Disclaimer: I wish I owned the awesomeness that is Barney and Robin, but I don't.
A/N 3/1/09: Made a few changes...decided this worked better in present tense. Hope you enjoy!
Things Remembered
Damn, damn, damn.
Where are they?
Robin tosses a pair of last summer's ballet flats over her shoulder and keeps digging in the bottom of her closet. When did she wear them last? Not since a series of winter storms clothed the New York sidewalks in permaslush. She doesn't usually get prissy about her wardrobe, but she's not going to slip and slide to the subway in $600 boots.
A sudden flashback: she and Barney, returning to his place in the wee hours, slightly the worse for wear after celebrating an epic Laser Tag victory at the cigar bar. They started undressing each other in the elevator, and then…well, let's just say the peephole on Barney's front door? Unexpectedly sharp!
She couldn't find the boots the next morning (actually, it was about two hours later), and ran out to the studio in her usual sweats-and-pumas combo. A week later, everything between she and Barney melted down in a blur of snapping accusations and comfort binging, and expensive footwear was the last thing on her mind.
Until now. When she wants to wear them again (the skies are clear, for once, and besides, she's totally taking a cab). For her dinner date. With Don.
A little thrill of anticipation runs through her. He's been so duck-y lately. Here's a guy who can admit he isn't 100-percent, gold-plated awesome—and he's willing to make changes. For her. Changes that don't, apparently, cause him to gain fifty pounds in two weeks.
So she feels like she owes him a little special effort. Hence the boots, with their classy/possible dominatrix vibe.
She checks her watch: 4:55. They're meeting at the ridiculously early (for New York) hour of 6:00; Robin is finding that she can't keep her eyes open much past nine anymore. And that 3:30am alarm, in the dead-winter darkness? Brutal. Especially because "Professor Mosby" doesn't have a class until 10:00am this semester. (Ted's taken to introducing himself this way since "Teddy Westside" didn't catch on. Robin protests, "Dude, you've already bagged the one chick in Manhattan with a tweed fantasy"—to no avail. The "Professor" is convinced that the gravitas of his title will start reeling them in. Any day now.)
The boots have to be at Barney's—somewhere. His apartment is on the way to the restaurant. She has just enough time; Barney won't be back from the office yet.
She's never gotten a key to his place (duh—why not just sign up for the bridal registry and be done with it?), but Magda will, she thinks, let her in. Magda is Barney's German housekeeper, or, as Barney calls her, "my precision cleaning machine." In her gunmetal-gray uniform, she always reminds Robin of Rosie from the Jetsons: kinda robotic, but if you look carefully, you'll see a sparkle of humor in her silver eyes.
She's out the door five minutes later.
Damn, damn, damn.
He left the invitation on his dresser.
Now it will be an extra forty-five minutes before the fine ladies at the New Amsterdam Ball have a chance at Barney Stinson, Laureate of Legendary. He planned to leave straight from the bank; had his office tux pressed (uh, yeah, he kept one at the office—who knew when you were going to be called upon to escort an up-and-coming starlet on the red carpet? OK, hadn't happened yet, but still), shoes shined, yada yada.
But he needs that damn invite.
Since the Superbowl debacle, Barney has decided to become more selective in his conquests—and at the same time, more methodical. He's made a list of professions he considers challenging, including astronaut, minor European royalty, and racecar driver ("hot bartender": that box was checked, baby!). He almost puts "CIA agent" down, but thinks that MI6 girls are likely to be hotter (Diana Rigg? Uh-huh.)
"New York blue blood" is number seven on the list, and he's ready for action. But security at this event is likely to stymie the most targeted charm offensive; if the White House had bouncers half this good, the Salahis would've been out on their expensive asses instead of chatting up Barack.
Barney wonders briefly if it will be worth the effort. Even an Astor or a Rockefeller will ultimately just be a name on his list. (Now standing at 217. Thanks for playing.) Maybe what he really needs is…
Good God! He whips out his BlackBerry, texting to his iPhone: STOP. TEDDING. OUT!
Besides, tonight is the perfect night for f—…uh, flirting and forgetting. Robin's finally agreed to go out with that patsy, Don. Give me a break, he thinks. This is a guy who, until just recently, couldn't be bothered to wear PANTS at work! And worse, he paraded his total sartorial apathy in…ugh…tightie whities. (Bro Code article LXV, Sec. 2(b): "Bros shall never, even when faced with laundry crises, clothe their manly parts in white cotton briefs. Boxers: highly recommended, particularly silk or cashmere from LaPerla [of course they have a men's line, you Philistines!]; Bikinis: Acceptable if you are a EuroBro, or rock a well-defined six-pack. G-strings: Approved for use only in RPF.")
Barney shakes his head. It's sad to see Robin come down in the world this way, but hey, it doesn't have to affect him. With renewed determination, he "tuxes up" and grabs his keys. There's nothing for it—he'll have to swing by the apartment.
"Guten tag, Magda!" Robin calls through the door. "It's me, Robin!"
It takes a few seconds before the door opens. "Abend," says the older woman.
