Happy New Year! Once again I've been blown away by the response and follows this is getting — I like to assume I've tapped into a hidden market for Tracy/Barney, lmao.

"Okay, no, you have it all wrong," Tracy says, shaking her paper cup at Barney as they walk crosstown. "Totally, totally wrong. Columbia educated economist here, telling you you are r - o - n -g, wrong. Keynes argued that in times of recession, consumers didn't spend and so the government had to step in to create jobs and financial stimulus —"

"Yeah, and they then sold off all those railroads and stuff to private companies to patch their own debts," Barney points out, scratching at his jawline and taking a loud slurp of his own milkshake. "Keynesian economics," he mutters. "You know what my bank did with our bailout money?"

"God," Tracy groans, lifting her face skyward, "I'm actually trying to talk sense into a Wall Street douche."

"I don't work on Wall Street," Barney sniffs. "Those guys are tools."

"You're a banker! You live on the Upper East Side!" Tracy's voice starts out indignant but she starts to laugh by the end of the sentence. "I feel like my whole degree is cringing away from you."

"A lot of people can't handle my awesomeness at first," he tells her. "You get used to it, a little. It won't ever go away, but it'll be easier to look directly at me."

"Oh, I'm in awe of you," Tracy mutters around her straw. "And don't get me started on the bail out."

Barney rolls his eyes again. "Let's stop talking about work," he says, then perks up. "How much farther 'til Fake MacLaren's?"

They had been talking at the bar, at real MacLaren's, for a while, for a while after Robin had taken off and then a while longer, long enough that Barney's secretary had called and he'd gone and cancelled all his afternoon meetings (whatever, he's never getting fired) so he could keep talking to Tracy. At one point she'd said it's actually funny, I've been to another bar called MacLaren's on the East Side, and that had led them to on their current effort to go and find it: Barney has a sacred duty to his friends to investigate this (far inferior) new bar.

"I don't know, another couple of blocks?" Tracy chews on her straw. "It was definitely in this neighborhood."

"It can't be this neighborhood, I live like four blocks that way," Barney says, gesturing vaguely north. They're in the middle of 2nd Ave, in front of a Hungarian bakery and between two bars.

"Okay," Tracy says, squinting as she concentrates: Barney's seen her do that a few times, and it's kind of cute. "Okay, so it must be south."

"Real MacLaren's is on 76th, so fake MacLaren's is probably there too," Barney agrees, turning and guiding Tracy by the shoulders so she comes with.

"Has it occurred to you that maybe East Side MacLaren's is the real one and you're the one crossing town every day for an inferior copy?" Tracy asks.

"Wow, does it hurt, having no brain? Obviously West Side MacLaren's, referred to here by its proper name, "real" MacLaren's, is the superior alcoholic refreshment dispensary."

"Ooh, big words."

"I didn't need to get a useless degree at Columbia to learn 'em, either," Barney says, which predictably gets them through the next five blocks, Tracy first telling him what Calmfors-Driffill is and then arguing with him about it. It's starting to get dark, the rapid nightfall of late autumn, and cold with it. Barney's wearing a single-breasted wool suit (Dolce, an old standby but always a good choice), and even he's feeling it: Tracy has a short dress and a thin jacket, so she's probably pretty chilly too. He briefly debates (in the middle of trouncing her on the flaws of collective bargaining) giving her his jacket, but then he'd be cold, and that's not really his style anyway.

He could point out that his place is just a few blocks away. Could invite her over. Could offer to help her warm up. Tracy is into him, he can tell: that's easy, small potatoes, she's walking close to him, he's touched her arm and shoulder and she's never moved or pulled away. He could invite her over.

He could. Easy.

But he doesn't, instead throwing his cup into a bin they pass; Tracy follows his lead. "So where did you go to school and learn to be an evil finance guy?" Tracy snorts. "Suit and tie, FiDi guy?" She can barely get through it with a straight face.

"Did you just ask me a personal question in the form of a rhyme?" Barney asks, smiling warmly down at her and her suppressing giggling. Warmly. His smile fades.

