Nice Dream
Ted slings his arm across your shoulder, uncomfortably comforting, the shirt-covered arm landing companionably around the back of your neck.
He's talked and rambled of romance and super-dates, one finger raised because he's firm of purpose. He's determined to repeat and repeat his hopeless quest, to persuade you that there's more to dating than the end game. You both have roles to play in this dance and yours is to scoff at him, while Ted's is to keep on trying.
Ted raises his voice, squeezing your shoulder at the pinch point, and you try your best to stay in control. You shake your head in denial as you catch the eye of the hottie at the bar. With one last verbal attempt to quell him, you know that you're losing the struggle. But you fight the tide that's drawing you in, you fight so damn hard because there are layers, and layers upon layers, covering up the tiny spark that Ted lights inside you. And when those big brown eyes get wistful and he gazes out into the middle distance at a perfect reality that only he can see, you find yourself giving in to him.
You find yourself seeing it too.
Trouble is, in your fantasy, it's you and him that he's talking about. There is no Anita. There is no future-wife for Ted. And it's not like you don't want those things, but this is exactly what a fantasy should be. Anita and Ted's quest for the perfect woman, both belong to the cold, stark brutality of the real world. They have no place in your dream.
You are Barney Stinson, and it scares you how quickly you get sucked in.
Ted talks so eloquently, spinning the details and the colours and the textures of that dream. He talks of crisp, cool champagne and a ride in a horse and carriage, and you can practically feel the bubbles bursting on your tongue. He describes a delicious, delectable meal, and you can actually smell it, and visualize the very pretentious (very Ted) restaurant, where the waiters reveal your food from under silver platters with a flourish. Then the two of you are skating at sundown, and the icy air fills your lungs while fat snowflakes fall gently around you.
Unable to leave it at that, the showman in Ted bursts free and you believe that you're in an opera box, then watching fireworks sputter and fill the skyline with tiny showers of silver-pink and gold.
"You kiss her," Ted says, and you're so wrapped up in his words that for a moment you don't hear the pronoun, all you hear is the verb. You sigh, very quietly, because all you want is for Ted to take your hand, flesh and blood, and pull you close. When you stare out into the middle distance, you become a part of the dream. And sure, the dream is gooey and romantic; it's Ted's dream.
You are Barney Stinson and it scares you how much you want to be a part of it.
Still, it's you that breaks the spell, because Ted glances over at you, unwilling to meet your eye but kind of embarrassed at the smile he's put on your face. He so rarely sees that smile, that genuine smile. The smile that blossoms naturally out of gentle happiness. He sees you grin, sees you smirk, sees you gloat. But smile?
Ted looks over at you and he turns inward, betraying a fraction of panic.
It's you that coughs "strip club", suggesting a different kind of fantasy, a more socially acceptable dream. You're Barney Stinson and Ted Mosby and you like naked chicks.
But what warms the black, arid centre of your heart isn't gyrating women wearing little to no clotheing. No, it's the taste of champagne bubbles on your tongue and the look of hope in Ted's soft brown eyes.
You know you can never have that dream for yourself and the one you love, which is why you give that dream to Robin and Don instead.