Why am I so emotional?
No it's not a good look; gain some self-control
And deep down I know this never works
But you can lay with me so it doesn't hurt
Oh, won't you stay with me?
'Cause you're all I need
This ain't love, it's clear to see
But darling stay with me
-Sam Smith, Stay With Me
6.15- Oh, Honey
Barney wishes he'd met Honey randomly in the bar, not as Zoey's cousin. She's so dumb she'd have bought any play he'd run on her, even the Ghost of Leonardo Di Caprio. So now that the booth's empty apart from himself and Honey, and he can tell that she's into him, he's having some fun inventing outlandish lies.
"So there's a Nobel Prize for achievement in running airlines?" Honey asks, moving seats to sit beside him.
"Yeah," Barney drawls, "They invented it for me, cos Stinson Airways had won every other airline prize. Even the ones in Europe,"
"Wow," she gasps, rubbing a hand down his thigh. It doesn't take more than another ten minutes until they're kissing in the booth, and Honey's asking if he wants to go back to her place, and then they're out of the sidewalk waiting for a cab with Barney's arm firmly around her. And there's more making out and perhaps a little more in the taxi.
"Would you like a drink?" Honey asks, once they're upstairs in her apartment.
"You got any wine in the fridge?"
He mentions the fridge specifically because she'll have to bend down, giving him an excellent view down her already low-cut neckline. Honey pours them both a glass, and Barney deploys the classic, "Nice place- can I take a look around?" line, ensuring that two minutes they're in her bedroom (Barney rather likes the red colour scheme she's got going on). Honey plugs her iPod into her speakers, slinks over to him with those ginormous, innocent-but-dirty eyes fixed on his.
"D'you wanna dance?" she asks silkily.
Dancing's always been Barney's favourite kind of foreplay (well, clothed foreplay) so he doesn't need asking twice. Between kisses, she pets him and fondles his tie, while Barney trails his free hand around her shoulders down her ribcage to her waist and hip, murmuring increasingly dirty nothings against her neck. He's always loved how his voice drops an octave when he's turned on. Honey giggles, thumbs his ear and bites her bottom lip while giving his a long, hungry look. Barney wonders if she'd buy it if he told her this was his first time. Not now obviously- nothing kills a mood like 'Hey, I'm a virgin', but he'll try it later. In the meantime...
"Whose your daddy?"
She breaks eye contact, giggles again, strokes his tie and snuggles a little closer to him. Meeting Barney's gaze, Honey retorts, "Whose your daddy?"
It's like she's thrown a bucket of ice at him.
"I don't kn-o-o-o-o-oow!"
Barney doesn't cry often, and he can't remember the last time he burst into tears like his. Almost immediately he's crumbling onto the bed and his cheeks are damp and he can hardly talk for choking. Honey's asking what's wrong and Barney's tumbling over his reply, and she's wrapping a blanket around him and running her fingers through his hair which feels nice and she says she'll make him a cup of tea. He wants to tell her that he doesn't care about tea and he doesn't want her to leave him, even only for the kitchen- but he's crying too much to speak. Whimpering, Barney rocks himself back and forth while he waits for Honey to come back. If she comes back- people have a habit of not coming back for Barney Stinson. When she reappears Barney breathes a sigh of relief, and shoves his hip-flask at her. Obediently, Honey laces his tea.
"What's wrong baby, what's wrong?"
He hiccups a couple of times, takes a gulp of tea and begins, "My dad...he wasn't there...I thought he was my uncle and he went away when I was six and he never came baaaack!" he wails, "And Marshall's dad died and everyone was talking about their dads and everything so I asked my mom- I asked for his address and she gave it to me, so I wrote him a letter...and I poured my heart out! And I gave him my number and I told him to call me- and he still hasn't called me!"
Barney crumples into his tea, sobbing.
"Oh, honey," says Honey, and it's only than that Barney realises she's been touching his back and his hair this whole time. Oh yeah- they were in the middle of something, weren't they? She's leaning over towards him so Barney sneaks a glance at her boobs. There's nothing chicks love more than a vulnerable, broken man they think they can heal.
"I mean, I shouldn't be surprised," he gasps, "Clearly he wants nothin' to do with me,"
"Oh, honey," she repeats.
"I mean," Barney continues, but gets stuck on the word, "Why else would he let thirty years go by?"
Honey combs a hand from Barney's fringe down his hair, stroking the back of his head. It reminds him of Mom slightly- wait, what? That's not the way round this should be working!- and he splutters, "He's ashamed to have me as a son!"
Barney doesn't know what's true and what he's exaggerating, he only knows that Honey needs to keep touching him, and preferably touching him naked.
"Oh honey, he's not ashamed of you- he's ashamed of himself," Honey explains. Barney doubts that that's true, but he plays along anyway, vindictively sneering that his father has "only three" Nobel Prizes. Except he doesn't. Jerome Whittaker doesn't have any Nobel Prizes. The only memories Barney has of him are thirty years ago as a wild roadie, and everything else is a question mark. There's nothing he wants more in the whole world than for Jerry to reply to that letter.
...well, until Honey shuffles closer to him on the bed, and Barney decides that actually there's nothing he wants more in the whole world than to be screwing her. Tenderly, Honey takes his face in her hands and kisses the tears from his eyelashes. Then she puts her mouth on his and her arms round his shoulders, and they're making out slowly while one of her hands rubs his neck.
She lets him do everything he wants to her that night (although only hand stuff in the morning), and Barney can't help but leave considering that The He-Still-Hasn't-Called-Me could be the basis for a Play some day.
Well, perhaps.