"It's a real question!" Tracy is saying, still laughing a little at her terrible rhymes. "Aren't we supposed to be getting to know one another here? For our future relationship?" She waves her hand. "You didn't get an Econ degree because your opinions suck and you didn't know that Keynes was a real person and not just the name of a thing, but you know about finance. So where did you go to school?"

He briefly considers saying MIT, or pretending to be a Columbia alum, or even telling the truth. "So we are in a relationship?" he asks instead, and immediately sees Tracy's eyes widen, her steps falter; she moves a step sideways of him, an immediate, subconscious away.

His own guts clench up at the R-word, so he's not offended. It's less than it used to be, back before he did do this sometimes, but it still happens: the wave of anxiety, panic, she's gonna want things I can't do and I'm gonna end up unhappy and alone, muted but still there.

Sure, he can do relationships now. He might even be able to do marriage now. He knows the things to say and how it feels, what two toothbrushes look like in his bathroom, how the words girlfriend and fiancée feel when spoken aloud. He had been surprised how empty his apartment felt when Quinn was gone, how new again it was, to have to call someone to have them come over or meet him in a place. He knows how to be monogamous, and knows that he can do it, that he can look at others without having to pursue, can be happy with one person without getting bored. He knows what it's like to want to do better, feel better, be better. To prove himself to Nora and mean it, to be with Quinn and mean it. To want…

The problem is that in the end, he's still failed. Nora had wanted him to be a good boyfriend and he wasn't. Quinn had wanted him to trust her, and he hadn't. Robin doesn't want him and nothing he's ever said or done has changed her mind.

He could ask Tracy back to his place.

He likes her.

He does, and that's the strange thing, the scary thing. He'd liked her on the bench the other day, and it wasn't the sort of thing Barney wastes his time questioning, but he likes her more now. Likes how she wrinkles her nose and waves her hands, likes talking with her, that she knows stuff about economics and music and even Star Wars. He likes her.

But it's different from how he felt about… others, he knows that too. She's not smoking hot like Quinn, isn't graceful and perfect like Nora. She isn't Robin. Barney can't honestly say he finds her all that hot: she's cute, but she's not his type (whatever that is.). She's too cute, too nice, too… friendly. Too fun to talk to. That isn't enough to keep him from sealing the deal, obviously. Maybe it's a good thing. Maybe it's a good thing, to meet someone and just… like them. It's not as though he likes a lot of people.

He has always liked the strange, and doesn't this kind of count?

As he's thinking, so does Tracy, and they walk the rest of the block in thoughtful silence. "I mean, it is only a first date," Tracy says, after they've crossed the street to 78th. "Which is probably a little early for the talk."

He winces involuntarily and sucks in a breath. "Or we could just never?"

Tracy continues like she hadn't heard him: "Honestly, I don't have a lot of practice with this? I was with… with Max, and then I was a hermit person, and then I was with Lewis, and that's literally it. You… maybe are… my third boyfriend… ever."

Barney nods and puts his hands into his pockets. "You'd be my fourth girlfriend."

"Seriously? You're like ten years older than I am." Tracy sounds kind of impressed. Barney decides now isn't the time to go into the details as to how that went down.

"I'm not ten years older than you are." He is pretty excited about the news that Tracy is only twenty-eight, but, c'mon.

Tracy laughs at that. "Nine years? Whatever, you look pretty good." He can tell by her tone and her sideways glance and how she's walking closer to him again that she meant it to be flirty, even though it's pretty weak flirting. Besides, he doesn't look pretty good, he looks amazing.

"I could be your boyfriend," he says, trying to stop the involuntary nose wrinkle at the word. He tries for a second to think of something more to add, some form of the word vomit that women seem to like — you make me want to change, I can't stop thinking about you, I love her, I love her and I'm not the kind of guy… Nothing comes to mind, nothing natural. "I like you," he says instead.

"Me too. I'm having a lot of fun," Tracy says, biting her lip. Somehow, the whole mood seems wrong here, kind of depressing instead of flirty and exciting. Barney tries to think back to where it went wrong; somehow, they seemed to be doing a better job when they were fighting over economics.

"So how much farther until the ripoff bar?" He asks instead, changing the subject and raising his voice.

