spoken theirs. Except theirs is always of broken promises and broken spirits, of feigned strength and standing tall and cracked. Liquor fills up the cracks and they lock up the secrets in smoke.
"This is fun," she murmurs, voice raspy with smoke.
He doesn't say anything.
"You miss him?" he whispers, and her hand tightens around her tumbler.
"No."
He nods.
"Why?" she asks. "How's your life?"
"Legendary," he says, without missing a beat. He chuckles. "Wait for it."
Somewhere, Robin thinks, a laugh track is playing.
Outside the club, she reaches for his lapel, and he looks at her wryly. "Revenge sex or relapse sex?"
"Honestly," she says, as he takes a step closer. "I don't know. I don't care. Pick your poison."
He murmurs something against her lips, and she just pulls him to her until he's pressed up against her and she feels something and isn't that something? She bites his lip.
They don't go to her apartment.
They end up at the Hilton on 57th and the sheets are crisp, rustle when they fall onto the bed.
He's got a hand on the small of her back, lips on her bare shoulder when he says, "This doesn't mean anything."
She digs her nails into his back. "I never expected it to."
"As long as we're clear."
She gets changed when he's in the shower, tosses a few bills down for the cleaning lady.
The door clicks shut behind her and she doesn't look back.
Her first step outside, she smokes one of the cigarettes she stole from him, and heading out into the street, hails a cab.
She's always been good at running away.