Robin Scherbatsky-Stinson has been married for precisely seventeen minutes and forty-five seconds, not that anybody is counting. She and her husband -her husband- are breathless and giddy, hiding in a church supply closet, muffling their laughter with ardent marital kisses. Marital kisses, she has decided, are much, much better than the other kinds. Only kind she wants from now on, as a matter of fact. Voices of friends and family members pass outside the door. There's no need to differentiate whether said family members are hers or his, because there are no longer any such designations. No more his, no more hers, only theirs, united in the search for the errant newlyweds.
That's them. They're married now. Married. She'd had no idea how hot that was going to be until it actually happened. They're going to be in trouble, taking off like this. That much is clear. This wasn't in the plan. What they were supposed to do, what Lily had informed them in no uncertain terms that they were going to do, or else, was wait outside the sanctuary, thank everybody, one by one, for coming to share their special day with them, then the next round of pictures, then the reception. That was the plan, but Barney had looked at her, lifted one eyebrow, tilted his head, and the next thing she knew, they were running. Down the hall, around the corner, up a flight of stairs. He'd tried two different doors before this one opened, and here they were, her arms looped around his neck, his arms about her waist, mouths melded, the scents of chalk and disinfectant stronger than her bouquet or his cologne.
Barney's fingers fumble with the closure on the back of her gown. He curses under his breath. "This has to be the most un-bangable wedding dress of all time." He tugs at the straight skirt where it hugs Robin's hips. It doesn't budge.
"Like you have experience with wedding dresses."
"Bridesmaids," he offers, in a voice that's half confidence, half indignant whine. "That's almost the same thing." The skirt really isn't moving. He leans back against a metal shelf with a sigh. "This isn't fair. We're married. We are legally and morally allowed, nay, commanded, to bang whenever and wherever we choose, and we're foiled by a dress." He spits out the last word like it tastes bad. "How many buttons does this thing have?"
She slides her hands down his chest and rolls his lapels between her fingers. "Eighteen." His heart beats beneath her touch. She's as eager as he is for their first time as husband and wife. It wouldn't take long. "Plan B. You get me out of the entire dress and hang it from one of those hooks behind you. We consummate the crap out of this marriage. You get me back into the dress. We rejoin our loved ones and make sure our reception makes Marshall and Lily's reception look like your grandma's Tupperware party. Think you can do that?"
He turns her around, fingers already on the first of eighteen buttons. "Challenge accepted."