The toilet seat is cold.
It's 6:03 in the morning – you know because Barney's arm is just in your line of vision and you've been staring as the second hand of his watch ticks off the minutes – and the toilet seat is freezing against your bare thighs.
You shift a little to ease the discomfort and wonder what the hell is going on. You can't quite muster the will to lift your head, because then you'll see Barney's face in front of you or that little device responsible for all this sitting innocently by the sink. So you stare and listen to that faint tick-tick-tick and don't think about anything else.
Suddenly your focus is gone and you blink. Barney lifts his arm out of your sight, lets out a long sigh, and drops it back in front of you. "Whatever you want to do, I can pay for it," he says. It's the first thing either of you have said since he opened the door and sat across from you on the edge of the bathtub.
What he says is a fact rather than an ever-so-gracious offer, so you numbly nod and keep your eyes on the tick-tick-tick of his watch and make no argument. His voice was barely above whisper, but now that he's spoken, the silence is too much to take. The second hand rounds the twelve again and you blurt out, "I don't want to have kids," because it's Barney and you don't have to pretend to be anything other than scared as hell.
He doesn't respond, only pushes his heels back against the tub as if fighting a strong urge to bolt and get the hell out of dodge, and the silence is still oppressive. The watch counts off the last torturous minute before you speak again. "It's time," you breathe, but you don't budge from your seat.
Barney waits a moment for you to move, then slowly reaches past you and picks up the test. You finally lift your chin enough to see his face. His expression is unreadable, but his shoulders slump as the tension leaves them, and he wordlessly holds the test out to you.
You look down. A single dark line.
Negative.