"We're still on that?" Tracy asks, smiling after a moment of confusion.

That gets them through the next few blocks and the bodega they stop at to ask directions. The owner has never heard of MacLaren's, either one, and so they head out again, Tracy arguing they should just ask someone else.

"Why?" Barney asks, "If they have heard of it, they're just gonna tell us to go to the West Side." Tracy picks up her pace in an obvious show of ignoring him, but Barney is undaunted. "MacLaren's bar, 76th and Amsterdam, owned and founded by a guy I'm assuming was named MacLaren, founded in a year that, let's face it, became a little more awesome as soon as —"

"There it is!" Tracy had peeled ahead just far enough to round a corner ahead of Barney, and she whirls around, pointing, her expression triumphant. "MacLaren's, east side. Thank god, I was starting to freeze out here."

At a single glance, it's clear to Barney that this MacLaren's is, indeed, inferior. "Well," he says resignedly as they cross the street, "since we're here, wanna get something to eat?"

Tracy checks her phone. "It's already five thirty?" she says with surprise and dismay. Barney had kind of guessed that by the fact that it was dark out, but she seems genuinely surprised. He knows just from that he has a real shot with her. She bites her lip.

"I'll pay," he says, "even though I'm sure the food sucks."

Tracy wavers, he can see it, but doesn't argue. "You're just not gonna let this die, are you?"

"Nope," he says, holding the door to the bar open for her. "I'm already planning on bringing the gang here so they can also see how much it sucks. Barkeep!" he calls, to the non-Carl guy behind the bar. "A scotch on the rocks and," he's about to order for Tracy, but realizes he has no idea what she drinks. She didn't have anything with lunch. "Do you drink scotch?" he asks hopefully.

"Umm, sometimes," Tracy says. "I'll just have a coke," she tells the bartender.

"I'm not trying to get you drunk," Barney says, as a general disclaimer; he's done it before, but Tracy is obviously different.

"No, it wasn't… but okay, coke with vodka?" Tracy says, addressing the bartender again. Barney winces. In his opinion, that's barely even a drink.

"Opening a tab?" the bartender asks.

"We're gonna eat here too," Barney says. They find an empty table, Barney eyeing the booths darkly.

"I haven't been here in forever," Tracy says, looking around as she scoots her chair in.

"I can see why," Barney says. There's a small early crowd, mostly clustered at the bar or around a TV in the back. The girls aren't even hot.

"Come on, it's not that bad," Tracy says. A waitress comes over with their drinks and two menus. "See? Fast service!"

Barney takes a sip of his scotch: to his mild disappointment, it's perfectly good. Tracy laughs when she sees his expression. "I'm guessing you're a big scotch drinker," she says.

"It is the greatest and most refined of drinks," he says. "As you should know, being Scottish."

Tracy laughs again. He likes her laugh, and how free she is with it. "I'm not! My great-great grandfather married into a bunch of Italians. All that's left is the name. So what are you, English?"

"Uh, try American. And definitely not one quarter Canadian. That would be lame."

After that, they talk about their families: Tracy has a big family, and Barney has his mom and James, and eventually remembers his half-siblings; they order burgers (not the best in New York, and also inferior to real MacLaren's), talking about their siblings, growing up just outside of the city — Staten Island and Jersey, which is almost a deal breaker — and whatever else comes to mind. Tracy is really easy to talk to. She seems really interested in what he says, even the boring, lame stuff, and even if he makes jokes she doesn't seem to get, it's kind of nice. It is nice. It's… normal.

It feels like a conversation normal people have. Barney regulates himself, of course, watches Tracy carefully for signs she's turned off or on — the best he can do to gauge interest — and tries to say normal things, think normal things. It's not that hard: weird to talk about family and work, to remind himself to be honest when he starts to tell a lie. He doesn't know why he's being so honest, except it feels like the right thing to do, and he trusts his instincts on this kind of thing. Tracy seems like an nice person. A person he could be friends with.

A person he could be in a relationship with.

He doesn't want to screw that up.

