This chapter's been completely rewritten and I'm proud of this new version, so I hope you enjoy it.

Father, you left me

But I never left you.

I needed you

You didn't need me

-John Lennon, Mother

6.19- Legendaddy

He's blond.

That's the first thing Jerry notices.

Tall, too- not as tall as Jerry himself is, but probably pushing 6"1. He's wearing a grey suit and a white shirt and a navy tie. Blue eyes, very blue eyes. Piercing. Like his Mom. He's handsome, anyone can see that. Always was a pretty child.

Barney sways momentarily, gives Jerry a strange and slightly disdainful look, lowering one eyebrow, and turns to the room. That's when Jerry notices the group of people on the couch. But he knows that none of them are Barney. When you're faced with your son, you know it. Perhaps Barney too can sense that he's standing in front of his father.

Barney stage-whispers something to the group, but Jerry isn't listening. He looks at the back of his son's head, where he the top of his ears stick out pixie-ishly, and his hair's darker than it is on his fringe. Jerry vaguely remembers ruffling Barney's hair when he was a child. Could have done it a thousand more times in the last thirty years.

But he hasn't.

Barney turns back, looks Jerry up and down- sizing him up, perhaps.

"Barney, I-" Jerry begins, and it sounds strange. He hasn't said the name out loud in years. Hasn't said it to the boy that name belongs to in decades. The nerves Jerry's been feeling all the way from Westchester bubble up again, and he thinks they might catch in his throat. He holds the envelope up, and that seems to help jolt the words out. "I got your letter,"

The blue eyes look at the envelope and then back up to Jerry and go wide. Barney's right eyebrows twigs, and then something else changes on his bony face- Jerry isn't sure what it is but it makes him want to hug him, step forward and hold his son so tight. But he knows he won't do it. He thinks with his head. It's years- well, more than thirty years- since he was driven primarily by his heart. The confused-looking blond boy in front of him is the result of that. Barney's face has frozen for a moment but then Jerry hears him speak, in a quiet voice like when he was making his aside to his friends but with none of the smile.

"Dad?"

It's the first time he's ever called him that, and it prickles Jerry's heart.

"Yeah,"

Barney only has one rule: No matching sweaters. And Jerry's family in the photo are beaming up in their wearing matching Christmas sweaters, looking lamer than Ted on his own at the Renaissance Fayre. In fact Jerry is, well, lame. When James met Sam a few months ago, Sam was the one who opened the door and James was the one who knew who he was. This time, Barney had opened the door and it was his father who knew who he was. Sam was chilled and sweet. Jerry's awkward. Sam and James clicked- that's why it hurt, watching them, because Barney knew that he didn't click with Sam like James did. But Barney doesn't click with Jerry either. He's slow and grey. He doesn't feel like Barney's father. Barney's father should be cool and rich and womanising, and Jerry's none of those. And the worst part is that he was- he was a freakin' roadie who let Barney sit on ZZ Top's knee! He'd met the Rolling freaking Stones! It had hurt when Barney found out that Uncle Jerry was in fact his father- but it had been cool, at least. Nearly as cool as Bob Barker. But Jerry Whittaker isn't anything like he was on July 23rd 1981, and the times Barney saw him before that. He's nervy and bald and floundering and not, not the kind of guy who should be the father of the great Barney Stinson. Barney isn't sure if he's supposed to feel let down by this, but he does. Oh, and Jerry's got his own family know. Fantastic.

And they wear matching sweaters.

"Look, I gotta get goin', Jerry," Barney says, voice squeaking slightly, "But, ah, this was great," he adds, dropping a couple of tens on the table and barely bothering to make his voice sound sincere, "Glad we did this,"

And he leaves through the MacLaren's doorway without looking back.

Cheryl's at the door as soon as she hears Jerry's key in the lock.

"How did it go?" she asks nervously, opening it. Her husband enters the house with slumped shoulders.

"Not too good,"

"Aw, really, honey?"

"Yeah,"

Jerry sits down on the couch and rubs his face tiredly.

"How come?" Cheryl asks. Was Jerry's son angry? Unforgiving?

"The last time I saw him was when I was still a roadie- drink, drugs, women- and he expects me to still be like that,"

"He hasn't forgiven you for it?"

"No," Jerry replies, "The opposite! He hopes I'm still like that, he's built me up to be so cool and, and-" Jerry sighs sadly, and Cheryl rubs a comforting hand across his back, "I told him I was sorry for leaving him, but he wasn't even interested. He just wants me to be Mick Jagger,"

"What's he like?" Cheryl asks. He sounds a strange man.

"Like I was, kind of," Jerry admits, "Drinking scotch, going on about picking up women. Not married, and I doubt that there's' a girlfriend on the scene,". He and Cheryl discussed this the other nght- Barney didn't mention any significant others in his letter. "Though I guess he's not exactly like I used to be- he wears a suit and he's got a bunch of yuppie friends,"

"Well, you said that he wrote that works in a bank," Cheryl points out.

