A/N: Again, you guys are, as the legendary Barney Stinson would say, awesome! We're getting to the telling-everyone stuff, I promise. We just have a few filler chapters in between. Everyone who leaves a review on the way out gets their very own personal Neil Patrick Harris. Would I lie about this?

Disclaimer: Still not mine. I am still a starving student, but if Carter and Craig care to sell, I do have several DVD sets I might be willing to trade....

Chapter 4: You Call It Madness, But I Call It Love

I won't go inside where the bats dip and swarm over my bed

It's the sound of them shouldering against each other that terrifies me,

As if it might hurt to brush across another being's living flesh

But I carry a gun now. I've cut down a tree

You wouldn't recognize me in town – my hands lost in my pockets, two disabused tools

I've retired from their life of touching you.

Keetje Kuipers

When someone, anyone really, arrives for their first chemotherapy treatment, they have a preconceived notion in their mind about the treatment centre. Barney's involved a circle of beds, all the patients deathly thin and bald, the sound of retching and crying ringing through the centre's emptiness.

When he entered St. Jude's Hospital's oncology wing for treatment his first week, his body was rigid with fear. Barney had been the picture of health his entire life, only in the hospital to visit friends and relatives (and once with an unfortunately timed bus). As he pushed open the big double doors, his hands clenched so hard that his fingernails cut into his palms. He ignored the stinging pain and forced his reluctant feet to the nurse's desk.

Nonononono, his mind screamed. You do not have cancer. This cannot be happening. This cannot be real.

Barney shook his head, but the voice sang on, tormenting him, grating, harsh, and angry.

"Barney Stinson," he ground out. Barney Stinson, coward. Barney Stinson, invalid. Barney Stinson, Cancer Patient.

The nurse smiled sympathetically. "Mr. Stinson. Did the doctor explain the process of chemotherapy to you?"

"Yes." No.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes." Never.

"Follow me, then." Coward. Invalid. Weakling. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer.

Blood was dribbling down Barney's palms as he entered the chemo administration room, the individual trails running together in a kind of wild dance. It hurt more with each minute, but Barney couldn't seem to unclench his hands.

If what he expected was something out of a world war one movie, the friendliness of the room surprised him. The walls were a bright green, leaf patterning and flowers adorning them. Comfortable chairs were placed in a line throughout the room, with someone sitting in each. There were indeed some that looked thin and bald, their heads covered in colourful scarves, but the majority looked, well, normal. The kind of people that Barney would pass on the street and never suspect of having a life-threatening illness. The only thing that established they were in a hospital were the IV poles beside each chair, the tubes securely attached to each patient's wrist. And they didn't look scared. If anything, they looked bored. Most were flipping through magazines and books absently, some chatted with the person next to them.

Barney gazed around the room, amazed and a bit appalled. Didn't they realize they were in a hospital? That they were sick?

The nurse beckoned to a chair, and Barney sat stiffly.

"Get comfortable, Mr. Stinson. If you'll hand me your wrist, I'll start your chemo."

Every muscle in Barney's body wanted to run, to get as far away from this hospital as possible. Somehow, though, his wrist ended up on the armrest of the chair as the nurse readied the IV needle. As she prepared to put it in, a small frown appeared.

"Mr. Stinson, you'll need to unclench your wrist," she reminded him gently. Barney hadn't even realized his wrists were still in a tight fist until he uncurled them, his palm throbbing with four cuts that had been bleeding steadily since he entered the oncology wing.

The nurse clucked her tongue with sympathy in her eyes (god, how he hated that look) and patted off the blood with a gauze pad, fastening a Band-Aid to each hand. Barney barely felt the needle puncture as the nurse set up the IV. After, she turned back to the IV pole, hanging a bag of clear liquid on it.

And, pathetically, as he watched the clear liquid that would rob him of all his awesomeness flow into him, all Barney wanted was Robin sitting there with him, holding his hand so it didn't have to be clenched so damn tightly. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and she appeared beside him. He could see her lacing her fingers through his, clear as anything. Could see her smiling down at him, the little half-smile that he liked to think was reserved only for him.

God, what was wrong with him? He was turning into Ted Mosby, only....Ted Mosby-er.

For two hours, Barney sat tightly clenched in the chair; eyes squeezed shut, never daring to look out at anybody, trying to think about anything but what was happening to him. Only all he could think about was what was happening to him, so he concentrated on trying not to break down, to panic or burst out in anger at the unfairness of it all in the middle of the treatment room

In the two weeks since that day, Barney had two more treatments. Since he was an outpatient, he could simply say he as at work when anyone asked. However, the side effects were harder to hide. A few days after his first treatment, the nausea started to come on strong, as Barney and his friends sat in McLaren's. He had taken to rushing to the bathroom suddenly, which meant that he always had to sit on the seat by the aisle. If he felt a wave of nausea coming on, he could usually manage to get up casually, saying he was going to the bathroom, or to the bar for another round, or even out for a cigar (though that one usually got him in trouble because Robin wanted to come). So far, his hair was not falling out, but he was constantly exhausted and for some reason, he could only drink orange juice, so he had taken to subtly pouring his gin and tonic out on the floor.

Barney didn't think anyone suspected thus far, but it was getting harder to hide. Which was why, on this day, he was leaving for a hotel to get some sleep and try to at least appear a little better, for his friends' sake. He had finally placated Robin with the excuse of a business trip, and was on his way out the door when a noise made him turn back.

Met you at the mall....

Barney groaned. "Not cool, Scherbatsky."

"What? Robin asked innocently.

Barney detoured over to the gigantic TV, the video lighting up the whole of Barney's room. He smirked, looking at his girlfriend's sixteen-year-old self running on the beach in a flowing white dress.

Y'know, if you re-edit, there's a tampon commercial in here somewhere, he recalled himself saying. Now he could only stare, and remember the two of them sitting on Robin's couch, gradually moving closer and closer together. Would they ever be those people again, with what he was keeping from her?

"Dance with me." The words were out before Barney himself realized what he was saying.

Robin looked at him strangely. "Dance? Are you insane?"

Barney grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. He slipped his arms around her waist and began swaying in time to the music. After a moment, he felt Robin's hands coming around his neck and her forehead pressing against his.

Sandcastles wash away, and all that's left is some sand the next day....

"Dude, you're acting weird," Robin whispered, without pulling away. "I mean, dancing? How cheesy can you get?"

"You love it."

Robin chuckled, and Barney continued rocking, just basking in the feeling of him and Robin, in whatever screwed-up kind of normal they may have left.