Barney opens the silver briefcase and takes out a single glass vial. The liquid in the vial is colourless, odourless and tasteless. It is virtually undetectable using a standard chemical analysis and, if swallowed, is absolutely fatal to a human being in sixty seconds. Its safer than a gunshot, although the briefcase does contain a Smith and Wesson 9mm semi-automatic just for good measure.
A gunshot can go wrong. No matter how determined or scared you are, the human instinct for survival can queer the angle, make you shoot out half your jaw instead of your brain. And a guy with half a jaw can still be tortured into revealing secrets.
Altrucell never did anything by halves.
Barney sits in the darkness, in the quiet of his apartment, and he contemplates the glass vial.
It's incredible how quickly Robin got under his skin. Five years of fighting and crying and loving and awesome sex and she'd wormed her way into each and every aspect of his life. She was his best friend, his soul mate, his compass. She was his one true love.
He'd never promised her forever, but he'd never expected her to leave, either.
Barney closes his eyes, tight, against the wave of pain. It is muted now, due to the quart of Scotch he'd knocked back that past hour. He supposes he should call someone - Ted and his wife? Marshall and Lily? But they'll find out soon enough. He doesn't want to upset them.
Why did Robin have to leave him?
Barney supposes this is selfish. He knows what people would say - plenty more fish in the sea, soldier on, etc - but it has take him ten years to find that one fish and five years to become completely dependent on her.
Not that you'd have known from the outside. He's pretty sure that Ted would say they were the most independent co-dependent couple in history.
Perhaps he should berate himself for smothering her? Perhaps it was his fault that he's alone now? He's kind-of sure that it is his fault.
Carefully, trying to anticipate his alcohol-numbed reactions, Barney breaks the seal on the glass and quickly chugs it back. Then he snaps the briefcase shut and lies back on the floor.
He can already feel it, his brain numbing, his heart slowing. It doesn't hurt.
He wonders...
He can already feel it, his lungs suspending his last breath in the back of his throat, his optic nerve dying. It doesn't hurt.
He wonders...
He can barely feel it, his brain still alive, just, as his body shuts down. It doesn't hurt.
He wonders if it hurt when the car hit her.
He hopes Robin didn't suffer when she died in his arms.