"He's snarky," says Jerry, "Doesn't seem to have much patience. He didn't with me anyhow. Goodlooking, though,"

Cheryl elbows him affectionately, "Like his dad,"

Jerry shakes his head and doesn't return her smile, "Nah, like his Mom,"

There's a pause. Cheryl's never met this Loretta, mother of her husband's son- though since Jerry told her years ago about his lovechild whom he stopped seeing in 1981, Cheryl's always wondered how the kid's mother got on.

"Did he mention his Mom?"

"No. I didn't want to ask,"

"What d'you think we should tell Carli and JJ?" Cheryl asks. Like her, the kids know that their father has an illegitimate child who he hasn't seen for years, but the subject almost never comes up- well, it hadn't until Jerry had received Barney's letter a few weeks ago.

"Well, I told him we'd like to have him over for dinner sometime," Jerry says.

"That be nice," says Cheryl. It'll be cool for JJ to have a big brother,"

"Yeah," Jerry sighs, but he doesn't sound convinced.

"I know I don't deserve it, but I need another chance to connect with my son," says Jerry forlornly. The gang looks at each other.

"We'll talk to him," says Lily.

"Can't promise anything though," Robin adds.

"Yeah, but you'll try,"

"Thanks you," says Jerry, "Here's my phone number. And address,". Awkwardly, he scribbles them down on a napkin. For a moment Ted thinks that Jerry's going to say something, but instead he smiles a weird ort of sad smile at them, and gets up the leave. His beige jacket is the sort of thing which would make Barney throw up, Ted reckons.

"Wait," says Marshall abruptly, standing up, "Look, I'm sorry things didn't go so great the other night. And I'm sorry if Barney was...well, honestly, trust us- your son's a good guy. Right, guys?"

Ted, Lily and Robin nod in agreement. Jerry smiles but it's even less convincing than his previous one. "Thanks,"

"Oh, cool," notes Ted, picking up the napkin Jerry wrote on, "He lives in White Plains near my house,"

"He lives in Ohio?" Robin asks.

"No, my house-house,"

"The death-trap of a house he bought after his Mom got married. That sensible and well-thought-out-decision," Lily elaborates.

"Great to know I have my friends' support," Ted mutters, "How d'you think we're gonna talk Barney into going to see his dad if their night together was that bad?"

"I can't believe he lied to us about it," sighs Lily, then corrects herself, "Okay, I totally can believe he lied to us about it. I didn't reckon he'd start clicking like that with his dad straight away,"

"Must be a let-down for Barney that Jerry's only some normal guy," says Ted, "Guess he built up his dad in his head more than any of us realised,"

"Ted, is it safe to walk inside your house's walls now?" interrupts Lily excitedly, snatching the napkin from him.

"Yeah, I got the front room fix-"

"Good, cos we're going there on Thursday,"

"We are?"

"Yup,"

"Aw, she's got a plan!" Marshall cheers.

"We tell Barney we're going there to check out the house, but actually it's so we can get him near to Jerry's place, and then we'll tell him he's got to dinner at Jerry's,"

"You think he'll go for that?" Robin asks.

"If there's one thing our gang can do, it's manipulate each other," Lily points out. She has, Ted admits, a very good point, "Then we drive him over to Jerry's and we spy through the windows to watch what happens!"

"That's what he'd do if it was one of us," Marshall concedes.

"Wait, hang on," interrupts Ted, "Don't we still have that Intervention banner somewhere..."

"Yeah, this Intervention isn't more me," Ted announces, "It's for you,"

"What? Why?"

What've I done this time? Barney wonders, the magic? The smoking? The argument about how many days in August?

"Your dad came to see us," says Lily, "And he wants to connect with you,"

"Li-

"He does,"

"I told you, we did connect. That dude's awesome!" Barney protests and God, he hates how pityingly they're all looking at him.

"Bro," says Ted quietly, "We met him. He told us what happened,"

"And he's sorry he's not the rockstar you wanted him to be- but he's still your dad," Lily insists, "We think you should give him another chance. That's the real reason we're out here. He lives ten minutes away,"

"What?"

"You're havin' dinner with him tonight," says Marshall very seriously.

"No I most certainly am not," Barney retorts, "Look, I met him- he's not my kind of bro, and that's that,"

Fine, so his friends know he was lying about how cool Jerry was. And they certainly know how cool Barney is, so they should understand that that's why him and Jerry aren't going to be friends. It was stupid to write to him. Barney's already got a father, and his name's Loretta. He just wants to put this whole business behind him and continue being awesome.

"Are you sure it's not more than that?" asks Robin and that's the last straw. Robin, who is more like himself than any person he's ever met, is nagging him to go and talk asparagus with some washed-up milk-drinking driving instructor. He thought Robin would understand at least, but she's like everyone else, Barney thinks bitterly, trying to make him get in touch with his feelings to make him do the 'right thing' or fix him. He thought she resisted and resented all that as much as he does.

"Guys, get it through your heads; I am never gonna talk to my dad again," Barney snaps.

He doesn't need the gang telling him what to do. It's his life. But then Marshall says something which stops him in his tracks.