They're on their third round — Tracy switched to soda and Barney starting to feel a little buzzed — when Barney's phone rings. Tracy waves at him to answer it when he raises his eyebrows, so he does. It's Ted. "Hey, we're all at the bar, are you coming tonight?" he says without a hello.

"Are Marshall and Lily there?" Barney asks, first thing.

"Yeah! Yeah, Mickey's sitting. So are you coming?"

Of course he immediately wants to, suddenly aware again he's sitting in a shitty bar and his friends are all waiting for him — but Barney looks across the table at Tracy, who smiles politely. "Totally! I'll bring Tracy!" he says enthusiastically, meaning it.

Tracy's eyebrows go up. Over the phone, Ted sounds surprised. "Your new girlfriend? Wasn't your date this afternoon?"

"Yeah, we're still on it. She's cool," Barney says, and then starts to question if any of this is weird or if it's weird he wants her to meet his friends. He doesn't know, he just has a feeling they'd all get along.

"You must really be into her," Ted says, sounding impressed. He hears Ted say to the others at the booth: "They're still on their date." Barney can kind of hear Lily's enthusiastic squeal, which makes him wince. "Oh — come on, Robin," Ted continues. Across the table, Tracy looks quizzically at Barney, listening on the phone. Ted sighs loudly in Barney's ear. "Robin says she can't come because there's no room at the booth, because Robin's new boyfriend, Bill Pepper, is already coming in a minute," Ted says flatly. Barney's stomach does something weird. "So are you dropping by?" Ted asks in his normal voice.

"Uhh…" Barney looks across the table at Tracy. He's not sure what his next move is. He wants to hang out with his friends, and hang out with Tracy. And he keeps thinking of this asshole burly hockey player Robin's picked up, too. "My friends want to know if you wanna hang out with them," he says, feeling somehow defiant.

Tracy doesn't look all that enthused. "I don't know…" she says uncertainly. Barney shifts the phone away from his mouth.

"They're awesome. You already like Robin, right?"

"It's not… that," Tracy says with a puzzled frown, "it's just, it's getting kind of late…" she chuckles. "This date's gonna end eventually, right?"

Barney hangs up on Ted. "You're not having fun?" His stomach sinks for a different reason than a minute ago, and his throat feels kind of tight for some reason. He swallows. Was it because he thinks Keynes was a tool?

"No!" Tracy says. "No, I'm actually," she frowns, which isn't great, "having a lot of fun."

"You're really selling it," he can't help saying.

"It's just, dude, it's been seven hours," Tracy laughs. "And meeting your friends already? What's next? A quick flight to Vegas in the morning?"

"If that's what you're into, baby," Barney says automatically, leering a little, except then he realizes what he just said and what she implied and clears his throat. He balls up his napkin and smooths his tie. "Yeah, okay. Wanna split a cab?"

"Yeah," Tracy says with relief. "Where are you headed?"

"As far away from this fake MacLaren's as possible," Barney says, reaching for the check. "by which I mean the real one."

They're mostly quiet in the cab on the way to the West Side, Ted's phone call somehow having knocked something askew. Things were going fine until they remembered they were on a date… and the implications of that kind of bugs Barney a little bit.

When they reach Tracy's apartment, she tries to go in her purse to pay for her fare and Barney waves it off. "I make three times more money than you," he says.

"God, that's hot," Tracy deadpans, sliding out of the cab. She leans in the open door. "Hey, but, I really did have a lot of fun today," she says, smiling.

Barney feels himself smile. "Yeah, me too," he says, and means it.

"Well… I'll call you, I guess!" Tracy says, clearing her throat. "Night!"

She shuts the cab door. This is a date, Barney remembers. On impulse, before the driver can pull them away, Barney undoes his seatbelt and opens his. "Wait!" He yells, climbing out of the cab. Tracy, only a few steps away, turns as he approaches.

This is a date. He hurries up to her, and before she can say anything or protest — her brown eyes wide with surprise — he leans down and presses a quick kiss to her mouth. He backs away immediately (he could go upstairs. He could talk her into it. He could. He doesn't), grins at her wide eyed expression. "I'll call you," he says, taking a big backwards step, watching her gape and lift her hand to her mouth. "See you around, McConnell."