Snow
December 2013, Casablanca
Robin's final cigarette is Turkish, taken while sipping the bitter sludge they call coffee in this part of the world.
The sun beats down and she stretches, feeling her back click against the wrought iron chair. Midday, and the air is heavy and thick, like something out of Arabian Nights.
Back home in New York it's snowing, and Robin would give anything to be there right now. Out of nowhere she pictures Barney, wrapped up tight in coat, scarf, earmuffs, grinning from ear to ear.
She stubs out the cigarette. She has this crazy craving to smoke a cigar instead.
*--*--*
March 2014, New York
Marshall spends most of the night on the phone, calling his family, his friends, everyone in his address book, even Ranjit.
Still tasting the tobacco from the million cigarettes he chain-smoked while Lily was in labor, he ducks outside the hospital. It's freezing, winter sticking around way too long this year.
Barney, looking even more wasted than he feels, claps Marshall on the back and offers him a cigar. Marshall declines and Ted grins, lacing his fingers through Erin's, while Robin calls them from Morocco for the twelfth time that day.
It's a good day. They finally have a son.
*--*--*
December 2017, Washington DC
Barney is of the opinion that snow sucks. It's not magical or beautiful. It's a cold white death to his hopes.
He stands, shivering, outside his hotel, freezing his ass off while he puffs away at a cigarette. He glowers at the little white tube and flicks it on to the ice below his feet, watching it sputter out.
Then there's a hand on his shoulder. Robin.
He lifts her up, spins her, kissing her over and over until he's certain she's real.
"You made it?" He asks, with so many layers of meaning.
"Yes," She replies, with only one.