"No, Barney. I'm never gonna talk to my dad again,"

He'd forgotten that.

"But your dad is alive and he lives just down the road,"

Marshall's dad's dead. Barney swallows. Marshall can't do anything with his dad ever again. The book's closed.

For Barney it isn't. For him and Jerry there's still a chance- although a chance of what he's got no idea. Barney's always believed that it's better to do something than not to do something- because if you didn't do it you never found out how it would be. And part of him thinks yeah, well I did do it, I met him once and it sucked and don't let them being all weepy talk me into it, but part of him thinks it isn't over and you could give it another go, and Marshall's dad is dead. Barney isn't sure of what is the bravest thing to do. He doesn't have much time for second chances second chances or making exceptions. But he does believe in fighting to the bitter end and not giving up. Jerry gave up on Barney, but maybe tonight Barney can prove that he's the bigger man by not giving up on Jerry.

Awkwardly, he pats Marshall on the arm.

"Fine. I'll go,"

So, he lets Lily tell him how great it is that he's giving this another shot, and gets in the car to drive over to Jerry's place. And surprise surprise, it's beige with rugs on the floor and pictures on the walls and trinkets on the mantlepiece. Yeah, cute. And Jerry's wife Cheryl is nervy like her husband, and Barney tries to think of a complement to return when she tells him she likes his suit, but all he can think of is how good a job his coat's doing covering up that nasty armchair situation. Barney mumbles through small-talk with Jerry and Cheryl, snarking away at them in his mind because he's not feeling anything. Anything. They're not going to sit at a piano together and sing Stand By Me (or whatever the white version of that is), and Jerry's not going to let slip something which proves that they're actually very similar. They're just not. But Marshall's dad's dead, Barney reminds himself, and your one isn't. There's no point you coming here if you're not going to try and let him connect with you. And when they go to the dinner table and Jerry takes out a faded Polaroid of him and Barney and ZZ Top, Barney can't help but smile. See, Jerry is trying at least, he tells himself, and then in a smaller voice, he is your dad.

"I do remember that. I climbed up on that dude's lap and told him what I wanted for Christmas". He was four years old. It had been an awesome day, tagging along with Uncle Jerry backstage. He had tried, hadn't he? Tried to be somebody in Barney's life. Given him a cool claim-to-fame anecdote about ZZ Top.

"Yeah, I used to love taking you backstage," smiles Jerry, taking the photo back off him to look at. Barney glances up at him. Take a few words out of that sentence and it's I used to love you. Take two more out and it's...

Jerry puts his hand on Barney's forearm- it's the first time in thirty years that his father's deliberately touched him. "You were the coolest little kid,"

Barney's face freezes. Coolest little kid. A little less of the little, please, but cool- he can't remember anyone ever calling him a cool kid. Jerry does care about him. Enough to find that photograph, enough to remember what a cool kid Barney had been, enough to tell him so. Jerry doesn't seem to be the best at saying stuff, so the fact that he's looking Barney in the eye telling him how much he loved spending time with him is...

Barney feels a nervous but genuine smile tremble on his lips.

And then the kid appears.

"Hi, Barney, it's great to finally meet you,"

Barney doesn't even look at him; he hears the chirpy, smarmy voice and dislikes the boy immediately. JJ's not the coolest little kid, Barney is. Okay? He'd only properly met his dad a few days ago, and it's literally half a second since he realised that Jerry needn't be a crazy coked-up metalhead to be his father. He can just, Barney whispers in his head, love me. Maybe.

"JJ I'm talkin' to Dad right now, God!"

"Come on, Jay, sit down," says Cheryl (Barney doesn't like her much either. She has such bad taste in couches that it might actually be hearing), "I'll serve dinner,"

She heaps food on the four plates, and Barney eyeballs the newcomer. Big ears, big eyes, dark hair. Not wearing a suit.

"Aw, no salad, Mom. I don't like salad,"

"Have some cucumber, Jay," Cheryl insists, "Barney, would you like salad?"

"I'd love salad, thanks Cheryl. Salad's my favourite. I love salad so much I took it out to meet ZZ Top,"

Cheryl looks confused. "Well then, you can have some extra. Milk?"

Jesus, they're all drinking milk.

"Do you happen to have any scotch?" Barney asks lightly.

"No, I'm sorry. We don't drin-"

"Sure, sure- how are you for gin?"

"I don't th-"

Barney sighs. "Have ya got a Sam Adams?"

"Ooh! There's some Coke in the basement!" Jerry remembers.

"And you said you were clean now," Barney jokes from the corner of his mouth.

"What?"

"Because it's Coke. Coca-Cola. And you used to take a different kind of coke,"

"Well, we don't talk about that side of Jerome's life," says Cheryl, then adds in a whisper which JJ can definately still hear, "Not in front of JJ,"

"Oh, right," says Barney loudly, "Because we don't talk about anything which happened in my dad's life before he met you. Because his perfect suburban life's erased all that. Because you'd rather not think of him doing drugs, or hanging out with rockstars, or having a son. Well guess what Aunt Bee- I'm not erased,"

He jabs a thumb at his chest and frowns at her. Quickly, Jerry says, "I hear your pal Ted's got a house near here,"

Barney smiles evilly when he notices Cheryl cast her husband a hurt glance for changing subject and not sticking up for her.

