Disclaimer: I don't own HIMYM, I'm making no money off this and that term paper isn't writing itself. So don't sue me, I'm clearly not getting anything out of this.
A/N: This story has been in the wings since Cobie really started showing—which sounds kinda morbid considering what this story is about—and tonight's episode reminded me of it, so I dug it out and finished it. Future Fic, Barney/Robin established relationship, subject matter of a sensitive nature.
--
To Barney's credit, he sits with her in the waiting room. He takes Robin's hand when they sit down on one of the overstuffed couches; she looks down at their hands at the unfamiliar display of public affection. Or maybe its just for support (for him? For her? Robin can't really say at this point). She feels awkward, holding hands with him—it feels juvenile, somehow, after all the things they've done together—it's the only point of contact between them, the only breach in the space keeping them apart.
The waiting room is too bright, bright blue walls and white ceiling tiles and alternating white-pink square of linoleum on the floor. The news is playing on the little TV mounted to the wall behind the receptionist's desk. There are piles of magazines on some of the end tables that divide the waiting room, others have plants that look as real as the boobs on the receptionist. Robin leans back in place and Barney shifts with her, keeps their hands together.
-
The doctor comes out at random intervals and calls women in. There were a few other women sitting in the waiting room before they walked in, another one has walked in since they arrived. There are other guys too. One of them is reading a National Geographic; another one is staring at his shoes, none of them look comfortable (next to her Barney is tense and jittery, his leg bouncing up and down, his Armani shoes squeaking a little on the linoleum floor). There's the pinched look on more than one face, one that falls somewhere between scared shitless and constipated.
Her stomach hurts like she hasn't eaten in days and all she really wants is to tell him that they can do this later; that all she really wants right now is Papaya King instead.
She wants to open her mouth and say something but the only person talking in the room is the broadcaster from channel 4 and she doesn't want to be the one to go first. It's not like Robin knows what to say anyway.
-
They don't want kids. They talked about it back before they were even together (together, like when he was sitting on the bathroom floor waiting for the minute hand on his watch to move and he said, "Whatever you decide, I'm here," and Robin realized she never doubted him when he promised her something). They don't want kids like they don't want wedding rings and suburbia and B&B anniversaries.
They're happy with what they have: laser tag marathons and cigar bars, teasing Ted and Marshall for being girls and their shared moral ambiguity. Late nights out and the mornings after sleeping them off, being bros, being together, being Robin and Barney. Kids—sticky jam fingers and fears of clowns and overpriced copy-right cartoon stuffed animals some other little kid in Armenia put together—just weren't for them.
So, when the pink plus sign showed up on the little white stick there wasn't really anything to talk about.
-
Barney hands her a pen from the inside of his suit jacket to fill out the paperwork the receptionist handed her when they came in (its one of those heavy fountain pens that always feels too clunky in Robin's hand). She signs, initials, dates. Makes sure she's dotted all her is and crossed all the ts. He offers to take the clipboard back to the receptionist; lets go of her hand before she answers. When he comes back he tells her the doctor will be calling her shortly, still too serious for anyone's good.
He sits down again and she leaves her hand palm up in her lap, waits to see whether he'll take it again. He does and something in her unwinds, just a little.
-
The doctor mispronounces Robin's last name when she calls her in. She says Scherbatsky with a long a in the middle. She moves to stand up and Barney doesn't let go of her hand. For a second, Robin's afraid he's not going to let go—its always surprised her, how clingy he can be, he spends so much time pretending to be above needing anything outside himself. Even now, they both wrap themselves up in bawdy humor and eccentricities to keep words like commitment from being spoken too loudly—because he's looking at her with a grave kind of determination that makes her chest hurt. She thinks this is the sort of moment where one of them should say everything is going to be all right but Robin doesn't know whether that's true or not.
-
When she comes out he tells her the cab is waiting downstairs (she wonders how long its been waiting but doesn't ask, just nods and takes her coat from him).
He helps her down the long blue hallway, keeps his hand on her arm in the elevator, doesn't stop touching her except to open the cab door for her and then again when he gets in himself.
The backseat smells like cigarette smoke and sweat and she leans against him, presses her face into the dark pinstriped material of his suit to get away from the smell. Barney smells like All Spice and whatever it is the dry cleaners use on his suits and Robin's eyes burn. He tenses for a moment, his anxiety and apprehension bleeding unchecked onto the backseat. Either of them tries to say anything after Barney gives the cabbie the directions. She's beginning to feel the cramping the doctor warned her about going in but there's no laughing gas here to dull it with. She feels tired and strange, she thinks she should feel empty, different, but she doesn't. Mostly Robin feels relieved and she wonders whether that makes her a terrible person.
Carefully Barney shifts, drops his arm around her shoulders and just keeps it there. He's warm and she presses further into him, puts her head on his shoulder even though the angle does nothing for her neck. Robin reaches for his free hand and slides their ring less fingers together. Barney holds on.
-
The End