They're back in Robin's bedroom, the scene of so many confrontations, so many kisses, so many broken promises. Through the window, the endless myriad of tiny, glittering explosions rage on, silently into the night.

Robin draws in a breath, but it feels like the oxygen doesn't reach her lungs.

"I'm leaving," he says. "A new job in Washington."

Not like this, she silently begs him. Don't tell me like this. Not with the fireworks and the heat trapped in her room, and him standing tall and lean and oddly distant. It breaks her heart for him to tell her like this.

When he tells her, it should be in the park, on a sunny day, where she can shed a tear and laughingly blame the wind, and then take his hand and run through the sheep meadow and pretend tomorrow will never come.

When he tells her, it should be in Coney Island, with them stuck half way around a Ferris wheel, the breeze whipping her hair across her cheeks, his hands covering hers and warming her.

Or he should tell her in the dead of winter, where she can wrap a scarf around her like some old woman in a Russian novel, turning her face into the slate grey sky and mourning him like a little death, not just a tawdry relocation a couple of hundred miles up the coast.

"I think I'm in love with you," she says, a little pathetically, and he nods sagely, like he already knows, like her heart is a fluttering bird he's taken pity on, and he takes her into his arms.

Robin finds that she can't cry, not one single tear. This is too big for tears. The emotion settles in her chest, confusing her and pulling her apart. Light-headed, weak-kneed, she clings to him. And then through their embrace something shifts, some alignment of chest and hips and shoulders, until suddenly his mouth is covering hers and they're kissing, falling into each other with the familiarity that only exes know.

It's not like Robin hasn't been here before.

But she's never been so scared, felt so utterly bereft. She's never thought she'd be the one to be left behind.

His hand is on her back, Robin can feel every long finger splayed across her ribs, behind her heart. She closes her eyes and lets it happen, lets him ignite the passion in her, that thing that transcends a hundred tiny squabbles and has always calmed her fears.

Would they ever have had a chance, she wonders? Between his kisses, with his lips still brushing hers, she wants to ask him not to leave. He doesn't have to stay for her, just so long as he stays. But she's Robin Scherbatsky and she's never begged a man for anything before.

He feels her tense, so he pushes her back towards the bed and they sink slowly down, bodies pressed together in quiet desperation.

#~o

Barney stares into the darkness. He's wide awake, and from the sound of Robin's steady breathing, she is too. This moment is important, he knows that. He suspects that she's not ready, maybe neither of them are ready, to get back into a relationship. So he decides to test the waters.

"So how does this go?" He asks softly. "It doesn't change anything, right? I mean, someday you'll be the one leaving, travelling the world as Miss international correspondent of awesome."

"Right on," she says, throatily.

Part of him winces in disappointment. The trouble is, Robin's more of a Bro than he'll ever be. She's endlessly independent and understands that need for independence in others. And she knows her own mind better than he ever will. Hell, she knows his mind better than he does. He's not exactly making excuses, but when she said that she loved him, what did she mean? She's still in rebound mode, still hurt from her experience with Don. She deserves better than that. In fact, Robin Scherbatsky deserves better than him.

And yet...

"You know-" he says, tentatively. "You know I love you, right?"

Robin nuzzles his ear. "I know. Idiot. But love doesn't solve anything. Despite what-"

"-Ted thinks." He finishes her sentence and it makes her laugh. He loves her laugh. Robin Scherbatsky's laugh is full and honest and he can still feel it through her rid-cage long after the sound has faded. She has a wonderful laugh.

Her lips curve against his skin, as her fingers spider-crawl across his chest. "Still, we've got a few days," she whispers, and he can't help but grin.

"Make the most of it?" He asks, already turning over on to his side to face her.

"It's what we do," she answers him.

There's a tightening across his chest when he kisses her, but he's gotten used to that. The pain of covering up what he really feels is so familiar, it feels like an old friend.

#~o

"You're still leaving?"

Ted looks kind of horrified. Barney gets it, he really does. He knows how Ted views the world through big, romantic gestures. Been there, done that, grown his hair long. But that's not the way the world works, and heaven forbid any woman who doesn't stand up to Ted's ridiculous notions. As if any woman could.

What Ted doesn't understand, what Barney implicitly understands, is that you don't fall in love with a menu of perfect traits. You fall in love with someone who's got at least one aspect of their personality that you actively hate. That's the whole point.

That's where the passion lies.

So right now he could come up with some big story to satisfy Ted's need for drama, but his best friend deserves more than that. Sighing wearily, he says simply, "Yep. Robin's cool with it, too. She gets it."

Ted just shakes his head sternly, as if they're a couple of children he wants to reprimand. And times like this, he's such a Dad. "Dude! You can't leave. Barney, you're a New Yorker."

"Yeah, Bro. That's what Marshall said. Maybe I can be a Washington-orker?"

"Actually it's Washingtonian," Ted corrects him. "See, even the word sounds douchey."

Barney chuckles. "Yeah it does." They fist-bump absently. "It's not forever dude," he continues.

"But how do you know that?"

Barney notices the way Ted's shoulders slump, the way he watches the sky in despair, no longer seeing those last few lone fireworks.

"How can you love her, and walk away from her?" Ted demands to know. "How can you walk away from us?"

It hurts. It hurts to hear those words. If this was a movie of his life, Barney would do the heroic thing. He'd stay for them out of some kind of misplaced loyalty, changing his mind at the eleventh hour. But this is real life, and nothing is black and white.

"Not easily. But I think it's what she wants, deep down." He sighs. "I think it's for the best."

"You'll call, though?" Ted asks. "I mean, it'll be weird without you."

"I'll update my blog every day?" He salutes Ted with his glass and takes a sip. He knows that his adventures won't be quite so legendary without Ted there to share them. "And maybe call you at the bar. I can wingman for you, long distance?"

Ted can't help but chuckle. "Good enough, I guess," he says, but the laughter doesn't reach his eyes.