"Yeah, it's ten minutes down the road. He bought it last year and he's renovating it,"

"JJ helped repaint the bike shed at his school," says Jerry proudly.

"Did ya, kid? Good for you,". Barney tries to sound like he couldn't care less, but he can't help the snarl in his voice.

"And I'm taking a violin class this term," the kid pipes up.

Barney drops his fork.

"I can do A major scale, C major, D major and I'm gonna learn F minor,"

"We're sure getting our money's worth out of that violin," says Jerry, rolling his eyes and grinning good-naturedly at Barney. The knife drops to the table.

"He's- it's- his own violin,"

"It's from Rudy's on West 48th Street- d'you know it?"

"Oh, uh- yeah. No. Perhaps,"

Barney quickly picks up his cutlery, stares down at his plate and begins shovelling food into his mouth. So JJ's got his own violin, does he? When Barney's was only borrowed from his cousin? Cos JJ's so shiny and spoilt. Well if JJ thinks he's Dad's favourite, he's' got another thing coming.

Challenge accepted. Challenge so accepted.

"So, Barney, I understand you have a pretty big job with a bank?"

"Yeah, I do. I make a ton of money," Barney brags, making sure he looks Jerry in the eye, "How much do you make, JJ?"

The kid glances at his mom and mumbles, "I'm eleven,"

"Oh, well. Ho, now we all know you make excuses. I was talkin' about money,"

Cockily, Barney takes a bite off his fork. JJ has nothing on him.

"Actually JJ has a job. Tell him JJ," says Cheryl, patting her son's shoulder.

"I got a paper round," he kid nods.

Barney snorts. "Good time to get into print media! 'M I right, Dad?"

"Good slam, Barney!" cheers Jerry, and boy, does that make him feel a hundred feet tall. Cheryl chides her husband but Jerry brushes it off, and that makes Barney feel even more snug. See, he's my Dad. He's on my side, dweeb-o.

"Jerry's a heck of a basketball player," Cheryl says. Barney hates her clinical voice, but he hates the mention of basketball even more, because that's one of the things Mom lied to him about. Because he was no good at basketball. And JJ is? Fuck him.

"Ah, you don't strike me as the athletic type, Jayje," he taunts, because it doesn't look like JJ does one-hundred sit-ups, push-ups and chin-ups every night, it doesn't look like JJ can pedal on the cycling machine for the entirity of Chinese Democracy, it doesn't look like JJ can run the New York City marathon without any training. Does it? And to prove his manliness, Barney picks up his fork and with a boastful, "Dad, check it," he snaps it in half. Snaps it in- oh. Shit, it's not snapping. Dammit. Barney bends each end harder, squashing his thumbs to the middle. Come on metal, work with me here. Nah, it's not happening, no matter now many push-ups he does every evening. Barney casts the fork down, grabs a candle and snaps it in two (thank God that worked, he notes with relief). He flexes his arm, "Triceps,".

Barney rakishly snags his thumbs between his teeth, then points airily at JJ, "What gym do you go to?"

Kid's got matchstick arms and probably little tiny chicken legs.

"Fourth period," he replies.

Barney continues to eyeball him, and takes his thumb back out from between his teeth to sneer, "Sounds like you're having your fourth period,"

But he can't help but add happily, "Amirite, Dad?"

"Got him again!" Jerry crows, and Barney loves this, him and his dad together, taking the piss out of Mr Basketball Violin Fourth Period Jerkface. This is what he wanted, and yeah maybe Lily'd tell him to stop bullying the kid, but Lily's not here is she, it's only Barney and Jerry and awesome.

But then Cheryl has to ruin it by telling Jerry to stop it (if planet Earth didn't have enough advertisements against wives already, Cheryl's certainly doing a decent job) and Jerry (because he's whipped) mutters to Barney that that's enough. But he isn't done- no way is Barney Stinson done busting on this shitty kid who thinks he's got ownership over his dad.

"Why, JJ started it, what does JJ even stand for?" he jeers- then comes unstuck slightly, "...Jerky...Jerkface?"

He glares at him over the table, shrugging in a fuck you, what are you gonna do to me way, and JJ looks back blankly cos he's gonna do nothing, nothing, cos he's a loser, he's pathetic, he's-

"JJ stands for Jerome Junior," interrupts Jerry.

Barney scoffs, "Jerome Ju-"

And then he stops. The word wilts in his mouth, and the name hangs in the air like an ugly intervention banner. Barney looks from Jerry to JJ, from Jerome to Jerome Junior.

Jerome Junior.

"Oh. He's- he's named after you,"

Jerry nods in confirmation.