"Right—I guess it's a little late for 'good day,' huh?" During her brief relationship with Barney, Robin really tried to master the basic German pleasantries, but she never got very far. Barney, of course, could chat fluently with the housekeeper, often scoring a stifled chuckle and an "Oh, Herr Stinson!" out of her.
"I left some boots here last month. Can I run back and check Barney's closet?"
Robin is weighed in Magda's forceful gaze, and apparently found passable. Magda nods shortly, opening the door to Barney's dressing room with one of the several keys attached to her belt.
It's been awhile, Robin thinks, as she steps inside. She glances over the rows upon rows of suits, the drawers that she knows carry neat ranks of socks and underwear, the highly-polished shoes lined up with military precision. No boots.
Of course, it's possible that Barney got rid of them in a fit of post-relationship anger…but no. He never seemed broken up about their breakup, only relieved. And, even if he had indulged in a moment or two of private grief (Robin finds this thought a little comforting), she knows he would have too much respect for the boots' style and craftsmanship to harm them in any way.
No, they have to be here…but where?
She makes her way to the very back of the room, where a tall corner cabinet is almost totally concealed by a rack of sports clothes (Barney likes to be prepared—even has a pair of jodhpurs). She stands there for a moment, considering the tiny electronic lock embedded in the door.
Only Barney knows the password. And he changes it weekly. Robin thinks that it was "Sparkles" at one point, but surely not anymore… On impulse, she touches her finger to the "7" on the keypad, and the door swings open.
Her boots are on the middle shelf. One of them had fallen forward and the black leather must've caught in the door, jamming the lock.
Score! She grabs the boots and the door starts to shut. At the last second, she sticks out a finger and catches it before it can latch. Curiosity (the one that killed the cat) pricks her: what else is Barney storing in there?
Robin thinks back to the first time she saw the cabinet. She had her gun in her purse, and wanted somewhere safe to put it.
"Just a sec," Barney said, dashing back to the dressing room. Robin shrugged, pulling up Lost on the DVR.
"Found a spot!" he called, a few minutes later. After opening the cabinet for her, he lay the gun on one of the velvet-lined upper shelves.
"Um, Barney? How come there's nothing else in here?"
He waved her question off. "That cabinet's been empty for years—what've I got that needs to be locked up?" She raised an eyebrow. "Well, yeah—but all that stuff's in fireproof boxes in GNB's panic room."
I wasn't talking about that stuff, she thought, as they passed by a suspiciously bulging duffel bag.
Back in the present, Robin opens the door…somewhat nervously. What if Barney has some really weird fetish? (No, she means really weird—like voodoo, or antique toilet plungers, or something.)
As Robin's eyes travel up the shelves, her face grows hot. She reaches out to touch them, one by one: a crazy hat she recognizes from Ted's 31st birthday; a towel bearing the logo of the Vermont B&B where they stayed in the Honeymoon Suite; the tiny slip of paper reading "boyfriend and girlfriend" they wrote under duress; two DVDs: Robin's video resume, and a copy of "Sandcastles"—how the hell did he get that?; even the mini-sombrero that capped Barney's margarita at the Worst Night Ever.
And a crumpled-looking paper bag.
As she pulls it out, something inside clanks. Handcuffs, she thinks with a wry smile, remembering a very adult game of cops'n'robbers. Tipping the bag, she shakes the contents out into her hand.
"Robin, wait!"
She jumps about a mile, inadvertently clenching the object she holds in her hand.
Les joues sont fait.
Or, in the charming patois of his boyhood home: Shit on a stick.
He watches as she examines each memento, turning them over, putting them back. Maybe if he tiptoes, stealthily, backward, she'll never know he was here. She'll be free to draw her own conclusions about the cabinet and its contents…but at least she can't confront him.
And then she tips the bag over.
Crap. That's gonna—
"Ouch!" she yelps, as china shards rain onto the cedar floor.
She turns, sucking on her bloodied finger. In three quick steps, he's across the room, pocket square at the ready. Gently, he wraps her finger in it—the cut doesn't look too deep, thank God—and they stand there, looking at each other, really looking, for the first time in weeks.
"Barney—what the hell?" Robin asks weakly.
"Hey, baby, I keep a souvenir from every erotic interlude. Needed a lot of souvenirs for you." It's on the tip of his tongue, to laugh it off, to fall back on his manwhore persona so she won't see his pain.
But he's still holding her hand—and she's still letting him.
"I miss you." Wait, what? No, no—"I mean, I miss doing—"
She interrupts him. "You kept the plate I threw at you?" Her eyes are shining a little. "I think that might be the most romantic gesture ever."
He swallows hard, as she lifts her good hand to touch his cheek. "I miss you too."
Then all is (mostly) quiet. Behind them, Magda silently shuts the dressing room door, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips.
THE END
A few notes:
1. LaPerla does have a men's line; sadly, they don't carry silk or cashmere boxers. If they did, Barney would so own several pairs.
2. Bro Code Article LXV, Sec. 2(b)? I made it up. But I wouldn't be at all surprised if there's an Underwear Manifesto somewhere in the Bro Code.
3. Oh, and number one on Barney's "Most Challenging Professions" list? "Former teen pop star-turned-local news anchor." :)
Thanks so much for reading...reviews very much appreciated!