The upstairs bathroom in Loretta's house is pink. Really, really pink. Pepto-Bismol pink. Eraser pink. Pig pink. Barbie pink. Loretta called it Mamie Eisenhower pink, which was a big thing in the fifties, when the bathroom was remodled. Pink and gray towels hang from the clear plastic towel rods mounted on the wall. Robin's towels are pink here; Barney's are gray, same as they are at home. Her towels aren't pink at home. They're gray, too, because she and Barney don't divide towels by gender like Loretta does. Robin squeezes a ribbon of toothpaste -red, white and green striped- onto her toothbrush -white, with white bristles- and squints into the fog that still covers the ostentatious gold-toned oval mirror over the pink sink. How does Loretta divide the towels when James and Tom stay over? There's the question. Not that she's going to ask Loretta. That would be weird. Almost as weird as the thought of Barney growing up in this bathroom. The imgaes don't fit.
She rinses and spits, parks her toothbrush next to Barney's in the pink plastic toothbrush holder and braces both hands on the counter. One week. She can do this for one week. Seven days. Ten thousand and eighty minutes. Subtract all the mintues spent at work, commuting to and from work, out with Barney -or in with Barney, for that matter; childhood bedroom sex has a certain appeal to it, as does ensuring that the shag carpeting in the basement lives up to its name- and it's hardly any time at all. Pretty much. Almost. She pinches a tissue from the pink needlepoint covered tissue box and wipes the fog from the mirror.
Technically, this is Barney's house, which makes it also technically hers. His and hers and James's and Tom's, if she's going to get into particulars, which she is, because otherwise, she has to face the fact that she and Barney are going to be spending the next week under the same roof as his mother and her new husband, while an army of contrators work their magic on apartment 12-H. Technically, this is their house, the whole family's; the Stinson family home. Barney and James bought it, leased it back to Loretta, so Barney and his wife have a legal right to be on the premises. Technically, this is the Stinson family home, and, technically, she's a Stinson. Scherbatsky-Stinson on legal documents, but there's no way the house could know that. No way the house could reject her for that.
It had other reasons, better reasons. The "We Could Have Stayed at a Hotel" argument still echoed off the pink tiled walls. The "We Could Have Stayed at Ted and Tracy's While They're in Spokane" argument was probably still waiting for her in the bedroom, from the Barney-getting-dressed sounds that came through the crack under the bathroom door, half a degree too precise and too loud. It's not worth bringing that one up again. They'd have to commute from Westchester, and if they were right there in Westchester -Barney's inflection carries even in memory- then Jerry would want to know why they would rather stay in an empty house instead of with him and Cheryl. Which would bring them back to the hotel issue, and she's too tired, after a night spent in her husband's childhood bedroom that shares a wall with her newlywed in-laws, to open that can of worms again.
The "We Could Stay With James and Tom" argument isn't even an argument. Eli and Sadie have chicken pox. James knows Barney has had it, because they had it at the same time - they shared calamine lotion baths in this very same pink bathtub; no chance of fudging that one. Robin had had it, too, one hellacious week when she was eight, but James doesn't have to know that. Sick kids are gross. The only thing worse than two sick kids is three sick kids. Which also means there is no "We Could Stay With Marshall and Lily" argument, thanks to Eli and Sadie sharing their germs with all three Ericksen kids at once. Which leaves Robin and Barney here, Robin staring down a bottle of bubble bath shaped like a long-necked cat. The cat bottle wins, like it always does. Stupid rhinestone eyes.
She grabs one of Barney's hair products instead of her own, purely out of spite. Puts it back, because she can't remember if it's one of the stand-up things or one of the slick-down things. She dispenses a dollop of her usual stuff in the palm of her hand, works it through her hair and plugs in her hair dryer. It roars to life, drowning out the sound of whatever the hell it is Barney is doing in the bedroom. He's run out of clothes to put on; she's counted the hangers.
He's not in the bedroom anymore by the time the dryer shuts off. She cracks the door, because his silence is rarely a good thing. Keeps one ear perked while she applies her makeup and buttons a tailored white blouse over navy pencil skirt. He doesn't come back.
The scents of coffee and warm bread call to her from downstairs. She follows scent, heels in hand, to the kitchen. Pushes the door open. Food would be good. Her stomach constricts, reminding her how far she is from the bagel place around the corner from home. She reminds it that this is only for a week, that there are bagels on Staten Island -Barney has assured her that there are- and it's not going to kill her to make nice with the in-laws for a few minutes before the two of them flee to Manhattan for the day. She puts on her best newscaster smile and offers an experimental, "Morning," to the room at large.
Sam and Loretta, already at the table, return the greeting. Sam gestures, with the hand that holds a GNB mug, toward an empty chair, place already set. Barney, at the coffemaker -that's his job here, in the mornings; making the coffee- grabs a second mug, fills it and turns to offer it to Robin, his smile wide.
Her fingers slacken. Her shoes drop to the ground. His collar is open, tie loose about his neck, and he has a toaster pastry in his mouth. A whole one, with white frosting and sprinkles on it. She sinks into her chair with a whimper. This is going to be a long week.