Jerome after his father. Junior because he's the son. Barney glances at his own hand. Jerome Junior. The oldest son gets named after his father. JJ is Jerry's oldest son. Barney doesn't count. Why is he even competing with JJ to impress their father? Jerry isn't Barney's father at all- he's JJ's. They belong to each other and not to him. Barney has to get out of the room before he crumbles. He mumbles an excuse, stands up abruptly and walks outside into the Spring evening. It had been bad enough a few days ago when he'd discovered that his dad wasn't a drinker, or a playboy, or a roadie- he wasn't even funny. That was disappointing because Barney's thirty years of fantasies had been exactly that. But that his dad has another family, who he's there for... and a son named after him? That's one injustice too many. What has JJ done to deserve that dad that he hasn't? Why does JJ get the dad Barney never had? Why did Jerry stay with JJ and not win him? Why does JJ get the life he never had? Barney sees the hoop and snaps. JJ gets the world. He gets the basketball hoop and the family and he gets to be normal. He gets a father. Jerry wants JJ and he didn't want Barney. Barney knows he wasn't a perfect kid and he's far from a perfect man now, but that doesn't mean that JJ should get everything, and he should get nothing. He kicks the garage door as hard as he can and he's so angry that he doesn't notice the pain. Barney jumps onto the car bonnet and grabs the hoop, because he needs to have it now. One thing to make this a fraction more fair. Barney tugs the hoop but it doesn't budge, and he kicks the garage door again in frustration. The hoop is his. Jerry might not belong to him but this piece of plastic and wood and screws is his and JJ stole it from him because he's a little thieving bastard who stole his dad and stole his dad's name and stole everything Barney should have had but didn't, and JJ's good at basketball because he stole the hoop and if he hadn't stolen the hoop Barney would have had it and he'd have been good at basketball and Coach Crombie would have let him stay on the elementary school team and Mom wouldn't have lied and and and Barney reaches up to pull on the hoop's backboard and Jerry didn't want him he wasn't good enough for Jerry and Jerry got a new family and named his son after him because the oldest son gets named after the father and Barney isn't Jerry's son because Jerry didn't want him. Barney twists his body round to get more force on the hoop; it rattles but stays tightly screwed to the wall- the hoop wants to stay here, doesn't want to go with him; like his father wants to stay here and didn't want him. He's no good at basketball because he never had a dad to teach him to shoot, and he's no good at being a man because he never had a dad to show him how to be one.

He grunts in frustration- and that's when Jerry appears outside.

"Barney, what is going on?"

"This is mine," he pants. A hoop won't make up for a childhood- a life- but it'll be something. Something for Barney to have to himself, to have in his life, that JJ doesn't. He deserves that at least.

"I don't understand!" grimaces JJ. Barney knew he'd say that, because of course Jerry doesn't understand what he's done to Barney, doesn't understand anything about him, doesn't understand that you never leave you kid, you never, ever leave your child. Especially to get some shiny new family who get everything Jerry didn't give Barney.

"JJ gets a childhood, a dad, a real family," he's counting it out on his fingers and his voice is shaking but he doesn't care. He doesn't care about shaking or crying or being brave. Why should he care what Jerry thinks of him? Jerry didn't think anything of him for thirty years. "And a basketball hoop?" Barney adds, pointing to it. Injustice tastes bitter in his mouth, and Barney remembers what happened with Ted and with Robin and with Nora, and the times he's thought to himself that having a dad would make him able to deal with what happened between him and them. But Jerry left so Barney can't, he can't. Tossing a baseball at the TV to play catch with Bob Barker. Telling James, 'Dad'll come back one day,'. Sitting on the porch waiting bouncing a basketball with his fingers waiting for dad to come home. Bouncing it and it running away from him because he was no good at basketball, because he didn't have a hoop. Well he's got one now. This hoop belongs to him.

"No, no, I at least get the hoop. I'm taking it with to me," he gabbles- words and coming so fast and he's pointing back and forth between himself and the hoop. Barney reaches round the backboard to pull at the fixing. He needs to the hoop to dislodge so he can take it down and run away from here and never come back. Like Jerry did.

"Please, just come down and talk to me," says Jerry , and the patronising patience in his voice makes prickles of anger scald across Barney's skin. He's not being the stupid, childish one here. Jerry has no right to use that tone, to make ti seem like Barney's being ridiculous. Nothing is more ridiculous than abandoning your own son.

"Why, why should I?" he retorts. Tears prick at Barney's eyes as Jerry's opening and closing his mouth like a fish- again it's almost comical; it's verging on funny how pathetic Jerry is. Jerry is weak and Barney is strong. He doesn't need to answer to him. "You're lame, okay?" he spits disdainfully, telling Jerry what he Goddamn needs to hear because he must be Goddamn full of himself to leave Barney and find some new family who he thinks is so much better, "You're just some lame, suburban dad,"

"Then why does that make you so mad?" Jerry shouts back.

Barney doesn't plan his answer; the words tumble out. He screams the truth he didn't know he knew.

"Because if you were going to be some lame, suburban dad, why couldn't you have been that for me?"

It's not a question, it's a plea.

