Natural History
He's great at compartmentalising - then from now, past from future - putting everything into little, manageable boxes and hiding them carefully away.
But still the memories intrude. They flicker and dance on a screen projected onto the back of his skull, like a series of still photographs, in faded sepia. It was such a long time ago, but at the same time it's all so clear.
Now he knows.
Barney Stinson knows, with a cold, clear certainty, that Jerry is his Dad. His father, that nebulous, shapeless ideal made flesh. Not like Bob Barker was, kind of a game, an insurance against the cruel realities of his life. No, his real father, the one who was always a possibility, always a hope. Even when James found Sam, Barney hadn't really wanted to know the truth because he wanted to protect that somehow, keep that hope alive that his Dad could be the best, most awesome Dad in the world.
The truth...
Now it seems so obvious that Barney feels like a fool. It's all he can do not to twitch and spasm and fall down onto his knees from the weight of it.
That's the now. That's the thing he has to separate from the before.
Because before was perfect. Before was him and Robin playing around at the museum, competing, finally finding their groove after months in the wilderness and weeks of missteps (mostly from him). Before was her smile and her bright eyes and that dress and more than that, more than anything physical, before is the feeling he gets behind his ribs when she thinks he's worth her time.
He'd sworn off feelings for ten years. Now he can't get enough of them.
When Robin leaves him alone at the table he feels her loss acutely, thinks she's abandoned him because he just got too real on her. Because he told her he didn't want to talk about it.
It's what he does to her, after all. It's what he's done to her a hundred times. But no, Robin returns a few minutes later while he's still wallowing in shameful self-pity and watching Ted dance with that Zoey chick. Robin returns because she's lifted a bottle of scotch from somewhere – he has no idea where. He'd never underestimate that particularly Scherbatskian trait of awesomeness.
"Thought you could use it," she says, pouring him a slug with a half smile, almost like she's embarrassed to be caught doing something nice for him. He gets that. He gets the need to push the other way so as not to draw attention to your Bro's pain. She could have done a thousand other things than try to ease his pain. She could have abandoned him.
There's that word again. Abandonded.
Abandoned is such a strange word, he thinks, although it's like he's looking at his own train of thought from a distance. Maybe he's in shock? He takes a breath, tells himself that shock is for losers, and tries to smile. Then after knocking back the whiskey he holds out the glass for a refill.
His other hand, splayed on the table, is only an inch from hers. When she moves her little finger a fraction, it's just enough so that their fingertips touch, it sends a warmth through his gullet into his belly.
Or that could be the scotch.
For a moment he looks around the room with a child's eyes and the then bleeds into the now and it cuts him inside. As much as he hates to feel vulnerable, that's exactly what he was back then. He was just a kid trying to impress his cool uncle. Uncle Jerry, with that roguish smile and those sparkling blue eyes who, unaccountably, never spent any time with James.
Jerry, who Barney had sometimes heard yelling at his Mom, but they always made friends eventually. His Mom told him and his brother that's what families do. They fight sometimes, but then, when you really need them, all is forgiven. But Jerry never came back. He just went away.
He left him (abandoned him), a six year old kid who knocked down a blue whale. A kid who didn't know any better.
Robin's fingertips press against his and she nods, her face impassive. Supportive. He manages to relax. By inches, he manages to push everything back into the right box. Just the tiniest touch of her does that.
They fight sometimes, but now, when he really needs her, all is forgiven. They don't need words to understand that.
##-~~
Glitter
Robin's more than a little wasted when he drags her out of the Hoser Hut. "Nothing's ever black or white, Barney," she rages, missing her step on the sidewalk and almost sending him sprawling into the path of the cab that's pulling up to take them home.
She doesn't hold back because she knows can take it. Barney Stinson knows her, better than anyone else. And as much as she resents him for that sometimes, right now it's good to know that she can lash out, babble, say what every the hell she likes and he'll just take it. He'll save her from speeding cabs. He's her safety net.
She remembers (because drunk-Robin's brain is like that) the time he flew to Canada to find her on another occasion when she tried to drown her problems in alcohol.
"Nothing's that easy!" She says, pretty sure she's repeating herself, and she grits her teeth to bite back the sob as he helps her into the cab.
"Jeez, you make a belligerent drunk," Barney grumbles as she untangles her limbs from his and manages to slur her address at the driver. "All I said was that it's good to see you've buried the hatchet with your partner-in-porn!"
"We sang one song," Robin growls. "One freakin' song. Doesn't change anything. Yeah, it was good to see her, but-"
Again, her teeth clamp down, but this time she's not even close to tears. This time she's just angry, lost, teetering on the edge of despair. "You don't know," Robin forces the words out through her clenched jaw.
He doesn't know.
He doesn't know how sixteen-year-old Robin felt when Simon dumped her. How she'd turned to the only person in the world that she knew she could count on, the girl who was closer to her than her own sister. How she'd moved in with Jessica when Robin Sparkles music career had fizzled and she was faced with getting some kind of apprenticeship in journalism against the express wishes of her father.
Barney doesn't know what it felt like when Jessica met him, the guy she'd marry. Jesus, she can't even make herself think about it. It's like a hole in her life, a dark place that she ignores and hides and yet, perversely, sometimes draws strength from.
Maybe if Robin was a different person, she would have shared this with Barney before. Maybe when she'd seen the tape of him singing and bawling his heart out to his lost love, she'd have told him how it felt. Because she'd loved Jessica, but the idea of relationships and babies had seemed like a kind of betrayal, then it had become an actual betrayal. Jessica had gotten pregnant.
And Robin had done something stupid. She'd almost done something even more stupid. It had almost been the last stupid thing she'd ever done. She didn't blame Jessica for shutting her out after that.
When Robin looks over at Barney (there's two of him that drift and merge back into one), Robin becomes aware of how earnest he looks. Maybe he's not going to just throw out some line. Something like "when I feel suicidal, I just stop feeling suicidal and be awesome..."
Bastard.
"Hey!" He says.
She didn't even know she'd said that out loud. "There's just too much stuff to sort out in one night," Robin says, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, which comes back covered in mascara. Boy, she must look a mess. "There's too much history."
"Then you definitely should have had sex with her," Barney says with a yelp as Robin punches his arm. "After all, that's what I did."
Robin blinks. Her brain's working on quarter speed. She can't keep up.
"You know, with Shannon?" He prompts her.
And then Robin realizes that he gets it. "I missed Jessica," she blurts, "for so long. It scares me half to death to think I could have pushed Lily away too." She feels exhausted suddenly. Like even that tiny admission has drained her. It's scary, letting someone in. This is her secret, her private place. This is her weakness and she's sharing it with the guy who's most likely to exploit it.
But it's hard to read his expression because – hey – she's really drunk. Nevertheless, she takes his hand, misses, and squeezes his wrist. He looks over at her, startled, like he was just battling his own demons.
"No one wants to be alone," he says simply, and stretches out his arm so that she can slump against him.
Robin nods and breathes him in, a lungful of spice and scotch and comfort. "True that," she sighs.