There's a moment of silence while Barney breathes heavily and Jerry bows his head. "Barney," he says when he looks up, holding out his hands like he's trying to reason with him, like Barney's the one in the wrong, "I know I screwed up,"

Screwed up? Leaving a kid to grow up not knowing who he is? Having to rely on fantasies because otherwise he'd feel so unwanted? Living off one-night-stands because he can't process relationships? Damning him any chance of being ordinary? Not having a dad is the reason he's cold inside. Not having a dad is the reason he has a self-destruct button for whenever anyone gets too close. He ended his friendship with Ted over Sandcastles incident; he couldn't be in a relationship with Robin; he ruined his chance with Nora, all because he's frightened of letting anyone touch him. Jerry screwed up once, thirty years ago, but that one screw-up has left Barney screwed up for life.

"Oh, screwed up even doesn't begin to describe-" Barney barks and he isn't sure if his voice is bitter or angry or a cocktail of both.

Because does Jerry have any idea what it feels like to mess up your own life? To have to watch while some twisted part of you hurts your friends and makes you feel sickened by falling in love? Jerry's shouting over him and Barney's shouting back, because if Jerome had stayed and been a lame suburban dad, maybe Barney would have turned out right. But Jerry chose to leave, and left Barney with failure and fantasies and fucking up everything close to him.

"I know I know I know!" Jerry bellows, and is surprised that Barney doesn't instantly retort with a cold accusation. He just looks at him, and Barney's still Jerry can see the tears in his eyes. Poor kid. Oh you poor boy. "I want to fix this but I dont know how tell me what to do I'll do anything!" he shouts, rat-a-tat-ing the words lie a machine gun. His son looks at him for a long moment. Then he makes a small noise of derision in his mouth and turns back to the hoop. He jerks it hard, and Jerry realises that Barney'll stay up there all night trying to detach it if he has to. The silhouette is a strange one to watch.

This is mine...JJ gets a childhood, a dad, a real family and a basketball hoop? No, no, I at least get the hoop.

Jerry disappears inside the house to retrieve his toolbox from under the shoestand.

"You'll never get it down like that," he says once he returns to Barney. This time, Jerry doesn't look up into his son's face. He takes his time locating the screwdriver, fiddles with it, then holds it out t Barney. The look his son gives him isn't friendly, and when Barney takes the screwdriver it's more of a snatch. But he takes it. He takes it. After another stare- and the fact that it's a hurt rather than angry stare is more painful- Barney whacks the screwdriver's handle against the screw on the hoop's backboard. It bangs loudly, and Jerry interrupts, "Barney. Barney! "Put the pointy end into the grooves," Jerry explains. Barney reaches up and does so. "That's it, now turn it," Jerry commentates. Barney's using both hands, like a little boy reaching up to help his dad screw a cabinet together.

Oh.

Perhaps not.

"Righty tighty, lefty loosey,"

Barney takes one hand off the screwdriver and looks at Jerry, and this time it's Jerry's turn to glance away. He leans on the car's bonnet and readies for the confession. "I have no good excuse, Barney," There's a tinkling noise as the first screw drops to the concrete. "It took years before I was even able to look myself in the mirror for the way I let you down," Jerry divulges.

"The blue whale. Are you serious?"

"He's not hurt!"

"And you think that's good enough? You take my son out for the day and let him destroy the Natural History Museum but it's fine because he's not hurt?"

Jerry doesn't miss the fact that Loretta says 'my son' not 'yours' or 'ours'.

"What's it going to be next time?" she demands, "Am I going to be picking him up from the police station? From the ER?"

"Don't be silly,"

"I'm being silly?!"

"I didn't mean-"

"Forget it. That's the last time you're seeing him. And me. I have enough trouble with him as it is, I don't need you leading him off the rails,"

"But-"

"I mean it. I thought this arrangement would work, but you don't change. If you're determined to be some incorrigible playboy forever, you go do that. If you want to go have ridiculous adventures and get in trouble that's your business. But you're not dragging my son along with you,"

Loretta didn't want him coming round anymore and that hurt. And he wondered how the kid dealt with it. And he felt guilty for not knowing.

"It took courage to send me that letter,"

It's a decent house, Jerry reckons as he stands on the porch. He's not sure how Loretta obtained it. Well, he has ideas. Nervously, Jerry fiddles with his pockets- and then the front door opens.

"Hi," he breathes.

"Hello," says Loretta, "Come in, come in,"

He kisses her cheek but it's awkward for them both. He hasn't seen her for over half a year- he's been on tour. Hasn't seen her since around a month after she told him she was pregnant with his baby.

"Are you sure?" he'd asked. They both hadn't been exactly faithful to each other.

"Yes," she'd said, looking him in the eye.

They'd broken up when Jerry went on tour- like they always imagined they would, except the baby made it different. Knowing that Loretta would be giving birth to his child in the Autumn made their break-up so much harder than the bittersweet parting they expected.

The baby was born around Thanksgiving. A boy. She named him Barney and he's healthy, but Jerry doesn't know much apart from that. Now he's back in town, he's come to meet his son for the first time.

"He's asleep at the moment," Loretta informs him, "But I'll bring him down to say hello. James, you remember Jerry don't you?"

A little boy trots over to Jerry, holding a toy truck. Loretta disappears upstairs.

"Hello," he says.

"Hello," answers Jerry, "Remember me?"

James pulls a face. "Which one?"

"Which one what?"

"Which name?"

"Jerry. I travel with bands, remember?"

"Here for Barbie?"

"What?"

"James, I've told you- the baby is called Barney. Nothing to do with Barbie dolls," Loretta reminds him, reappearing holding a bundle of blankets. Jerry gulps.

"This is him," says Loretta, showing Jerry what's in the blankets. The baby's asleep peacefully, sucking on a pacifier. That's my son.

"Would you like to hold him?"

"Um, err- yeah. If that's alright,"

"Here,"

When Loretta passes the baby over Jerry doesn't feel some kind of incredible moment of love. Honestly, he feels nervous that he's going to drop him.

And then the baby opens his eyes.

"Ooh, I must have woken him up," coos Loretta, "Hello, Wuv-wuv,"

The baby gurgles and spits his dummy out.

"Do you want to give a smile for D-"

She stops abruptly. They never discussed if Jerry's going to be 'Daddy'.

He knows he doesn't want to be.

"Do you want to give a smile for Uncle Jerry?" he asks, feeling a bit stupid for talking to a baby.

Jerry can't be a father. He can't. He's away too often, and when he's home he's not cut out for it. He doesn't want to give up drinking and gambling and women- he doesn't know if he could. Being a dad means devoting your life to your child, and being responsible and knowing answers. Jerry doesn't reckon he knows any answers. The little blob of life in his arms scares him. He's too frightened to be a father.

"More courage than I've ever had," Jerry adds, as the blob of life standing on the car bonnet starts on the basketball hoop's third screw.

"I owe you a lifetime of apologies and I-" Jerry cuts himself off, thinking of the baby and the boy and the man and how he wasn't there to see any of it. But that doesn't matter- what matters is that he wasn't there to be in it for his son. "Why couldn't you have been that for me?". The miserable, resentful, hurt looks Barney keeps giving him. The redness round his eyes.

"I just- I have no idea where to begin,"

JJ gets a childhood, a dad, a real family...why couldn't you have been that for me?

He'll never make it up to him.

Barney gives Jerry a long look. It's not miserable or hurt or tearful this time. It's granite. He holds the screwdriver out and Jerry takes it.

"Can y'u help me with this,". It's a question but it doesn't sound like one. Barney's voice is quiet and gruff, like he doesn't want to be saying it. Jerry isn't sure if it's an answer to how he can make it up to him, or if Barney hasn't been listening at all. But it feels like an acknowledgement of some sort. It feels like something Barney's wanted to ask him hundreds of times, but never could.

Jerry nods and shuts the toolbox.

Barney dislodges the hoops and Jerry catches the end side of it, taking the weight. Barney lets go for a moment as he jumps off the car, then gives Jerry a reproachful look as he takes the hoop back from him. He sizes him up like he did when Jerry first knocked on his door a few days ago, except then he was joking with his friends and his eyebrows jumped high in surprise. Now, they're alone together in front of the garage, and Barney's eyebrows are low over his distrustful gaze.

"Look, if you...ever feel like you're ready," Jerry says haltingly. He's embarrassed but he has to say this. He doesn't want it to end like this, but that's Barney's decision. Jerry looks him up and down, this strange boy. Take the hoop, kid.

"I'd love nothing more than to be a part of your life,"

He wants to know him. The real him, not the version who snarks at eleven-year-olds and tries to pull basketball hoops off walls and screams because his dad was never there.

Barney wobbles slightly and Jerry can see prickles of red around his blue eyes again. Jerry doesn't avert his gaze and for a couple of seconds they're staring at each other. Watching his son's eyes fill up doesn't make Jerry feel guilty this time. It makes him feel sad.

Then Barney abruptly looks away.

"Bye."

He grabs his coat from the bonnet and walks away down the drive. He doesn't look back. Jerry watches as his son disappears into the Spring evening, the hoop in one hand making him walk lopsidedly..

Barney disappearing from the house and Jerry watches him go, knowing that he might not see him again.

At least that's a better way around than it was the last time.

"Barney's back!" Ted shouts excitedly, as a figure emerges onto the street.

"How'd you think it went?" says Robin.

"Guys. Be. Sensitive," Lily insists.

"Come on Lil, you'll be the first one asking him what happened," Ted scoffs.

"Is he carrying something?" Marshall asks, leaning over Lily to look through the window.

"Looks like a corkboard," she suggests.

"Nah, it's a basketball hoop," Ted decides.

"Is it?"

"Robin, I'm from the home city of LeBron James. I think I know a basketball hoop when I see one,"

"When he gets in be nice," Lily re-iterates.

"Maybe you should all give him some quiet," Marshall advises softly.

"When does Barney ever want quiet?" Robin scoffs.

"Just...go easy. Use those kid gloves you've been using on me on him instead. Just for a little while,"

"What if it went well?" Ted suggests hopefully.

Barney knocks on the cab window, and Robin opens the door.

"Hey, buddy..." the four of them chorus.

"Hi," Barney mutters.

"How was dinner?" Ted asks gently.

"Ah, not great. Ted, can you help me put this hoop in the trunk?"

Ted hops out of the car and opens the trunk for Barney to wedge the basketball hoop in. He'd like to make another LeBron James joke, because Barney always enjoys taking the piss out of him about that- but it feels it awkward. Barney doesn't seem like he's in a laughing mood. Perhaps it didn't go as well as Ted hoped.

"Y'okay, bro?" he asks quietly. Barney shrugs, so Ted doesn't push it but matily pats him on the shoulder instead. When they get back into the car, Ted squishes into the middle seat between Robin and Barney.

"What happened?" says Lily.

"What's with the hoop?" adds Robin.

Barney sniffs, "I don't wanna talk about it,"

Lily turns around, gives him a very pitying look, and gently strokes his kneecap. Barney leans against the inside of the car door, and gazes out of the window. Nobody speaks for a couple of minutes as they set off back through Westchester- until Ted decides that the silence is suffocating them.

"So Marshall, are you gonna keep Rex?

Barney's outside Ted's house smoking his third cigarette. It's dark and he can hear the scuffling of foxes in the trees. The basketball hoop's leaning against the wall- Ted promises that he'll but it up next time he's here. Ted'll make a great dad one day. A kid needs a hoop.

I'd like nothing more than to be a part of your life. Barney takes a drag on the cigarette. Does he want Jerry in his life? Does Jerry think that this'll make up for everything that's happened? If he does, he's an idiot, because although they've met again and he's taught Barney how to use a screwdriver (wow, what a heart-warming spectacle of father/son bonding), it's not going to rewrite his past. It's not going to heal. Anyway, Barney wanted to meet his dad to talk to him again- not to find a family. But Barney didn't realise how he felt until JJ turned up, until he had the same name, until Jerry was a lame suburban dad. Once Barney admitted that his dad wasn't Bob Barker, he'd wondered what his father was like. And after the shock of finding out Uncle Jerry was actually his father, he's been pleased- Uncle Jerry was wild and fun. He'd wanted him to be like that but, but- if you were going to be some same, suburban dad, why couldn't you have been that for me? Barney didn't know that he'd thought that way. He doesn't know what he thought he thought, but it wasn't that. Part of him wishes he could say that that was an outburst in a moment of anger- which it was, but it was still true. JJ got the lame suburban dad and the basketball hoop and the Goddamn name. Barney knew all along that Jerry had left him, but naming his son after him seemed like Jerry was erasing Barney altogether, making it official that he didn't want him. And Barney had thought that back at the National History Museum, but being faced with it- with Jerry and JJ sat literally right in front of him- felt a thousand times worse. I'd like nothing more to be a part of your life. Thirty years too late for that. Perhaps he'' leave this as a one-off- like he was going to before the gang interfered, like Ted's night with Victoria a few years ago was supposed to be. Except where their night had been romantic and sweet (by Ted's standards), Barney's evening with his dad has been bitter and uncomfortable and angry. He didn't realise that he'd felt like that- why couldn't you have been that for me? He doesn't want that again. And he hasn't told his friends, so perhaps he can forget about it.

The door behind him slides open behind him, and Barney turns around. Marshall shoots him an apologetic smile. They're all on eggshells around him, which he's both appreciative of and angry about. Before Marshall can ask if he's okay, Barney offers him the cigarette packet.

"I said I'd stop now we're trying for a baby, but one won't hurt," Marshall takes a cigarette and Barney hands him the lighter. He likes the noise of the its click.

"You really want a kid," says Barney, looking straight ahead into the darkness, "Don't you?"

"Yeah. Really."

"You want to be a family."

Marshall will be a great dad too, Barney contemplates. Both of his best friends in the world are desperate to have kids, and they'll be amazing dads. No, not amazing- Barney realises abruptly- they'll be lame, suburban dads. Marshall and Ted go along with his crazy schemes and legendary nights because they're his friends- but they're normal guys who'll make normal, lame, suburban dads. Or perhaps the lame, suburban dads are the amazing ones. Perhaps it's the same thing. He wouldn't know.

"Yeah, but you're our family as well," Marshall insists, and Barney can feel him looking at him, "And that's not going to change once we have a baby,"

Barney laughs without humour "That's not what I'm worried about,"

Any other night, he'd joke about how they need him to make their lives legendary. Barney thinks about Marshall and Lily trying for a baby, and Marshall's dad being dead- there's a parallel to it about fathers and sons which Barney sees, but knows he can't understand.

"You don't need to ask me if I want to talk about it. I don't,"

"That's alright," says Marshall, very softly, "Is it alright if I stay out here and smoke?"

He wouldn't usually ask.

"Yes,"

Saying no would be making Marshall leave, and Barney reckons he's done enough making people leave in his life already.

Thanks for reading, I hope I did justice to such a brilliant episode. Please review.